Requiem of Silence Page 15

  A roiling heat rose within her with nowhere to go. She took a deep breath to steady her. Tana squeezed her arms around herself tighter. Kyara caught the movement from the corner of her eye. The girl looked small and alone. Frightened, not of her surroundings or the strange, ancient beings present, but of herself.

  Kyara closed her eyes on a long blink. Could she allow this child to face the battle ahead alone? She saw so much of herself in the girl and recalled the brutality of her own training. Though she did not trust him, she was certain Murmur’s training would not be so merciless. She did not want this, not even a little, but her protestations had been pointless from the beginning, she recognized that now. She hung her head and gripped her fists tightly at her sides.

  “Can you at least allow Darvyn entry into the city?” Her voice creaked with strain.

  “The spell keeping him out is ancient and was settled into the mountain by the force of our people when we were strong. Now that we are weak, we cannot undo it.”

  “Why is it so important that people like … like whoever his father was not come here?”

  “Did Mooriah not tell you?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “She said Fenix made a mistake. Why punish an entire group of … beings?”

  “Fenix disrespected the Mother to such a degree as to throw into question the trustworthiness of the entire race of Bright Ones.”

  “He didn’t know,” Mooriah said quietly, staring at the ground.

  “He tried to take a piece of the Mother with him as a trophy. Thievery is not permitted. No stone not freely given can be removed. That is one of our most sacred rules. He broke it, through ignorance or not, and his kind were punished.”

  “That’s rather harsh, don’t you think?” Kyara asked.

  “Harsh it may be, but that is the way it is … was. I cannot change it now. Perhaps if you beseech the Mother, she will alter it herself.”

  Kyara didn’t believe the mountain cared a whit about Darvyn, regardless of whether or not he was the love of her life. “Well, you must at least promise that you won’t harm anyone else while we undergo training. No more bait, no more tests … of any kind. I won’t have you tossing this girl’s mother off a cliff just to see if she can save her.”

  Ella gasped and took a step back. But Murmur had the nerve to chuckle.

  “What’s funny, old man?” Kyara asked, seething.

  “Your precious Darvyn was in no danger, child.”

  “He nearly drowned in Death River!” Rage exploded from her, unwilling to be controlled.

  Murmur wisely sobered. “Very well, I vow it. None here will harm another living being as part of your training. Does that make you feel better, child?”

  “Not really,” she grumbled.

  “The war I warned you of is upon us,” he said. “There is little time to waste. If you two do not master your power and help fight for the side of the Living, your world will cease to exist.”

  Ella’s eyes were wide; she held Ulani against her. For her part, Tana did not appear to be affected by this dire pronouncement.

  “The dead are coming, Kyara.” Murmur gazed at her, unblinking. “And right now, the three of you are all that can stand in the way of the extinction of the human race.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  While safety is harmonious,

  and eternal,

  and ethereal,

  and ubiquitous,

  it is not guaranteed.

  —THE HARMONY OF BEING

  Once again, you follow Nikora through the castle. Usable rooms are often far away from one another. You tuck this information away for when you escape. They cannot martial whatever forces they have effectively with a layout such as this. You do not know their numbers, having only seen a handful of servants, Nikora, and her subordinate, Cayro, but they must be few.

  This time she leads you up to a rooftop surrounded by crumbling stone. You briefly wonder if it is safe up here or if the stones will fall away and leave you tumbling down into the swirling abyss of white below. The weather is calm, thick flakes of snow fall lazily, but a storm here would be devastating. When you have your power back, you will be sure to create a tempest to level this castle once and for all.

  Nikora cradles the disgusting jar of human flesh to her bosom as she would a child. She is a zealot, you can see the fever in her eyes. Faith has made her weak as it does all men. You have never made such a grievous error.

  In the corner of the roof lies a tarp covered with a soft sheet of snow. She removes the tarp with a flourish to reveal smoldering ashes of some kind. You see melted metal gears, wood that is blackened and charred.

  “Was this the Machine?”

  The light of pride shines in her eyes. “Yes. Our greatest achievement. The Great Machine combined the magics of Earthsong, Nethersong, and blood magic and imbued the result—quintessence—into a physical object. Power to the powerless, strength to our kind.”

  The light in her eyes dims as she looks toward you. “Now there is only a finite amount of quintessence left in the world and we have no way to make more.” She squeezes the jar containing the petrified remains of a deity. You fight to keep from rolling your eyes.

  “And you believe we can use the Songs and the quintessence that you have gathered?” You try to prod her along. The cold bites at your exposed skin; you wonder if she feels it.

  “We are draining Nethersong from our slaves the way we have since times of old. The Wailers will provide the Earthsong, and blood is readily available.” She eyes your arms, and you take an alarmed step back.

  “Oh yes, my dear Eero, your blood is necessary. Since you will control the Earthsong, we will require a sacrifice from you.”

  Your jaw clenches. “And where will this sacrifice go? What will be done with the Earthsong and the blood and the Nether?”

  She gazes toward the mountain peaks that surround the castle. Soft clouds cap the summits in the near distance, though visibility is low due to the snowfall. Her expression is difficult to read, but it appears as though she is coming to a decision. When she focuses on you again, the fever is gone from her eyes, leaving only determination.

