Empire of Night

by Kelley Armstrong

  As she drew near, she slowed. Even from a distance, she could see her rescuer was not a warrior. Despite holding a sword, he wore a peasant's garb: a simple tunic, trousers, and sandals. He was young and wiry, with black curls falling around his face as he bent over the prone man.

  He glanced up, and she recognized the shadow-shrouded shape of his features.

  "Ronan?" she said. "What are you doing here?"

  "Keeping the world safe for you to piss in," he said. "Apparently, it's a full-time job."

  She couldn't tell if he was teasing or grumbling. Probably a little of both.

  "At least this time you had the sense to bring a guard with you," he continued, waving at the approaching figure of Simeon. Then Ronan's eyes narrowed. "That's not a warrior. Who is he and what is he doing out here with you, in the middle of the night?"

  Simeon strode over. "The question, boy, is who are you? And why are you wielding a blade when you are obviously no warrior yourself?"

  "Boy?"

  "Actually," Ashyn cut in, "I think the more pressing question is: who is he?"

  She pointed to the man beneath Ronan. He was rotund and at least in his fifth decade. She could not judge caste by his attire--it wasn't fine enough to be a merchant's, rough enough to be a farmer's, or elegant enough to be an artisan's, and he lacked a warrior's blades. His feet were bare, which was odd, given the chilly night, but more than that, the bottoms of his feet were blackened, the flesh burned and healed over.

  "A penitent," Simeon murmured. "A fire walker."

  Ashyn struggled against letting her distaste show. It was not the empire's practice to impose its faith on its people. Most religions, though, including this one, were still offshoots of their core beliefs.

  It was commonly accepted that all living things had a spirit. The essence of life flowed endlessly around them. All spirits deserved their respect. Ancestral spirits deserved their devotion and in return, would protect and bless them. If negative spirits meant them harm, it was not through ill will but a misalignment of balance. They had been wronged--or felt themselves wronged--and lashed out in retaliation. Every effort should be made to correct the imbalance before resorting to banishment. The spirits needed care and kindness and respect. They did not, however, need fear or groveling or debasement.

  Yet some religions felt that the spirits' anger was more terrible, their forgiveness more reserved. Enlightenment required suffering. That was certainly the view of the penitents. Some walked on hot coals. Others used flagellation, starvation, or isolation. While Ashyn had been raised to accept religious beliefs beyond her own, she struggled with the penitents. Even after all she'd seen, she did not believe the spirit world demanded human suffering. If anything, suffering seemed to dishonor them--rejecting the fullness of the world the spirits had created.

  "Why did you come after us?" she asked.

  "I came for you, my lady Ashyn, Seeker of Edgewood."

  The man could not bow lying prone, so he pressed his face into the ground, hard enough to make her wince.

  "Let him rise, please, Ronan."

  Ronan did but kept his blade on the man, warning him not to approach the Seeker. Ashyn doubted the warning was necessary. The man fairly shook with servitude, his eyes pointed straight down, as if even gazing on her feet would be unseemly.

  "You know me," she said.

  "Of course, my lady. We know of all the Seekers and Keepers. By name and by description. To serve the world of the spirits? We can only dream of such glory. The emperor himself ought to bow--"

  She cleared her throat in alarm. "We serve the empire, and the emperor is the physical embodiment of it."

  "Well-spoken for one so young."

  "It's past midnight," Ronan said. "We are a half day's walk from the nearest town. Perhaps you could save the flattery, and tell us why you're stalking the Seeker."

  "I was not stalking her. We passed a caravan that spoke of your expedition. It was as if the ancestors themselves had answered our pleas. We rode back to search for the camp. The spirits guided me here, where I saw her." He lifted his gaze as far as Ashyn's knees. "We need your help, my lady. We have somehow angered the spirits. I suspect one of our order has been negligent in his penance."

  "I very much doubt--"

  "It is something, my lady," he said, lurching with the emphasis. "Something terrible. An omen. A portent. We do not know. But it is the work of evil spirits. Our caravan is just over that ridge. If you could please come and speak--"

  "No, she cannot," Ronan said. "I don't know what trickery--"

  "Trickery?" the man sputtered. "I am with the Order of Kushin."

