Grey Sister

by Mark Lawrence

  Persistent lines of jagged lightning reached out from all across the figure, touching the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the burning points of contact wandering slowly over the stone. It looked almost as if the person were some strange and many-legged insect, propelled by a multitude of thin, brilliant limbs. Light shone from dazzling eyes, erupted from an open mouth, bled from their skin. The whole of their body pulsed erratically, brightening to a blinding intensity, dying away to leave Kettle watching a dance of afterimages. It seemed at any moment the creature’s skin might lift with the brightening, and the flesh melt from their bones. The angle of its legs and arms, its uneven advance, spoke of agony, as if whatever energies it contained might at any moment tear the creature apart.

  The leftmost of the Noi-Guin recovered first and, shielding his eyes behind a hand, reached for some weapon at his belt.

  The explosion happened in that instant. A directed release, snapping the newcomer upright, arms splayed. A crackling bolt of white energy erupted from its chest, turning every body into a silhouette. The central horizontal column of power extended the length of the hall, surrounded by smaller threads or streamers that quested in all directions. It blasted through the Noi-Guin and Lightless as if they weren’t there.

  An agonizing shock ran through the Lightless holding Kettle, ran through Kettle herself, and leaked away into the floor, taking everything with it.

  * * *

  • • •

  NONA COLLAPSED, DIMLY aware that her body was smoking. The stone lay scorched all around her and somewhere far off Keot was howling. A yard from her rested the sigil collar that she had rolled ahead of her entry to the tunnel, now charred almost beyond recognition.

  “Ancestor!” Clera fell back on the simplest of oaths, taking her hands from her eyes. “I didn’t know you could do that!”

  “I didn’t either.” Nona lay where she had fallen. Steam issued with her words, drifting up in the lantern-light. The flame behind the cowl seemed pale now, weak though it had been turned to full. “Don’t ask me to do it again any time soon.” She felt hollow, cored, brittle. As if her arm might simply come away should Clera take it to haul her to her feet. “Go and find Kettle.”

  “She’ll probably try to arrest me or something.” Clera looked dubiously at the charred and smoking ruin of the Noi-Guin and the heap of their servants behind them. Some of the corpses were still twitching.

  “I’ll probably arrest you or something.” Nona tried to make her blades form but failed.

  Clera rubbed at her neck where four thin parallel cuts wept blood, and shrugged. She drew a knife and advanced on the fallen with caution. Nona watched as Clera tugged aside the dead and put holes in those who weren’t yet quite finished with living. Nona’s limbs twitched from time to time, like those of the Lightless, and the memory of how close she’d come to being torn apart kept returning, distressingly vivid.

  Nona had extracted herself from Kettle’s mind and woken inside her own flesh, still dimly aware of Kettle’s progress. Opening one eye a crack, Nona had found that Clera had dragged her to a place where the tunnel pierced a small natural void. Feigning unconsciousness, Nona had waited until Clera drew near and had reached out for the girl’s neck with all the speed she could muster.

  “You’re going to get this collar off me, and I’m going back for Kettle,” Nona had said. The hint of flaw-blade along the middle of each finger had convinced Clera of Nona’s sincerity. Clera had produced an array of square lockpicks, suited to the simple heavy mechanism on the manacles, and in short order the collar had dropped away to clang against the rocks.

  * * *

  • • •

  “SHE’S HERE,” CLERA called, standing up.

  Nona crawled towards them. She lacked the energy to stand, though strangely her limbs seemed to be buzzing with the stuff, legs twitching, hands atremble, the occasional miniature lightning bolt arcing from one finger to the next. The Path’s gift was raw power, to be shaped and released, as light, as heat, as a blast. Nona’s rage had given the energies form as lightning. It seemed to suit the storm that had built within her over her captivity.

  Kettle had been at the bottom of quite a heap of bodies. First those that had been holding her down, then those around her who had been blown forward over their kneeling friends. In two places holes an inch or so across had been burned through her robes, the flesh beneath scorched.

