by Ginn Hale
The noise of conversation and laughter, barking, and the clattering dishes rose from the floor below. The more Kiram attempted to ignore the sounds, the more jarring they seemed to become. At last Kiram simply threw off his blankets and got up.
He washed, dressed in the traveling clothes that Majdi had packed for him, and picked up Scholar Blasio’s letter. His eyes didn’t want to focus on the fine script.
The deafening clang of the Grunito chapel bells broke Kiram’s concentration entirely. It resounded through his aching head. As the bells continued to sound Kiram realized that they were some cruel announcement of the coming nuptials and more than likely would not cease until the ceremony had begun.
Kiram was almost certain he would be dead before then, because his head seemed about to explode. Either he or the hateful bells had to go. Kiram gathered the journals and the coin purse Majdi had given him and slunk out of the Grunito house using the back stairs.
He walked a ways along the city streets to get clear of the damned ringing bells and at last found a public house among the row of inns that surrounded the vast city stables. As travelers and soldiers came and went, a kindly-looking Cadeleonian woman seated Kiram near an airy window and served him hot Cadeleonian malt porridge and some kind of warm milky drink.
Kiram opened Scholar Blasio’s letter as he sipped his drink and read through the cursory greeting and brief news of the academy. Not surprisingly, Blasio wrote most extensively of Donamillo’s illness and his attempts to care for his brother. Blasio’s neat handwriting deteriorated as he described searching through Donamillo’s medical texts and journals for anything that might wake his brother from the wasting stupor that had seized him.
Kiram’s heart went out to both brothers. Then he turned the page and found only a short, agitated scrawl.
Dear boy, in my search I fear I have discovered something terrible. I pray I am wrong but if I am not then I hope that I have not waited too long to write to you. I do not know what to do but you might. Please read the pages I have marked in both my brother’s journal and the one belonging to Yassin Lif-Harun. I pray with all my heart that I am not too late and that you know some way to make this right.
—Blasio
Kiram considered the journals, choosing Yassin’s first. As he ate his head cleared and his stomach settled but his anxiety grew.
Among Yassin’s many observations of the heavens and his notes about how closely they matched the Bahiim legends were a growing number of references to spells and curses. It soon became clear to Kiram that, as the Mirogoth army had approached, Yassin and Calixto had not only considered opening a shajdi to drive back the invaders but also unleashing a shadow curse by carving away the wards in the trees that held the Old Rage in check.
Kiram stared at the yellowed page of curling Haldiim script in front of him. It was all right there: a step by step guide to creating a shadow curse. Yet even as Yassin wrote the steps out it was clear from his notes that he despised the idea of using such a tactic.
Can there be any more monstrous act than to deprive those tortured souls of their rest and inflict their agony upon the living world?
Apart from his moral hesitance, Yassin noted that he couldn’t think of a way to control the shadow curse once it was created.
Directly after that, Yassin’s journal turned to the subject of the shajdi. Over the course of seven pages Kiram found the basic instructions for creating a ghost locket.
As he studied the rough diagrams and notes he recognized the Bahiim incantations that had marked the locket Javier had worn. But with Scholar Donamillo in his thoughts he suddenly realized that he’d seen the same symbols etched across the huge iron ribs of one of Scholar Donamillo’s mechanical cures.
A rush of dread went through Kiram.
He immediately flipped through Donamillo’s journal. The reading was much more difficult. The script, which at a glance looked like Cadeleonian, was in fact phonetic Haldiim spelled out in Cadeleonian letters. Still, Kiram soon discovered the words he dreaded finding.
Scholar Donamillo had solved Yassin’s problem of controlling the shadow curse by trapping the tortured souls of the Old Rage in an immense and very refined ghost locket. But more than that he’d figured out that the shadow curse could be fed into a living body. Too much at once and the result would be agonizing nightmares, madness and death. Donamillo had filled several pages with notes detailing the effects of his tests on the Tornesal family. He’d made a record, with a tone of cool pleasure, of the minutiae of each and every death.
