CHAPTER 2

Floating. He was floating in the void, tilting between slumber and death. There was no time here. Only darkness. Only the sweet oblivion of nothing. Slowly the world filtered in. Waves of awareness followed. Pain tearing through his muscles. Whispers of the Caretaker’s footsteps. The crisp scent of fresh linens. The brush of water on his fevered brow. The acrid taste of broth being forced down his throat. The murmured prayers of the Septi.

Aerin awoke to himself on the seventh day. The world was as dim as he remembered it – a sluggish blur of bleeding colors and dimly formed shapes. He was blind again…well, as blind as he had been before.

He could tell that he was no longer in the monastery dungeon. The scent of pain and terror were not here. Rather the space was filled with an empty warmth and the smell of the herbal wash that the other acolytes used to scrub the floors. His hand smoothed over the rough linens they had wrapped him in. His arm was bandaged all the way up to his shoulder. He was in a bed chamber. Alone. He could hear his caretaker, Misrath, in the adjoining room, shuffling about with his duties.

Aerin knew that it was morning. The smell of sunshine filtered through the stained glass windows, warming his pallid skin. He could hear the twitter of song birds from the garden. The mournful chanting from the morning penitence thrummed from the floor beneath and he knew then that it must be exactly after sunrise.

Aerin slowly sat up in the thin bed, groaning at the new aches that had settled into his bones. The vision had been a stubborn one. The Confessor had used the whip and the hot irons this time. He swallowed, at the memory. His skin felt raw and exposed. His head was throbbing. His throat was parched. Aerin smoothed a thin hand over his shaved head. A frown tugged at his cracked lips.

The dark angel.

After ten years, she had come to him again.

She was not as kind as he remembered. The image of her haunted him.

Gold eyes flashing. Black teeth baring. Rage…Rage…

‘Vengeance…’ He heard her voice whisper in his head.

Aerin shuddered, hands clutching to his chest. The memory of the blue blade dagger was palpable. The panic of dying had not quite left him. If what he had seen was true, he feared what would follow for him – for all of them. The door creaked. Aerin startled, then settled hearing the familiar lumber of the Caretaker, padding into the room.

“Misrath.” He cringed at how hoarse and rough his voice sounded. “What brings you here, this pleasant morning?”

Aerin smiled, hearing the grunt of displeasure that followed. He remembered Misrath, before his eyesight had started to wane. He had been only a boy then, about eleven. That had been over a decade before. The Caretaker had been a tall but round, and bent figure. He was a miserable old man, with a stern eye, and a crooked nose, and just as bald as the rest of the acolytes in the East monastery. He was even more mysterious. Misrath had been of the silent order, having taken a vow of muteness upon his ordinance – the perfect companion for one they wished forgotten. He had been intimidating when Aerin first came there as a boy, but now, the old man was nothing but a blob of blurring gray robes and mute disapproval. He heard Misrath shuffle closer towards him. He could smell the offering he carried.

“Ah, cold cod, with fresh bread again, and what’s this? A slice of pickled ham? Is that roast pheasant I smell? Oh, You spoil me.”

Aerin grinned, feeling the violent plop of the wooden plate into his lap. His fingers reached for the usual stale bread and dried fish. He snapped it between his fingers, knowing this annoyed the old man, and belatedly choked a piece down. He grimaced. It was just as dry and bland as the time before. He’d hoped the repentant chamber would have done some good, for his penitence, but it seemed the torture had done little to quell the Grand Septi’s ire. There had been embarrassment, and to embarrass the Septi was to embarrass the crown. The matter would be worse, if not for his station. Nevertheless if the crown wanted him to disappear –

The jug clattered loudly, startling him, just as the church bells echoed loudly from below. Aerin belatedly took a sip of the cold fresh water the Caretaker had clanged on to the table beside him. His brows wrinkled. First mass was over. He could hear the familiar shuffle of footsteps in the hall beneath, the quiet lull of chatter as the fellow monks marched out to attend to their duties.

Duty. The word was laughable, really. A deception cloaked in nobility and nothing more – and yet, Aerin sighed – duty called him as well. He shivered as his thin feet found the cold of the stone tiles. He knew that his penitence was far from over, and the gathering hall below would now require a thorough cleaning. He could practically feel the ache of the rough floor in his knees already. He heard Misrath grunt, as he stumbled, hands fumbling for his cane.

