Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  "Aye, sir,” Cyr says, a rare smile playing across his swarthy face. “If they have any talent a'tall, I'll coax it out of them.” His eyes flicker over to me, the back to the commanding officer's. “Is there anything else, sir?"

  "No, thank you, that will be all. Leave us."

  Cyr snaps a last salute before turning towards the recruits. His bellow is as firm as ever, laced through with the familiar steel I have come to respect, even though I loathe it. “All right, my precious little chicks. The commander says you claim some skill. Let's put that to the test, shall we?"

  The pair look at each other nervously, then nod. Together, the three head for the door leading down to the battlements, leaving me alone with the captain.

  "Come with me,” Garrett croaks, moving towards a second door. I follow him through, into a cozy stone room. A fire crackles in an iron brazier in the center of the space beneath a copper chimney. Tables are pushed against the walls, under the narrow windows. They are covered with untidy piles of paper and parchment, maps and dispatches and inventories. Garrett gestures towards one of the simple stools, indicating I should sit.

  "Tea?” he asks. Odd. The captain is not known for inviting soldiers under his command up for a warm cup.

  "Please, sir.” I reply, dropping to the stool. I sigh. After the cold stone, the fire-warmed wood feels wonderful.

  I watch my commander as Garrett busies himself with preparing the tea. I see his hands shake, see the way he almost drops the thick cups, the way their trembling splashes the steaming water across the table when he tries to pour. When I cannot stand it a moment longer, I make to rise, wanting to help him.

  "No, please,” Garrett says, fixing his smoldering eyes on mine. Even his eyebrows, and his lashes, have turned white. I sense he has had to refuse other help recently, and I can see the way it galls him.

  He hands me the cup and I take it, breathing in the fragrant steam. I sip the brew, watching him from beneath my brows as he settles onto a second stool.

  "Don't look at me that way; it's rude,” he grates. “I'm not dead, or dying, although my physician can't explain why."

  "Of course not, sir. I—"

  "They say I should have died. Or been crippled. And yet I did not, thanks to you."

  He pauses, staring into the depths of his cup, cocking his head as if listening to something. His hands tremble with some subtle palsy. I wait, unsure of what to say. After a time, he continues.

  "What did you do to me? On the night I ... I was wounded?” he asks, fixing me with his fevered eyes. Now I have some inkling about how others must feel when they meet my gaze.

  "I saved your life,” I reply, not boasting, or trying to play games with the question. Too many people saw what I did, even if they do not understand it. Too many stories have been told.

  "But, how?” he hisses, leaning towards me. My sister growls a warning in my head, an unnecessary gesture. I can practically feel Garrett's desperation, rolling off of him like a bad smell.

  "I only did what I had to do, sir. I can't explain. I wish I could, but I can't."

  "Can't, or won't?” he spits, lip curling. “I notice in Sergeant Cyr's reports that you haven't made use of your miraculous talents since that night, even though you've had plenty of opportunities. Sallis, the man killed in the disorder at the cranes when you were on customs duty. Regent and Smythe, killed on the wall in last week's attack. And that's besides the twenty-nine others who were badly wounded, some of whom may still die, despite the best efforts of Shanira's healers. None of them benefited from ... whatever it is you can do."

  "I could not help them, sir,” I say, guilt twisting in my breast even as the blood magic coils slowly, like a serpent, reacting to the memory of those terrible events.

  Of course I saw every single incident; in some cases held the injured or dying as we waited for the priests to reach them. Smythe was just a boy, no more than sixteen. His last thoughts were of his betrothed, a farmer's daughter from the southern lowlands. He pressed her locket into my hand, begging me to tell her that he died a hero as the light in his eyes dimmed, then finally went out. I have it still, in my footlocker, alongside the letter I wrote to her that I find I cannot send.

  "But you could help me,” Garrett says. “Was it because of my family? Because of what I might do to advance you? Or were you just trying to do something to bring you to the attention of those sycophants at court?"

  The words sting; not because they contain even the least shred of truth, but because he would dare utter them to me. I know others feel the same; I am not deaf and my fellow archers are not subtle in their gossip. It kindles my own anger, fanning the ever-present coals into bright flame.

