The Demon's Call

by Philip C Anderson

  Snow crunched underfoot as they walked the streets. Warm air that smelled of sweet vanilla wafted from the first floor of an apartment building near the temple’s courtyard, at which Trent stopped. Apart from the swept stone, the blood and bodies might not have ever been there. For a passing second, he tried to reconcile whether the Chamberlain might pretend nothing had happened if he could just make it look that way.

  “It’s awful,” said Ruby when she noticed Trent had halted. Her ankle boots scraped over the brick.

  “The king’s father had us document so much during the last War,” said Trent, “and still there were—are—those who deny all of what happened.” He hated that he hadn’t taken a picture the day before. “Are the recordings from yesterday safe?”

  “I could check if you like. I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  The faint scent of Fel and blood came to him, if in no way other than his memory. He said nothing and stepped toward the temple, the doors of which opened at Ruby’s touch. She left them once inside, and her heels echoed to their left as she ascended a stairwell off the foyer.

  Grenn remained quiet.

  “Let’s get past this,” Trent said. At the moment, he wanted nothing more.

  Manifeld’s voice carried to them when they entered the sanctuary. He stood with his back to the nave. The Undertaker looked past him when she saw Trent and Grenn. That cat-eared girl from the day before stood with them. Her gaze passed between the leadership when they spoke, then it settled on Trent.

  Manifeld turned. “Ah ha!” He held his hands behind his back. “The prodigy returns. And even in disguise he sets the terms on which we meet and administrate.”

  Trent and Grenn stopped at the steps where Trent had spoken with leadership the day before. Grenn bowed to each. Trent did not.

  “Grand Master,” the Undertaker said. She bowed. “Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice. I presume you found the city’s accommodations pleasing.”

  “I made do for a night,” said Trent.

  “Displeased with how the place has turned out without you?” the Chamberlain said. He took his seat in the adorned chair next to the wooden throne.

  “I’m sure the city would have done fine without me if its leadership hadn’t run it into the ground first.”

  Manifeld gaffed. “Regardless. We’ve made time this morning, busy as we are. It’s so wonderful we caught you before you could sneak away again.”

  “Stop it,” said the Undertaker, her voice cutting across their argument before they could start. “We aren’t here to discuss the shortcomings of either of you. Our time is shorter-than-short now, and this meeting will be the same. You can trade insults on your own.” She waited for either to speak, and when they only glared at the other, she went on.

  “We relent that an invasion has started. What that means, exactly, is up for debate, but what’s not is the show in the courtyard yesterday afternoon. We’d like to clear a few things up.”

  “Like what?” Trent said, his tone a dissent against unspoken insinuations.

  “To start, I’d like to discuss, at least in digest, about when you channeled Light to Willa. Why did you do that?”

  “It’s a common practice amongst Karlians.”

  The Undertaker considered. Her resting scowl betrayed no emotions. “Understand that Priests combine the powers of Ley and Light to create a new amalgamation. How were you sure you could help her?”

  “Didn’t cross my mind at the time. All I cared about was trying to stop the demon.”

  “Perhaps”—

  “Did you fight in the War?” Trent asked. “Serve at all?”

  “I served but didn’t fight,” said the Undertaker. “We left that up to you, remember? As we have since the Dwindling.”

  “Sure. Then let me tell you: when demons are killing people from heaven to the hells, you do anything you can to stop them. If one of us gained an advantage against one, we lent our power to ‘em to take it down. Became instinct. Leynars use a similar technique, I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “Indeed. That instinct is one we could all use in the coming time. I only ask because it’s not something I’d considered, and for an hour last night I wondered why until I realized the need had never arisen. Now that it has, I’m more than distracted by it.”

  Royal distractions, Trent thought. Whatever the king has tasked her with in his appointment? Or perhaps something more sinister.

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” she said. “Willa also informed me that while you channeled your Light to her, two things happened. First, she realized her understanding of the holy energy is lacking, and that means mine might be, too. As she tells it, the way you channeled was purer than anything she’d ever felt. Even the Chamberlain and I sensed it—a conduit, of sorts, except it was Light instead of Ley. I would pick your brain about it, but I don’t know the first thing to ask.”

