Votive

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Signorina Dorata’s guardian?’

  ‘The very one. I want you to find out how he has risen to power quite so quickly; where his wealth has come from. A little over a year ago, I had not heard of him or his ward. Now they are everywhere. He has his long fingers sunk deep into many affairs, many enterprises. I want to know how and why. I also want to know about his friendship with this foreign ambassador – the one from Farrowfare.’

  ‘Lord Waterford.’

  ‘Sì. I want to know if it extends beyond the lord enjoying the services of Maleovelli’s … daughters.’ The Cardinale crossed himself again. Knowing it was expected of him, Sansono did the same.

  ‘It will be done, your grace.’

  ‘Of course it will be, Sansono, of course it will be.’ The Cardinale removed his arm and held out his hand.

  Captain Sansono took it and lowered his head, planting his lips against the great ring of the Cardinale’s office. The jewel was even colder than his chattering lips. He was officially dismissed.

  ‘Your grace,’ he murmured and went to take his leave. He’d managed two steps when the Cardinale called to him. ‘Only … Sansono?’

  ‘Sì, your grace?’ The captain paused. A dove flew over his head, forcing him to duck slightly.

  ‘When you give me your report, which I expect in one week, I do not want to find out that a copy has also gone to the Council of Ten. If I do, I will be more than displeased.’

  Captain Sansono swallowed. ‘I understand, your grace.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ said the Cardinale, beaming at him. With a swirl of red, he turned and disappeared back into the basilica, leaving Sansono standing in the piazza.

  As he watched the people scurrying past, their heads bowed, moving as fast as they could to escape the icy winds, it occurred to him that the cold gripping his chest far outweighed that caused by the wind whistling through his clothes.

  THE QUESTIONING CRY OF AN OWL broke the silence. Father Morrison ducked as the grey form swooped out of the shadows, winged over his head and past the flaming torches near the main gate to be swallowed by the night. With his heart thumping in his ears, the portly monk gathered up his cassock and scurried through the sorry excuse for gardens. He hesitated at the edge of the wall and then hurried across the open space, fumbled with the lock on the old wooden door and tumbled into the storeroom. As instructed, he left the door slightly ajar.

  He counted to three slowly, drawing deep breaths, and then poked his head around the door, peering across the bailey.

  From where he was, the noise of the kitchens could just be discerned. The lights of the chapel flickered through thick garden foliage. He made sure the pages lit scores of candles tonight; they would draw the eye and make it difficult to penetrate the dark; to detect movement outside. Raising his eyes towards the upper storeys of the keep, the main part of the castle, he could see the warm glow of burning hearths and candles in the windows. Above those, armed guards marched along the battlements, their pace brisk, their heads turned towards the outer walls, oblivious to his mad dash beneath them. He was safe. For now.

  He withdrew back inside the doorway, relief replacing his anxiety. At least the wind couldn’t bite at him in here. He watched the little darts of snow fall to the ground, an angled rain of silver arrows against the night. They glimmered in the light of the torches illuminating the main gates at the end of the courtyard. It was eerily beautiful. Nature was playing her role tonight. Maybe the gods were on their side after all.

  The weary soldiers disappeared into one of the many towers that rose above the parapets, emerging from the other side seconds later. It wouldn’t be long before they passed above him, heading to the guard house and preparing for the change of watch. If the others didn’t arrive soon, their chance to share the latest information would be lost. Damn them! Where were they? Not even his woollen robes and fur-lined gloves could keep the bitter cold from penetrating his bones, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. His thoughts wandered to the mulled wine and blazing fire he knew awaited him just a few hundred feet away in his rooms at the back of the chapel. Instead of enjoying those, here he was, playing dangerous games in the dark. But they had to know, didn’t they? Before they could go ahead with their plans, they had to be certain. Courage flickered like a candle, almost deserting him. If they should be discovered … He poked his head around the door again.

  ‘Morrison,’ said a voice in his ear.

  Father Morrison jumped. His hand gripped his chest as if to stop his heart exploding through his rib cage, and he fell back into the room and against the interior wall.