  "How dare you,” I whisper, not caring that my words are insubordination. “Do you really think I care to curry favor with those fools? They have their nightly revels and assignations while we bleed and die up here, protecting them from the Mor. They haven't the faintest idea of what we must endure for their sakes."

  "Then why?” he repeats. “Why me?"

  I frown at his tone. He sounds so sad, so lost.

  He should be happy you did spare him, my sister says. Does living disgust him all that much?

  "I don't know,” I tell him. “I ... it all happened so fast. The attack. I didn't know what to expect, not really. Burning stones were flying all around; men were screaming. I looked up, and there you were, out in the open like some damn fool."

  Garrett's eyes widen a bit at my words. Good. Let him be angry. Anything but this terrible desperation.

  Careful what you say. He is your commanding—

  "And then the stone hit, so close, and you were wounded. Blood was everywhere. I just ... reacted. Instinctively. I knew you only had moments to live, so I did something about it. Is living really that terrible?"

  The captain glares at me, his icy gaze as sharp as a needle. “Ever since that night,” he growls, “I have ... heard things. Not words or voices but ... feelings. Impressions. Snatches of ideas and emotions. They are not my own."

  I frown, his words evoking the echo of a memory. It is elusive, and I cannot grasp it. “Not your own? I don't know what you mean? What—?"

  "The Mor. The gods-cursed Mor! I can ... I can hear them. When I stand on the wall, I can feel them. I can sense how much they hate us; how much they fear us. It ... that fear, it's driving them. It makes them mad with its power, mad enough to leave their homes and travel here. To assault the wall even though they cannot breach it.” As he speaks, he raps his temple with his closed fist, softly at first but then harder and harder, until his skull bounces from the impact. Veins stand out in his neck and forehead, throbbing in time to his racing heart.

  Memories flood through me, unlocked by his words. I remember the attack in the mountains, where I first met lieutenant Stathis. Remember opening my inner eye, my secret eye, and seeing the shades of the dead Mor, staring back at me. I remember that I too felt their emotions, washing over me like a burning tide, a flood of anger and hatred and above it all, a terrible fear.

  "You have felt it too, I can see it,” Garrett says. “What sorcery is this, Kirin? What have you done to me? And to yourself?"

  "I ... I cannot speak of it,” I stammer. I want to tell him, to unburden myself of the secrets I have not even told Lia, but I cannot. I cannot. I am a murderess, and worse, and Garrett is an upstanding man. He will not understand I did only what I had to.

  You paid my blood price, dear sister, when nobody else could have. Or would have. Nobody would have dared go against Marcus. Never forget: what you did was inspired by love.

  "And yet I shall pay for it nonetheless, and now someone else is damaged as a result. What is happening to me?"

  Garrett flinches back, his eyes flicking left and right. “Who are you—?"

  "I am sorry, sir, but I cannot tell you more. I spared your life when you would have certainly died, but I am not proud of what I did. That knowledge has cost me too dearly, more than you can ever know. I swor
e promises, to myself and to others, I would never use it again. Promises I broke when I saved you. I cannot—I will not—break them again."

  Garrett looks at me, as if contemplating ways to force me to speak, then his shoulders slump. He nods.

  "Aye, I thought you would say that. I've been watching you, Kirin, these past few weeks. I have always been a good judge of character, and that judgment told me you are not a bad person. Stubborn and headstrong, yes, but bad? If you were, I would have sent you away on that first day.

  "But, even though we need your bow, and your keen eye, I cannot let you stay. The men ... they do not trust you. Nor do I, despite what you have done for me. Therefore, you are as of this day discharged from the emperor's service with all due thanks and gratitude.” He pulls a piece of paper from atop one of the stacks and hands it to me. I see his signature at the bottom, above a heavy, crimson seal.

  "You're dismissing me?” I whisper. A chill runs down my back. Garrett nods.

  "Aye, I must. I cannot have you here any longer. The men do little else but talk about you, and every death, every injury, only makes it worse. They fear you, Kirin, and what you can do, even as they desperately hope you will use that power to save them. Cyr tells me you never speak to them. That, save one other soldier, you have no comrades."

