Page 46 of Antiletum
“If we do,” I call over my shoulder, “at least we brought extras.”
Pushing an emaciated prisoner out of the way to more easily inspect another, I collect the healthiest offering that may have the stoutest blood.
“It won’t get this bad again,” I promise. The remaining six expressions of relief over not being chosen melt back into fear.
No one could really say what was going to happen. This is an unprecedented circumstance. Balance is upset far easier than we had hoped, though we knew it was a possibility that keeping things stable may be a feat.
“When are you heading back?” Mallin asks.
“As soon as we’re done here.”
Quick work is made of dragging the third sacrifice to its position, completing the trio. The ground quakes beneath us, almost throwing Alaric off his feet. Straightening, he glances down at the pulsing stone with awe. “Amazing. How do you think thedeoswill react when we raise them?”
“With any hope, gratefully.”
Mallin looks up, holding the head of his offering up by its hair, yanking tight at the scalp. “Centuries of planning have gone into this. Ever wonder what made us the generation worthy to see it through?”
Alaric mirrors Mallin’s hold, exposing the pale column of neck waiting to be drained with excitement. I do the same, the men we hold crying quietly.
“Just as I told my wife—this isn’t simply timing. This is destiny.”
With a curt nod, we all three drag our blades across their throats—same as I did Tabitha—to bleed them dry and satisfy the Heartstone and the Ellden clocks at once.
Rivers of red stream from the wounds, the body I hold twitching and gurgling for a wet breath that he’ll never taste again.
I stare at the black stains of decay on the Heartstone, holding my breath. Mallin and Alaric hold similar climatic expressions, waiting to see if this vital thing is able to heal itself in our offering. If it dies again, can we bring it back? Or would all possibility of raising ourdeosand returning the world to true freedom be wiped for good, letting Parliament win?
Breath doesn’t loosen until I watch that dark stain leach away. The discoloration doesn’t fade fully, leaving a small darkened patch against the ancient stone. But the Heartstone’s beat evens out, becomes a more manageable and natural tempo.
Mallin is the first to drop his body, no longer fighting, its blood slowing to a trickle. His chest heaves, sweat beading on his brow.
“You might want to work a little harder on Delaney, Val,” Alaric warns, his mouth pinched with worry. “I don’t know how long this will be sustainable.”
12
Nothing but an echo
Delaney
I’m bored.
And anxious for Val to return. This longing—this pure physical draw to him has become impossible to ignore. Not since he’s dedicated himself to forcing his way in. I almost wish he had started sooner.
A lot of time is spent in thespirlinaryafter Selise was called away to assist Nelda in making some complicated tonics that take days to brew correctly. But it’s stiflingly hot with none of the windows within the sanctuary able to be opened. Curiosity held me too thoroughly to not inquire to someone about the reason for the openings being sealed. Wondering how differing the story would be to what Val told me.
“It’s been said that many years ago,” a young servant tells me conspiratorially after I leave in search of refreshments, “a Lord’s son opened a window and simply stepped outside—to the nothing beyond and sunk like a stone in water, splatting grotesquely on top of a carriage in the drive.”
“That’s terrible,” I respond with equal dramatics, accepting the iced cucumber water she offers.
She nods seriously and slides onto the ornate couch next to me, obviously finding great enjoyment in her telling. “The young man was in love. He went to Parliament, requested a marriage, and they declined. Saying it was an unsuitable match. He opted for death over being unpaired with his chosen love.”
The tale is surprising given that it doesn’t exactly paint Parliament in any more positive of a light than what Val shared.
The same servant told me that his spirit, dark and flitting, now hauntsspirlinariesthroughout the city. That he tucks away on the arched stone rafters, letting his heartache echo through the walls, waiting for his true love to find him beyond life.
Greenhouse-like atmosphere aside, being in thespirlinaryis making me positively itch to necromance. A jittery sensation scratches through my chest, a far too familiar feeling in recent months.
I have in mind to retire to my room that graciously boasts an operable window after my conversation with the servant.
