With night a dark blanket over the city, I climbed into the cauldron, put a traveling lantern in the front next to the metal stirrups, tucked the tip of the scabbard into its bowl, and shot straight out of the house, going as high as possible to avoid detection. If anyone had been looking at the spot on the backside of my roof, they would have seen a woman in a cauldron appear in midair, then move like a firework into the clear night sky.
My wonder at the cauldron's ability to fly through objects had not lessened. This wondrous power seemed similar to the Empty Men, who’d appeared like demons at my every turn. It could be that they could jump through space like the cauldron, thus making them effective assassins.
I mulled the idea during my flight as if I were rolling a ball of clay between my forefinger and thumb. But when I reached my destination, my investigation began in earnest. The two shops along the Schuylkill I quickly ruled out as I hovered in the air. The boundary of the city had bulged southerly, new buildings forming an artisanal section along the river, utilizing a pair of mills for power.
From a great height, the streets appeared like pieces of bright straw, assembled into an orderly grid. While parts of the city were dim, as William Penn's vision that the residents would spread out evenly creating an idyllic city had failed to materialize, other parts along the Delaware River glowed with the fever of a bonfire.
The third glass shop was made difficult to find by the darkness of the countryside. The gas lamps stayed to the rectangular area that stretched from the Delaware across the Schuylkill. Using the map in my mind—I was a seasoned traveler from my younger years—I navigated the dark patches to the northwest to descend upon a lighted shop. My sense of direction was rewarded when I flew low enough to see the workers banking the fires for the evening. The opening in the furnace was the unblinking eye of the Underworld.
Circling around the shop, I counted three farms butted up against the property. On the west side, the land sloped downward to a swampy section that was swallowed by a section of forest that stretched into the night.
The dead man, Albert, had visited this location. Of that I had no doubt. He'd walked past the farm and glass shop, his boots picking up mud as he moved to the swampland. Then he returned, collecting the seeds and the chunk of colored glass.
There was a spot of dry land between the swamp and the dark forest. I landed and climbed out of the cauldron to get a look around. Why had Albert come here? And what could he have seen or heard that might have led to his curious beheading?
I circled the cauldron, while resting my palm on the hardwood handle of the repeating pistol. I could think of no reason to come to this location except for a rendezvous. Was this a secret love affair gone wrong? Had he been caught by a jealous lover who wanted to hide the murder by first draining his blood?
I chuckled, as the thought seem ludicrous. Nothing about the state of his apartment conformed to this line of thinking. Beware the birds. The barricade on the door and window. The feather in the fist. These were the marks of a disturbed man, terrified even.
For a brief and horrifying moment, I wondered if he'd encountered Koschei in the swamp, but quickly decided that the deathless assassin wasn't so subtle as to remove the man's blood before executing him. If it'd been Koschei's work, the Warden would have found the body ripped limb from limb.
Something about the darkness between the trees made me want to investigate further. Whatever Albert had come here to do, it hadn't happened in the open. Which left the forest full of secrets.
I retrieved the lantern, sparked it to life, and pointed its dim eye into the forest. Even the lantern's greasy flame seemed diminished by the thickness of the night, which hung between the trees as if it were sheets of oil.
Stepping carefully over moist soil that oozed water and sucked at my boots, I reached the tree line. This area had once been a deep swamp. The trees stood on mounds, forming cages low to the earth. Once, they'd been covered by water, but the swamp had retreated, leaving the trees stranded.
Greenish brown strands of dead moss hung from the roots, forming a confusing blanket. I climbed up the slope, keeping my lantern scanning, going slow, so as not to miss a foothold.
The cloying smells of the forest—damp, thick, and nearly suffocating—invaded my nostrils. Beneath those was a tincture of something else, darker, a nameless smell I could not divine though it seemed to scrape against my primal fears like claws.
