Mortal Rites

by Melissa McShane

  She came to the end of the diary abruptly; a good quarter of the pages hadn’t yet been written in. Sighing in relief, she turned back to the first mention of Traverse of Memory, the one that didn’t mention the name. If it wasn’t a hoax, the rituals it contained were similar to necromantic ones, which meant…what? Possibly that necromancy was a degraded form of rituals that had existed centuries ago, maybe in the before times. They’d already suspected that, given that the ritual that bound the Sassaven had been created almost a hundred years before the wars that nearly destroyed civilization. But this could be the proof they needed.

  She closed the book and went in search of her friends, finding them in the room where she’d slept. Alaric, Dianthe, and Perrin sat on the sofas; Kalanath, as usual, stood leaning on his staff. All of them looked exhausted. “Did Perrin tell you what I learned?” she asked.

  “An old, worn book called Traverse of Memory,” Dianthe said. “It’s not here. I guarantee we’ve searched every conceivable place in this house.”

  “What about the kitchens?”

  “It wouldn’t be there. Too much potential for it to be damaged. But yes, we looked there too.”

  Sienne sank onto a sofa beside Alaric. “But it has to be here.”

  “Unless it was destroyed. If its condition was bad enough, that’s possible.” Alaric clasped her hand loosely. “We’ve run out of options.”

  “Then we need Master Murtaviti’s library,” Sienne said. “If he has a copy, like Master Scholten believed, we don’t need Master Scholten’s.”

  “It’s after two o’clock, and I’m exhausted,” Dianthe said. “But I really don’t want to sleep here.”

  “We can’t get into Onofreo until dawn, and we’re not equipped to sleep outdoors,” Alaric said. He shuddered, and closed his eyes briefly.

  “Are you all right?” Sienne asked, feeling alarmed.

  “I feel cold,” Alaric said.

  Sienne put a hand on his forehead. “You’re feverish,” she said, looking into his eyes, which were glassy and slightly unfocused. “You need rest.”

  “That’s not something I can get in this house.” He shuddered again. “Perrin, tell me about this illness the undead carry.”

  “Some are carriers of ordinary agues,” Perrin said. “More serious are such things as grave rot and marrowblight. If you have contracted grave rot, the symptoms will not show for another three days. Marrowblight is a disease of the blood that requires several priestly blessings or intensive medical attention. That one, I do not believe you have, as it turns the skin yellow almost immediately.”

  Alaric looked flushed rather than yellow. “So this is an ordinary fever?”

  “Very likely. I can pray for a blessing that will restore you, but it may require more than one, depending on the severity. You will still need rest for a few days and febrifuges and other treatments.”

  Alaric scowled. “Because what we needed was another delay.”

  “But we’re not in a hurry anymore, are we?” Sienne said. “We stopped Master Scholten from becoming a lich. Master Murtaviti has been killed. Drusilla Tallavena and Pedreo Giannus are both dead. The blight is destroyed. All we need now is access to Master Murtaviti’s library, and that’s not going anywhere.”

  “Unless Mistress Murtaviti gets rid of it now that her husband is dead,” Dianthe said.

  “But she will not know for days,” Kalanath pointed out. “If he did not go to his home, but went directly to Mistress Tallavena’s house, she is still waiting for news.”

  “That’s true,” Alaric said. “Then I propose we set this up to look like undead killed Scholten and Murtaviti, then go back to Onofreo, wait for sunrise, and find a good inn.” He shuddered again, and this time he went on shaking. “I’d rather recover at home, but I don’t think I can ride for a full day.”

  “You should not,” Perrin said. “Rest here, and let us see to things.”

  “I can—” Alaric tried to rise and his legs gave out. “All right, I can’t.”

  Sienne squeezed his hand. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  22

  It took more than an hour to arrange the bodies in a way Dianthe was satisfied with. Sienne cringed whenever she had to touch one of the undead. She was sure the stench of putrefaction had doubled in the short time since the battle was over. She helped drag the ones that had attacked Alaric nearer each other as Kalanath brought Scholten’s body toward the stable. “This is disgusting,” she told him.

