Chapter 82

Silver Bells and Cockle Shells

I have a few chores to do before I leave Janvier’s keep. Deep under the castle, at the end of the maze, the undead lindwurm lies in pieces. Its broken body bears mute witness to my passage. While the goblin caretaker will have no memory of me, I need to create a plausible scenario to explain the slain wurm.

After some thought, I retrace my steps through the iced up town and fly Elizabeth to the nearest human settlement. Under cover of the shifting mists I creep up on a burly looking farmer, who is standing alone outside his farmhouse enjoying a pipe. The last pipe of his existence, as it happens.

“Eat his memories,” I whisper to the Beastie. “All of them. Not just the recent ones. Make him forget his entire life.”

It does so, with relish.

I slit the dazed farmer’s throat. “My apologies,” I say to the poor man’s corpse.

Brain scrubbed, and dead, he is ready to play his part in my little charade.

It is an easy enough endeavour to fly his body back to Kara Crag, and haul it into the labyrinth. Once there, I steal a set of paladin’s armour from the trophy room, strip the farmer naked and stuff him into the steel plate. He makes a passable cleric. Carrying him awkwardly, I waddle like a duck through the passages and then lay him out carefully next to the slain lindwurm. Using a goblet I poke the cursed gem over to him, making sure to find some skin. It immediately begins to eat his flesh.

Excellent. This paints a plausible scenario. But what happened to the goblin?

I send my spies out, and stalk through the main castle until I find the creature huddled whimpering in an alcove. To the beastie’s delight I command it to wipe the goblin’s memories for a second time. It is done. All evidence of my presence has been removed from the scene of the burglary.

Feeling rather pleased with myself I withdraw, retrace my steps through the deserted town for the second time that day, and back up into the mountains. For a moment I think I have lost Elizabeth but then her bony, elongated face appears out of a snow drift. Making sure Janvier’s phylactery is secure by my side, I bundle my little spies, and the decidedly plumper beastie onto her back. We fly home through the gently falling snow.

When, at long last, the familiar trees of my forest come into view, I command Elizabeth to land in a secluded snow-encrusted glade.

“Alright,” I say, dismounting. Touching my feet to the ground is a great relief. It is so good to be home.

My companions all stare at me solemnly.

I pat Janvier’s crown, by my side, just in case. Yes, I have it. It is safe. “I want you all to head back to Dunbarra Keep without me. Gunder? You are in charge. Tell Roland I will be along shortly.”

“Me?” squeaks the bat.

“Yes, you,” I say, scowling at the crows. The pair do their best to look innocent. Lightning crackles along their feathers, a constant reminder that they are not what they seem. “I want all of you to stay together, and stay at the castle until I get there. Understand? Don’t make any side trips. That includes you, Beastie!” The Beastie floats with seraphic grace. “Elizabeth!” The giant undead lizard skeleton jerks its head towards me. “Don’t eat anyone! Not here, not at the Keep! That’s important. Don’t bite anyone either! Alright? At least not until I tell you too. Now, off you go!”

Elizabeth takes flight with a grunt.

I watch her fly off over the treetops, flanked by the crows, until they all disappear in the distance.

Once I am sure I am alone, I turn and sprint in the opposite direction. Keeping Janvier’s phylactery at the Dunbarra is tempting but too dangerous. Keeping it on my person seems unwise. My first thought had been to bury it in the roots of some old tree, but the thought of his soul touching my soul is icky.

So I run through the trees until I pass the boundary of my soul forest; to where the ground becomes mundane earth once more, to where the roots no longer hold pieces of me together, to where my arms no longer sway in the sky, reaching toward the stars. And then I run a little further.

There is nothing outward to mark the change. It is just more forest—oaks and elms and birches, all of them still sleeping beneath their winter blankets. However, there are stirring signs of spring. The air is damp and the wind nibbles at my flesh softly, instead of biting with iced fangs. I ford a river, racing swift and black as a starless night. The snow melt swirls away, the current tugging at my skirts. The veins of the land are opening, and soon there will be green. In the parts of the forest that live, anyway.

