Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  Madness shines in his bloodshot eyes. Almost without thought, I look at him with my secret eye, and gasp at what I see.

  He should be dead. The damage is worse than I had hoped. My arrow pierced his lung and slit the side of the vessel leading to his heart. His chest is full of blood. He should be lying, face down, gasping for his final breaths, not standing here, glaring at me in triumph.

  No sooner do I wonder how he has survived than I see the hair-fine tendrils of black light connecting Rath to his creation. They ebb and shift, pulsing with their own life, and I realize in a flash that the vod'hule is keeping him alive, feeding him a portion of its own dark life force.

  I do not know what will happen when Rath is severed from those tendrils, is cut off from the thing he has forged with his will and insane ambition, but I mean to find out.

  "Why are you here, Kirin, and not huddling with the others? Are you hoping to kill me? To slip a knife between my ribs and deny me my destiny? I trust you can see with your witch's sight that such an effort would be pointless.” He raises his hands, as if to give me a better view.

  "With my aunt at my side, nothing can destroy me. Nothing. I am not dead, but neither am I alive. I am what you could have been, if you'd had the courage."

  He steps close to me, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur.

  "Once I have united all of the people of the city under my banner, I will march on the Mor,” he says.

  "United?” I almost scream, unable to stop myself. “You mean killed, and brought back! Why not say it?"

  Rath smiles and shrugs. “Sacrifices must be made. Come now, Kirin, don't look so shocked. You must admit, my servants possess a certain ... potency ... that the army lacks. After I unite the people, I will lead the army back to the Mor. None has ever been able to attack them where they live: underground. I can. I will.

  "Every last one of them, young and old, will join me in the end. After I've eliminated the Mor, our people will be safe for all time, united under my benevolent rule. I'll live forever, my wisdom boundless and eternal, and every man, woman and child will serve me before being allowed to pass beyond."

  I bite back my disgusted retort, eyes firmly downcast. If I look him in the eye, I know I will not be able to control the red magic which, even now, ravens for his life. I do not know what will happen if I pit my own magic against that which sustains him, but I know I can no longer fight wrong with wrong. I will not.

  "You can still join me,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear. It is foul, thick with the stench of clotted blood. “Sete has strength enough for us both. We can live forever, you and I, king and queen of a mighty Empire. Join your wisdom to my own, and purge the creatures who killed your son from the face of the world forever. I can do it. We can do it, I swear."

  For just an instant, I am tempted. I will never have to face death. Never have to confront the things beyond the vale, or stand before the unknowable gods and face their final judgment. I would be beautiful for all eternity, with power over the entire world. It is everything, and more, that my mother ever desired, more than even her wildest dreams could have hoped to attain.

  The instant passes, and I feel the heavy weight of that choice slip from me, like a lead cloak dropping off my shoulders. No. I know far too well the price of such choices.

  I think of my son, waiting for me on the other side. How can I not look forward to that reunion? How can I dread allowing nature to one day take its rightful course?

  I feel purged by the choice, as if my body and soul have been washed clean. Inside, I feel my sister's satisfied smile, the heat of her approval warming me from within, like a tiny fire.

  I shake my head. “I want no part of your glorious empire, Rath. I ... I just came so Napaula could see her son."

  Rath sighs, the gesture affected as a stage mummer's. “Pity. You would have made a wonderful queen, dark and terrible, beautiful as death itself. People would have remembered you for endless generations, and quaked at the sound of your name."

  "They already will,” I whisper back, the words no louder than a newborn's breath, but Rath hears them, and laughs, the sound full of mockery at what he no doubt sees as hubris. He turns away from me, bending to focus his will on the old woman at my side.

  "It is good to see you again, Napaula,” he says lifting her chin with one blood-slicked hand. She jerks her face aside, sunken lips quivering with the intensity of her loathing. Rath steps back, stung by her rejection, and glares at us both.

  "What did you hope would happen, here, milady? Did you think you could command your son to destroy me? Did you think he would stop me?"

  "I just want to see. See his face. I wait so long,” she replies.

  Rath smiles his disturbing smile once more, gesturing back to the towering thing behind him.

