Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (44 page)

“What’s that!” one of the robed men shouted, pointing at it.

That one was the first to die—with the goblin’s short, sharp teeth in his throat. It snarled and growled as it tore at him. Then it leaped at the next man, who stood there transfixed with sheer terror.

A third man simply collapsed, clutching at his chest, while the fourth tried to banish it, shouting banishments and exorcisms that did no more to free it from the goblin body than its own efforts had.

The fifth man, a hairless one, was fleeing as fast as his aged and decrepit legs would allow. It threw a candelabra at him, causing him to fall. Then it scampered over and smashed his bald head with the bronze device as if it were an egg.

The sixth man, the last, did not flee, but stood before it without any visible signs of panic, although it could smell the acrid scent of his fear.

“You are no goblin,” the priest said calmly. “Tell me how you are called, spirit, in the name of Our Immaculate Savior!”

“Vermilignum,” it told him. “Can you free me?”

“I don’t know. But I can pray for you, and for the poor beast whose body you possess.”

“This is no possession!” it hissed in anguish. “If you cannot free me, all I need from you is your blood!”

The priest nodded slowly. “Then take it, if you must. And may the Most High have mercy on whatever passes for your soul.”

It struck. The priest fell to the floor, and it fed upon him, filling its ravenous maw with the sweet taste of Man flesh.

Thus fortified, it began to consider how it might banish the spell. It hadn’t been summoned often, but often enough that it could picture how the summoning spells were structured. Presumably a reversal might be used to banish it. Even a return to the nether realm and its harsh master would be preferable to the slow dissolution it fancied it could already feel. But that was nonsense. The goblin might be dying as the binding slowly drained its life from it, but it was not dead yet.

The floor was painted with blood, both the circle and the reverse of every evocation it could remember. It gathered up the remains of the candles and placed them. A taste showed they were made from goblin fat. With a curse it lit them and then lay down in the midst of the crimson circle and began reciting the most likely invocation backward.

Nothing happened. It tried a second spell, then a third, and finally, in frustration, tried to hurl itself out of the goblin body by a sheer effort of its demonic will. A cold wind filled the death-desecrated chapel, and the candle flames vanished, but it was still imprisoned in body that was rapidly weakening now as a result of its efforts to escape. It looked around the chapel, desperately trying to think of another way.

Then it saw the answer in a small fountain on the other side of the chapel. Holy water! Surely that should suffice to break the connection! It rushed over to the fountain and plunged its head into the much-feared liquid, bracing itself for the inevitable burning to come.

But there was nothing! It thrashed about in bewilderment for a second, then slowly lifted its face from the water. Either through its summoning and binding or its own deadly actions, the chapel had been desecrated. The water was now simply water.

There would be holy water elsewhere, but even if it could be found, it might be hard to reach. Running water wouldn’t be as strong, but at least it was available. There was a river running through the city to the sea. There was always one somewhere in the middle of a city this size. Once it saw a bridge, it knew the river would be easy to find. But even as it made its decision, the goblin body shuddered with convulsions that made it hard to stay upright. The body was weakening too fast under the burden of the binding. It didn’t have much time

Shrieking with frustration and despair, it returned to the corpses, wrestled a blue robe off the body of the murdered priests and slipped it over its own head. The robe was too long, but would have to do if it didn’t want to attract deadly attention in the streets of the city of men. Bunching the priest’s robe up over the goblin’s thick and bony knees, Vermilignum ran out of the chapel and into the darkness.

SEVERA

The letter was sealed with red wax and bore the stamp of House Severus. It was with genuine delight that Severa began reading it for the first time.

It was with disbelief and dawning horror that she began reading it for the second time.

By the time she had finished reading it a third time, her horror and disbelief had given way to a fury unlike anything she had experienced before. It was one thing to suspect evil of those nearest and dearest to you, but it was something else altogether to see it confirmed in ink, written in a familiar and trusted hand.

My dear sister,

I trust this finds you and the others well. I must apologize for not having written you previously, but I am confident you will forgive me, for none know so well as I do your gentle nature. Do not harbor a grudge against me, little sister, for as you have no doubt guessed already, my failure to write you was no wish of my own, but rather a command from that authority which brooks no disobedience.

All Amorr mourns your absence. I only exaggerate slightly. The poet Gnaeus Rabirius (I refer to the young man of the knightly class, not the Senator, of course), was heard to declare that the departure of the three sisters of House Severus from the city was like the three stars of Kandaon’s Belt disappearing from the night sky. Nor is he alone in his sentiments.

But you must be strong now, sister, for now I must tell you something that I fear shall wound your tender heart. Even prior to your sudden departure, I was not unaware that you may have held a regard for a certain young hero of the arena, one which our father would not approve. I do not condemn or condone your feelings, for as it is written in the Ars Amatoria, “We are always eager for forbidden things, and yearn for what is denied us, like the sick man who longs for water because his doctor forbids him to drink it.” I have always had the utmost confidence in you, sweet sister, and I am confident that you are well-armored in virtue. If ever there was a woman capable of withstanding the soft whispers of her treacherous heart, it is you, my dear Severa.

I only tell you this so you will know that I understand your sentiments and that I grieve with you at the fall of Silicus Clusius of the Blue. He fought with courage and with skill, and I am confident that he would have been granted Missus had the wound dealt him by the trident of the great retarius, Montanus, not proven mortal. The brave manner in which he departed this world has been much remarked in the days following the games, as upon seeing Clusius had received his death, the crowd first applauded the victor for his victory before applauding the defeated for the nobility of his defeat. Still on his feet, Clusius saluted the crowd with his sword before falling stricken to the sands. The victorious Montanus rushed to his side and was even seen to dash tears from his eyes. I was there, and I can tell you it was most affecting.

