Empire of Night (7 page)

“H
ow much do you know of penitents, my lady?” the monk asked as they walked.

More than I want
, she thought, but said only, “Some.”

Simeon explained, “Penitents believe that the path to enlightenment lies through suffering—”

“We don't need a religion lesson,” Ronan cut in. “We need to know what's over the ridge.”

“Have you been to the shrine near Westerfox, my lady?” the monk asked.

“Until a fortnight ago, I had not left Edgewood since arriving before my first summer.”

“Of course, because it guards the Forest of the Dead,” the monk said. “There are many shrines, my lady. For pilgrims and those seeking spiritual guidance. The one near Westerfox is particularly sacred to penitents. That is where one might see
our deepest, most holy form of penance. The mummies.”

Simeon sucked in breath. “Yes, of course. The Order of Kushin—”

“Let the old man tell his story,” Ronan said.

“Have you heard of our mummies, my lady?” the monk asked.

“No, but I understand the basic concept, as it is practiced in the desert regions. On death, the body is exposed, and the heat dries it.”

“True, that is their custom. With us, as monks near the end of life, if they do not feel they are close enough to enlightenment, they begin refusing food. Then they start drinking a special tea, which slowly poisons them and preserves their body as it withers from lack of nourishment.”

“They mummify themselves?” Ronan said. “While they're still alive?”

“When they are nearing the end, they are placed in a special box, dry and heated to create a desert-like environment. Inside is a bell that they ring several times a day. When the bell no longer rings, the box is sealed and transported to the shrine. If the spirits have shown favor, when the box is opened, the monk is mummified. He is then dressed in fine clothing and placed on display, so that pilgrims may reflect on his sacrifice.”

“That is the stupidest—” Ronan began, but he was silenced by Ashyn stepping on his foot.

“That is the purpose of your journey, then?” she said. “You are transporting these . . . potential mummies?”

“To Westerfox, yes. It is a long and slow procession, but we do it each spring. This time, we bring four boxes.”

His voice lifted, as if this were some great accomplishment, and Ashyn dutifully murmured her congratulations, while secretly agreeing with Ronan. To mummify oneself while still alive? Surely that could not honor the spirits.

The group crested the ridge. Below were two wagons—basic, open affairs, each bearing two coffin-like boxes. Two men huddled around a fire. Both were dressed like the monk—in simple clothing and no shoes. Their camp lay on open ground, with no trees or rocks nearby large enough to conceal attackers.

Ashyn started down the hill. Ronan prompted the monk again to explain the situation.

“It is . . . difficult,” the monk said.

“Try.”

“I do not mean that I am loath to do so, but that I know what I have to say will be difficult to believe. It would appear . . . that is to say . . .” He turned to Ashyn as they walked. “The bells have rung again.”

“The bells . . . ?”

“Inside the boxes. The boxes were sealed and yet the bells ring. Even when the horses are at rest.”

Dread crept into Ashyn's gut, but she forced it from her voice. “You say, then, that you believe the men within the boxes live.”

“Yes, as impossible as that is.”

“It's not impossible at all,” Simeon said. “There are ailments that make the victim appear dead, unconscious sometimes for days. Coupled with the mediocre diagnostic skills of the average village healer, it is not surprising that many cultures have
incorporated certain checks and balances in their funerary customs, such as laying out the corpse for three nights or—”

“Just say it's possible,” Ronan said. “I'd like to get this over with before dawn.”

“The young scholar is correct,” the monk said. “That is why we do not seal the box as soon as the bell stops ringing. These are not men who perished a few days ago. The newest stopped ringing his bell a moon past. And the oldest stopped last summer.”

“It is not possible that they live,” Simeon said. “There is a malfunction of the bells. Perhaps earth tremors.”

“It is . . . more than the bells,” the monk said carefully.

His gaze flitted toward the camp. Beside Ashyn, Tova growled. When she strained to listen, she could catch the sound . . .

