The Righteous Whisper of Allsaints (The White Blood Chronicles Book 2)

by Mark G Heath

  The room was smaller than his but similarly well furnished. The curtains on the two windows, for it was a corner room, were drawn back allowing the grey, autumnal light into the bedroom, but this was more than matched by the firelight, which glowed from the significant fire that burned in the fireplace to his right. The bed in the far left corner of the room was unmade, the sheets and blankets strewn about it as if the occupant had endured a night in it, rather than having slept soundly. Lancaster turned and locked the door behind him, trying the handle to confirm that the portal was secure. He looked back into the room and his gaze fell upon the large table set in the centre of the room. It was sturdily constructed; four thick, cylindrical legs with various carvings upon them were rooted to the floor, supporting a heavy-looking tabletop. This was strewn with pieces of parchment, some lying flat, and others rolled-up bound with green ribbon. A pile of books formed a wall along the left-hand side of the table and three tall candles burned in one corner, the wax spilling down the long blue columns, pooling at the candles’ base and hardening. There was, oddly for a table so expansive, only one chair beside it. The chair was high-backed, with prominent arms and a deep seat. It was occupied by a figure hunched over, studiously scraping with a quill, the figure appeared small and fragile against the solid, almost throne-like chair. Long, lank blonde hair, which was centre-parted, hid the figure’s features, two curtains of yellow-white hair spilling down the side of the figure’s face, past the shoulders and down to its middle. The figure wore a simple dress, yet it was evident that the purple fabric was well made and expensive by the way that it clung to the thin frame of its wearer. The curved figure sat on the edge of the chair, its knees drawn up and bare feet resting on a bar beneath the seat of the chair, the feet rocking backwards and forwards, rolling on the bar, as the figure worked. This movement caused the chain which ran from the thick anklet around the figure’s right foot, to sway, the well-fashioned links swinging to and fro before the chain reached the floor and coiled several times finally ending with the last link being secured to a metal plate held to the timber floor by six bolts. The chain was long enough to enable its captive enough movement to reach nearly all four corners of the room, but no further.

  “ Good morning,” said the figure, not looking up from its work.

  “ Good morning,” replied Lancaster.

  The figure reached out a small hand clutching the elegant quill and daintily dabbed it into a bottle of black ink before returning the quill to the parchment and continuing with the scratching.

  “ Looks like another cold day,” remarked Lancaster walking further into the room. He set the tray of refreshments down on the table.

  “ As if that matters to me,” answered the figure, but there was no rancour in the voice. Rather the reply was a statement of fact. Lancaster walked to behind the figure and looked down. To the left of the figure was a thick tome, the pages open and the left hand of the figure was placed on the right-hand page, the index finger pointing to a collection of symbols which Lancaster did not recognise. In fact, the two pages that lay open were filled with the symbols, line upon line of intricate markings. He peered at them, unable to even make out if the symbols formed sentences. It just looked like an endless stream of lines, curves, dots and dashes. The figure’s right hand moved the quill over the parchment and that action produced letters, which Lancaster at least recognised, even if the words formed by the letters were unknown to him.

  “ You have made an early start, I see,” commented Lancaster placing a hand on the shoulder of the figure. This caused it to halt moving the quill, which was placed to one side. The right hand picked up a small coin and placed it on the spot above where the index finger rested, before both hands were withdrawn. The figure then sat up and with both hands brushed the curtain of hair back over the ears revealing a delicate-featured woman, her blue eyes blinked as they adjusted from staring at the small symbols.

  “ Well, I have nothing else to occupy me,” she said.

  “ You have your books and your fiddle,” replied Lancaster pointing across to the instrument, which lay on a comfortable chair to the left of the fireplace.

  “ They are merely serving to distract me from this,” answered the woman gesturing at the tome and the parchment before her.

  “ You seem to making good progress,”

  “ True enough but that will soon come to an end.”

  “How so?”

