To his regret, Ben recognised most of them. There was St. Margaret of Antioch, who’d been swallowed by a dragon but managed to rip her way out of its belly with her crozier, her staff encrusted with jewels. Then there was St. Columba, who was said to have wrestled the Loch Ness monster. St. Marcellus, the bane of vampires. St. Gildas, who had struck off the head of a giant. St. Benedict, who’d bested the devil himself. Swords of God, heroes all, bringing righteous slaughter to the demons in their midst. Ben would’ve rolled his eyes if his own fabled head wasn’t resting on the block. In this case, quite literally.
He considered the block, a square granite lump with a well-worn groove stained a telltale pink, as the Cardinal continued her sermon.
The new Cardinal, Evangelista de Gori—that was how one of the True Names had announced her when she’d entered the chamber—prompted an inward groan from Ben. As she took the high lectern overlooking the court, he realised that he’d already made her acquaintance. Despite her lofty title, she made no concession to ostentation. Her dress, a shin-length one-piece, hung off her frame like the wing of a moth, blending with the sombre surroundings. She was as skinny as a leaf-stripped branch, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, enhancing the cut of her cheekbones, her sharp, no-nonsense nose. The left side of her face slumped somewhat, the palsied nerves disclosing some past seizure or other. Her scars had the odd effect of softening her by a degree, the way in which she bore them conveying a spine of strength. How anyone so elderly and plain could seem so formidable escaped him, but formidable she was. She was also the old woman from the North Sea oil rig.
“This revelation, brothers and sisters,” she went on, “was given to St. John of Patmos centuries ago, warning us of the end. Warning us to stay vigilant. As we have done from the founding of the Pact to this day, when we seek our absolution.”
De Gori stood at the lectern, her spiderlike hands clasping the sides of a gigantic bible, her face turned up to the stained-glass oriels in the roof, the light painting her scars a deep and appropriate red. Flecks of spittle at the corners of her mouth informed Ben that the Italian doyenne was enjoying every moment of her triumph.
“The end comes,” she said, “for all imps, grotesques and serpents. They are abominations! The children of Lucifer. Demons sent to deceive us. All that comes from the Fay perversion is ruin. These Remnants are a poison in the heart of Creation.” She gathered her breath. “Too long have we suffered the compromise, forced to tolerate the evil among us. All we have learnt is that the truly devout cannot make deals with the devil.”
This doesn’t sound good.
The drab figures lining the tiers of benches around him murmured in assent. How they basked in the Cardinal’s fervour! Since that day in 1215 when King John had pressed his seal to the Pact, the Chapter, in all fairness, had found itself facing its own hard part of the bargain, its dream of a holy inquisition outvoted. And even the Pope hadn’t deigned to press the matter. England had been tearing itself apart at the seams as it was, teetering on the brink of civil war.
In the following years, the Chapter had faded into history, seemingly content to let the Guild administer and direct the Lore. In hindsight, Ben realised that the older had only been waiting for its chance to seize control, enforce the Lore with an iron rod.
So it came as no surprise to him to see such glee in the Cardinal’s eyes, greeting this eventual hour of conquest.
She’s on a bloody crusade. She favours the old values, that’s what she said. And the old values mean dark days ahead. Oh joy.
“Draco Benjurigan,” she said, peering down at him. “Sola Ignis. Remnant and sinner. The Chapter finds you guilty of breaking the Lore.”
Ben could barely stand to look at her, this grey spindle of zealous contempt. De Gori was twice the fool if she’d chosen to ignore Jia’s warning about the Ghost Emperor, as it appeared she had. Why would she listen to demons? But long-dead saints wouldn’t help her when the giant phantom slipped its tentacles through a crack in reality and tore down the fucking walls. Of course, the Cardinal probably wanted that to happen—Jia had told him as much—seeing the coming apocalypse as justification for a life spent on her knees, nibbling on wafers and sipping piss-weak wine.
Ben had met her type before, one too many times. Few things in the world were as blind as faith. As far as slaughter was concerned, it was the best excuse going.
