by A Van Wyck
His unnaturally cold breath could not break the fever’s grip on him and he flowed across the empty study to the cabinet behind the desk. Its lock yawned wide at his slightest ministration. It revealed a big, red-enameled lockbox with gilding around the edges. He certainly wasn’t sneaking this out under his wraps. His hands, wedged beneath it, brought no warning pulses from his ring. Surprised by its weight, he retreated with it into the center of the study where, with his foot, he flipped back the edge of the thick carpet and set the box down on the bared floor.
No heart attack yet, that’s a good sign, he grinned.
He studied the lock. This was going to be a little more complicated than the cabinet. With deft hands, he rolled the carpet and kept on rolling until its bunched mass settled against the foot of the study door, where it would block light spilling from beneath. He collected a candle holder on his way back and greased the wick with a small amount of oil from his dropper before setting his striker to it. The candle flared into fitful life. Taper on the one hand, tools ready on the other, he settled before the lockbox.
Mindful of Breese’s warning, he held his breath as he uncorked the red phial. Coaxing the rusty powder out with gentle taps, he drew a tight circle around the box. Done, he leaned away to take one last breath of unspoiled air. The magically cooled rush was bracing. Then he touched the tiny flame to the red powder. It caught immediately, smoldering brown and hot like angry coals. Narrowing his eyes against the billowing smoke he leaned closer. Excitement jerked in his chest, like a banner in high wind. With sure movements, he coaxed the stubborn lock into surrender and flipped up the lid.
He’d expected some coin, maybe a couple of jewels or some other small horde of valuables, considering the not insubstantial weight of the box. Instead he found the sides of the box to be about a handspan thick. All of it crisscrossed in spell workings, centered on a flat crystal under the lid. A quick examination showed that it was set into the metal under-construction of the box and not about to be removed. He actual space inside was reduced no more than the inside of a boot, crammed with… letters. The mass of vellum squares were wedged in tight, shoulder to shoulder. Breese said he’d recognize his target when he saw it. The only things in the box besides the letters were a carved scroll cylinder and what looked to be a woman’s hair comb picked out in jade. He frowned in surprise.
The powder started to fizzle.
Crap.
Grabbing the lot, he pressed the lid firmly shut. It locked with a snap.
The powder sputtered out not a moment after.
As the smoke began to clear, he let himself keel over backward, trophies clutched to his chest. His expelled breath was a billowing plume, the next alive with triumph. He allowed himself one more, savoring the moment, letting heady victory have its way with him... before rising to do the rest of the night’s work.
Snatching the prize was only ever half the game. He still had to get out with it (and his skin) intact and he needed to get out of the room before the chill crystals wore off. The idea pulled at his already strained jaw. He pinched out the candle, his nerves alive with raw excitement.
Less than a quarter-glass later, an alley mouth a distance away from the sleepy mansion spat him out. His fine silk wraps were wound out of sight beneath his sash and the night’s take was safe in his drawstring purse. The rope and grapnel he’d sunk in the first waterway he’d come to. He had no wish to leave something a shaman or bone caster might use to find him in the hands of someone like Breese. Following that same thought, the set of picks the man had provided had followed the grapnel to its watery grave.
His feet followed Neever’s directions, strolling down the main street, meeting only the occasional other midnight pedestrian. People out of bed this time of night were either out of their element or up to no good. Either way that meant little eye contact and that suited him just fine. He could do without being noticed. He would have preferred to stay in the shadows and back alleys but wasn’t going to risk getting lost. The lessons of Genla were well learned it seemed.
It was quite a walk and the moon had properly risen by the time he passed beneath the great squared arch. The tall grey building with the stained glass windows, lusterless in the dark, was on his right just as Neever had promised.
How many temples does this goddess need?
Ignoring the main gate, he made his way around the back, moving silently between the trees, out of habit. He found what looked like a service entrance and had to strain his eyes to make out the figure in the familiar brown robes, sitting on the shallow steps. With chin resting on robed chest and eyes closed, Neever could be sleeping.
Smirking, he snuck up on the monk.
“How did it go?” the man asked when he was little more than a dozen paces away.
Monk my ass...
“Have you been sitting here this whole time, saying that at every few breaths and hoping to get it right eventually?”
The gentle smile the not-quite-a-monk turned on him was obvious even in the dark.
“I’ll assume it went well, then,” Neever congratulated, extending an expectant hand.
Making a snap decision, he handed over only the letters and scroll cylinder, laying it in the monk’s waiting palm. The man crooked an eyebrow, beckoning imperiously. With a sigh, he added the jade comb and the monk smiled approval.
He kept a perfectly blank expression as the man studied the cylinder, holding it up to the light of the moon. He wasn’t blind to the faint frown that played around the monk’s eyes as the comb was turned over and over in callused hands next.
Now why would you be surprised…
“You didn’t know what was in the lockbox, did you?” he guessed. Neever’s careful lack of reaction confirmed it. Fury and fear made a potent mix in his gut. “You sent me, blind, into the stronghold of a madman to steal whatever might be in there?”
