by David Waid
Sailors in oilskins pulled on tangled rigging while the spume of waves arced over the rails and ice cold, ankle deep water surged and tugged across the deck. A line of rope the sailors could hold onto ran down the ship’s center, from stern to forecastle. Two sailors, clinging to the rigging, struggled to lash down canvas torn loose in the wind.
Teresa looked over the ship’s side just as the Beornsdæd swung into a dip, and her stomach dropped. Lightning flashed without the sound of thunder and she saw an endless range of black waves, tracks of foam marbled across long, dizzying swells. The ship pointed down, down. The door shoved hard behind her and Teresa was hurled out onto her hands and knees as the cog’s prow lifted into another wave. Water roared into the air, descending with the force of a hammer stroke. She tried to stand, but was thrown flat by seawater raging across the deck. Choking, coughing brine, Teresa slid and spun toward the rail. She tried to scream but choked on another mouthful. Scrabbling at the deck, her fingers found no hold. The tide of water, the weight of her sodden clothes, pulled inexorably for the sea.
Then a hand grabbed her tunic at the scruff of the neck. It held her, pulled against the rush of water. In moments, the worst was past and a powerful arm encircled her waist, lifting Teresa to her feet. Through stinging eyes, she saw her bearded sailor.
He dragged her back toward the sterncastle as the ship’s deck moved beneath them. But that door hung open and just inside it stood Mina. The woman’s stone face sent Teresa into a kicking, screaming struggle.
“Blieb noch!” the sailor shouted. Hold still! Then he followed her terrorized gaze, saw Mina. Looking down, he gave Teresa a sharp nod and helped get her arm around the safety line. Together they turned away, making for the door in the forecastle. Any moment, she expected another wave to come roaring over the rail and sweep her overboard. She wavered between an impulse to run for the door ahead and another to cling to this rope, never moving, never letting go. Yet the sailor pulled her on. Together, the two made it to the mast and, seeing them, another of the sailors rushed to help. From there it was quick steps to safety.
She opened the door, plunging into a small room, bare except for a single chest. She mouthed her thanks as the bearded man pointed at a plank to bar the door. He said something else she didn’t hear because across the deck, inside the door of the sterncastle, Mina stood watching, head pulling toward one shoulder.
Closing the door, Teresa dropped the bar in place. Here in the forecastle, where the weather was met head-on, the noise of wave after wave seemed like the end of the world. She was wet, teeth chattering. Opening the room’s single chest, she found lengths of sailcloth and, frightened, shivering, climbed between their layers.
31. Maledicam Mortuorum
Leinster
Sairshee remained still, repeating the information she’d just been told, willing it to be true. The foolish servant girl, the one from the Inn of the Three Shrikes, stood in the shop downstairs and had seen the boy. It seemed a sign, and she had long ago learned to heed such things. Her thoughts twisted and swung, one possibility to the next. The boy represented the only thing she cared about, an opportunity to become a geistmage herself. Surges of excitement rushed through her like fever.
The understanding that the chance for power lay so close at hand was followed by a cold, insinuating thought: It didn’t matter.
None of it mattered unless she succeeded with the Harenin she’d balked at so many times in the past. Failures played before her eyes, and for each, she remembered the heart-hammering moment of silence, the quiet just before the incantation, the point — the chasm — where resolve floundered and courage fled.
Only a member of the Maleficarum could partake in the Rite of Ascendance. And only one who had performed a Harenin could be one of the Maleficarum. It was that simple. That stark. The rite would destroy any adept whose spirit had not already been transformed in the alchemy of a Harenin.
Yet if her scrolls were deceptions sent forth by the Maleficarum to entrap the ambitious, what then? She would die, and badly.
Round and round the thoughts went, her waves of excitement transforming to a sick stirring of the stomach. And yet…and yet, the greatest hierophants were converging. The Maestro could step through her door any day. If she, too, performed the Harenin, and if she possessed the boy…well, things would be different. Up to this point, she had been working solely on her master’s behalf. But now? Now, perhaps not.