  At the same time, a large figure darted through the door, pushing it wide open. A gust of wind-driven snow followed.

  ‘By the gods!’ panted Father Morrison. The figure flung back his hood and brushed off the sleet that had settled on his cape. Father Morrison was relieved to see the familiar silhouette of Earl Farwarn’s features. ‘You startled me, your grace, I– I didn’t see you.’

  ‘That’s the idea, isn’t it?’ whispered the earl. He glanced around the storeroom, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of rats and rotting fruit. He was about to shut the door when a thought stopped him. ‘Where’s Kay?’

  ‘Here,’ said another voice. The two men spun at the sound.

  This time, Father Morrison did cry out. The sound was whipped out the room and cut through the night, echoing across the bailey. Earl Farwarn put a finger to his lips and crossed to the door.

  High above them, there was a scrape of metal as the guards leant over the parapet.

  ‘What was that?’ asked one, his voice carrying clearly.

  Earl Farwarn froze, his hand on the latch. Father Morrison held his breath.

  ‘What was what?’ The second guard joined him.

  ‘That noise …’

  ‘What noise?’

  All Father Morrison could hear was the sound of his breathing in his ears.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the first voice, finally. ‘Just thought I heard something.’

  ‘You’re always hearing something.’ There was the dull thud of boots. ‘Come on, let’s get ourselves before a fire. Our watch is finished and none too soon. That sleet sticks to you like a needy woman.’

  ‘It’s freezing tonight.’

  ‘Since when is that different from any other night?’

  There were gruff noises of agreement, more footsteps and then the sound of a door being unlocked and opened. Distant voices protested briefly before the door closed and the world was quiet once more.

  ‘That was close,’ hissed the earl and shut the door firmly but soundlessly, pressing his back against it and releasing his breath in one long exhalation.

  The earl and Father Morrison peered into the darkness of the room. A small window admitted a thin sliver of light. As their eyes grew accustomed, they could see the outline of a man sitting on a barrel. His head was in his hands, his shoulders slumped.

  ‘Sir Kay! You scared me witless,’ accused Father Morrison, tiptoeing towards him. ‘How long were you hiding there?’

  ‘Long enough to consider what it is we do.’ Sir Kay’s voice was dull.

  ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Over an hour ago by my reckoning, father. I came straight here. I wasn’t ready to face anyone … not yet. Not after what I witnessed …’

  Father Morrison became aware that the ripe smell assailing his nostrils was not from the supplies stored in this room alone. Sir Kay had ridden hard and it was clear dread had driven him.

  ‘Out with it then, son,’ said Farwarn softly, joining the father by Sir Kay’s side. ‘The guards daren’t linger too long between watches. Only enough to share a drink and exchange news.’ We have but a few minutes. Let’s not waste them.’ He perched himself on another barrel beside Sir Kay and caught a glimpse of the knight’s face. He inhaled sharply and looked at Father Morrison, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘So, James,’ urged Father Morrison, ‘what did you see? What can you
tell us? Are our fears well founded?’

  At first the knight said nothing; his chin fell towards his chest, his eyes stayed lowered. ‘Come on, man,’ urged the earl. ‘What did you find out? Is it as we suspected?’

  ‘No,’ said Sir Kay, lifting his face. Even in the sickly light, Father Morrison could see that horror had recast the young man’s features. Darkness ringed his eyes and his cheeks looked hollow. His hair was unkempt and his clothing torn. ‘It’s much, much worse.’

  ‘Tell us, James,’ he asked softly.

  Sir Kay looked at both men and seemed to shake himself, find an inner resolve. He took a deep breath and let it out in one long hiss. ‘I did as you instructed me, your grace. I went to the White Cliffs, right to the point where the Limen is in clear view and the markers you mentioned were apparent. I rode Bessy hard, too hard.’ He bit his lip. ‘I hid among the ancient barrows there, out of sight and, as ordered, waited. For three days I waited in the cold and snow and nothing happened. I saw no-one; nothing, only the strange, undulating silverness of the Limen. I thought we were wasting our time. That the reports you’d received were false. I was preparing to return. But you’d said to remain five days. Fortunate you did, your grace. For on the fourth day everything changed –’ He hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ said the earl.

