Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  It was the shrine. There was a bare altar, and shelves where stone gods might once have stood. But the gods had forsaken this place long ago. Or had they been cast out? Grace was moving faster. She floated to the shrine’s corner and saw a darkness so pure, so perfect, she would have cried out if she had possessed lungs. The darkness was hungry, conscious, but not alive. Surely it would consume the feeble wisp of her spirit. Drawn by the power of her own spell, she hurtled directly toward it.

  She would have thought the darkness to be cold, but instead it was horribly hot, suffocating her like a black blanket. There was terrible resistance, as if she was being pushed through tar. She could feel it eating at the very substance of her being. Then, all at once, she was through.

  Once again she was flying down a set of stone steps. She glanced back and saw an ironbound door, tightly shut. Set into the surface of the door was a small circle of iron marked with an angular symbol which she knew Falken would tell her was Alth, the rune of shadow. Then the door was lost to sight as the staircase led her deeper down. Three times it circled around, and she knew she was far beneath the keep. There was an opening ahead; crimson light spilled through. Grace floated forward, then her motion ceased. This was it, this was where the spell had led her. She peered through the opening.

  And somewhere, far above and away in the keep, she knew her living heart faltered in her chest.

  She didn’t doubt Falken’s belief that at one time this place had been used by a wizard who had bound the rune of shadow into the door. But it was clear that, when it was first built, this had been the keep’s dungeon. There was a central room ringed by a series of alcoves, each one walled with rusting iron bars. Things sinuous and gray prowled back and forth inside some of the cells. Whuffles and snarls echoed off stone.

  Along one of the dungeon’s walls, set into the stone, was a row of iron manacles. The remains of three men hung there, although there was not much left of them besides bones. At first Grace thought perhaps they had been mauled to death, but then she saw it had been more careful than that. She understood the crisscrossed pattern of cut marks on the bones. These men had been butchered, the flesh systematically carved from their bodies. Somehow she knew they had not yet been dead when the process had begun. Sickness washed over her, and an overwhelming desire to vomit, but of course she could not.

  There was another body lying on a bench, carved up like the others. Atop its head remained a shock of yellow hair shot with gray. Why did that seem important to Grace?

  Before she could think, her attention was drawn to the two figures in the center of the room. One had his back mostly to her, but Grace recognized him as the steward, Leweth. The other was a woman clad in a severe black gown. From a chain around her neck hung an iron key. She was old, that was clear, but she stood straight and stiff, her bearing proud. Her iron-gray hair was pulled back so tightly it stretched her expression into something that was at once smile and grimace. White makeup plastered her face, and her cheeks and lips were colored red, done up in a garish facsimile of life.

  The illusion failed; it was quite clear the woman was dead. In her present form, Grace could see the threads of the Weirding as clearly as the torchlight. None of them spun around the other. The old woman was dead.

  And she was speaking.

  “How does the Gift suit you?” It was the same croaking sound Grace had heard in the earl’s solar. It was she, Elwarrd’s mother.

  “It suits me well, Lady Ursaled. I feel strong. Stronger than I have in all my life. I thank you.” There was something queer about Leweth’s voice. It was harder than Grace remembered.

  “You were wise to accept it,” the earl’s mother said. “Your father would be alive had he not been such a fool as to refuse it.”

  Laughter rose from Leweth. “But he has made himself a service in other ways, has he not?” He gestured to the body on the bench, the one with the shock of yellow-gray hair. Wet snarls emanated from the cells. Iron rang like broken chimes as hard talons were dragged across the bars.

  “They are hungry, my lady,” the steward said. “And there is nothing left to pick from these corpses. Not from my father, or from these three I found on the beach. We’ll have to let them gnaw on the bones, but I doubt that will keep them long. Would that I had had time to go back and find the others on the beach before they woke.”

  The woman moved to a table in the dungeon’s center. “It is just as well you did not. What fate brought her here, I know not, but she is the key to all we desire. Elwarrd will present her to our Master, and so my son shall rise high in the Master’s favor just as I have planned all these years.”

