Chapter Eighteen #4
“I wonder what would make someone agree to such a … procedure,” said Patrick with distaste. He took the letter back from me, handling it with the very tips of his fingers, as if some corruption might pass from it to him.
“Perhaps if they agreed to it on their deathbed …”
“Perhaps.” His eyes flickered to me again, and I realized what he was thinking—what he did not want to say aloud. Mother.
“My mother is not dead,” I said, but my words sounded hollow even to myself. Of course Mother would sacrifice herself for her life’s great work. She wouldn’t even hesitate.
“Let us hope not.” He folded the paper. “At any rate, we know now the Temple took your Mother’s book—from what we know of your Temple attackers, and from this correspondence with the bookmaker saying where it was to be delivered.
A strange thing for such a pious institution, one that insists on the burning of bodies, lest they be used in dark magic.
What purpose could they have for such an ill-omened thing? ”
“They must have my mother and the book. They must be keeping her prisoner for some reason.”
He tapped his long fingers on the paper, thinking. “Perhaps. But from these letters, it seems that she may have delivered it willingly.”
“Willingly? I was dangled half out a window!”
“Perhaps something went awry … The book was meant to be either delivered or picked up when completed—that part is unclear. Either way, it was intended to end up in Mirthwater.”
So Mother had sold it? And to the Temple? Mother had spoken so disparagingly of the Temple. She had poured so much of herself into that book for so many years. It was almost impossible to imagine her letting go of it, particularly to a group for whom she seemed to feel little more than contempt.
“Perhaps they were simply the highest bidder,” said Patrick, reading my expression.
“That’s not Mother, though. You don’t know her like I do. Money isn’t important to her.”
“Perhaps the Temple had something else she wanted. The most powerful mages for casting her spell?”
“If they were simply collecting it from her, why were our rooms destroyed? Why was I attacked? Why can’t I remember?” I fisted my hands in my Hair. “Why can’t I remember?”
“Netta.” Patrick reached for my hands and drew them away from my Hair, holding them fast between us. “I don’t know. But you will, I am sure of it. We will find the book. We will find your mother. You will have your answers. And I will do my best to help you.”
“Does it say where exactly they delivered the book? Where is it?”
“There’s the rub,” he said. “From what I can tell, the spellbook was to be delivered to the Pontiff upon completion.”
Dwale let out a long, whistling breath.
The Pontiff. The High Priest over all the Temple. I covered my face with my hands.
“Then we’ll never be able to get it,” I said, my voice muffled. “He must have guards.”
“More like his own personal army,” said Dwale.
“Wonderful,” I said.
“Well, as to that,” said Patrick. “I may have an idea.”
I raised my eyebrows questioningly.
“Few know this,” he continued, “but the Temple has kept many forbidden books of magic since the Plague days. They keep them in the catacombs under Mirthwater, sealed off.”
“Catacombs?”
“Before the Plague—before we burned bodies—we ran out of land in Mirthwater in which to bury the dead. There were so many that we had to bury them on top of each other like children nestled in the family bed. There was a year of terrible rain. The Mirth burst its banks, the graves flooded, and skeletons rose to the surface as if the dead had come alive again. Very unsettling for everyone, as you can imagine. The king at the time determined to transfer this embarrassing surplus of corpses to the tunnels deep beneath Mirthwater that had been mines once upon a time. Wagonload by wagonload, they rolled them in and stacked the walls high with bones.”
I shivered with something like recognition. I felt the call of it—could picture the coiling passageways lined with ivory.
“Apparently, for a time, it was quite a popular location. I have heard tell of balls and feasts held by candlelight among the bones. A rather exceptional sight, I imagine. That stopped with the Plague, of course. With the rumors of bone magic run amok, and the Temple coming to power, it had to be destroyed—or hidden. But later, the bones were part of the structure of the old tunnels, and attempting to remove them would crumble the city. And so the ossuary was sealed and forgotten.”
“Not forgotten,” I pointed out.
“Not quite, no. It turns out that vast and secret underground caverns are a terribly convenient place for the Temple to put anything it deems dangerous. Artifacts, books … even people, if the rumors are to be believed.”
“And you think the book is there.”
“It is the most logical place for it—if indeed they have it. Perhaps your mother, too.”
He did not add if she is still alive. He did not need to.
“The Pontiff has access to the catacombs.”
“But we don’t have access to the Pontiff.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Oh good. And he will, of course, listen to my story, sympathize, and let me in at once.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that we ask permission.”
Dwale had one bedroll and some thin blankets that we divided between the three of us, the men insisting chivalrously that I take the thickest one.
I wasn’t so foolish as to argue. Even after we had swept the little stones aside as best we could to expose the smoother—slightly smoother—sand, the ground was far from comfortable, and the thicker blanket was a boon.
With much grumbling and some cursing—the latter mostly from Dwale—we finally lay down and attempted to sleep.
By unspoken agreement, we left the enchanted lantern burning—and all the while, the Mirth thundered and steamed beside us.
The incessant roar and the churning, boiling motion of it had an odd magnetism.
I found myself staring at it dreamily, wondering what it would be like to let myself roll towards the water, to let myself be swallowed by that vast, hungry mouth.
“Netta.”
I started.
“Your Hair,” said Patrick.
I saw now that my Hair had tumbled from its makeshift ties and lay with its ends reaching towards the water like questing fingers. I sat up and snatched it back, bundling it roughly again at the nape of my neck.
“The dye is starting to fade,” I said. “We will need to apply it again.”
From where he lay beside me, Patrick reached for a loose tendril, turning it between his fingers as if fascinated. “I don’t think so.”
“But the red …”
“Once we get to Mirthwater, we will no longer need to hide.”
I looked at him quizzically, but he said no more.