Chapter 2 #3
Hunting demons while concealing the extent of their infestation to avoid prison; it was one way to bring Malachy to heel. Waiting until now to suggest it had been a strategic delay, and certainly not in Malachy’s favor. The demons had a three-month head start.
Though Malachy was not keen on the idea, Carpathia was cracking open his cage, and that glimpse of traversing back to Cora, letting the land and ocean and heartache fall away, sealed his response.
“Done.”
Banishing Ghose and his coal-eyed accomplices was a commitment Malachy had already made to himself. Wiggling out of a five-year prison sentence as well was a bonus.
The ex-exorcist’s hand clamped on his arm. A peculiar current of energy radiated from Carpathia’s gloved fingers, scraping along his nerves like talons. Malachy tugged his arm away.
“There is more,” Carpathia rasped. “You will be gagged.”
Like a Binding Agreement, the magical contract of selective silence was made in blood and enforced in pain. Trying to communicate any confidential information about his demon-hunting mission would literally gag him.
It was fucked up. Malachy couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it.
Carpathia withdrew a blade from the cavern of his black robes. His ruined vocal cords grated the incantation as he sliced their palms. For a moment while their hands were clasped together, wound to wound, Malachy wondered if Carpathia was damning him like a demon to hell.
They repeated the spell’s conditions: Malachy could not speak, write, nor otherwise communicate the protected information to anyone beyond the appointed Masters. The gagging spell settled around Malachy’s throat like a collar. Even thinking about saying demon caused it to tighten.
“Is the gag to keep me from sharing information, or from learning more?”
The Master Sciomancer did not deign to respond as he held the door open for Malachy.
Like every day, Malachy left his cell under the escort of armed Ferromancers. Unlike other days, his chest was light with hope, sending his heart out on a long kite string into uncertain weather. Soon, he would see Cora again. Soon.
The possibilities unrolled at his feet like lush carpets as they walked the corridors that fed like tributaries into a vast atrium.
Steps echoed on stone and along vaulted arches as they neared the heavily guarded Gateway.
The only way in and out of the Tribunal’s clutches, the Gateway loomed like a great mouth into the murky waters beyond.
From his not-so-idle wanderings and his carefully offhand questions, Malachy knew the Gateway was sealed by interlocking magics.
If one managed to get past the dozen hulking guards, they’d need the blood of three Masters willingly given to open the Choromancer’s portal, then pass through a channel enchanted by Hydromancy and Aeromancy to keep the water and air in their respective places.
He also suspected a fair amount of memory magic was in play, as no one seemed to remember the precise configuration of magics.
His steps splashed. He glanced down at a small puddle cradled in the travertine. Water wept through the stone in trickles. The Tribunal’s fortress was not so impenetrable; a few well-placed cracks and the whole thing would drown.
Doors, carved like great stone hands warding against his departure, separated Malachy from freedom. And before the Gateway stood Baron Samuel Lakwa, dressed in a fine black suit with a top hat perched on his bald head and dark sunglasses over his eyes.
Malachy had seen the Master Necromancer only once since his imprisonment began.
Walking the corridors with his constant companions, the Ferromancer guards, Malachy had bumped into Lakwa hurrying in the opposite direction.
Even in a rush, Lakwa had stopped for a chat.
A pleasant man in his fifties, his white teeth had flashed against his dark skin in the too-even smile of a man with a secret.
Malachy felt the scrutiny of Lakwa’s measuring look beneath those sunglasses as they approached.
“Coming or going, Samuel?” Master Carpathia rasped.
“I came as soon as I heard of the sentencing.” A chill congealed the honey of Lakwa's Southern drawl.
“It seems I have arrived too late. I must say, I am right disappointed in you, Virgil. As you know, New Orleans is seven hours behind Rome. Such short notice is hardly subtle. Perhaps you are too new to Mastery and not yet familiar with our customs. Permit me to acquaint you. This sentence—this conditional release—was not a unanimous agreement amongst the fine men and women of the Tribunal, some of whom were not even yet in attendance.”
“Fortunate, then, that only a majority is needed,” Carpathia said, his ruined voice quiet and unyielding.
“I am allowed to state my official opinion on the sentence, Virgil.”
“Your opinions are known.”
Malachy glanced between the Masters, locked in a silent staring contest of wills. Interesting, he thought. Perhaps he could pry this rift in the Tribunal open wide enough to escape through.
After a long stalemate, Carpathia said, “Do you remain to assist or hinder the Gateway opening, Samuel?”
Lakwa looked down from his spindly height upon the Master Sciomancer. “Perhaps you have not yet taken time to properly consider the repercussions of this conditional release. The last time Bane walked free, he nearly undid centuries of the Covenant’s secrecy protections.”
“You’ve a demon to thank for that,” Malachy said. Though Lakwa was among the appointed Masters he could speak freely about his mission, the gagging spell constricted his throat on the word demon.
Lakwa shot Malachy a sharp look, dark lenses flashing, then veered back to Carpathia. “You risk us all with your foolishness, Virgil. Only the blood of two other consenting Masters will open this Gateway, and I shall not be one of them.”
“Two other Masters have obliged.” Carpathia whisked back the folds of his robe and withdrew two vials.
Blood glittered crimson in the shimmering light.
“Remember Ephesians 6:12. ‘For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.’”
Lakwa glowered at the ex-priest, turned on his polished heel, and stalked off.
Carpathia dripped the blood of Masters into the Gateway’s maw, whispering ragged words of enchantment. Hidden gears of the many locks began to spin. The bitter aura of magic engulfed them as the stone doors clicked open wide, jaws gaping for the feast.
The guards surrounded Malachy to escort him to the surface leagues above. Carpathia leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Matthew 12:43.”
Malachy met the somber Sciomancer’s gaze. As the Gateway closed between them, he said, “Oh, fuck off."