“Misrath.” He groaned as the edge of the bed table jammed him in the belly. Some unkind soul had moved the furniture around. Caretaker really was a stretch of the imagination for this old brute, wasn’t he supposed to know where to place the things in this tiny room? “Assistance would be greatly appreciated. My cane, if you would?”

Misrath seemed to pause, before his lumbering footsteps padded over towards him. Aerin froze, as he felt the strange object pushed between his fingers. His milky eyes looked down in habit, though he could barely make it out. It was gray in color, hard to the touch, smooth and cool like…metal… His fingers twitched in realization. His white brows furrowed, familiar tension coiling in his gut, as he held the silver mask in hand.

This was a summons. The Crown had called.

. . .

“By all accounts, although it pains me to admit—”

“Do not.” a slender hand pressed against a mud stained dress.

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“But, My Lady…”

A single finger raised in protest. “I beg of you, do not say—”

A sigh. “Apologies, Lady Emerie, but I am afraid we may be lost.”

The young woman turned to the old knight then, flaxen hair flat against her head with perspiration. Her emerald dress was soaked up to the knee from the river crossing. Her feet were muddy and flea bitten, her stockings ruined. Her face was flushed, and green eyes were twitching with the type of exasperation and exhaustion that drove men to murder. Seeing her expression, her guard gave her a sheepish smile.

“Worry not, My Lady.” He offered, struggling under the weight of the massive metal chest he was carrying. He grunted, trying to heave it over the boulder that blocked the pathway to exit the gorge. “ The goddess of fortune offers blessings to those who need it most.”

Lady Emerie looked down at her necklace, the sigil of the praying goddess stared blandly back at her. She frowned.

“Ser Gallion. We have been traveling for three weeks now. By this account, we have lost two horses to hunger, and a third to the sand ravine. Our carriage is hobbling back there with a broken wheel in the middle of the gorge. Our trunks of clothes have been firmly lost in the river bed, and we are, from what I understand, miles deep in bandit-ridden forest, with a pile of gold and mages’seed in hand, no less. And to top it all off, our other guards and horses were swept away by the current and are likely all dead. I think the goddess of fortune has promptly told us to go fuck ourselves at this point.”

“My Lady!” The older man looked scandalized. Emerie scoffed. The man was old enough to be her father, but he behaved like a hapless boy at times. “What, you disagree?” She yanked up her skirts, reaching for the arm he gave her, to scramble on top of the massive boulder. The old man hobbled up beside her belatedly, his sword scuffing loudly at his side against the slate gray rock. The both of them took a moment to stare down at the gorge they had just climbed out of. Hours of struggle had finally paid off.

“In my experience.” He managed between huffs of breaths, “Fortune finds the man who hope has abandoned.”

Emerie grinned at him in incredulity. “What horsecrock.” She wanted to say. She laughed, but then she remembered something. Her mouth thinned into a line.

“You were with my grandfather in BridHard, yes?”

The knight nodded hesitantly at her. His voice took on a graveness. “Yes, My Lady. I was his squire then.”

Emerie seemed to ponder this for a moment as they stared down into the raging water below them. The glimmer of a metal carriage lay toppled in the distance, one of its wheels lay jutting from the crag of a rock a few feet away. A swirl of colorful tunics and silks slithered further down the river, lost to the raging current and jagged rocks. Their food was with the rest of the party, who were now, only the goddess knew where, and Emerie hoped were not at the bottom of said river. All she had were what was left of her dowry— gold and mages’seed, neither of which were edible, and they were likely miles away from the nearest town. A part of her wondered how the hell they would ever make it to Nugara.

“I am told that it was a hard and bloody battle.” She said instead of voicing her despair. She turned to look at Ser Gallion, but the old knight was staring out at the waning sun in the horizon. His eyes were haunted, his face grim.

“It was no battle, my Lady. It was a massacre.”

She had heard as much. A hundred thousand men had set out to fight the pagans all the way from Sathloor, to the Crest. Only seventy four made it back. She had heard the earth had opened and swallowed them up; that the hundred ships they sent had sunk in the rage of a vengeful sea that was still mere moments before – that the pagans had monsters who wore the flesh of men; monsters who opened the heavens and rained down white crackling fire and roaring thunder on all of them.

“You survived, though.” She said, “You saved my grandfather.”

“I was spared.” his smile was a grimace. “The goddess of fortune smiled on me.”

