Chapter Seventeen #2
He took the lantern back from her and held it up while he peered through the rain at the stone structures dotting the grounds. There was a large temple in the center, flanked by a few smaller mausoleums.
“Which one?” she demanded, and he sighed.
“This way.” He set off into the storm. The lantern light was protected from the weather by its casing, but it hissed and steamed faintly as raindrops pattered against the glass.
Together, they wove through the headstones until they came to the temple proper. Lyssa had been here only once before, hunting a grindylow that had killed a few of the priestesses who had gone to a nearby river to fetch water.
She followed Alderic up the stone steps, willing her legs to stop shaking, willing her heart to stop trying to punch through her chest. Everything was laid bare now, and she felt raw and rattled—and yet strangely relieved that he knew.
There was no door to keep them out of the temple, only a line of stone columns, each carved into an aspect of the Lady. Lyssa brushed her fingers over the tip of Ungharad’s sword as they passed, saying a silent prayer to the vengeful manifestation of Ibyrnika’s primary goddess.
Alderic rang a bell hanging from an iron hook at the entrance, and a priestess hurried out of the inner sanctum to meet them. Her hair was rumpled and dried drool crusted her cheek, as if they had woken her.
“It is late,” she admonished, wrapping her robes more tightly around herself, but her thick eyebrows shot up in surprise when she saw Alderic, and she bowed her head. “Lord de Laurent. My apologies. We weren’t expecting you.”
“I didn’t know I would be coming, until recently. There was no time to send a letter ahead,” he said, bowing his head to her in return. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, Elena, but I need to pay my respects.”
“Of course, my lord.” She bowed her head again, and Lyssa looked between them, a strange sensation creeping over her, like the Alderic she was starting to feel like she knew was only a facet of the man standing in front of her, like Ungharad was only one facet of the goddess.
The two of them followed the priestess into the inner sanctum, where she handed Alderic one of the flaming torches ensconced on the stone wall before unlocking a door carved with the visage of Anfalad—the goddess in Her aspect of Death itself.
“Will your … guest … wait up here?” the priestess asked, looking at Lyssa with a wary expression.
Alderic seemed conflicted. “She can do as she pleases,” he said finally, his tone curt, his glance cutting. “She always does, no matter how it might affect anyone else.”
She glared back at him, annoyed by how much that had stung.
Part of her wanted to stay aboveground, to find the altar to Ungharad and pray until her anger receded to a more manageable level and she was left with a clearer head.
But Alderic might need help getting the coffin nails they had come for, and she didn’t particularly like the idea of letting him out of her sight, even if he was angry with her.
“I’ll go with you,” she told him.
The priestess looked like she had an opinion about that, but held her tongue.
She handed Lyssa a torch of her own, and held the door for them while they crossed the threshold.
As they started down the winding stone steps, the door grated shut, and if it hadn’t been for the torches, they would have been in a darkness so complete their eyes would never have adjusted to it.
Lyssa shuddered. “What was all that about?” she asked, to take her mind off the narrow passage, the weight of the stone above her head. “My lord this, my lord that. She acted like you own the place.”
“I do.”
She almost slipped on the steps. “You do?”
“Sort of. This temple has belonged to my family for centuries,” Alderic said without turning to look at her. “Our entire line is buried here, and when I finally die, I’ll be buried here, too.”
The word “finally” made her breath hitch. “Okay, Lord de Laurent, Mr. Important,” Lyssa grumbled, a desperate urge to make him laugh surging through her, but his body only tensed, and he didn’t respond.
The stairs let out into an enormous crypt, the lengths of which disappeared into the darkness beyond their torches.
Lyssa tilted her head back to look at the stone arches as they passed beneath them, marveling at the painted frescoes and elaborate mosaics depicting the deceased.
Many of them had the same ice-blond hair as Alderic, the same storm-blue eyes and elegant nose.
“Is there some sort of special tool I need to use, to remove the nails?” Alderic asked her stiffly, and Lyssa handed him her torch before slinging her pack off her shoulders.