  “I will be glad when it is over,” he replied. “Can we do anything about their wounds?” He set Scholten down and waved a hand at the undead.

  “Even if I could cast spells yet, which I can’t, any illusion to disguise their having been gored by a unicorn would fade in a few hours. We have to hope nobody looks too closely at the undead, and rely on people believing unicorns are mythical to keep anyone from drawing that absurd conclusion.” She looked off toward the house. Dianthe was trotting toward them, moving rapidly but not urgently. “I hope this means we can leave.”

  “That’s the last of them,” Dianthe said. She crouched to examine Scholten’s body and moved his arms and legs to sprawl more. “I think we should circle around behind the city and approach Onofreo from the other side, just in case. I doubt the same guards will be on the gate in the morning, but no sense taking chances.”

  “I want to wash my hands,” Sienne said. “No, I want a bath. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this disgusting in my life. Are we sure we can’t catch a disease just from handling the bodies?”

  “Perrin says no. I hope he’s right. I’ve never seen an illness progress so rapidly as Alaric’s.”

  “He’s all right, though?” Sienne asked, alarmed.

  “He’ll be fine, Sienne. He’s the toughest man I know. He doesn’t take sick very often, and he’s obnoxious when he’s recovering. A little rest, and he’ll be back to normal.”

  “Unless he has grave rot,” Kalanath said. Both women glared at him, and he put up his hands to deflect their glares. “It is a possibility we do not need to ignore.”

  “Yes, but I’d rather not dwell on it,” Sienne said.

  They returned to the sitting room where Perrin and Alaric waited. Alaric did look worse. His fair skin was flushed, his eyes were red-rimmed, and he shivered frequently. He held up a hand when Sienne went to him. “Stay back. I don’t want you catching this. There’s no reason it can’t be transmitted like a normal illness.”

  “You look bad,” Dianthe said. “We could have a problem.”

  “I’ll be fine, Dianthe. This is just a minor illness.”

  “Yes, but you’re clearly in a bad way. They might not let you into the city if it looks like you’re carrying contagion.”

  “I don’t look that bad.” Alaric straightened and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “Do I?”

  Sienne looked at Dianthe, who was chewing her lower lip. “We’ll just have to risk it,” she said. “The worst that can happen is they won’t let us in, and we’ll either have to find shelter at a farmhouse or risk the trip back to Fioretti.”

  “Could you cast a confusion to disguise his condition?” Perrin asked Sienne.

  “Theoretically, yes, but not now. I haven’t recovered from casting all those spells.” Her vision was still doubled at times, and she ached as badly as if she were ill herself, not something she’d shared with her friends. It wasn’t as if they could do anything about it, and she didn’t want to be coddled.

  “Let’s ride,” Alaric said. “I want to leave this place behind and never return.”

  Spark was as placid as if the events of the night had passed her by. Scholten must have ignored the other horses in his haste to make his escape on Paladin. She whickered at Sienne when Sienne saddled her and mounted. “No long journeys today,” Sienne told her. “Just rest in a quiet stable.” Spark nodded exactly as if she’d understood.

  They left the gate open and circled wide around the hills behind Scholten’s estate, hea
ding south and west. Once they left the lights of the estate behind, only the partially-lidded eye of the moon lit their progress. Sienne kept a close eye on Alaric, who sat hunched in his saddle as if he were exhausted. She wanted to slump herself, but made herself sit erect. No sense giving her friends another person to worry about, though in truth they all looked like they’d had a rough night. Sienne blinked away Alaric’s doubled image, and he swam back into focus. Just a few more hours, and they could rest.

  She inhaled the sweet air of the short grasses covering the hills, grateful to have left the funk of the undead behind. It was a beautiful, clear night, with the stars a white dusting of shattered glass from hilltop to horizon and the light wind caressing her cheeks and keeping her from falling asleep and then off her horse. The only sounds came from the muffled tread of their horses’ hooves on the grassy hillsides; no birds, no animals, not even the howl of a hunting wolf. It felt like victory. They’d succeeded in half their quest, and the other half was just a matter of time. If Alaric weren’t sick, everything would be perfect.