Indeed, the fall of Clusius has been the talk of the city. I regret that I cannot recall the man’s name, but last night I hosted several of my friends to dinner, including Quintus Falconius, whom you may recall has long been an admirer of yours, and a libation was made in honor of the bout. I thought it was rather well phrased. “In the West and in the East the name of Clusius shall be known to posterity, and because of Clusius, the name of Montanus shall live on.” Montanus was already a champion, of course, but he may well find himself presented with the wooden sword at the end of the season thanks to the noble death of Silicus Clusius.

That is all my news, sister mine, and I beg you to write to me soon and assure me that all is well with Father, Mother, and little Severina. If you are not permitted to return until after the harvest festival, then I shall come to you.

Your affectionate brother,

M. Severus Tertius

Half-blind with tears that were more rage than sorrow, Severa stormed out of her room and down the marble stairs toward the courtyard, the last place she had heard her father’s voice since he’d returned from the city the day before. He was not there, but she saw her younger sister playing with a kitten in the shade of a wide-branched tree.

“Have you seen Father?” she demanded.

“What’s wrong, Severa?” Severina was only twelve years old and entirely absorbed with her cats. She showed signs of one day boasting their mother’s famous beauty, and her eyes were large and dreamy, betraying a tranquil nature that was decidedly uncharacteristic of the women of House Severus. Or, for that matter, the men.

“Everything!” Severa snapped. “And it’s all Father’s fault!”

The kitten batted at a leaf that was falling, then pounced upon it once it reached the ground, and her sister erupted into peals of laughter. “What are you doing, silly kitty-kit-kit? Do you think it’s a bird?”

“Severina, do you know where Father is?” Severa demanded from behind gritted teeth. Sometimes, it took all of her willpower not to slap the dreaminess right out of her sister’s eyes. Or strangle one of her wretched cats. “I really need to speak with him.”

“Oh, he’s in the library with one of the scribes. Maybe some of the barbarians too.” Severina giggled. “Feronia jumped up on the table and knocked over one of the ink pots. Her front paws were all black from the ink, and she made the cutest little kitty prints all over the parchment! I thought Father was going to be ever so furious with her, but he just laughed and said I should call her Feronia Scriptoria! Isn’t that funny?”

“You’re funny,” said Severa, her rage abating momentarily because of the smile that adorned her sister’s pretty face. It was so charming it was almost contagious. She leaned over and kissed Severina on the nose. “Be sure her paws are clean before you bring her back into the house.”

“I shall!” her sister promised cheerfully, before racing off in pursuit of the wayward kitten. “Come back here, you naughty baby!”

Severa laughed and shook her head. Seeing her sister chasing her cat reminded her that it was not all that long ago when the estate’s kittens and puppies were her foremost concerns in life. She looked back over her shoulder at the courtyard as she reached the top of the steps that led to the front door. There was a tranquil beauty here that she had been too young and restless to perceive at the time, but she could remember how happy she was here when she was Severina’s age, running through the fields and orchards, living each day as it came and never thinking about tomorrow. She could still appreciate the natural beauty now, but it no longer touched her soul. She simply had to return to the stinking, sinful, man-made splendor of Amorr, and in order to do that, she first had to confront her father. Her ruthless and murderous father.

She found him in the library still, dictating a letter to one of his small army of scribes. Upon seeing her enter the room, he stopped his dictation, and with a single gesture sent the elderly man scuttling unceremoniously from the room. She did not trust her voice, so she did not speak. Instead, she simply placed the letter on the table the scribe had left behind him.

He picked it up. Aulus Severus was a tall, spare man, and his white eyebrows were the only hair that remained on his head. He was not entirely bald, but every morning one of his bodyslaves shaved the stubble from the rear quarter of his scalp as well as his face. His face was large and bony, with the deep-set eyes of an ascetic or a monk sworn to one of the more rigid orders. His expression was calm, in direct contrast to most of his family. He was famous for seldom losing his temper or raising his voice. On the other hand, he was seldom seen to smile, except occasionally at his daughters. His skin was unblemished by the sun, as befitted a man who was at his best in the Senate or the scriptorium.

Not a spot of color showed on his cheeks as he glanced at the letter in her hand and nodded.

“I was aware Tertius was writing to you. I assume he is well.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out, Father?” Severa was so angry that she found it hard to decide where to start with him. “Did you really think someone wouldn’t tell me!”

“I might ask you that very same question, my dear.” He looked directly at her.

Despite her fury, she discovered to her chagrin that she could not bear to meet his serenely icy gaze. It was like trying to outstare a statue. She looked away.

“I assume you are referring to the death of the young gladiator from the Blue stable.”

“Clusius!” she shouted. “His name was Silicus Clusius. He was brave and he was beautiful and I loved him! I loved him, Father! And you had him killed! I know it, and you’ll never convince me otherwise even if you swear on the Tree of the Immaculate himself!”

“Why would I deny it?” Her father looked genuinely mystified. “Of course I had the poor lad killed. What else did you expect?”

Severa simply stared at him, mute with shock and astonishment. She had imagined and re-imagined this conversation over and over again in her head after reading Tertius’s letter, but never had she pictured it proceeding in this fashion. She had not imagined that he would freely admit to killing the young man she had loved without showing any more remorse than a cat killing a songbird.