But subtle control of the shadow curse had eluded him and, even more insulting to his secret Bahiim heritage, the shajdi had protected the Tornesal heir from even his most direct assault.
Donamillo had wanted the shajdi—the white hell. He’d felt that it was his due and it’d infuriated him that the height of Bahiim achievement had been tied to a Cadeleonian bloodline.
Kiram didn’t want to read more. And yet he had to. He tried to push back his revulsion at what Scholar Donamillo had done—at how betrayed he felt—and focus on the information in the journal. He supposed he could take a bitter consolation in the fact that Donamillo had been exact and meticulous in his notes: a repellant human being but scholarly in his monstrosity.
When two students of Tornesal blood came into his grasp Donamillo realized that he could use them against one another. He knew he couldn’t directly attack Javier. Not even by placing him directly in one of his mechanical cures could Donamillo get past the power of the shajdi.
But Fedeles was different. He was Javier’s heir and close friend. He was the chink in Javier’s armor and the route for Donamillo’s ambition.
Careful not to kill Fedeles, Donamillo had fed the shadow curse into his body slowly in insidious monthly treatments. Fedeles had adapted as if he were building immunity to a poison. He’d suffered horribly as the curse tortured him and ground away his identity, but he hadn’t died.
A nauseous guilt roiled in Kiram’s belly. How many assurances had he offered Fedeles while escorting him to those treatments?
Once the shadow curse had suffused Fedeles’ blood, flesh and bones, Donamillo had discovered that he could use his mechanical cure to further invade Fedeles’ body with his own spirit. Again he’d been patient, infiltrating Fedeles like a cancer while slowly abandoning his own body.
Kiram realized that once Donamillo completely controlled Fedeles he would be positioned to destroy Javier and inherit both the shajdi and all of Rauma. He felt almost nauseated but he kept reading.
According to the journal, even isolated and tortured, Fedeles still fought. He’d managed to tell a groom some of what had happened to him and Donamillo had acted immediately to keep from being exposed. An edge of worry invaded Donamillo’s notes. For all his power over Fedeles the young man had resisted his dominion. Fedeles had defied him with fits of wild manic hysteria and successive attempts at suicide.
To overcome Fedeles in one sweeping treatment, Donamillo had needed more power than his hand crank provided, but he’d had no way to generate such sustained energy. And then like a blessing Kiram Kir-Zaki and his steam engine had fallen into Donamillo’s hands.
Kiram snapped the journal closed, unable to bear the gleeful pleasure with which Donamillo wrote about bringing Kiram to the academy and gaining his trust.
He felt sick. Really sick.
With shaking hands he stuffed the journals in his coat pocket, tossed down his payment for the meal, and dashed out of the public house. He staggered behind a stable and threw up. After a few minutes his nausea subsided, though his guilt did not.
Kiram found a trough of fresh water and rinsed the sick, sour taste from his mouth. Fedeles had begged Kiram for help. He thought he was so clever, so noble, promising to save him. Instead Kiram had brought ruin. More than that, he’d been brought to the academy specifically for this purpose. Not because of his brilliance, not because Donamillo believed that he could win the Crown Challenge, but simply to serve the other
man’s desire for a shajdi.
No wonder that Fedeles had attacked his engine. He’d been trying to save not only his own life but Javier’s as well.
A seething hate coursed through Kiram as he thought of Scholar Donamillo’s cruelty. A shajdi could never—never—be allowed to fall into the hands of a man like him.
Kiram’s head pounded. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep calming breath. Far away the bells of the Grunito chapel still rang. The musky, sweet smell of hay drifted over Kiram. Fedeles had always hidden in the stables. Now Kiram thought he could almost hear Fedeles’ voice, whispering the names of horses.
An instant later the faint voice grew closer. A long black shadow stretched through the stable door. Then another and another darkened the floor and as Kiram listened he realized that Fedeles really was here in Anacleto.
For just an instant he couldn’t understand how that could be, but when he heard Fedeles speak in cold, controlled tones he knew with certainty.