  “Another day, then,” Trent suggested.

  “And hopefully sooner rather than later. Relatedly, while under your influence, Karli came to Willa in a vision. Based on codices that report similar experiences, and knowing Willa the way I do, I have enough reason to believe her.”

  “I’m sure whatever Karli told her is—true,” said Trent.

  A trace of levity broke the Undertaker’s scowl. “There’s no need for guard, Master Hollowman. What Karli told her pertains to you and your claim—that you are Russell Hollowman.”

  Manifeld shifted in his chair, his face stolid, his body stiff.

  “Willa can tell you the rest,” said the Undertaker.

  The girl with purple hair bowed. “Grand Master. I’ve prayed a lot since yesterday. A lot. But I know Karli showed me the truth in the courtyard. I can see the vest—vestiges of Her sight even now.” The young woman’s eyes gauged Trent in a way that made him uncomfortable, like she could see the un-plain. He hadn’t noticed the day before, but her skin had a slight merle-pattern; faint purple and gray lines traced across her body. “When you channeled your Light to me, I saw you the way sh—She sees you, and She told me one thing.” After a breath’s quiet, she finished: “Follow him.”

  “The Goddess herself,” Grenn said, unimpressed. “Did she also tell you this morning’s stock prices?”

  The Chamberlain laughed. “Sir Abernathy, you always were a disappointment, but that—that’s kinda good.”

  Grenn glowered at him. “It takes one to know one, Chamberlain.”

  “She told me I need to go with you,” Willa said, looking pointedly at Grenn, “because this one might get you killed.”

  Trent smirked.

  Grenn scoffed and threw up his right hand in a gesture of uncaring. “And where is it that Willa will accompany Trent?”

  “You’re all going to same place,” the Undertaker said, “at least at first, if you don’t mind the presumption, Grand Master. Sir Abernathy, you know you had the Tanvarn assignment, even before Master Hollowman pulled you away from Keep. Our plans would have become more concrete over the next few weeks, especially with respect to the thing they call the Beast, but you were our prime candidate. That story is far more sinister, knowing what we know now. At that, both you and Willa will go to Tanvarn.”

  “Like what? As partners?”

  “Yes, as partners.” Manifeld said, his voice a mock jibe. He shook his head. “Goddess. I’ll feel a hell of a lot better with you off my streets, Abernathy. Always been headstrong about your abilities—thinking you’re the next savior of humanity. Tanvarn, well that’ll take a while to untangle. And while you’re there with this pretender”—he looked at the Undertaker, whose expression became stone at the accusation; this seemed to satisfy him—“well removed from anything that matters again, try not to find another upstart. Or is that too much to ask?”

  “That doesn’t”—

  “While all of you are in Tanvarn,” the Undertaker said through clenched teeth, “we will be here making sure of the Bastion’s defenses and marshaling for potential mobilization. I haven’t b
een able to contact his Majesty, but our efforts, I’d imagine, sit in line with the scepter’s wishes and prudence.”

  No one spoke against her. Trent stared at Manifeld, who only menaced at him in the silence.

  “The second question I want to ask you, Grand Master, is about the demon, again in two parts. The Chamberlain and I have our opinions of what happened and why. I wanted to ask you about it, though I understand the answers aren’t simple.”

  Trent waited.

  “How did the demon get inside our walls, do you think? And why was it here?”

  Trent considered his next words with the assumption she already expected the answer he’d give; the questions insisted on themselves, and the Undertaker implicitly colluded with suppositions she’d already drawn.

  “A problem with defenses. And why it was here is as good a guess as anyone’s.”

  The Undertaker watched him. Trent quieted his mind, protected his thoughts.

  “Why don’t you give us yours,” she suggested.

  “No.”

  The Chamberlain nearly arrested in his chair. “No?” A smirk smeared across his lips. “Is that because you know something we don’t? Intimate knowledge, perhaps?”

