The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (37 page)

There were more noises from the bedroom now, and the daemon raised its lethal right arm. Looking up, it caught sight of Mihn, perched on the beam. The flaps of its nose rose towards him.

‘The one who is to be protected,’ the daemon rasped as if through a throat made of sandpaper. ‘He should not have worried. I smell power on you. You belong to one greater than I.’ It raised the book. ‘The writings of Cordein Malich; the account of his obligations and the scent of his soul. Tell the other I am satisfied.’

In the next moment the bedroom door was flung open and High Priest Bern emerged like a ghost in a billowing nightgown, his walking stick raised threateningly. The daemon moved forward almost lazily and flicked its spiny hand out to impale the high priest in the chest. Bern gave a wheeze of pain as the spines ripped right through his body and emerged out his back, spraying blood over the wall behind. The daemon gave another laugh and turned its body towards Mihn, the gleam of two of its eyes bright in the darkened room.

‘The other requested mayhem to aid your escape.’ It reached out and dabbed a finger to the blood pouring out of the high priest’s wounds before licking it clean. ‘Mayhem will be a pleasure.’

He watched the dawn break, the weak rays puncturing the cloud. Something in him recoiled from the light, but he faced it down, as he had every morning for years. The feeble winter sun was still strong enough to sting his eyes at first, if he’d been awake all night glorying in the darkness.

Despite the rain and thick stone walls, he could still smell them from his vantage point, still hear their breath and feel the hot pulse of blood in their veins. Sometimes the smell was too insistent, making sleep impossible, and on those nights he would find himself a dark corner as far from others as possible. Even the foul winter nights of driving rain and biting wind wouldn’t affect him; the discomfort was barely noticeable against the warm hunger simmering inside.

With the dawn came voices, movement, animal calls; the bark of dogs and crow of cockerels. He managed to smile. Another night survived. Another night of sitting there watching the sleeping city, waiting for life to be breathed back into the streets. Another night where he did nothing. The sunlight crept over his skin and drove the feelings away, driving the darkness back down into the pit of his soul.

It was getting harder every year, but recently it had become much worse. He felt a tear on his cheek and gently wiped it off with one finger, holding the tiny drop of water up for inspection before tasting it delicately with his tongue. He spat it out immediately and felt the shame well up.

He pursed his lips. The dawn was here now and he was safe.
One night at a time
, that’s all he needed to remember, even though it was harder and he was feeling the need much more strongly. Though it had threatened to boil over many times, he’d managed to resist. He’d managed without the voice in the shadows for years, and he could survive this absence. He had to; to do otherwise was unthinkable.

Despite his brave words, he knew it was not so simple. Battle could not frighten him; violence and death were just happenings around him, but succumbing to his need was a terrifying prospect, one he could not even afford to contemplate.

Gods? The word meant nothing to him now: it was a habit, a meaningless curse. The Gods had never listened to his prayers; the Gods were not interested in him. When he had been at his lowest ebb, holding the corpse of that dog in his hands, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw had ached for days, had it been the Gods who answered him? No, the soothing voice from the darkness had been no God - Gods came in triumph and shining light, not unseen in the shadows.

And yet his prayers had been answered, for the hunger had subsided as the voice spoke to him and sustained him. Why it had suddenly stopped, after more than a year of whispers and soft laughter, the only true marker of the weeks passing, he had no idea, nor how long it would be until he heard it again - a week, a month? He’d come to rely on that voice, and then it had gone away with no explanation or warning, leaving just a sense of loss that nagged almost as hard as the thirst inside.

‘I will be strong, the shadow will come again,’ he said softly, his resolve strong again. He stood and walked into the street where the new day was breaking.

From the rooftop above him a head turned to watch him go.

Curious
, thought Mihn, leaning out as far as he could until the other had walked out of sight,
most curious. Something to add to your file. Lesarl will be pleased
.

 

Lesarl smiled down at his young son’s sleeping face and eased the door closed. It was early, only a hint of dawn in the sky when he’d risen to get a few hours’ head start on the rest of the city. There was a musty smell about the house, faintly overlaid by stale sweat, the scent he had come to associate with the hours before the household started its day, before the bread was set to baking and the bustle of city life intruded.