Scratching. She heard a dry, rustling scratching. Then a thump.

She glanced at Ronan and saw his face pale. Simeon continued to insist that what the monk feared was, quite simply, impossible. The dead did not wake. At least, not the long dead.

Simeon knew nothing of what had transpired in Edgewood. To those in the convoy, it had been explained that Ashyn's village had been beset by a fatal outbreak of illness, which may have spread to Fairview and may not have been a natural occurrence.

Ashyn turned to Simeon. “I must investigate these claims. However, I fear they arise from duplicity. Not the monks, of course. But someone may be tricking them for nefarious purposes, and this ought to be brought to the attention of Prince
Tyrus. I need you to go to him now and tell him what has happened.”

“You wish me to wake the prince?”

“You have nothing to fear from Tyrus. Tell him and my sister what has happened and have them come back here with you.”

“Should I not ask a warrior to rouse him?”

“Are you questioning the Seeker?” Ronan snapped.

“The young man is correct,” the monk said. “To question her will is to question the will of the spirits themselves. It is akin to blasphemy.”

“Please,” Ashyn said.

That plea worked. He left after she enjoined him to speak to no one else of this. “There are many superstitious folks in the empire,” she said. “I'd not wish to start outrageous rumors of resurrected mummies.”

Once he was gone, they continued down the hill. Soon it was impossible not to hear the sounds from the boxes—the scrapes and scratches and thuds and bumps.

“I fear their bodies have been possessed by evil spirits,” the monk said. “Though I've not heard of such a thing outside of nannies' tales.”

As they reached camp, the men at the fire rose, and their monk hurried forward to explain, leaving Ashyn and Ronan staring at the boxes.

“They're moving,” Ashyn whispered.

“Hmm.” Ronan moved closer and lowered his lips to her ear. “Shadow stalkers?”

“I . . . I don't think so. Shadow stalkers take the form of
that dark smoke to enter bodies, and they can leave it the same way. Why stay in those boxes?”

“Hoping someone will open them?”

“But no one has.”

“And we'll not do it either,” he said.

“I believe we must look—”

“I said we'll not.”

She glanced at him. “Were you not just chastising Simeon for questioning my decisions?”

“Simeon? Is that his name?” A derisive snort. Then his dark eyes narrowed. “I don't believe you ever explained why you were with him in the first place.”

“No, I did not.” She stepped toward the monks as they approached. The one who'd brought them performed introductions. His own name was Ivo. The other two monks barely stayed long enough for Ashyn to greet them properly before they slipped back to the fire. They'd spoken not a word. Silence was part of their penance, Ivo explained, as he led Ashyn to the boxes.

“Can they be opened?” she asked.

Ivo stared as if she'd asked him to crawl into one. “I do not believe that's necessary, my lady. If you were simply to placate the spirits, they would leave the bodies, without any need to look within.”

“But if I do that, how do we understand what has happened?”

Ivo's expression said he could live the remainder of his days quite happily without ever knowing.

Ashyn continued, “Do you not think we ought to bear
witness? Otherwise, if we are to tell someone, they will think we were duped.”

“Is there any need to tell someone?” Ivo said.

“Yes. An occurrence such as this must be documented.”

“The Seeker wants a box opened,” Ronan said. “Stop arguing and open one.”

“They are sealed and—”

“You said you open them at the shrine. It's easily done then. Just pry off a lid.”

A
t first, Ivo claimed they had no tools. But after some arguing, one of the other monks came over with a strong shovel. Apparently, withdrawing into silence did not prevent one from eavesdropping.

As Ronan worked at the lid, Ashyn asked Ivo the route they'd taken from their monastery. It was as she feared—they'd passed so close to Fairview that they'd seen the shimmering white town beyond the wall. They'd not entered nor even drawn close, having been warned of an illness there.

When Moria arrived with Tyrus, she said to Ronan, “You? What are you doing here?” proving she had not secretly sent him a message.

“It's good to see you, too, Moria.”