  “She looks dead,” Clera said, failing to sound particularly sorry about it.

  “She’s not dead.” Nona’s whole body convulsed, nearly pitching her forward onto her face. “I would know.”

  Clera squatted again and held her hand against Kettle’s neck. “She’s not breathing . . . and . . . there’s no pulse. That’s pretty dead. Sorry, Nona.” She turned towards the Noi-Guin. “I wish you’d left bigger pieces. I really wanted my own black-skin.”

  “She’s not dead.” Nona arrived at Kettle’s side. The nun did look extremely pale. Some of the Lightless corpses looked more lively.

  She’s dead. Keot voiced his opinion.

  “She’s not dead!” Nona reached out to grab Kettle, intending to shake her awake if need be. But just before her hands made contact fat streamers of lightning arced from each finger, running into Kettle. The nun convulsed, arms, legs, and head jerking up with considerable violence. A heartbeat later she fell back, limp, and in the next moment drew a huge gasping breath as if she had been underwater for far too long.

  “Kettle!” Nona touched her shoulder, tentatively at first, then finding no further shocking occurred, gripped it hard. “Kettle?”

  Kettle rolled over, choking. Nona noticed that the dark material of the nun’s leggings glistened with blood.

  “Tear some strips of cloth, Clera: she’s got a knife wound in her thigh.” Nona returned her attention to Kettle. “Clera’s going to get you out of here. I’m going to get Zole.”

  “You’re what?” Clera stopped tearing.

  “We can’t just leave her here!”

  “What’s Zole even doing— Wait, I don’t want to know. You can’t go after her. Neither of you can walk. Even if you were fighting fit it would be insanity.”

  “Well I’m going.” Nona edged to the wall and used it to get to her feet.

  You’re insane. Leave her! Keot sounded weak. Not only was he quieter than before, but the voice in her head cracked and trembled.

  “We can’t leave her!” Nona snarled, angrier at the truth than at Keot or Clera. A tug at her ankle drew her gaze to the floor. Kettle had reached out to grasp her.

  “Zole can hide in the walls. Go where we can’t follow.” Kettle’s voice still vibrated with the shock that had brought her back to life.

  “That’s right!” Clera sounded surprised but she jumped on the idea. “If Yisht taught her rock-working she can hide anywhere. We’d turn up and instead of finding her we’d just find half the Tetragode hunting the halls and thirsty for blood.”

  Nona wanted to shout, to curse, to grab the front of Clera’s tunic and shake her for her cowardice. But it was true. Zole had made the diversion that had saved them. Whatever it had cost her would be a price wasted if they now staggered into the arms of the Noi-Guin.

  “Nona?” Clera had started to bind Kettle’s leg wound. “We fix Kettle, then we go.”

  Nona looked away to where the tunnel turned. Beyond it some of the Lightless brought down with the grey mustard were still bubbling out their pain.

  “All right.” She bit her lip, frowning. “We go.”

  39

  ABBESS GLASS

  THE LIGHT OF the focus moon found chinks even in Sherzal’s shutters. Moonbeams lanced through, painting brilliant red spots on the far wall of Glass’s small room. Outside the slopes creaked, ice melting, water steaming, even the rocks themselves giving voice in the heat. Glass rose with a sigh. Sera and Melkir would be coming any moment now to escort her to the trial.

  When, decades before, she had first been tasked to speak in public Glass
had found herself seized by a fear that made no sense. Why did words she would say to any single person without hesitation become so hard to force from her lips when all those single persons were seated side by side? She had, of course, conquered her nerves in time, but even now, after a thousand sermons, a certain anxiety gripped her stomach before every performance. And Glass had, in all her long years, never performed before a crowd so high, mighty, rich, and hostile as the one she faced at midnight.

