The Knife in the Dark (The Seven Signs Book 2)

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Agreed,” D’Jenn nodded.

  “This just got a lot more interesting,” Allen smiled. When D’Jenn and Dormael gave him a disgusted look, he shrugged. “Don’t look at me like that—I’ve been lounging around the Conclave for days, now. You promised excitement. I’m just glad it’s finally here.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Dormael said, but laughter bubbled at the edges of his tone.

  “You wanted to bring me along,” Allen pointed out.

  “True enough,” Dormael said. “Let’s go. I’m ready to get out of these gods-damned tunnels for good.”

  D’Jenn made sure to take the bottle of lights with them as they left the corpse-strewn room behind.

  The Crux

  Maarkov sat staring over the rocky ledge, watching the storm move northward through the Runemian valley. The sun peeked from the edge of the far horizon, a tiny sliver of its backside as it retreated to the west. Thunder rumbled from the storm in the distance, and Maarkov could still see rain sheeting down from the clouds.

  The wind in the mountains was cold, though Maarkov knew there was no reason for him to care, other than comfort. He could wade through a snow drift on the Sea of Moving Ice, and it would not kill him. His eyeballs could freeze, his blood could freeze, and his body would go on living—or moving, anyway. He wasn’t sure if alive was a word he would have used to describe himself anymore.

  Could eyeballs freeze? He’d have to ask Maaz. They could burst, or squish—he’d seen that before. He’d never seen them frozen, though.

  Maarkov packed a pipe full of flaky tobacco, and got up to tread over to the fire for a burning twig. The strega—now a veritable troop—stood silent sentry in the clearing, staring out in all directions. The things made his skin crawl. The utter silence, the stillness, the lack of anything resembling a self behind those dead, milky eyes—there were a million reasons he hated the things. The boy who had watched his family be killed in the hinterlands of Soirus-Gamerit was among them, his lanky body now gray, his eyes empty. The whole family was here, in fact—together in life, together in un-life.

  Maarkov watched the things, silent as rotting statues. The problem was when they got moving. All of a sudden the things would just move—all in the same manner, all without uttering a sound. Maarkov found himself staring at them, waiting to see if something would trigger them. But they only stood, deep cloaks flapping in the cold mountain wind, like statues made of rotting flesh.

  Every time the wind eddied, Maarkov was assaulted by their sour fucking stench.

  “There’s an old superstition in Dannon,” he said, unable to stand the silence anymore. Maaz paused in his silent brooding and looked up at his brother. Maarkov cleared his throat. “The older tribes believe that the last thing a person sees is burned onto the back of his eyes, and if you pluck them out, you can see what they saw.” Maarkov stared at the boy—the strega that had been made from the boy, he corrected himself—and wondered.

  “What’s your point?” Maaz asked.

  “The boy, Maaz,” Maarkov sighed. “Do you think that the sight of his family murdered, his mother being eaten—do you think that’s burned onto the back of his eyes?” He remembered the way the boy had looked at him, as his mother’s blood ran hot into Maarkov’s mouth. The mealy texture of her flesh, and the boy’s horrified expression—that was what Maarkov remembered.

  Maaz gave him a disgusted look, then turned one on the boy. He spat in the general direction of the things and turned back to his brother, giving Maarkov a look that was deeper than disgust—pity, maybe. Maarkov doubted it, though.

  “Maarkov—why in the Six Hells do you care? The boy is gone. The strega is nothing but a thing.”

  “I was just thinking about it is all,” Maarkov grumbled. “Do we have to sit here with the fucking things standing in the trees like a bunch of silent ghosts?”

  Maaz gave him a flat look.

  “Do they bother you, brother?” he asked.

  “They do.”

  The shadows grew long while Maaz stared at him. His brother’s eyes were like twin beads of glass reflecting the light of the campfire, no feeling moving beneath the lenses. His cloak hid most of his face, but his posture told Maarkov what his expression would be. After all—they had spent all these long, arduous years together.

