A Touch of Darkness Page 4

  “Thank you. You are most thoughtful,” she replied.

  “Yes, this is true. Mag and I will lead the way, you will travel as though a part of my family,” he said. He looked at Ascara. “Your guard may travel with you.”

  Ascara bowed. “As you wish.”

  With that, he and Magda returned to their place at the front, and the procession restarted.

  Ascara helped Lucinda inside the sedyan and closed the door once she had settled. There were open windows forward and to the side, and although covered with a very thin voile for privacy, the heat seemed to increase to unbearable levels.

  “Are you all right?” Ascara said. “You look very flushed.”

  “It’s hot. I’ll be fine. I’m not used to the heat in this formal dress, that’s all. I’d rather rip these damned clothes off.”

  “Under other circumstances, such a comment would bring out my more flirtatious side.”

  “That’s very restrained of you. But now I almost wish we had the land machine.”

  Ascara chuckled. “Things are pretty bad when you want to travel in the machine. You hate travelling.”

  “To be fair to that hulking thing, it is pretty comfortable.”

  “It is,” Ascara agreed.

  “Still, I’m sure I’ll manage here,” Lucinda added.

  “If you say so, but if you need help, I will be right here. Just ask for anything you need,” Ascara said.

  As soon as she settled into her seat, the sedyan bearers started to move. She noted the sounds in the compound as the people began to shuffle forward. She cocked her head to one side; of all the sounds she could hear, one stood out by its absence. Birdsong. She noted this lack with a degree of sadness and blamed their silence on the number of people in the compound.

  When they cleared the palace gates, Lucinda heard a muted humming which added to the background noises—the scuffling of feet on the hard-packed ground, the occasional braying of a distant donkey, the cries of sea birds across the bay.

  As the procession wound around palace hill, the hum grew louder. The sound became a set of sounds which gained a rhythm, and soon became words. These words became a chant or a prayer, and although she didn’t understand the language, this prayer did not sound like the Rabian dirge or the mournful lamentations she’d expected. Power wrapped around the words, called to her, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. A chill raced through her despite the heat of the day. She wasn’t sure this was a good thing.

  Black-clad mourners lined the streets, and she could see many more in the dark shadows of the side streets. They all chanted. She couldn’t always see them sing, but she could feel the power of their voices. Their emotions, their prayers, added to the power of the procession until the whole city resonated with energy. Lucinda sensed this spiritual energy as it crashed through the procession like a wave. And then, like the tide, the ebb and flow of the magic rose again in an eternal cycle.

  Lucinda gripped the arms of the seat in her sedyan. The energy beat against her skin so hard she might as well have been beaten by a hundred whips. The assault turned her thoughts sluggish and slow, though not slow enough for her to dismiss her concerns. Where would all of that power go? And when would it be released? When she drew back the curtains, she saw Ascara next to her sedyan, and she didn’t look happy.

  “Are you all right?” Lucinda asked.

  “Fine, except for this chanting. It’s giving me the heebie-jeebies,” Ascara replied.

  “Me too, Ascara. Me too.”

  The procession left the hot and narrow streets of the city and headed southwards. Ahead, the three peaks known collectively as Holy Mount soared high above the land. With a central peak flanked by two smaller companion peaks, Lucinda wondered about the significance and coincidences of the number three. The trinity of Raven, Fire and Ice, the three ravens of herself and Cruck and Prruk, and the three peaks of Holy Mount.

  The dusty trail, made worse by the number of people in the procession, wound around the foot of the first hill. Lucinda felt her stomach begin to churn and a wave of cold sent shivers down her spine. She didn’t know why, but whatever this was, it wasn’t good. That said, she had never been on a funeral procession like this before either. Maybe that was the reason. She considered that explanation for a moment or two, and although not happy, could think of no other reason for her anxiety.

  Lucinda drew back the voile curtains and looked out of the side window. A dusty haze like a thick cloud clung to the land and part way up the side of Holy Mount. All made worse with the footsteps of so many people, all of them travelling in the same direction along the same narrow path.

