Chapter 20
SINAN
S inan tried to vomit again, but his retching produced only some sour liquid in his mouth.
He had nothing left in his stomach, and Rerek’s poison had spread too far for his body to expel it.
There was no power left in his antidote sigil, and even his health rune had faded away.
His cloak was the immaculate white of a burial shroud—as it should be when death was this near.
His body disagreed that throwing up wasn’t worth trying, and another wave of nausea wracked him. Death was the final mercy, and it would come soon.
He was lying in his own vomit on the cold floor of a cabinet à l'anglaise off the main floor of the chateau.
The not-so-rustic hunting lodge of the King of Soissons had been outfitted with a water closet with running water, a marble floor, and stucco reliefs on the walls depicting stylized flowers and animals of the hunt.
Candlelight from the sconces on the wall gave the illusion the beasts were frolicking in a white plaster garden.
It was a bizarre place to die.
Gallmau had carried him into the small room cradled in his arms like a child. It was worse than the humiliation of being carted up the mountain on the prince’s back, but at least it gave Sinan some privacy in his last moments.
Heavy footsteps thudded outside the room, and Gallmau opened the door to peer in at him. “Are you feeling any better?”
Sinan wasn’t, in fact, going to feel better until he lost consciousness and died. He refrained from sharing this with Gallmau. He hated to admit weakness in front of his enemies, even if it was obvious he was helpless.
“A little,” Sinan lied.
He closed his eyes, hoping Gallmau would leave, but the prince came into the room and placed a large tray on the floor. Steam from a jug of hot water floated up into the chilly air of the water closet.
A moment later, Gallmau’s powerful arms were around his shoulders, pushing him into a sitting position. Sinan tried to protest about being touched, but at this point his heart wasn’t in it.
“I know you’re a scary Bone Lord who doesn’t like hugs.
” Gallmau took a washcloth and wiped Sinan’s face before lifting a cup of warm tea to Sinan’s lips.
It tasted like honey and flowers, and Sinan’s powers had weakened to the point where the prince’s touch was close to tolerable.
“But you need to try and hold something down. I’ll make us all dinner once we figure out what to do with the ghost.”
“Sanura’s still corporeal?” Sinan guessed Meri wouldn’t handle that well.
If he wasn’t dying, he could give them advice about what to do now that Meri’s assecula daemonium had been destroyed by the spirits of the children Rerek had murdered.
Even though Gallmau and Meri weren’t badly hurt, the two of them would be in awful danger once they left the chateau.
Rerek hadn’t sent the ice storm or kidnapped Rixende, and whoever had done both of those things would be even more powerful than the undead veneficus.
Sinan knew Meri and Gallmau well enough by now to be sure they wouldn’t hesitate to go up against whoever had taken Gallmau’s sister, even if they didn’t have a mage fighting alongside them.
It was surprising how much it bothered him that the two Tomb Fighters might die without his help.
“Meri’s worried her sister’s soul can’t go to Heaven—well, she calls it Paradise, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same place.
” Gallmau put down the cup after Sinan shook his head, unable to drink any more of the tea.
“I found this in the pantry when I went to look for food. Meri wants me to ask you if it’s real. ”
He pulled a glass sphere out of his pocket. It looked as fragile as a soap bubble, and inside hundreds of small blue stones hung suspended as if time and gravity didn’t apply to them.
Sinan thought for a moment he was hallucinating from the poison.
There was enough Amor Vitriol in that sphere to cripple hundreds of necromancers, perhaps as much as had been used in the final battle of the Witches’ War.
Gallmau had mentioned Zhang Jue had accompanied the King on the visits to the chateau on occasion, but why would the Sorcier du Roi hide such a valuable weapon in the kitchen of a remote hunting lodge?
Now Meri had her hands on it, which could give her an advantage over Rixende’s abductor—assuming he was one of the Blessed.
It could also help her kill any of Sinan’s people she faced in the future.
“Yes.” Sinan told Gallmau enough of the truth to push the Tomb Fighters into the right decision. “It’s real. If you use it, it will help you with the ghost.”
It would destroy any trace of necromantic energy on the entire mountain. Sinan would die, but he would anyway from the poison, and it would be worth it to have less Amor Vitriol in the world.
“Good.” Gallmau sounded relieved. He unfolded a blanket and wrapped it around Sinan’s shoulders. “I brought that white soap you like, so you can wash up. I’ll come back when Meri and I have fixed everything, and we’ll have a nice hot meal.”
Sinan leaned his head against the stucco wall, his movements sluggish, as if he was swimming in sand.
Gallmau patted him on the back and walked back to the door like an amiable bear deciding not to eat the injured hunter he had found in the woods.
How strange that someone like him, trained from birth to hate and fear the Blessed, could show Sinan kindness.
“Gallmau.” Sinan found even speaking was an effort. “Thank you.”
The prince’s face broke into a wide smile, and it was as if the candlelit and foul-smelling room had been drenched in sunshine. He was the most beautiful man Sinan had ever met.
“You’re welcome. Try to rest. I’ll be back soon.”