  The rattling of chains behind you causes you to turn. The other Physick, Cayro, is at the head of a group of servants leading the Wailers. Manacled together hand and foot, your men shuffle along like mindless, brainless automatons. Which you suppose is what they are. They have no free will, it was all subsumed by their programming. But there are only twelve of them.

  “I will not tell you all, Eero, only what you need to know. You think you hide your desires from me, but I see through you,” Nikora says.

  When you turn, she has grown quite close, within spitting distance. The damaged flesh on your arm burns at the thought of harming her even only with spittle on her cheek. The pain you can ignore, but along with it comes a flash of despondency, a fleeting sense of despair that makes you almost stumble. You know it is the work of the spell she carved into you—not just physical pain then, it lays a mental tripwire that would be impossible to disregard.

  “Follow my instructions exactly,” she says, “and you will live to see our rise. Perhaps then, we will become the allies you claim you seek.”

  Her wariness is warranted but still vexing to you. However, you comply. It is the only way forward at present.

  She walks you through the spell, indicating that she will perform the blood magic portions herself. Working together to do magic usually requires linking, but since the Physicks have no inborn Song, they have devised another method using the blood. Ingenious really.

  When she gives you leave, you speak the commands to control the Songs of the Wailers. Not being able to feel the rush of Earthsong flowing through you is difficult. The delightful sensation of the power at your command was yours for so long, its lack is a vast canyon of emptiness within you.

  The many complaints of the people from whom you liberated the power filter to your consciousness, released from the stronghold of memory, b
ut you brush them aside. Their petty quibbles are of no import. They never were.

  Now you must satisfy yourself with witnessing the Wailers as they look to the sky, eyes clouded over with control. Your control, wielded as deftly as ever.

  You describe to them what must be done, how they must tap into the source energy of all life and pull it into themselves, then focus it on the bit of withered, dead flesh. Nikora says that the hand is not entirely dead. The flesh of their goddess lives on in some small way that can be felt with Earthsong.

  The Wailers do not speak, but they obey. They pour their combined Songs into the meat inside the jar, making the glow brighter. Before your eyes the muscle regains some rejuvenation, some small part of itself. What is this madness?

  Nikora stands holding onto her medallion, chanting. The language of blood magic falls from her lips in unfamiliar ways. You take note, try to commit to memory all that she is saying, though she speaks quickly and softly. She thinks it’s too soft for you to hear, but she doesn’t know you as well as she thinks she does.

  In her other hand, she holds a red stone—a caldera filled with Nethersong from these unseen slaves. She jerks her head, and Cayro grabs your arm, wrenches your sleeve up, and slices you again. You falter in your commands to the Wailers, and Nikora glares at you.

  Maintaining control of the Wailers requires talking them through each step, without ceasing, even if that means repeating the same command over and over again. “Steady,” you repeat as more of their power flows into the desiccated flesh, now plump and whole again. “Steady.”

  Your blood now collected from the fresh wound in a small sponge, Cayro squeezes it onto the caldera Nikora holds. With reverence, she places the bloody stone into the jar with the remains of her goddess’s hand.

  Light continues to bleed from the flesh. It soon becomes blinding. The jar shines even brighter, until it is a blade, sharp as steel, piercing your eyes. You shut them, but the pain persists. It claws its way into your head, tearing at your flesh as it burrows.

  Then it is gone.

  You open your eyes and when they adjust to the normal light of day, the air high above the jar is shimmering. Nikora’s voice cuts through the haze in your mind left from the pain. “The portal is opening. We must say the words together to control it.”

  She repeats them to you. This spell, in the language of the blood, reminds you of something, but you’re not sure what. Even as you bristle at the thought, you obediently recite the words in time with Nikora.

  The shimmer becomes a golden light, and you wince, just before it tears a hole in the sky. Columns of dark shadow flow through eagerly, like a nest of snakes chasing their prey.

  Nikora’s chant changes; you clumsily hurry to follow suit. These are the words to close the portal. More spirits slip through before the tear slams shut. You count at least six that have gotten through to the Living World. They whip over your head like a dark wind.

  One darts for you, but Nikora lifts her hand and a sizzle of lightning-like energy shoots from her palm, repelling the shadow. The spirit changes direction and heads toward the Wailers.

  “Protect them!” she cries, and even as you instruct the Wailer to defend himself, he is entered by the spirit. His skin changes color, body changes shape until he is someone entirely different—a bald man of middle years with a blocky tattoo marring his head, like that of the other servants.

  You are agape. Your sister had relayed this fantastical story, but to see the possession in person leaves you awestruck.

  The other spirits have found hosts in Nikora’s guards, though she remains untouched. The transformed Wailer snaps his chains with no apparent effort and roars. A half-dozen men and women in red robes run up to the platform from inside the castle. Their quick arrival indicates they must have been waiting just out of sight for this very thing to happen.

