A Thief in the Night (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

C
roy followed Cythera as she turned her horse up the ancient road that led up the mountain. “He seems a pleasant enough fellow,” he told her, because she'd said she wanted to get away and talk about Herward.

“I'm sure he's harmless,” she said. “You should know, however, that he is not communing with your goddess.”

Croy frowned. “You doubt his sincerity?”

“I doubt his sanity. I know for a fact he didn't see us in a holy vision. You heard the way he described the Lady in his dream. It didn't sound familiar?”

“He described the Crone, which is one of the Lady's primary aspects. She might also have appeared as the Mother, or the Maiden. Why She chose one over the other is a mystery to me, but She rarely reveals her plans to us.”

“He was describing my mother,” Cythera told him.

Croy shook his head. “Now that's just silly—”

“My mother is a witch,” Cythera said. “As you know. Placing visions in the minds of lunatics is hardly stretching her powers. She must have sent him this vision the same day that we left Ness.”

“It's blasphemy to impersonate the Lady,” Croy said. He thought of the witch, safe and comfortable in her lair in Ness, reaching across the world to cloud the minds of men, and he wanted to—well, he wasn't sure what he wanted to do. Certainly rushing back to the city to slay his prospective mother-in-law didn't feel like the kind of thing a noble knight would go in for. But surely there must be some retribution.

“She was only trying to protect us. She wanted someone to watch over us. And Herward can definitely be of help. For instance, we can't very well take our horses inside the Vincularium. Someone needs to watch over them.”

“I had considered that,” Croy said. “I was hoping we could give you the task.”

Cythera sighed. She stopped her horse in the middle of the road. “I thought you might say that. I'm sure you've spent this entire journey trying to think of ways to keep me from entering the tomb with you.”

“It won't be safe for a woman. There's a demon in there.”

“Croy, I can take care of myself. I'm not some helpless damsel to be locked away in a tower.” She dismounted and rubbed her horse's nose for a while, before dropping her reins to the ground. The palfrey was well trained, and knew that was the signal to stay put. She proceeded on foot, then, toward the massive gates of the Vincularium.

They were far more imposing from close up. The massive square pillars rose to dizzying heights above Croy's head, and the chains between them proved so thick and solid that he could not begin to imagine how they had been forged. While rust pocked the surface of the iron, there was no doubt in his mind those chains would last another thousand years before they corroded away.

Behind the chains, recessed from the menhirs, stood a solid wall of enormous granite bricks, sealed with black mortar. The dwarven thorn rune—sign of death and destruction—had been carved deeply into each of the bricks, a warning to anyone who might try to unseal this massive portal.

Croy took a step closer and something crunched under his boot. He looked down and saw a scorched human skull staring up at him with empty eye sockets.

“Cythera, don't look,” he said. The bones could only distress her. He glanced around his feet and saw more bones there, some shattered, some black with soot. He saw bits of cloth and metal amidst the bones, but no swords or armor. Were these the remains of past grave robbers? “And don't come closer. In fact, get back on your horse and ride back to the others. This isn't a good place.”

She was already walking past him, however. “These chains—what purpose do they serve?” she asked.

“What?” Croy replied. He was trying to kick broken shards of bone off his foot. “They held in the elves, of course.”

“No, they didn't.” She was dangerously close to the entrance. “They attach to nothing but the columns. They do not brace the seal, or even touch it. They're just strung across the gate, so that anyone trying to enter must duck underneath them. Yet that could hardly slow down an elfin warrior.”

“Wait,” Croy shouted as she ducked to look under the chains. “Don't—”

He rushed toward her, but as he came close to the lowest chain he felt a sudden, searing pain in his head. Sweat burst across his back and he felt dizzy. The whole world started to spin. He reached out to steady himself, hand up to grab the chain above him, when he felt Cythera's hands push against his chest and he went sprawling backward.

The heat and disorientation left him instantly, though he was already overbalanced and fell to clatter among the bones.

“They're cursed,” Cythera said. “The chains are charged with magical power—Croy, get away, quickly. There are currents in the ether here, wild eddies, and I can feel the puissance growing—it's going to discharge!”

Croy desperately wanted to get up and run. Yet he could never leave Cythera there, alone and defenseless. He struggled to his feet and lurched forward, intending to grab her. He saw terror streak across her face and was certain they were both about to die.

Then she reached up, with both hands, and grabbed a link of the chains.

Croy lacked the special senses that allowed witches and sorcerers to view the winds of magical energy that swept through the world. He could not feel the lethal power that flowed into Cythera then, nor the shockwave that burst outward from her body and swept across the land.