  As they reached the far side of the hills, at a point farthest away from the city, Lucinda noted a substantial passageway which tunnelled into the mountainside. She’d supposed they would travel all the way to the top of the peaks for the funeral. This tunnel entrance was unexpected. They wouldn’t be on top of the mountain, they would be inside it.

  The passage stood about eight or nine feet wide, thirty or forty feet high, and wide enough for a Sedyan a’bas to pass through. Several stone arches, more like bridges, ran overhead from one side to the other. Dark-robed figures lined these bridges in row after row of unmoving statues. They watched, like guardians, as the procession approached and then passed beneath into the rocky passage beyond.

  The prayers of the priests and mourners did not stop but echoed from the sides of the rock until that also made Lucinda shiver. The hairs along her arm stood on end. At least they would be out of the sun.

  Within the passage, she saw a pair of iron-bound gates, each one a good eight or nine feet tall and stood open and flush against both sides of the rocky walls. Each half of the gate had the symbols of nine snakes on both sides, matching the one on the funereal sedyan. She wondered if Rabian funeral rites included nine snakes in their symbology. She made a mental note to ask Magda about that. Or Ascara, when they had time.

  She looked forward and, some way ahead, she could see the second set of gates, much like this last one, opened and flush against the walls. A bridge arched over the top, complete with unmoving guardians. Lucinda could almost feel their unwavering gaze as though standing in judgement of all who passed by.

  The whole procession spilt out into an open area at the heart of the mountains. At first glance, Lucinda assumed it was a caldera of sorts, like a hollowed-out bowl. Open to the sky, this looked more like a large borehole. Now that they were inside the mountains, and in the shade, the air temperature veered towards chilly. She tried to look upwards, to the tops of the mountain. Blue sky could be seen, but details were sparse in the shadows.

  Stone steps spiralled around the sheer sides and almost to the top. Ledges at various places marked, insofar as Lucinda could ascertain, the floors of rising levels. Close to each ledge, she could see dark smudges. Doors and windows. Like houses.

  No, not like houses at all, she thought. More like tombs. Hundreds of them.

  They had been carved into the stone so long ago she could almost hear the pulse of the passing years beating through the rock. Dread, as heavy as the stone which surrounded them, settled on her shoulders. They were in the heart of a necropolis, and she could feel the memories of the ancient dead as though they stood by her side.

  Her sedyan came to a gentle stop somewhere in the centre. She’d lost track of her exact location, not that it mattered. Around her, the mourners also stopped moving and talking. The prayers were at an end. A gentle breeze blew through the passage and robes flapped in the wind, but other than this, no one moved. Silence filled the necropolis. Yet the power of the prayers remained. The air almost crackled with the life of it.

  Lucinda heard a man’s voice and he spoke in Rabian with power enough in his voice to fill the whole area. One of the white-robed figures moved to the side of her litter and whispered through the window. “This is the high priest, and he is welcoming everyone,” she said in Anglish.

  “Araha?” Lucinda asked.

  “It is I. Please stay seated while he speaks.”

  Lucinda tried to relax, but she couldn’t. The power of the prayers sat over the mourners like an invisible cloud of potential. Anticipation pulled at her skin and, rather than diminish or fade, the energy inside the necropolis seemed to increase.

  The mourners and the priests stared upwards, as though enthralled by every word from the high priest. The words grew louder, and the prayers more enthusiastic. Every word hammered through the rocks. Each word, wrapped in prayer, layered with magic and held together with faith, swelled and grew until the echoes of his words became the meaning of everything.

  His words were hypnotic and Lucinda allowed herself to sink into the undulating rhythm and lyrical sound of his voice. His words lulled her senses towards the point of sleepiness and found herself drifting. Her concerns about where they were and the power evoked by the prayers seemed to seep away. Perhaps nothing would happen, and this was as much a part of the funeral rites as anything else. She worried for nothing.

  Twice she jerked herself upright as her eyes closed. She just wanted to sleep, to let it all go, to forget. To allow herself to be at peace.