  I nod, numbly. “His name is Malthus. He is a good man."

  "And I will watch over him as best I can. But now it is time for you to go. I cannot have you here, disrupting my men.” He points to the discharge certificate. “There were those who called for your summary dismissal, dishonorably, but I found I could not do it."

  "Who? Who demanded it?” I say, anger once more flooding across me. Garrett shakes his head.

  "I will not tell you, except to say that there are people of power in both the court and the priesthood who have taken an interest in you. The rumors ... there are many."

  My sister's panic mingles with my own, stealing away my breath. The room, which seemed cozy when I first entered, now seems constricting, like a cell. We should not have come here, no matter how much my sister, or Lia, wished it. My mistress warned me that it would ever be so; it was my own folly to disregard her wisdom.

  "Now get out of here. I have things to attend to,” Garrett snaps, turning back to his desk. His hands are shaking worse than ever, trembling so badly that he cannot lift his cup. I rise, stung by the vehemence in his broken voice.

  "Captain, I ... may I ask for one favor before I go?"

  "What?"

  "May I say goodbye to Malthus, sir? He was my shield mate, and I his. I would like to wish him well."

  "Just so long as you're out of my sight within the hour. Cyr already knows."

  I nod and rise, walking to the door. My hand is on the handle when Garrett says: “Kirin."

  I stop and look back. The captain slumps at his desk, seemingly years older than when I met him just three short months ago. He looks up at me, favoring me once again with his burning gaze.

  "You should have let me die. Now get out."

  * * * *

  The icy wind slices through my tunic and woolen cloak as I stand atop the watchtower. Below, the Mor are scattered, a dark, ragged tide, pulled back now, away from the wall. As night approaches they will return, as they do every night, coming back within range of our arrows, but for now they rest, safely out of range.

  Troubled thoughts and questions swirl through my mind like a cloud of squabbling, flapping birds. Captain Garrett, as a result of the healing I performed, can now hear the thoughts of the Mor. How can this be possible? What mechanism, what dark device or ability, did I pass on to him when I allowed the blood magic to slip into his body? I healed Lia with that same magic, pushing away the imminent frostbite in her fingers and toes. Did I also infect her?

  When you healed him, you had to use the blood magic to keep his mind alive, my sister reminds me. The tendrils were allowed to invade his body much more deeply than you had to with Lia. Perhaps this is why Garrett thinks he can hear the Mor.

  "How do you know so much about healing now?” I ask. “You never cared much for learning before. Perhaps I am finally becoming a good influence on you."

  I know because you know. We share one mind now, sister, one soul.

  "Then why can't I remember the names of the courtly families as you can?” I ask, only half-joking. I have often wondered just how intimate my sister's knowledge of me runs.

  Because I am dead. Sharing my thoughts would drive you mad. What I know ... cannot be contained within a mortal mind. You think you understand death because you can see into the spirit plane, but you do not. There are places beyond even that dim realm, places where even the dead fear to go.

  She has spoken to me this way before, back when she more often fought with me than conversed. There was a time I would have been thrilled to have her share such secrets with me so openly, but right now all I can think about is Garrett and his newfound ability.

  "If you know all that I do, then you know Garrett doesn't just think he can hear the Mor. He actually can. I did, just for a moment, on the day we met Lieutenant Stathis. When I opened my third eye, I saw the spirits of the Mor we killed. It was just as he described."

  Yes, she replies unhappily. That is true. Thinking him mad would be much easier to contemplate, wouldn't it? But you have not felt it again since that day.

  "No. Perhaps when I let the blood magic inside of him that ability went out of me and into him? I wonder—?"

  I face the dark line of the Mor and close my eyes, willing myself to relax. The cold wind buffets me, bringing with it the sharp smell of winter snow and the ever-present stench of burning things.

  Tentatively, I reach down, inside of myself, and grasp the hot, slick edge of the blood magic. It uncoils, languidly, like some feral, but wary, animal. I realize it can feel my trepidation.