  "Then look, milady. Look on what your son has become, thanks to my aunt and my wisdom."

  The thing steps forward on splayed claws, twice the height of a man, glowering down at us with its red, red eyes. The circle of horns crowning its brow gleams in the firelight. I open my secret eye and look at it, but all I can see is a roiling mass of darkness, a black shroud through which I glimpse flashes of souls, trapped in the warp and weft of the vod'hule's unnatural essence.

  Napaula gives a strangled cry as it reaches down, trailing a claw longer than my hand down her cheek. She reaches up and touches the enormous paw with one wizened fingertip.

  "My boy,” she breathes. “My sweet, sweet boy. What he do to you?"

  The vod'hule's eyes shift, the red leaking from their corners, exposing briefly the sheen of opal. It cocks its head, as if listening to her words.

  Napaula turns to Rath and meets his smirking gaze. His grin broadens, stretching his mouth with a rictus of humorless mirth.

  "Are you not going to thank me? With your son at my side, harnessed to my own talents, I will drive the Mor from our gates and bring a new era of order to—"

  Napaula spits in his face. The gob of spittle runs down his cheek, below Rath's shocked eyes.

  "You liar,” she hisses. “You very bad man. I trust you, but you no help. I hope you die."

  Rath wipes the spit from his face, his mad smile wiped away. Cold fury fills his eyes. He bends to push his face into hers.

  "Didn't you hear, old woman?” he asks. “I cannot die. Thanks to you."

  He looks up at the vod'hule. “Kill her. Kill them both,” he says, turning his back on us.

  I close my eyes, bracing myself for what it to come. Please, gods, I know you and I are not on good terms, but if you have mercy, make my death quick and painless. Please do not make me scream and beg.

  The seconds stretch out endlessly, time dilating as I wait, eyes closed, for the first blow to land. I count a breath. Two. Three.

  I open my eyes, curious despite myself.

  The vod'hule towers over us, claws upraised, poised to strike. Napaula stands beneath it, her arms open, as if welcoming its stroke. Her eyes are wide, accepting the fate that hangs above her. Her lips move as she sings her lullaby one final time.

  The beast's terrible infant face looks down at her, its plump lips hanging open, exposing the spiraling rows of needle teeth within. Its eyes shine white, full of conflicting emotion. Hunger. Adoration. Terror. Love.

  Rath stops, and turns back. He sees the vod'hule's hesitation. He scowls, his face darkening with fury.

  "I said kill her. Now!"

  The thing flinches away from the shout and shakes its head. I stare at it with my secret sight, see the darkness spinning within it, faster now. As I watch, I see the face of Rath's aunt, Sete, float up through the blackness. She glares out at the world through the vod'hule's eyes. With my mortal vision, I see the thing's eyes shift red, the crimson stain leaking back, covering the opal from a moment before.

  "Kill her!" he screams, his voice breaking. Once more the vod'hule flinches, raising its claws, but still it does not strike. I see the red and white, warring in its eyes, shifting and sw
irling.

  So engrossed am I in the struggle before me that I do not see Rath stride forward. Do not see the knife in his hands, swinging back, until it is too late. I catch the motion out of the corner of my eye, but by the time I look down, and see him moving forward, it is already too late.

  "Napaula!” I scream, knowing even as I do it is futile.

  Rath grunts as his blow strikes her, the knife, clenched in his two fists, slamming into her chest. It punches through her brittle breast bone, impaling her laboring heart. Napaula looks at him, a smile turning up the corners of her lips, then, a moment later, sags to the stones.

  I rush to her side, my learned gaze riveted to the knife handle protruding from her breast, but I know it is already too late.

  "I...” she whispers, and I bend so that my ear is close to her mouth. “I ... see you on ... other side. I tell gods what you ... do for me. For my boy. I tell ... I tell them ... you try to be good..."

  "Don't talk,” I say.

  She gasps, then goes limp. I look into her unblinking eyes, still so very full of love. She does not look afraid.

