Ember wandered through the room, taking note of jars, vases, tools, knives, herbs, parchment, ink, and quills. She couldn’t make sense of the odd assortment of items, so she left the large room to search the adjoining chambers, which were connected to the four corners of the room.
As she approached the opening to the first side chamber, Ember slowed, her nose wrinkling. Disturbing odors wafted from the arched opening—stale blood and cloying decay. Though her stomach flopped unpleasantly at the onslaught of sickening scents, Ember forced herself forward.
The rectangular chamber held four sarcophagi. Upon two of the stone coffins rested a body shrouded in cloth. Tightening her grip on the dagger, Ember crept forward. The odor in the chamber indicated that these corpses had lain here for some time, but Ember knew that they hadn’t been placed here because they were meant to be buried in the catacombs.
When she reached the first sarcophagus, Ember forced herself to peel the shroud back. With a shout of fear, Ember jumped back and then clenched her jaw for allowing herself to give such a loud cry.
Reminding herself that the creature was dead, Ember ignored her screaming instincts and moved to examine the corpse. She’d seen nothing like it. From head to tail, she would have called it a wolf. But its arms and legs were those of a man, their only wolfish characteristic being the thick fur that covered the limbs and the clawlike nails extending from the fingertips.
After covering the body again, Ember went to the second sarcophagus. Prepared for another shock, Ember lifted the shroud. This corpse was similar to the first, though its anatomy revealed the creature to be female. The face of the beast was less wolflike and more human. Ember peered at its features, a nagging familiarity buzzing within her mind. Bending close to give the face a more careful examination, Ember suddenly froze as horror crawled over her skin. It couldn’t be.
Dizzy and sick, Ember hid the face that so disturbed her, hurrying out of the chamber. As she stumbled toward the next side room, dreading what she’d find but compelled by necessity to continue her investigation, Ember tried to shut out the whisper that chased after her.
Lora. Lora. Lora.
Ember was desperate to purge the cleric’s name from her mind, wanting to deny what she knew to be true. The dead woman’s face, though mutilated by being somehow terribly wedded to the features of a beast, had been Lora’s face. Cian and Father Michael said Lora had vanished, but any death Ember might have imagined for the cleric seemed preferable to this. How such an abomination of man and wolf came to be created, Ember couldn’t fathom—though she had no doubt as to where the blame should fall. Everything she’d learned of Bosque Mar revealed the way he corrupted the earth, twisting it to his purpose. That Lord Mar had the power to effect such a horrible transformation of men and women into monsters didn’t surprise Ember, but she didn’t understand its purpose. Had these catacombs been the site of some horribly twisted punishment and execution? Was Alistair a part of it? This couldn’t be the creation that had pleased Bosque and Eira, could it?
Ember shivered, pushing back the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Approaching the next chamber with trepidation, Ember clung to the sliver of relief she felt when the noxious odors of the last room weren’t present. She crept inside, her dagger lifted and ready to strike.
Rather than housing multiple graves, this room featured a single sarcophagus upon a raised stone pedestal. It wasn’t the stone tomb that drew Ember’s gaze, but the cage beside it.
The large iron cage offered enough space that Ember would have been able to stand and walk a small circle within its confines. Behind the bars, Ember saw a nest of blankets and pillows. Curled up asleep within the pile of soft fabrics was a child.
The boy could be no more than three years old. His dark brown hair curled softly, and in the torchlight, it had rich pewter tones. Ember knelt beside the cage, staring at the sleeping boy.
Who would cage a child in this horrible place?
Setting the dagger on the floor, Ember gripped the iron bars with her right hand. The cage was sturdy and free of rust. She would only be able to open it with a key.
The boy’s face scrunched up; his nose twitched. His eyelids fluttered and then opened. Ember stifled a gasp, not wanting to frighten the child. The color of his eyes was startling, a gold shade that absorbed the light from her torch and grew brighter.
“Dear one,” Ember murmured, stretching her hand into the cage, “I’m here to help. Don’t be afraid.”
The boy shrank from her hand.
