by Tim Akers
A presence hovered in the man’s shadow, a spirit that was wearing him like a mummer’s puppet. It stretched from his back, arms tangled together, elongated head darting over his shoulder. This other consciousness tracked Maeve’s fall. Its face split into a toothy grin, its mouth like a sundered corpse, gaping open after the executioner’s blade has passed.
“God’s own death,” Maeve swore. The presence reached out for her.
* * *
Sacombre climbed the stairs as quickly as he could manage. The shadows drifting from his body carried something of his flesh with them, shadows tinged in blood and fed by his spirit.
The shrine was everything he had hoped, and nothing he could use. He alone now knew of the heresy of House Adair, of its generations of lies and duplicity. The family protected a secret, whispered about among the pagan tribes his trusted servants had infiltrated. Allaister had always believed it rested in the Fen itself, but Sacombre had never believed him, thinking that anything so precious would be kept close to the castle.
Allaister had been right.
Rising to the level of the crypts, Sacombre brushed from his robes the last of the dust of that profane place. Spots of blood grimed the hem. He would need to purge the vestments before he could speak rites in the doma, though it had been a long time since the high inquisitor had felt called to perform that duty.
Sighing, he looked around at the generations of Adair dead, their stony faces bland beneath their coats of grime. Sacombre smiled.
“No more lies, my friends. You’ve done well, and I promise that I will do more with your little secret than your gods could have imagined. Still…”
He paused as he heard a footfall, and peered up past the trail of bodies that he must have left. The nearest was a scullery maid whose crumpled face was dotted with specks of broken teeth and blood. Sacombre no longer feared the dead, at least not on this side of the quiet, but sometimes he was horrified at the state of the corpses he rendered.
Fighting had never been in his blood.
A man stepped from the shadows.
“Sir Volent!” Sacombre hailed. “The perfect man for tonight’s proceedings. I have a task for you, good sir, a task that will bring your name to the lips of every pagan who dares defy the word of the Celestial church.”
“I saw you give him that sword,” Volent muttered.
“The sword? Oh. Oh, yes, and such a sword it is. Cinder-blessed and Strife-forged, hallowed in purpose and in heft. Why, foolish is the gheist who—”
“Shut up,” Volent said. He came out of the shadows. The man was dressed for war, as always, and gripped his sword in a pale hand. “What have you done?”
“Done? I have done what I was anointed to do. What the gods require of me. What Cinder requires of me.” Sacombre pressed forward, crowding into the newcomer’s face. “You have followed me this far, Sir Volent. What sours your blood now, on the verge of victory, at the cusp—”
“You killed him,” Volent said. He put one hand on the high inquisitor and pushed, casually, but with such strength that the priest went flying. “Gabriel Halverdt saved me. He found me, mad, quivering, a murderous bastard among murderous bastards, and he made a man of me.”
“The duke of Greenhall is dead? Oh, gods, what tragedy!” Sacombre pulled himself to his knees, wincing as the gritty floor clogged the scratches on his shins, the palms of his hands. “We must flee to the army outside! Bring Cinder’s justice down on these heathens. Gods, but I know it was a mistake to bargain for peace with pagans.”
“A tragedy, yes,” Volent agreed. “One which you engineered—and that gheist? Don’t you think that was a bit much?” Volent paced forward, swinging his sword back and forth, as if the edge ached to strike. “What black well have you dipped into, inquisitor, that you summon pagan gods to do your bidding?”
“Now listen, and listen closely, Volent. It is not your place to question the actions of the church. I will not stand here and be accused of witchcraft by the likes of you.”
“You’re kneeling,” Volent pointed out. Then he rushed forward, sword drawn back, a glint of fury in his silent face. He was nearly upon the high inquisitor when Sacombre threw his arms out.
A band of shadow ripped across the dusty room. It snapped like a whip, and Volent stopped short. The black veins in his skin pulsed to the surface. He gave out a startled, terrified cry, and then was immobile. His sword clattered to the ground.
