Chapter 15

In a single motion, it puts the lantern on the floor and draws its second dagger. It crouches, eyes narrowing, and scans every inch of the room. There is no one, but the moment it stops moving, something flickers in the corner of its eye. It spins, breath ragged and weapons raised to fight, but sees nothing.

It turns away from where it saw the movement and waits. The flickering comes again, and it realizes what it must be. It takes the lamp and circles the room to the spot, and sees a gap between the stones; a straight line from the ground to a spot above its head. It raises the light, follows a horizontal gap to a third line running to the ground where a large crowbar lies. Rust coats the bar’s surface, but it feels solid enough. It wonders how long the crowbar has lain there and suspects it is much newer than the skeletons. Halfway up the gap, chips and dents mark the stone where the crowbar was used previously.

It puts down the lamp and picks up the bar. Rust turns its hands red in the lamplight, but the iron underneath is solid enough. It pushes and wiggles the bar’s narrow end into the crack, then pulls on it. Unlike the hidden wall in the manor, the stone is not counter-weighted, and barely shifts with its efforts. Again and again, over and over, it wiggles and pushes and pulls while the stone moves incrementally.

Time passes, though it doesn’t realize how long until the lamp flickers and dims. It stops, leaves the crowbar stuck in the gap, and lights a candle from the lamp’s wick. A moment’s time to refill the lamp, another to re-light the wick from the candle, and a third to drink from the waterskin. It drains half, wipes its hands on its skirt and starts on the crowbar again.

It feels the rock moving, inching over the ground; hears scrapes and creaks, and stones rubbing against each. The gap between the stone and the wall is larger than before, and what lamplight gets through reflects off another red stone wall. It keeps wriggling, keeps rocking, keeps pushing the crowbar until it suddenly slides forward into the gap. The sudden motion takes its balance, and it almost loses its grip when its knuckles smack against the wall, but holds on. It changes position, sets the crowbar deep, and pulls. With an echoing scrape, the rock moves farther than it has before. Another pull makes it move more. A dozen pulls later, the gap is wide enough to squeeze its head through.

Any space wide enough for its head is wide enough for its body. House Kilcharni’s Master of Death taught it that by taking it to a cavern and forcing it to squeeze between two chambers until it could do so without panicking.

It sets its bag down, and takes off its belt with its daggers. Carefully, so as not to tip or spill, it puts the lamp in the small room. Then it turns its body sideways and squeezes through the gap.

The room is a cylinder, a quarter the size of the other one, the domed ceiling high overhead. A niche, higher than the height of a man, is cut into the far wall. The statue, at once human, bird, and animal, lies in pieces on the floor. Broken wings lie near the cracked stone torso, whose breasts jut out in a style not popular in the City of Seven Walls. Part of a head with tight-curled hair lays against the wall, a single broken antler still attached. Broken parts of cat-like legs and a scaled tail lie in scattered around the floor.

A dark brown cylindrical case, stands in the niche. It steps over the statue’s remains and inspects the case: leather, made of two pieces with the larger top buckled to the smaller bottom. It picks up the case, undoes the buckle, and removes the lid. Inside is a rolled piece of thin, pale leather, still supple despite its age. Unrolling the leather reveals symbols in neat lines.

Writing, but what language? It remembers listening to the children’s classes on ancient languages, and the books it snuck from the classroom. The writing on the leather looks nothing like what it saw then. It holds the piece closer to the lamp and realizes that the writing is not black, but the dark red of dried blood. A knot ties its stomach tight. Carefully, it rolls the leather up, slides it into the case, and buckles it. Then it turns and sees the ghost.

It jumps, yelping in surprise, its back slamming against the edge of the niche.

The ghost-child looks nine years old, with long hair flowing in a gentle curl that matches Silinie’s. They have her shape of eyes and nose, too. The child’s jawline is different, and the hair colour, but they are clearly a member of House Kilcharni.

The child wears only a white loincloth, and from the top of their hips to their armpits, their flesh is gone, peeled off to reveal the muscles and bones.

It locks its jaws shut to keep from vomiting.

It has seen skinned animals in the markets, the butchers’ precise cuts not wasting a single bit of precious meat or fat from the sheep and goats. It has seen people flayed as well—a punishment reserved for child killers and betrayers of the city—usually by the same men who skin the animals.

Unlike the animals, criminals are skinned alive and screaming. Even so, the butchers work their knives precisely and with skill, their cuts just like the ones on the child’s body.

The child’s mouth falls open as they realize it can see them. Tears shimmer in their eyes, and in a small, broken voice, they ask, “Can I go now?”

Horror turns its breath to gasps. It circles wide around the ghost to the narrow gap, pushes the lamp and the cylinder into the other room, and squeezes through itself. With shaking hands, it puts on its dagger-belt and slings its bag over its shoulder. The leather cylinder goes into the bag, the lamp into its hand. Then, eyes blurring with tears, it walks out of the round room.

The muscles in its legs register the tunnel’s slope, but it doesn’t bother counting the steps. It moves faster and faster with each stride. By the time it it emerges in the house, it is running. The swinging lantern casts twisting shadows over the walls. It races up the narrow spiral stairs, letting its shoulder rub the wall for balance. The constant turning leaves it dizzy, but it persists until it reaches the top step and stabs a hand at the latch. The bookshelf swings wide and it dashes out into the library. It shoves the bookshelf closed and runs into the hallway, and through the back door into the darkening air of late evening. At last it stops, gasping, in the garden. It raises its eyes to the sky, hoping for stars, but sees only heavy clouds threatening rain.

After a dozen breaths to slow its heartbeat and calm its mind, it turns around. The ghost-child stands behind it, their bloody torso glistening, their face filled with a hope far more terrible than any pain or sorrow.

“Can I go now?” they beg. “Please? I’ve been alone so long.”

Click here to read chapter 16!

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