But where to hide Janvier’s phylactery?

It must be somewhere I remember, but not somewhere remarkable. My eye lands on a majestic oak. A still living tree, in the peak of its growth, it stands tall at the top of a rise. This will do nicely.

Climbing up into the branches, I am very careful not to damage the tree, or leave any mark of corruption on its bark. The branches are bare now, and slippery with frost, but come spring the upper tree will be hidden in leaves. Balancing on a branch like a particularly stylish squirrel I remove the phylactery and acolyte’s silver bell from my pocket. I loop the bell on a piece of black ribbon, shuddering as I accidentally set the clapper ringing. I wrap it so that the silver touches the crown.

I’m not sure this will help but I figure it is worth trying even though I do not fully understand the magic at play here. It is not my soul I am experimenting on, after all.

Wrapping bell and crown tightly in an old rag I tie it securely with string. Then I stuff the package down a small hollow and dump some earth and twigs on top. In the incredibly unlikely event that someone sticks their hand in they will just think it’s an old nest. I climb down and gaze at the majestic tree in some satisfaction.

The night wood is still and quiet around me. Good, it is time to go home.

Time to prepare for my glorious siege.

It takes me a couple of hours to get the wraith castle on foot.

Before I even step foot in the courtyard of Dunbarra Keep I am accosted by an anxious Roland who is flanked by two old friends.

“Welcome home, Mistress,” he says. My foreman’s brow is so furrowed I worry his eyebrows might need stitching before they fall off.

By his side stands a familiar figure in a yellow nun’s habit, and a barefoot man in blue.

“Sister Lorelei!” I cry, pretending to be pleased. “Friar Julian! How wonderful to see you both! To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Would a note not have sufficed?”

I try to keep the edge out of my voice.

Who doesn’t enjoy surprise clerics when one has a war to plan? Unexpected visitors are one of my least favourite things in the whole world, coming shortly after Pompous Ice Kings, snarled embroidery, and uncomfortable footwear. Any footwear, actually.

“Lady Maud! Greetings! The Archon sends bright blessings, and requests a meeting,” flutters the buttercup yellow nun. Sister Lorelei’s cheeks are red, but her expression is not a happy one. She is casting shifty glances at the poison ivy hedge near the moat. It is creeping up the wall towards her with the predatory slowness of a snake about to strike. Friar Julian tugs her a little to one side, and out of harm’s way. The good friar’s own eyes are a little wild around the edges and he jumps when one of the murdered kings is pushed screaming from his tower.

Sometimes I forget that not everyone finds the same things that I do beautiful. Serves them right for not writing ahead.

“Can we not correspond by letter?” I demand. “I am a little busy.”

Sister Lorelei’s smile stretched wider. It is distressing to behold.

“The Archon says it is most urgent.”

“What is so urgent?”

“We are not privy to Her Lightness’ council,” says the Friar, a little bitterly, I think. He probably also has better things to do as well, like run his apple distillery. I can smell a hint of spirits on his breath. I know the Wavewalker’s communities are lax in comparison to the discipline of the others but really.

“I assume it is about the potions?”

“Yes, the potions!” breathes Sister Lorelei.

She smiles at me, lips tilted up. The nun’s unease is as transparent as a bubbling summer stream, and the good Friar is almost as bad. What is the Archon up to now? I am expecting the clerics to break the truce, but only after I have dealt with Janvier.

Gritting my teeth in frustration I struggle to keep my emotions hidden. There is so much to do. I have siege engines to build, crafters to supervise, potions to boil. I have lands to tend and people to care for, strangely enough. Of course, if I can rely on anyone to mess up a serviceable plan it is the Bright One’s servants.

“Alright,” I say, “Let me just change into something suitable and catch my breath. So to speak. Where does the Archon want to meet?”