  Cayro joins them, barking orders. They all raise their arms and shoot bolts of sizzling energy toward the creatures, who have taken on the bodies of bald, tattooed guards. Your sister theorized these are the dead who have been mistreated, the blood slaves and others. But the wraiths are not without their defenses. One leaps out of the way, jumping higher than any human should be able to. Another avoids the shot of energy by twisting unnaturally, bending back at the knee until his body is parallel to the ground. A third lifts an arm and, with a flick of his wrist, tosses one of the Physicks racing toward him into the air and right off the roof. Another wraith is hit by the blast, and stunned momentarily, but does not go down.

  You command the remaining Wailers to freeze the feet of the wraiths, sinking them into the stone to hold them in place. To bind their arms with tight bands of air to keep them at their sides.

  But it only works temporarily. Their incredible strength and whatever magic they possess allow them to break free.

  Amazingly, Nikora is attempting to speak with them, even as her fellow Physicks battle them. “We seek only knowledge,” she says, holding her hands up as in supplication. “Secrets of the World After. We have brought you here, not to fight with you, but to learn.” She raises her voice to be heard over the din.

  While she has proven herself to be an opponent deserving a modicum of respect, her plan is foolishness. Appealing to the better natures of vengeful spirits is getting her nowhere. More Physicks make their way onto the platform to defend her as her companions fall due to injury or death.

  The Wailers attack with ice, rocks, wind, fire—it does no more than slow the wraiths for brief moments. What is fueling their power? Certainly not Earthsong or blood magic. Which leaves only Nethersong—fitting as they are creatures returned from the world of death.

  “The Nether, can you manipulate it directly?” you ask Nikora. “Can you blast them with Nethersong instead of Earthsong?”

  She holds her medallion again and shoots out another blast of energy, a purplish stream of power that seems to absorb all light. The wraith she hits, rears back, howling. Until now, they’ve done no more than emit animal-like grunts and growls, but this sound of pain brings you great joy.

  She continues pummeling the wraith. It jerks and shakes and disappears inside a cloud of dust. The body crumples to the ground and the black smoke-like form shoots into the air.

  The other Physicks focus their power, changing tacks and shooting Nethersong into the remaining wraiths. One by one, the spirits are expelled and hover overhead, darting around, searching for another host. But the Physicks blast them before they can take hold of anyone.

  “We must open the portal again to banish them,” you say. Wearily, Nikora nods.

  You all repeat the spell to reopen the portal, and the other Physicks help direct the spirits to it with carefully targeted peals of Nethersong.

  Finally, they are gone and the portal is closed again. You sag, breathing heavily, more from the exertion of mental energy than anything else. The Wailers are almost all drained. It will be at least a day before most will be able to sing again.

  Nikora and the Physicks look deflated as well. The carefully cultivated sheen of superiority she reflects is tarnished and dim. Cayro stands, breath heaving, face no longer impassive but full of rage. Four Physicks are dead, killed by wraiths. A few of the ones who became hosts still breathe, though they remain unconscious.

  In the jar, the hand is shriveled again. One of the four remaining fingers reduced to a stub. Nearly one fourth of the remaining power of Saint Dahlia has been expended in this experiment. Nikora stares at the jar with pained eyes, doubtless grieving the loss. But you see something altogether different. Possibility.

  Learning to do this all on your own may be difficult, but once you are able to control these spirits, a powerful army will be at your disposal. One that would be nearly impossible to defeat.

  All creatures can be mastered, controlled, dominated—even the dead. You simply need to discover how.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Deaf to the strains of freedom

  blind to the path from pain.

/>   Like children, ever needy

  we seek what is already ours to claim.

  —THE HARMONY OF BEING

  Zeli’s feet whispered across the terrazzo flooring as she approached the Goddess’s office. Since discovering the journal, the Goddess had spent far more time than usual in the office pacing the floors or staring out of the windows or hovering over the novices as they responded to correspondence. It was as if She was waiting for something to happen in that room.

  Zeli did her duties to the best of her ability, delivering trays of food that would never be eaten to the dungeon and seeing to the Goddess’s needs in whatever way she was asked. She didn’t speak at length with anyone other than Varten for fear of saying too much either about the wraith attack that still hung over her head or the secret journal they were studying.

  Some of the other Sisterhood acolytes would tentatively try to strike up conversation. Chatting with them would be a good way to practice her Elsiran, but she always demurred, blaming the language barrier. The more people she talked to, the more one of her secrets might slip and it was hard enough being around the Goddess, knowing the woman could read her emotions and intentions, see her guilt, excitement, frustration, and fear. She was also worried enough about what would happen to Varten when they were eventually discovered and didn’t want to risk bringing anyone else into this.

  Standing in the threshold of the room, Zeli took a deep, calming breath. Her emotions could call attention to her if the Goddess were paying attention, so she endeavored to wrangle them under control. She had always been a little nervous in Her presence; that hadn’t changed. The reasons why were now different, but surely She wouldn’t know that. Earthsingers couldn’t actually read minds.

  And the other reason her heart stuttered more often than not these past few days? Why her breaths were just a little more difficult to draw into too tight lungs? Certainly that could be blamed on the musty smell that had permeated the secret room. Though she’d scrubbed the place from top to bottom.