Sairshee could not escape a sense, however, that some concealed fate was at work, for good or ill. She remembered the murmuration of starlings she’d seen above the field when traveling to the inn. Even now she didn’t know what portents had been spoken in the shimmer of their flight.
Outside, wooden steps descended the rear of the building. An unbroken ceiling of dark clouds made day into night. From her vantage, dim rooftops ran toward the shoreline, and in the distance she saw Bray Head, a colossus in silhouette. The thought of what the innkeeper’s daughter might say excited her, and as she descended the stairs, Sairshee remembered the girl’s name — Branagh. The staircase took her into a shingle-roofed workspace behind the shop where the walls rose halfway to the ceiling and all was bathed in orange light from tall brick ovens. Blackened crucibles sent vapor idling along the length of fat roofbeams and the smell was so pungent it hurt to breathe.
The ovens so thoroughly heated the air that, even on this frozen day, the door to the shop’s interior stood ajar. The apothecary, a thin, spavined old man with liver spots on his head, waited by it, tending his potions, sweating and stripped to the waist. He bowed again and again, refusing, or unable, to look her in the eye. With no spoken word and his gaze on the ground, he lifted one arm to indicate the shop.
Sairshee paused by the door, telling herself not to hope. The room stood empty of any other save the girl. That one stood with hands clasped beneath her chin, as if to avoid touching anything, crowded by rows of ceramic jars, herbs hanging in bunches from the low ceiling, and by bins at her feet containing roots as crooked and dirty-pale as the apothecary’s back.
Pursing her lips, Sairshee entered. “You have information?” she said.
Branagh spun and curtsied, face reddening. “Begging yer pardon, milady. Ye said I must come quick if I saw what ye’d asked about.” The girl’s pink fingers twisted together. “An’ ye said ye’d help me get a position in the king’s household. In the castle.”
“What is it you have seen?”
“A boy from off the mountain. Traveling with his sister and an old blind woman. His name is Eamon.”
Sairshee put her hand out and gripped a nearby shelf, knuckles white.
“You have seen him with your own eyes?”
“Aye. The grandmother’s blind as a stone, but it is only she who came out until today.”
“Until today?”
“Yes, milady. They’ve been staying with us at the inn for three days.”
“He’s been…” Sairshee stepped forward to strike the girl, but stopped herself. A vein throbbed in her temple. She needed to think, but there was no time. Good fortune would turn bad if she did not seize it.
Perhaps the boy had already begun to come into his power — the fact that he remained alive and free suggested as much. Yet he could not possibly have control of his gift, nor much understanding. And he could not defeat her if she had time to prepare and perform the Harenin. A witch or wizard’s first Harenin, so closely tied to life and death, was powerful magic.
And she did have the time. As for preparation, well, she stood in an apothecary’s shop, filled with rare and useful things. And before her stood one of them — Branagh, so sheltered — and in the first precious bloom of maidenhood. A far cry from the itinerants of the past. She stared hard and Branagh cast her own gaze aside. One of the delicate tendons in the girl’s neck stood out and Sairshee saw the trace of a pale, blue vein.
“I did make a promise to you, did I not?” she said.
“Yes, milady.”
“The
n follow me. I will show you a room of secrets. Would you like that?” Sairshee put her arm around Branagh’s waist. “If you are to work for a king, you will find you must be good at keeping secrets.”
She led the innkeeper’s daughter around the counter. On tiptoes, Sairshee reached for a high shelf, pulling down a small wooden box. “We will need this,” she said. Then, gripping the brass ring of the trap door, she lifted. Stone steps descended into dark. “Take this candle and proceed.”
Branagh looked at the descent and her face blanched, her eyes grew round. The girl’s mouth opened and shut like a trout on a string and Sairshee almost laughed aloud. Even through fear of the Harenin, a strange, bubbly anticipation tickled its way into her stomach and her breathing quickened. She pressed close to Branagh, whispering, “Do you wish to serve in the king’s castle?” The girl nodded. “Then take this and go.”
Shadows quivered in the hole as Branagh’s shaking hand gripped the candle. Her eyes were wet, but she didn’t cry. She dared a last glance at Sairshee, moved forward onto the top step and descended.