  He shot his arm out from his sleeve. It was covered with circular scars, so thick and ugly that Ashyn couldn't imagine what had made them . . . and would prefer not to try.

  "Kushin are the most respected order of penitent monks," Simeon said. "We ought to aid them if we can."

  "I don't care who they are," Ronan said. "I don't trust anyone who asks Ashyn to follow him into the night. Only a fool would suggest she obey."

  "Fool?" Simeon bristled. "I am a scholar under Master--"

  "A scholar? Well, that explains it." Ronan turned to Ashyn. "We'll let the scholar investigate. You need to get back to camp."

  The monk pleaded. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. As for exactly what, he wouldn't say, only growing agitated and telling them he'd explain as they walked.

  "I'll crest the ridge," she said. "If I see no caravan, this young man will escort you back to the prince to explain yourself."

  TEN

  "How much do you know of penitents, my lady?" the monk asked as they walked.

  More than I want, she thought, but said only, "Some."

  Simeon explained, "Penitents believe that the path to enlightenment lies through suffering--"

  "We don't need a religion lesson," Ronan cut in. "We need to know what's over the ridge."

  "Have you been to the shrine near Westerfox, my lady?" the monk asked.

  "Until a fortnight ago, I had not left Edgewood since arriving before my first summer."

  "Of course, because it guards the Forest of the Dead," the monk said. "There are many shrines, my lady. For pilgrims and those seeking spiritual guidance. The one near Westerfox is particularly sacred to penitents. That is where one might see our deepest, most holy form of penance. The mummies."

  Simeon sucked in breath. "Yes, of course. The Order of Kushin--"

  "Let the old man tell his story," Ronan said.

  "Have you heard of our mummies, my lady?" the monk asked.

  "No, but I understand the basic concept, as it is practiced in the desert regions. On death, the body is exposed, and the heat dries it."

  "True, that is their custom. With us, as monks near the end of life, if they do not feel they are close enough to enlightenment, they begin refusing food. Then they start drinking a special tea, which slowly poisons them and preserves their body as it withers from lack of nourishment."

  "They mummify themselves?" Ronan said. "While they're still alive?"

  "When they are nearing the end, they are placed in a special box, dry and heated to create a desert-like environment. Inside is a bell that they ring several times a day. When the bell no longer rings, the box is sealed and transported to the shrine. If the spirits have shown favor, when the box is opened, the monk is mummified. He is then dressed in fine clothing and placed on display, so that pilgrims may reflect on his sacrifice."

  "That is the stupidest--" Ronan began, but he was silenced by Ashyn stepping on his foot.

  "That is the purpose of your journey, then?" she said. "You are transporting these . . . potential mummies?"

  "To Westerfox, yes. It is a long and slow procession, but we do it each spring. This time, we bring four boxes."

  His voice lifted, as if this were some great accomplishment, and Ashyn dutifully murmured her congratulations, while secretly agreeing with Ronan. To mummify oneself while still alive? Surely that could not h
onor the spirits.

  The group crested the ridge. Below were two wagons--basic, open affairs, each bearing two coffin-like boxes. Two men huddled around a fire. Both were dressed like the monk--in simple clothing and no shoes. Their camp lay on open ground, with no trees or rocks nearby large enough to conceal attackers.

  Ashyn started down the hill. Ronan prompted the monk again to explain the situation.

  "It is . . . difficult," the monk said.

  "Try."

  "I do not mean that I am loath to do so, but that I know what I have to say will be difficult to believe. It would appear . . . that is to say . . ." He turned to Ashyn as they walked. "The bells have rung again."

  "The bells . . . ?"

  "Inside the boxes. The boxes were sealed and yet the bells ring. Even when the horses are at rest."

  Dread crept into Ashyn's gut, but she forced it from her voice. "You say, then, that you believe the men within the boxes live."

  "Yes, as impossible as that is."

  "It's not impossible at all," Simeon said. "There are ailments that make the victim appear dead, unconscious sometimes for days. Coupled with the mediocre diagnostic skills of the average village healer, it is not surprising that many cultures have incorporated certain checks and balances in their funerary customs, such as laying out the corpse for three nights or--"

  "Just say it's possible," Ronan said. "I'd like to get this over with before dawn."

