As they descended, the cut stone and bricked corridors gradually became tunnels in the rock, and many of the openings appeared to be natural cave rooms enlarged and embellished over the centuries. Bones were stacked in alcoves cut into the walls, neatly piled with the skulls facing out so that, in places, the walls on either side of the corridors appeared to be made from yellowed, grinning skulls. The deeper they went into the necropolis, the more ornate the ossuary became. Cam shuddered at the macabre decorations left behind by long-forgotten priests. Bones were set into the walls in complex designs to make crests and murals, while in other places whole skeletons posed in a lifelike tableau were cemented in place.
Hundreds of tunnels formed an ancient labyrinth beneath the Aberponte palace, filled with tens of thousands of shrouded corpses or yellowing bones. Finally, Brother Felix stopped at the door to a locked room with a thick, oaken door bound with iron and drew a key from a ring on his belt. They waited outside as Felix entered and lit the torches that hung in sconces around the room, and Cam noticed that Felix chanted as he moved.
Cam looked around when Felix bade them enter. Felix
locked the door and then raised a circle of warding behind them. The torches were only partially successful at driving back the shadows, and Cam realized the room was larger than he first thought. He could not tell whether this room was part of the natural caves or man-made, but it looked as if it had been in use for centuries. The floor was worn smooth at the doorway, and the walls around the sconces were blackened with soot. Around the walls were a series of intricate mosaic crests, and Cam realized that they were the heraldic emblems not of the Isencroft kings but of the eight ancient clan lords. Where the walls met the ceiling, runes were carved into the smooth stone, and a row of ancient skulls were set beneath the runes, angled so that they appeared to be watching what transpired below. The runes shifted as Cam stared at them, and he wondered if it were merely a trick of the flickering light.
In the center of the room was a large, raised oblong altar. Its base was worked with symbols, and its surface was worn smooth with use. The stone had dark stains whose origins Cam did not care to ponder.
Brother Felix seemed to be most at ease with the night’s work. He wore his formal white robes. Silver embroidery edged the cuffs and hem, more symbols that Cam did not recognize. Over his robe, Felix wore a large gold pendant set with five of the gems sacred to the Goddess and her eight Aspects: ruby for fire, sacred to Chenne the Warrior; sapphire, blue as the skies, for the Childe; diamond, clear as air itself, for the Formless One; sea-green emerald, for the Mother; amber, the color of the Goddess’s eyes, for Istra, the Dark Lady. A wide gold cuff ringed Felix’s right wrist with the last three gems: onyx for Sinha, the Crone; red garnet for the Lover; and
bloodstone for Athira, the Whore. Felix carried a large silver chalice that was set with the same stones. On his left hand, he wore a silver ring set with a large ruby. At his belt was a silver dagger with a jeweled hilt.
Felix motioned for the men to take their places in a circle around the altar stone. Before joining them, he warded the doorway so they would not be interrupted. Cam glanced around the room. Every man except Brother Felix wore a sword, even Tice and Allestyr, who usually did not go about the palace visibly armed. Cam wondered if, despite Felix’s wardings, each of them was unnerved enough by the necropolis to feel the need for protection.
When they took their places around the altar, Felix closed his eyes and lifted the chalice toward the ceiling. “Powers that be, hear me! Goddess of Light, attend! We call to the fallen kings of Isencroft and to the Lady in all Her sacred Faces for both witness and power. Hail to the eight clan lords, who raised a kingdom from anarchy. We invoke your presence as we consecrate Kiara Sharsequin, only born of King Donelan and Queen Viata, as the Chosen of Isencroft, daughter of royal blood and descendant of the clan lords of old.”
The temperature of the crypt, already cool, grew colder until Cam could see his breath. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Beside him, Rhistiart gave a muffled squeak and his eyes grew round. Along the northern wall of the chamber, mist began to solidify into the forms of men and women, until a solemn row of figures stood in silent witness.
