The Bone Cave

by Sarah Remy

“I have done similar before,” he said. “And would do so again without hesitation to protect my king and my city. But I have no reason to believe it would be of any help to us. In my experience sidhe have no spirit within to compel, alive or dead.”

  Metal links scraped on stone. The barrowman tugged uselessly on the chain with ruined fingers. The odd fur cap had slipped, tilting at a rakish angle atop its head. There was an urgency to its struggle that made Avani draw close to the cell again, suspicious.

  “I think it understands what we’re saying.”

  Mal’s sigh gusted across Avani’s cheek. “We’ll soon find out,” he said. “Guard the door until I’m within.”

  “Aye,” she murmured, although if the barrowman was strong enough to free itself from chain and bolt she thought her fledgling sword and sorcery skills would be of little worth. “What then?”

  “Let us be. I need no audience for this chore.” Mal tossed her a grin that was surely meant to be reassuring but instead made her grit her teeth in anticipation of disaster. For all his courtly airs the man had a habit of attracting ruination.

  Malachi. Don’t do anything you’ll regret, not even for the king’s sake. She formed the thought in her skull, shaping the intent and flinging it his direction. Again she was not sure if he heard her, until he paused in pawing through the victuals set out on Renault’s folding table. When he looked around his face was a rictus of consternation.

  “We forged a dangerous link, you and I, all unknowing in the face of my sorrow and your untutored daring. If Andrew had been yet alive to school my impulses it would never have happened.” Briefly, he closed his eyes. “I heard you on the ship, calling to me,” he said. “All the way over water. And later, across a continent. You helped me find my way back to sanity from sickness and despair. I am in your debt. But you cannot complain that my walls are in disrepair, my boundaries overflowing, and yet continue to batter every day past the cracks, scattering your ruminations like flotsam across the tidewater of my damaged self.”

  Embarrassment scoured Avani’s cheeks. “I thought you didn’t hear.”

  Mal opened his eyes. He held up one hand, palm outstretched. “I will not tell you to stop. I cannot. I meant to sever the tie and mayhap if I’d stayed an ocean away it would have been a spider’s silk broken on the wind, I don’t know. In your presence it renews and expands beyond my understanding. I will confess that in the longest hours of the night I listen for you, hoping for a suggestion of your dreaming.”

  “Mal—” Incredulous, she reached too late. He closed his hand into a fist before she could take it.

  I warned you it might be the death of us should any discover what we’ve begun. His mind voice was tender and frightening both: a net of warm affection, threading Avani’s core, an antidote to loneliness, a subterranean whisper in her bones. He’d been within her all along, carefully concealed. I did not understand how essential you would become. I cannot tell you to stop; the strength is not within me. But, I count myself a fair man, Avani, even still, and so I say to you: in listening for my presence have you forsaken that of your Goddess?

  Shock rocked Avani on her heels. The barrowman ceased tugging at his chain. As if he hadn’t dealt her a mortal blow Mal calmly chose a selection of roast meats from the offering of food. While Avani struggled to form words, he stepped across his wards and struck the cell lock open with a cant.

  The sidhe scuttled backward until it fetched up against unforgiving stone. Mal hooked the door closed again with his foot. Avani did not hear which spell he spoke but the door chain wrapped thrice again around the bars and the lock clicked to all of its own accord. It was an impressive show of magic. Avani might have stopped to admire the working but for the fury coursing now through her veins.

  “You don’t even believe in the gods,” she accused as Mal deposited food on the floor within the barrowman’s reach.

  “True. But you do. Go now, Avani, and make your amends.”

  Mal stripped black leather gloves from his hands, baring naked brown fingers. He pushed the sleeves of his uniform up nearly to his elbows, then unclasped his cape from about his shoulders and let it fall to the cell floor. It puddled at his feet. The sidhe began to whine. Mal stepped over the food and his cloak. He trod carelessly upon one of his discarded gloves, grinding it into the cell floor with his boot.

  Green sparks dripped from the tips of his fingers. He spoke in quiet syllables as he approached the barrowman, weaving unfamiliar sorcery. Avani resisted the urge to cover her ears; this was not the same commonplace magic that kept laboratories cold or guarded cottage walls. This was something bitter and secret, painful to witness, just shy of malignant.