This morning he could also smell the dampness in the air after the night’s rain. From his dressing room window he could see the city was still quiet after the downpour. One great puddle filled the street outside, leaving barely enough room for the two guards standing at his gate. They were half-perched on the low wall, their backs pressed against the railing.

He walked towards the breakfast room. He loved the chamber despite its unsuitability, the five tall, rain-streaked windows ensuring the room was always chilly. A lamp sat on the table beside a steaming bowl of porridge. It did little to dispel the gloom, but it would be enough for browsing through the morning report his secretary had sent over. Withered grey-brown foliage left a skeletal trail across the lower parts of the windows, not dead, just waiting for the summer sun to return.

Noticing he was missing his usual rosehip tea, Lesarl went to call a servant, but as he reached the door something darted out from the shadows and he gasped as he felt something hard pressed against his windpipe. Without thinking he grabbed for the stiletto he always carried, but his attacker was quicker and smashed an elbow into his bicep so hard the arm went numb. Whatever was at his neck pressed a little harder.

‘Give me one good reason not to break your neck,’ hissed a voice in his ear.

‘My endearing smile?’ Lesarl croaked as best he could.

‘Not going to be enough,’ Mihn said, emphasising his point by shaking the taller man like a rat. ‘The daemon and I had a quick chat before it left with Malich’s journal.’

‘Don’t tell me that was the one you were after?’

‘No more games,’ Mihn said quietly.

‘Very well,’ he managed, ‘check my morning reports.’

Mihn turned them both so he could see the pile of papers on the table. There was indeed something substantial there amongst them. He released Lesarl and shoved the man back into the room.

The Chief Steward gave a cough and rubbed a hand over his throat as Mihn went to the table. ‘High Priest Bern had the original,’ he explained in a hoarse voice, ‘and until the fall of Scree that wasn’t a problem - I hadn’t even considered that entrusting a necromancer’s writings to the High Priest of Death might prove a problem.’

Mihn picked up the journal and opened it, scanning a few pages to verify that it was the translation prepared at Lord Bahl’s request. He shut it and retied the leather fastenings. ‘Enjoy your porridge,’ he said with a scowl as he headed for the door.

Lesarl paused as Mihn disappeared from view. ‘Don’t tell me the cook over-salted it again?’ he called. There was no reply.

 

Cardinal Certinse didn’t bother looking up when he heard the door to his office crash open. There was only one man who’d barge in unannounced and it would take more than a withering look to dissuade the man once known as Colonel Yeren. The eye-patched bastard had a reputation to match Count Vesna’s, and he took every opportunity to remind the cardinals that the title they’d given him was just a technicality.

‘Senior Penitent Yeren. And am I to assume you have a matter of theology you feel we must discuss without delay?’

‘Yah, something like that,’ the broad-shouldered mercenary replied as he deposited himself in one of the chairs facing the desk.

‘Please, take a seat,’ Certinse murmured, eyes still fixed on the report in front of him as he finished the last few lines. He restrained the urge to bring the page closer, despite the ache behind his eyes that now appeared if he read much while tired. Better not to show any weakness in front of a bully like Yeren, whether he was in your employ or not.

As last he finished and put the report aside. He looked at the soldier over bridged fingers. He and Yeren were of an age, but there any similarities ended. Yeren was a heavyset native of Canar Thrit, and had more white hairs than Certinse, and more than his fair share of scars too. He had reportedly bought himself out of the army early on in his military career, before being court-martialled on charges of corruption, although not soon enough to avoid losing an eye in battle. He’d spent the next ten years as a Carastar, one of the bands of bandits sanctioned by Vanach to patrol the border with Canar Thrit, tasked with
dissuading
anyone fleeing religious rule so they could keep that borderland conflict ticking over without allowing it to explode into open warfare.

‘Do you have news for me?’