  Lucinda heard, as though from a great distance, the cry of a raven. She wanted to answer, but she just felt so sleepy.

  The raven called again. Louder. More insistent. And she forced herself to pay attention. As soon as she did, her stupor lessened, and the world around her seemed to come into focus. Her head cleared well enough that she could hear the flaws in the way the high priest spoke. The rhythm seemed a little less smooth, the tones of his voice a little too grating, and the power the procession had raised seemed a little less commanding. If anything, she felt a little relieved; the priest no longer wound up the power. Instead, it had started to dissi
pate. Thank the Mother for that.

  High overhead, the rays of the sun crept over the edges of the cliffs. Bright light shone lower and lower down the walls. Where the light touched, the rock sparkled and glinted. Even the priest stopped talking so that he could turn his attention to the sun. He dropped to his knees and held out his arms in welcome. Every mourner stared in his direction, as though waiting for his guidance.

  He barked out a few commands, and a good proportion of those in black robes filed out of the grounds, the rest lined the cliff walls. Only those in white robes stood in the centre now. Priests, Lucinda assumed. Yet this didn’t feel right. Why would mourners leave?

  “You may stand now. It is time,” Araha said.

  “Time for what?” Lucinda asked.

  “Time for the Last Rite,” she answered.

  Ascara opened the litter door and offered her arm.

  “Have you seen Magda?” Lucinda asked.

  “She is at the front, if that’s what you call it,” she said. Ascara pointed to a section of stone steps that led to a high ledge. “Can you see?”

  “I can.”

  Now she could see the pyre, with Mogharan, Magda, and six priests who bore between them a stretcher carrying the shrouded remains of Olivia. The high priest approached them from the opposite direction.

  At her side, Araha inched closer. “Now we take our princess to the pyre and, as the sun passes overhead, the flames will be lit. So shall she pass from mortality to immortality for all times,” she said.

  “Araha, are those tombs in the rock?” Lucinda asked.

  “Correct, this is a part of our heritage. Once we used to revere our dead and inter them here, where we would be able to speak with them always. That is a past that is gone now.”

  “Oh, you don’t do that anymore?” Lucinda asked.

  “It is a complex matter, but the priests gave much thought and prayer to this, and a decision was made. The body is mortal, the spirit is immortal, and how can the spirit be allowed to soar to heaven if the mortal body ties them to this earth? Fire consumes the mortal body, and that means it must also release the spirit,” Araha answered.

  “But you still have tombs. Did you burn those bodies also?”

  “These are the tombs of the ancients, who are the founding fathers of Port Ruth. They have been here since the beginning, and they will remain here to watch over the city and the people.”

  “I see,” Lucinda said. A shiver ran down her spine.

  Araha didn’t seem to notice. “We must watch from here, as there is only so much space on the ledge,” she said. “This is the Last Rite and we must speak no more until the end.”

  The sound of a gong echoed through the insides of Holy Mount. Once, twice, three times, it rang.

  “Look up now,” Araha said.

  The sun now shone right through the centre of the mountains and Lucinda had to shield her eyes from the glare. Flames burst from the pyre with a loud whoosh.

  The priest paused, and then started to pray. He did not pray alone. All those in white robes repeated his words, even Araha joined in and prayed with the fervour of the enthralled.

  Lucinda felt the power rise again. Not that it had ever completely dissipated, she realised. It had lost direction and focus, but now all of the priests joined together and called it all back to life. Their prayers gathered the energy together, and magic flared so fast Lucinda had no time to think what it meant. Before she could say a word, the high priest released the energy from the prayers. Power washed through everyone and everything within the Holy Mount, and it took her breath away. She gripped Ascara and held on with such force, her fingers ached.

  “Lucinda,” Ascara whispered.

  The world spun and Lucinda closed her eyes. She felt Ascara as she adjusted her position and arms encircled her waist. Without her, she would have fallen.

  “Lucinda?” Ascara said, her voice more urgent.