  “You understand that they are nothing—no thoughts, no desires. Nothing. They are not going to come for you. In fact, if we are stumbled upon, you may be glad they are here,” Maaz said.

  A gust of wind fluttered the flames, and brought the smell of the things again to Maarkov’s nose.

  “I know what they are, brother,” Maarkov said. “Do you think that I cannot feel the dust in my own body, the dry feeling of my flesh rubbing together as it moves? I think I can hear it sometimes—and I think I can hear theirs as well!”

  “Nonsense,” Maaz said. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

  “I will take my bedroll away from the fire,” Maarkov grumbled. “I don’t like to sleep with those things standing over me, rotting away into the air that I breathe.”

  “You don’t really need to breathe, it’s just a reflex,” Maaz said, already looking again into the flames.

  “And whose fucking fault is that, Maaz?” Maarkov said, rising to his feet. “Why must I go on breathing, paring nails that don’t grow, feeling only discomfort from the temperature? Why must I persist?”

  Maaz let out an all-suffering sigh. “Maarkov—”

  “Why must this go on, brother?” Maarkov growled. “I should have been dead years gone. Years and years. Each passing day, I care less about this…this everything. When will you release me?”

  Maaz swallowed his words, but avoided meeting Maarkov’s eyes. He stood above his brother, chest full of heat, waiting for him to say something. Maaz just stared into the flames, those glassy eyes of his reflecting their dancing patterns across the unfeeling lenses. The silence stretched on.

  “Would you leave me, then, brother?” Maaz asked, right at the moment Maarkov was about to turn away. “Would you leave me now?”

  Maarkov’s teeth settled together, his jaw muscle clenching.

  “Will you leave me now?” he said, eyes full of tears. “Are you going to leave me here?”

  Maarkov looked down at his hands, the sword still clenched in his bloody fingers. His father’s eyes stared up at him, glassy and unfeeling, the accusation frozen forever in his expression. That would be the look on his face in the Void, the one the gods would see. Maarkov’s father would slip into the Void and all the gods would laugh at the look on his face.

  It was all his fault—everything was always his bloody fault!

  “Are you going to leave me now, brother?” Maaz asked, clutching to his arm.

  Maarkov stared at his brother, the hunched shoulders beneath the black cloak. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped on the precipice of speaking. The lump in his throat wouldn’t budge, and the words wouldn’t come out around them. Something held them in his chest with fingers of iron and ice.

  Maaz suddenly sat up, looking toward the road.

  The strega all moved at once.

  Maarkov almost cursed out loud as he jumped, an instant of terror that they were coming for him taking wild root in his heart. When the things ran silently into the woods, he relaxed, but screamed a few curses on the inside. They got him every single time, even though he told himself over and over again that next time he would be ready.

  Every single gods-damned time.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  Maaz smiled.

  “Why, we’re going to have a few more friends over for dinner,” he said. “There’s a caravan coming through the pass.”

  With that, he rose and disappeared into the dusky blue shadows between the trees.

  Maarkov felt disgust rising in his stomach. More strega would be joining them—no doubt that was what his brother had meant. Maarkov cursed and went for his bedroll. His brother and his pets could have
their fun, he wanted no part of it tonight. He dragged his blankets further into the woods, near the rocky ledge that overlooked the valley.

  The screams reached him an hour later, but he ignored them.

  **

  Bethany had run down so many darkened corridors, through so many intersections, up and down so many flights of dusty stairs that she was completely turned around. Her magic had long since abandoned her to the dark, and her heart was racing too fast to summon it up again. She couldn’t get her mind to still her beating heart.

  She sobbed, unable to get the screams of the burning man to stop echoing through her thoughts. The way he’d screamed—No! Please!—bounced back and forth in her ears until she tried putting her hands over them, but she couldn’t keep the noise out. Even the sound of her own sobbing couldn’t drown it out.

