Dark Bringer: Chapter Twelve
The caracal-drawn coach bounced across a patch of uneven cobblestones. Cathrynne stared into the blurry darkness, replaying the moments before it had nearly crushed Morningstar beneath its wheels.
Never in her life had a vision come with such force and clarity.
She was stepping off the curb when her scalp began to tingle. The neat rows of houses vanished in a blink. In their place she saw The Dark Rider, The Fox, and The Crossroads. Each symbol layered with meaning, but together the message was clear. Something was coming — something dangerous — set in motion by a cunning mind. And it would shift the future on its axis.
So she had reacted without thought, throwing them both into the flowerbed. The blazing heat of his body had been an unwelcome surprise. He carried himself with such detachment, yet his skin had felt almost feverish through the heavy fabric of his clothing.
Most people created tiny ripples in the ley, their lives a single raindrop on a still pond. But Morningstar’s influence was more like the turbulent wake of a steamship, or the pull of the tides.
It was obvious that he did not believe her explanation.
Cathrynne returned to berating herself. One more slip and he would realize she had the power of foretelling. She would be immured in a tower for the rest of her life, reduced to babbling through a slot in the wall. Just another mad oracle entombed in stone.
Next time, she thought furiously, I’ll let him get whatever’s coming to him.
Morningstar seemed to sense her dark mood and made no attempt to engage her. The silence stretched between them, taut and palpable, until the coach jolted to a stop in front of the rented townhouse. He reached for his billfold, but the driver rushed to stop him. “No, no, after that unfortunate accident, it’s the least I can do.”
“The fault wasn’t yours,” Morningstar replied.
“Even so, even so.” The driver bowed, leapt into the seat, and departed with as much haste as he could without giving offense.
Inside the house, Mercy and Yarl were sharing a fragrant pot of kopi in the conservatory. Rain streamed down the wall of glass windows.
“I’ve got news about the dead boy,” Mercy announced as they entered.
Morningstar shook out his wings and dropped into a chair. “Go on.”
“His name was Durian Padulski.” She glanced at her notes. “From a town called Pota Pras at the edge of the Zamir Hills.”
“Was it lithomancy that killed him?”
“I can’t say for certain, any residue would be long gone. But I can tell you that he was dead before he hit the river. The papers got it wrong. Durian Padulski didn’t drown. There wasn’t any water in his lungs. Cause of death is undetermined, but the autopsy found a burn mark on his back that could be from projective ley. You must have seen those before.”
He shook his head. Mercy looked surprised. She unbuttoned her coat and pulled the collar aside. “Like this.”
It was a classic projective pattern, like a star had been branded into her flesh.
Morningstar was quiet for a moment. “Pota Pras is a mining hub.” He turned to Yarl. “Gia Andrade — Casolaba’s mistress — told us that he mentioned a new kind of gem. Something worth killing for. Now we have another death, possibly related to the gem trade. I’ll admit the connection is tenuous, but it’s worth investigating.”
“Shall I go to Pota Pras and follow up with the family?” Mercy asked.
Morningstar rolled his shoulder with a wince. “I must go myself. They deserve that much.”
“Then take Cypher Blackthorn with you,” Cathrynne suggested, hoping to avoid his company. “I can remain behind and trace his movements here.”
Gavriel appeared grateful for the suggestion. Their eyes met briefly before they both looked away.
“I’ll head to the wharf and inquire about riverboat schedules,” Mercy said, throwing on her coat and heading out the door.
Morningstar stood quickly. “Yarl, if anyone in the Red House asks where I am for the next few days, tell them my broken wing pains me and I’m resting. No one is to disturb me.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“I have every confidence you can manage the investigation in my absence. If anyone refuses to cooperate, tell them they’ll be charged with obstruction and whatever else you can think of once I return.”
He vanished into the library. Cathrynne took up a post outside, deeply relieved. Tomorrow, he would be on his way to Pota Pras with Mercy, and she would be free of his horrid presence.
* * *
The kitchen smelled of home. Not her own — she’d forgotten what that smelled like — but warm and inviting. Cathrynne paused in the doorway, watching Yarl arrange fried mustard greens and oysters on a plate. Her stomach growled, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since morning.
Yarl looked up, his face creasing into a smile. “I thought you might be hungry. Please, sit.”
She slid onto a wooden stool at the kitchen island. The oysters glistened in their crisp coating, and the mustard greens had been sauteed with garlic and pepper. Pure Kirithi comfort food.
“This looks divine,” she said, picking up her fork. “You’re a man of many talents.”