Then Gallmau was gone, and only the room’s shadows were left to give Sinan what cold comfort they could. He tried to dredge up enough strength for the pre-burial ritual of the Church of Death.
He succeeded in pulling off his borrowed clothing, leaving only his cloak, after multiple pauses to regain his breath or to dry heave.
Drained, he curled up on his side, and even the cold marble floor under his nude body wasn’t enough to overcome his fatigue.
Eventually he was able to at least scrub at his skin with the warm water and soap Gallmau had provided.
The poison had advanced through his body, and gray-green lines branched under his skin. Every breath was an agony now, and in the end he could barely wrap his cloak around himself and pull his hood over to cover his face.
He lay there wrapped in his shroud, reciting the funeral prayer to the Lady of Shadows, the ninth and final saint of the pantheon, and waited to die.
There was a knock on the door, and Gallmau’s voice rang out. “Sinan, Meri has another question.”
Sinan scrunched his eyes shut and tried to ignore the prince.
But Gallmau was kneeling by his side a moment later. “You don’t look good. Your cloak is all white, too. Meri said that meant it was broken.”
“My sacred garment is fulfilling its final function.” Sinan wanted to prepare himself as well as he could for his entry into the Holy Void of Chaos, and Gallmau was not helping his focus.
He had made it through about half of the opening lines of the funeral prayer, and if he could hold on for another quarter of an hour, he might complete the first cycle of the liturgy.
Gallmau pushed the hood off Sinan’s face, his gaze concerned. “What function is that? You should be lying on the blanket. The floor is too cold.”
“I’m dying.” Sinan realized Gallmau was not going to grasp subtle hints. “Ask your question quickly.”
“No, I’m not going to let that happen.” Gallmau had already started to scoop him into his arms as he spoke.
Sinan tried to protest, but his head was full of fog, and Gallmau’s body was much more comfortable than the icy floor.
The shroud cloak protected his skin from the prince’s touch, and his powers had waned so much his Blessing was barely active.
Maybe he could tolerate a brief contact with the prince without fabric between them, if only to enjoy the touch of someone else’s skin against his for the last time.
Gallmau moved quickly, and in a few seconds Sinan found himself back in the room where they had fought Rerek.
Bits of plaster covered the floor, and wisps of necromantic energy floated in the air like flecks of ash.
Sanura stood in one corner, stroking the fur of Sinan’s ghost rat as the animal perched on her arm.
She had a smile on her face, both sad and triumphant at the same time.
Meri was on her knees in front of her sister’s ghost, sobbing.
“Sinan says he’s dying.” Gallmau stood with Sinan in his arms as Meri climbed to her feet and whirled around.
“No, he’s not.” Meri made that sound like a command Sinan couldn’t refuse.
She still wore only trousers, with bare feet and the bandage Sinan had instructed Gallmau to put on her wounds wrapped around her breasts.
She gripped the sphere of Amor Vitriol in one hand, and the sight of the Lioness of Abdju holding the most dangerous substance the Blessed had ever faced was absolutely terrifying.
“You helped me destroy Rerek. There has to be a way to fix this.”
Gallmau placed Sinan down at the piles of bedding the three of them had slept in. Meri yanked off part of the shroud cloak and stared in horror at the poison expanding across Sinan’s body like cracks in a crumbling wall.
“Rerek’s magic is still in this room. I can smell it.” Meri thrust the Amor Vitriol in Sinan’s face, and he tried not to jerk away. “Tell me how to get rid of it and convince Sanura to go to Paradise.”
Sinan doubted he could influence a corporeal spirit as powerful as Meri’s undead sister even if he wasn’t half dead. The blue stones in the glass sphere would do it, though, and then the cursed substance would be gone, unable to be used against his people.
“Use the Amor Vitriol.” Sinan managed to get those words out.
Meri looked at the sphere and back to Sinan, her voice frantic. “You said it was unstable in water and fire. What do I use?”
Sinan closed his eyes, thinking of the final battle of the Witches’ War, when Odart of Dol had used Amor Vitriol against the defenders of Karakoncolos.
So many of the Blessed had died then, burnt alive or hacked to death by the Shields.
Smoke and fire were everywhere. His mother fell in combat against Odart—as he lay wounded and helpless watching.
It was the end of Karakoncolos, the end of his mother’s dream—and then Sinan was granted the shadow powers he had been waiting for his entire life.
He had enough strength to turn the tide and crush the Noviodunam forces who planned to destroy his city.
The incensori, the fulgari, and most of all, the hated benandanti in their black and silver—he killed twice as many of the enemy as his people had lost in the battle.
Then he rallied the surviving Blessed, and his city had been saved from destruction.
Sinan had become the Prince of Shadows in a hail of glowing embers and the stench of burning bodies, and he saw no reason not to end his life the same way.
“Fire,” Sinan said, and not even a heartbeat later he watched as Meri yanked open the door to the stove and hurled the sphere inside.
It glistened for a moment on top of the red coals, then exploded.
Blue light filled the room, scouring away every trace of death magic, and Sinan’s consciousness with it.