Smiling at the girl’s back, Sairshee followed. The tension of what was to come built, the anticipation of its release almost unbearable. As it did every time, hope eclipsed fear for this brief, sweet moment. Excitement and energy surged, making her hands unsteady. The trap door closed behind them with a squeal of hinges and a thump. There was only the candlelight. When Branagh looked up, her broad face shone golden and smooth. Sairshee, hunched beneath the door, said simply, “Go.”
Twenty-five steps took them to the bottom and it seemed the air of the labyrinth had reached around the thick door in anticipation. The descent was like walking into a pond, cold moisture enveloping them and muffled silence closing over their heads like silt-dark water. Sairshee eased past to unlock the door with a key that hung around her neck. She took the candle from Branagh’s hand and thrust it past the open door, revealing the cramped tunnel. In she plunged and Branagh yelped, skipping to keep up.
“MacMurrough’s keep stands in the middle of the River Barrow,” Sairshee said. “Did I tell you this? White stone bridges span from shore to castle on either side like swan wings.” Distracting the girl with inane chatter turned out to be simple. Branagh’s glassy eyes followed Sairshee, even as they passed the niches of ancient, piled bones. “The knights of the court are handsome and famed in the land for their prowess, yet I should not be surprised if a girl like you were to catch their eyes.”
They moved into the heart of the maze and the stench of death wafted around them. The girl stopped, hand over her mouth and nose.
“Lady, what is that smell?”
“Sometimes animals find their way into the tunnels and die,” Sairshee said. “I do not know how they get in. But come, just ahead is the chamber I wish to show you.” The candle in Sairshee’s hand bobbed to the first branching tunnel. Branagh looked back the way they had come. It seemed like she might speak, but in the end she followed, just as they all did.
Sairshee led a winding path, ignoring rough archways to right and left, until they arrived at the door of wood, swollen by moisture. When it opened, Sairshee entered, placing her box on the floor and lifting the candle high to reveal a room twelve or thirteen paces to a side. A pentagram had been scratched in the floor, contained within two concentric circles.
Branagh stood outside the door, made the sign of the cross and swallowed. “What is the purpose of this room, lady?”
Sairshee’s heart beat faster. “It would be cruel to tell you,” she replied softly.
“What?”
“You are a dear girl.” She took Branagh’s hand and held it tenderly. “Come.”
Though the girl was tense, stiff-legged, Sairshee led her to the room’s center, placing the candle on the floor. Sliding an arm around Branagh’s neck, she pulled the girl close. Branagh dropped her gaze and Sairshee stepped backward, drawing the girl with her, feeling her heartbeat through the fabric of their clothes.
Leaning forward, she put her lips to Branagh’s ear. “Are you frightened?” she whispered, breath stirring hairs on the girl’s neck.
“Yes, lady.”
Sairshee pulled her head back and peered into Branagh’s face. The girl looked up and in a small voice — a voice nearly swallowed by the vault — said, “Please don’t hurt me.”
Eyes closed, nostrils flared, Sairshee let the resonance of that entreaty linger in the air. She breathed deep of Branagh’s warm fragrance. “If only we had longer,” she said. “But we do not.”
The arm resting on the girl’s shoulders tightened. The other hand had dropped to a fold of Sairshee’s dress, emerging with a knife. She drove it hard, up and under the breastbone to Branagh’s heart. The girl cried out and sagged while Sairshee held her tight, pressing the knife further in. “Shhh,” she said. Blood poured over her hand, wrist and forearm, soaking both women. The coppery smell of it filled the air.
With one arm still around Branagh’s shoulders, Sairshee lowered her gently, following her down to the floor, whispering in her ear. “Olet minun,” she said. “Tehda niin kuin mina tahdon. You are mine, to do with as I will.”
She bent over the girl’s crumpled form, cheeks flushed, her chest moving to quick, excited breaths. Brushing hair away from Branagh’s face, she left a finger trail of blood. The precious moment approached. She leaned forward. Branagh looked up at Sairshee, brows raised in the pain and surprise of death. The girl shuddered, a long sigh slipped between her teeth and her body emptied forever as Sairshee hovered close, breathing it all in.
