Emperor of Shadows

by Mike Truk

  “Sepulchros,” I said brightly, trying to dispel the oppressive atmosphere with the sheer force of my smile. “And Baleric! Fancy finding you here.”

  “You intrude, Kellik,” rasped the sepulchros, his body still but for his lips.

  “At great peril, might I add,” said Baleric, voice icy. “Surely you didn’t coerce your way into the Hanged God’s demesne?”

  I stepped aside and picked up a glazed skull from where it sat atop a pile of tottering books. “Well, there might have been a little coercion involved. But what’s a little coercion amongst friends?” I raised my eyebrows in what I hoped was a jocular and engaging manner.

  Nobody can level a dead flat stare at you like an Exemplar and Sepulchros of the Hanged God.

  I set the gleaming, yellowed skull back down. “Fine. We can skip the small talk. First, do you know of a means to restore the victim of a medusa’s petrifying gaze to life after their stone form has been shattered?”

  Both men stared at me in confusion.

  At long last, the sepulchros shook his head. “…No?”

  “We are in the business of death, not restoring life,” said Baleric coldly.

  “Oh, this is a business? Good to know. Explains how you were hired by Aurelius earlier.” I decided to press on before Baleric drew his blade. “You’ve heard that the White Lioness marches upon the city?”

  “We worship the god of the dead,” said Baleric. “e’re not dead ourselves.”

  I eyed the sepulchros skeptically, but pressed on. “This White Lioness is no normal woman. And I’m not talking about her extraordinary successes. I mean, the Paruko Dream Eaters themselves were concerned with her, called her a hereshen. That mean anything to you?”

  “We have speculated at length as to how you summoned the Dream Eaters,” said Mavernus. “And cannot fathom it.”

  “Care to share?” asked Baleric, raising a pale eyebrow.

  “Sure. My lover, Iris, was a necromancer captured by the Family and subjected by Baron Wargiver to experiments meant to shatter her mind and destabilize her magic so that she could power Imogen’s Web. Except I freed her. And she grew ever more powerful, and in the process attracted the Dream Eater’s attention. She was crossing the boundaries of life and death, becoming too powerful. They came for her, but she somehow projected her…‘matrix’ she called it, her spirit? Her soul? I don’t know. Upon Aurelius, so that the Dream Eaters mistook him for her and took him away.”

  I doubted many people got to see Baleric stunned. The sepulchros, however, registered no emotion.

  “Her power was extraordinary,” said the Exemplar. “In the Star Chamber that night, you said she observed how my own soul blends with that of the Hanged God, and… used that as a template for affecting other living beings?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t look to me for explanations. But yeah, that’s what I think she did.” For a moment I considered telling them about how she’d created the White Lioness by reviving Tamara by using Pony as a conduit for Aurora’s power, and how both the war troll and Tamara had come back as Exemplars.

  How we’d inadvertently created the very threat that now promised to destroy our city.

  Then I decided that was probably not a good idea.

  “‘Necromancer’ does not sound like an apt name for her,” said Mavernus, head still lolling back and to one side. “Not if she was affecting the souls of the living.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what she should be called. Vivemancer? But she’s gone now, so I guess it’s a moot point?”

  “Is she?” asked Baleric. “I heard her last words to you. That was a strange goodbye.”

  And a knot formed in my throat. I swallowed it down with difficulty and forced another smile. “Strange goodbyes were Iris’s forte. I don’t know what it meant, either. But the reason for my visit is that the Dream Eaters were concerned about the hereshen. And its coming for Port Gloom.”

  “And?” asked the sepulchros.

  “And I want your church’s assistance in repelling her. This is no ordinary religious crusade. Though, are there any ordinary ones, for that matter. Never mind. What I mean is, we’re about to be attacked by something unnatural, something that drew the Dream Eaters’ attention. Will you help me send it back to the Hanged God?”

  “Unnatural creatures have walked the face of Khansalon since the dawn of time,” said the sepulchros. “Why should the Hanged God concern himself with this White Lioness?”