“One doesn’t live to my age without acquiring a variety of skills.” He poured glasses of water from a clay pitcher. “I’ve found that Gavriel rarely remembers to eat unless food is placed directly in front of him.”
Cathrynne took a bite of the greens, savoring the bitter-sharp taste. Yarl leaned against the counter, watching her eat. “I must also thank you for saving his life today. He told me about the carriage.”
The fork paused halfway to her mouth at the memory of Morningstar’s breath tickling the hollow of her neck and his solid weight pressing her down into the flowerbed. She forced herself to chew and swallow. “Just doing my job.”
Yarl’s keen brown eyes studied her. “He’s not accustomed to needing protection. I think it unsettles him.” A rueful smile. “His brother Michael, the archangel of Sundland, is reputed to be fearsome with a blade. But Lord Morningstar never had an interest in learning the martial arts. He’s more of an intellectual.” Yarl paused. “Of course, he is quite fit. Flying requires strength, and Valoriel designed the angels to have aesthetically pleasing physiques.”
She decided to steer the conversation to a fresh topic. “Fifty years is a long time to work for someone.” Especially a poxy prat, as Mercy would say. “Do you think about retiring?”
Yarl chuckled. “I threaten to every now and again, but I believe I have another decade in me yet.” He wiped down the countertop. “Who will look after him when I’m gone?”
The remark was made lightly, but she got the sense Yarl did actually worry about Morningstar. “He seems capable of looking after himself,” Cathrynne said.
“In some ways, yes.” Yarl folded the cloth. “In others, not at all. He forgets that not everyone views the world as he does. Time moves differently for him.”
She couldn’t help asking. “How old is he?”
“Over seven hundred years, I believe, though he rarely speaks of his age.” Yarl touched his silver curls. “I was a young man with dark hair and a spring in my step when we first met. Yet Lord Morningstar hasn’t aged a day.”
She contemplated this as she ate. Angels were very different — that much she’d known. But watching everyone around you get old and die while you remained unchanged must be difficult. Perhaps that was why so many of them never left Mount Meru. It was easier to stay among their own kind.
“How long can archangels live?” she asked.
“I am not sure,” Yarl admitted, “but they measure their lives in millennia rather than decades.”
Cathrynne finished her supper in silence. Yarl tried to take her plate, but she shook her head. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”
He conceded with a smile and went to prepare a tray for Morningstar and Mercy, who had returned from buying their riverboat tickets and taken the first evening watch. Cathrynne soaked the pans in soapy water, her thoughts drifting. How strange it must be to watch civilizations rise and fall like the tide. No wonder he seemed so remote. Perhaps it was self-preservation.
As she rinsed the silverware, movement caught her eye. A large crow alit on the windowsill and glared at her through the glass, red eyes unblinking. Cathrynne knew what it meant: a summons from the Morag. She recalled her nightmare and felt a spider crawl up her spine.
He comes.
The crow launched into the sky with a caustic croak as Yarl bustled into the kitchen. “There’s an almond trifle for dessert,” he said with a wink. “It’s my specialty.”
Cathrynne patted her stomach. “I promise to save for room it, but think I’ll go for a stroll first. Walk off those fried oysters.”
He glanced at the window. The crow had vanished. “It’s raining,” he pointed out.
“I don’t mind.” She dried her hands on a towel. “It reminds me of Kirith.”
“Just have a care.” Yarl eyed her with grandfatherly concern. “The streets of Kota Gelangi can be dangerous after dark.”
“I’m a cypher,” she tossed over her shoulder. “The streets should be afraid of me.”
As she left the kitchen, Cathrynne heard him laugh. The warmth of it followed her down the hall as she gathered her whip and cudgel and stepped into the rain. No bats tonight. The weather had taken a turn and it was cold enough to see her own breath pluming white in the misty drizzle.
She knew the way to the Red House by now. It was lit up at night, the notorious spire glowing against the clouds. She paused, trying to imagine how one might hoist a body onto it, then retraced the route Mercy had taken her the day they first arrived at the forcing ground.
A twenty-minute walk brought her to the chapter house. Welcoming yellow lights burned in its windows. She told her business to the witch on duty and was escorted to the Morag’s chambers.
Isbail Rosach sat on the carpet deep in conversation with another woman, rangy and dark, with more scars than Cathrynne had ever seen. Not stellate scars. These were burns. She had fought the Sinn.
“This is Marvel Yew,” the Morag said by way of greeting. “Head of the cyphers in Satu Jos.”
“Mum,” Cathrynne said with a respectful nod.