  In such trials, the judges would, on rare occasions, find the accused innocent and they would be free to leave, reputation unblemished. If it was decided there was a case to answer, the accusing inquisitor would be granted licence to put the prisoner to question, using either light, moderate, or severe methods. Light methods included beating and sleep deprivation and were reserved for those deemed probably innocent. Very few prisoners subjected to severe methods during questioning ever failed to confess to the charges against them. Of course a guilty verdict was more often reached, in which case proceedings would simply move swiftly to the execution of the sentence.

  The knock came sooner than Glass expected, before the focus had fully waned. At least they did knock though. The two guards treated her with a respect wholly lacking in Brother Pelter.

  “Coming.” She rose. Fading spots of moonlight slid across her, and she let one play in her palm. Based on Glass’s analysis of the reports from dozens of Grey missions, Sherzal’s ambition was to hold the moon itself in her palm. Did Sherzal’s belief stem from the fake Argatha prophecy or from the older tales that might have inspired it? What was clear was that the woman had set her mind to gathering shiphearts. Trusted documents held in the most secret of Church vaults hinted that the Arks could command the moon. Other more dubious writings claimed it as fact and offered instruction in the practice. They too were placed in vaults. In the whole circle of the Corridor there were only three Arks, and the emperor made his home in one of them. Glass suspected that very little discussion had passed between Crucical and his sister on this matter . . . a conversation long overdue.

  The lengthy walk to the banqueting hall passed in silence, led by a different butler from the one who had guided them earlier. Brother Pelter followed the man, then Glass, with the two guards bringing up the rear, clanking. Glass turned to inspect Sera and Melkir over her shoulder, both of them resplendent in the full regalia of Inquisition enforcers. A momentary pang of sympathy ran through her. The pair’s duties today would likely prove more onerous than either of them suspected. She hoped them up to the task and fast in their loyalty to the office they held. All had important roles to play today, be they abbess, inquisitor, or humble guard. Especially the three senior inquisitors, who had gone ahead to oversee the setting up of the courtroom in the middle reception chamber adjoining the banqueting hall.

  Soon they began to hear the sounds of distant revelry. Sherzal’s extravagantly costumed house servants waited by each door they passed. Glass’s nerves began to sing as tension rose through her. She became acutely aware that she had worn the same habit for the best part of the last week, not even removing it to sleep. Opportunities to bathe had been severely limited. She missed the convent, every part of it, but the bathhouse most of all. Perhaps Pelter had planned that she should arrive stinking and that the high and mighty should wrinkle their powdered noses at the evident rankness of her offence.

  A small crowd of lesser guests had already assembled in the newly instated courtroom by the time Glass arrived. Regol and Darla were among those standing to watch the abbess take her position before the court. Among the small sea of faces Darla’s stood out both for being a head above everyone else’s and for being dark with suppressed fury. Glass felt for the girl. Anyone who wore their emotions so openly was at a great disadvantage in every game that mattered beneath such a roof.

  Glass set her chained hands upon the rail before her, and as she made contact with the wood a small tremor ran through her fingertips. She felt it in the soles of her feet too, as if some hefty statue had toppled in an adjoining room, or the mountain had shrugged its shoulders to slough off some huge weight of stone. Nobody else seemed to notice it.

  Sherzal and the lords of the Sis kept the Inquisition waiting until well past midnight. Glass listened to the strains of music escaping the great doors to the banqueting hall, while the aroma of roasted meat reached out to rumble her stomach, waking her hunger despite her nerves.

  A great fireplace stood behind her, stoked to a blaze, making her sweat, her habit becoming damp around the armpits. She imagined that from where the audience stood the flames would frame her, rising above her head, an intimation of things to come when Sherzal had her way.

  A change in the tone of the chatter from beyond the doors heralded the start of proceedings. A minute later servants, three to a door, pushed the huge portals wide, and Sherzal emerged at the head of a broad column of lords, Tacsis behind her left shoulder, Jotsis behind the right, others of the great houses fanning out to either side, anxious to be in the first row.