  It had been a vague hope. “Because anything that draws the attention of the Dream Eaters deserves special attention?”

  Baleric frowned and looked sidelong at the sepulchros.

  Whose features gave nothing away.

  The silence stretched out, and the longer it did, the higher my hopes rose.

  “What exactly are you asking the Church of the Hanged God to do?” asked Mavernus at last.

  “Nothing direct. I know Baleric doesn’t like to get his hands dirty unless the king troll asking for favors has been around for a century or two.”

  Baleric narrowed his eyes.

  “I just want to be able to deal with this hereshen directly. I want to give her my full attention. But to do that, I need to get the remaining Aunts and Uncles off my back.”

  “You’ve done well against them thus far,” said Baleric. “We won’t finish your work.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Word is, the Aunts and Uncles are coming for me, an assassination squad. If they time it right, they could kill me without much trouble.”

  Baleric raised his chin, expression tightening, preparing, no doubt, to reject my request for the help of his sword.

  “So, what I was hoping, is that you could tell me how to remove a demon from its host. The White Sun has failed to turn up a method, despite extensive research of its archives. And since the Gloom Knights are made by bringing the applicants back and forth from the threshold of the Ashen Gardens, I thought you might know.”

  “Wait.” For the first time, Mavernus moved, jerking forward, hinging at the waist like some kind of puppet, his eyes gleaming. “What is this about the Gloom Knights?”

  “Ah.” I grimaced sympathetically. “You didn’t know?”

  “No,” said Baleric.

  “I thought perhaps you’d been the guys to show Aurelius how it’s done. You know, what with copious amounts of near-death being involved and so on.”

  “The Church of the Hanged God has had no part in this,” said Mavernus, voice forbidding. “How did you learn of this process?”

  “Veserigard, Aurelius’s butler and right-hand man. He spilled the beans when I took control of Aurelius’s estate.”

  “Explain,” demanded Baleric. “In exacting detail.”

  “I mean, I’ve only heard a rough overview myself. But apparently, the applicants are brought right to the edge of death, over and over again, then healed back? But done enough times that they lose most of their spirit, which, ah, bleeds over each time? And leaves them empty, into which an imp of some kind steals? And gives them their powers?”

  Baleric and Mavernus stared at each other, and I could only guess at the communication taking between them.

  But then Mavernus’s skeletal fist curled into a fist, and I heard his skin or perhaps it was his muscles creak like old leather as his knuckles whitened.

  “No wonder he kept this from us,” rasped the sepulchros. “We would not tolerate such heresy.”

  “You, ah, never thought to inquire?”

  Baleric’s brow lowered menacingly over his eyes. “The Hanged God does not concern himself with temporal matters. We assumed it was magic of some kind.”

  “Don’t get mad, but you’re starting to sound kind of arbitrary here. Some of your Exemplars are willing to work for money, others aren’t, you’re willing to help Aurelius but not me, and now you’re interested in Gloom Knights after they’ve been around for decades?”

  Baleric’s expression darkened, but Mavernus raised his hand.

  “You are right, yo
ung Kellik. The Church of the Hanged God does not concern itself with logic, rationality, or consistency. Such are the concerns of the living. The Hanged God concerns itself with death, and the transition to the Ashen Gardens. We mortal servants are less precise, and occasionally err. But the Hanged God does not care.”

  “However,” said Baleric.

  “However, this issue of the Gloom Knights is an affront. This… upsets me. And so I will assist you. Baleric, you will gather your friends and hunt down the remaining Gloom Knights.”

  “Gladly,” said the pale Exemplar.

  “And I will assist you in striking down at those who have dared to offend the Hanged God in such manner. Come. Follow me.”

  And slowly, with spasmodic jerks, the sepulchros arose from his high backed chair and shuffled around the desk. He was stooped, his frame bony, his hair hanging down from the edges of his iron miter like wisps of pale mist.

  Wherever he was going to lead me, it was no doubt going to take ages to get there.