The floor of the forest required my undivided attention. Though most of the roots provided a safe place to put my boot, every fifth or sixth step proved treacherous, as the limb bent beneath my weight. The gaps between the roots were such that my foot could become lodged and I'd be trapped. Despite being only a few dozen feet into the forest, I knew the oppressive trees would swallow my injured shouts, leaving me to die alone.
My suspicions were verified when I found the bones of a deer beneath the roots. It was the crunch beneath the moss that alerted me to the ancient death. The ribcage had not yet collapsed. Wispy roots like eager slithering snakes wound through the slender bones.
Peering through the gaps at intervals revealed other lost critters. I strode over a graveyard of roots, the forest feeding on the fallen, a fate I had no wish to join.
Visions of unpleasant ceremonies tainted my thoughts, drawing me further in. Whatever Albert had come to do, it'd unraveled his life's thread. I sensed the answer not far beyond the curtain of moss.
I was making my way across a section of entwined trees that formed an upward slope when a dark shape swooped out of the canopy, talons reaching for my unprotected face.
Chapter Eight
Dark wings beat the air savagely. I ducked beneath the claws, throwing myself onto the roots. Only the tight confines of the trees kept the great raven from digging its talons into my back.
Beware the birds.
The raven hovered in midair. Its wingspan covered the gap between two gnarled ancient trees, twisted by age. The oily plumage around its neck was an ebony shawl befitting a royal avian.
Lying on my back, I freed the pistol and squeezed the trigger. The barrel barked, a flash staining my eyes. The raven flew backwards. I'd hit it from close range. Though the flash still receded from my vision, I could see the raven limping through the air, unable to use the right wing completely.
After the trees swallowed the raven, it issued a bloodcurdling caw. I put my hands over my ears. I could have sworn it sounded like my name.
When the silence of the trees returned, I realized I'd dropped the lantern through the roots. A dim light issued from a hole far beneath. Reaching through the gaps left me well short. I searched for a way through, but the cage was absolute. My lantern was lost.
"Moist Mother Earth, you guard your secrets jealously," I said to the night.
It took a few minutes for my vision to return. I could make out the shapes of the trees nearest, but beyond that the darkness was stygian.
A breeze rippled through the forest, rattling the leaves. The wind seemed to sweep further into the woods, beckoning me.
"That's odd. How could there be a breeze in here?" I asked. "You won't intimidate me, whoever you are. My life is promised to the truth. I've dueled with kings and empresses, I will suss out your secrets."
The moss covered forest rustled again. I took that as my challenge.
Though I'd lost my lantern, the way into the heart of the forest lay downhill. I promised myself I'd only go a little further before turning back.
Walking across the roots in the darkness was surprisingly easy. Rather than trust my sight, I relied on the firmness of each step. I probably went another fifty steps before I sensed the quality of the forest had changed.
Prickles danced across my skin, starting at my face and ending at my feet, as if I'd passed through a barrier. The spaces were more visible here, almost outlined by an oily, shimmering darkness. Though there was much about this new country I didn't understand, the trees bent in such alien manners that I was certain I'd wandere
d far from the farmlands of Philadelphia in that fifty steps.
The antediluvian trunks curled and clawed their way upward, reaching and bending forward like kneelers at full bow. My gaze followed the arc of growth, which twisted into unpleasant shapes. I sensed a ghastly warning, though my eye could not discern what creature they were meant to imitate.
The trunks were naked, the bark long since ripped from their girth. The wood was pale, pinkish with swirling designs. I traced a whorl with my forefinger. It was warm and spongy.
Stepping through the pillars—whether they were roots or trunks I could not tell—I found myself beneath a woven dome that stretched at least a hundred feet from one end to the other. Faint light made sight possible, though I could not discern the source.
The crimson leaves of the canopy drooped like blood dripping from a cloth. It was too early for autumn to have come to the Philadelphia forest. These were the trees’ natural colors. What a strange place this new world of America was.
