When Demons Walk

by Patricia Briggs

  The sleep-spell took effect so fast she didn’t have time to berate herself for stupidity. Her frantic attempt to counter the spell ended stillborn.

  IMPASSIVELY THE SERVANTcaught the woman before she fell and threw her over his shoulder. He stepped inside her room and shut the door, throwing the bolt. He set the Reeve’s mistress temporarily on her bed while he pulled off the servant’s tunic and trousers. Under these he wore a plain brown shirt and loose, dark pants.

  Hefting the woman over his shoulder again, he worked the panel opening near the fireplace and stepped into the passage.

  THIRTEEN

  Fykall sighed with more weariness than the end of the day required. He was finding himself more and more discontent in his position as the High Priest’s assistant. Even the euphoria of outmaneuvering the Reeve at Lord Ven’s funeral had not lasted long.

  As a boy he had heard the call of Altis, serving Him faithfully with all the strength in his wiry little peasant’s body. Through the years his devotion had paid off, and the little priest had risen quickly through the ranks of Altis’s servants. Once, and he remembered the occasion as the most inspiring of his life, he had been allowed to kiss the Voice of Altis’s hand. The prophet had smiled at him, spoke briefly of Fykall’s service, and sent him to Landsend.

  The little man sighed again. Moving the temple cat that had made his rooms its personal domain from the prayer stool, Fykall knelt and bowed his head.

  He had come to Landsend with such high hopes—not just because the Voice had sent him here personally. Back in Cybelle, the priests used to tell stories about the Leopard and the miracles he performed in the name of Altis. He’d been prepared to be awed by a legend and had met, instead, a man—one who displayed very little liking for the temple priests. Although, thought Fykall, dealing with Brath for a decade might give anyone a distaste for the priesthood. Even so, sometimes the little priest wondered if Kerim worshiped Altis at all.

  If the Leopard was a disappointment, the High Priest was a tribulation of a different magnitude. How could a man of his position in the church lose the light of Altis’s guidance? The High Priest was greedy for wealth and glory—less concerned about the spirit of the temple than he was the gold in the door of his office.

  Fykall closed his eyes, uttering a prayer that was so familiar to his tongue that he didn’t have to think about it. “Blessed One, grant me the understanding of thy wisdom and the patience to wait for the outcome of thy desire. I thank thee for thy understanding of my imperfections. Amen.”

  A warm tingle swept through him, and he knew that if he opened his eyes he would see the glow of Altis’ marks upon his hands. But he waited, listening as he’d been taught. Only when the tingle of power had left completely did he open his eyes.

  He rose to his feet with a sigh and straightened his white robes fussily until they hung in perfect folds to the midpoint of his calf. Tightening his green belt, he stepped away from the small altar, reaching for the glass of orange juice he habitually drank before sleeping.

  Fykall, clean my house.

  Shaken, the little priest fell to his knees, not noticing the pain of falling to the hard floor. He hadn’t heard Altis’ voice since his conversion as a boy, but the deep rumble was just as he remembered. It took a moment for the awe he felt to allow him the meaning of the words.

  Clean house? How could this be? Certainly his current assignment seemed to point to Fykall’s loss of favor in the eyes of his god, but never would he have thought he would face such a rebuke. The temple servants did the cleaning, leaving the priests to more important labor.

  Fykall, clean my house.

  Fykall left his room. If he slept first, he was afraid his determination would fail in the night. Perhaps Altis had found the kernel of pride in his heart that had grown as his duties had risen from the mundane. If Altis would have him sweep floors, he would find a broom and begin.

  After a moment’s thought, he decided the most likely place to find such an instrument was near the kitchens, currently located on the other side of the temple. With his head meekly bowed to the will of his god, the priest took a torch off the wall and began traversing the long, dark corridors.

  He took a shortcut through the sanctuary, where workmen had left off for the day. The marble tiles sat in neat piles, and Fykall, momentarily distracted from his mission, noticed with some satisfaction that work was progressing rapidly here.