The old knight turned away from the gorge then, grabbing the dowry chest by the outer handle to drag it along the dirt. “That is why I am certain, she will yet smile upon us now. Come now, My Lady. We must make headway before the sky begins to darken. The bandits hour is twilight. We should stay clear of the road.”

The old man began to pick up speed. Emerie tottered after him, legs aching. “Wait.” She lumbered after him, almost tripping over herself. Did he always move this fast? “I thought we did not know where to go. What is the point of hurrying?” Emerie murmured to herself.

Ser Gallion seemed to hear her. “We may be lost, but from the little I remember from Ser Alder’s map, I believe we are somewhere in the middle of the forest of Sodom.” He pointed to the sky. “Given the sun in that direction, north would be along this line. And the town of Somorro should be close. If we follow along the path of the road, from the forest. Reaching there, should take half a day’s walk if we are lucky.”

He smiled at Emerie’s hopeful grin. “A town? With…inns?” Inns had baths, and food, and wine!

Ser Gallion laughed. “Yes, My Lady. If we hurry, goddess willing, we should reach there by nightfall.”

. . .

They did not, in fact, reach there by nightfall. In fact, Emerie Rensforth was quite certain now that the goddess had turned her eye from them, to shit on them instead. They had entered the woodland along the dirt road, closely following along from the safety of the trees, but soon the trees had turned into a thicket, and before long, they were walled in on all sides.

The forest of Sodom was a maze. Its trees were meters high, blotting out the comfort of the clear blue sky. Without the sun as a guide, time had stretched into an immeasurable slurry. Whether they had been walking for hours or days, Emerie could no longer tell. Her fingers were numb from the damp cold, and a strange fog whispered just beyond their eyesight.

Massive vines enraptured everything. They slithered along the ground like engorged snakes, coiled along the bramble that crowded their path, hovered from the branches above them in threads. They grabbed against their soaked clothes and snagged into their boots, ripping into them as they struggled along. She had tripped almost four times now, each time her emerald dress had taken on more of a brown hue from the mud. Her fair skin now looked to be the dark brown of the pagans. It had gotten so bad that Ser Gallion had taken out his short sword to use as a machete. She would have laughed at the ridiculous display if she weren’t so exhausted. She would have laughed, if she weren’t so uneasy.

Emerie shook her head. It had begun to get dark. She was starved and dehydrated. The exhaustion had begun to get to her. The cold had sunk through her bones and into her brain somehow. It was as if there was something there with them. Something that chittered from the shadows of the crowded trees. Something that hummed beneath the call of the songbirds that were too high up to be seen. Or the game that skittered into the bushes before their eyes could meet. The more they walked, the more the ground sunk into a mess of mud, dragging them backwards, although she was certain that they had long left the river. The more they walked the thicker the fog became. She could barely see Ser Gallion before her now. He was only an arms length away. And then there was the smell.

It was sweet. It reminded Emerie of the perfume her mother had imported from the Summer Isle. It smelled of ripe fruit, plums and peaches and the flowery scent of a blooming rose. It smelled of —

“Meat…”

Yes, meat… Emerie stopped. Wait. What?

“Ser Gallion?”

She saw the knight stop, his sword in hand. He turned to her then, his wrinkled face half hidden in the thickening mist.

“Can you smell that?” He murmured in a low voice She could hear his smile. “Someone, is cooking meat somewhere…somewhere close by.”

“But—”

“We may yet find civilization, My Lady, Somorro and your inn is but a moment away!”

But…

Ser Gallion dropped the dowry chest, sheathing his sword. “I will walk ahead, to ensure it is safe. Wait here in the shadow of this birch tree. Here, “ He handed her a dagger from his belt. “If another comes along, use this. I will return for you in short order.”

Emerie stared at the dull gleam of the hunter’s dagger. Her face twisted in realization. “Wait!” she yelled after him, but he had already disappeared into the thick white mist.

A sinking feeling washed into her belly. ‘But—” she had wanted to say. “I can’t…I can’t smell it.

She could smell no meat. There was only the smell of the sweet perfume. The smell was so sweet it was sickening. It was so strong now that she felt it slink over her skin like silk. It clouded her head, fanning into her throat, seeping into her blood. Emerie sank against the bark of the nearby birch tree. She had begun to feel faint. Nausea roiled in her gut. Her head was spinning. Clammy hands clutched to the tree bark, before she slid clean into the mud. Black began to pitch into her vision.

This was bad. Something…something was terribly, terribly wrong.

She could hear something moving in the thick of the mist. Something like footsteps. Dread washed over her —