“Shhh,” Ember whispered. She could almost grasp his hand. “Tell me who brought you here.”
Blinking at her with those golden eyes, the boy snarled and then he was a boy no more. The wolf cub in the cage snapped at her outstretched fingers.
Ember reeled back onto the heels of her hands and scrambled away from the cage. She rolled over, struggling to her feet. The wolf continued to growl its warning as Ember fled the room. She ran until she reached the hidden passage. Not once did she look back.
EMBER BENT OVER, wheezing as she tried to fight off the shock and panic that joined forces to strangle her. Though she desperately wanted to get out of the tunnel, Ember leaned against the bookcase that led to Father Michael’s quarters to make sure the room was silent and likely unoccupied by anyone other than the priest.
Her pulse was still rattling when Ember pushed the bookcase forward. “Father Michael?”
No answer came, but Ember was filled with relief simply because of the gentle daylight filling the room.
Ember slipped from the tunnel and moved the bookcase against the wall until the hole was once again hidden. The chamber was empty. After taking a few minutes to collect herself, aware of how disheveled she must look after fleeing the catacombs, Ember went in search of the priest.
Making every effort to steady her breath, Ember couldn’t stave off the horrific images that flashed through her mind with every blink: Lora’s mutilated features, a child becoming an animal. They were nightmares brought to life, and Ember’s mind wanted to reject the possibility of their existence. She wanted to purge every moment she’d spent in the tomb.
As she entered the chapel, her throat closed up. She didn’t know if she could describe what she’d witnessed in the catacombs—how could she convey the twisted violence of beast and man forced into a single entity?
Voices that echoed off the chapel’s vaulted ceiling disrupted Ember’s troubled thoughts.
“Are you certain you wish to keep this from the others?” Father Michael asked.
The reply came from Cian. “We can’t risk dissent. The alliances we cling to now are tenuous at best. As Rebekah explained, this is the only way to close the rift, to rid ourselves of Lord Mar.”
“I agree with Cian.” Having met Rebekah only once, Ember didn’t recognize her voice but could only assume it was she who spoke. “Cian makes a noble sacrifice, but there are those who out of love would seek to stop her.”
Father Michael’s reply was sad. “I confess I am one of those. Lady Cian, you are needed in this fight.”
“If all goes well, my final battle will end this conflict,” Cian answered. “And you will need my sword no longer.”
“How will you reach the great hall?” Father Michael asked. “Your absence at the wedding would be noticed.”
“I’ll wait until the battle begins,” Cian said. “When fighting takes over the courtyard, I’ll slip away.”
“Try to get close to the rift itself,” Rebekah told Cian. “If the spell is disrupted, the pieces of the cross will scatter, returning to the four corners whence they were called.”
“I’ll do as you say,” Cian answered. “Let us begin.”
“If it must be so,” Father Michael murmured sadly.
Ember ducked behind a stone column, peeking out as far as she dared.
Cian knelt before Father Michael, wearing only her kirtle. Rebekah stood at Cian’s back. The priest spoke in low, rhythmic tones, but Ember couldn??
?t make out the words of his chanting. He held a carved wooden bowl in his hands.
Ember bit her lip to keep from gasping when Cian bowed her head and pushed her kirtle from her shoulders. The garment pooled at her hips, leaving her torso bare.
Father Michael dipped his hand into the bowl. Still chanting, he began to mark her body. With red-stained fingers, he drew first on her left collarbone and her right lower abdomen. He handed the bowl to Rebekah, who marked Cian’s right shoulder and her left lower back.
Cian remained still and silent as Father Michael returned to face her.
“You make this sacrifice willingly?” he asked.
“I give my body and spirit to stem the rising tide, to turn back the dark. Blood against blood,” Cian answered. “I call on the four corners of the earth we seek to protect. Give us the aid we need.”
Father Michael and Rebekah joined hands, their arms forming a ring around Cian.
“Crux ancora vitae,” the pair intoned in unison.
Cian bowed her head. “Crux ancora vitae.”
