“Chester! What’s happening up there?”
The door to the bridge closed again, as the officer who pulled Farris in locked it with three cross-bolts. It was the captain who spoke, at least Farris assumed so, considering she was dressed in the same immaculate manner as the other officers and navigators, but with more stripes and badges across her chest.
She thinks I’m Chester too?
Farris didn’t know where to start.
“There… there was a fight, and then the knight, and the mage… the red mage joined in and….”
He had seen death at the hands of men and Simians. He had seen people die slowly to hunger and to cold. He had seen many terrible things in the criminal underworld of Penance, but he had never felt so afraid. He was trapped, up in the sky, with nowhere to go but down. He spoke up again.
“The engineers, they said we need to land.”
One of the navigators snorted. “We can’t land here; we’re flying over the Godsforsaken—”
A crash and a surge of screams came from outside. The whole room shook again, knocking Farris off his feet. Even as he hit the floor, he still felt as if he was falling, spiralling through the air. It took his brain a moment to orientate himself, but when he did, he noticed that he now lay on the windshield, the rest of the room upside-down.
His final thoughts were of the man who murdered the officer. He closed his eyes as he painted another mental portrait of the spy. Blue overalls, dark hair, stubbled jawline. He smiled.
Four. The glass began to crack beneath him. That makes four out of four.
Chapter 11:
The Invisible War
Morrígan waited in the darkness for her uncle to give the signal, the other half of his resonance crystal clutched tightly in her hand. She was in an unfamiliar chamber; one her uncle had found before she joined his research. Although a flick of her wrist would reveal the cold, damp walls of her surroundings, she found herself growing more comfortable with the absence of light. She stood in silence as the funeral continued above the ground, just over her head.
It had taken little effort to kill Mrs. Mhurichú. All she had to do was omit the vital fungal ingredient in her medicine, and the old woman died in a matter of days.
I did her an honour. If bringing the end to a life half lived is what it takes to end death for all, then so be it.
Mrs. Mhurichú had died painfully, but slowly enough to not rouse suspicion. The hardest part was convincing Yarlaith to steal the corpse once the funeral ended.
Does he want all this to be a waste?Does he want these bodies to rot beneath the soil—food for worms and maggots—instead of being used for something great?
She heard the faint rumble of voices from above ground.
Poor little Sorcha. You’ll never get to be the mid-summer’s maiden now.
There was supposed to be a festival later to celebrate Mid-Summer’s Eve, but Sorcha’s mother had been well loved in the community, so it was cancelled as a mark of respect.
It’s as if her death had come as a shock. How fortunate she was not killed by a bloodthirsty troll!
The rumble of voices grew louder, and Morrígan wondered if it was a sign that the funeral was almost over. Sure enough, the resonance crystal in her hand began pulsating slowly, bringing illumination to her immediate surroundings: Yarlaith’s signal that it was time for her to act.
Morrígan clicked her flint-rings together. A tiny spark formed where they collided, and with a subtle tug of Pyromancy, the spark erupted into a ball of fire in her hand. She motioned towards a pair of torches on the opposite side of the wall, filling each with a bolt of flames. In the light, she examined the markings her uncle had left on the ceiling, indicating where the coffin was being lowered. Rolling up her sleeves, she reached up and pushed the power of her soul up into the rocks overhead.
Morrígan and Yarlaith had rehearsed the sequence of events many times before, and there was little time to act. Topside, she knew her uncle was lowering the coffin into the grave himself with Geomancy, while the rest of the mourners looked on.
In a matter of seconds, Morrígan had a firm grasp on the cavern ceiling, focusing on the chalk markings upon the stone. It reminded her of Necromancy; the need to concentrate on the specific parts of flesh was more important than the amount of power that went in. She kept an eye on the crystal as it resonated softly through the darkness. Like sand running through fingers, her power merged with the rocks and soil overhead.
The crystal, now discarded on the ground, omitted a constant glow, confirming that Yarlaith was ready for her to take full control of the coffin.
With a gentle sweep of her free arm, the rocks slowly cracked along the white lines on the ceiling. As the last fissure formed, the weight upon Morrígan’s shoulders increased tenfold. Her knees buckled with effort. Tensing her shoulders and gritting her teeth, she took a step backwards as soil and stones trickled down onto her head.
How on earth did Yarlaith manage this by himself?
The rocks were loose now, and Morrígan held all of their weight with her power. Slowly, she brought both hands down as the rocks broke free from the ceiling. The coffin emerged from the trickling soil, suspended on a bed of stone.
With a soft thud, the coffin landed on the cavern floor. Using Geomancy to grasp at the wood, she pulled it from the stone bed and set it aside. Now accustomed to the weight and the feel of the rocks overhead, Morrígan plugged the hole she made with little effort.
I’ll be ready for the Academy in just a few more weeks, but I’m already on my way to becoming a master.
Once she had finished fixing the ceiling, Morrígan turned her magic to the coffin and cracked open the lid in a flurry of splinters. She was used to the reek of decaying flesh, but the scents of perfumed ointments and salves took her by surprise. The woman inside had both hands crossed on her chest, with a tiny gold chain wrapped between her fingers. On the end of the chain hung the three interweaving circles of the Trinity, flat on the silk fabric of her burial gown. Morrígan wondered if Mrs. Mhurichú had made the dress herself, recalling that her own mother was dressed almost identically for her funeral.
The plains of Tierna Meall must be a confusing place, with everyone dressed in the same white gowns and black suits.
Morrígan sat beside the coffin, waiting for her uncle to return. She placed a hand on Mrs. Mhurichú’s forehead. The undertakers had done a great job making her seem alive and warm, but one cold touch was all it took to remind Morrígan that the woman was dead. A thick layer of makeup did well to cover her wrinkles, adding colour to otherwise pale cheeks. The skin around her lips tightened into a crooked smile, but Morrígan paid it no mind. In her research, she learned that people in larger cities usually weren’t buried until a day or two after they died. Although no Necromancy was involved, it was customary to “wake” the dead by bringing them back to their old homes, where family and friends would stay up all night with them, drinking and singing to celebrate their life. Taigdh had once attended a wake for his grandfather in Point Grey, and he insisted that over the course of the night, the dead man’s smile slowly grew wider and wider as festivities continued around him.
Although Taigdh was adamant that this was a sign his grandfather was enjoying their company, Morrígan knew from her work that this was simply the result of the tightening of muscles and skin after death.
“Morrígan, how did it go?”
Yarlaith the White appeared out of the darkness, a Pyromancer’s torch in his hands. He seemed wearier and paler than usual.
“It was easy,” she said. “Do you need help with the corpse?”
Yarlaith smiled. “No, you’ve done enough. I’ll look after her from here. But I have a quick errand for you to run instead.”