  Dianthe led them through the silent hills for what felt like hours, but was probably only ninety minutes. Eventually she brought them out onto the wide highway, turning east toward Onofreo. The sky was lightening in the east, a familiar sight to Sienne, whose usual watch while they were in the wilderness had her awake in the pre-dawn hours. The imminent dawn cheered her further, as much as her concern for Alaric would allow. None of them had spoken, but Sienne couldn’t help feeling it was a bad sign that he was silent. She urged Spark faster and drew up beside him. “Just a little farther,” she said. “You’re not going to fall off, are you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Alaric replied. He was hunched more deeply now and had his eyes fixed on Paladin’s ears. “I just feel cold.”

  “You don’t look terrible.”

  “Let’s hope that’s enough to get me through the gate.”

  “There’s Onofreo,” Dianthe said, pointing at a cluster of lights on the eastern horizon. “We’ll have a bit of a wait, by my estimate.”

  Another half-hour brought them to the city gate. The sky was lighter, but stars were still visible in the west. Dianthe rode up to the gate, looked up at where guards walked along the top of the wall, and shouted, “How long ‘til the gates open?”

  “You scrappers?” a voice replied.

  “We are.”

  “Figured. Scrappers are always impatient. We’ll open at first sight of the sun’s rays and not before.”

  “Did you hear me ask you to?” Dianthe rode back to the others. “Forty minutes, give or take.”

  “What are they so worried about?” Sienne asked. “Fioretti’s gates are open at all hours.”

  “Unless there is an invasion, or plague,” Perrin said.

  “All right, unless that, but Onofreo can’t be worried about either of those things if they always close the gates at night. They aren’t anywhere near the frontier, either.”

  “A lot of western cities do that,” Dianthe said. “I don’t know why. Alaric, how are you?”

  “I feel like death,” Alaric said. “My skin’s not yellow, though, is it? What are the symptoms of grave rot?”

  “Patches of gray beginning on your hands and feet and spreading from your extremities to your torso,” Perrin said, “but it is far too early to worry about that. And although we cannot tell the hue of your skin in this poor light, I assure you marrowblight is unlikely.”

  “I hate being sick.”

  “The worst will be over in a few hours, when I procure the proper blessing.” Perrin tied his long hair out of his eyes and added, “Though do not forget, it is possible it will take more than one. Healing disease is more complicated than healing injury. For serious diseases, it can require one blessing to destroy the disease-causing agent and another to repair the damage it does. I am afraid my knowledge of such things is rather academic.”

  “We can be grateful you do not need it before now,” Kalanath said.

  They fell silent. Sienne watched Alaric, whose breathing was heavier now, and wondered what they would do if he fell off his horse. If she tried to stop him, he’d just take her down with him, and she was certain all four of them together wouldn’t be enough to hoist him back into the saddle. She eyed the eastern horizon and found herself willing the sun’s disk to appear.

  She wasn’t sure how long it took, but it felt like much more than forty minutes before the gates of Onofreo swung open, heavy and with a low moan like an oncoming tide. Alaric straightened. “Quickly,” he said. “I’m not sure how long I can hold this position.”

  The guards waved them through without looking closely at any of them, and Sienne breathed out in relief once they’d left the gate behind. Onofreo still slept, its morning streets a quiet contrast to the bustle and hum of the night before. The western side of the city looked much as its eastern counterpart did, though the street was wider and the signs hanging outside the shops and taverns bore writing rather than pictures of what could be purchased within.

  “This one,” Dianthe said, turning onto a side street that led to an inn yard off the main street. They filed through the gate and dismounted, all but Alaric, who clung to his saddle as if he’d been tied there. Dianthe handed her reins to Sienne and said, “I’ll see about rooms. Go ahead and get the horses stabled.”

  A breeze brought the smell of fresh-baked bread to Sienne’s nose, waking her stomach, which hadn’t been hungry until now. To the stable hand who approached her, she said, “Do you have room for our horses?”