She turned to Ashyn. “We left Simeon behind, but he said something about mummies. Penitent monks who mistakenly
believe their dead are about to rise—”

A fresh scratching sounded from the box.

“That is, apparently, the mummy,” Ashyn said. “I've asked Ronan to open the box to confirm it.”

The thing within began to thump on the lid.

Moria glanced at her sister. “Unless they've accidentally interred giant rats, I think we can safely say it's the mummy.”

“I would agree.” Tyrus moved toward the box, paying no attention to the monks dropping into the dirt at his approach. “But Ashyn is right. We must confirm it.” He glanced at Ashyn. “Are there any preparations we should make before it opens?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I ought to begin the rituals of soothing.”

Ashyn whispered ancient words to acknowledge and soothe the spirits. Beside her, Moria stood at alert, ready to use her own power of banishment, should something evil arise from that box. Ronan prepared to open the lid while Tyrus moved in on the other side, taking hold.

When it seemed as if whatever lay in the box was calming—the scratches and thumps fewer and weaker—Moria nodded and Ashyn said, “Now. Open the box.”

The young men heaved on the stone lid. It rose half a hand, and Ashyn peered in.

“We need a lantern,” Moria said.

As Ivo scuttled off, Moria told the young men to hold the lid until a light could be brought.

“We'll try,” Tyrus grunted. “This isn't exactly as light as silk.”

“Set it back down then. We just need to get a glimpse inside
before the opening's big enough for the thing to spring out.”

“It's a bag of dried bones,” Ronan said. “I don't think it'll be doing much—”

The lid flew off. A gust hit Ashyn with the force of a blow, dust and dirt blinding her, and she reeled back, hands going to her face as she coughed. She heard a curse. An oath. Then a thud and a yowl. She forced her eyes open and saw Tyrus and Ronan on the ground, the stone lid atop Ronan's leg. She raced over to pull it off. Tyrus sprang up to do the same. The first in motion, though, was Moria, sprinting to . . . look in the box.

“Your help is vastly appreciated,” Ronan grunted to Moria.

“If your leg's broken, moving the lid faster will hardly help.”

Tyrus heaved it off, with Ashyn doing what she could. As they helped Ronan to his feet, Moria said, “Blast it!”

Ashyn glanced over.

“That wind was the spirit escaping,” Moria said.

Tyrus got Ronan upright, then walked over beside Moria. “Huh. Well, the good news is that the mummification process was successful. The bad news is that I doubt the monks will want to display this fellow at the shrine.”

“That's what they do?” Moria said. “Display them?”

“Yes. Mummified monks posed on cushions and at writing desks and taking tea. It's quite macabre. I'll have to take you there sometime. But the better ones are the shrines near Violetmere, with mummified demons.”

“Demons?”

Before Tyrus could explain, Ashyn and Ronan approached the box. In the bottom lay the monk. While Ashyn had read about mummification, that did not prepare her to see it.
This
looked like a demon, a profane mockery of human form.

The thing was wizened into what could best be described—though the analogy upset her stomach—as dried meat. The limbs were twisted and deformed. The head was a discolored skull with bulging yellow teeth and matted hair.

The worst, though, was the proof that the monk had indeed been alive moments ago. The dried lips were peeled back in a soundless scream. The eyes—sunken and withered—were wide. Both arms were outstretched, the hands like claws, the fingertips broken off from scratching at the stone lid.

A spirit had possessed this body. Been thrust into it as a side effect of whatever magics Alvar Kitsune was using at Fairview. Someone had died—perhaps at the hands of Alvar's men—and the spirit, roaming, not yet ready to cross into the second world, had been thrust into the nearest vessel: this interred horror.

“The other boxes,” Ashyn said quickly. “We must open the others and free—”

The mummy twitched. Ashyn stopped. They all stared as the thing went still and silent again.

“Did it just—?” Tyrus began.