Marvel Yew gave no acknowledgment. She wore a uniform similar to Cathrynne’s, but instead of the starburst symbol of Kirith, hers had a flame rising from a forge.
“Your presence is overdue,” the Morag said tartly. “I told you to report to me yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, mum. We’ve been busy.”
She did not extend an invitation to sit. “What progress has Morningstar made in the investigation?”
Cathrynne knew it was possible that she was speaking to the woman who had ordered Casolaba’s death, and maybe even that morning’s attack, but she wasn’t about to deceive the most powerful witch in Sion.
Especially since she was such a poor liar.
“Casolaba’s mistress told us that he discovered a new kind of gem. He said it was priceless.”
The Morag’s head cocked. “A new gemstone?”
“That’s what she claimed. But she didn’t know what it was, or who he was meeting about it.”
“Go on.”
“Lord Morningstar believes the consul’s death is connected to the boy found in the river. Durian Padulski.”
Her silver eyes gave nothing away. “Connected how?”
“Padulski is from a mining town in the Zamir Hills. If he was murdered, it’s quite a coincidence.”
“Was he murdered?”
“We can’t say for sure,” Cathrynne admitted. “Mercy Blackthorn saw the body. She said the burns could have been caused by a projective spell.”
“Could have been.” The Morag looked skeptical. “And he died before Casolaba?”
“Yes, by about four days.”
“So what’s the theory of the crime?”
“If Morningstar has one, he hasn’t shared it with me.”
“What is your theory, then?”
Cathrynne thought of the witches at the Nilssons’ house. “Maybe the boy was involved in some kind of gem smuggling ring. He knows too much. Or maybe he steals from them. They kill him. The consul finds out and makes a fuss, so they kill him too.”
Isbail nodded slowly. “Tell me, Rowan, does Barsal Casolaba seem like the sort of man to give an angel’s purple piss about a rockhound from the hills?”
“No, mum. I suppose not.”
“Don’t look so deflated. There may still be something in it. What else? You’re holding back.”
“Not holding back, mum. Just haven’t got there yet.” She watched the Morag’s reaction. “Someone tried to kill Lord Morningstar again today. It was right after we left the mistress. He was almost run down by a coach.”
Isbail Rosach and Marvel Yew exchanged a quick, unreadable glance. “Was he harmed?” Isbail asked.
“No, mum. But someone used lithomancy again. I believe they enchanted the caracals.”
Her face darkened. “Are you accusing me?”
Cathrynne swallowed hard. “Of course not, mum.”
“It was I who requested Lord Morningstar’s presence here,” she said. “Would I do that merely to kill him once he arrived?”
“No, mum.”
Isbail Rosach drummed her rings against the desk. “What does Morningstar plan to do next?”
“Mercy Blackthorn is going with him to Pota Pras. I’ll stay behind in Kota Gelangi to poke around and see what I can find out.”
She looked up sharply. “I think not. You will accompany the archangel to Pota Pras.”
Cathrynne tried not to scowl. “It’s already been decided that Mercy will go.”
Isbail fixed her with a cool stare. “You’ll do as I say. I know of your troubles with the White Foxes in Kirith.”
A queasy knot formed in her stomach.
“They have a chapter in Kota,” she continued, “and they are aware of your presence. It would not be wise for you to stay here alone. Better if you disappear for a day or two.”
“Maybe it was them who attacked Morningstar,” she blurted.
“Why?”
“Because they killed Casolaba and don’t want him catching them.”
“And they killed Casolaba because . . .?”
Cathrynne glanced at Marvel Yew, who had been observing the exchange in silence. It was hard to tell what she thought. Cathrynne plunged onward and hoped she wasn’t leaping from a cliff.
“The new gemstone,” she said. “They want it for themselves.”
The Morag looked amused at this heresy. “I will concede that the White Foxes often behave as if they are a law unto themselves, but I have no grounds to accuse them of treason. Their order is under my authority. They are accountable to the High Council. And I have not heard even the faintest whisperings of a new gemstone.”
“Well, I think it exists. You just don’t know about it.”
The Morag seemed to tire of her pertness. “What else?”
“Nothing, mum.” She stared at the carpet to hide her mutinous scowl. “I will do as you say.”
A snort. “Damned right you will.” Isbail reached into her robes and took out a gem pouch, which she tossed over. “Freshly mined. Learn what you can in Pota Pras and report back when you return to the city.”
Cathrynne tucked the pouch into her belt, partly mollified. Back home, she received a strict gem allotment each month. If she blew through them too fast, she was out of luck. “Thank you, mum.”