  ‘Just on dusk, they came.’

  ‘Who?’

  Sir Kay spoke so quietly, at first Father Morrison thought he’d misheard. But the chill that swept through his body told him he hadn’t.

  ‘Morte Whisperers.’

  Earl Farwarn whistled through his teeth. ‘I knew it. My informants were right.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed Sir Kay. ‘They came across the channel on a bed of mist, like they were floating above the water.’ He shuddered. ‘There were hundreds, I tell you. I have never seen so many. I wanted to run, to get away from there and never return. But I didn’t, your grace. I knew that if things were to change, if we were to act, then we had to know. So I stayed. Gods help me. I stayed.’ He began to shudder. Deep convulsions made it difficult for him to stay seated, let alone continue with his story.

  The earl leapt to his feet, unclasped his cape and threw it around Sir Kay’s shoulders, his hands clasping it in place, holding the knight still. Sir Kay gripped it gratefully, but tremors continued to wrack his frame.

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Father Morrison, his beads twisted in his fingers.

  ‘Nothing at first. I watched and listened. They gathered at the edge of the cliffs, like they too were waiting. And then the shepherd came …’

  ‘What shepherd?’ The earl glanced at Father Morrison, who shrugged.

  ‘A young boy who … who must have stumbled upon them. I don’t know who he was. He mustn’t have seen them, mustn’t have felt them. He was too busy chasing a lamb that gambolled far from its mother. When they saw him, they … they …’ He paused, his mouth agape in memory, his eyes black pools of emptiness, the words unable to be spoken.

  ‘They did what, James?’ Father Morrison squatted before the knight, his knees creaking with the effort. He took the young man’s hands in his own and squeezed them, willing him the strength to continue. ‘What did they do?’

  ‘At first they hovered around him in the way that they do, poking him, prodding, laughing as he screamed and begged for mercy. I saw their leering mouths, I heard that awful keening they make. Every time they touched the boy … his pain …’ He shook his head in misery at the memory.

  The father and the earl exchanged a long look.

  ‘But that wasn’t the worst.’ Sir Kay raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘They hadn’t been at it long when, from behind me, she came. I mean, Her Majesty, Queen Zaralina – she arrived. She was alone. All in white, she was on that strange horse of hers and I thought, good, at last, she will make them stop, she will save the boy …’ He chewed his lip.

  ‘And …’ said Earl Farwarn.

  He looked from the earl to the father and back again. ‘And, as soon as they saw her, they ceased their godsforsaken song and parted to let her through. She dismounted and went into their midst. The poor boy, he threw himself at her, wrapped himself around her knees and wouldn’t let go. She reached down, stroked his hair, and spoke softly to him. At first, I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he seemed to calm and I thought, good. But then, I noticed that with every touch of her hand, the boy seemed to change. Not only that, but a Morte Whisperer would detach itself from the circle and come forward, approach the Queen. It looked like they were kissing her hand, offering obeisance. The boy had gone all silent and pale – by the gods, so pale. With every stroke of her fingers, he seemed to diminish, to fade. Then, I knew what she was doing. Bit by bit, she was taking the boy’s life-force and feeding it to the Morte Whisperers.’ He brought Father Morrison’s hands to his chest, almost unbalancing him.

  ‘Father, there was nothing I could do. I realised too late what was happening. I watched that poor boy die, a shrivelled, shrunken version of his self. Condemned to hell because I was a coward. She took his soul. She gave it to those … those creatures, and damned him forever.’

  The earl removed his arms and Father Morrison reached over and held Sir Kay as he fought back the tears. ‘It’s not your fault, James. There was nothing you could have done. To act would have put your life at risk and then you wouldn’t have been able to deliver this … information to us.’

  ‘What did the queen do after she had … fed her pets?’ growled the earl.

  Sir Kay swallowed. ‘She … she spoke to them, your grace. She told them how much she loved them and how, one day soon they would be free. Then, she clapped her hands and … and …’

  ‘Gods. There’s more?’ Father Morrison’s voice was faint.

