Chapter 69

The Rivers of Life

I retrieve the necromancer-chicken from his cage in the castle kitchen. He squawks all the way up to the study, kicking his scrawny little chicken legs ineffectually. His screams bounce harmlessly off the walls. The peasants and wights scatter before me and I grin as we mount the stairs.

“I’m so sorry about this,” I lie, keeping one hand firmly clamped around his thrashing neck, “but you really have outlived your usefulness.”

“You wool-brained trollop!” he screeched. “Traitorous bitch! I hope you rot in a pit of eternal darkness! I hope the Whisperer rends you limb from limb! Scheming harpy! You disgusting, maggot-brained -aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh-”

The grimoire grabs the small body with four enormous outstretched hands. The chicken’s eyes bulge out of its tiny head in terror.

“I love chicken!” shouts the grimoire. Its limbs wave excitedly. “This one! This chicken in particular! How did you know I love chicken? Thank you, Maud!”

All the palms are smiling now, fleshy lips peeling back to reveal rows of teeth.

The necromancer babbles desperately. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement-”

The grimoire rams its hands together. The necromancer screams, once, as the teeth bite down. There is a brittle crack of bird bones.

“Goodbye, Atticus,” I say. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

For a moment the hair on the grimoire’s trunk-like limbs disappears, and is replaced by feathers. Then they are gone, and the unwholesome, patchwork skin returns. One of the hands belches.

Eyes return in the rest of the hands, eyes that blink before swivelling towards me once more. “Where is my cake?”

I hand over a freshly made chocolate sponge cake topped with spun sugar.

It goes the same way as the necromancer and the enormous monster eyes laze in slow satisfaction.

“Alright,” I say. “You’ve had your meal. Tell me how I can stop the undead plague?”

“It is simple,” the grimoire says, although it seems a little distracted. “Holy water reverses the curse.”

“Holy water?” I repeat.

“Water that is holy.”

I manage to keep my face still. “Can you explain further? I assume it is water that is blessed by a god?”

The eyes turn to me in surprise, the mouths twitching up at the corners.

“Water made by the god-touched,” it says, “by a priest or a cleric. Or a nun. Or a god, I suppose. I don’t know many gods. Do they bathe? Is it their spit? I haven’t thought about it.”

I try to latch onto the pertinent information.

“I can make holy water?”

“Of course,” the grimoire shrugs. It takes on a sing-song voice. “You are a favoured scion of the Dark Looooooooord! A harbinger of DEATH!” It giggles, an uncanny sound reminiscent of exploding stones. The eyes return to me. “You want to know the recipe?”

“Yes!” Please let it be that simple.

“What will you give me for this information? Your soul? Give me another chicken! I told you I love chickens!”

The smile freezes on my lips. I really need to move my soul to a safer location. As soon as I finish dealing with this, I will do it.

“No.”

The grimoire pouts, the monstrous limbs wilting in disappointment. “Why noooot. Give me your soul Maud. I’ll keep it safe. I promise. I’ll be really, really careful! Please!”

“I mean, if you think about it,” I say, carefully. “You owe me. Because I gave you three things. So you should tell me three things.”

Two dozen hand mouths purse their lips in thought.

“Hmmmm alright,” says the grimoire. “But only because your bones are so very pretty.”

“Good,” I say. “So how do I make holy water?”

“And I like your hair.” A shy hand drifts up to my head, and tugs lightly on one star-white lock. I bat it away. Carefully.

“How do I make holy water?” I repeat. I’m not sure what will happen if the grimoire gets angry. Or upset. I don’t want to find out if it can possibly be avoided.

The enormous arms spasm and contract.

I blink and the monster vanishes. Suddenly the room has space once more. There is empty air and I can see the necromancer’s old desk, the walls, and the cracked stone hearth. The walls have fingerprints all over them in various shades of red. A single feather floats down to settle on the large, leather-bound book that rests on the pedestal. The enormous cat-slit eye focuses on me, and the grimoire flips open, inviting me to browse the pages. Darkness leaks from the binding, drifting into the air like ink dissipating into water.

I approach the grimoire with some trepidation, and peer down at the neatly written words within.

The Whisperer’s Holy Water

Beware, you gloom travellers, you seekers after despair!

For blessed is the night, and holy is the madness!

To traverse the rivers of death:

Take the penitent bones of seven clerics, the mashed tails of six rats, the putrid eyes of five grave worms, the rotting roots of four belladonnas, the malignant juices of three cave spiders, the steaming blood of two virgins, and the last wail of a dying man.

Boil for a night, a day, and one night more. Add a drop of tears and a pinch of salt.

Stir widdershins at midnight, under the light of a waning moon.

May the darkness bless you with its quiet embrace.