Thinking of Jia, he glanced at the sin-you on the bench below him, shackled like himself by lunewrought, the manacle around her wrist. A True Name sat on either side of her, guarding her slumped and dishevelled form, her braid loosely tied, her suit bloodstained. Her face was a moon, distant and sad, her eyes downcast, veiled by lashes.
He sent her a silent message.
Any tricks up your sleeve, now would be a good time to play them.
The Cardinal could preach about the end until the cows came home. Either way, Ben reckoned it was the end of the road for him.
On the other side of the chamber, straight-backed, scarred and as visibly pleased with herself as the Cardinal, sat the Sister. Her cross-shaven rock of a head was tilted to the lectern, but her adoration didn’t soften her brutish appearance. She wore the same washed-out military fatigues, but she had dispensed with her sickle and her other array of weaponry. The Arimathean Shield remained strapped to her back, her broad shoulders dwarfed by the relic.
Ben had to content himself with the sight of her arm in a sling and her melted boot soles on the cold stone tier. It was too late for payback now. Broken bones or no, she had vanquished him good and proper—with a little unexpected help, of course. He caught furtive sneers and muttered curses from the other True Names gathered around him. He hadn’t won any popularity contests here. And Jia was vastly outnumbered, even if she’d wanted to mount a rescue, which he somehow doubted. Hadn’t he served his purpose? If, as he suspected, the envoy was behind her quest for the harp, he obviously hadn’t deemed Ben trustworthy or jaded enough to let him in on the game.
Still, that damn message in the fortune cookie. What the hell did it mean?
Looking over at the sin-you, he could see her despair, her subterfuge hitting a brick wall, her warning falling on deaf ears. Or rather on expectant ears, those of a Cardinal with spread arms, welcoming the End of All Things. What were you supposed to do with that?
“On the count of un-Loreful transformations into Remnant form, whereby humans may have witnessed and recorded said transformations, this court finds the accused guilty.”
“Guilty,” the assembled conclave murmured as one.
Ben snarled. About that …
“On the count of acting without due recourse to the Curia Occultus, failure to inform our agents of the Bardolfe conspiracy last year, this court finds the accused guilty.”
“Guilty,” said the True Names.
I saved your fucking arses.
Cardinal de Gori cleared her throat. Was that a smile on her lips? Hard to tell.
“On the count of un-Lorefully coupling with a human—the most depraved of the crimes listed here today—this court finds the accused—”
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”
The gathering rose to its feet, the hollow intonation ringing between the statues and pillars like an incoming tide. The chorus of voices surrounded Ben on the platform, a whirlpool threatening to suck him down. He clung onto his shock like a raft, straining to stare up at the Cardinal, her revelation shattering his hope like a bullet through porcelain.
Rose. They know about Rose.
It made perfect sense, of course. He’d been a fool to think he could get away with it, his brief, clumsy romance, when the Coven Royal had kidnapped Rose, making her central to their plans. Just how long had the Chapter been watching him, waiting for him to slip up? He wondered what evidence had been presented during his trial in absentia. Photographs? Film clips? Recorded telephone calls? He reckoned the lot.
And what did it matter anyway? This was nothing more than a show trial, he knew, m
asking his murder because he refused to surrender Von Hart. The formalities were for the sin-you’s benefit, surely—she certainly loved her protocol, even if she was playing the quisling, withholding the truth of affairs. When his head went rolling across the platform, it would simply serve to force a confession, inform her that she was next …
The Cardinal was obviously elated, the stained glass illuminating her scars. The damaged tissue held a pearly sheen as she turned her face skyward to remind all present of his damnation.
“Know that before God and the King and the knights of this realm, no Remnant spared the Sleep and bestowed the freedom of these Lands shall beget issue of like kind, nor influence, adopt or otherwise endow others into their fold. Since we have granted all these things, for the better order of our kingdom and to allay the discord between us, any Remnant found in breach of this clause shall face swift and lawful execution …”
The Cardinal knew about Rose. Didn’t it stand to reason that the Chapter also knew of her whereabouts? And if de Gori knew of Rose’s whereabouts, then that meant his one-time lover was once again in danger. His child was in danger.