  Bethany felt certain that she was deeper under the Conclave than she had been before. She had run down several staircases, feeling her way along curving walls, and stepping with as much grace as her pounding heart would allow. She was pretty sure that she’d only run up once—or maybe twice, she couldn’t remember. All she had known was that she needed to get away.

  People could be looking for her.

  That thought filled her with both elation and fear—after all, if her friends were looking for her, then the burning man’s friends could be looking, too. Always expect the worst things to happen—that was what D’Jenn told her. If things could get worse, Bethany sure didn’t know how.

  She was lost, she was terrified, and she was hunted.

  She had to summon her magic again. It was the only thing left that she could do. Without it, she could wander these halls for days and never get out. The corridors felt ancient, like they went on forever and ever, right to the center of all Eldath. They even smelled old. Bethany was afraid that she might end up living the rest of her life like a tunnel rat, scraping together dirt to eat, gone blind from never seeing the light.

  Bethany tried to calm herself. She placed her hand on the dusty wall, feeling the steady stone beneath her trembling fingers. She packed her sobs away one by one until they were all tucked into the smallest part of her chest, and no longer caused more than a sharp breath. She wiped away her tears.

  The stone felt cool under her hand. She ran her fingers over its surface, until they alighted on a cold, swirling design laid into the stone. Bethany realized it was some sort of metal. They were probably runes similar to those in other places in the Conclave, swirling designs that made the eye want to twist to follow them. Bethany followed this one with her hand.

  She let the smooth contours of the metal calm her, and before she knew it, there were no more sobs. Bethany took a few deep breaths, listening to the sound echo from the stone around her, and closed her eyes against the dark. She didn’t need to close them, exactly, but with her eyes opened to nothing but shadow, she fancied that she could feel them straining to see. Bethany began to wall off her emotions one by one, seeking the inner silence she needed to embrace her magic.

  She could feel it low in her chest, like a thunderstorm inside her ribcage.

  Her Kai came to her like a scared animal, but it sang. Bethany almost cried in relief to feel it coursing through her again. She relaxed, tension fleeing her shoulders.

  Now—if she could just figure out how to make light. Dormael and D’Jenn had never shown her, but even with her senses heightened by her magic, there wasn’t enough light to see by—the tunnels were too deep below the ground. She would just have to figure it out on her own.

  Bethany clenched her jaw, and gathered her will.

  Light!

  Nothing happened.

  She scrunched up her brows, closing her eyes tight with effort. She pictured everything she could imagine that was connected to light—torches, sunlight, the sun, windows, flowers, campfires, heat, wood, high noon—and fixed those images in the front of her mind. She could feel her Kai rumbling like thunder.

  Shine!

  The darkness stayed in place.

  Her Kai continued to sing, lilting through her senses like a butterfly—which did nothing to push back the shadow. Bethany ground her teeth, trying not to let her frustration intrude on her magic. She’d been forced to practice Flying Rock hour after stupid hour, but could they have taught her to make a little bit of light against the dark, maybe some fire for company?

  No!

  “I never learn anything bloody useful,” she said, listening to her voice echo in the dark. There was no one to hear her curse, so she couldn’t get in trouble for it.

  “Bloody stupid,” she said. “Bloody stupid, bloody stupid, bloody stupid!”

  None of that helped her magic, but she had known that it wouldn’t.

  Bethany hummed under her breath—a tune she had learned somewhere—and took steps down the dusty, black hallway. She ran her hand along the wall, letting the grit roll beneath her fingers against the smoothness of the stone underneath. She began to get her emotions back under control.

  “I’m only stuck if I want to be stuck,” she said, after a long, deep breath. “Pirate-Queen of the bloody stupid Seas!” Bethany took two deep breaths, then two more. She listened to her heart, made it slow down by slowing down her breathing. Her anger began to die away.

  Her Kai moved through the darkness, feeling along the walls and down the corridor. The world around her let out constant hum, a low drone just below the edge of hearing. Bethany cleared her mind of her worries, and listened.