Withdrawing the knife, Sairshee let it clatter to the floor. She sat back and straightened her dress, smearing one hand across the blood-drenched fabric. For an instant only, she paused. The thrill of the girl’s death still thrummed along her skin, yet even so, the sinuous stroke of doubt had returned, feather-light, but growing. Balling her fists, Sairshee muttered into the silence. “You will not fail.”
Concentrate, she thought, trying to ignore the chilled sweat on her forehead. She maintained outward calm, but the heavy beating of her heart made a mockery of it. A whine escaped her throat and she pushed it aside. Better to die a hellish death than live a long and hellish life. Her mind dredged images of rot from the tunnels, tugging at her focus, threatening to sweep concentration away. Once again she had reached that point, that last possible chance to stop, and once again the chasm of failure yawned wide. All possibilities forked. On one side, despair and another corpse for the pile, on the other, the first of an utterance which could change her life. Or kill her.
To begin with, the sound was weak, tremulous. “Olehmmmm…” She followed it like a trail, concentration narrowing. Somewhere outside the cocoon she’d built, her fears bellowed and railed. Too late, they cried, too late.
“Henki sina olet minun,” she intoned. “Sina olet minun. Laheta minulle. Sina olet minun.” It grew easier to say the words as she went on. “Tee kuten mina kasken. Sina olet minun. Jonka sinetti, Enkil, mina kasken sinua.”
Now she could not stop, and with odd detachment, she noticed gooseflesh rising on her skin. In that space beyond her calm, Sairshee heard the whispers and scratchings of things unseen, and didn’t know if they were real or imagined.
Her back straightened. Her brows came together over closed eyes as if she were straining to hear some sound and though she sat perfectly still, Sairshee’s mind hunted. She found the girl’s psyche crouched in a corner of the chamber like a frightened, confused beast. In the aftermath of violent death, Sairshee knew the spirit was a feeble, forceless thing, bereft of any thought except fear and a desperate, terrorized yearning for warmth.
“Come, little darkness,” she said, holding out a hand. “This is your blood. Come taste it.”
She sensed the spirit wavering. When the girl’s soul drew near, the air around her corpse grew colder. Sairshee could not see Branagh’s spirit, but imagined it looking like the girl, only naked, her skin a ghastly, consumptive shade of white, looking up from the si
de of her own corpse with a shocking smear of red across mouth and chin. Sairshee backed toward the door on hands and knees until she passed beyond the two concentric circles that were the pentacle’s outer edge. Sitting on her heels, she glanced at small, barely noticeable breaks in those lines, a place where the circles had purposefully been left incomplete.
The wooden box she had carried down from the shop was by her side and now she pulled it into her lap. From its depths, she plucked a slender rod of oak, a chalice, a wax-stoppered jar and a small, keen knife, consecrated specifically to this purpose.
Using the knife, she scratched the hard-packed dirt, completing the circles, sealing the pentacle and trapping Branagh’s mindless spirit within. She touched the rod to the cup’s rim, repeating her chant as she did so. Breaking the seal of the ceramic jar, she held it above the chalice and poured a small measure of thick, amber honey.
The first tremors of fear crept into her fingers as they hovered over the knife handle. Touching the smooth, cool panels of ivory, she thought: here is where it will be seen if the scrolls are truth or another deceit of the Maleficarum. She lifted the knife, touched its point to her wrist, pressing slightly just to see the dimpled skin go white.
A sigh brushed her lips and with a convulsive jerk, she stabbed deep.
And screamed.
Sairshee rocked back and forth, groaning, fighting the impulse to clutch the wound to her chest. Blood welled around the blade, running to her elbow. She could not wait, could not stop. Jaws clamped, she dragged the knife forward, entering the first curve of the pattern she must cut. Shadows in the room seemed to jerk in time to her panic, as if thrown by a swinging lantern. Light came dim and bright, dim and bright. Vomit burned her throat as blade ground on bone and the blood ran. She was so close. Another pass with the knife and the room took a dizzying, oozing slide right.