Cam looked down the line of ghostly newcomers and was startled to recognize some of the faces from paintings and tapestries in the castle. A tall, gaunt man with
short-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed beard was the ghost of King Rowan, dead more than two hundred years. The next figure was equally familiar from the portrait over one of the sitting room mantels: Queen Tanisia, a wise and steady ruler, who had lived and died a hundred years ago. The spirits of eight monarchs stood silently, but Cam did not recognize the others. The ghosts represented only a few of the monarchs who had ruled in Isencroft’s history. Some of the spirits wore garments of a style that suggested they had ruled so long ago that likenesses of them had not survived the ravages of time, and Cam wondered if they numbered among the original clan lords. Cam was disappointed not to see Donelan among the spectral monarchs.
“We gather to invoke the ancient powers,” Felix continued, and as he spoke, he lifted the chalice in turn to the four corners, and then to the cross-quarters. “We claim the powers to name a new successor to the throne, and to animate this proxy until Kiara Sharsequin can take this power for her own. Let it be so.”
A cold wind moved through the sealed chamber, gusting hard enough to make the torches flicker.
Well, someone’s heard us, that’s for sure
, Cam thought nervously.
Rhistiart elbowed Cam and held out an inlaid box. Cam, as King’s Champion, bore the duty to take the next step in the ritual. Cam squared his shoulders and approached the altar, holding out the box to Felix.
Felix laid aside the chalice to receive the inlaid box. From within his white robes, Felix withdrew a piece of muslin sewn in the rough shape of a person, with the stitching open on one side. The figure had no features and no markings. Felix murmured under his breath as he
opened the box and withdrew a piece of silk that Cam had cut from the seam of one of Kiara’s gowns. Felix lifted the bit of silk to the four corners and slid it into the cloth doll shape.
Next, Felix took out a silver disk from one of Kiara’s childhood necklaces and then a small dirk, well worn from Kiara’s lessons in the salle with Darry. These he lifted to the cross-quarters and then placed them in the doll with the other items. Finally, Felix removed several strands of Kiara’s hair and a piece of paper Cam knew to be one of Kiara’s most recent letters to her father, covered in her neat, small script. Felix offered these to the four corners and then put them into the doll form. Then with a murmured incantation, Felix touched the rough edge of the open seam and it knitted together under his hand.
The
nenkah
lay lifeless but complete, a rough, featureless doll. Felix looked around the group and met each man’s eyes in turn. He took up the chalice and raised it over his head in salutation.
“By the power of creation and chaos, of light and darkness, I call on the magic of blood and bloodline to anoint this proxy until our new queen can be crowned.” Felix lowered the chalice and stood before Tice. Tice held out his left hand, and Felix withdrew the jewel-handled dagger. With one swift movement, Felix drew the blade down Tice’s palm, raising a thin stream of blood that flowed into the chalice. Cam could hear Felix chanting in a low voice, but even when it was his turn and Felix stood in front of him, Cam could not make out the words.
More ghosts joined them as Felix made slow progress around the circle. As Felix drew the blood of the last participant, Cam gasped. Next to the stone altar stood a new
ghost, who appeared nearly solid enough to touch. Cam heard the sharp intake of breath as the others recognized King Donelan’s shade.
Felix appeared to be the least shaken of the group, and Cam wondered if he had expected Donelan’s participation. When Felix had stirred the last of the blood into the chalice, he stepped closer to the altar, standing directly across from Donelan’s ghost. Cam studied the late king’s face. Donelan looked neither surprised nor upset by the ritual, giving Cam to wonder again if Felix had anticipated the king’s presence. The expression on Donelan’s face was as worried and weary as it had been lately in life.
Felix looked to Donelan’s ghost. “You understand our purpose?”
Donelan nodded.
“Are you familiar with the ritual?”
Again, the ghost nodded.
Felix drew a deep breath, and for the first time, Cam noticed that the Acolyte’s hand was shaking. Felix’s voice began a somber chant. He dipped the blade of the dagger into the mingled blood and withdrew it, making an eight-point circle around the
nenkah
. Then he looked up to meet Donelan’s eyes.
“Ready?”
Donelan nodded once more.