  “Yes, but that’s beside the point,” Trent said. “The few guesses I have implicate someone in this room, or they proffer information I don’t want to reveal.”

  Manifeld fumed. “And what reason would you have to withhold information from leadership?”

  “Seeing as how I am the leadership, I find it within my rights to.”

  “Oh-ho, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Geno. Things have changed, and in your absence, the Undertaker and I have been codifying what this”—he gestured between himself and the woman next to him—“new relationship means. So sorry we didn’t wait for your input. I’ll send”—

  “Even if you don’t respect the Chamberlain’s position,” said the Undertaker, “the king appointed me himself. I hope that will lend me at least a little capital with your trust.”

  “I’d be more than willing to take a private audience with you,” Trent said to her.

  A placid smile spread across her lips. The corners of her eyes wrinkled. “Perhaps another time.”

  Trent wondered how closely she took orders from Brech, and despite himself, a subtle distrust pierced through his confidence in the king. The Undertaker valued her information more than she did Trent’s; her divulgence likely rested outside her own power anyway. But from whom exactly did she take her orders? The question felt too dangerous for him to want an answer. If either could get what they wanted without disclosing to the other… quid pro quo, his Majesty or whomever somewhere in the middle.

  “For now, if we say nothing else,” she said, “thank you for the help you provided yesterday.”

  Trent nodded. “I’m sure Willa’s told you what happened. Thanks to her, we gained the momentum we needed to take it down. Split duty, if it please ya.”

  “As it should be.”

  Trent stared at her, unsatisfied. “Are we finished, then?”

  “One last thing.” The Undertaker clasped her hands. “As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s customary for Order members to accompany the Grand Master on his travels—as far as I know, they simply don’t go anywhere alone. The Chamberlain and I think, for duty’s sake, that you should accompany your squire to Tanvarn, so that we can say in good conscience that the Grand Master didn’t leave Karhaal alone.”

  “And how could you protest?” Manifeld asked. “It’s protocol. You said so yourself that it’s been twenty years—long enough to have lost track of the goings-on in your own city. You don’t wanna be here. There are more important things for a Grand Master to do during War time.”

  It bothered Trent for the Chamberlain to know his thoughts, but seeing as Tanvarn matched his pursuit, he didn’t dissent. “Fine.”

  “You’ll also have Willa with you,” said the Undertaker. “She’s a trained demonologist. I’m sure she can tell you what that means better than I. Her expertise will prove invaluable in the coming time. We’re assigning her the Beast investigation”—

  “What?” Grenn’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “Madam Undertaker, excuse me, but the way you’re talking, it doesn’t sound like we’ll be partners, just that you’re double-assigning us.”

  “Members of the Order are there to help each other,” the Chamberlain said. “Don’t be a wittle, whiny cwybaby. Regardless of how you feel about it or what words you assign to it, your duty is to do what leadership asks of you—what Karli asks of you.”

  “And who speaks for Karli between you?” Trent said, staring at the Chamberlain. “You?”

  “No, but I can imagine how important you think you are.”

  “At least mine’s not a matter of opinion.”

  “Gods,” the Undertaker said, whispering as her posture fell.

  “So a demonologist for the Beast,” Grenn said. “If you’re putting her on that for her expertise, that must mean I’m an expert in sniffing out bullshit. Or maybe you just want me to keep an eye on things.”

  “You’re not an expert in anything,” said Manifeld, his voice a nasty sting. “Unless you count getting ladies to sleep with you.”

  “Envious?”

  “Hardly. And I wouldn’t trust you to keep an eye on my laundry. Your inabilities are part of what got us here.”

  “There it is,” Grenn said. He looked at Willa. “Ya know demons are specifically enigmatic? Nothing they do makes sense except through the lens of them being explicit killing machines. The only thing that makes less sense is why someone might have an interest in studying them. The last I checked, we called those people Warlocks.”

  Willa’s face pinched like Grenn smelled rotten. Her ears sank to the side for a half-second before she spoke. “Did you read that in a textbook?”