  “Plenty,” the woman said. “Here, your friend don’t look too well.”

  “Summer cold,” Sienne said.

  “Well, let’s get your horses stabled. Plenty of room now the scrappers are gone—but you’ll be scrappers yourselves, yes?” The woman gestured toward the stalls. “Take your pick.”

  “We’re scrappers, yes,” Sienne said.

  “Not headed for Fioretti?”

  “Ultimately, but our friend needs rest for a few days. Why?”

  The stable hand shrugged. “Last set of scrappers got word of something happening in the capital. Some call for scrappers. Don’t know more than that.”

  “We haven’t heard anything, but we’ve been…on the road,” Sienne said, remembering at the last minute that they wanted to deflect attention from Scholten’s estate.

  The woman shrugged again. “Probably it’s nothing.”

  Dianthe came out of the inn’s back door at a run. “Let’s get you inside,” she said to Alaric, who nodded and slid off Paladin’s broad back. He staggered when his feet touched the ground, and Sienne took a step forward before realizing there was no way she could support his weight. Kalanath and Perrin slung Alaric’s arms over their shoulders, and step by halting step they made their way inside.

  The back door led to a short hallway off which opened one door, the source of the delicious smells, and a narrow back staircase. Sienne hovered anxiously behind the three men as they made their way up the creaking steps. The staircase was poorly lit and barely wide enough for the three to fit. Alaric’s head drooped, and his legs trembled with every step. It was hard not to imagine a terrible, incurable illness, and never mind what Perrin had said.

  By the time they reached the second floor, Perrin was swearing under his breath, Kalanath was sweating, and the tremor in Alaric’s legs was pronounced enough that they had to stop for him to rest. Sienne was grateful they didn’t have to climb any more stairs. A single hall, much wider than the staircase, cut the second floor in half, front and back. A narrow carpet the color of the lightening sky covered the floor, and the walls were half-paneled in maple and painted a cheerful pink above. Dianthe had procured them two rooms with three beds each. “They’re light on customers right now,” she said as she held open the door to the first room. “Something about all their scrapper guests leaving for Fioretti in a hurry.”

  “That’s what the stable hand said,” Sienne said, following the men into the r
oom. Alaric fell onto the nearest bed and lay there motionless, one leg dangling off the side. “Alaric, you need to undress.”

  “I don’t think I can move.”

  “Sienne and I will see about getting breakfast,” Dianthe said. “You two help him take off his boots, at least.” She motioned Sienne into the hall and shut the door firmly behind them. “I’m sure the innkeeper won’t mind us bringing food to the room. Then it’s nap time for all of us.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep without knowing he’s all right.”

  “Perrin will take care of him. You know he’d be upset if he knew you were still ill, or whatever you call it when you cast too many spells.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You are not. I bet you anything you like that you can’t keep a straight line walking down this hall.”

  Sienne flushed and made herself walk more steadily. “All right, I’ll rest. Did the innkeeper say why the scrappers left?”

  “Just that they got word from Fioretti of something big and took off at sunrise. They must have taken the Widdern Gate, since we didn’t see them leave. It makes me curious.”

  “Me, too.”

  After a few minutes’ negotiating with the innkeeper, who put up a token protest against them eating in their rooms—mainly, Sienne thought, to justify overcharging them—they had a pot of coffee, a basket of fresh rolls, a covered platter of sausages, and a basket of apples, along with assorted dishes and cutlery. It was almost too much for the two of them to carry, but when Sienne tried to use her invisible fingers, she managed only to nauseate herself.

  Eventually they made it up the stairs and back to the room. The men had succeeded in getting Alaric undressed and into bed, and Sienne examined his face anxiously. He still looked feverish, but not yellow, and although his eyes were closed, he was still too tense to be asleep. He opened one eye as they came in, then closed it again.

  “Ah, coffee,” Perrin said with an exaggerated sigh. “I realize it militates against my falling asleep, but perhaps that is for the best, if it means I will be conscious when it is reasonably time to pray.”