  The flickering torchlight caught a rough broom leaning against the far wall of the sanctuary near one of the doors. Fykall crossed the dark room and picked up the disreputable object doubtfully. The straw end was white and clogged with an accumulation of grout from the tile, and he beat it against the wall in an attempt to dislodge the powdery substance.

  Looking at the resultant mess in dismay, Fykall became aware of an unusual amount of noise in the hall bordering the sanctuary. Moved to secrecy by some primal instinct, he snuffed the torch on the floor where the tile was not yet laid. Broom in hand, he walked quietly to the doorway and looked down the long hall that was dimly lit by several torches in wall sconces.

  From his position Fykall could see the entrance to the eating chamber where two men stood: members of the High Priest’s personal guards in their blue-belted grey robes. The guardsmen were well-trained mercenaries, paid from the High Priest’s own pocket because they were an affectation of the Priest rather than a necessity of his office.

  Fykall frowned at their presence. He had heard of no official meeting that would require them here at this late hour.

  Someone in the eating chamber grunted then swore, and the little priest’s carefully plucked eyebrows lowered even further, partially with distaste and partially with puzzlement. The grunt sounded involuntary, as if someone had been hit in the stomach.

  Clean my house.

  Fykall waited for the guards to look up at the sound of the voice that rang through him. If they turned in his direction, they would see him, but they stared straight ahead. He took a firmer grip on his broom.

  The sound of unhurried footsteps came from the far end of the hall, the same way Fykall would have come had he not impulsively taken a shorter way through the construction area. Somehow he was not surprised that the footsteps belonged to the High Priest. The older man’s hawklike visage was composed in peaceful pleasantness, one of the expressions he habitually used to impress the masses with his wisdom and faithfulness.

  As Fykall watched the High Priest, something changed. For a moment he felt dizzy, and another picture superimposed itself over the High Priest’s features when he stopped to speak with the guard. Fykall blinked, and the vision gradually faded, but he retained the feeling of wrongness, of evil that shadowed the representative of Altis in Southwood.

  Fykall, clean my house.

  Though the voice had not lost its power, it had lost some of its urgency, and Fykall knew what his task was.

  “Did you get her?” asked the High Priest.

  One of the guards nodded. “She was alone as you said she would be, lord. She awaits you as you’d ordered.”

  “Excellently well done. You may go, and take your men with you.” As he spoke, the High Priest walked past the guard and entered the eating chamber.

  “Yes, lord,” the guard bowed briefly and summoned his men with a short whistle.

  Fykall could have tripped the nearest man as they walked down the hall to the unfinished public access, but none of them noticed him in the sanctuary doorway. Altis, it seemed, had other battles for him to fight this night.

  As soon as the guards turned the first corner, Fykall walked boldly into the hall.

  SHAM TWISTED ANDthrust, managing to land her bound feet into one man’s stomach with satisfying force before the men were able to attach her to the sturdy chair with their ropes. She wasn’t sure where she was, having awakened from the sleep spell slung over a hard shoulder and in the middle of an unfamiliar hall.

  The bonds that she wore were made of something that swallowed magic. Stru
ggle as she might, she could find no way of working around them. She took in a deep breath, her body shaking with the force of her fury. A sharp whistle from the hallway drew the guards away as the High Priest entered.

  Lord Brath surveyed her with satisfaction. “Ah, an unbeliever, practitioner of evil.”

  Sham glared at him, unable to make the reply she wished because of the gag she wore. The best she could manage was a muffled growl.

  The High Priest walked back and forth rubbing his hands together lightly. “I had thought to do that, to have you burned as a dangerous heretic who has bewitched our Reeve, but I have decided not to make a martyr of you.”

  He turned and faced her. Her eyes widened in horror at what he allowed her to see in his face. She had no doubt that the demon revealed its golem to her deliberately because as soon as it was certain she’d recognized its nature, it became merely the High Priest. She had been wrong, she thought, when she had decided the demon would not dare enter Altis’s temple. A creature who would kill Lord Brath was not afraid of Altis—somehow that wasn’t reassuring.