  I push aside my fear as best I can and try to remember a time when I did not loathe that dark wisdom. When I looked at it as the power to avenge wrongdoings. Slowly, like a flower opening, the power unfurls itself in my belly, spreading crimson petals in my viscera. As the power swells, my third eye slides open, revealing the scene below, unfiltered by my mortal sight.

  There are hundreds of Mor below, standing in silent ranks at the base of the wall. Ghosts; specters; the souls of the enemies we have killed, lingering here, at the place of their death.

  They are looking at me. All of them. Every ghostly face upturned; every pair of malevolent eyes riveted on me. When they see I can see them, a mighty wave of emotion rolls up towards me, silent yet louder than any mere mortal shout, a tide of anger and frustration and rage, shot through everywhere with a desperate terror.

  What I felt before was nothing; it was a candle next to the heat of a furnace compared to what assaults me now. It slams into me, real as any physical blow, staggering me. I shrink back, falling to one knee, gagging in revulsion. Alien thoughts and impressions scour my mind like sharp stones. I struggle to understand them, to transform them into words I can understand.

  There it is the dark one who calls to the netherdark not knowing must stop it not knowing what it does never happen again it must not no never again no matter that it does not know it is evil must be stopped must be stopped must be stopped we will kill we must kill them all must kill must kill must kill never again stop the netherdark before it can happen again kill kill kill KILL KILLKILLKILLKILL!

  Make it stop! Shut your eye! Make it stop! I hear my sister wailing, buffeted like a leaf in a hurricane by the flood of inhuman emotion. I scream, or I think I do, I cannot tell, and focus on my secret eye, willing it to shut. The thoughts invading my mind block me, forcing it to remain open. I see the spirits pressing closer, focusing all their power towards me, as if to kill me with their thoughts.

  Must not allow it will not allow it cannot happen cannot happen cannot happen must stop it from happening never again no never again will not allow it must kill it must rip and burn and tear and destroy it all of it every on
e of them must burn must burn must not allow it will not allow it cannot allow it cannot allow it cannot allow it must kill must kill must kill!

  "Kirin, sister, help me!” I scream, trying again to close my third eye. I feel her, trying to assist, moving to block the terrible thoughts flowing into me. She screams as the whirlwind shreds at the very cords of her mind, a terrible sound which reverberates in my head like the tolling of an enormous bell, mingling with the gyre of emotions flowing from the Mor.

  I feel the tumult slackening, just a bit, but perhaps enough. I try again to close my third eye, and this time I feel it, ever so slowly closing. I hold on, teeth bared with effort, pulling it slowly down, like a woman trying to close a door against a tornado.

  With a final effort I tug, and the eye slams shut, severing the tide sharply, as if cut off with a razor. Blessed silence washes over me. I open my mortal eyes and see two guards standing over me, their eyes wide with fright. I feel something chill on my face and paw at it with a trembling hand. It comes away red. I am bleeding, from nose and eyes, my face covered with blood.

  "Fetch a priest!” one of them shouts.

  "No!” I croak back, struggling to rise. “No, I'm fine. I...” The guards stare at me, mistrust sitting stark and impossible to ignore on their faces, like a brand.

  Echoes of the Mor's mingled voices still float through my head. I cannot tell if they are memories or if the voices are still out there, pressing against my fragile skull.

  The cacophony in my head mingles with an external tumult, the sound of men yelling. Horns blow, brassy and defiant, yet oddly desperate. A rumble fills the air, a sound so deep it can only be felt, not heard.

  "What...?” I ask, shaking my head, trying to clear it. The wall seems to sway, like a tree in a gale, staggering me.

  "The Mor! The Mor! They are attacking! To arms! To arms!” I hear men calling. My blood turns to ice. They cannot be attacking. They never attack in the daylight.

  I stagger to the wall's edge and look down. In the distance, I see the enemy, forming swiftly into their crude ranks, swirling like ants. They rush forward even as they assemble, waving their glowing stone weapons and their terrible, rending claws. Down on the wall, men hurry to strap on their armor, to string their bows or put sheaves of arrows into their bags.