Blackveil
Page 88
Several carriages were picking up ladies and gentlemen as they filed out of the castle and down the stairs to the drive. The usual complement of guards at the door was doubled, and they were not permitting anyone back inside.
Amberhill shrugged and espying his own carriage pulling up, set off down the stairs, finally removing his mask when he reached the bottom. The carriage door swung open and inside Yap awaited him, looking bleary-eyed, as though he’d had a good long nap.
“Ready to go home, sir?”
Amberhill stepped up into the carriage and sat across from Yap. “It will be home no longer,” he said. His ring had been quiet during the ball, but now he felt it pulling on him.
“Sir?”
“The ocean, Mister Yap. That is where we are bound.”
Yap grinned. “Aye, sir!”
DARK ANGEL
Grandmother pulled her cloak about her shoulders, almost too weak to manage even that much by herself. Immediately Lala was by her side helping her.
“Good child,” Grandmother said, patting the girl’s hand. “Good, good child.”
They were still in the cave, the dreary cursed cave, for Grandmother had been too ill to travel, too feeble to even move. Some days ago a welt had formed on her hand—a spider bite, she suspected—and excruciating body aches and fever followed. She dimly remembered directing Min to lance the welt and make a poultice with herbs from her pack to extract the poison. Evil dreams paraded through her mind, of being entwined in her own yarn, of it burning, burning, burning into her flesh, and of dark creatures feeding on her while she screamed; images of gore and horror that made her shiver still.
Then one day, thanks to the ministrations of her faithful people, she awoke. She simply awoke weak, hungry, and parched. So they lingered in the relative safety of the cave while she recuperated, she cursing her frailty and every moment they lost in their quest to rouse the Sleepers. If only she could stir herself to full strength.
Instead she was a feeble old woman with skin sagging from bones, unable to even place her cloak on her own shoulders.
Deglin maintained the fire just to keep her warm. He’d dared venture outside to collect more wood. He didn’t go far, didn’t go beyond her wards, which, thank God, did not fail while she was sick.
“Somethin’ out there,” he muttered to her once. “Keepin’ an eye on us.”
Yes, there were Watchers. She would deal with them when need be, but at the moment she was more interested in what she could watch. She wanted to look into the fire—perhaps God would speak to her again, provide guidance.
“Lala, child,” she said, “fetch my yarn.”
Lala scampered away and was back in seconds with the yarn basket. Grandmother picked through the balls of yarn with shaky hands. This would not do.
“Child,” she said. “You will have to help me tie knots. I’m not yet steady.” She did not like to think what kind of disaster a mistake could cause, with the etherea of this place so unstable.
Lala had learned well from watching all the time and playing her string games. Her nimble little fingers flew with each knot Grandmother named. Sometimes she’d have to prompt Lala to the form when the girl paused, her young face perplexed. “Remember the knot where the bunny goes into the hole?” Lala would then solemnly nod and finish the knot.
When Lala tied the last one, Grandmother took the snarl of red yarn and inspected it closely. Yes, her clever, dear grandchild had done very well. But now, she wondered, would it work for her since she had not done the actual tying herself? She’d tried to project her intent into the knots as Lala worked, but she wasn’t sure it was enough. So she yanked some of her wiry gray hairs from her head and wove them into the snarl best as she could, impressing her intent upon it. Then she tossed it into the fire and stared and prayed.
She must have stared for a long time for she dozed off. Her awareness of her people fell away and the world turned gray, yet she was still aware of the crackle of fire. Shapeless dreams, lacking the violence of her fever dreams, came and went like dancers waltzing across a ballroom floor.
A face intruded on her dreams, formed just beyond the flames. It was a masked face. Grandmother jolted fully awake and found the face wasn’t a dream at all.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Behind the mask, haunting eyes stared back at her. Just stared. What did it mean? Who would come to her in such a form?
“Who are you?” Sweat dripped down Grandmother’s temple. The jovial red sequins and feathers of the mask mocked her.
The entity did not answer; it just stared.
In a more pleading tone, Grandmother asked, “What are you?”
The flames flared and the mask was replaced by a visored and winged helm of steel so bright it almost hurt to look upon it. Live symbols swarmed and wiggled across the steel, symbols the like of which she had never seen before and therefore could not interpret.
The vision pulled back revealing the armored figure mounted on a great black horse. She knew the stallion—he was the steed of the god of death the heathen Sacoridians worshipped. Black as the charcoal of her fire he was, demon spawn. He pranced and snorted, his rider armed with a lance and shield. This was not, she thought, the death god who rode the stallion, but some lesser avatar. Even so, Grandmother felt the threat of the pair, felt the hairs stand on the back of her neck.