‘That I do,’ Yeren said with a scowl. ‘There’s one hell of a mess at Holy Dock - damn thing tore a hole in the wall of Bern’s palace. Whole bloody flock of crows runnin’ round wringing their hands and blamin’ each other.’

Certinse ignored the ‘crows’ reference, although the black-robed priests of Death might not have appreciated it, and restrained the urge to ask what flattering reference the mercenaries used for the priests of Nartis. ‘Did you manage to speak to your friend?’

Yeren knew most of the mercenaries employed by both cults, of course; they had all served together in Tor Milist.

He nodded. ‘No sign of nothin’ ’cept a guard who claims he got blindsided that night.’

‘And did he?’

‘Doubt it, he won’t be the first flogged for drinkin’ on duty. Still, it’s damned convenient for the Chief Steward and I wouldn’t put it past the bastard, but Kerx says he checked the whole building as soon as possible. All the doors were still bolted from the inside and there are charms on all the lower windows, so unless Lesarl’s got an agent who can fly I don’t see how he could’ve done it. Patrols’re in constant movement in the streets round the temple; they’d’ve seen someone carrying a fifty-foot ladder.’

‘Your conclusion?’

Yeren sighed. ‘That Chief Steward Lesarl is more intelligent than Captain Kerx.’

‘A week-old rabbit is more intelligent than Kerx,’ Certinse said drily, ‘but you’re right, coincidence is a stretch. All that remains to discuss is what we do about it.’

‘What do you mean?’ Yeren said in surprise. He crossed his legs, revealing for a moment the leather breeches he wore before tugging his penitent’s robe straight to cover them.

Certinse smiled inwardly.
Lucky for them it’s winter and an extra layer is welcome. In summer they actually might have to forego their fighting clothes
. ‘I mean: our goal is not civil war; we don’t need evidence that this was a set-up to provoke a conflict. But that doesn’t need to be the only result.’

‘Why not? You’ve got ’em runnin’ scared,’ Yeren said, gesticulating as he spoke. ‘They agreed wholesale to the High Cardinal’s reforms. If you ask me, whatever happened in Scree broke Lord Isak’s spirit—’

‘I do not pay you to think,’ Certinse snapped, ‘and of that I am glad when your skills at it are so poor. Do you think we would be in such a secure position if Lord Isak was so easily swayed, considering it is the Chief Steward whispering in his ear ?’

He reached for the bell-pull and gave it a tug to summon his secretary, a weak-chinned little man whose father had named him Kerek, clearly hoping he’d sired a great warrior rather than the cautious cleric he’d grown into.

The secretary hurried in and, blinking first at Yeren, bowed to Certinse. ‘Yes, your Eminence?’

‘Prepare a letter to High Cardinal Echer. I advise we distance ourselves from the unfortunate late High Priest Bern, and that we should encourage the investigation be concluded swiftly and quietly. I want it to imply we know more than we’re going to tell on the subject.’

‘Won’t that make him suspicious?’ Yeren interjected, failing to pay attention to Certinse’s hard look. ‘They’ll be looking to see who else might have been in league with daemons. You Farlan find conspiracies far more entertaining than the truth.’

‘Firstly,’ Certinse replied with exaggerated patience, ‘they will be looking for conspirators within the cult of Death, not outside it. Bern would be unlikely to take his heresy out of his domain. Secondly, Echer is so far gone he’s barely even aware when it’s Prayerday. Now that his proposals have been accepted the man’s as happy as . . . well, as happy as an utterly deranged man can be. Kerek, do you think there’s an appropriate term?’

‘Ecstatic, perhaps, sir?’

Certinse nodded. ‘The right hint of fervour, certainly. Anyway, Echer is content to occupy his time devising more strictures to impose on the Farlan people. Fortunately for the Farlan people, he sends them to me for my contribution now that he sees me as his champion, and I have in my employ several talented, albeit argumentative, theologians to help refine the text.’

‘Meaning you let him argue with them all day, leaving you to run the cult?’

Certinse inclined his head. ‘For a soldier you’re not so great a fool.’

Yeren managed to not allow himself to be baited. ‘That won’t work forever.’