  "The young scholar is correct," the monk said. "That is why we do not seal the box as soon as the bell stops ringing. These are not men who perished a few days ago. The newest stopped ringing his bell a moon past. And the oldest stopped last summer."

  "It is not possible that they live," Simeon said. "There is a malfunction of the bells. Perhaps earth tremors."

  "It is . . . more than the bells," the monk said carefully.

  His gaze flitted toward the camp. Beside Ashyn, Tova growled. When she strained to listen, she could catch the sound . . .

  Scratching. She heard a dry, rustling scratching. Then a thump.

  She glanced at Ronan and saw his face pale. Simeon continued to insist that what the monk feared was, quite simply, impossible. The dead did not wake. At least, not the long dead.

  Simeon knew nothing of what had transpired in Edgewood. To those in the convoy, it had been explained that Ashyn's village had been beset by a fatal outbreak of illness, which may have spread to Fairview and may not have been a natural occurrence.

  Ashyn turned to Simeon. "I must investigate these claims. However, I fear they arise from duplicity. Not the monks, of course. But someone may be tricking them for nefarious purposes, and this ought to be brought to the attention of Prince Tyrus. I need you to go to him now and tell him what has happened."

  "You wish me to wake the prince?"

  "You have nothing to fear from Tyrus. Tell him and my sister what has happened and have them come back here with you."

  "Should I not ask a warrior to rouse him?"

  "Are you questioning the Seeker?" Ronan snapped.

  "The young man is correct," the monk said. "To question her will is to question the will of the spirits themselves. It is akin to blasphemy."

  "Please," Ashyn said.

  That plea worked. He left after she enjoined him to speak to no one else of this. "There are many superstitious folks in the empire," she said. "I'd not wish to start outrageous rumors of resurrected mummies."

  Once he was gone, they continued down the hill. Soon it was impossible not to hear the sounds from the boxes--the scrapes and scratches and thuds and bumps.

  "I fear their bodies have been possessed by evil spirits," the monk said. "Though I've not heard of such a thing outside of nannies' tales."

  As they reached camp, the men at the fire rose, and their monk hurried forward to explain, leaving Ashyn and Ronan staring at the boxes.

  "They're moving," Ashyn whispered.

  "Hmm." Ronan moved closer and lowered his lips to her ear. "Shadow stalkers?"

  "I . . . I don't think so. Shadow stalkers take the form of that dark smoke to enter bodies, and they can leave it the same way. Why stay in those boxes?"

  "Hoping someone will open them?"

  "But no one has."

  "And we'll not do it either," he said.

  "I believe we must look--"

  "I said we'll not."

  She glanced at him. "Were you not just chastising Simeon for questioning my decisions?"

  "Simeon? Is that his name?" A derisive snort. Then his dark eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you ever explained why you were with him in the first place."

  "No, I did not." She stepped toward the monks as they approached. The one who'd brought them performed introductions. His own name was Ivo. The other two monks barely stayed long enough for Ashyn to greet them properly before they slipped back to the fire. They'd spoken not a word. Silence was part of their penance, Ivo explained, as he led Ashyn to the boxes.

  "Can they be opened?" she asked.

  Ivo stared as if she'd asked him to crawl into one. "I do not believe that's necessary, my lady. If you were simply to placate the spirits, they would leave the bodies, without any need to look within."

  "But if I do that, how do we understand what has happened?"

  Ivo's expression said he could live the remainder of his days quite happily without ever knowing.

  Ashyn continued, "Do you not think we ought to bear witness? Otherwise, if we are to tell someone, they will think we were duped."

  "Is there any need to tell someone?" Ivo said.

  "Yes. An occurrence such as this must be documented."

  "The Seeker wants a box opened," Ronan said. "Stop arguing and open one."

  "They are sealed and--"

  "You said you open them at the shrine. It's easily done then. Just pry off a lid."

  ELEVEN

  At first, Ivo claimed they had no tools. But after some arguing, one of the other monks came over with a strong shovel. Apparently, withdrawing into silence did not prevent one from eavesdropping.