  “So the Master truly does seek her?”

  “Yes,” Ursaled hissed. “And He wishes her alive of all things! Do not the stories say that only one of her blood has the power to harm Him? But it is not for us to question His ways. Our only task is to please Him, so that my son may rise high in His favor.”

  Leweth took a hesitant step forward. “And why must it be the earl, my lady? Why can you not deliver her to the Master?”

  “You show your ignorance. I am but a woman, and of common birth—a countess by marriage only. What standing could I expect in the Master’s dark court? No, it must be my son. He is a noble by blood. The Master will be sure to reward him. And Elwarrd in turn will reward us.”

  Gray bodies flung themselves forward; iron bars groaned.

  “Did Elwarrd catch the one that escaped?” Leweth said. “Did you not send him after it?”

  Ursaled sniffed. “It was the least he could do, after all I have done for him. But he failed in the task.”

  “Should I look for it, my lady?”

  “No, it matters no longer. The time has come to free my pets. The Master’s magic has shaped them well; they will not harm the pale-haired harlot, the witch. And they can feed on the others to gain strength.”

  “And what of Elwarrd? Do you truly think the earl will do as you wish? I believe that he fancies her, my lady.”

  The old countess pounded a gnarled fist on the table. “Of course he will do as I wish! All these years, I have made every sacrifice for him. I protected him from the attention of the king in order to save him for greater opportunities. I kept him from becoming entangled in a woman’s snare. And all this time he has been ungrateful. But soon, all that will change. Soon he will understand everything, just as you do, Leweth!”

  Ursaled took an object from the table and thrust it above her in triumph. It was a fist-sized lump of iron.

  Fear permeated Grace’s being. It was impossible she could scream, yet somehow it seemed she did make a sound, for both the countess and the steward turned in her direction. The front of the steward’s shirt hung open, and the torn cloth was soaked with blood. In the center of his chest was a jagged wound, the raw flaps of meat held together with crude stitches. Yes, Grace saw it clearly now that she looked: the lump of iron in his chest where his heart should have been. He was every bit as dead as the countess.

  The steward peered forward with dull eyes. On his forehead, burned right through the skin and into his skull, was a brand. The brand might have been a raven’s wing. Or a staring eye. Grace looked again at the countess, and beneath the thick layer of makeup she glimpsed the same mark.

  The countess moved forward, turning her head back and forth. “There is something here, something watching us.” Then, impossibly, her eyes locked on Grace. “You!”

  Grace’s entire being moaned in horror. The old woman reached a hand toward her, her face a white mask of murder——and Grace opened her eyes, slumping in the chair by the fireplace in her chamber. Falken lowered the vial with the bitter potion. Beltan and Vani stared at her.

  “It’s the Raven Cult,” Grace said.

  32.

  It was no longer a question of begging their leave. Any obligation they might have had to the earl had been erased by what Grace had witnessed. Now it was just a question of getting out of the keep. Grace could only hope that she was wro
ng, that what she had seen had taken place in the future after all, and that they still had time to escape.

  “They had imprisoned three crewmen from the Fate Runner down there,” Grace said. She felt weak, horribly weak, and so empty. “Leweth must have found them on the beach, he must have led them to the keep. I’m not sure, but I think one of them was Captain Magard. And the other body, it was the old steward. They were using the corpses to feed them. Feydrim. They had feydrim in the dungeon. They...”

  Beltan laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t think about it, Grace. We’re getting out of here. Now.”

  Falken slung his lute case over his shoulder. “I just wonder why Magard and his crewmen didn’t see us there on the beach, and why they went to the keep with Leweth without looking for other survivors. I suppose it’s a mystery we’ll never know the answer to.”

  But maybe she did know. Grace thought again of the light that had buoyed her in the water, and the face she had glimpsed: ancient, beautiful. Maybe something had hidden them, protecting them. If so, it was gone now.

  “Come,” Vani said, peering through the crack she had opened in the door. “The way is clear.”