  ‘Shazet appeared.’

  The earl hissed.

  Sir Kay continued. ‘He brought with him dozens of children. Dozens! I do not know who they were or whence they came. But they were tired, ragged and looked so terribly afraid.’

  ‘Gods save us!’ exclaimed Father Morrison and, letting go of Sir Kay, rose to his feet and began to pace. ‘This is worse then we thought.’

  ‘The … queen moved among them, touching each of the children and inviting those creatures to come forward. The Morte Whisperers fed upon them, all of them – they took the children’s souls. The sound … I can’t shut it out. Even now, I can hear it. But I forced myself to watch. With each child, the creatures grew more solid, more real. I could feel their power growing, the fear they emanated.’ He rubbed his face, as if to wipe away the remembrance. ‘When it was all over, the queen bade them return to the Limen until she called them forth again. She said something about Bond Riders, but I didn’t catch it all. I’m sorry.’ He released a juddering sigh. ‘I waited till Her Majesty and Shazet were gone, retrieved Bessy, and rode back here as quickly as I could. That’s it. That’s all I have to report.’

  ‘It is enough,’ said the earl gravely and patted Sir Kay on the back. ‘I asked a great deal of you, James – you put yourself and your family at enormous risk for our cause. I won’t forget that. You have done well. It’s not your fault those children were taken. It’s a ruler’s moral obligation to care for her people. Our queen has shown where her allegiance lies and it’s as we have long suspected. It’s not with us.’ He folded his arms and gazed out the window. The snow was falling thick and fast now.

  ‘We have to accelerate our plans, Farwarn,’ said Father Morrison, joining him. ‘This … this sacrilege can’t be allowed to continue. She’ll damn us all with her ways. All the unexplained disappearances, the reports from the villages near the Limen – this is not a chance encounter, your grace. This is part of a bigger plan – one to which we’re not privy. We have to act –’

  ‘We will,’ snapped the earl and spun to glare at the father. Father Morrison took a step back. ‘We will,’ said the earl more softly. ‘Once news of this travesty spreads, more will come to our side. Whatever it is the queen intends, i
t does not bode well for us. She must be stopped.’

  ‘How?’ asked Sir Kay. He regarded them both gravely. ‘Have you not heard what I said? With a simple touch, she can take people’s souls from their bodies. How can we possibly hope to resist her?’ He caught his head in his hands again. ‘We’re all dead, I tell you. Condemned.’

  ‘Sir Kay!’ barked Earl Farwarn. Sir Kay’s head flew up. ‘You’re a knight of Albion, one charged with protecting the lands and the people. Show some backbone! Throughout history, we’ve been both conqueror and conquered – we don’t pick our battles according to what the outcome will be. We simply fight them. We owe it to the people who trust us to care for them to fight this one too – no matter what the cost.’ He hauled Sir Kay to his feet. ‘You might be right,’ he said, pushing his face into the knight’s. ‘We might all die; our sorcerer queen may rip our souls from our bodies, but that doesn’t mean we don’t fight. It doesn’t mean we give up and roll over on our backs like a frightened puppy.’ He pushed Sir Kay away in disgust and turned back to the window.

  Sir Kay staggered and found his footing. Father Morrison stared at his beads.

  ‘You’re right, your grace. I am sorry. What I saw –’

  ‘Would unsettle the most seasoned of warriors, son,’ said the earl. ‘You’re only human.’

  ‘Unlike our queen,’ added Father Morrison dryly.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the earl. He spun on his heel and faced them. ‘Which is why we will stick to our original plan. We will use whatever is in our power to bring the queen to her knees, to end her unholy reign.’

  ‘What about you, your grace?’ said Father Morrison. ‘We know your venture to the Ottomans was … as the queen desired. But how are you? Have you been … restored yet?’

  ‘You mean, has Her Majesty seen fit to return my soul after sending me through the Limen?’

  Father Morrison reached out and pressed his gloved hand against the earl’s broad chest.