  “Instead,” he said softly, “I have chosen a different fate for you. As the Reeve’s mistress, it will be much easier to accomplish my goals.”

  “You will do nothing in the House of Altis, foul thing,” announced a voice from the doorway with a touch of melodrama—not that Sham was in the mood to be critical.

  She craned her neck and saw Fykall. He wore his short hair neatly combed and the folds of his linen robes were set with uncommon precision. He carried a rather dusty and battered broom in one hand. The little priest looked calmly at his superior as if he walked in on bound women every other day, something that did not enhance her opinion of Lord Brath.

  The golem that wore Brath’s semblance turned without haste, and frowned. “Fykall, you have overstepped yourself.”

  There was nothing in his voice or face to indicate that Fykall had intruded on something secret.

  “How so?” inquired Fykall mildly, sweeping the broom back and forth gently on the floor.

  Sham noticed that chalky pieces of mortar were breaking off the straw broom and littering the ground.

  “I will speak with you later,” said the High Priest, in obvious dismissal. “Now, I have business to conduct.”

  The broom stilled.

  “Kidnapping?” queried the little man softly, sounding almost dangerous.

  Sham shook her head frantically, but Fykall was looking at the being he must assume was Lord Brath. She wished she could warn Fykall what it was that he faced. She had no wish to see her little broom-wielding defender die.

  “She’s a heretic, Fykall,” explained the High Priest reasonably. “She has been working evil in the Castle. I have reason to suspect she has had a role in the recent killings.”

  “Ah, but that is for a formal court to decide.” As he spoke, the smaller man walked farther into the room, positioning himself between Sham and the High Priest.

  Somehow she failed to feel any safer.

  “I am afraid she’s influenced everyone near the Reeve,” expounded the High Priest. “If she hadn’t tried her magics on me, I might never have noticed what she was doing. Can you imagine anyone telling the Leopard that his mistress is an evil sorceress? Or anyone going against the Reeve if he refuses to believe? Then she would be free to do her worst unhindered. It is necessary to be rid of her before she can do any more harm.”

  It sounded convincing, even to Sham. She hoped that the priest listened and left the room.

  “Who are you?” question Fykall softly.

  Sham stiffened in her chair.

  The High Priest raised his eyebrows arrogantly. “I am the High Priest of Southwood, little man. Appointed so by His Grace, The Voice of Altis.”

  Fykall shook his head before the other finished speaking. “No. You are not Brath.”

  The High Priest’s face went blank, as if all the personality the golem had stolen from the man was gone. Sham wondered if it was some choice on the part of the demon or if there was something that the priest had done.

  “You have a little power, priest—I wouldn’t let it fool you.” Like its face, the golem’s voice had lost the intonation that made it that of the High Priest.

  The priest shook his head and Sham heard a thread of joy in his voice as he said, “It is notmy power.”

  She speculated that he had been indulging in one of the narcotics that were traded in Purgatory like gold: taverweed maybe, since beggarsblessing didn’t generally cause delusions of invulnerability.

  “You do not have enough knowledge,” commented the golem, in much the same voice it might have used to speak about the weather. Sham noticed that it was starting to look less human and more like what it was.

  “It is not knowledge,” said the little man peacefully, “it is faith, and that I have in abundance.” He straightened and held out his hand, palm forward. Speaking in a commanding voice that echoed in the dining hall, he said, “You will give up the essence that you have unrightfully stolen.”

  The golem jerked. Its skin blackened and cracked. Its features lost their elasticity and shape, fading into the crude facsimiles that had been formed of clay when it was made. It shrank slightly in size, looking odd in the robes of the High Priest—though certainly no less menacing for all of that.

  “Know this,” said the priest, without taking down his hand. “You have soiled this temple with your presence and killed Our High Priest. The High Priest had forsaken his calling long ago and so had no right to call upon the power of Altis. Your desecration of this temple, however, will not be so overlooked.”

