Warlock's shadow

no one said anything, but still, he’d keep his head down for the rest of the day in case. He did his work in the kitchen, saw Tasahre come in and eat with the other sword-monks as she always did, and then when they were done, settled down to his own supper. It bothered him, not knowing what would happen to her, same as it bothered him with Master Sy, but with Tasahre he knew there was nothing he could do. Nothing he should do.

Velgian. Right here in the temple.

He tried never to think about what had happened between him and Kuy before Tasahre had run the warlock through, but it was always there in his dreams or when he closed his eyes. Mostly what he remembered were the strands of his soul, laid before him, and cutting them and understanding every part of what he was doing — that was the nightmare that woke him with a cold sweat when he was asleep and made him shudder when he was awake, wondering how else he might have changed, whether without those missing pieces he was still the same Berren he’d been before.

But he remembered the rest too. He remembered the symbols he’d been forced to write, the ones that made the dead speak.

He picked at his food. The answers he wanted were there to be had. He almost got up, right there and then, to go and look for Tasahre, to ask her to come with him. Then he changed his mind and ran through the way that conversation would go.

I want to see Velgian.

Really? Why?

I can make him talk.

How?

Oh, there’s just this thing that the evil warlock showed me.

A spell?

Yeh, I suppose, if you put it that way, yeh, it’s like a magic spell.

That you learned from the abomination?

Yeh. From the evil warlock who tried to kill you and made me cut out a piece of my own soul. Yeh, that one. But we’re not evil, we’re good, so that’s all right, isn’t it? A necessary evil, like you said.

Yeh. And Tasahre would be just fine with that, and then his long-lost father who just happened to be king of the silver faeries would come to the temple disguised as a rainbow and shower him in gold!

Maybe it would be better to just do it and tell her afterwards. If he could find a way to not mention the part about making dead people talk. Or maybe he shouldn’t tell her at all. Hadn’t he got her into enough trouble already? Maybe he should just leave Velgian alone.

He needed someone who wasn’t Tasahre, someone who wasn’t Master Sy, someone who could let him think it through for himself without telling him the answer. Tasahre would say no, it was wrong, it was sorcery and never mind what they might find out, never mind that it might save Master Sy, never mind that even the Emperor himself was said to study the arcane. Master Sy, on the other hand, would tell him to get on with it. Use the best tool for the job, that’s what he’d say. How you got to where you got didn’t matter: what mattered was where you found yourself when you were done.

He picked at his food. He did his chores and he went to bed. And in the night, when everyone else was asleep, he got up and crept outside again to where Velgian was waiting. He crossed the practice yard, darting from one shadow to the next. No one was about this late but he felt eyes everywhere. At any moment, someone was going to shout out: Boy! What are you doing? and then he’d be caught and they’d find out and Tasahre would know and everything would be bad.

But there were no shouts; and then he was inside the Hall of Swords and it was dark and the warlock’s things were all around him and he didn’t dare even light a candle. He waited, letting his eyes get used to what little moonlight filtered in through the open windows. He already had a quill and a strip of paper, stolen while he was cleaning the classrooms. He found an old book to write on, a shaft of light to see by, dipped his quill in his stolen pot of ink …

And paused.

It didn’t feel like he was doing something wrong. He didn’t feel like he was damning his soul or committing some terrible crime, yet if Tasahre came in now, if she saw him like this, he was quite certain she’d do almost anything to stop him. She’d fight him if she had to, for his own good, not that it would ever come to that.

No. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Maybe he was trying to stop something terrible. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe all Velgian wanted was for Master Sy to know that he could keep Velgian’s book of poetry, but it had something to do with Saffran Kuy and he’d never know unless he did this, and Master Sy and Tasahre had both told him in their different ways that he should trust his instincts. Well here he was, that was what he was doing and tonight his instincts were all he had.

He started to write, one symbol and then the next and the next and the next. Four altogether. The Headsman was staring at him, all bulging eyes, waiting for him where he always was. Berren went past to the table where they’d put Velgian. They’d burn him tomorrow.

Just as before, the paper almost flew out of his hand as he reached to touch it against the dry dead skin. The smell wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be.

He held his breath. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the eyes opened and a low groan came from the poet thief-taker’s lips. The air changed and grew colder. Berren shivered away, but there was no turning back, not now.

‘Velgian?’ he stammered.

Velgian’s body didn’t move. His head didn’t turn, but his blind dead eyes rotated towards Berren. ‘What is it? Why have you called me back? Why can’t I rest?’

Berren kept his distance. ‘I’m sorry, Master Velgian. They’ll burn you tomorrow. They wanted to know who paid you.’

The head moaned softly. ‘How long have I been gone?’

‘A couple of months, Master Velgian.’

‘It feels like years. Paid me?’

‘To kill the prince in the Watchman’s Arms.’

‘It was a priest from the temple of the sun. I don’t know which one.’

‘It’s all right, Master Velgian. They found her. That’s why they’ll let you burn tomorrow.’ He paused. The dead had to obey the living, that was what Kuy had said, wasn’t it? And they couldn’t lie, not like priests. He glanced over his shoulder. They were both whispering but in the stillness of the night every word made him flinch. ‘Master Velgian, do you remember when you were chasing me across the rooftops?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry, Berren. I didn’t want to have to kill you. If only you’d let it be, eh?’ The head made a funny noise. Velgian was laughing, a bitter twisted laugh.

‘I’m sorry too,’ said Berren. ‘Before you fell, you said there was something I had to tell Master Sy. About the witch-doctor at the House of Cats and Gulls. But you didn’t tell me what it was. What was it, Master Velgian?’

‘He’s not the friend your master thinks he is.’

‘You don’t need to tell me.’

‘He gave Kasmin to that Headsman fellow.’

‘What?’ Berren couldn’t hide his disbelief. Of all the things …

‘I was there. In the Barrow of Beer. I saw them come in. I heard what they said. The witch-doctor sent them there. He knew exactly what he was doing. He sent the Headsman to the temple priests too. Told him what to … Ahhh! Quick, boy, let me go! He’s coming!’

The head made a strangled noise. The eyes rolled again, round and round, and then they stopped, and slowly Velgian’s face began to change. His voice, too.

‘Berren. Berren, Berren! Boys who think they are men, never doing as they are told, always thinking with the dangly flesh between their legs. Wants a monk, can’t have a monk. Want to run away from Kuy, don’t you. Always always thinking it. Hard work, hard work. Hiding away from me, but I will find you. Where, boy? Let me smell you! Where?’ The eyes rolled again. Berren gasped. He snatched at the paper, the one with the sigils on Velgian’s head, but it was stuck fast and wouldn’t come away. Velgian’s eyes rushed from side to side, up and down as if he was desperately looking for something.