“Now then,” Sacombre said, rising to his feet. He dusted off his knees and the palms of his hands. The demon song was singing in his head again, the streams of pagan power flashing through the air, clenching Volent tight. What had the witch called it? Everam? It was always good to know the proper name for things. He strolled up to Volent.
“That is enough of that, Sir Volent. I’m sorry for your master. I’m sorry that he had to die, but lessons must be learned, and sometimes, when the master dies, the dog goes mad.” He placed a finger against the immobile forehead, quietly sketching an ancient rune in Volent’s own blood, binding it in naether and flesh. He began to wonder what the limits were. Perhaps Strife’s bright energy could be included, as well. He would have to visit the Lightfort one day, after all this was over. Initiate some of the girls into his order.
Volent’s eyes shifted, clouding with ink. Sacombre smiled, then pressed his palm into the man’s skull. Volent whimpered and then, stiff as a board, fell back to the floor.
“When a dog goes mad, sometimes you have to put him down,” Sacombre whispered. “But even mad dogs have their uses.”
Then he went up the stairs and into the night.
42
HENRI WOKE TO a green so dark it was nearly black. He was lying flat, his skin alive with motion, the tiny, burrowing grit of unseen life. Memories swam through his head—memories of travel, of distance, of battles fought and won, and comrades buried in the earth.
That’s where I am, he thought. Buried. Yet there was light, and he saw leaves inches from his face. He stood, brushing past some undergrowth, the leaves scratching against his cheeks.
The trees were closer than he remembered. In fact, he didn’t remember there being any trees at all. He stood shoulder to trunk with evergreens and oak, their limbs crisscrossing over his body as he took a step forward. Then they bowed aside, creaking as they moved out of his way. There was a path ahead of him.
He followed it, and it crossed another, and then another, joining and intersecting, becoming wider until the sheer number of trails became a clearing. A glen where the trees gathered above in a hatchwork of leaves and mossy branches, blocking out the sky. Despite that, there was no shortage of light in this clearing, pure as gold.
Gathered at the center of the clearing were figures, tangled in shadow and light. Four men, standing in a circle, facing the center. He moved closer. They looked familiar.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly. The nearest two turned just a little, as though they had heard something, just over the shoulders. “Who are you?” Louder this time, more insistent.
It was a foolish question.
They were him.
“This has gone on long enough,” the farthest figure said. He was more upright than the others, back straight, hands clasped in his belt, dressed as a knight at court might dress, fine velvet and silk, a sword hanging at his side. “We’ve marched under their banner long enough. It’s time to draw our own colors.”
“Your loyalties do not matter,” the closest one replied. “Halverdt has served our purpose. Would Sacombre be any worse?” He stooped forward, as though his bones were too heavy, his head bent uncomfortably just to look forward. His skin was as white as snow and shot through with thick veins of purple and black. Henri came around to look into this face, but it was missing. A pit, deeper than the skull and creased with scars and blood, echoed with a demon’s voice.
“It’s foolish to even be talking about this,” the demon said. “The priest is killing us, right now.”
“Killing you,” an
other of the figures answered. It was smaller than the others, more a boy than a man—a tall child, still soft in his joints, skin untouched by work or worry. A single crease wrinkled his brow. “Like you killed Papa,” the child said.
“Be silent,” the knight responded. “You have always been a visitor here—an unwelcome one at that.”
“Leave Father out of this,” the final shadow snapped. He moved as if to lurch forward, but something held him in place. Henri pulled his gaze away from the strange pit-faced demon, then jerked and jumped back. This one was lined in blood, skin stained and teeth sharp, rotten, yellow and tinged in gore. His eyes were as wild as a madman’s. His hands were cracked and dry. Each finger ended in a blade, steel erupting from the flesh like broken bones, and pus leaked constantly from the wounds.