Within the circle of Father Michael’s and Rebekah’s arms, Cian’s skin began to glow. The air around her shimmered, coming alive with colors: ochre and bronze shifted to silver and pale blue that darkened until they were the deepest shades of violet and sapphire; those in turn burned from within until they gleamed crimson and gold. The cloud of ever-changing colors rose above Cian, veiling her body with its light. The nebulous hues twisted around each other, forming a distinct shape that floated above Cian’s head. It appeared to be a cross, but was unlike any crucifix Ember had seen. The two ends of the lengths ended in points sharp as the tip of a sword, while the opposite ends of the beams were blunt.
The cross hung over Cian for a moment, then it descended. One of the sharp tips touched the back of Cian’s neck, and she shuddered. The strange cross vanished, but Ember squinted, convinced that she had seen the identical shape branded onto the bare skin of Cian’s neck.
Cian collapsed to her hands and knees, and Father Michael crouched beside her.
“It is finished,” he said. “Let us get you to your chambers. You need rest.”
Father Michael glanced at Rebekah. “Weave your portal in my quarters. We cannot risk your presence here any longer.”
“I know,” Rebekah replied, then she bowed to Cian. “Your courage humbles me, my lady.”
Ember pressed herself against the column, holding her breath and flattening her body as much as she could to escape notice. Rebekah strode past her without hesitation, entering Father Michael’s chamber and closing the door.
When she peeked around the column again, Father Michael and Cian had left. Ember hardly believed it could be possible, but she was more shaken now than she’d been when she emerged from the catacombs. The ritual she’d witnessed frightened her. She didn’t know what it could mean, nor was she pleased that it had been performed in secret.
She’d thought to tell Father Michael everything about her strange encounters in the catacombs, but now her confidence in the priest was undermined. Too many secrets and hidden agendas made Ember question the trust she’d placed in others.
As Ember left the chapel, her head ached with indecision. Her body felt heavy, encumbered by fear and sorrow, but she couldn’t think of anyone with whom she might share this burden. To confess everything to Agnes, Ember still worried, would place her sister in greater danger. She had no other friends at Tearmunn.
Ember paused outside Agnes’s door, her heart squeezing tight in pain as she wished Barrow were near, ready to hold her and help her bear the weight of these ordeals. Ember let the sorrow and uncertainty wash over her, weakening her knees and making her eyes brim. Then, having given in for a few moments, she straightened, sucked in a cool, long breath, and carefully reconstructed the placid demeanor she was forced to adopt as long as these deceptions were needed.
Rapping quickly on the door, Ember waited until she heard Agnes’s call.
“Who is it?”
Ember frowned, not liking the thick slur of her voice. “It’s Ember.”
“Come in.”
Letting herself into the chamber, Ember found her sister draped across her bed. Agnes didn’t sit up, but she rolled onto her side, blearily gazing at Ember through heavy-lidded eyes.
Ember hurried to her side. “Have you taken ill?”
“I don’t think so.” Agnes frowned, her voice still wobbling. “I’m not sure.”
“How do you feel?” Ember asked. She pressed her hand to Agnes’s cheek and was relieved when she felt no fever.
Agnes rubbed her eyes. “It was so strange. I remember speaking with Lord Mar, but then I must have fallen asleep.” She put her hand on her belly. “This child has me napping far too often.”
“You should rest as you need to,” Ember told her.
“Yes,” Agnes murmured drowsily. “It’s strange. I dreamed of wolves.”
“What?” Ember asked in alarm. Her heartbeat plunged into a breakneck pace as the boy in the cage danced before her eyes.
“Wolves,” Agnes repeated. “And yet it wasn’t a frightening dream. It was beautiful. I was running beside them. I felt so free.”
She laughed, touching her stomach again. “I think my body fears it will be weighed down with the babe forever, enough that it prefers the lot of a wild beast.”
“Perhaps.” Ember forced a smile.
Agnes yawned. “You’ll think me an invalid, but my eyes are too heavy to keep open.”
Ember shook her head. “You push yourself too hard. Think of all the tasks you’ve taken on to prepare for my wedding.”
“That is all my pleasure.” Agnes laughed. “At least one of us should find some joy in love.”