  A pale hand reached across the table and picked up a rectangular, glass receptacle. Slight streaks of a white liquid could be seen clinging to the glass. The woman shook the vessel.

  “ It’s all gone,” she declared.

  “What? Already?”

  “Yes, already.”

  “ Damn it, I only collected that four days’ ago.”

  “ I know, but you wanted me to work as fast as possible and so I have, pausing only to eat and with minimal rest, so it has been used up in uncovering the glyphs. Look.”

  The lady turned the right-hand page of the tome and revealed the corresponding page to be similarly filled with symbols. The facing page was however blank.

  “ Two and a half more pages have been uncovered and then I can go no further,” she explained.

  “ How many hidden pages are left after that?” asked Lancaster reaching to turn the tome’s pages. The woman slapped his hand away.

  “Ten more after that,” she answered.

  “ How long will it take you to finish?”

  “ That, dear husband, is irrelevant until you bring more white blood to reveal the glyphs,” replied the lady turning to look up at Lancaster.

  “ Come now, Cerilan, surely you can gauge how long it takes you to decipher each page?”

  Cerilan shook her head.

  “ I am afraid it does not equate to that. Some passages of text are harder to transcribe, others easier. I have no idea what the remaining pages have on them. If I face a particularly obscure paragraph it could take me a week, or longer.”

  “ A week, for one paragraph?” declared Lancaster.

  “ Or longer. This isn’t some old crone’s cook book you know.”

  “ I know, I know, it’s just that,”

  “ It’s just that you are greedy and impatient, that’s just what it is,” answered Cerilan.

  “Huh, I have waited long enough for you to transcribe from that book. More importantly, my customers have waited a long time too,”

  “ Customers? You make them sound like villagers in a bakery. I very much doubt those who are interested in acquiring this book,” Cerilan patted the page in front of her, “ will regard themselves as customers. Who are they then, these customers of yours?”

  “ Nobody you need concern yourself with. In fact, far better that you don’t know who they are.”

  “ Why?”

  “The less you know, the less you can tell.”

  “Ha! Who might I tell? I see nobody but you, ever since you kept me locked in here. Ever since you discovered me trapped in this room and you then kept me for yourself.”

  “Look, you are to do the translation, leave the selling to me, I am the broker.”

  Cerilan laughed.

  “ The broker? Listen to you, pretending you can influence them. A ruse to garner importance for you in a pathetic bid to chase the sleepiness of age away.”

  “ I am not old,” retorted Lancaster sharply, “ in fact there are many who can attest to that “

  He gave a curt nod of satisfaction towards Cerilan.

  “Oh I am sure you have managed to occupy yourself in the meanwhile, impressing the feeble-minded and weak of resolve. Think well Cyon Lancaster, you need me, one incorrect letter and the compendium that I am creating is worthless.”

  “ Ah but you won’t do that will you? You are too much of a perfectionist. Ideal for my purpose.”

  “It will amount to having no purpose if you don’t lay your hands on a further consignment of white blood.”

  “ I know.”

  “ Wel
l hadn’t you better go and see Thorne. You are up and dressed. Go and see her and obtain some more.”

  “ I shall, although there appears to be a source much closer to hand,” remarked Lancaster moving from behind his wife and walking around to the other side of the table. Cerilan’s keen, intelligent eyes followed Lancaster, as she remained silent. Lancaster stopped and planted his hands on the table, leaning down to look directly at Cerilan.

  “ The witch hunter called Thaindire has taken up with the daughter of the landlord.”

  “ What do you mean taken up?”

  “ You know, coupled together, enjoined, as one, they are copulating,” said Lancaster his voice dropping.

  Cerilan wrinkled her thin, sharp nose in distaste.

  “ So that was the reason for all that hubbub last night? I thought it was you creating such pandemonium.”

  “ No, the witch hunter and Miss Kathryn.”

  “ He must be spellbound to break his vow then.”

  “ Most likely. Who cares? The point is, he is a white blood and he is right under our nose.”

