Close to, the mutilation to the monk's face was even more severe than that of his brother outside. The scars had that same hard-white quality of age, but these were not restricted to his eyes. They spread all across his face, carving out his cheeks and opening his nose so his nostrils appeared to be nothing more than ragged holes in the centre of his face. The scars continued down his neck before disappearing beneath the collar of his habit. He saw them emerge again from the cuffs and continue from his wrists across the back of his hands and again from the hem of his skirts, criss-crossing his ankles and every inch of flesh not covered by his sandals.
Alymere was in no doubt that the man bore the savage scars all over his body.
'I will only ask one more time, monk. Give me the book.'
'And so it comes to this. Kill me if you will, knight. I shall not surrender the Devil's book to you willingly.'
'I have no intention of killing you,' Alymere said, the lie catching in his throat. The thought had occurred to him five steps below. If the monk would not surrender the bible willingly, how else could he uphold his promise to Blodyweth? He was horrified by the thought that the monk, even without eyes, could read his intentions so clearly.
'Let's pretend that is true, shall we? You can use the last few steps to make peace with yourself before you strike me down,' the monk said.
'Silence,' Alymere barked. His fist clenched around the hilt of his sword. It felt heavy in his hand. How heavy was human life? The weight of the blade that claimed it? The weight of the corpse it left behind? Or the weight of all of those lives it could never touch again, combined?
'The truth is barbed, is it not? My murder weighs heavy on you already, does it not?'
'I said silence!'
'So that you may cut me down without my words pricking your conscience? No,' the monk said, tilting his head slightly as though listening to the voices of the fire. 'You are already too far gone for that, aren't you? The book already owns you.'
'No-one owns me. I am a free man!' Alymere's denial was fierce but his words sounded hollow in his own ears.
There were forces at play here that he could not understand. He was merely a play-thing to them. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that shrouded his thoughts.
'Have you not wondered why the flames do not touch you?'
Alymere's only answer was to lash out with his sword.
Twenty-Two
The wall of heat was impenetrable.
Sir Lowick couldn't follow his young charge into the chapter house.
'He is lost to you,' the monk said, as Lowick threw himself once more at the flames.
'I refuse to believe that,' he spat stubbornly.
'Why, when it is the truth?'
'It isn't the truth. It is just words.'
'And like words, it is written. The tragedies of this day have long been known to us.'
'You expect me to swallow that? What sorcery is this? Futures written? Do you huddle over a scrying mirror, or perhaps read the entrails of sacrificial lambs? You are supposed to be pious men. Christian men!' the knight spat.
'There is no sorcery here. We are merely entering the final act of an-age old ballad. We knew this day would come. We did not know when. Likewise we did not know who would deliver our damnation. We thought, perhaps, it would be the reivers when they came, but their part was merely to lead death here, not to deliver it.'
'There will be no more dying here today,' the knight said.
'It would be nice were that true, but there is yet dying to be done. Breathe in the air, smell it. It is heavy with violence to come. It reeks of it, especially around you. But then, you still have a part to play in the killing.'
'Do I now?' The knight said sceptically. 'And I am to believe you knew we were coming and that this is all some ancient prophecy unfolding, or some such folly? I will kill because the stars are in alignment, perhaps? Or did some soothsayer predict the sharpness of my blade and foulness of my mood?'
'Who is to say that you will be the one doing the killing?' The monk offered. His expression was unreadable.
The knight shuddered.
Above them, the streaked glass in the huge window shattered. Dagger-sharp shards of glass rained down.
'You cannot help him,' the monk said, as though reading his mind. 'Your future lies down a different path,' he pointed toward an archway between the granary and the kitchens. 'Follow the path to the misericord, and on through the rose garden to the infirmary. Behind it you will find a door in the sea wall, and through it a narrow stair that leads down to the wharf. Death waits on you there.'
Twenty-Three
The monk threw up his hands to protect himself as the edge of Alymere's sword bit deep, slicing clean through his cassock.
The impact caught Alymere unprepared; part of him had truly expected the blind man to possess some sort of mystical aura that would turn aside his blow. It didn't. The sword drew blood, cutting deep into the soft meat of the monk's forearm.
He screamed, but the sound was lost in the insanity of the encroaching flames.
Alymere swung again. He'd lost all reason. The Devil was in him.
Again and again, raging.
And each blow bit, opening another deep cut.
The blood ran freely down his forearms as the gashes widened.
'Don't do this,' the monk pleaded, the agony of each fresh cut echoed in his voice. 'Please.'
But in the fury-haze, Alymere didn't hear him. Instead he heard the Crow Maiden urging him not to fail her, and with each breath of smoke he inhaled her heady musk, taking it into his lungs and letting it fill him.
The entire chapter house was creaking now, the stones groaning and grinding as the fire worked away at the mortar binding them. It was a dead house, filled with twisted and smoking detritus.
He launched more brutal swings, each wilder than the last. There was no grace to the attack, and any half- adequate swordsman would have taken Alymere apart. But the monk made no move to defend himself. It was as though he was content to be cut down.
Alymere didn't see the thick white scar forming over the first cut, the second and the third. As quickly as he delivered a new wound two of the older ones began to heal, leaving more of those thick white veins across the surface of his body.
And through it all the monk clung onto the book as though it were the only thing keeping him alive.
The notion made a sudden, sick, sort of sense to Alymere.
How else could he be immune to the flames?
Alymere realised then that the only way he was walking out of this place alive was with the Devil's Bible in his hands to serve as his shield.
'Give me the book,' Alymere demanded, seething and raging like a man possessed. There was a sickness in his soul. 'Or I won't be responsible… just give me the damned book.'
'This isn't you.'
'I don't want to kill you. I came in here to save you.'
'This isn't what you want.'