The Morag waved her away. Cathrynne waited outside the door for a minute, but no one came to show her out, so she made her own way through the low-ceilinged corridors. She desperately did not want to travel with Gavriel Morningstar. What if the visions came again? It was a choice she did care to face again.
Lost in thought, Cathrynne paid little attention to where her feet led her. She looked up to realize that she had taken a wrong turn and was in an unfamiliar corridor. There was no one around to ask for directions. She tried to backtrack and only got more lost. When she found a meeting room with large windows facing the outside and an unlocked exit door, she pounced on it.
In the rainy darkness, it was hard to tell which way the front gates were. As in Arioch, the compound was sprawling. She hurried down random pathways, head bent against the downpour, which is why she didn’t see the kloster until she was right in front of it. The tower was hulking and dark, without a flicker of lamplight. She knew it was the kloster because of the stench. It reminded her of a zoo. Of animal misery. She was turning away when a soft voice called to her.
Called her name.
It came from one of the bottom cells. Fingers curled through the bars, beckoning. Cathrynne hesitated. She wanted to quickly walk away, to pretend she had not heard, but this was a sister, after all. Something in her could not refuse. She approached warily. The girl’s hair was matted into chunks, so filthy it was impossible to tell its natural color.
“Dark-bringer,” she whispered furtively. “God-killer. He comes.”
Cathrynne blinked away the icy rain. “Who is he?”
The girl’s eyes were lucid. Sane, if appearances could be trusted. “I don’t know his name. But when he falls from grace, you must not interfere. You must let him serve his penance, even if it lasts forever.”
“Penance for what?” She was bewildered. “And why would I interfere?”
“Because you love him.”
She shook her head, though dread curdled her stomach. “I love no man. So what you see will never come to pass.”
The seer regarded her for a long moment. “I hope it is so,” she said at last.
Cathrynne impulsively reached out and gripped the girl’s fingers with her own, ignoring the terrible stench that wafted through the bars. “What is your name?”
“Julia.” She swallowed. “Julia Camara.”
A full witch, then, not a cypher.
The pouch at Cathrynne’s belt was full of projective stones. She had a sudden urge to pull the tower down, to reduce it to rubble. Her rage was big enough that she felt sure she could do it. “I’ll get you out. Run as far as you can. They’ll never know who did it—”
Julia drew back, alarm on her face. “No, no. I am safe here.”
Cathrynne shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. Her bandaged fingers curled into a fist. “Please let me help you.”
A ghostly smile touched the seer’s lips. “We will meet again. Now go, Cathrynne Lenormand. Go, Witch of Winter. Go!”
She tugged her hand away and retreated into the dark cell. Cathrynne stood there for a minute, her heart pounding. The girl knew her birth name. No one knew that except for Felicity Birch and the White Foxes who had dragged her from her childhood home.
She ought to call Julia Camara back. Demand answers.
Instead, she turned and walked away, feeling like a vile coward.
* * *
Cathrynne eased the front door shut. The lamps were switched off save for a line of light spilling from beneath the library door. She kicked off her wet boots and left them on the rack, then padded across the floor in damp stockings. She was almost at the stairs when the library door opened and Morningstar emerged, looking rumpled (unusual) and annoyed (usual).
“Where did you go?” he demanded.
“For a walk. Am I under house arrest?”
He scoffed. “In this weather?”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “Yes. I happen to like walking in the rain. Where’s Mercy?”
“Making a pot of kopi.”
Cathrynne heard whistling coming from the kitchen, along with the faint clatter of mugs.
“I’m not a complete fool,” Morningstar said. “You must have gone somewhere.”
“If you must know, I stopped by the chapter house to pick up more gems.” She looked down the hall, wishing Mercy would emerge from the kitchen. “There’s been a change of plans. I’ll be escorting you to Pota Pras.”
When she looked back, his hazel eyes had narrowed. “Isbail Rosach set you to spy on me, didn’t she?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He searched her face for an agonizing minute. Whatever he saw there made some of the suspicion soften. “You saved my life today,” he said. “I trust you, even if I don’t trust the witches.”
There must have been a window open in the library, for a cool draft swept the foyer. Cathrynne shivered in her damp clothes, aware of how little she deserved his faith. “Goodnight, Lord Morningstar.”
“Goodnight, Rowan,” he said with a slight bow, formal and distant once more. “We depart early tomorrow. I’ll thank you to be ready on time.”
She watched him retreat into the library before climbing the stairs to the Iskatar Room. Whatever awaited them in Pota Pras, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only the beginning of something worse.