The feral man looked at Henri, the first of the strange congregation to acknowledge his presence, and smiled wildly.
“This is no place for you.”
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Henri said, holding his hands up and backing away from the feral man. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look into the pit-faced demon’s visage. Another voice rose up, shivering through his bones, whispering words that only he could hear.
His mother, screaming her husband’s name as the gheist that consumed him drifted through the door. A memory, stirred from his nightmares, spoken in the heartbeats before he turned his back and ran out the door and into the rain.
“You killed them!” Henri yelled at the demon, the shard of the gheist that had lodged in his blood and stolen the life from his face. He whirled into the center of the circle of figures.
“It’s gone on long enough,” the knight repeated. “We must take our part.”
“You’re only here because I brought you here. You’re only alive because I’ve kept you alive,” the demon answered.
“You! You’ve kept us alive?” the feral howled mockingly. “We’ve carried you all this way, like a burden strapped to our heart. I’ve carried you. All of you!”
“Please be quiet,” the child said. “I don’t like it when you’re loud!” The others seemed to ignore him, but when they spoke again it was in hushed tones.
“If not for me, the duke would have discarded us,” the demon said. “And as for you—” He turned to the feral man. “Without me you wouldn’t even exist.”
“Gods bless that were true, demon,” the knight answered, “but you found a home in us because he existed, even then.” He tossed his head toward the child, who quickly looked away. “In truth, I’m not sure either the duke or the high inquisitor has done us much good.”
The feral man laughed, a sound both sharp and brittle. The bloody figure shook his head.
“Look at you,” he said. “Silk and silver, talking about taking control. Do you think the duke would have raised us up so far, based on your skills? Father was a carpenter. We were never going to be anything more.”
“You’re one to talk,” the knight snapped. “With you sneaking into the woods each night, to break bones and spill blood, we would have ended up in prison… or worse.”
“Or we would have been free!” the feral man answered. “Living on the road, taking what we wanted, sleeping where we wanted, and sleeping well, I wager!” He pointed accusingly at the demon. “None of this gheist’s godsdamned nightmares.” He turned back to the knight. “But that’s worse to you, isn’t it? You never had a feel for freedom. You wanted power, and asses to kiss.”
“You would have us living like a dog.”
“Like a wolf—and wolves live well!”
“Enough,” the demon hissed from the void. “I’ve given you both what you want, and more than you could hope for. You will not tear us apart.”
“This is the priest’s doing,” the feral man whispered. “What did he do to you, demon? Why did you come to heel when he called?” The bloody figure inched forward, his fingers creeping out toward the pit-faced figure. “Whose side are you on?”
“Priests, priests, priests!” the knight said. “I tire of the machinations of priests. I will have no more to do with them.”
“That isn’t up to you,” the demon answered, then he pointed toward Henri. “This is a matter for him.”
“Who is he?” the child asked. The boy’s presence made Volent uncomfortable—even more so than his feral aspect, or the demon.
“He is an older, less obnoxious you,” the knight answered. “But he shouldn’t make the decision—that should be my right.”
“Why should you get a choice?” the demon asked. “You who followed orders your entire life?”
“That is the way of this world,” the knight answered proudly. “I found my place in its order, and it has served me… served us well.”
“To what end?” the demon said.
“To this end,” the feral man answered. “To this moment.” He snicked the knives of his fingers together, grinning madly.
“What moment?” Henri asked, but the ghosts ignored him. All but the child who stared at him with large, empty eyes. Angered by their disdain, Henri grabbed the feral man and spun him round. “What are you talking about?”
“I wouldn’t…” the demon said, but he was too slow. The feral man took hold of Henri’s shirt, and a good deal of skin with it.
“Opportunity!” the feral man howled. “The priest has given you to us, granting us the opportunity to make things as they ought to be.” He shoved, and Henri stumbled into the center of the circle. “I’ll be damned if I let you fuck it up for me!”
“It could be any one of us,” the knight said. “It should be me.”