  “I am not unarmed, priest,” hissed the creature, crouching low and throwing its hand out in a spinning motion.

  It was a spell Sham had not seen before and it hit Fykall and forced him to step back. From behind she couldn’t see the effect of the spell, but the little priest swayed like a spider in the wind.

  The power of the bindings lessened just a bit, but it was a sign that the demon was turning its attention to other things. She tried another spell, a simple fire spell, to burn the bindings and allow her to help. She knew, even as she cast, that there was not enough power to destroy the bonds . . . then something touched her spell and magnified it. The bindings dropped from her hands and feet in ashes.

  As she rose the golem began a second spell, one she’d seen before and, almost without thought, she moved to counter it.Tides , she thought, the demon was powerful. It was all she could do to keep the spell from touching Fykall or her.

  The priest spoke, his voice hoarse, but steady. “We take from you the power given by the death of Our High Priest.”

  The golem cried out and the hardened clay that formed the bulk of its body began to break and crumble: Whole sections fell off the wooden skeleton. As the chunks hit the stone floor they crumbled into yellow dust, revealing the golem’s internal framework. Crudely shaped sticks were bound together by a thin, tarnished silver wire into a mockery of a human skeleton. Its head was a block of wood with a small yellow stone set where a person’s left eye would have been.

  Sham watched warily for some new spell, but there was none. The wood began to age, turning first grey, then white. As the fragile substance dried to splinters, the High Priest’s garments floated down to the ground. The yellow gem broke free of the wooden setting and rolled across the smooth floor until it rested several paces away from the pile of cloth.

  The priest rested his broom on the floor and looked at the smallish mound that had been the High Priest. Sham worked to untie the knot holding the gag in her mouth. She must have made some noise because Fykall turned to her and, seeing her trouble, proffered her an eating knife from his belt.

  As she cautiously slipped the dull blade between the cloth and her cheek, the sound of a group of men moving briskly through the halls penetrated the room. Fykall moved between Sham and the door, standing with his bedraggled broom as if it were a weapon. Another time, Sham was certain she’d have found so
mething funny in that, but after what she’d seen the priest do to the demon’s golem, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see Fykall eliminate an army with nothing but that broom.

  Even so, Sham wasn’t unhappy when Talbot burst into the room followed by the Captain of the Guard, a host of Castle guardsmen, and a rather grim-faced Dickon.

  When Talbot raised a hand the Captain barked an order and the guardsmen stopped near the entrance. Talbot peered at the two of them warily. It occurred to her that Talbot had no way of knowing if the demon had killed her and replaced her with the golem or not. Since he couldn’t know who the demon looked like now, Talbot must be wondering just who it was he was facing.

  Fykall took a step forward, but Sham, watching Talbot’s hand tighten on his sword, gripped the priest’s shoulder. “Gently, Lord Fykall. These men know something of what we faced here—and have no way of knowing that we are who we appear to be.”

  Talbot gave her a nod of approval that in no way lessened his alertness and bowed his head quickly toward the priest.

  “Why don’t ye tell us how ye came to the Temple, Lady Shamera,” directed Talbot finally, for he was a Southwoodsman, and Sham knew the sight of Altis’ power was almost as doubtful to him as magic had been for Dickon. “—and get rid of that knife while ye talk, would ye?”

  Sham grinned and threw the knife so it landed point down on one of the dining tables several yards away, remembering too late that that was a skill the Reeve’s Mistress would not possess.Ah well , she thought,maybe no one would remark upon it in the midst of such doings . Most of the guardsmen, Easterners to a man, were staring uncomfortably at the High Priest’s clothing on the floor.

  “It was sheer stupidity,” Sham admitted, shamefaced. “I’ve gotten used to being showered with gifts from people who want influence with the Reeve. A messenger brought a ring in a box and insisted I try it on before he left. Someone, probably the demon, spelled the ring so that anyone wearing it would fall asleep. When I awoke, I was here.”