  Everything has magic in it, Dormael had told her once. You, me, Shawna—everything. If you listen hard enough, you can hear it. The trick was keeping all the little voices in her head quiet—that, and to stop thinking about food for one minute of the day.

  Even now, she wished for a big, steaming piece of buttered bread.

  “Stop it,” she whispered, a smile tipping the tears on her cheeks into the corners of her mouth. “Listen. There’s magic in everything—you just have to listen, girl.” Bethany was pretty satisfied with her impression of Dormael’s voice. She would have to show him, maybe he would laugh.

  Bethany cleared her throat, crept forward through the hallway, and listened.

  It took her a moment to hear it, but the cool metal under her fingers was pulsing with a magical tone, reacting with the song of her Kai. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? It was a quiet thing, and she guessed that if she wasn’t listening for it, she could miss it. There it was, though, ringing like a bell.

  But what could she do with that?

  Bethany bit her upper lip, and brushed her Kai across the metal. Her magic returned a note to her, something warbled and dissonant. She scrunched up her face, the sour note making her skin crawl. Bethany wasn’t sure what to do. She could barely play Flying Rock, and not for very long. Something nagged at her about the tones playing through her Kai, though.

  When she was alone, Bethany often sang to herself. She would hum tunes that she’d heard from all over, and tap out the rhythms on whatever surface was available. When people were around, she just tapped. Bethany changed the note her Kai was singing, applying a force of will to her magic the same way she changed her voice when she was singing. Something about it just felt right, like a shoe that hugged the heel.

  As she did, she felt her Kai sing in tune with the metal, and it began to shine, pushing the darkness away with soft, yellow light. Bethany felt a smile spread on her face, and she clapped her hands together in excitement. She even jumped up and down a little. She’d done it!

  Pirate-Queen of the bloody Seas!

  It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the warm light. The metal was shining all up and down its length, like someone had written a message in fire. The walls were made of a mottled, sand-colored stone, while the floor was colored black. Bethany could see no doorways in either direction. The only footprints in the dust were her own.

  Bethany felt certain that the runes were made to shine that way—something about the way it sang to her told her so. Why would the wiza
rds have put the runes down here, though? What did that tell her? She could almost feel D’Jenn standing over her shoulder, arms crossed, scowling as he waited for an answer.

  “They don’t want people without magic coming down here,” she said out loud, looking up and down the hall. “No more storerooms, no more wooden doors, no more torches on the walls. Just these runes.” She ran her hand over the humming metal, listening to the tone play in her Kai. “I must be pretty deep in the tunnels.”

  Not bad, D’Jenn would say, but what else? You’ve got a mind, girl—use it.

  “The…the runes must be connected to something, they must lead somewhere! Why have them here to see where you’re going, unless there’s somewhere to go in the first place? I just need to follow the runes!” she said, clapping her hands.

  If D’Jenn was here, he’d be proud of her.

  She was struck with a thought. If she could use these runes to light up the hallway, then so could anyone who might be looking for her. They might be able to tell that she was using them, maybe even figure out how to find her. Was the light worth the risk of discovery?

  Leyton wasn’t afraid of risk. Leyton was the Pirate-King of the Seas, a rescuer of princesses. Bethany wasn’t going to be afraid, either. She was only stuck if she let herself be stuck.

  “Pirate-Queen of the Seas,” she growled. “Rescuer of princesses!”

  Bethany set off at a jog, following the glowing runes down the corridor.

  **

  “How long has she been missing?” Dormael asked, unable to keep an edge out of his voice.

  “Since the afternoon,” Shawna said, giving him an apologetic look. “If I’d known…”

  “No need for that,” D’Jenn said, holding up a hand to forestall another apology. “No one expected any of this.”

  Dormael took a deep breath and let it out, trying to send his worries out with it. The truth was that he wanted to scream. He wanted to blame someone. He’d been taken off the street in the one place in the world where he had been sure that could never happen, he’d been tortured to the brink of death and back multiple times, and now his daughter was missing.