Felix began to pour the blood in a thin stream onto the cloth doll. At the same time, Donelan’s ghost became less solid, like fog dissipating on the wind. Tendrils of hazy white smoke unwound from the figure of the dead king and twined around the blood, disappearing into the
nenkah
. When the chalice was empty, Donelan’s ghost was almost translucent and the
nenkah
was soaked in crimson.
Felix put his hand over the
nenkah
, and Donelan placed a spectral hand atop his. Felix murmured one last incantation, and the gems he wore flared with sudden light, blindingly bright in the gloom of the crypt. A spark of blue-white fire leaped from Felix’s palm into the
nenkah
, which jolted and shuddered.
Cam realized he was holding his breath.
Beside him, Rhistiart fainted.
The
nenkah
was breathing.
W
hat news do the spirit guides bring?”
Jair Rothlandorn, heir to the throne of Dhasson and Rider with the Sworn, leaned forward so as not to miss a word. Talwyn, just returned from walking the spirit paths, took a deep breath and accepted a cup of
vass
. She took it down in one gulp, as if its strong flavor and potent kick would fortify her, grounding her once more in the realm of the living.
“They believe we have three dawns before the war begins.” Talwyn was the shaman of her people and next in line to become their chief. Her role required her to communicate with the spirits of the Ancient Ones, the gods worshipped in the Winter Kingdoms long before the cult of the Sacred Lady came to these lands, the gods who became the Consorts of the Goddess.
“That’s something.” Pevre, Talwyn’s father and chief of the Sworn, sat back, watching Talwyn with a worried gaze.
“They weren’t reassuring.” Talwyn looked grim. “The spirit guides had little to add to what our own rune scrying
has told us. Dark magic. Much bloodshed. Invasion by the living and destruction from the risen dead. If you were hoping for a cheery prediction, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
“We appear to be out of luck everywhere we turn.” Jair reached out to touch Talwyn’s shoulder, and she clasped his hand. The intricate tattoo that wound around each of their wrists marked them as married by the custom of the Sworn, although the royal court of Dhasson would never accept their union, nor their son, Kenver, as a legitimate heir to the throne.
Pevre tossed a handful of ground anise into the fire for protection, and its fragrant smoke rose into the night air. In the distance, Jair heard a single horn blast one sharp note: the report of the night guards marking both the hour of the night and an uneventful watch. “What of the Dread and the Nachele? Did the Spirit Guides bring word from the barrows?” Pevre asked.
Jair stole a glance at the three large, grass-covered mounds behind them. The ancient burial sites stretched from the coast of the Northern Sea in Margolan south through Dhasson to the Nargi border, and at one time, legend held that the barrows continued through Nargi into the steppes of the Southland tribes. One look at the dark hair and golden skin of the Sworn, and it was impossible not to guess that their bloodlines harkened to those same Southland tribes and to the people of the long-destroyed Southern Empire.
Imprisoned in the mounds for more than a thousand years were the Nachele, dark beings entombed to stop them from preying on the living. Their guardians, the Dread, were as fearsome as the things they guarded. Both
were known only through tales passed from generation to generation, since neither had walked among mankind for ten centuries. The shamans of the Sworn were the only living people with whom the Dread communicated, and then only on the paths of spirit and by the Dread’s rare invitation. Talwyn and her father, both shamans of the Sworn, had seen the Dread, heard their long-dead voices. Jair suppressed a shiver, glad he shared none of his wife’s magic.
“The Dread are… agitated.” Talwyn chose her words carefully, and Jair wondered whether the spirits that dwelled in the large mounds bothered to listen to the living. “The magic is wrong. It was harder than it should have been to raise the Spirit Gods, difficult to walk the paths, more tiring than usual. It’s like there is a strange hum in the background that shouldn’t be there.”
“A
hum
?” Jair shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Talwyn sighed and leaned against him. Jair realized that it was for support as much as it was a gesture of endearment. “I don’t understand it either. It’s hard to find a word for it. Hum is the closest I can get. Like there are voices talking in the distance. Only it’s not voices. It’s in the magic itself, and I think it’s coming from the invaders.”