Stay away. From me. From us.
Ben’s roar, choked as it was by his collar, still cut through the chanting of the crowd. Cardinal de Gori, satisfied that her barb had hit home, slapped her hands down on the bible as though to shake condemnation from the pages. He refused to look at her, to let her see his distress.
And more immediate concerns were pressing their case, the lunewrought collar growing tighter, the enchanted metal responding to some unseen signal, some controlling charm.
De Gori leant forward and unwrapped something from the lectern before her. At first, Ben couldn’t see what it was, but the silvery light washing over her face told him that she’d brought her fragment of the harp to proceedings. Then she lifted the soundboard, her fingers stroking the ghostly strings, a stark tinkling in the air.
The lunewrought collar answered, drawing tighter.
“Garston’s death will serve as our sacrifice,” she said. “We beseech the saints for their aid. We will find the other fragments of the harp, see the devil’s instrument made whole. We will bring the fallen fairy before us and compel him to sing us a new song. To change the music of sleep into the music of death.”
Ben looked up, watching de Gori’s spit pepper the air as she reached the zenith of her plans, revealing an ambition that had carried her over the edge of fervour and into fanaticism. Madness.
“Scripture makes no bones about monsters,” she told the court. “Brothers and sisters, we are True Names. Souls native to earth. Together we will be the scourge to cleanse the world. The grandest of all inquisitions!”
Same old story. Ben strained against his bonds to no avail. Cold silver burned his neck, squeezing his Adam’s apple. But if the Chapter doesn’t have the harmonic curve, then it must still be in the Guild’s keeping. And fairy, much as I’d love to kick your arse, for now you had better stay hidden …
To de Gori, he managed to croak out, “Over my dead body.”
She ignored him. The chains around his wrists clanked taut, a cog under the floor beginning to turn, dragging him forward inch by inch, his head sinking towards the block. Gasping, he understood his fate. Axes were so last year. So yesteryear. Lungs fit to burst, he knew that the collar was only going to squeeze tighter and tighter, eventually slicing through flesh and bone, cutting off his head.
Stage goes dark. Audience applauds. No chance of an encore …
Grunting, he wedged his knees against the chopping block and grabbed the chains snaking from his manacles, pulling as hard as he could. Veins stood out on his neck, saliva foaming between his teeth, but the under-floor wheel creaked on regardless, his chin touching stone. The lunewrought collar had curbed his strength, dousing his inner fire. To all intents and purposes, he was bound here as a man. Incapable of ripping the chains apart.
The butterflies were fluttering again, black flowers spinning before his eyes. Blood drummed in his ears, a forlorn tattoo welcoming him to the land of death. So many friends waiting to meet you! He could hear de Gori ranting above him, some screed about sacrifice and fire, rising to the vaulted ceiling and echoing, echoing into a scream …
As the scaling cry raced around the chamber, the congregation erupted in panic. The butterflies before Ben’s eyes spread their wings in the real world, a cloak thrown over the windows, everything falling into shadow. The chains stopped clanking, growing slack, and by degrees, he felt the lunewrought collar loosening, his beheading cut short.
Before he had a chance to draw a hungry breath, a cloud of shattering brick exploded all around him. The floor tipped to one side, the flagstones flying apart like an upended board game, the chopping block a ball and chain swinging from his wrists. Arms wheeling, he slid backwards on his island of rock, the platform pitching in the chaos, a cry flying from his throat.
Shielding his eyes from the billowing dust, he saw a row of pillars caving inwards, the statues in the alcoves toppling. St. Margaret wasn’t digging her way out of this one. St. Benedict was going straight to hell. The looming figures collapsed in sections, swallowed by the sundering floor.
The next moment, the arched windows followed them, the entire valley-facing wall of the temple ripped away by some tremendous force. Like a shipwrecked sailor, Ben clung onto the platform for dear life. A mighty wind rushed into the temple, hurling snow and grit. The True Names scattered, scrabbling away from the crumbling tiers, seeking safer ground.