Walking was made easier by a tighter mess of roots, until I was moving across the surface as easily as taking a stroll on the cobblestone streets of London. As I reached the center of the dome, I knew the structure was not by accident. It had to be something made—I dared not assume it was man-made—because of its symmetrical design.
The rustling of wings echoed through the space, hollow and ephemeral. I expected a host of great ravens seeking revenge for my blow against their empress. Instead, I found my mouth stricken of saliva when my gaze fell upon the horrid creature.
It had the body of a bird, with glistening feathers of ebony accented in crimson and deep purple. The chest was stout like a barrel. Gnarled claws, like segmented yellow worms, gripped the thick branch it perched on. These qualities would have made it the largest bird I'd ever encountered, larger than the great raven that'd attacked me at the edge of the forest, and large enough to pose a terrible danger, but its size was not what made me long for the safe confines of my abode. The creature had a head, not a bird's with a vicious beak, but a woman's head.
Three of these creatures had entered the dome, one at each third. The hair on their heads, pale and ratty, formed a beggar's crown. Gazes cast sternly across the dome.
Fearing their voices might strike my limbs numb, I spoke in a loud voice, keeping my arms straight at my side and my chin high.
"I am Katerina Dashkova of Philadelphia."
"We know," came the reply from three corners. "You are Yekaterina Romanovna Vorontsova-Dashkova. Daughter to Roman Vorontsova. Princess and Exile. The Traveler and Thief."
"How do you know me?" I asked, circling slowly.
This time when they spoke, the words traveled from one creature to the next, each one finishing the last one's phrase. The effect was dizzying.
"We are the Gamayun. We are the birds of prophecy. We know everything," they said.
Gamayun. Birds of Prophecy. Beware the birds. Had these creatures murdered Albert in his apartment? Had they sucked his blood from his body and cut off the head with a sharp talon?
I gauged the distance to the edge of the dome. The Gamayun seemed too large to pursue me through the trees.
But why would they wait until he was home to kill him? If he'd come here, and clearly he had, then his death would have been easy.
"No one can know everything," I said.
"We are the Gamayun," they said in unison, as if that was a suitable answer.
Without too much movement, I pulled another shot from my pouch and replaced the empty slot in the repeating pistol.
The Gamayun looked restless on their perches, feathers rustling, heads tilting. I feared they could communicate without speech and were planning my demise. I considered rushing one of them, firing my pistol as I ran. If I was able to fell one of the bird-women, the attack would place me at the other end of the dome. The distance the other two would have to travel would give me a better chance to escape.
The only thing staying my hand was that I was in their territory and they had not yet threatened me. Attacking them could prove to be a fatal mistake.
In an attempt to delay, I called out, "Then tell me my future."
"Pluck a fruit," they said in their round-robin fashion. "Tear it open and tell us how many seeds!"
"Fruit?" I asked, looking around me.
"They lie below," said the Gamayun.
At first I thought they were trying to distract me. Then I saw the pale fruits right beneath the floor of roots. Kneeling carefully, I fit my hand through a gap and plucked the round fleshy ball. The fruit was unnaturally warm and about the size of a peach.
Still watching, I was lowering my hand to remove the knife from my boot when they spoke. "You must rip it open with your bare hands."
"Fine," I said. "You're a troubling odd lot."
Gripping the two halves, I sunk my fingers into the flesh, digging in and pulling apart. The fruit split with a sickening squish, and a fetid, rotten smell hit me so hard I gagged. Sticky, crimson juice covered my hands as I held the two halves.
"Your disgusting task is complete," I said, wondering if I'd still be able to aim well with my hands covered in juice.
"Tell us, how many seeds?" they asked in unison.
Shaking the pooling juice free, I examined the inner flesh of the fruit. Three hard nodules lay at the corners of a symmetrical triangle. Each seed was the size of a walnut.
"Three," I said.
The screaming of the birds made me drop the two halves as I jammed my hands against my ears, the sticky juice running down my neck. The Gamayun shuffled back and forth on their perches, wings stretched and faces contorted in the rictus of ecstasy.