“What do you mean?” Henri stood, brushing dirt from his face. With a start he felt his fingers on his skin. He looked down at his hand. The spider-growths were gone. He glanced up.
The demon nodded at him.
“Yes,” the demon nodded. “While you are here, you are whole.”
“And wholly empty,” the feral man sneered. “Waiting to be plucked.”
“That is for us to do,” the knight agreed. “Go, and take the child with you.” He waved Henri away. “Go play stones, or something.”
“Stones,” the feral man agreed. “Try to not get any blood in the water.”
Henri began to protest, then stopped. He stood silently for a minute, looking from ghost to ghost. He wasn’t getting answers from any of them—perhaps the child would be more… cooperative. As if reading his thoughts, the childlike figure walked over and took his hand, leading him away from the clearing.
The rest were arguing before they were out of earshot.
“Do you know what’s occurring?” Henri asked.
“They argue a lot,” the child said, “especially the red one. We might as well have some fun.” He walked loosely, swinging his arms in wide arcs, almost dancing. They came to a stream quite suddenly. The child bent, took a stone from the bank, and tossed it weakly into the water.
“That’s not what I mean,” Henri said, looking around. “Do you know why I am here?” The forest seemed closer. He peered across the stream. Among the whispering ferns there was a field of tiny banners in brown and gray, each one pinned to a small twig. The wind didn’t move them. “Wherever this is.”
“If you don’t know that, they sure as hells won’t tell you,” the child said, then winced. “Pardon the cursing.”
“Pardoned,” Henri said automatically, echoing the words his father had said to him thoughtlessly, a hundred times. “The priest they’re talking about—who is he? I remember something… bodies, and a tomb?”
“Mm-hm,” the child responded. “Your master died. You’re off the leash.”
“The high inquisitor,” Henri said, mostly to himself. “He tried to kill me.”
“You were trying to kill him, and he needed someone to blame all of those bodies on. So he sent you here to go mad.” The child tilted his head. “Madder, I suppose. No one’s going to be surprised to find you at the end of a trail of bodies.”
“I�
��ll deny it,” Henri said.
“Not if you’re still in here.”
“Then how do I get out?”
“Maybe you don’t. Maybe one of the others will get to decide.” The child lifted a stone from the water and held it up in both hands. It was sharp on one end, like a teardrop. “Maybe it’ll be me.”
“I don’t understand,” Henri said. The child’s words bothered him deeply, although he couldn’t say why.
“That’s never worried me, not understanding,” the child said. “Can you help me with this?”
“Listen,” Henri said, kneeling beside him. “Can you tell me something?”
The child paused, the heavy rock still in his hand, his eyes narrow.
“If I know the answer,” he said, “and it isn’t naughty.”
“What do you remember of Father?” Henri asked.
The child hesitated, finally lowering the stone back into the stream. The water splashed loudly around his fingers. Finally he shrugged.
“He was big—bigger than me, and those other two. Bigger even than Sir Nasty-Face, and strong.”
“That’s all?”
“He smelled like wood, shaved wood, like from his shop. He made nice things—toys, and chairs, and… mostly toys. Least it’s the toys that I remember best.” The child pulled his hands out of the water and shook them. “Wish I had some of those toys now.”
“To remember him by?”
“To play with,” the child said. “I get bored.” He glanced up and around the forest. “There aren’t any more squirrels out here.”
“Toys…” Henri said, the first hint of a smile on his lips. “I can’t remember even that. Just his face, and his name, and what it sounded like when he died.” The smile went away. “The dreams have taken the rest away.” He paused. The child was looking up at him with sharp, angry eyes. “And Mother? What do you remember about her?”
“I didn’t kill her,” the child said, and there were tears in his eyes. “I didn’t. It was the demon. I thought we had escaped him, but he followed. I ran, and ran, but he’s in our skin. Do you know what it’s like, living with that thing? Do you have any idea?”
