The stench of burning iron filled the air. Shapes less black than night’s darkness filtered past him, shades slipping through the night. They touched him, shuddering out and away, his human body an obstacle to their passage. They wore not human shapes, nor the humanlike shapes of the dead Dariyan princes, the elves who were the elder sisters and brothers of humankind. They wore no shape at all, truly, but that of rushes blown in the breeze that sweeps the lakeshore, bending and swaying and straightening. They seemed otherwise oblivious to him, to the hounds, to the frater, who stared gaping and silent after them.
Down they went, their substance passing through the stones as if the stones were no substance to them. Up they crept from the stream. In they came from all sides.
“Strong blood will attract the spirits and put them under my control.”
They pressed in upon the altar house and, with a whuff like a candle snuffed out, the lanterns all went out. But the glow still shone from within, brighter, until it, too, was shadowed and veiled by the shades called by blood and magic. Until Alain could see nothing but darkness, swallowing the center of the ruins, and hear nothing but the biscop’s voice.
A thin bubbling wail. Then silence. And at last, in the far distance, the faint sound of bells. The hounds collapsed to the ground and lay there, like helpless pups, whimpering.
Alain shook, weeping. The moon came out from behind clouds he had not seen cover the sky, to reveal the silent, empty ruins. The wind began, and at once clouds scudded in to cover the moon and the stars. Rain fell, at first a mist and then harder, until he was soaked and any trace of scent or sound was lost. He stood until he was drenched, seeking, listening, but he saw nothing and no one.
Lackling was dead.
4
AT last the squall passed.
From the altar house there was no sign of movement or life.
“I hope they’re all dead!” said Alain with a vehemence that startled him. He had never known he could hate.
Agius rose stiffly to his feet. “Come, Brother,” he said. “There is nothing we can do now except remember what we have seen, pray it never happens again, and testify where it may do some good.”
“Shouldn’t we go down, see if Lackling—?”
“If the biscop still stands within, guessing we have witnessed all, do you think she would hesitate to kill us? Martyrdom is an honorable profession, my friend, but not if it is lost and forgotten.”
He began to walk up the path, into the forest.
“What were they?” Alain whispered.
Agius stopped and turned to face him. “I do not know.”
“Did you know she meant to do this?”
“That she is a sorcerer? It is known within the church that Biscop Antonia and her adherents differ with the skopos on the place of sorcery within the church. That she might herself indulge in the use of sorcerous knowledge is surely to be expected.”
“That she meant, tonight, to … to … ?” He could not form words to describe the horrible thing that had happened.
“The Holy Days are times of great power, Alain. What else is sorcery but the knowledge of the power that lies at rest in the earth and in the heavens, and the means and will to bind and shape it to your own use?”
Water dripped from the trees. All remained silent below.
“Come, Alain,” said Agius urgently. “We must start back.” Like a halfwit, Alain followed him, and the hounds went with him as though they were sleepwalking. “It is true,” continued Agius in that same grotesquely cool voice, “that I did not know at first she meant to sacrifice the Eika prisoner. Your act of unexpected mercy—”
“Led only to a worse crime!” Alain’s shout reverberated. Sorrow whined.
“Hush!” You may repent your action now, certainly. But the Lady works in mysterious ways. So gave She her only Son to atone for our sins. See this rather as a sign of the infinite mercy of Our Mother, who art in Heaven, who leads this innocent to a more blessed life above, in the holy brightness of the martyrs which illuminates the Chamber of Light.”
“A—a sign?” They started down the narrow path, Agius in the lead. As soon as they passed the first sharp bend in the path, the frater lit a lantern.
“From God, of the sacrifice of Her Son on this day which we in our error call the Feast of the Translatus, when it should be known as Redemptio: our salvation from sin through the sacrifice of Our Lord, Daisan. As St. Thecla witnessed the Passion of the blessed Daisan, so must you and I witness this suffering.”
“But the blessed Daisan fasted and prayed for seven days! He didn’t suffer!”