"Three," they said, a quiver of excitement in their voices. "Three prophecies for the exile."
I searched the area around my feet for the fallen fruit but it'd slipped beneath the root floor.
"If you know everything," I muttered, "how can you be so surprised by the number of seeds?"
The Gamayun settled, wings tucked. I had the sense they weren't going to attack me, but somehow felt that was worse.
The first Gamayun made a hissing caw before speaking. "In the hands of the Master Bender, the staves will become a weapon, while your failure to kill him will unleash rivers of blood."
I barely had time to process those words before the second bird-woman spoke. "On the day before the Winter Solstice, you must die by the hands of the Architect or the city of love will be destroyed."
As the third bird-woman spoke, I wheeled around, hand on my pistol. I nearly pulled and fired to keep it from speaking.
"But know, too, that an ancient god will enslave this reality unless you slay the Accidental Killer on the day of the Winter Solstice," said the final creature of the Gamayun trio.
"Those prophecies don't make sense," I shouted. "The second and the third contradict each other."
"We are the Gamayun," they replied. "We are never wrong."
When they leapt from their perches, I pulled my weapons and ran towards one of the bird-woman. Their fell cries pierced the air. I fired, my shot going wide as the creature swooped over my head. The others pursued.
Talons the size of knives reached for my unprotected back as I slipped beneath the trees. I moved across the roots in reckless abandon, knowing that I couldn't tarry.
The Gamayun harried me through the forest, leering faces winging at me from the sides. Always I was able to dodge around the trees before their talons ripped me in half.
I fought through the dying moss, bounded across the spaces in the root floor, firing my weapon two more times when the creatures got too close.
When I stumbled out of the forest, boots landing in soft mud, I knew the Gamayun would pursue me no longer. But my fears had been stirred enough that I scrambled towards the cauldron with labored breath, and after climbing in, shot into the naked sky. I was a spent vessel on the way home, my thoughts replaced by the venomous words of the Gamayun, and though they had spoken their prophecies only once, I could not sha
ke them from my tired head.
Chapter Nine
For five days after the nighttime sortie into the dark forest of the bird-women, I stayed in my home, eating, grooming—going about the necessities of existence, but not much else.
Aught tried to console me: a little golden butler that fetched me food or drink, and other things when I asked.
In a fit of blathering, I ordered Aught to acquire three reams of the finest parchment. Aught returned the next morning with the booty.
The paper gave me reason to keep myself busy, though always lurking behind my eyes were the words of the Gamayun, branded into my thoughts like glowing coals.
After Koschei, the existence of such creatures shouldn't have surprised me, but the deathless assassin was in human form, while the bird-women had been grotesque creatures out of antiquity. It was clear that the world was more bizarre, more dangerous than I’d first thought.
Ben Franklin had always been a patient ear for sharing troubling thoughts, but with my banishment, I could not rely on the old inventor. I knew I had to speak to someone, even tangentially, about my experience. I suspected I knew the perfect person to speak with, but was afraid of what else that might uncover.
Upon our first meeting, Rowan Blade had spoken of prophecy. The manner in which she composed herself suggested she might be privy to creatures of an otherworldly nature. I had wanted to further our friendship, and Rowan had promised additional pay for helping her in the Bone House.
Once I had resolved that I would visit the physician, I felt more at ease and was able to finish printing the pamphlets. When the last page had been inked, I held up the copy and admired my work:
FREEDOM of Speech wears a heavy cloak made of iron and gold. In times of Peace, it's a marvelous covering drawing jealousy from every Corner of the globe. In times of War, the urge to toss aside that burden becomes great, as the stiff garment can entangle limbs and weapons, endangering the effort. But once tossed aside, though War is won, the Winter of Tyranny will leave FREEDOM frozen in its simple home...
Birds of Prophecy (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 3) Page 6