* * *
The Bessemer River was swollen from recent rains, its muddy waters broken by the wakes of vessels of every size. Ring-billed gulls wheeled overhead, their cries piercing the din of shouting stevedores. Fish, tar, and hemp mingled in the cool morning air, the smell of port cities across Sion.
Morningstar strode along the quay stood beside her. He’d glamoured his wings, making him appear human to anyone who glanced their way. With his gray tweed suit and black valise, he looked like a sleek, wealthy broker on his way to a business deal. Cathrynne wore her uniform of jacket, bodice, whip, and cudgel, but that was a common enough sight in mining country. The same ancient covenant that had given the witches control over raw gems also compelled them to defend the human population against the Sinn.
Almost every witch and cypher in the province had served on the front lines at some point, which is why so many of them bore burn scars. It was entirely different from Kirith, where Sinn encounters were rare and never deadly.
Cathrynne — who hadn’t left Arioch in twenty years and read neither books nor broadsheets — was ignorant of all this until Morningstar took it upon himself to give her a history lesson on the way to the port.
“The Bessemer is the lifeblood of Satu Jos,” he droned in his magistrate voice, “linking the gem-rich interior to the coast. Countless barges ferry raw stones and metals to waiting ships bound for every province in Sion. In return, the ships bring equipment, food, and other necessities to the towns upstream. Of course, with the advent of rail transport a century ago, much of that freight is now moved by trains.”
“You sound like a geography primer,” Cathrynne muttered, scanning the crowds for silver eyes. It had to be a witch who was trying to kill him. Maybe more than one.
He frowned. “What’s wrong with that?”
She sighed. “Nothing. Which one is ours?”
“There.” He pointed to a three-deck paddleboat with a red-painted hull. “The Cinnabar Queen.”
It was old vessel, not one of the new ley-powered ones. Steam billowed from the tall stacks, and its massive paddlewheel turned slowly, churning the brown water to froth. They joined the line to board. It was a mix of miners and brokers. No one gave Morningstar a second glance as he presented the tickets to the purser, who directed them to a second-class cabin on the top deck.
To Cathrynne’s dismay, it was tiny, scarcely able to accommodate a single chair and bunk. Morningstar set his valise on the floor. His wings alone took up more than half the space.
“I’m going on deck,” Cathrynne announced, dropping her bag.
“Suit yourself.” He sat down in the chair, opened his valise, and pulled out a batch of papers.
Cathrynne made her way to the deck circling the second tier. It was crowded with passengers watching the city slowly recede behind. She found a spot at the railing and leaned against it, letting the breeze cool her face.
A young woman stood nearby, hunched in an oversized peacoat with the collar flipped up and a cap pulled low over her eyes. There was something both fierce and secretive about her posture. When she lifted her head to follow the path of a gull, Cathrynne glimpsed a tattoo on her neck. A sailing ship running with the wind, a froth of waves at its bow.
As if sensing the attention, the woman turned. Their eyes met. She flinched and skulked away, disappearing down the stairs to the lower tier. Cathrynne had never seen her before and chalked it up to a general dislike of cyphers.
She remained at the rail and watched lavish waterfront mansions drift past, with their vast emerald lawns sloping down to private docks, gardeners kneeling in the landscaped gardens, and uniformed maids serving breakfast on stone verandas. Presently, the banks of the Bessemer grew wilder, dotted with the occasional village. The sun climbed, burning away the morning mist.
She wondered what kind of power Casolaba’s new gem possessed that so many people were chasing — and dying — for it.
After a few hours, the growing chill drove her back inside, along with the guilty knowledge that she shouldn’t have left Morningstar alone. If Mercy were here, she’d have him playing a game of cards and laughing.
Cathrynne found the archangel as she’d left him, nose buried in a sheaf of documents. “Take the bunk,” he said without looking up. “I don’t require sleep.”
She nodded wordlessly and lay down, then stole a peek when he wasn’t looking. A lock of dark hair spilled across his forehead, making him seem almost boyish. When he wasn’t scowling, Morningstar was very attractive, she had to concede. But his presence, even absorbed in work, sucked all the air from the cabin. It made her tired, and the rolling of the riverboat didn’t help.
She decided that it would be wise to steal a brief nap since they might be up quite late in Pota Pras and she hadn’t slept much the night before, fretting both about the journey ahead and her disturbing encounter with the seer. She locked the cabin door, then lay down with her back to Morningstar, gazing out the porthole.
When Cathrynne finally drifted off, she saw a faceless angel with wings of flame, falling like a bolt of lightning from the heavens.