It will be neutral ground. Not here, not in her cathedral. That would be unreasonable for us both, and our gods.

“Lowecroft,” says the Friar. “The church at Lowecroft.”

“Tell the Archon,” I say, “I will meet her there at midnight.”

“Tomorrow at noon,” counters the yellow-robed nun.

Foolish woman. I derive no power from the darkness, and no weakness from the sun’s meagre winter rays. Bah, whatever.

“At six in the afternoon,” I say.

“At six then,” says the Friar.

I incline my head with all the icy dignity I can muster and we part ways. The two clerics head out with their horses, relief painted plain on their faces.

Growling under my breath I head into the keep to see what progress has been made in my absence. Before I can even open my mouth to speak to Roland a loud wailing fills the air, setting the very stones to rumbling. Considering the noise level manufactured by the tortured wraith of the castle under normal circumstances this is impressive indeed.

“What in the-”

“The grimoire, my lady,” says Roland. The southern tower appears to be trembling. “It knows you are home. It… er … wants to know what you have brought it for a present.”

“By the Whisper’s shrivelled black orbs,” I mutter and stamp up the shaking stone stairs to the tower study.

Of course, I have not brought my grimoire a present! The thought never even occurred to me. I deliberately did not take anything from Janvier’s home as even something small might be missed.

“Maud!” screams the grimoire as I enter the room of its incarceration. “MaudImissedyou, where have you been whatdidyoubring me Maaaaaaaauuuuuuuud!”

My bones rattle.

I am embraced by a dozen sticky limbs. I try not to think what they might be sticky with. The grimoire seems genuinely happy to see me but I sense that if I do not tread carefully I will have to deal with a tantrum of epic proportions. The kind of tantrum that might set back the reconstruction of Dunbarra Keep by several months. Just what I need right now.

“Maud, what did you bring me!”

“I brought you a story,” I say. Its many eyes open wide in wonder. Half of the palms split into gasping mouths.

Thank the goddess, a story seems to be enough to mollify it.

I spend the next hour or so spinning a rather melodramatic and embellished version of my adventures in the maze, finishing the story with a graphic description of how I slayed the lindwurm.

“There!” I say, sternly, smoothing my skirts and standing. “Now, I have to go and work. I will visit you tomorrow.”

The grimoire settles down with some quiet grumbling, but at least the walls have stopped rattling. I wonder how long it will stay appeased.

I rush down to the vast castle basement to check in on the siege workshops. Everything seems to be coming along nicely although there are some decisions I need to make. They will have to wait till the morrow. After a brief chat with Thom, there is only just time for me to visit the alchemists and the crafters, and to scratch Jenkins behind the ears, before I have to set out once again.

“I’m off to Lowcroft, Roland,” I say bitterly. “Hopefully this won’t take too long.”

Having Elizabeth does make things easier. Roland has had the wights construct a rather nice tower for her in the eastern turret.

“Is this wise, Mistress?” asks Roland.

His eyes flit to the beastie who is floating next to me. It is now significantly larger than it has ever been before. I have stuffed its tentacles and tendrils into a long dress with a skirt that falls all the way to the ground. Now that I have covered its chitinous shell with a sturdy veil and widow’s tiara, it makes for a passable grieving dame. At least I think so.

“I don’t trust the Archon,” I say primly. “No one will mind if I have a lady in waiting.”

I smile, rather wolfishly.

Elding and Tora cackle from their perches. The illusion… is passable but falls apart when the beastie moves. It is doing its best to appear human. I know because I have bribed it with the promise of eyeballs. Perhaps I am being ridiculous. Perhaps the Archon just wants to talk strategy. Perhaps she wants to lend me a legion of paladins! Perhaps Janvier will be so impressed with my modified trebuchet that he will gift me the throne of Einheath as a spring present. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Ha!

“If you say so, Lady Maud,” says Roland. “Take care.”

I can see he disapproves. “I will,” I say, a little waspishly.

Elizabeth and I take to the skies.