In the haze, Ben couldn’t see any sign of Jia, the sin-you lost in the storm. But he could see de Gori high up on her lectern, turning to greet her unexpected guest with a joyous expression and spread arms.
“See? See? An angel comes, answering my call. And he has brought a fragment of the harp!”
It was no angel. Despite the shadow of white wings, his terrible arrival, there was nothing holy about the newcomer. His long, bladed tail snapped out, lashing the chamber like a whip.
Distracted by his imminent death, Ben hadn’t sensed the dragon’s approach. There was no mistaking his presence now.
Mauntgraul, the White Dog, had found his way to the Invisible Church.
The monastery, perched high up on the mountain, shuddered on crumbling foundations. Pinnacles snapped and fell like darts. Gargoyles took to the air, their frozen wings carrying them down. With a mournful clang, the bell tower crumpled. Buttresses budged and cracked, unable to withstand the barrage of the twelve-ton beast.
Wings spread and level, keeping his bulk aloft, Mauntgraul made swift work of the wall, giving himself room to alight. As soon as he did, he reached out a claw for the Cardinal, his splayed talons dwarfing the lectern.
In response, de Gori raised the soundboard before her, once again strumming the strings. Silver light washed out, setting fire to Mauntgraul’s eyes. Roaring, he recoiled from the music, the sickening yet pleasurable melody offering sleep and death.
The temple was a shifting archipelago of stone. The chamber rocked and rumbled with the impact, the dragon’s retreat sending chunks of architecture crashing over the precipice and down into the valley below. True Names went with them, wailing their final prayers.
To Ben’s surprise, Mauntgraul, fangs locked, turned back to the lectern. Approaching through the clouds of dust, the White Dog barged his way into the monastery proper. Or rather the heap of rubble where the boundary wall had once stood, a pulverised, smoking mess. Neck coiling back, his diadem of horns gored the roof, timber and plaster raining down.
It was then that Ben noticed the object tucked between the scales of the White Dog’s breast, the unmistakable gleam of lunewrought, the harmonic curve of the harp. The sight confirmed his worst fears. He had hoped beyond hope that Mauntgraul had sought the Guild out solely to take revenge, praying that the order had hidden its fragment well, away from prying eyes.
Can’t those knights do anything right?
He should’ve known better. Mauntgraul,
for all his brawn, was no fool. No doubt during his attack on Paladin’s Court he had stolen the piece of the Cwyth in the Guild’s keeping and somehow made his way here. But how?
Ben thought he knew. The harp was all of a piece, bound by one enduring charm. As he’d discovered first hand, the lunewrought responded to the proximity of its other scattered parts. Even the collar around his throat was tingling and throbbing, answering the call of its other-worldly source. And above him, it seemed that the two fragments, the one at Mauntgraul’s breast and the one in de Gori’s grip, looked blurry and distorted in the light, stretching slightly, yearning to join.
Unlike Paladin’s Court, the Invisible Church had never advertised its location, particularly not to the Remnant world. Someone must have told Mauntgraul where to find the Chapter. Someone with an ear for whispers, with the command of a million spies …
It occurred to him then—seeing as the Chapter had trapped him in human form and in the middle of a collapsing building to boot—that this probably wasn’t the best time to draw the dragon’s attention. What was he going to do? Fight? It’d be like attacking a shark with an egg whisk.
Before he could stop himself, he was shouting into the chaos, the wyrm tongue flying from his throat.
Mauntgraul reared back, his claw closing a foot away from the Cardinal’s head. A horrible pendulum, his snout swung around, seeking the source of the interruption. Ben saw the mania shining in his eyes, the same unhinged and troubled glow that he’d witnessed in Beijing. For all the White Dog’s strength, he was clearly not himself, but Ben took no satisfaction in the sight, whatever slaughter he hoped to bring.
Noticing Ben, his eyes flared like black suns.
Raising Fire Page 22