  Still, I bit back my impatience and followed him out of the office, down the hall, and back into the main chamber of the cathedral. We crossed under the baleful presence of the Hanged God’s icon, and approached the caged wall through which we’d traversed last time, beyond which lay the entrance to the catacombs.

  The iron door opened of its own accord as the sepulchros drew near, so he was able to pass through without breaking his shuffling stride. I followed him into the deep shadows, and then the broad stairway that led below.

  For a moment I wasn’t sure how the old man would descend without a balustrade to grip onto, but he managed just fine, joints cracking and popping with alarming volume as he went down.

  The steps were so old and worn that they were eroded in their center, almost forming a smooth chute with steps emerging on either side. Iron brackets emerged from the stone walls, but they were devoid of torches.

  The stairs twisted to the right, and one wall gave way to reveal a void, a deep, broad shaft that cut down past multiple levels, revealing rooms and passageways of at least the first three subterranean floors, some lit by flickering torches, others dark.

  Each floor was distinguished from the other by beams of ancient wood and ridges of stone cut into their floors where the chasm cut down through them, their sides edged with balconies and retaining walls, the pools of red light illuminating ancient stone sarcophagi, recessed nooks filled with bones, the dull gleam of bronze urns. The chasm plunged on down, past these visible upper levels, into darkness seemingly without end. I peered into its depths for a moment and then shuddered.

  The sepulchros emerged onto the first level, a hall into whose frigid air my breath plumed, and I was nonplussed to see no such similar exhalations emerge from Mavernus’s withered lips.

  Best not to think about it.

  Down the broad hall he shuffled, its walls carved with niches in which eroded, ancient statues stood. The floor was marked with faded mosaics, and I decided it best not to try to decipher their contents.

  “Here,” rasped Mavernus as he passed under a massive lintel into a dark space beyond. “Here we might find answers.”

  He lifted his withered claw of a hand, and from his fingertips, light blossomed, flitting out to light one lantern after another, each set ten or so yards apart, down the sides of the room. It proved immense, each successive lighting revealing ever more depths, all of which seemed to be filled with ancient, free-standing bookcases laden with ledgers so covered in dust that they appeared furred.

  “Once I knew the contents of all these books,” whispered Mavernus, moving down an aisle between the stacks. “And in different lifetimes I have read them variously, but my memory, it is moth-eaten, with vast stretches of time lost to the dark. Still, I recall enough to intuit where we need go.”

  I followed behind, looking in wonder at the endless shelves, the huge, leatherbound books, some arranged neatly in rows, others piled haphazardly atop each other, some looking so decrepit that I doubted they’d survive being handled.

  On we walked, taking turns at random, until the ancient library began to feel more like a labyrinth.

  “Here,” whispered Mavernus at last, pausing before a bookcase honeycombed with pigeon holes, from which ancient scroll tubes emerged. “Here we find a pleasing reservoir of forbidden lore. Yes, yes.”

  A scroll tube floated forth from a hole high up, to descend smoothly into Mavernus’s withered hands. Beneath the heavy layer of dust, the tube revealed itself to be made of some dark glass; Mavernus unscrewed the top, which he allowed to fall so it hung by a slender silver chain. He gestured, and the scroll removed itself from the interior, its parchment yellowed with age, the writing faded, the parchment crackling and splitting as it unrolled itself in the air.

  “Tsch,” said Mavernus in annoyance, and the paper repaired itself, seeming to grow whole and supple, the yellow hue fading away, the ink growing strong. “Now. Let us see.”

  And he stood still, peering at the text, scanning it and muttering to himself.

  I bit my lower lip, looked up and down the stacks, and waited.

  “Yes, yes, it’s coming back to me. Wonderful little scroll. So concise. No verbiage. I do adore a scribe who flenses unnecessary formalities to cut right to the heart of the matter. Ah, no need to read on, the memories return.”

  He gestured, causing the scroll to curl back up, insert itself into the tube, then float back up to its high pigeon-hole as its top recrewed itself.