She crouched to rummage through it and dug out a hammer inscribed with spells, along with another jar.
She had only ever used the hammer once before for coffin nails, but she always brought it with her just in case.
Alderic handed Lyssa back her torch wordlessly and tucked the hammer and jar into his own pack before taking off again.
The niches in the first few sections of the crypt were filled with intricately carved stone sarcophagi, but as they went deeper, they were more often populated by painted wooden coffins.
Still beautiful in their own right, but far more rudimentary.
The frescoes on the walls seemed older there, too, the paint flaking off in large sections.
Lyssa stooped to inspect the date on one of the coffins nearby. “This one is almost two hundred years old.” She frowned up at him. “I thought you were going to use your brother’s.”
“I am.”
“Why is it all the way back here?”
Alderic stopped and studied her, his expression unreadable. “I changed my mind. I want to do this alone.”
She stood, dusting off her hands. “Why?”
“Go back up to the temple. Tell Elena I won’t be much longer.”
“Al—”
“I don’t know what possessed me, allowing you down here.
It seems I still can’t shake the urge to share more of myself with you than is strictly necessary.
” A look of disgust passed over his face, but she didn’t know if it was directed at her, or himself.
“At least now I know why it feels like we have some sort of connection—we both lost brothers to the Beast. I’m just sorry you find me so unworthy of your trust that you felt the need to hide it from me. ”
She stared at him. She didn’t know whether to be angry—she didn’t owe him her secrets, no matter what he had chosen to reveal to her—or ashamed that she had been so reticent, in the face of his honesty, his trust in her.
How could she explain how much it terrified her, to get close to anyone again? How could she put into words how much she wanted to confide in him—but that trusting someone felt like putting all of her weight on a bridge she wasn’t sure would hold?
After the silence became unbearable, he turned and walked away from her.
“Alderic,” she called after him. He stiffened, but didn’t turn around. “I wanted to tell you. I almost did, a hundred times. I’m sorry I couldn’t.”
It wasn’t enough. He continued walking without a word, until the crypt swallowed him up, leaving Lyssa alone.
Alderic came back an eternity later, the spelled jar rattling in his hand as he walked. He looked upset, and Lyssa knew it had been hard for him, prying those nails out of his brother’s coffin. She wished that she had been there with him—for him—and was hurt that he hadn’t wanted her to be.
Not that she could blame him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I told you to go back up to the temple,” he said, though he sounded more exhausted than angry.
“I didn’t want to leave you down here alone.”
He took off his pack and tucked the jar carefully inside. “All we have left are the personal concerns?” he asked, and she nodded. “Do you know what you’re going to use?”
She hesitated. “Brandy’s collar.”
Alderic frowned. “I thought personal concerns had to relate to a Hound’s victims in some way.”
“They do,” Lyssa said. “But … I was thinking … the Beast destroyed our lives. Yours and mine. That makes us victims, too, doesn’t it? Which means any item that represents happiness or love to us should work.”
The little furrow between his brows deepened. “Be that as it may, I think something of your brother’s would be a stronger choice.”
“I don’t have anything left of his,” she said, hating the lump that formed in her throat at the admission.
“Does your father?”
She scowled. “I am not going to—”
“He does, doesn’t he?”
“A photograph,” she said through clenched teeth. “From before my mother died. When we were all still happy.” She knew it would work perfectly, but the thought of what she would have to do to get it was unbearable.
“You don’t have to forgive him,” Alderic said gently, as if he could feel the panic and anger roiling through her at the thought. “You just have to talk to him.”
“He won’t want to talk to me. I just stabbed him, in case you forgot.”
“Well, maybe start by apologizing for that, then. Tell him why you need the photograph, and what it’ll accomplish.”
She shook her head. “I’m just going to use the collar.”
“It won’t be as powerful, and you know it,” he said. “What’s more important, avenging your brother’s death, or punishing your father for things that happened over a decade ago?”