  The ring on Mal’s finger flashed yellow fire. Its twin on the chain around Avani’s neck pulsed amber. Smoke crawled out of the walls in curls; it resolved into dead men. The ghosts groveled as they took form, shining blue eyes cast toward Mal in supplication. They’d been snatched from long peaceful sleep in the paupers’ graveyard in the depths of the catacomb, forced to wakefulness by the strength of Mal’s desire.

  “That one,” the vocent said, looking square at the barrowman. At his command the haunts converged, blotting the sidhe from view. The creature cried out but once as it was overcome, a warble of despair.

  It did not take overlong. When it was over the barrowman lay coiled brow to knees on the cell floor, motionless but for the trembling rise and fall of its sunken rib cage. As the haunts faded, extinguished one at a time, Mal snapped his wrists, sending ebbing green embers from his fingers to the ground as casually as Avani might have shed the remnants of pigment after dyeing good thread. He wiped his hands on his thighs.

  He was taken aback to see her waiting. He scowled as he retrieved his cape and gloves, and refused to meet Avani’s eye when he let himself out of the cell.

  “You needn’t have stayed,” he said quietly. “I told you to go.”

  “What was that?” she inquired, heartsick. Her fury had gone from hot to cold. She put herself in his path. They were almost of a height, though the energy of his conjuring lingered, made him vivid.

  “Intimidation,” Mal replied. “Violation. Plunder. Terror breaks down a mind’s resistance to harsh magic. I haven’t time for finesse, Avani. You heard Renault. I serve at the king’s pleasure. If you truly intend to do the same you’ll learn—there are things more unpleasant than vivisection done away from prying eyes for the sake of peace.” He smiled sadly. “I’ve seen that look of disappointment on your face before. I recall when you swore up and down never to serve in my stead, and yet how well you did in my absence. I’m told you wore the black with panache. There’s a headiness to it, isn’t there, when you prove yourself invaluable.”

  Avani set the flat of her hand against his chest and shoved. He was slight but he was solid. They were matched in more than height and though she shoved him again with all her strength he didn’t budge.

  “I did it for Liam.” She spat the words, and shoved him a third time. He stepped back, but not because he was afraid of her rage. “And for you. It was a bargain I made with the king.”

  Mal tapped his temple. “Lie to yourself if it makes you feel better, Avani,” he said. “But the time is past when you can convincingly lie to me.” He stepped around her.

  “Where are you going? What of the barrowman? Will you leave it to suffer?” It wasn’t in her to hate him, but at that moment she came close.

  “It’s not suffering, far less than Liam did when they set upon him with claw and tooth. When it wakes again it will eat if it likes and make use of the blanket if it prefers, and recall nothing of the pain I caused. That much I can do, of my own will.”

  Avani’s fingers were still curled into fists. She made them relax.

  “Ai, well?” she shouted after the vocent’s retreating form. “And what did you learn, you overweening bastard, with your sparking and looming and intimidation? Or was it all for naught?”

  “It remembers hate and hunger,” Mal called back
, “the smell of its own blood on steel, and a longing for deep earth. Nothing of use to us.”

  Later, alone in her chambers, Avani shed her clothes and sponged the day’s dust and sweat from her skin. She spilled four drops of precious oud perfume from the Rani’s cobalt vial onto her palms, chafed her fingers to warm the oil, then anointed her arms and calves and the bottoms of her feet. The fragrance conjured memories of her mother sitting in the garden before the loom, singing as she showed Avani how to work the heddles.

  Avani capped the Rani’s vial before setting it carefully aside. Fingers still tacky with oil, she scraped her hair back from her face and plaited it down her back. She dressed herself again in a simple linen shift of the sort favored by flatlanders during summer, then added Kate’s string of fiery rubies to the sidhe gate key and vocent’s ring she wore always on a simple chain around her neck.