  The keep was silent. Grace was acutely aware of every sound as they moved: the scrape of their shoes on the wooden floor, the whisper of her fur-lined cloak as she pulled it more tightly around her. Surely their going would be noticed. Vani led the way, and Beltan brought up the rear. They saw no one as they made their way past several doors to the head of the stairs.

  As they started to descend, Grace heard the pounding of footsteps. Someone was running up the staircase. Beltan pushed past Grace and Falken, knife in hand. Vani crouched, ready to spring. Grace saw a shadow lurch across the wall, followed by a figure that came hurtling up the stairs. The runner tripped on the last step and fell sprawling to the floor.

  It was Mirdrid, the serving maid. Leweth’s sister. Beltan knelt and helped her up. Her gray dress was tangled and torn, and she was weeping, tears making streaks on her dirty face. Beneath the grime, a bruise was clearly forming on her cheek.

  Concern dulled the edge of Grace’s fear. “Mirdrid, what is it? What’s happened to you?” She smoothed the young woman’s snarled hair from her face.

  “Oh, my lady!” Mirdrid sobbed, clutching at Grace. “I saw them, and they’re horrible, and they’re going to eat me. They’re going to eat all of us!”

  “What did you see, Mirdrid?” Grace made her voice sharp, knowing it was the only way to cut through the other’s hysteria. “And who hit you?”

  The young woman shook violently. “It was the earl. I saw him in the great hall, and he was in a terrible rage. He was talking about death, my lady, about how we all must die, and it was the most frightful thing. I’ve never seen him so. He struck me, and I fear he might have made ill with me, but I managed to get away. I ran, I wanted to go the village to see my mother, but...” Sobs racked her body.

  Grace gripped her shoulders, hard. “What, Mirdrid? You have to tell us.”

  The young woman’s brown eyes were wide. “Monsters, my lady. By the front door of the keep. I saw them in the shadows. They had teeth like knives. Two of them. Perhaps three. I don’t know. I ran, but now they’re going to eat me!”

  “No one’s going to eat you, I promise,” Grace said, holding the young woman.

  Beltan shot a look at Vani. “Is there another way out of the keep?”

  “The kitchens!” Mirdrid said before the T’gol could speak. She pushed away from Grace and wiped the tears from her face. “That’s where we have to go. It’s the only other way out.”

  Beltan raised an eyebrow. Vani nodded.

  Mirdrid started unsteadily down the corridor. “This way. There’s a back staircase only the servants use.”

  They exchanged glances, then hurried after the serving maid. Mirdrid was right; at the far end of the corridor, hidden behind a tapestry, was an opening that led to a narrow staircase.

  “Mirdrid!” Grace hissed, but the girl had already started down, vanishing into shadow.

  “The girl is right,” Vani said. “These steps lead down to the kitchens below the great hall. There is a small side door there that opens to the outside. Hopefully it will not be guarded as the main door.”

  They started down the stairs single file. Darkness closed around Grace like a fist. She thought she saw a shadow darting below her. Mirdrid?

  They turned a corner, and a square of ruddy light appeared below them. A few more steps, and the four tumbled into the kitchens. Wooden posts supported soot-stained beams; a fire roared in the fireplace, and it was unbearably hot.

  Grace pushed her damp hair from her face. “Mirdrid?”

  Beltan moved toward the door of iron-banded wood on the far wall, but Vani was faster. She pushed against it.

  The door didn’t budge.

  Now the blond knight had reached the T’gol. He threw his weight against the door along with hers. There was a groan, but the door remained shut.

  Falken frowned at Beltan. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. Something’s blocking it.”

  Laughter sounded behind them; they turned around. Mirdrid stepped from the shadows behind a cupboard and sauntered toward them, flouncing her dirty dress.

  “Mirdrid,” Grace said. “Is there a way to open the door?”

  The young woman smiled, displaying rotten teeth. “Oh, no, my lady. It’s barred with iron from the other side. You’ll never open it in time.”