My eyes light up. The ingredients are slightly more exotic than I ever used as a witch but it has been such a long time since I made potions. I think I will enjoy this. My fingers hover over the parchment. The book is so thick. Last time I looked at it most of the pages were empty. Curiosity wins, and I flip a page to see what is written on the next page.

It is blank but for the detailed, ink drawing of an indignant chicken, its wings extended as if it is running from something. A look of alarm on its outraged face. Two words, and two words only are on the page in a fine, flowing script. They read: Naughty, naughty.

I trace them with my finger, and then snatch it back as the parchment quivers.

“But this is a recipe for the Whisperer’s holy water,” I say.

The book disappears, and the monster reappears, filling the room with its many limbs. I am pushed against the walls by the multitude of arms. The hands turn towards me like leaves on a particularly horrific tree.

“You did not specify.” The grimoire sounds smug, pleased that it is winning what it clearly perceives as a game between us. “You said ‘holy water’, this is a recipe for holy water. It is the Whisperer’s holy water, yes. This is my area of expertise.”

“So it won’t cure the plague?”

“No. For that you will need a recipe from another god.”

“Do you have one?”

“Will you give me your soul?”

“Can I get you something else?”

“I don’t want anything else.” The grimoire’s arms pull away, the mouths turning down at the edges.

“So what does the Whisperer’s holy water do?”

The lips snap into nasty smiles.

“Try it and find out.”

The hands slap against the stone walls, leaving behind bloody prints. The silver chain rattles and all the remaining eyes glare at me.

I bid the grimoire a hasty farewell.

It is enough. I have information. The plague can be contained, or possibly even eradicated. And one of the advantages of having a castle full of busy bodies is that some of them have affiliations with other gods. Most importantly I will get to make potions! This could be a lot of fun, although I’m not sure if holy water from, say, the Bright One, would agree with me on a personal level.

Experimentation is needed! My subject awaits, in the cellar below. Probably still gnawing on the iron bars. Lost in thought I make my way down the tower stairs.

My council of busybodies have not moved from the warmth of the crafting hall. A fire burns merrily in the great hearth and Jenkins is curled in the seat of my throne, overseeing everyone with half open wicked eyes. Old Jennet is floating idly by the ceiling, staring off into nothing. I search for Roland amongst the group, but then I remember I sent him to buy sheep.

The humans and draugr look up as I arrive.

“I have a solution,” I say, and there is a murmur of excitement. “We need to make… holy water!” I spread my arms dramatically but my audience is not enjoying themselves as much as I am. Half of them look confused and the other half start babbling to each other.

“Is that how we stop the plague?” asks Terence, putting down his project. “We just sprinkle water on the abominations?”

I shrug. “The grimoire didn’t go into details. Or specify which god. Or how to make it. It just said holy water. I didn’t want to press the details.”

Everyone at the table shudders, and looks away. It is impressive that in a place as haunted as Dunbarra Keep the grimoire has made such an impression on everyone. Now if only people would stop feeding it.

I look at Timothy. “Does the Bright One have holy water?”

The void Knight nods slowly.

“So what do we need to make it? A cleric to bless a cup? Or something more exotic?”

“A blessing, certainly,” he says. As always, his voice booms in the hollow of his closed helmet. “Under the noon day s-”

He chokes, his voice cutting off, and the knight wrenches forward, as if something has punched him in the gut. Black ichor leaks from his helmet. I wonder if his eyes are dripping the black liquid inside. That might explain why he doesn’t like us to see.

“I guess the Whisperer isn’t keen on the Bright One’s holy water,” booms Jennet from overhead.

“What about you?” I ask her.

“Do I look like a cleric, girl?”

I snarl at the ghostly old woman, and she grins, unrepentant.

“I know well water from a dedicated shrine is an ingredient,” she says, more seriously, and my ears prick up. “My old cottage had a lovely well, but it won’t count if it hasn’t been maintained. The Wavewalker likes people to pay attention to him. Did I tell you about that woman who lives there now? I’ve a mind to-”

“That’s a start,” I say, cutting her off.

“Perhaps we can figure it out from a process of elimination,” says Terence.

“Or we could find a cleric,” says Rachel. The fire mage is wrapped in a pile of blankets, and huddled in a deep chair. She still looks terrible.

“Clerics are a bit of a dying breed in these parts,” says Thom. Some lingering resentment exists there, I suspect, most likely from that time I murdered him. I have knitted him a very nice sweater, but I suspect it will not be enough to make amends.

“We can experiment,” says one of the Fairhaven witches. Of course, all the witches and alchemists are nodding enthusiastically.

“Fine,” I say. “You do that. And while you do that, I will make a trip to Barrowmere and see if I can steal some holy water. Or maybe a cleric. Then we make potions.”