Crow woke to darkness and deathly silence. She must have crossed over again. But that couldn’t be right. Her head hurt and she could feel herself breathing. It was hard to move, her knees pushed into her chest, her feet pressed against something cold and unyielding. There was dampness in the air and the smell of fresh earth. The past few hours were spotty, memories threaded by a shuttle’s loom guided by unsteady hands, coming up in one place before disappearing behind cloth elsewhere. She closed her eyes.
The shed door shattered apart, that much she remembered. The next few moments were a blur. Men and horses and lamplight. Rough hands pulled her out into the open, someone reached for the book. She remembered fighting back and being met with fists in return. Darkness after that, then waking up to the world swaying back and forth and the creak of wood on oiled iron. She sat in the back of a cart, men on either side with their hands on the pommels of their sabres. Her hands were tied, and the rope fastened to an eyebolt in the floor. She looked around for Sevryn and almost asked where he was but thought better of it.
Slowly they creaked and swayed through town where the houses were all lit and the doors were all open, people pressed shoulder to shoulder watching the cart go by. She could feel them looking, though she couldn’t see their faces, shadow-figures trying to get a glimpse of the witch. She knew they’d left town when the wind picked up and pelted her face with loose snow. The guards pulled their coat collars up around their faces, she shrank back into herself to try and stop shivering but it did little good. The horses blew great clouds of vapor as they struggled to pull the cart up the hill towards the keep, their hooves sliding in fresh snowdrifts as the driver whipped them forward. At the gates the cart stopped, a small hunchbacked man hopped down, her book held tightly in his hands.
“I should prefer Gideon and I deliver the witch personally” he said, gesturing to the driver.
“Sir, with all due respect,” one of the guards protested.
The hunchback whispered something to the driver who immediately turned and slapped the man across the face. The guards left without saying another word. Once they’d gone through the gates the hunchback whispered to Gideon again. Gideon got out of the cart, cut the rope free of the eyebolt and heaved Crow into the snow. She landed hard on the frozen ground, hands still tied so that she could not catch herself. Gideon lifted her upright, blood trickled from her nose and her face throbbed. Without a word the hunchback started walking, and with Gideon towering behind her Crow had little choice but to follow. She followed the hunchback through the gates and the muddy yard, past the stables and through a crooked door into darkness.
The keep was a tangle of stairs and corridors, turns and dead ends all in near total darkness. Sometimes they’d turn around midway down a hall only to come back the same way later. If they were trying to confuse her it was a wasted effort as she was not keeping track of the directions, focusing instead on each step, as there was no snow here to break her fall. Eventually the hunchback led them through a narrow archway and into a spiraling staircase.
They descended slowly, the stairs seemed to go on forever. Crow lost herself in thought, there was nothing but the darkness and the cadence of her footsteps. And somehow she hoped that this moment would extend forever, that she could be suspended here in time, for she had no desire to find what awaited her at the bottom. Just then she missed a step and knocked the wind out of her lungs, but she did not fall forward. The stairs had ended, and the hunchback lit a lamp, then retreated into the darkness as though the light itself had struck him. Gideon picked it up and held it aloft, its weak light almost blinding after so much time spent in darkness. She could tell they were in an old part of the keep, somewhere deep underground. It was warmer here than it was above, the ground not yet frozen if it ever froze this deep. Every few steps the walls were inset with carvings, great flat slabs of grey stone plastered into the stonework. Each slab was inset with lions and shields and dragons and arrows, delicate handiwork reflecting in pale light A musty smell, old and sour hung in the air here. She could hear the scurrying of rats in the places the light didn’t reach.
Down a long hall they walked, the blindseer taking care to never step into the lamplight and Gideon bent almost in half against the low ceiling. She saw now that each carving had a name under it and two sets of dates. As they got further the carvings stopped, replaced instead with openings three feet square at their entrance with nothing but blackness beyond. She was in the catacombs.
They stopped suddenly, she saw one of the openings had an iron grate in place of a grave stone. The blindseer whispered to Gideon who fumbled with a key before pulling the grate open. They pushed her inside and locked it behind her. She lay there and watched the light disappear down the hallway. The darkness was total.
Something groaned again in the dark, shivers ran down her spine and she pressed herself against the wall. The stones were poorly set, sharp edges no one had bothered polishing or working flat. She used and edge to cut through the rope, scoring her arms in the process. With her hands free she drew the sigil for coldfire and a small flame flickered to life.
Rats scurried away with the coming of light. She saw now that the room extended upwards, how high she couldn’t say as up above the darkness won out against her light. A figure lay prone on the wet stone floor, taking up most of the space in the cell. She picked the flame up in the palm of her hand and moved closer.