  “Children,” said the Chamberlain. “Please.” He exhaled, fast enough for his breath to whistle through his teeth. “Finally, for you, Mr. Geno. Abernathy and Ophel will escort you to Tanvarn, and once they’ve assured us of your arrival there, you’re free to do whatever the hells you want”—

  “I already have that authority. Thank you, though.”

  “Go home,” Manifeld said as though Trent hadn’t interrupted him, “or back to wherever you came from. Find a whore and fuck her brains out”—

  The Undertaker cleared her throat.

  —“I don’t care. Just stay away from here.”

  “You can’t stop that,” Trent said as plainly as he could.

  The Chamberlain’s words growled from his throat. “You shirked your duty, which the Order passed to me. I will be damned if you talk down to me.”

  “Then Goddess damn you. I followed my own duty during my absence.”

  Manifeld huffed, waving his fingers. “If you ever find your way out of this little façade you’ve concocted, come back and show us who you really are, when everyone can see it clearly. Until then”—the Undertaker spoke half a word, but Manifeld cut her off with a gesture of his hand and raised his voice—“until then, you’re nothing but a miserable, washed-up bag of trickery and deceit.”

  “I stand before you now,” Trent said. “That I’ve returned is all the proof I need proffer.”

  “And look what the world’s done without you. Are you satisfied with how average you’ve become? Is that what you wanted? Was this just too much for you?”

  Trent stared at the man who called himself the Chamberlain. “I thought it was a meme at first, but why do I get the feeling you’d honestly do anything to not give up your imagined power?”

  Emotion left Manifeld’s face. “This meeting’s finished.”

  Trent searched for what to say. When nothing came to him, he bowed to the Undertaker. “Madam Undertaker.”

  She returned the gesture. “Grand Master. I hope we see each other again.”

  Trent truly didn’t feel the same. He turned and said, “Grenn, with me.”

  “Chamberlain,” Grenn said a
nd curtly bowed his head. “Madam Undertaker.” Like Trent, he bent at his waist, then followed.

  “I’ll meet you at the stay—stables,” Willa said.

  “In a quarter-hour,” said Manifeld, his voice trailing them out of the sanctuary. “Otherwise I’m assigning your albunes to someone—anyone—else.”

  Trent pushed open the doors. Outside, the sun had climbed half a hand higher in the eastern sky. Ash hazed its rays.

  “He acts like the Tanvarn assignment is a punishment now,” Grenn said, his anger flourishing. “That fucking pithy piece o’ shit. Only a real fuckwit can paint something honorable as trash. Goddess damn him.”

  Xenia chimed.

  Trent listened while they walked. Their breath fogged in the early morning air, glinting like bits of gold in the sunlight. Grenn’s ire and the scent of roasted coffee filled Karhaal’s frigid stillness that morning and followed them as they headed for the stables. The Tower lay as quiet as the city when they entered.

  Grenn headed toward a stall past an archway to their left. This Tower’s interior looked much the same as the streets of the holy place—brick underfoot, unadorned stone and wood for much else.

  “Just a second,” a woman called from around a corner behind the counter. A few seconds later, the girl from the day before came from the living facilities, garbed in a sports bra and a pair of sweat pants. She’d pulled her hair into a messy twirl on the back of her head. “Early morning departures.” She yawned and covered her mouth with her hand. “Excuse me. Sorry I’m not up yet. We only just got word from the temple.”

  Trent didn’t mind, so long as they left soon enough.

  She picked up a tablet from the counter and leaned against the wall to her left. “Let’s see if this stuff is working.” The girl spoke to herself for the next quarter-minute, flicking her fingers across the screen. While she waited for the tablet to respond, she picked at the corner of her right eye.

  “Not lookin like it,” she said. “Tavit!”

  “No chance that asshole’s back yet,” Grenn said. He’d stopped at the first stall. Xenia buzzed around the albunes, and Lorithena huffed at her, blowing the fur that hung over her face. “Probably somewhere on the other side of Vqenna by now.”