The mummy hurled itself at him. Even as her eyes saw it happen, Ashyn's mind could not comprehend it. For that “bag of bones” to sit up would seem an impossibility. But to fly from the box, leaping on Tyrus, arms and legs scrabbling . . .

Ronan fumbled with his blade as the thing knocked Tyrus off his feet and fell on him like a dervish, clawing and kicking.

Moria did not hesitate. She grabbed the mummy by the back of its tattered tunic, shouting “Begone, spirit!” But the
thing clung to Tyrus, now scrambling to its feet as it beat at him. Tyrus pulled his blade but there was nothing he could do with it—the mummy had one arm wrapped around his neck as it hung off him. He sheathed his sword and grabbed that arm instead, heaving at it as Moria continued to pull on the tunic and command the spirit to leave.

Tyrus could not unclench the mummy's grip, and when Moria grew frustrated and yanked harder, the fabric tore in her hands, sending her staggering back. Ronan had his blade out then and rushed for the thing, but the beasts were there first. Tova grabbed a leg. Daigo made the mistake of doing what wildcats do with prey—leaping onto its back and going for the neck. The jolt of Daigo's landing knocked Tyrus down again.

Ashyn had recovered from the shock and was speaking to the spirit within the mummy. She promised they meant it no harm and apologized for what had happened. Neither assurance was particularly convincing—not when two very large beasts bit at the mummy and one very angry Keeper shouted at it. It was also admittedly difficult to apologize when the mummy was the one causing the trouble. But Ashyn thought of that poor, twisted thing in the box, of the horror the spirit must have experienced, and she focused on that, telling it that freedom was close, the second world was close, its suffering was almost at an end.

She'd like to think her words loosened its resolve and calmed its fevered panic. But she acknowledged that Moria—snarling at it to be gone and pummeling it with spiritual energy—probably played a greater role in its eventual decision
to depart. There was, again, a rush of wind. Then the mummified remains fell still.

Tyrus pushed the mummy off him and rose, whisking sloughed bits of dried flesh from his tunic.

“Well, that wasn't at all humiliating,” he said. “Please tell me I didn't shriek. And if I did? Remember I am of imperial lineage. Lie to me.”

“You didn't shriek,” Moria said. “Still, it is a shame Simeon wasn't here to record the encounter for posterity. Prince Tyrus, attacked by a mummified monk. Truly, though, it looked more like a monkey. A crazed monkey, clinging to you—”

“Enough,” he said with a feigned scowl. “Speaking of monks, did they see . . . ?”

He looked around. Ivo had sidled off as they opened the box. Now he huddled with the other two a hundred paces away.

“Well, at least they didn't bear
close
witness,” Tyrus muttered.

“You needn't worry,” Ashyn said. “Two of them have taken vows of silence.”

“Though they might have been tempted to break them,” Moria said. “To relay that particular story.”

“But I did not shriek, correct?”

She smiled. “You did not shriek.” Her gaze swept over him. “That thing didn't bite you, did it?”

Her tone had Tyrus touching his face, eyes widening in alarm. “I don't think so. A bite doesn't turn one into a shadow stalker, does it?”

“That would be ridiculous,” Moria said. “I meant that being bitten by any dead thing cannot be healthy. But I don't
think we're dealing with shadow stalkers either. Not the sort we've seen.”

She glanced at Ashyn, who nodded and said, “I suspect it's a . . .” She looked at the distant monks and lowered her voice. “A related incident. If Alvar is using such strong spirit-based magics, side effects could be expected.”

Moria nodded. “Alvar raises shadow stalkers and disturbs the natural process of death and passage to the second world, trapping spirits in this realm and forcing them to seek other habitation.”

“I'm not sure they seek it.” Ashyn looked at the broken mummy and shuddered. “I cannot imagine voluntarily trapping oneself in that.”

“Which begs the question,” Tyrus said. “Why return when it had been freed? We felt the spirit leave. It fled the moment it could. And then returned?”

