Page 32 of Court of Shadows
The man paused, letting the bandage tail drop out of his mouth. He leaned back and laughed. The light from the altar made his dark brown skin look gold. I noticed then a pattern of tattoos on his arms and shoulders, rows and rows of formal hieroglyphs inked into his skin expertly as if by a scribe. “My feet are on the path. Do not worry, Bennu, I am here to look afteryou and take you the rest of the way.”
I sighed and said a silent prayer of thanks. He left and returned with a small cup in his hand; it was perfumed like flowers and goat’s milk, and hot as he handed it to me. Kneeling at my side, he waited until I had a steady grip on the cup.
“Drink that, it will ease the pain.”
He had a northerly accent, a proper one, as if he had been raised and educated in one of the noble houses of the upper kingdom. “Did Meryt and Chryseis send you?” I asked him.
“In a way. Drink.” His eyes were odd, not brown as I expected but a very deep purple. “You’re a hard boy to find, Bennu, and that is good. They’re looking everywhere; always now they are seeking, seeking. Our temples and safe houses from Buhen to Maydum have been raided. It was with the Mother’s luck that I found you when I did.”
“Raided?” At once, the tea, or whatever it was, calmed my burning throat. The pain in my back and feet eased, too, and I drank more, chasing the comfort. “Have the priests of the old gods sent their numbers against us?”
“No, this is something new,” he told me. “Something worse. These are creatures the likes of which we have never seen. They bow to someone called Roeh, who takes the guise of a farmer, though he is no simple peasant. More and more they appear from the east, these Nephilim and Adjudicators of Roeh.”
“And you?” I asked. “What do I call the man who slays beasts with wasps for eyes?”
He smirked and smoothed scarred hands back over his forehead and hair, which was black and had been braided neatly, close to the scalp. “Khent,” he said, bowing his head gracefully. His sharp chin and nose reminded me of statuary. “There will be time for introductions later, Bennu. For now, you must rest and regain your strength. We leave in three hours, for the task is urgent and we have very far to go.”
As I toiled away at my translations in the cellar, the house exploded into commotion above.
The men had returned from their time at the spring, Amelia’s note was discovered, and every room in Coldthistle House seemed to be filled with Mason Breen’s demented wailing and his father’s thundering shouts. Even through layers of wood and brick and carpet I could tell two camps were emerging—Mason was beside himself with anguish and organizing a search. Mr. Breen, on the other hand, was lobbying to forget the whole business and press on to London.
Nobody would leave, I knew that much, but I hoped they would soon scatter to the woods to look for Amelia and leave us in peace. With any luck, the odious Mr. Breen and the wolf creature with the purple eyes would meet and solve one problem handily.
On second thought, I did not hope for the monster’s return. No, I prayed that it was far, far away, so frightened by Finch’s blinding light that it decided to leave us alone forever. Though it was musty and a bit dark, I welcomed the solitude of the underground library. There had been more than enough excitement for one morning, and I was beginning to worry that one week would not be nearly enough time to finish the translation for Mr. Morningside.
“At least,” I muttered to myself, dashing off the period on a finished entry, “the material is never dull.”
I found myself being absorbed into this boy Bennu’s adventures. Mr. Morningside’s interest in the journal was also becoming clearer the more I read—there were mentions here and there of Adjudicators, and I could only assume that Bennu had been party to some ancient and apparently still standing grudge. Finch had mentioned war and struggle, and I had to wonder if this journal contained secrets about Mr. Morningside’s enemies that he would find valuable. I still had no earthly idea how it all related to his trial, or how he had known the journal was important in the first place, but the only way forward was through.
My eyes had begun to tire from working steadily away with nothing but a few blue-flamed candles to keep me company. Hours had passed, and the house above had become quieter as the men scattered to search for Amelia. She was probably already on her way to Derridon in a cart, off to have a visit withChijioke and Giles St. Giles, presently to find her soul residing in an enchanted pigeon.
“I hope they choose a vulture,” I said, pushing back from the desk and standing. A bit of exercise would put me to rights, so I made rounds of the room, shaking out my cramped fingers as I perused the odd bits and bobs hidden away here by Mr. Morningside.
I could have spent entire weeks poking my nose into every corner of that place. There were books in languages I had never seen before, and jars filled with a liquid that shied away and sloshed to the far end of the container when I neared. He had seen fit to save an entire massive tome filled with nothing but pressed thistles. I wandered past the fireplace and approached the corner of the library not far from the door. Again, I saw the painting of four figures leaning against the shelves, and I approached, gingerly, as if by some magic the people painted there could see me on the other side of the canvas.
Leaning down, I found the picture had been partially covered by a dust cloth, an old white brocade thing that hung down in a dramatic swoop. I pinched the edge of the fabric and lifted it up, studying the painting and its strange subjects. There were three men and one woman. The woman was dressed in what looked like the drapey garments seen on Roman statues. She was exquisitely beautiful, garbed all in bright magenta; there was even a slight pink tinge to her skin. The man beside her was standing rather close, as if they were familiar, perhaps husbandand wife or brother and sister. He wore a big black cape that covered most of his body, and he also wore a mask made of wood, covered in twisting vines that described the eyes and mouth.
The other two men were apart, one standing and the other seated on a low ivory sofa. I could not make out much of the standing man, for though his face had been painted, it lacked any kind of features. It was just a blank swath of flesh, with no eyes or mouth or nose. Horrible to behold, I thought, cringing. A man should have a face, and a painted man with no face should not be able to fill a girl with such pointed unease. Seated near the faceless person was an elderly person, of jolly complexion and plump. He quite distinctly resembled the shepherd that had taken me in when I tried to run from Coldthistle House. And while he had treated me with kindness then, looking at this re-creation of him made the flesh creep across my skin. It was not a benign smile he showed, but a hungry one, the glint in his eyes tipped ever so slightly with madness.
“Ghastly, isn’t it? Not the sort of thing you want hanging in the front hall.”
I leapt back, frightened, hands flailing out in front of me instinctually. Mr. Morningside had entered on silent feet, watching me from the door with his arms crossed over his dark, striped coat.
“Hard at work, are we?” he added with a laugh.
“My hand needed a rest,” I replied with a weak shrug. “But Icompleted more entries for you.”
“Ah! Good news at last!” He strode merrily to the desk, leaning over it to inspect my work. He paged through the translations, humming with appreciation. “Fine job, Louisa, a very fine job. I almost feel rotten for teasing you.”
“Indeed,” I said, sarcastic. “How did Amelia’s betrothed take the news?”
Mr. Morningside puffed out his lips like a horse neighing and shook his head, still reading over my work. “Not well, as one might expect, but no punches were thrown, thank goodness. It’s a nasty business, what we do, but we can and should keep it civil if at all possible.”
I said nothing, knowing I’d only come out with more cheek.
“Don’t feel bad for Mason, Louisa. He isn’t here because of his charitable works.”
“I know that,” I said testily. “I don’t think anything about him at all.”