  As Ronan worked at the lid, Ashyn asked Ivo the route they'd taken from their monastery. It was as she feared--they'd passed so close to Fairview that they'd seen the shimmering white town beyond the wall. They'd not entered nor even drawn close, having been warned of an illness there.

  When Moria arrived with Tyrus, she said to Ronan, "You? What are you doing here?" proving she had not secretly sent him a message.

  "It's good to see you, too, Moria."

  She turned to Ashyn. "We left Simeon behind, but he said something about mummies. Penitent monks who mistakenly believe their dead are about to rise--"

  A fresh scratching sounded from the box.

  "That is, apparently, the mummy," Ashyn said. "I've asked Ronan to open the box to confirm it."

  The thing within began to thump on the lid.

  Moria glanced at her sister. "Unless they've accidentally interred giant rats, I think we can safely say it's the mummy."

  "I would agree." Tyrus moved toward the box, paying no attention to the monks dropping into the dirt at his approach. "But Ashyn is right. We must confirm it." He glanced at Ashyn. "Are there any preparations we should make before it opens?"

  "Yes, of course," she said. "I ought to begin the rituals of soothing."

  Ashyn whispered ancient words to acknowledge and soothe the spirits. Beside her, Moria stood at alert, ready to use her own power of banishment, should something evil arise from that box. Ronan prepared to open the lid while Tyrus moved in on the other side, taking hold.

  When it seemed as if whatever lay in the box was calming--the scratches and thumps fewer and weaker--Moria nodded and Ashyn said, "Now. Open the box."

  The young men heaved on the stone lid. It rose half a hand, and Ashyn peered in.

  "We need a lantern," Moria said.

  As Ivo scuttled off, Moria told the young men to hold the lid until a light could be brought.

  "We'll try," Tyrus grunted. "Th
is isn't exactly as light as silk."

  "Set it back down then. We just need to get a glimpse inside before the opening's big enough for the thing to spring out."

  "It's a bag of dried bones," Ronan said. "I don't think it'll be doing much--"

  The lid flew off. A gust hit Ashyn with the force of a blow, dust and dirt blinding her, and she reeled back, hands going to her face as she coughed. She heard a curse. An oath. Then a thud and a yowl. She forced her eyes open and saw Tyrus and Ronan on the ground, the stone lid atop Ronan's leg. She raced over to pull it off. Tyrus sprang up to do the same. The first in motion, though, was Moria, sprinting to . . . look in the box.

  "Your help is vastly appreciated," Ronan grunted to Moria.

  "If your leg's broken, moving the lid faster will hardly help."

  Tyrus heaved it off, with Ashyn doing what she could. As they helped Ronan to his feet, Moria said, "Blast it!"

  Ashyn glanced over.

  "That wind was the spirit escaping," Moria said.

  Tyrus got Ronan upright, then walked over beside Moria. "Huh. Well, the good news is that the mummification process was successful. The bad news is that I doubt the monks will want to display this fellow at the shrine."

  "That's what they do?" Moria said. "Display them?"

  "Yes. Mummified monks posed on cushions and at writing desks and taking tea. It's quite macabre. I'll have to take you there sometime. But the better ones are the shrines near Violetmere, with mummified demons."

  "Demons?"

  Before Tyrus could explain, Ashyn and Ronan approached the box. In the bottom lay the monk. While Ashyn had read about mummification, that did not prepare her to see it. This looked like a demon, a profane mockery of human form.

  The thing was wizened into what could best be described--though the analogy upset her stomach--as dried meat. The limbs were twisted and deformed. The head was a discolored skull with bulging yellow teeth and matted hair.

  The worst, though, was the proof that the monk had indeed been alive moments ago. The dried lips were peeled back in a soundless scream. The eyes--sunken and withered--were wide. Both arms were outstretched, the hands like claws, the fingertips broken off from scratching at the stone lid.

  A spirit had possessed this body. Been thrust into it as a side effect of whatever magics Alvar Kitsune was using at Fairview. Someone had died--perhaps at the hands of Alvar's men--and the spirit, roaming, not yet ready to cross into the second world, had been thrust into the nearest vessel: this interred horror.