Ember’s eyes burned at Agnes’s words. She quickly looked away, but there was no need to hide her sudden tears. The soft sound of deep breathing told Ember that her sister had already drifted back to sleep.
Feeling utterly alone, Ember couldn’t bear the solitude of her chamber, so full of evidence of her imminent marriage and the falseness of her heart. She crawled onto the bed and curled up against her sister. Agnes made a quiet sound of comfort. Closing her eyes, Ember pushed away Tearmunn and Conatus, recalling years long before, when she and Agnes were children and she didn’t fear her dreams. With the present held at bay, Ember let herself drift off, hoping that, unlike Agnes, no wolves would visit while she slept.
EIRA LAY AWAKE, WAITING for Bosque. She didn’t care for it—the waiting. Abandoning her bed in frustration, Eira crouched before the fireplace in her chamber. She stirred the glowing embers with an iron poker and tried to think of something other than the man she hoped would soon join her.
Love wasn’t something Eira had ever longed for. Nor was passion something she admired. Both struck Eira as wastes of strength and loyalty better spent on the battlefield.
So this new fluttering beneath her ribs, the sudden shortening of her breath whenever Lord Mar was near, troubled her deeply. Everything she’d dreamed of becoming since joining Conatus lay within her grasp.
But Eira had never dreamed of love. Now her body was subject to spikes of heat if Bosque so much as brushed against her. If she let his voice or visage enter her thoughts, her head was soon swimming as if she were drunk. Sometimes Eira feared she was losing control. When Bosque held her in his arms, she didn’t think she would have the will to deny anything he asked of her. But there were also moments when the headiness of his kiss and caress sated Eira like no food or drink ever could, and for the first time, she knew true joy.
But Bosque was often called away, drawn into his own affairs in the nether or the work with Alistair about which, before tonight, he’d remained so secretive, leaving Eira alone or, worse, in the company of her ever-sullen sister. In his absence, doubt crept into Eira’s heart, cold and slippery, making her unsure of her choices. With doubt came resentment, stirring deep within her like a restless beast.
When at last her door creaked open and Bosque’s tall sh
adow slipped into her room, Eira stood up, brandishing the poker like a weapon.
Bosque closed the door, smiling. “Did you think me an intruder?”
“It’s late.” Eira kept the poker aloft.
“I had to watch over Agnes while Alistair completed his experiment,” Bosque replied. He came forward, eyeing her makeshift weapon with amusement.
Eira shifted, her grip tightening until her knuckles were white. “You are often with Agnes.”
Bosque nodded, continuing his cautious approach.
“Tell me, Lord Mar,” Eira whispered in a dangerous tone. “How is it that our disgraced guest has come to trust you so much?”
One corner of Bosque’s mouth tilted up. “You’ve heard that she trusts me?”
Eira looked away, fixing her gaze on the charred, smoldering wood in the fireplace. “I’ve seen you walking together. A day rarely passes when you’re not with her.”
“That’s true.” He paused, Eira noted, just out of reach should she take a swing at him.
“And she looks up at you with a childlike trust that borders on adoration.” Eira chewed on the unpleasant words.
Bosque folded his arms across his broad chest. “You’ve been very observant. I thought you had little interest in Lady Morrow’s fate.”
“I care not of the girl and her bastard,” Eira replied. “I only ask why you show so much care.”
“I must say, Eira”—Bosque laughed—“jealousy becomes you. It puts fire in your blood and gives your skin a delicious scent. Honey and spice.”
Eira balked for a moment before she recovered, thrusting the poker at his chest. “I am not jealous.”
“You are.” Bosque grabbed the end of the poker, paying no heed to the fact that it was still hot from the fire and seared his skin. With a swift tug, he pulled Eira forward. When she was within his reach, Bosque gripped her left arm, holding her still. He wrested the iron poker from her right hand and returned it to its place by the fire.
Eira tried to wrestle from his grasp to no avail.
“Why are you wriggling like a snared rabbit?” Bosque grinned at her. “Are you so eager to get away from me?”