  Grace shook her head, trying to comprehend these words. The young woman only laughed again. In three swift strides, Beltan covered the distance to Mirdrid. He grabbed her wrist and, before she could resist, turned her arm over and pushed up the sleeve of her dress.

  On the underside of her forearm was a puckered brand. The rune of the Raven. The Eye of Mohg.

  Mirdrid snatched her hand back. “They’re coming for her now.” She pointed at Grace. “The Master has sent for her. And the rest of you will be meat for the Master’s pets.”

  Grace reached out toward Mirdrid with the Touch, but the heart in her chest was alive, a thing of flesh, not iron. So she was just a Raven cultist, not an ironheart. “Why, Mirdrid?” Grace said, voice shaking.

  The young woman only continued to point at Grace, her face solemn now. Then she turned and ran from the kitchens.

  “By the Blood of the Seven,” Falken said through clenched teeth. “She’s led us into a trap. We have to find a way to open that door.”

  It was too late. Grace heard the echo of grunts, the scraping of talons on stone. Misshapen forms slunk into the kitchens, five, six, seven of them. Their backs were humped, their gray fur matted, their yellow eyes filled with pain and hunger.

  The feydrim arranged themselves in a half circle on the far side of the room, looking like nothing so much as spider monkeys crossbred with wolves: feral, intelligent, tortured. What were they waiting for? Beltan had only the small knife, and even Vani could not fight so many in such a small space. Then the half circle parted, and two figures stepped through, one slightly in front of the other, and Grace understood. The feydrim had been waiting for their mistress.

  “You cannot escape,” the old countess said.

  She looked just as she had in Grace’s vision: clad in a dusty gown of funereal black, her face a white death’s mask, her lips and cheeks smeared with crimson. Just behind her stood the steward, Leweth, a leer on his homely face, blood still oozing from the wound in his chest. Beltan started to move forward, knife ready, but at a sharp look from the countess he stopped. Even Vani stood frozen. The feydrim crouched, ready to spring.

  “What do you want from us?” Falken said.

  “I want nothing from you, save the flesh from your bones to feed my minions.” She ran white-stick fingers over the head of one of the feydrim; it whimpered as if she had struck it a blow. The countess nodded toward Grace. “It is only she that matters. The Master has made it clear He wishes her for His own. I have received the missives, c
arried by the Master’s own ravens, instructing all of His servants to keep watch for a fair-haired woman with a necklace marked by runes. When I saw her from the shadows of the gallery, I could not believe our good fortune. For so long I have sought a way to ensure that my son rises high in the Master’s favor. And here she comes to our keep, the very thing He desires.”

  “Berash, you mean,” Falken spat. “The Pale King.”

  The thick paint on the countess’s face cracked. “You are not worthy to speak His name! You will die tonight, just as all who dare to stand against Him shall soon perish. The forces of the Raven will march across the Dominions, and they will purge His foes from the face of the land like dark fire!” She turned toward Leweth. “Take her now. I want her out of the way before I release the feydrim upon the others. They are hungry, and the Master’s desire is clear: She must not come to harm.”

  “Yes, Lady Ursaled.” The steward moved forward, his dead gaze paralyzing Grace. “Come, wench. It will be easier for you if you do not resist. The Master wants you alive. I imagine he will care nothing if you are...damaged.”

  A bellow of rage erupted from Beltan. “Get away from her!”

  He lunged forward, driving his knife deep into Leweth’s gut. The steward stared dully at the hilt protruding from his stomach as black blood oozed around it. Then, in a mechanical motion, he plucked out the knife and turned it back on Beltan, sticking it into the knight’s shoulder.

  Beltan moaned and staggered back, his hand curled around the hilt of the knife, blood streaming between his fingers. A howl rose from the feydrim; the scent of blood excited them.

  Falken pulled Grace toward the barred door. At the same moment, moving in a blur, Vani gripped Leweth’s arm, bent it backwards, and twisted it around. There was a snap, and a ragged white stump pierced the skin of his forearm, jutting outward at a horrible angle.

  No, Vani, Grace wanted to say. It’s no use. They don’t feel pain, not like we do.