  She leaned into Ascara and took strength from her presence. She could hardly breathe with the force of death surrounding them. Ascara, all fire and life, helped her focus on the here and now, rather than the world on the other side. “We are in a place of the dead,” Lucinda said. As she spoke, she found it difficult to focus and her own voice sounded distant and dreamy.

  “Yes,” Ascara agreed.

  “And the dead here aren’t dead. Not exactly.”

  4

  Ascara held Lucinda as though she could shield her from everything. This whole funeral business had become peculiar and weird, even by their standards. Around them, the priests stared upwards with the glassy-eyed look of the enchanted. Not one of them blinked. They swayed on their feet and chanted their prayers in long and breathy bursts. She wished she understood their words; then she might understand what they were doing. It wasn’t good either way.

  “Why are you holding me like this?” Lucinda asked. Her voice sounded distant.

  “Because you need me,” Ascara answered.

  “Oh. Do I?”

  “And I will not let you go until you are more yourself.”

  “If you want,” Lucinda answered. Her voice still held that distant quality and Ascara didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Lucinda! Come back to me. Tell me what is going on.”

  “Last Rites,” she answered, as though that explained everything.

  “Lucinda, come back, now,” Ascara said. She gripped Lucinda’s arms and shook her. “Wake up.”

  Lucinda didn’t respond. Ascara turned her around, saw the slightly unfocused look in her eyes, and slapped her. Hard.

  Lucinda’s eyes grew sharper and more focused.

  “I want your attention, you need to focus,” Ascara said. “Something weird is going on, and I need you to tell me what to do.”

  Lucinda rubbed her eyes. “Oh, Mother. This is the Last Rite, but it is not what we think. He woke the spirits up and now they are hungry,” Lucinda said.

  “What spirits?”

  “The city fathers. They are awakened and they need to feed.”

  “Did they feed on you?”

  Lucinda shook her head. “No, no, they called me, and I couldn’t turn away. They have not fed yet, but they will try.” Lucinda pointed to the pyre. “The priest there is summoning the dead as the mourners chant their words of power. Soon, those shadows of a distant past will rise up and demand to feed.”

  “Feed on what?” Ascara asked.

  “Us, the priests, whoever is here, I suppose.”

  “Magda? What about Magda?” She didn’t wait for an answer, because Magda stood in the thick of it. “Can you do something?” Ascara asked.

  Lucinda closed her eyes and looked as though she had fallen asleep. She hadn’t though, Ascara knew when Lucinda called the power of the Raven. It rose from the ground in a cold wave, and Ascara thought of the chill of the crypt. Lucinda shivered in her arms, and she let her own heat, her rage, build so that Lucinda could use it.

  “What do you see?” Ascara asked.

  “I see tombs and I can feel the dead in them. Ancient dead. They are powerful,” Lucinda said.

  “Did you not see them when we came in?”

  “No, I didn’t, not at first,” Lucinda answered. She opened her eyes and scanned the walls of the cliffs. “I felt nothing of this, but...”

  “But?”

  “The prayers might have masked it. The priests raised their magic as we left the palace, and by the time we came here, I could sense nothing but their power.”

  “Was that their intention?” Ascara asked.

  “I have no idea, but it worked. And now I see them. There are souls here which have no place on this plane. They are hungry and they are angry.”

  “Is Magda safe?”

  “For now.” She moved closer to Ascara. “Don’t move, hold me. I need your strength.”

  Ascara held her close, and she supposed it looked like a pose of grief. Instead of grieving, Lucinda closed her eyes and lay her head against Ascara. Lucinda didn’t stay there long, but cold seemed to race through her and settle in Ascara’s bones. She shivered.

  Lucinda whispered against her chest. “This mountain. This Holy Mount, as they call it, is a Tower. And this Tower is not one raised by a covenant with the Great Mother, but a Tower raised by the Father. Her Towers stand for life, but I don’t understand what his stand for. Whatever it stands for, they used a lot of power to do it. The power of death pervades it all.”