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Chapter 3
The man with several names edged into awareness. It was dark. The air smelt of sea and smoke. Fresh smoke. Memory was… elusive. Transformation? Yes, that was it-long plotted, sacrifices made, years of effort, but…
He’d expected physical reaction, but not this pain, not that smoke-filled darkness. Could what he felt be the birth pangs of the Transformed? Blood and pain are companions of birth; he himself had written it. If the right blood had been loosed-but no. The wrong blood had been spilt on the altar stone.
His own.
Certainly the pain was his. He groaned, and became aware of a woman’s hands, then a man speaking, and the sudden bright of an opening door followed by more voices. After a time came the suffocation of a rag soaked in ether, and with a sharp vision of the sun black as sackcloth and the moon stained with blood, everything went away.
It was broad daylight outside the hovel when he woke. The woman lifted his head to trickle in a jolt of some powerful drink. The nausea of the ether receded. His chest was aflame, and his head was flooded with the memory of fire and gunshot, but the whisky helped settle his thoughts as well as his stomach.
“What time is it?” he croaked.
“What’s that?” the woman said.
“Time. What time is it?”
“Oh, dearie, let me see. It’s near noon. Saturday, that is.”
Mid-day Saturday. To the north, over the pure, cold sea, the sun would be edging back from its darkness, the eclipse fading-and with it, opportunity. All his work, long months of meditation and pla
Snatched from him, at the very peak of the Preparation. The sacrifice had turned and summoned fire-the lamp, that was it. Damian had managed to fling out his arm and smashed the lamp. But what followed was unclear: noise and confusion and hot billows of flame, and… others? The impression of others-two of them?-and then a boom and a giant’s fist smashing his chest, and nothing until he had wakened to the smell of sea and smoke.
Who could they have been? Enemies? Demons? Figments of his imagination? Not that it mattered: They had robbed him of Transformation. The Great Work lay shattered. A waste of years. His hand twitched with the urge to strangle someone.
And the child? She who was to have been his acolyte, his student, the daughter of his soul? Had the two demons stolen her? Or was she still in that burnt-out place where he had taken refuge?
Mid-day: She would be awake. Sooner or later, she would find her way out, and be seen. He had to get away before they came looking for him.
“Gunderson?” he whispered.
“He’ll be here tomorrow morning.” This was a man’s gravelly voice.
“MacAuliffe.”
“That’s right, Reverend Brothers. You know what happened to you?”
With an effort, Brothers got his eyes open, squinting into the smokey light. “Shot?”
“Aye.” The man gri
The wounded man looked down and saw a hand arranged atop a thick gauze pad covering his chest. The fingers slowly closed, then opened.
“There you go,” MacAuliffe said, whittling off another slab of meat. “You’ll be right as rain in no time.”
“Is that my knife?”
The hired man held up the curved blade. “This yours? Wicked thing, nearly cut my thumb off with it.”
“Give it!” The command came out weak, but MacAuliffe obeyed, wiping the grease on his trousers, then turning it so his sometime employer could take the ivory haft.
“I found it on the ground next to that altar thing, nearly stepped on it before I saw the handle. Didn’t know for sure it was yours, but I didn’t want to leave it behind.”
Brothers’ good hand slipped around the familiar object, his thumb smoothing its blade, the cool metal that had been given him on the very hour of his birth. He felt a pulse of temptation, to plunge the Tool into MacAuliffe’s hateful belly, but he was not strong enough to do without assistance. Not yet. Not until he could summon The Friend.
Instead, he tucked the knife under his weak hand, as if the Tool’s strength might transfer to flesh. “I need you to send a telegram to London.”
Chapter 4
When we reached the coastal track and turned towards Kirkwall, the light strengthened with every step. Earlier, I had been forced to choose between the dangers of blind speed and the threat of being seen. Now I hitched the child up on my hips and leant forward into a near-jog. Her light body rocked against mine, and her own arms had to be getting tired, but she did not complain.
Half a mile down the road, I spotted a farmer coming out of a shed, to climb onto a high-sided cart. A tangle of shrubs marked where the farmyard lane entered the road; I let Estelle slip to the ground behind them, stifling a groan as my shoulders returned to their proper angle. I hunkered beside her (my knees, too, having aged a couple of decades in the past hours) and said in a low voice, “We have to wait until this man has gone by, and I don’t want him to notice us. We need to be very quiet, all right?”
“Can we ask him for a ride?” she said in her loud, hoarse, child’s whisper.
“No, we can’t,” I said. “Now, not a word, all right?”
I felt her nod, and put my arm around her tiny body.
The metallic sounds from the cart indicated milk canisters, and as I’d feared, it was headed towards town: We should have to wait until he was some distance down the road before we followed. This was clearly a daily ritual, since the reins were nearly slack and the cart was controlled less by the farmer than by his nag. Who was in no hurry-its pace was no faster than our own, and the high sides… I stared, then pushed aside the branches to see.
The cart was a purpose-built creation with a flat-bedded base on which had been fastened a large crate, some five feet on a side, tipped with the open top facing backwards. The dairyman sat in front, feet dangling, back leaning against what would originally have been the crate’s bottom.
The only way he could see inside the cart would be if he were to walk around and look inside. Better yet, he had no dog.
I snatched up the child, warning her again to silence, and trotted forward, grateful now for the blustering gusts that concealed my footsteps. Aiming at the rattling cans and hoping for the best, I tossed the child into the shadows and hopped in beside her. As the noise had suggested, the cans came nowhere near to filling the space, and there was room for us to creep around behind them. The road was rough enough that the driver took no note of the shift our boarding caused, and if the horse noticed our weight, he did not complain.
Estelle snuggled against me. The milk cans rattled; the waking island scrolled past the rear of our transport. We dozed.
The cart slowed, and stopped. I wrapped my arms more securely around the child, placing my finger across her lips. The farmer’s boots crunched to the road, the cart jerking as his weight left it. I followed the sound of his footsteps, braced for sudden flight, but the steps continued away from us a few feet, paused, then returned, moving more slowly and with a hitch in their gait. A figure suddenly loomed at the back of the cart, and another canister of milk swung inside. He added a second, then climbed back onto his seat and chirruped the horse into motion.