  “He has been under our nose for several days, fat lot you did about it though.”

  “ Come now, my dear, that is rather harsh. One does not simply shake a white blood by the hand and say ‘ Good day to you my man, I’m rather busy and time is short, so I shall come to the point, I need to drain the blood from your body. Hope you don’t mind if I start now’ and plunge a stiletto dagger into his arm.”

  “ Don’t be impertinent Cyon, what I meant was that he was lodging here at the inn, so you had ample opportunity to cause him to swear an oath to you and press him into your service.”

  “ Believe me, the matter was very much in hand, but Kathryn and her seductive wiles out strode me. What matters now is that he is unlikely to go wandering about the village and even less likely to try and leave. In fact, our prospects may have improved a hundredfold with his ensnarement.”

  “ Cyon you are babbling. I need you to go away so I may continue with this work. I have the difficult task in all of this,” said Cerilan patting the open tome.

  Lancaster walked to the window and stood looking out at the leaden sky, his hands behind his back.

  “ I shall attend on Thorne and if she disappoints then I shall turn my attention to our neighbour,”

  “ Good. Just lay your hands on more white blood. Soon.”

  Lancaster nodded and walked back to the door. He produced the key and unlocked the door.

  “ We shall have the translated compendium in no time and with that, the power and influence it commands.”

  Cerilan did not answer but waved her hand at him dismissively as she adopted her stooped position once more.

  Lancaster opened the door and departed, locking the door after him.

  Chapter Ten

  Grimoult sat enjoying the warmth from his fire. His feet were propped up on a stool and a goblet of his favourite wine, selected from his own extensive cellar, was close at hand. He picked up the goblet and took a sip from it, savouring the taste of the wine. He murmured his contentment with the flavour and glanced at the half-full bottle, pleased that there was plenty left. Of course, he could head down into the cellar and select another bottle, but he was warm and comfortable here. The dry wood placed on the fire popped and crackled, a few orange sparks shooting upwards. Balanced on his lap there was a book containing his handwriting. Page after page of his own neat text lined the pages, recording his attempts to perfect the Elixir of Calling. Diagrams had been sketched amidst the various sentences detailing amounts and names of the ingredients, the preparation of those ingredients, the period of heating, the duration of cooling and so forth. All itemised in his own hand, the product of detailed and intensive work. He scrutinised the tiny writing on the page open before him, the words only a few days old. He was certain that he had the quantities entirely accurate and concluded there must be some flaw in his methodology. He read again the steps he had taken, mind racing as he sought to think of what he ought to change and what should remain the same.

  If he had his way, he would be working on the Infusion of Melding instead as he had all the relevant parts for that concoction, save the white blood. Plus, the creation of the Infusion of Melding was of greater interest to him than the elixir. Certainly, his pride drove him to perfect the elixir, but its use was for others. The infusion, on the other hand was involved in the production of something, which he had sought for many years. He could not do it alone, for he had no skill in the working of metal. That was why Ansell Redway had been recruited to his task, the master smith, more than capable of the intricate and skilled metalworking required. A further difference with the infusion was the fact that he knew the process for its creation would work as he had successfully achieved infusions in the past. That success gave him great comfort and removed the uncertainty, the unknown being a concern to him in respect of his making of the elixir. Three times he had generated the infusion, no, four times in fact. He struggled to recall when the last occasion was. He must look it up in one of his other notebooks as he kept every single experiment logged in a series of leather bound books, even those experiments, which did not necessarily work.

  Some of his customers complained about the length of time it took him to create their requests. Actually, to be truthful, they all complained about how long he took. They called him names, usually linked to his advanced age. He used to tell them, often in detail, why the experiments took so long, but he soon realised that they did not understand what he was telling them or they had no interest, other than in the outcome. As a consequence, he saved his breath and now only explained why his work took so long when he felt threatened by enquiries about delay. Such were his talents that he took commissions from some powerful and quite frankly, unsavoury customers. Though of course, in respect of the creation of the infusion, this was no commission but rather his calling and he was happy to carry out the task.