  The Goddess on Avani’s hearth was not neglected. Twice daily she burned incense in the shallow tin bowl she kept near the idol’s feet for just that purpose. Sometimes she added fresh flowers or herbs to the mix, or lit a fat beeswax candle in gratitude for a day passed in peace. Often when she’d been away for an hour she would return to find one of Jacob’s treasures shining from amongst the ashes in the bowl: a pretty rock, a snippet of embroidery thread, a lizard’s scaly tail, or a stolen piece of jewelry. Of late the raven spent more time near the throne than in Avani’s chambers, but he never forgot his duties as family jhi.

  “Jacob’s been a better servant to you than I.” Avani settled on her knees on the rug she’d woven in Stonehill and brought with her all the way from her little cellar to Wilhaiim. “Ai, it galls me to confess Mal may be right in this. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you in my dreams or witnessed your influence in waking moments.” Realization curdled her belly. “Deval warned me, and I didn’t listen. ‘Has your household blessing flown away,’ he said, and I was too caught up in the affairs of magic to pay him any mind.”

  Prostration was not the way of her people, but honest reparation was. While the gold-skinned idol looked placidly on, Avani rose and retrieved the Rani’s gift. The cobalt bottle was precious to her not for the unusual glass or the prized perfume or even the generous thought behind the gift. The bottle was inestimable for the sweetness of lost childhood contained in the oil. Avani closed her eyes. She clenched the vial to her chest. More difficult now that she’d wakened reminiscence.

  She popped the cork with her thumb. Oud burst thick in the chamber when she poured the oil over ash. All of the perfume filled only half the offering bowl. She brought a flame to hand with a word and set the concoction alight. The oil flared high and blue, almost burning her fingers. Burning oud released a pungent smoke. And that was another sort of memory, of birthings and weddings and funerals.

  Avani sat on her knees in silence until the blue flame guttered out.

  Renault sent a summons at dawn by way of solemn-faced Kingsman. Avani scanned the scroll, consigned it to her cold hearth, then penned her excuses.

  The same soldier knocked on her door midmorning while she sat daydreaming over her loom.

  “My lady,” the Kingsman began, abashed. “If you would be so kind as to spare His Majesty an hour of your time. He is desirous of your wisdom regarding the matter of Goodwife Farrow’s disappearance.”

  “Not today,” Avani replied pleasantly.

  “But, my lady—” the man’s teeth clicked as he opened and closed his mouth in blatant horror “—you cannot ignore the king’s summons a second time. They’re not meant to be ignored first time around, to be honest. I’m sure men and women have been sent to the stocks for less.”

  “Ai, I doubt it. I’ve not much experience in sovereigns, but Renault seems a surprisingly reasonable sort.”

  “But what am I to tell His Majesty?”

  “Tell him—again—that I am in repose and prefer not to be disturbed. I’ll see him tomorrow. Remind His Majesty—a second time—that he’s lucky enough to have two magi under his roof, and Lord Malachi has far more experience than I in matters of inquisition.”

  The Kingsman turned bilious. Avani awarded him her most winsome smile before closing the chamber door in his face. She wasn’t without sympathy. Renault, while reasonable, would not appreciate being denied. He wouldn’t send the soldier to the stocks for failing in his duty, but the man could expect blistering disdain.

  As soon as she was sure the corridor outside her chamber was empty, Avani made her escape. Renault was stubborn enough to come himself with a third summons, and she had no intention of being so easily cornered. She dressed hastily in unassuming flatlander tunic and trousers and, after some hesitation, buckled her sword around her waist. Then she took the back stairs down the rear of the palace. The winding step was crowded with servants running up and down on court business. They bobbed in hasty recognition as they clattered past, but they knew her habits too well to stop and ask whether she was in need of direction.

  On the ground floor she doubled back through the kitchens, again attracting brief recognition but no consternation. The head cook bellowed a greeting and asked after Liam. Avani promised to send “her lad” down for a visit and a slice of treacle before the long days began to fade. Liam was lately more man than lad, but the wistfulness in the room at the mention of his name could not let her forget how precious youth had become to Wilhaiim’s people.