“Sevryn!”
He groaned in response. She pressed a hand to his forehead, he was running a fever. She moved the flame across his body, his shirt was bloodied and the leather of his boots torn to shreds by rats. Bile rose and she fought the urge to vomit when she saw the sinew and bone under chewed leather, telltale bitemarks in the torn flesh.
She cupped her hands against the stone walls in a place where water dripped and waited until she had a mouthful. Carefully she held up Sevryn’s head and poured the water into his mouth. She did this a few more times, dripping some over his forehead in a vain attempt to beat back the fever. He came to, slightly, but his eyes did not seem to focus and were glassy as though he were drunk.
“Jonas? It’s hot in here, Jonas, tamp the hearth,” he whispered.
“Sevryn, it’s me, Crow,” she said, tapping him gently on the cheeks. She held his hand in hers but it was cold and stiff. “Do you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Try to sit up, Sevryn,” she said. With this he winced somewhat and his expression changed.
“I can’t” the realization knocked him out of his fever dream. “I can’t move.” He took a deep breath that ended with a wet cough. “Take me home,” he said before closing his eyes again. His breathing slowed. Crow set his hand down and witched three more coldfires, setting them all around him to ward off the rats. She leaned back against the rocks and wept.
***
The snow gleamed in the morning light and the sun lit up the frozen forest though its rays brought no warmth. Between thickets of thorny bushes ran tracks of game, both large and small, perfect prints as though drawn from bestiary reference. Birds chirped and tweeted from leafless branches, flying in groups from tree to tree. For Lenora, each step was a struggle. The snow here was deep as the woods were full of gullies and divots, each step had to be deliberate and planned. She kicked herself for not taking a walking stick to check the snow’s depth but she’d gone too far to turn back now.
She reached a pile of stones and stopped to catch her breath, exhaling puffs of vapor that froze on the tips of her eyelashes. By the time she’d caught her breath she regretted stopping, suddenly aware of how sweat soaked her thin cloak had become. She dropped her mitts into the snow and took a map from her satchel and with a pencil marked the pile of stones with an X. It would be a quarter mile to the next one if she kept her bearings. She checked the lodeglass before setting off again, its arrow set steadfast towards the keep.
Though she’d spent her whole life in Eskryn, she’d never thought about its past. It wasn’t a subject anyone had ever mentioned, even in passing. It’d come as a surprise to her to find the annotations on Father’s map, and she thought at first they were an old man’s flight of fancy, but any doubts were set aside when she’d found the pile of stones. It was an ancient cairn if the map was to be believed. She was following a funerary path, from times before the Kingdom, relics of barbaric rites. The hillock on which they’d built the keep was a great cairn itself, tribute to some long forgotten god-king, if its size was any indication. It was her father’s great grandfather, or perhaps some Lord before them, who’d built the first keep atop the cairn and dug catacombs through its heart.
It was midday by the time she’d reached the third and last cairn in the woods. Exhausted and hungry, she wanted more than anything to build a fire but knew the smoke would give her away. Before her lay an expanse of scrubby untilled field punctuated by stands of dwarf trees. The snow here was spread in thin patches across frozen grass. She stood behind the cairn and lined the Great Hall’s roof up with its topmost stone, just like the map instructed. Sure enough, midway through the field there stood a large thicket. She planned her path for some time, taking into account snow drifts and stands of tallgrass so that her path would not be seen from the keep. From her satchel she took the Father’s white bedsheet and pulled it over herself before walking into the field slowly, crouching low as she could manage. It was doubtful anyone would be looking, but it was best to be safe.
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The going was easy here, the snow shallow and ground flat and firm so that she reached the thicket with little trouble. The small trees were densely packed and between them grew thorny bushes, even though they were now leafless they had grown so thick as to hide her completely. She bunched the sheet up and shoved it into a tangle of roots. The noise spooked a group of magpies who took off into the sky before circling back overhead. Lenora covered her head with her hands and dove into the thicket to get away from the diving birds. Had she dove any further she’d have dashed her head onto stone, as before her stood the final cairn, though this one was different than the others. The color and cut of the stones reminded her of the great hall, as did the precision with which they were set. She brushed some snow away and found a wooden door, hardly bigger than a cellar hatch. With her dagger she pried up the hasp nails, the lock rusted beyond saving. They gave with little trouble as the wood was rotten and worm-eaten. She pulled on the door hard and it came off its hinges, opening to a darkness beyond. She lit a small lamp and went in, almost falling in the low corridor, not prepared for the steep stone stairs.