  Sometimes, the failed experiments created something unexpected, but just as useful. His decoction of Bayer Root, Blue Crawlweed and Bronze Bark was intended to created a philtre which when applied to metal, strengthened it. He smiled as he recalled how he had applied a layer to one of Reznik’s sabres and when the mercenary had come to pick up the weapon, he found he was unable to do so, as it just slipped from his fingers every time. No sooner had he placed his hand about the hilt, it squirmed out of his grasp and fell on the floor. He labelled it Grimoult’s Philtre of Escape and it proved very popular with less reputable individuals, who coated their clothes in it when they wanted to avoid being apprehended. Yes, that large order from the pilferer’s guild in Sarm had allowed him to fill up his cellar with some choice wines.

  Grimoult looked over at the shelf, which was burdened with his notebooks. He really ought to have them properly ordered but for now, his mind and memory remained sufficiently sharp that he was able to recall where to find the instructions for his many creations. He had an entire catalogue of his research. Some of it related to experiments that he had begun from scratch, others building upon or supplementing the work of others. Either way, the shelf’s content was nigh on priceless. He looked again at the page, the mass of letters blurred and swirled. Grimoult squeezed his eyes shut, blinked and stared at the words and symbols, but his mind did not want to focus on the creation of the elixir.

  “ That will do for today,” he said and closed the notebook, placing it on the table next to his seat. He would resume his study of the methodology again come the morning, but for now, he would enjoy his wine and the warmth of the fire.

  Tinkling noises drifted into Grimoult’s mind, a fast, repeated tapping noise and he opened his eyes, the noise becoming louder. He realised he had fallen asleep, the soothing qualities of the fine wine and the cosseting warmth of his fire had caused him to slumber. He rubbed his eyes and shifted in his seat, wondering if he had been dreaming about the noise, but no, it was continuing. As his senses gathered, Grimoult realised the noise was coming from his wo
rkshop.

  “ What’s going on?” he wondered aloud and shuffled forward, planting his feet on the floor and with a protesting groan, pushed himself off the chair. He turned and looked into his workshop, the vast array of glass gleaming in the firelight. The noise was coming from the far wall where his helpers were all stood up in their jars and were tapping on the side of the jar, their nails causing the tinkling noise.

  “ What is it?” asked Grimoult, perturbed by this display by the homunculi.

  Grimoult shivered as the heat in the room vanished as if someone had opened every door and window in the house and allowed the warmth to escape in an instant. He saw his own breath cloud before him, the iciness alarming him. The firelight still glowed but it was as if all quality of heat had been removed from the fire, leaving only the orange light.

  “ Master Grimoult,” said a voice, which filled the room. It was not human and had an echo to it.

  “ Dear Perrin,” cried out the old man in fright. He staggered back against his chair, clutching a hand to his chest. He looked round and a pair of black, smoky figures had manifested, hovering above the rug, before his fireplace. Each figure was considerably taller than the alchemist and humanoid in shape, save that the lower half tapered away to a point, rather than to the two feet one would ordinarily expect. Two red eyes glowed in the otherwise featureless faces of the figures. The homunculi had stopped their tapping and instead all stood staring out towards their master and the two shapes.

  “ Must you appear like this? And why always so blasted cold?” said Grimoult recovering his composure, though he did not expect an answer.

  “ Master Grimoult, we have been sent by our lord and master,” began the two shapes, speaking in tandem, their voices were disembodied, not seeming to come from the shapes themselves, but from all corners of the room.

  “ Yes, yes, spare me the salutation, I know who has sent you,” muttered Grimoult.

  “ Our lord seeks news of your work Master Grimoult, time is becoming short and he hopes to hear words that will ensure his confidence in you is maintained. He is disappointed that you have not seen fit to keep him informed yourself.” The voices took on a more menacing tone and Grimoult felt a knot of dread in his stomach.