  Outside the kitchens Avani paused to adjust to the glare of daylight on flagstone. The nearby streets were near as busy as the palace corridors, despite the midday heat. It took her a moment to realize she’d stepped out into the middle of purposeful gathering; people jammed the thoroughfare in bunches or alone. Where there was shade they pressed elbow to elbow; others stood bravely in direct sunlight, protected by scarf or wide-brimmed hat or, in a few cases, parasol-wielding footmen.

  They were villein, and gentry, and soldier, and tradesman, goodwife, and tinker, and housemaid, and priest. Some spoke quietly amongst themselves but most waited silently in the knotted street, intent on something just ahead. Intrigued, Avani wiggled her way through the overheated masses to get a better look. She had to stand on her toes to see around a broad-shouldered woman in livery. The soldier, taking note of her face, stepped politely to one side.

  “He’ll begin again soon, my lady,” she promised Avani. “He’s only just stopped for a drink of water and some bread.”

  It was Renault’s vexing priest, the man he called his claviger, moved from his usual spot beneath the throne room. He stood just above the crowd on a battered cask, bare dirty toes poking from beneath the hem of his robe, tonsured head shiny with perspiration. He drank from a flagon, the apple in his throat bobbing convulsively as he swallowed. His wooden staff leaned against the cask within easy reach; it was as well-worn as the man’s makeshift pedestal.

  “They chased him away from beneath the oriel,” said the soldier. “Crowd had grown so loud His Majesty couldn’t hear to think, they said, but most of us think that’s just an excuse. Mayhap the king can’t face the truth of his words.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Brother Tillion won’t be silenced, no matter how many Kingsmen His Majesty sends to route him away.” She pursed her lips. “Not that I blame them, my lady, we’re all just doing our job and putting food on our table, but it’s glad I am to be stationed at the barracks and not in the palace so I’d not have to make a choice. I serve at the throne’s whim, my lady, but I’ll not raise sword or hand against Tillion for only speaking the god’s truth.”

  The yellow-eyed priest, having drunk his fill, scanned the gathering crowd. He appeared wholly affable and at ease.

  “But they didn’t, did they?” Avani asked. “Raise hand or sword against him?”

  “Nay,” the soldier confirmed. “Just sent him ’round the corner with a warning. Brother Tillion, he’s not the sort to make a fuss. He only wants what’s best for the most of us, and that’s not a foreign, godless queen. Tillion, for the nonce, he went willingly from beneath the oriel. But t
he time will come when the king will have no choice but to heed his warning, my lady. The time will come.”

  Chapter 15

  Avani had visited the royal barracks in the past, to learn the use of her small sword and to watch as Liam did much the same. She knew the armswoman for a gruff but competent teacher, one that expected the most out of her students and rarely gave quarter even to the king on those rare occasions he stopped in to polish his skills against Lane’s blade.

  She’d been reluctant at first to give Liam up to service but he’d seemed to thrive as Mal’s page, growing into confidence as he’d grown into his skin. She knew now that Renault had been correct to insist upon it. The lad had needed more than a mother figure; he’d needed a job. At the time Liam’s hero worship was a palpable thing, and Mal its focus. She thought Mal, too, had come to love the lad as Mal loved any person, with his whole heart but from behind a purposefully cool facade.

  Whatever had gone wrong between them in Roue had gone terribly wrong. It was apparent neither Mal nor Liam intended to tell her the truth of it, and she thought she’d waited long enough for explanation. She supposed now was as good a time as any to beard the lion cub in his lair. The simple truth of the matter was she missed her lad, looked for him often at her side only to remember he’d somehow become a man between one day and the next.

  She didn’t begrudge Liam his new maturity nor the choices he made. But she wasn’t a fool, either, and no one would convince her there wasn’t something dubious about his abrupt flight from Mal’s household.

  There were boys in the pages’ practice yard, two midsized lads playing at hacking about the straw dummies that stood all in a row. Arthur she recognized from his sturdy build. The other was so slight as to be almost delicate. They stopped their drilling to watch Avani as she approached. Arthur sported a swelling eye. His companion wore a perfect impression of knuckles pressed onto his chin in black-and-blue. Both lads looked decidedly uneasy to see her.