Lyssa glared at him, hating him for being right. “I’ll think about it.”
Alderic made a sound of frustration and strode past her.
They walked back through the crypt in silence. When they finally emerged, Elena was sitting on one of the temple’s stone benches, her head propped back against the wall, snoring. She started awake when Lyssa closed the door behind them, and got to her feet.
“My lord, I’m sorry, I—”
“I’m the one who should apologize,” Alderic told her, clasping her hands in his. “We’ve intruded upon you long enough, and stolen your precious sleep. You have my thanks. Here. For your trouble.” He pressed a coin pouch into her hands, and she bowed low.
“Thank you, my lord.”
They showed themselves out, climbing down the stone steps to the cemetery grounds just as dawn was breaking. The storm had stopped, and the sky was a violent shade of red. There were mourners gathering not too far from them, despite the early hour.
But as they walked back across the lawn to the stone structure where the Gate had spit them out, Lyssa realized that the members of the small crowd weren’t in mourning clothes. They were in the leather armor of the Hound-wardens.
And at their head stood Honoria, her hair as red as the sky behind her.
“Fuck,” Lyssa spat, sticking out an arm to stop Alderic in his tracks. How had the Hound-wardens found them so easily? How had they even known where to look? She whirled on Alderic. “You drunken idiot! I thought you said you didn’t tell her anything!”
“I didn’t,” he snapped.
“Then how did…”
Magic, Honoria had said. Lyssa supposed she had no choice but to believe it.
The Hound-wardens had spotted them; the archers nocked their bows, and the rest drew swords and knives, preparing for Honoria’s signal to attack.
“Al, get out your pistol,” Lyssa said, drawing her own. He obeyed, the weapon looking out of place in his hand.
Honoria crossed the distance between them.
“Have you given my offer any consideration?” she asked Alderic, ignoring Lyssa completely.
Not that Lyssa was complaining—she tightened her grip on her pistol and took the opportunity to gauge their options.
Whether there was any way out of this that wouldn’t end in their deaths or Alderic’s capture.
But there wasn’t one that she could see.
They were surrounded. Even if Lyssa managed to kill Honoria, the bitch had brought too many lackeys for them to get out of this alive.
As for getting to a wall that Lyssa could use to draw a Door, the Hound-warden archers had arrows trained on them both.
They’d be pincushions after only a few steps.
Fuck.
“I thought I was quite clear that I have made my choice,” Alderic replied curtly.
“And I thought I was quite clear what I think of that choice,” Honoria said.
“That’s the thing about choices,” he told her. “I get to make one regardless of whether or not you approve of it.”
Honoria’s face hardened. “Be that as it may, I cannot allow the Butcher to destroy the Beast of Buxton Fields. I didn’t want to have to do this the hard way, but you’ve forced my hand.”
“Ah. So, you’ll let me pick sides as long as I choose yours,” Alderic said, raising his chin and glaring down his nose at her. “Is that it?”
But Honoria didn’t seem to want to talk anymore. She raised her geas-hand and signaled to her Hound-wardens. “Take him,” she said. “If the Butcher moves, kill her.”
“Don’t do this, Honey,” Lyssa warned, but Honoria only watched impassively as a few of the Hound-wardens stepped forward. One of them was holding a pair of shackles.
They were going to capture Alderic, and there was nothing Lyssa could do about it.
Well, almost nothing.
“When everything goes to shit,” she told him, “I want you to run. Don’t stop until you’re somewhere safe.”
Alderic looked at her in alarm. “What?”
She smiled at him, then turned back to the Hound-wardens and fired her pistol.
The bullet struck Honoria in the shoulder—she spun with the impact, landing hard on the ground with a groan. One of the others shouted a command, and the archers drew back their bowstrings, letting their arrows fly.
Before Lyssa knew what was happening, Alderic shoved her, hard enough to knock her off her feet, and the arrows that had been meant for her thudded into his chest.
Time seemed to slow as his legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed.