Roge stared at the dead duke, his arms hugging himself, heart pounding. The Duke was silent again now, never to return to the living. He had given Roge his warnings and advice and had then transformed into that which Roge disliked, a murder.

Should he trust the old duke? The dead do not lie.

Roge had heard of pilgrims talking about their last conversations with the deceased. They had trudged up the mountain and professed their love or cried their loneliness to the one who left them behind. They had suffered through the long climb, carrying the remains of a parent or a lost friend, just to settle a matter of inheritance or air a lasting grievance. A knight had once brought the body of a deceased retainer to find out where the armor had gone off to.

Roge had not, in all his life and all the stories he had been told by the current and previous masters of acolytes, heard of a deceased giving such a dire warning. He had to hide. Now.

Any remnant of the aborted night’s sleep had evaporated from his body. Getting up, he moved to the door and listened. He could hear the pounding on the chamber nearby still. Carefully, he pulled the door open, trying to make no sound.

The hinges creaked, and Roge froze, waiting to see if anyone noticed. The pounding continued, with conversations and yelling of “Open up, Your Grace,” drowning out any other sound. Emboldened, he pulled the door fully open and stepped out. Edmur Eyser, as well as the duke’s entire retinue, were clustered around the other chamber’s entrance.

The way out of the building was blocked, and they would search outside once they discovered what had happened. He had to find another place to hide. Turning the other way, he walked around the building. None of the other chambers was safe. They would be the first to be examined. He came across the door to the inner courtyard, but that place was bare except for the sacred stone.

At last, he arrived at the chutes used to launch the bodies into the desert below. He could not come up with any better idea than this. The old duke had been clear that he must not be found.

Unshuttering one of the covers mid-row, he climbed inside, feet first. He had done so before when cleaning the holes, though only with a rope securing him lest he fall. The chute was a small, narrow tunnel, about half the length of a grown man. It descended at a shallow angle, enough to make it easy to slide the bodies down but not enough to fall in with one accidentally. He lowered the shutter behind him, then, on all fours, shivering in the freezing night air of the desert, he prayed to any gods that were listening.

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It was half an hour later when he heard the searchers.

“This is the last part. He can’t be in the building,” said one of the men.

“He didn’t leave,” said the other.

“What are these? Round window?”

There was the sound of one of the shutters being lifted.

“It’s where they dump the bodies,” said the first.

“Is there a grave on the other side?” asked the second.

“It’s at the bottom of the cliff, in the desert. If he left this way, he’s dead already.”

“The young duke can still speak with him,” said the second.

“A thousand years of bones and decay lie below, and I do not savor wading it in search of a single acolyte.”

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They were quiet after that, continuing their search.

The chute’s surface had ground smooth over the years, the dead taking their tax on the imperfection as they slid by to their everlasting rest below. Still, Roge’s hands ached from the angle, and his knees grated against the unyielding rock.

The cold desert wind, finding the bottom of the cliff, caressed the dead, then rose up and over the mountain. As it passed the chutes, it made keening sounds to mourn the dead that others had left behind. His acolyte’s habit and night’s sandals were not good protection against the biting wind. His feet and ass were sticking out of the hole, exposed. He was losing any feeling in his lower extremities, and his balls and cock had retreated as far up as they could as if he were a boy again.

Exhausted, he turned on his side, trying to lie down in the hole, legs pulled up to his chest, shivering. The cold stone cocooned him like the womb of the mother he never knew. The cold flowed around him, keeping his core warm.

He must have fallen asleep at some point. He was dreaming of portents and warnings. The old duke was floating in the air, strapped to something Roge could not see. His eyes were gone, in their place was light shining out. He was looking down at Roge, mouth not moving, yet Roge could hear his voice booming.

Below that apparition, Roge could see the young duke, sword drawn, fire behind him. Roge was on his knees, pleading. Neither of them was paying attention to him. Instead, they just kept on with their actions, their demands, the old duke speaking warnings, the young duke making demands.

Roge woke.

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It was still dark, and the angle of the chute did not allow for much starlight to shine in.

There was the sound of a cart being pushed. The men had returned. Roge listened. The cart was coming towards the chutes. They had come to dispose of the Duke’s body. If they opened the chute he was in, he would be discovered immediately.

“Let’s use that one. You, use the other,” said one of the voices.

Which hole were they aiming for? What other?

He levered himself to his hands and feet again, trying not to make a sound. The carts were creaking, the men not paying attention. The howling of the wind was masking any small sounds he might make as the shutters rattled in place.

He slowly stretched out, letting his feet dangle above the desert. Bringing them down to find the wall, he tried to find purchase below. His feet were cold and numb, and he could not feel a thing through his sandals.

He had very little time left. Using one foot, he pushed the sandal off the other, feeling it tumble into the abyss. He then felt with his bare foot, but there was not a seam wide enough for him to stick his toe into.

He continued lowering himself, slowly backing off, using his arms and hands to keep himself anchored so he wouldn’t fall to join those he had ministered to over the years. The angle of the chute and the smoothness of the stone did not make this easy, but by pressing his hands into the side of the tunnel where the stone was rougher, he was able to find traction.

His stomach was now pressing against the edge of the chute, half his body outside the monastery proper, a weird moth emerging from his transforming slumber. Still he found nowhere to place his feet. His hands were scraped, his weight pulling him down.

The cart had knocked into the shutter on the other side of the chute, and one of the men was speaking.

“Pull it back. We need to raise the shutter first.”

With seconds left, he had little choice. He allowed his body to slide until only his arms were inside the chute. The edge of the chute trapped his habit against his body, exposing him from the stomach down. As his body slid down along the external stone wall of the monastery, his knees, balls, cock, and stomach all skinned. The only thing saving him from screaming was the numbing cold that deadened the pain.

He looked to his right. The next chute was close by. Swinging one arm over, he grabbed the ledge with his hand. His other arm slipped, his hand barely grasping the rim of the chute.

He dangled there between the living and the dead, one hand grasping each chute, arms spread like a moth just emerged from its cocoon. And as a moth emerged too soon, the sun not yet risen, the color of his wings had not yet been revealed.

A body came from a chute further out, falling down into the night.

His hands trembled, holding on. They were numb, and he was exhausted and in pain. He almost let go, joining those who took their final flight. The shutter was raised, and he heard the men again.

“Push him through.”

A body came, sailing by majestically. It emerged from the chute and angled over Roge, diving into the desert below. He could not make out any details, both moons having set, but the wind took that moment to subside, and the smell of the body hit him in shock.

His grasp firmed, the color of his wings a match for the night.