  “Expelling a demon from its host is a complicated matter,” said the Mavernus, turning to fix me with his milky eyes. “Success depends on the host desiring himself to be rid of the demon on some level. If there is no such desire, no process can force the demon forth.”

  “Hmm. Not the best. But all right. Say the host is willing. What do I do?”

  “Demons are creatures of the void, the nothingness that exists outside the Ashen Garden. They are without spirit, without life, and gain their strength by warping the living. A demon is made powerful only by its ability to twist its host; the more vital and powerful the host, the more powerful the demon can become. Further, they gain a stranglehold on their host by improving their bodies, healing their ailments, and restoring them to the prime of their lives.”

  I thought of Eddwick, and his newfound ability to speak. “I can see how that would help their sales pitch.”

  “They deceive their hosts into thinking the demon is in control, when in reality they can only exist with the host’s permission. Thus any host can be freed of the demon by seeing through its lies; this, however, is endlessly complicated by the demon’s ability to deceive the host, and warp its victim’s understanding of the truth. Where one can make a difference is by granting the host a moment of silence in which to gather their thoughts, their essence, and understand the nature of the power balance between them and the demon.”

  “You’re losing me,” I said. “What does that mean in practical terms?”

  “Through a true believer, the Hanged God can separate the demon from the host, just as he keeps the demons out of the Ashen Garden. And in doing so, give the host a chance to break free.”

  “Am I a true believer?”

  Mavernus’s scorn was withering. “No. But I can assign an acolyte of mine to accompany you. She will channel the Hanged God, and allow the possessed to break free if they desire it.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  Mavernus stare spoke volumes.

  “Yeah. They’ll kill us. Well, I’ll take what I can get. Thank you.”

  “The Family brought this upon themselves. No thanks are necessary. Now come, let us return above and find you a suitable acolyte.”

  It took three distinct mortal ages for Mavernus to climb back up to the cathedral, and I had to resist the urge to jog ahead to get a drink while I waited for him. Instead, I followed a respectful few feet behind, trailing slowly and doing my level best not to get spooked by the eerie sounds and sights that the catacombs were so gle
efully ready to provide.

  Up we climbed, till we reached the top of the steps, emerged by slow degrees through the caged wall, and toiled across the vast expanse of the cathedral floor. The White Lioness was sure to have launched her siege by the time we got to his office. When we reached his great door at the end of the hall, I saw a slender figure in black robes awaiting us patiently by its side, and who perked up at our appearance.

  “Sepulchros,” she said, voice bright and discordant in the gloom and cobwebs of the church. “Master Kellik.”

  I knew that voice. Knew that slight frame, and when she pushed her cowl back I recognized her face.

  Seraphina.

  Hair shaven to the scalp, skin pale as milk kept in a dark cellar, lips bloodless but easy to smile, and with one eye lost to cataracts, she was unforgettable and oddly cheering.

  “Acolyte,” said the sepulchros, waving her in.

  She opened the door and stood aside. Perhaps half an hour Mavernus reached his chair and lowered himself by achingly slow degrees into its high backed comfort.

  “Ah,” he said, lips twisting into a rictus that might conceivably have been a smile. “I do so enjoy an outing. Brings life back to these old bones. Now, Seraphina. You are to accompany Kellik at all times from henceforth, and endeavor to remain within sight of him until he suffers an assassination attempt by a group of demon-possessed Aunts and Uncles. Upon that eventuality, you are to channel the Hanged God’s presence into the room, and in so doing allow the men and women a moment to contemplate their status. With a touch of Blind Fortuna’s favor, some shall buck the demons’ influence, allowing Kellik to defeat his foes and right wrongs that we need not get into now. Clear? Good. Collect a travel satchel and meet Kellik at the front door.”

  Seraphina was not adept at disguising her emotions. That came with being a young acolyte, I guess. Her expressions ranged from polite attendance to surprise, down into the valley of shock, a quick sojourn into skepticism, then a plunge into rank disbelief, all before being hauled back into the safe realm of blank obedience, her expression neutral once more.