It might be Fedeles’ body standing in the stable, but the mind and spirit within belonged to Donamillo. According to all Kiram had read in the journals, Donamillo would have full control of Fedeles’ body by now. He would be young and strong and just one trial away from inheriting all of Rauma and achieving his life’s goal.
Kiram’s stomach lurched. He ducked back into the cover of an empty stall and fought to control his racing heart and flipping stomach. If he was caught now with the journals, Donamillo would surely kill him.
“It is an absolute imperative that the medallion Javier Tornesal wears should be brought to me the moment he is taken.” Though the voice was Fedeles’ the words and tone so obviously belonged to Scholar Donamillo that Kiram couldn’t believe no one else noted it.
Kiram peered through the crack between the loosely hung stall door and the wall. In the sharp morning light Fedeles’ tall figure stood out in almost impossible blackness. His eyes, hair, clothes were all black but more than that, the shadows he cast and those clinging to his body were darker than any others in the stable, utterly devoid of light.
Somehow none of the two dozen men who trailed him into the stable seemed to take any note of the eerie shadows. They attended Fedeles’ possessed body with the unquestioning regard most common Cadeleonians held for noblemen. From the violet crosses marking their uniforms Kiram guessed that they were the royal bishop’s men and from the ease with which they wore their swords Kiram knew they were experienced soldiers.
“I have sent Lieutenant Montaval with six pikemen to guard the city gate, in case he gets past you,” Fedeles informed one of the men. From the gold bars on the man’s cloak Kiram guessed he was a captain. Despite his white beard he looked strong and agile.
“He won’t get past us,” the captain replied with certainty. “Our blades are soaked in muerate poison and he’ll be unarmed when he comes out of the chapel. Demon or not, we’ll bring him down.”
Fedeles frowned at the man’s confident smile. “You shouldn’t underestimate him.” He paced past several stalls, his gaze flickering up to the horses’ faces as if it were a tic. His lips moved, mouthing names but making no sound.
The captain watched him with a pitying expression.
“Do not fear, my lord. I have not underestimated him,” the captain assured him. “Even if he manages to slip past us at the Grunito house, I have twelve of my best riders posted on the High Street and another ten watching the gates of the Haldiim district. No matter where he goes, we’ll have him.”
Fedeles nodded. He stopped in front of a stall and stroked the muzzle of the big black horse inside. For an instant Kiram couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Firaj,” Fedeles cooed the big gelding’s name.
Kiram felt a flush of outrage that Donamillo had taken his horse but an instant later the knowledge brought him a spark of hope. Donamillo would never have chosen to ride Firaj. He cared nothing for the animal but Fedeles loved the old horse. Despite everything some shred of Fedeles had to still be alive inside his possessed body.
“He’s an old horse,” the captain commented.
“The wisdom of age always defeats the strength of youth, Captain.” There was nothing but Donamillo’s assurance in the reply. He took Firaj’s reins and led him out of the stable.
The captain ordered his men to ready their mounts. He expected the men and their animals to be prepared to ride before the next bell.
Kiram had no time to waste if he was going to be able to make it back to the Grunito house on foot before Fedeles and the royal bishop’s men arrived.
A merchant leading two gray mares passed slowly by. As they did so, Kiram stepped out of the stall and started for the stable doors as if he’d just finished settling his own mount like any other traveler. He walked up the narrow aisle past several of the royal bishop’s armed soldiers with Fedeles and Firaj only twenty feet ahead of him. His heart pounded so hard that it felt like it was shaking his whole body.
The black shadows stretching from Fedeles’ feet curled and spread with a frightening disregard for the angle of the morning light. As Fedeles turned towards a small paddock his shadow fell across Kiram and for an instant Kiram felt a deathly chill and suffocating darkness grip him. He thought he saw Fedeles straighten and almost turn back towards him.
But then Firaj snorted anxiously, pulling him ahead. Fedeles gave a strange laugh and then followed the horse to the paddock without even a glance back.