“I don't think it actually—”

The mummy twitched. This time, both Ronan and Tyrus leaped on it, blades slashing. Ronan severed an arm. Tyrus cleaved the corpse clean in half, the legs falling free. Yet the thing was already in flight, hurtling itself at Moria . . . who skewered it on the end of her outthrust dagger. She held it there, casually, as the mummy gnashed its teeth and clawed with its remaining arm.

“Need some help with that?” Tyrus asked.

“No, it's remarkably light. That must be a result of the drying process.”

“And the fact it's missing three limbs.”

“True.”

Ashyn cast a nervous glance at the huddled monks, now shifting and looking their way. “We ought to lower our voices. Or be more respectful. It is a monk, after all.”

“Mmm, not truly,” Moria said. “It's only part of a monk.” She caught Ashyn's look. “Yes, I know. Give me a hand getting it free.”

Ashyn looked aghast at the mummy, and Moria sputtered a laugh.

“I mean the spirit,” she said.

Ashyn started her entreaties, while Moria ordered the spirit gone. It didn't take long before the wind came, signaling the spirit's departure.

“Now let's hope it stays gone this time,” Ronan said.

Ashyn cleared her throat. “Actually, as I was trying to say, I don't think the spirit returned.” She pointed at the sealed box next to the open one. “That one's been quiet since the first attack. And now I'll wager one of those two”—she pointed at the boxes on the other wagon—“is quiet.”

Tyrus nodded. “Because those spirits hopped into this fellow.”

“They can apparently jump bodies on their own, but cannot move to the second world without help. I think the attacks were more panic than anything. Realizing they'd leaped, only to still not be free.”

“So let's help the last one,” Moria said. “Ronan? Pry open that fourth box. I'll guard this”—she indicated the hacked-up mummy—“in case he makes the jump. Ashyn? Can you go with Ronan and perform the rituals? If we can do this without me bullying the spirit, that's best.”

“And my task?” Tyrus asked.

“I would not presume to give you one, your highness.”

Tyrus laughed. “Which means you don't have anything for me to do. I'll help Ronan. Shout if that comes back to life.”

“I think I can handle it.”

He grinned. “I've no doubt.”

They laid the last spirit to rest without incident. Then Tyrus spoke to the monks. He told them that he had no idea what had happened, but it was resolved now and they ought not to speak of it to anyone until he'd related the events to his imperial father.

Moria went with Tyrus, leaving Ronan and Ashyn alone.

“I suppose you'll be scuttling off into the shadows again,” she said.

He tensed as if he didn't like her choice of words. Then he motioned for her and Tova to follow him farther away so they could speak.

“What
are
you doing here?” she asked when they neared the ridge base.

“Tyrus hired me to accompany you.”

“Oh.” That was, of course, not what she'd hoped to hear.

“You ought to have told me you were leaving the city,” he said.

“Then you ought to have accepted my request for an audience, so I could have explained the situation.”

He paused. “Was that what you wished to see me about? I thought . . .” He inhaled. “When I left. That kiss. I . . . I feared how you might have interpreted it.”

She said nothing. She couldn't. It was hard enough to stand
there, listening to her fears made real.

“We had been together for days,” he continued. “I came to care for you, but . . . it was not the sort of caring that my kiss implied. I apologize for that.”

Ashyn clenched her hands at her sides.
Stop talking. Please stop talking.

“You're a wonderful girl, Ashyn. You're brilliant and you're beautiful and you're . . .” He trailed off, as if he could find no more adjectives to flatter her with.

Stop talking now. Please.

He continued. “I
do
care for you. But I feared that after my kiss, you may have expected more.”

She gathered all her strength and lifted her gaze to his. “Truly? Do you think I've never been kissed before? I'm past my sixteenth summer. I took it as nothing more than a farewell. Perhaps foolishly over-affectionate, which did make me fear
you
might have meant more, but I'm glad to hear you did not. I am the Seeker of Edgewood. You are . . .”