***
Crow snuffed out all but one of the flames, not able to bear looking at Sevryn’s battered body. Hours passed, or maybe days, and she found each time she fell asleep the flames were out when she awoke and she had to chase the rats away again. His breathing slowed further and he exhaled with a rattle. She tried to rouse him again but it was of no use.
She sat, back against the wet stones and closed her eyes. Sevryn coughed, the sound echoed against the stone walls until it turned to a hiss. Something warm touched her shoulder.
“Child,” a dying echo seemed to say. Crow tensed but found herself unable to move.
“Nimaena?” she whispered.
“Yesssss,” the words came from nowhere, faintly.
“Am I dead?” Crow asked, feeling Nimaena’s familiar presence.
“No, child. The veil has thinned, his time is nearing.”
Something moved near Sevryn, faint whisps of white light shifted in the air before fading. “I’m close now, close. Though there’s not much time. We’ve got to get your book, child, but I’m no use without a vessel.” The voice trailed off into silence without an echo. Crow shook her head, the air had become thick and she tasted blood. She held her hand above Sevryn’s mouth but could not feel his breath.
“Nimaena?”
There was no answer.
“Nimaena!” Crow yelled, the words echoing into the darkness. Silence.
“Is this what you want?”
She cut open her palm on a rock and let blood drip to the floor.
“Nimaena, answer me!”
“Yes child?” a whisper so faint Crow felt she’d only thought the words, not heard them.
“Don’t leave me here, Nimaena. You’ve got to help Sevryn.”
“Sevryn’s already touched the waters, child. He’s stepped into the river crossing. Only you can help him.”
“How? Is there a spell? In the book? A medicine?”
“Come closer, child. The veil will soon draw closed again.” The air around Sevryn shifted again, faint bursts of white light seemed to come off him in waves before disappearing again. Crow crept closer, the air had grown somehow colder.
“Give me your hands.” Nimaena’s voice was coming from within now, a chill ran down Crow’s spine.
Crow held her hands palms downwards over Sevryn’s body. A warmth grew inside her, radiating out until it pushed out all the cold and hunger and grief, she felt her face contort into a smile though she felt no happiness. Her hands were no longer her own, she watched herself work the buttons of Sevryn’s bloodied shirt and trace a complicated sigil over his heart.
Sevryn seized and his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his jaw clenched so violently he bit off the tip of his tongue. He sank back with blood dripping down his face and exhaled a final deep breath before laying still. Crow stood back, her hands numb, the room seemed brighter and her body seemed to radiate warmth. She watched Sevryn stand on bloodied, broken feet and shamble towards the door, his eyes unseeing and white. With the sickening sound of broken bones and torn sinew he pulled the gate free of its hinges, broken lock pins clattering to the ground. The thing, the dead thing that once had been Sevryn stumbled off into the catacombs.
“Nimaena! What have you done!” Crow yelled, but something was stuck in her throat so the words came out quiet and garbled.
***
The blindseer lit his strange hearth, turning away just as the kindling started to take. The light, though faint, caused the already tenuous edges of his world to tremble. He hated fire almost as much as he hated the cold. With a quick pull of a lever an iron baffle slammed shut over the fireplace, letting heat into the room but without letting light pass. With the fire blotted out, he could see again and so he made his way over to his study. His chambers were almost as opulent and large as those of the Lord’s, though much more sparsely furnished. His desk and chair were shopworn, and though he could ask for new ones and certainly get them, he chose not to bother. He set witch’s book down and worked slowly to free it of its oilskins and undo the clasp that held it shut. His hand wavered for a moment before he lifted the cover, he could feel himself growing stronger already and imagined himself ruling over the keep with an iron fist.
The first page was blank, and so was the next. Carefully, methodically, he flipped through the book running his hands over the empty pages to make sure the words weren’t embossed without ink. When he got to the last page he was trembling with rage. He slammed the book shut and reached for a stiff leather strap tucked into the lowest drawer of his desk, two pieces of rawhide sewn together over an iron weight. With the book in one hand and the strap in the other he set off for the catacombs, ready to beat the secrets out of the witch.
He hadn’t taken three steps into the hallway when realized something wasn’t right. The keep had grown around him, or else he had grown into it, it was an extension of himself. It was no coincidence that his room was by the main doors, and that he could hear the comings and goings this way. Gideon was outside, that much was certain. But there was something wrong with the air, it smelled like death, like the catacombs. Panic struck as he realized the witch had gotten free but before he could even make it to the stairwell something was upon him. It moved fast, too fast, and smelled like rotten flesh. He covered his head with the book as blows rained down from every direction. A steel grip tore the strap free from his hands before a blow caught him in the ribs. He spat blood and felt the book break free of his grip.
***
What little light had made it in from outside disappeared long ago and now Lenora’s lamp was beginning to sputter and cough. She heard voices up ahead and doubled her pace, eager to leave the winding darkness. Iron clattered to the ground and sent sharp echoes that made her blood run cold. She stopped and heard footsteps, uneven and heavy. She waited for the sounds to fade before moving on.
She saw the flickering firelight before she saw the girl holding it in her hands. She snuffed her lamp, but was too slow, the girl must have seen the light because she turned to look.
“Did Nimaena send you?”
With those word’s Lenora’s necklace pulsed, the pendant felt warm against her skin. This girl must be the witch.
“No, but I know the way out. We’ve got to go,” Lenora said and grabbed the girl’s sleeve.
“I’m not leaving Sevryn!” The girl tore free, the tiny fire winked out for a moment.
Lenora could hear the witch’s hands move and another fire appeared. The light reflected off something metal and caught Lenora’s eye, an iron grate lay on the floor.
“He’s as good as dead if he meets the blindseer, it’s best we leave now. I don’t think you’ll get a second chance to escape, especially not if they lock me up with you” Lenora said.
“You really don’t understand. I’ve got to help Sevryn. It’s my fault he’s here.”
Lenora reached for Crow, but Crow was faster, sidestepping deftly. The fire went out again and Lenora heard Crow run off. By the time she’d lit her lamp to follow the witch was gone.
“Sevryn!”
Crow found him lying in an empty hallway, arms curled tightly around her book. She knelt beside him and held a hand to his chest. The instant she’d touched his skin something held her there, frozen, and the sound of running water filled her head. The darkness of the keep fell away and it was summer again, she sat in tallgrass surrounded by wildflowers with the book in her lap. A shadow sat beside her.
We’ve got the book, child. Tired, tired. I’ve done too much, I’m too old for this. Old, old. Can you imagine? Nimaena, feeling the ebb and flow of time? There as a laugh like winter wind.
I’ve pierced the veil before and it was never like this, you’ve given me a weak vessel child. Too far gone. I’ve got to rest, but there’s work to do yet. No rest for the weary. No rest.
The shadow reached out and took Crow’s hand, Crow watched herself open the book.
It was dark again, her muscles seized and her eyes rolled back into her head.
“Witch!” Lenora yelled but Crow didn’t respond.
The blindseer had staggered back, battered and bloody, holding the leather strap. He raised it with both hands about to bring it down on the witch’s head.
Lenora tackled him to the ground, knocking the strap from his hands. He fought back, but she was stronger. Lenora grabbed him by the throat and raised her other hand but before she could hit the blindseer the door opened, flooding the hall with light. Gideon stood dumbfounded at the door. He dropped his horses bridle, the animal didn’t seem to care.
The blindseer took this moment as his chance and broke free of Lenora’s grip and ran towards Gideon. He whispered something, quickly, and Gideon’s expression changed. Lenora caught up with the blindseer and kicked his feet out from under him, he landed hard, stunned. Gideon hit Lenora square in the back, cracking a rib and knocking the wind from her. She staggered off into the dark.
“Gideon!” She wheezed, but the man followed, picking up the strap where the blindseer had dropped it. “Gideon please! It’s me, Lenora!” She coughed and wheezed, each word sending shooting pain through her lungs.
Crow opened the book on Sevryn’s lifeless body, seeing herself work as though she were watching through a pane of glass. There was so much to know, Nimaena’s voice still rang through her head. The words were there now, she could read them even in darkness. She knew the book and its contents now, as though she’d read it cover to cover every day for her entire life.
Her hands drew a sigil in the air and coldfire appeared on the blindseer’s shirt. Except this time it wasn’t coldfire, and his shirt began to smoulder and smoke. He picked himself up off the floor and ran for the door before diving headlong into the snow, desperate to put out the fire. Crow drew another sigil, this one more complex, a series of three intertwined.
She found herself in darkness, soft and warm. The world reduced to ley-lines, pulsing points of light. She could see for miles, lines intertwined between white star-specks, each light the soul of some small life, birds and beasts and things that crawled. And she found she could talk to them, speak without speaking, in the strange and quiet way that animals do.
A flock of magpies, angered suddenly at the existence of the blindseer, left their comfortable nests and took to the skies. They descended on him mercilessly, the old hunchback caught offguard and blinded by daylight. He ran senselessly around the courtyard, the birds not letting up. He ran headlong into Gideon's horse, which the birds attacked without second thought. The animal, spooked, kicked the blindseer with its hind legs, hoof catching him square in the face. And so the old hunchback collapsed to the cobbles, blood spilling out of his head and into the muddy snow.
Gideon dropped the strap and stood, just as dumbstruck as before.
“M’lady, is anything the matter?”