Neever sighed, stuffing letters, cylinder and comb inside the folds of the dull robes.
“You judge the poor governor too harshly,” the monk lamented.
That brought him up short.
“He’s not a sadistic psychopath?”
Neever’s head shook, “He doesn’t even own a riding crop.”
“So why the ruse?” He felt a fool now, for thinking he was in danger of being flayed alive or having his fingernails plucked if he were discovered.
Another thought occurred to him, “Was that even real poison in that twist of paper?”
Lips pursed, the monk made a study of his expression. Then carefully shook his head again.
“What the fuck, Neever?!” he hissed, spreading helpless hands toward the man, though his fingers twitched hungrily. The monk looked away, leaving him to stare at the man’s ear.
It was a good thing he didn’t have his knives.
Just when he thought he wasn’t going to get an answer, the man spoke, at once consoling and apologetic.
“More than your skills, we had to make sure of your nerve. You’re going to need a lot of it for the task we have in mind. We had to know you wouldn’t buckle under the pressure. We thought, if you believed you were entering the lair of a monster and didn’t leave the poison under the nearest bush, it would be enough.”
He gaped.
“I’m sorry for the deception,” Neever continued, really looking the part. “I’m sure it would have been very unpleasant for you if you were apprehended.”
He stared at the maybe-monk as the moon slid by overhead, thoughts racing, and wondered again whether the morning would find him still here. Fury was winning out over fear.
Neever straightened from the steps.
In an echo of the monk’s gesture of a moment before, he held out his hand in silent demand, face blank and eyes flat. The monk stilled.
“Of course,” the man said after an almost unnoticeable pause and drew forth his clutch of knives. They locked gazes as it was handed over and he knew the monk was not deaf to his message.
That’s right, monk. I’m no pupp
et. See these knives? I’ll cut your strings if you play me and I’ll cut you if you try to stop me, see if I don’t. Play a game of give and take with a thief, will you?
“Come,” Neever announced, standing back, “let me show you to your bed. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us come the morning.”
The silence stretched.
When he didn’t move, the monk dropped the inviting arm and, after a moment more, preceded him up the stairs.
Knives in hand, he followed at the monk’s back.
No further words were necessary.
“So?” Neever asked as soon as he’d closed the door to his cell. “Is he any good?”
Sitting in the dark on the only bunk, the large leather case containing tripod and Temple-made telescope beside him, Breese scoffed.
“Good? He’s a ghost. I’ve never seen anything like it. Even knowing where to look I lost sight of him more than a dozen times.” Breese shook his head. “Thank Helia, and whoever else is listening, the boy chose to be a thief. He’d be the holy terror of assassins.”
Neever rubbed at his neck, remembering. “That he would.”
Sharp as ever, Breese picked up on the unconscious gesture. “What?”
“He almost snuck up on me.”
“He did? But I thought you were an empath!”
“Barely,” he countered.
“Still.”
“Still,” he conceded.
“I assume,” Breese continued, “our little sneak thief was successful?”
Neever reached beneath his robes. “As promised.” He tossed the jade comb at Breese, who studied it cursorily.
“A lot of trouble for something so… mundane.” The man dropped it in a pocket. “I assume you also got what you wanted?”
Neever felt the little cylinder and sheaf of letters through the folds of his robe.
“That I did.”
CHAPTER 13 – OUT OF SIGHT
Drip.
The sound echoed horribly – a deep drumbeat inside a vast cave.
Drip.
He could just lie here. He knew eventually the pain would go away. All pain did. Eventually. The idea was tempting. Inaction. That was the key. Any converse with the world only led to more pain. And he’d had enough of pain.
But he also knew the sound would never let up and if he stayed as he was, he would slowly be driven mad by it, waiting in the darkness for the next drumbeat. Trying to count them and then trying not to. Expecting the beat, tensed for it, when no beat came. Eventually thinking he’d heard it when he hadn’t. He’d almost walked the road of inaction once. But he hadn’t been strong enough then.
Drip.
And he wasn’t strong enough now. He was being summoned. He could feel the intense will radiating from somewhere beneath him and he was powerless to resist its call. He struggled upright. His body ached. He couldn’t see himself in the darkness but he knew he bore no wounds. It wasn’t he who bled.
Standing, he cast his gaze around the black cave to take in the thin runnels of luminescent blood that ran down the cracked stone. Their strange crimson light failed to illuminate anything beyond the surface they painted.
It was this place that bled. Like a geode buried in the ribs of the earth, this place was under constant assault from some outside pressure, unimaginable in its scope. It would fail. Eventually, it would crumble under that unmitigated assault. And then the pain would end.
He watched as a thick drop formed on the edge of a stalactite, slowly swelling until…
…drip.
Red runnels painted the cleft that held the stone stairs, spiraling down and down. He shuffled towards it, knowing that there would be fewer steps, again, than the last time. As if what waited below was slowly devouring the intervening space. Drawing him ever closer.
Fear started to pulse through him as his knees absorbed the impact of each downward step, each a finality in its own right. He couldn’t turn back. He’d tried once, when his courage had failed him, only to find that the staircase ended in rough stone just around the curve of the spiral and the preceding stairs were gone.