  I look into her face as the last light fades from those eyes, and smile. I want the last thing she sees to be a smiling face. Let her take that, not the vision of the hulking, skinless thing her son has become, with her across the vale. I wait for the opal sheen to grow in her eyes, for the twitchings which will herald the birth of the sweetling that will be my killer.

  It does not come. Napaula lies on the stones, her body intact, her eyes clear of the white shroud. I look up into Rath's face.

  He is grinning, relishing the sight of the dead woman, waiting for the same transformation. He will welcome the sight of the sweetling cutting into me, I can tell. Even as I watch, Rath's smile falters, replaced with a look of confusion.

  "Why isn't she—” he asks, then stops.

  A gasp rips from his throat as a clawed hand punches through his chest in a spray of crimson. A warm mist splatters my face, as Rath's life blood spills out into the freezing air.

  Behind him, I see the vod'hule, eyes shining white. Its infant face is contorted with something I have not seen before.

  Rage.

  "No,” Rath gasps. “No. You cannot ... do this..."

  The vod'hule—Napaula's son—raises its arm, lifting Rath's twitching body up into the air. Rath's fists beat at the claws impaling him, feeble and ineffective. His mouth opens and closes as he breathes denials.

  The creature lifts him to its face, its eyes inches from Rath's own, glaring at him.

  "You ... cannot do this. Obey me ... I command it. Sete ... please..."

  The monstrous infant opens its fanged mouth and envelops Rath's head. It bites down, and I hear the wet crunch of splintering bone. Rath's body spasms and dances, then falls with a dull thud to the blood-slicked cobbles. The vod'hule spits out the head, and it lands with a sodden thud beside Napaula and me.

  Horribly, Rath's eyes are still open, still frantically shifting to and fro. His mouth opens and closes, lips and tongue forming the denials he no longer has breath to voice.

  Shocked, I look at him with my secret sight and see the dark tendrils, still linking him with his creation. The thing, by its very existence, is keeping him alive.

  A flicker of motion draws my eye away from the grisly sight. I look past Rath's still-living remains, and see Nauaula's shade, standing before the vod'hule.

  She appears much the same in death as she did in life, ancient and decrepit, but also larger somehow, more vibrant. I am reminded that this is a woman who, through the sheer force of her will, kept in contact with her dead son's spirit, singing to him for decades. Holding him to her in denial of death's imperative. She looks up at the thing before her, her gaze unwavering. In it burns a fierce, bottomless love.

  The creature sways under the force of her regard, the blackness contained within it spinning faster and faster. I do not need my mortal sight to know the thing's eyes are shifting between red and white, as Sete's soul struggles against Napaula's son.

  Napaula's ghost holds out her hands, beseeching, and I see her son's face rise from the surface of the roiling black. It is tiny, an infant's visage. For the first time, I see the baby he was meant to be, clean-limbed and fair of face.

  His eyes shine white. White as snow. White as the noonday sun, and as bright. He slips free of his prison of flesh and bone, and drifts down to his mother's waiting embrace.

  I do not hear Sete's scream of frustration, for she has no lungs to give such a cry, but I sense it nonetheless, a silent wail of thwarted ambition. The vod'hule thrashes, its undead body racked with shudders, then claws savagely at itself, as if only by inflicting pain can the necromancer's soul maintain its tenuous foothold on the land of the living.

  I ignore it. I know she is done here. Already, I see out of the corner of my eye the dark fabric of its spiritual essence shredding, like smoke in the wind. The souls it has wrapped itself in are tearing free, moving on to their final destination beyond the Vale.

  I look away, focusing instead on the sight of Napaula, holding her son. The love shining in her eyes pierces me, more painful than a sword, unbearably sweet.

  They look at me, and Napaula nods her thanks. I smile back, unable to return the gesture. I did not do this. She did.

  Then they are gone, moving swiftly across the Vale, shrinking until they are no more.

  The vod'hule screams, a sound no mortal ear can hear, deafeningly loud nonetheless. A shriek of the mind and spirit. I see Sete's soul, no longer anchored to its stolen flesh, ripping free of its moorings, dragged back to the dark lands it came from.