  Sherzal had changed out of her blacks into a gown of dazzling white. Silks from distant Hrenamon where somehow they still kept production despite the pressing cold, ivory buttons traded from the ice tribes, lace borne across the Marn. The emperor’s sister crossed to the chair that had been placed in isolation for her while the lords and ladies of the Sis took their seats, tiered as if in anticipation of some theatrical production, behind her. Two of Sherzal’s personal guards flanked her, both black-clad, a dark-haired man to her right, Safira to her left. The former novice met Glass’s gaze for a moment before letting her eyes drop. Was there a hint of shame there? Glass thought there might be.

  Brother Pelter strode back and forth before Glass’s rail the whole time, on guard, awaiting his moment and perhaps feeling his own dose of nerves at performing before such a crowd.

  The audience took several minutes to find their places and settle but slowly the conversation died to murmurs, and when Senior Inquisitor Agika rose to her feet silence fell. “If we could have the honourable Sherzal Lansis take the stand in readiness?” With a pale hand she gestured to a second railing on the opposite side of the judges’ bench, facing the lords.

  Sherzal frowned. Her gaze darted to Glass, swept the judges, then fixed on Brother Pelter who echoed her frown.

  Agika put a thin smile on lips unaccustomed to the burden. “Your complaint did initiate these proceedings, prime instigator.”

  Sherzal scowled, then apparently deciding not to start the trial off on a note of contention, she abandoned the chair that was to all intents and purposes a throne, and stalked across to take her place behind the rail, the whiteness of her dress making the noise that crisp new snow does when stepped upon.

  Brothers Dimeon and Seldom flanked Sister Agika behind the judges’ bench, the former almost as tall as Agika with her standing and him seated. Dimeon waved a hand at Pelter.

  “The charges against the accused.” Brother Pelter faced the lords, the words eager to escape his mouth. “Abbess Glass of Sweet Mercy Convent, formerly Shella Yammal of Verity, firstly you are accused of wilfully denying the rights of a parent in favour of those of the Church, a clear heresy in line with the Scithrowl abomination. Secondly, you stand accused of permitting and encouraging the teaching of heresy at the very convent placed in your charge by the Church of the Ancestor.

  “The Inquisition’s own prime instigator, the honourable Sherzal, sister to our emperor Crucical, is my first witness in this case. Additionally I have sworn testimonies from four separate watchers attached to the investigation at Sweet Mercy, which I personally supervised. And I will be calling upon the daughter of a lord highly placed among the Sis to give evidence relating to her years at Sweet Mercy under the abbess’s care. Joeli Namsis will give us a first-hand sworn account of heretical practice witnessed within the convent over recent—”

  Glass adopted a puzzled expression. As Pelter drew breath to express further thoughts on the subject of her guilt the abbe
ss rattled her chains to claim the room’s attention. “Isn’t it normal for a senior inquisitor to lead such high-level investigations, brother?”

  “It’s me that asks the questions here, abbess,” Pelter snapped. He brushed a hand across patchy grey hair on a reddening scalp. “Senior inquisitors are required for the judges’ table. Any full inquisitor can lead an investigation.”

  “But it is unusual for the investigation of a convent or monastery to be led by anything other than a senior inquisitor.” Sister Agika commented from the judges’ table without looking up from her notes. “One might even call it unique?”

  “Who gave the order for this investigation, brother?” Seldom fixed Pelter with amber eyes and a raptor’s stare.

  “The prime instigator initiated proceedings, as is her right.” Pelter’s glance flickered to Sherzal behind the second railing.

  “Then she must have initiated them before the occurrence of any of the events that your charges relate to.” Glass spoke into Pelter’s discomfited pause.

  “I ask the questions!” Pelter rounded on Glass, practically spitting.

  “I didn’t ask a question,” Glass said.

  “Enough.” Sister Agika raised a hand. “Perhaps you could present your first witness, brother, and have her address these points as well as any others you feel pertinent.” She nodded towards Sera, who came towards Sherzal, her hands glimmering with silver chain. As she reached out the emperor’s sister pulled back, scowling.