Too afraid to continue but unable to stop, he moved on, counting to distract himself. Eighty seven steps this time. It had been a hundred and two when last he’d walked it. It – whatever it was – was speeding in its pursuit, not content with devouring two or three steps at a time anymore.
He peered into the bleak, circular chamber he stood poised to enter. Sourceless light sketched out patches of pitted blocks and columns in a lurid yellow. From out of the gloom in the center rolled oppressive waves of such intense malevolence he was forced back by them. His shoulders scraped rough stone where a moment before there had been a passage of eighty seven stairs.
It knew he was here. It always knew.
Chains rattled and, in the gloom, he felt it turning to face him. Two yellow orbs, of a height with his own eyes, settled on him and he felt the breath squeezed from his body by the hate of that regard. Thunder rolled through the chamber, shaking it. The creature was growling. It had never done that. His stomach turned as those eyes rose and rose to tower far above him. Those unblinking orbs held him transfixed.
The movement was so sudden he missed it. Chains snapped taut as it launched itself at him. He had a brief glimpse of something dark and thickly furred before a pair of slavering jaws shut with a sickening snap a hairsbreadth from his face.
He threw himself flat against the stone, screaming, as the ancient chains fought to restrain the deadly maw that snapped at him again and again. Chewing at the air in a frenzy of froth and foul spittle, trying to reach him.
The scream rolled from him in nearly unbroken waves, the sound drowned out by the thunderous snarling and snapping. Metal screeched, stone strained. He felt it gain a fraction in his direction. His screams turned to sobs as his shoulder blades tried to dig through the rock. He pressed his head to it so hard he left skin and hair upon it.
A faint crack announced the small surrender of stone somewhere out of sight.
Its next lunge connected with his cheek.
The impact blew his thoughts and his vision apart in a violent flash–
…
Confused, he looked around, cradling his face.
He was in an unfamiliar bed, the paneled walls and portraits nearly hidden by flowers. Flowers on every available surface, filling the room with their scent. The drapes were drawn and a single beam of sunlight played fitfully with the hanging dust motes.
“Glad to see you awake,” a strained voice said.
He turned to see father Justin, sitting by his bedside, mouth turned down in pain and with an ink spotted hand cupping a brow.
Realizing immediately why his cheekbone was throbbing under his palm, he extended a hand in apology. “Father I’m so sor–”
He got no further as something bit violently into his stomach. He collapsed with a gasp, his heart racing.
The keeper reached to peel back the unfamiliar shirt, exposing a thick swathe of bandages.
“It doesn’t look like you’ve reopened the wound,” the priest opined critically, “but you should try to lie still.” The priest smoothed the shirt back down. “That must have been quite the nightmare you were having. I’d just about decided to wake you before you could tear your newly knit flesh.” The keeper’s bandaged hand massaged what must be a throbbing eye socket. “Luckily you came out of it by yourself.” The priest smiled wryly, turning to display the beginnings of an ugly bruise, “A less energetic awakening would have served us both better, I think.”
“I’m so sorry, father,” he interjected, rubbing some life back into his smarting cheek.
“I’ve been hit harder, believe you me. So, are you going to tell me what you were dreaming about?”
He started to do just that… and found that the memory, like something teasing at the corner of his vision, skittered away before he could comprehend it. He could feel the nightmare’s residue in his elevated heartbeat and slightly trembling fingertips. Tra
ces of fear-poison still coursed through his system. It had seemed so solid, so real. But of the dream itself… nothing remained. He was a blind man, cupping a blazing glow globe.
“I… don’t remember,” he admitted. Despite being certain it was not a memory he’d care to keep, its loss pained him. As if someone had stolen his memory of yesterday. And then he suddenly did remember yesterday and he would have sat bolt upright if Justin hadn’t laid a restraining hand on him.
“What happened yesterday?! Did they catch Norvalis? Is the princess alright? Did he hurt anyone else? Did–”
“Calm down, Marco, calm down. Everything’s fine.”
It was very hard not to be calm when an empath of the keeper’s caliber wanted you calm.
“Firstly,” Justin began, “it wasn’t yesterday. You’ve been abed awhile. You’ve been unconscious two nights... and only out of danger of dying for one, I might add.”
He drew an anxious breath and the keeper held up a hand to forestall him. “And, yes, the princess is fine,” the priest promised. “Shaken, but fine. After wounding you, your attacker fled.”
“Did they catch him? Did they catch Norvalis?”
“If you mean whether they caught the person who stabbed you, then the answer is no.”
“I– What…?”
The keeper smiled humorlessly. “A servant found Lord Keppin Norvalis knocked unconscious in his tent shortly before your bout. You’ve never met him or crossed swords with him,” the priest explained.
“Then who was I fighting?” he pleaded. The effort of understanding seemed colossal.
The keeper’s eyebrows conveyed a shrug.
He regarded the bandaged lump that was his midriff.
“He ran me through?” he asked, wondering how he was still alive.
Surprise flickered across the keeper’s features. “He stuck you with a dirk. You don’t remember?”