Yet he could see the painted flowers and vines that erupted across her face and hands, as if an invisible tattooist were working with demonic speed to cover every portion of her flesh. Vivid roses and tulips bloomed and withered on her cheeks and forehead. Creepers wrapped around her wrists and fingers, growing a thousand times faster than the plants they resembled. Her fair skin turned dark with the painted vegetation, until he could no longer make out her facial features at all.

“Cythera!” he shouted, because she was gasping in pain.

“I can't contain it,” she moaned. “So much—so much power!”

This was the gift Coruth had given to her daughter. Cythera was immune to magic in all its forms, for rather than pervading her, arcane energies could only crawl upon her skin in the form of images. As Croy watched, the brambles on her neck thickened and sprouted long, vicious thorns. The flowers on her palms dripped with poison. Malevolent eyes peered out from behind the leaves that curled and dried up on her chest.

“I have to release it. Croy—get back!” she screamed.

The more magical energy she stored in her skin, the more likely Cythera was to release it inadvertently. She could only hold so much. If she touched Croy now, all that power would flow into his body, and he had no protection from its evil. He scuttled backward, all thoughts of saving her flown from his mind.

Moving with terrible slowness, careful not to release her burden before she was ready, Cythera climbed through the chains and made her way to the brick seal beyond. Then she thrust her palms against the stone blocks, and the painted flowers on her skin writhed and twisted as if they were being consumed in an inferno.

Under her hands the bricks shimmered and glowed. Light seeped out from between her fingers as the stone seethed and bubbled and flowed. A stream of red-hot molten rock oozed down the face of the seal, then rolled across the ground to lick at the scorched bones. Croy rushed back and got the horses clear before the burning stone could reach them.

In the cold air the molten rock cooled quickly, like candle wax on a table. Though still hot to the touch, it stopped glowing and lay still. When Croy was certain he would not be incinerated, he hurried forward to search for Cythera. He was very careful not to touch the chains, though this time he did not feel dizzy when he approached them. Cythera must have absorbed the magic that had previously coursed through them.

He found her by the seal. A broad fissure had been melted right through the bricks. At its base the fissure was wide enough for a man to crawl through. Beyond, past the seal, was only darkness.

Cythera sat on the ground near the opening, hugging her knees to her chest. She was weeping, but her skin was clear. There was not a single tattoo anywhere on her that he could see.

“It's open,” she said. “We can go in now.”

Part III

Some Light Grave Robbing Required

Interlude

T
he keeper of the milehouse known as the Astrologer always thought he had been blessed with the perfect life. There was a steady trade on the road between Redweir and Helstrow, so he was not reliant for his income on the local farmers. He was close enough to the king's fortress that bandits never raided his house. Having once been the son of a farmer, expected to follow in his father's footsteps and work a tiny strip of land until he was bent double and decrepit at twenty-five, he counted himself especially lucky that now his main occupation was giving orders to serving boys and pouring the occasional tankard of ale.

The night the priest came, however, the keeper would gladly have traded places with the lowest serf in Skrae.

“I have simply come for my property. Once it is in my possession, I will leave peacefully,” the priest said. He didn't look like so much, this little man from Ness who dressed in an undyed habit. The knife in his hand was tiny, the blade no longer than a child's finger.

When he'd come in demanding information, the keeper had been busy counting the coins in his till. Figures were not the keeper's strong suit and he'd lost track. He supposed he might have been a little abrupt when he told the priest to have a seat and shut his mouth.

He'd had no idea how fast things would happen then, how the knife would blur through the air, while the priest's face transformed into the countenance of something from the Bloodgod's pit.

The keeper stared down at the cut on his arm. It was only perhaps an inch long but it was bleeding furiously. He pressed down hard on the wound with a bar towel but in seconds the cloth was red right through. “I'm telling ye, friend—I don't know anything of what you're asking! I never heard naught of this shire reeve. Please, just let me bandage this—”

The priest never raised his voice. He never got angry. But the knife in his hand flicked back and forth, cutting at the air. “You're lying to me. The shire reeve wrote me just days ago. The message was posted from this house. He claimed he had my property and that I could come collect it at my leisure. Well, here I am. Where is the shire reeve? Where is what is owed to me? Should you lie to me again, I'll cut your other arm.”

The keeper of the house looked up at his patrons, a dozen or so assorted merchants, tradesmen of various occupations, and three dwarves up from Redweir. They had all jumped back from their tables, abandoning both food and drink to press up against the smoke-stained walls. He'd get no help from that quarter.

“There was a man—a day or two back, sure,” the keeper said. He was beginning to feel faint, probably just from the fear. He took a step back, away from the priest, and nearly slipped on the pool of his own blood that was ruining his floor. “Might have been a reeve of one sort or another. I didn't see if he carried no white stick, but mayhap that was just under his cloak. He had the look of a lawman.”

“Good,” the priest said. “That's a good start.”