Kiram was shuddering and clammy when he reached the street. Sunlight felt like a blessing as it touched his face. Far out across the city he spotted crows flying and thought he even heard their voices. Then he realized that the Grunito chapel bells had stopped ringing. Nestor’s wedding was underway.
And the perfection of Donamillo’s plan took his breath away. During the wedding Javier and every other Hellion in the chapel would be unarmed.
Kiram sprinted for the Grunito house.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Bar the gates!” Kiram didn’t wait for the two footmen to respond. He threw himself against the heavy wrought iron. The hinges groaned and squealed as if they hadn’t been moved in decades.
“Soldiers are riding against the Grunito house!” Kiram shouted. “Help me get these gates closed, damn it!”
A young Cadeleonian footman opened his mouth to question Kiram but then, catching Kiram’s expression, he and his companion simply threw their weight against the gates, slamming them closed. It took all three of them to lift the thick crossbars into place and lock them down. Even as heavy as they were Kiram knew the bars wouldn’t hold for long, not against two dozen mounted soldiers.
“They’re armed so don’t try to fight them,” Kiram told the two footmen. “But don’t open the gates for them either. Make them break them down. We need all the time we can get.”
Both the footmen blanched—their eyes were wide and scared now. One of them nodded to Kiram. He left it at that.
His lungs burned and his body was drenched with sweat, but he still raced as fast as he could for the house. Inside he caught a Haldiim servant whom he’d seen directing the household staff.
The woman looked alarmed by the sight of Kiram and even more worried when Kiram grabbed her arm.
“There are mounted soldiers coming to assault the wedding party,” Kiram gasped at her.
“I beg your pardon, young Master Kir-Zaki?”
“Soldiers are riding here to attack the wedding party, damn it!” Kiram dragged in a deep breath of air. He didn’t have time for this, but he couldn’t do it all on his own either. “Someone needs to warn them in the chapel. The Hellions’ horses need to be saddled and they’ll need weapons. We have fifteen minutes, maybe less.”
For an instant the woman looked as if she hadn’t understood a single word Kiram had said. Then her eyes locked on his and realization dawned in her expression.
“How many soldiers?” Her face had gone gray but her voice remained calm.
“At least two dozen of the royal bishop’s m
en. They’ve poisoned their blades and they’re riding warhorses. They’ll have the gate down in no time.”
“Then we will need to be quick,” the woman replied. Kiram nodded. His legs already ached and his head still pounded.
The woman called out orders to other members of the staff and suddenly the hall echoed with of shouts of acknowledgment and alarm. Men and women in the Grunito house colors raced to fulfill a flurry of orders: warning the wedding party, readying horses and securing the house for an assault. Wedding garlands were dropped. Trays of tiny cakes and Kir-Zaki sweets were abandoned to the dogs.
“You’d better be right about this,” the Haldiim woman warned Kiram and there was something about her tone that made Kiram think briefly of his mother.
“I wish I weren’t, but I am right,” Kiram responded. “I’ll gather the Hellions’ saddlebags and their weapons. Can you send a few footmen up to help me?”
She nodded and Kiram bolted up the stairs. He tore through the Hellions’ rooms, hurling their half-packed saddlebags to footmen and gathering the best weapons he could lay his hands on.
From his own trunk he only took the few supplies he could shove in his pockets. His bow, quiver and knives were far more important at the moment. He quickly strung his bow and slipped it and his quiver over his shoulders. Then he swept up Javier’s saddlebags and sword and sprinted back down the stairs.
He ran for the chapel. He was halfway across the green lawn when a metallic scream wrenched the air. Men shouted threats and obscenities as the clang of hooves pounding down the Grunito gate rang out. Kiram saw terror in the faces of the servants as they ran for the shelter of the main house.
Ahead of him the chapel doors flew open. Elezar and Javier rushed out, both unarmed but standing at the doors as if they could defend the chapel with just the ferocity of their glares. The delicate beauty of their silk clothes struck Kiram as pitiful protection after seeing the heavy leather armor and long swords of the bishop’s men.