Then the vision was gone. The fire was a normal fire, and she discerned her followers moving about the cave and chatting. The cold returned to her bones. Lala tentatively touched her arm.
Amberhill shrugged and espying his own carriage pulling up, set off down the stairs, finally removing his mask when he reached the bottom. The carriage door swung open and inside Yap awaited him, looking bleary-eyed, as though he’d had a good long nap.
“Ready to go home, sir?”
Amberhill stepped up into the carriage and sat across from Yap. “It will be home no longer,” he said. His ring had been quiet during the ball, but now he felt it pulling on him.
“Sir?”
“The ocean, Mister Yap. That is where we are bound.”
Yap grinned. “Aye, sir!”
DARK ANGEL
Grandmother pulled her cloak about her shoulders, almost too weak to manage even that much by herself. Immediately Lala was by her side helping her.
“Good child,” Grandmother said, patting the girl’s hand. “Good, good child.”
They were still in the cave, the dreary cursed cave, for Grandmother had been too ill to travel, too feeble to even move. Some days ago a welt had formed on her hand—a spider bite, she suspected—and excruciating body aches and fever followed. She dimly remembered directing Min to lance the welt and make a poultice with herbs from her pack to extract the poison. Evil dreams paraded through her mind, of being entwined in her own yarn, of it burning, burning, burning into her flesh, and of dark creatures feeding on her while she screamed; images of gore and horror that made her shiver still.
Then one day, thanks to the ministrations of her faithful people, she awoke. She simply awoke weak, hungry, and parched. So they lingered in the relative safety of the cave while she recuperated, she cursing her frailty and every moment they lost in their quest to rouse the Sleepers. If only she could stir herself to full strength.
Instead she was a feeble old woman with skin sagging from bones, unable to even place her cloak on her own shoulders.
Deglin maintained the fire just to keep her warm. He’d dared venture outside to collect more wood. He didn’t go far, didn’t go beyond her wards, which, thank God, did not fail while she was sick.
“Somethin’ out there,” he muttered to her once. “Keepin’ an eye on us.”
Yes, there were Watchers. She would deal with them when need be, but at the moment she was more interested in what she could watch. She wanted to look into the fire—perhaps God would speak to her again, provide guidance.
“Lala, child,” she said, “fetch my yarn.”
Lala scampered away and was back in seconds with the yarn basket. Grandmother picked through the balls of yarn with shaky hands. This would not do.
“Child,” she said. “You will have to help me tie knots. I’m not yet steady.” She did not like to think what kind of disaster a mistake could cause, with the etherea of this place so unstable.
Lala had learned well from watching all the time and playing her string games. Her nimble little fingers flew with each knot Grandmother named. Sometimes she’d have to prompt Lala to the form when the girl paused, her young face perplexed. “Remember the knot where the bunny goes into the hole?” Lala would then solemnly nod and finish the knot.
When Lala tied the last one, Grandmother took the snarl of red yarn and inspected it closely. Yes, her clever, dear grandchild had done very well. But now, she wondered, would it work for her since she had not done the actual tying herself? She’d tried to project her intent into the knots as Lala worked, but she wasn’t sure it was enough. So she yanked some of her wiry gray hairs from her head and wove them into the snarl best as she could, impressing her intent upon it. Then she tossed it into the fire and stared and prayed.
She must have stared for a long time for she dozed off. Her awareness of her people fell away and the world turned gray, yet she was still aware of the crackle of fire. Shapeless dreams, lacking the violence of her fever dreams, came and went like dancers waltzing across a ballroom floor.
A face intruded on her dreams, formed just beyond the flames. It was a masked face. Grandmother jolted fully awake and found the face wasn’t a dream at all.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Behind the mask, haunting eyes stared back at her. Just stared. What did it mean? Who would come to her in such a form?
“Who are you?” Sweat dripped down Grandmother’s temple. The jovial red sequins and feathers of the mask mocked her.
The entity did not answer; it just stared.
In a more pleading tone, Grandmother asked, “What are you?”
The flames flared and the mask was replaced by a visored and winged helm of steel so bright it almost hurt to look upon it. Live symbols swarmed and wiggled across the steel, symbols the like of which she had never seen before and therefore could not interpret.
The vision pulled back revealing the armored figure mounted on a great black horse. She knew the stallion—he was the steed of the god of death the heathen Sacoridians worshipped. Black as the charcoal of her fire he was, demon spawn. He pranced and snorted, his rider armed with a lance and shield. This was not, she thought, the death god who rode the stallion, but some lesser avatar. Even so, Grandmother felt the threat of the pair, felt the hairs stand on the back of her neck.
Then the vision was gone. The fire was a normal fire, and she discerned her followers moving about the cave and chatting. The cold returned to her bones. Lala tentatively touched her arm.