“Figured he was just playin' at it, though, for he skipped out before he paid his bill. Figured he was some tricky thief.”

“He was an official of the crown. Now. As to my property.”

“I know nothing 'bout that,” the keeper said. “Please!” he begged as the knife came toward him again. “Please—whatever it was, whatever it was worth, take it out of my till, and be welcome to it! Just—just put the knife away. I beg you!”

“All your coin won't pay what I'm owed,” the priest said. “I've come for a man, a bondservant who ran away from me. His name is Malden. What of him?”

“Malton, you say?” the keeper asked. “I'm not so good with names—”

“A slender fellow, of no great height. Wears a green cloak. He would be traveling with a number of companions—accomplices in his flight.”

“Aye, aye!” the keeper almost laughed with relief. “Aye, they were here, too, the same night as your reeve. He was with a fancy looking gentleman, a lady, and a dwarf. And—And a great big dog-hearted bastard with half his face painted red. That one they made sleep in the stables like the wild man he was. Now,
they
paid their bill, and left before dawn the next day. Please—no more!”

The knife was inches from the keeper's face. It seemed to float in the air, as if unconnected to the priest's hand. The keeper could see his own reflection in its red-smeared blade.

“One more question, only, and then I'll give you my thanks and take my leave.”

“Anything! I'll tell ye anything!” Whether it was true or not, the keeper decided. This was not a man who accepted “I don't know” as a correct answer.

“When they left, which way were they headed?”

The keeper belched mightily as a wave of nausea swept through him. He had no idea how to answer that. He hadn't watched the travelers depart—he'd been inside, fast asleep, and only knew they'd gone because the stable boy told him so. He had to guess now what the priest wanted to hear. And if he guessed wrong—

“They headed east,” someone said.

The knife was gone. The keeper sagged backward against the bar, unable to stand a moment longer. The priest was across the room now, standing over a man wearing the mask of an itinerant barber-surgeon.

“They headed east,” the man repeated. “I'm coming from that direction, and I passed them just as they left the road. It looked like they were headed down to the river, though for what purpose I can't imagine.”

“You've been very helpful,” the priest said. The knife disappeared and he smiled at everyone in the room, taking his time to beam at each patron in turn. “I do apologize for the excitement. Please, go back to your meals. I will not keep you any longer.”

And with that he left, headed back out into the night. As easy as that.

The barber-surgeon rushed over to where the keeper lay, facedown on his own bar, his legs tangled in the stools. With deft hands the healer pulled the bar rag away from the wounded man's arm and studied the cut. “By the Lady's elbows,” he swore.

“It's just . . . a little scratch,” the keeper insisted.

“He pierced the major vein of your arm without so much as palpating for it,” the barber-surgeon insisted. He reached for a pouch at his belt and brought forth a long strip of dirty bandage. “It normally takes me three tries to find that vein, even when my patient is restrained so I can take my time. Who was that man? Where did he train? At the University at Vijn, perhaps? They bring up fine doctors there, it's said.” The barber-surgeon worked quickly at stanching the flow of blood.

“Will I live?” the keeper asked.

“Oh, surely,” the barber-surgeon told him. “Eat plenty of fish taken from a cold stream, and purge three times a day with an emetic I give you, and you'll be back on your feet in no time. Of course, the wound might fester and then you'll lose the arm. But you'll definitely survive.”

“Excuse me,” someone said, but the keeper couldn't see who it was. “Excuse me. Hey! Down fucking here!”

Despite how faint he felt, the keeper leaned over the side of the bar and looked down to see one of the dwarves staring up at him. The keeper was used to getting dwarves in, since there were so many of them at Redweir and they often traveled to Helstrow on business. He'd barely been aware of the three of them before this, except for the fact that one of them was female. You almost never saw female dwarves this far south.

The one addressing him was male, a skinny, tiny fellow with a bushy beard and hair like a mop that should have been thrown out years ago. His eyes were beady and dark but they shone with purpose.

“You said somewhat about a wild man, with a face painted red?”

The keeper frowned. Not again, he thought—no more questions! “Aye,” he replied. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm—”

“He was traveling with the other bunch? You're sure of it? Think hard on it, man. This is important!”

“Aye, aye, you daft little thing,” the keeper growled. There were spots dancing before his eyes. That couldn't be good, could it?

“And they went east? Toward the forest there, and the mountains beyond? You weren't lying just to throw that other fucker off the track? Excuse me! I need to know this!”

The barber-surgeon answered for the keeper, who was having trouble breathing properly. “Yes, yes, just as I told that butcher. East!”

The dwarf nodded and ran back to his fellows. They whispered amongst themselves for a moment, then raced out of the common room in the direction of the stables. The keeper never saw them again.

At least they'd paid in advance.