  With a rustle like a million crows’ wings, the vod'hule. along with the countless thousands of sweetlings standing in the courtyard, crumbles into ash and dust.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  At the far side of the square, beneath the still-shut gates of the Imperial Palace, knots of healers tend to the officers and the remaining mages still within the reach of their goddess's mercy. I look for Lia, and find her eventually, a spot of blue and white surrounded by the rainbow of her fellow elementalists.

  Ash swirls through the square like black snow, all that remains of Rath's seemingly invincible army. The fires are mostly out, now that the pyromancers and hydromancers can do their work, the angry orange sky glow dimmed once more to the cold black of winter. The ash coats everyone and everything, smudging clothes and faces, acrid and gritty on my tongue. Some part of me realizes that what I am smelling, what I am tasting, is the remains of countless mingled Mor and human bodies. Lanterns and torches are brought and set up around the perimeter of the square, their light feeble, but sufficient, in the dying firelight.

  I do not bother waiting for the priests of Shanira to refuse to help me. Instead, I turn aside and join the flood of walking wounded streaming down the Gold Road, away from the stench of burning and the greasy taste of ash. As I limp along, I feel the soldiers’ stares on my skin, tickling like fly tracks. I raise my soot-stained hood, covering my silver hair, and hurry on as best I can. Eventually, I am swallowed up in the flood of humanity, just another casualty amongst thousands of others.

  Dawn is a dim, blue promise in the east when I find my way back to Mistress Lauran's house. Wounded are everywhere, officers mostly, along with a scattering of well-dressed citizens. Some moan or scream, in pain. Others lie still. All bear the marks of blood and ash and smoke. I wait for the better part of an hour, huddled at the rear of the common area, before the mistress of the house finally sees me. She must have heard something of what transpired under the gates, for moments later she takes me in back, away from the stares and the screams.

  Lauran gives my wounds a cursory examination in a tiny, cloth-walled cubicle, then orders her staff to put me in the same room where I convalesced on my first day in the Imperial City. They take me upstairs, to the white-walled room and its canopied bed, then help me out of my blood-caked clothes. I stand, shiveri
ng, as they wash the dirt and filth from my body with cloths and warm water. When I am clean, I sink into the cool, crisp sheets, falling into an exhausted daze.

  I wait hours for Lauran to come and repair the damage to my body. Time passes slowly, measured by the hourly chimes from the clock in the hall and the throbbing in my battered body. Occasionally, a scream drifts into the room through the thick door.

  Lauran comes to me when evening is thick in the sky. She enters with a brusque knock, wiping her hands on a cloth. Her eyes are bloodshot and ringed with the bruises of exhaustion, but her hands are as gentle as ever as she tends to the wound in my thigh. She tells me it is deep, well into the muscle, and will take weeks to properly heal.

  "You'll need to exercise it regularly, just as soon as the stitches set up, or it might permanently stiffen,” she says. “With luck, you should get back most, if not all, of its use, but that's up to you and how hard you're willing to work."

  I promise her solemnly that I will heed her advice.

  As soon as she is done wrapping my leg she turns to the long slash across my cheek and brow. Her fingers probe the edges of the wound with gentle insistence, and I hiss as the wound protests.

  "You're lucky to have your eye. A bit more pressure and—"

  "Yes,” I echo, dully. “Very lucky."

  Lauran looks at me, frowning. “Yes, you are, and don't forget it. Luckier than thousands of others this day at any rate."

  I blink at her, roused from the thick fog of self-pity that envelops me. My mouth opens in preparation of an angry retort.

  Do not dare to raise your voice to your healer, my sister barks in my head, her tone appalled. She means well and you know it.

  I close my mouth, feeling ashamed and foolish and very, very tired.

  She cleans the slice and sutures the edges shut, using careful, tight stitches. Despite her gentle touch, the treatment brings tears to my eyes and I struggle to remain still and not cry. When she is done, she hands me a mirror, and I examine the result.

  The wound is a line of reddened flesh, closed with tight, black hash marks of thread. It runs diagonally, up from the corner of my jaw and across my cheekbone, ending just below my eye before continuing again through my brow and up across my forehead.