“There is a barrier,” Roy said, unease moving through him, along with an eerie, murky premonition. “A wall of some sort, dividing the ghosts confined within the Orphic Basilica from your world. Is my sister suspended in that barrier? Is she stuck?” He had a possibly mad urge to scream for Briar, to cast her down from her prison, to anchor her back to Northgard, but he stilled himself. “Why did you come to me?” he asked. He sounded childish, although he was running out of options, out of patience. “Why areyouhere, and not her?”
I cannot bring your sister back, Roy, Walestone said in an apologetic tone.I sincerely wish that I could, but even if it were possible, the repercussions of resurrection are perilous and irrevocable. The Old Ones would seem a minor obstacle compared to the danger that would emerge from such a spell.He paused.But I can show you how to free Briar Dawnseve from purgatory. Your sister could have peace, Roy.A hint of sadness came into his voice, but Roy couldn’t puzzle out why.
Then a troubling notion stole into his mind. “She might be erased from existence completely, right?” he asked. “Her peace might not come in the form of an afterlife, but rather no life at all.”
That is a risk you will have to consider, yes, Walestone affirmed, then, with surprising diffidence, he asked,Would you like to see how it can be done, Roy? Would you like to see how to release the ghosts?
Roy didn’t need as long as he would’ve thought he might to come up with an answer. He’d heard the ghosts’ anguished screams, their despairing cries and pleas, and he couldn’t bear the thought of Briar—his polite, sweet-hearted sister—enduring such agony. She’d already gone through unimaginable distress, having been harassed by Gregori, a Blighted Drove, and then executed for the Governor’s entertainment. Roy couldn’t fathom the world of pain she would be in if she continued living out her days trapped in purgatory.
“I would,” Roy said to Walestone. “Show me.”
Walestone nodded.Steel yourself, mortal. This may cause you some discomfort.
Not a second after Walestone spoke did a crackling bolt of darkness erupt out of his hand, split into two tenebrous prongs, and puncture Roy’s chest.
Roy keeled over, grasping at his chest. He was filled with pain, like a thousand rivers of flame were chasing through his veins. He clawed at his heart. He tried to rip through his tunic and wrench the dark bolt of energy out through brute force. He tried to scream it out, to expel the magic with sheer defiance, but it had already wound its way inside him, coiling in his gut like a serpent.
He crumpled to his knees, and the pain came again, slamming into the back of his skull with a sickening crack. He doubled forward, on all fours now. A viscous rope of bile hung from his agape mouth, swinging. He went to wipe it away, then tumbled face first to the ground.
A gossamer veil of darkness closed in over his vision, and in Roy’s mind, Walestone said,I will see you shortly, Roy Dawnseve. I cannot do this without you.
26
THE ORPHIC BASILICA
TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO
Atticus Walestone had not seen daylight intwo months. After his recent breakthrough with purgatory, he suspected it might be another two before he saw it again.
He stood over the untidy but calculatedly placed clutter of unrolled scrolls, documents, sketches—some of which were discarded ideas for a future collection of short philosophical essays by his pseudonym, Razkamun—and stacks upon stacks of books before him. Then he leaned against his desk, his hands thrust into the inner pockets of his voluminous brown robe, and deliberated.
Either by some divine stroke of fate or simply by a long period of isolation and concentration, Atticus had finally, albeit temporarily, made contact with a ghost trapped in purgatory.
And he’d only had to rip open the sutured wounds of his past to do it.
Well, that was not strictly true. He had first been met by the initially daunting task of looking through the oldest, most esoteric books within the Orphic Basilica for theories and reported sightings of thanatological energy. That had taken the better half of his first month cooped up in his office.
Then, he’d painstakingly interviewed select members of the Protectorate, who would be charged with the responsibility of trekking across Northgard, some even voyaging beyond the Hasdan Isles, in pursuit of the places Atticus had excavated throughout his indefatigable investigation. The Protectorate had originally protested Atticus’s decision, claiming that they were librarians, not globe-trotters. Although after a brief but impassioned meeting, Atticus had convinced them of the prospective expedition’s contribution to his studies.
“And if you ever doubt the mission ahead of you,” he had told them during the meeting, “remind yourselves of what we’re fighting against, but most importantly, what we’re fightingfor.”
The Protectorate had collectively bristled at the implicit mention of the enemy, but they remained steadfast. They would not be cowed by the unknown. Every question had its answer. Every problem had its solution.
Atticus repeated this counsel to himself, whispering it under his breath.
“Master Walestone.”
Atticus started, barely catching himself from scraping his boots across the documents directly in front of him. He placed a hand over his thundering heart, then looked up at the doorway. “Gods Above, Maude. You gave me a fright.” He stilled, unnerved by the dismay on her typically cheerful face. His stomach twisted. “No—”
“They’re here, Master Walestone,” Maude said. “Mistress Aftford spotted them first, cresting the western foothills. We have ten minutes.”
Atticus’s heart sank for Nemene, his fellow Scribe and his old friend. She had been plagued by nightmares of the enemy for years now. He couldn’t fathom how she must be faring.
A sudden sense of urgency, a need for action, seized him.
Atticus pushed himself off his desk and trod over his meticulously laid out research, strangely indifferent toward the damage left in his wake. Then he walked to the cabinet on his left, opened it, and pulled down Holyborn, one of the three black-scabbarded swords mounted within. His expedition teams had unearthed the other two, Valusvar and Kharuan. Atticus then closed the cabinet and strode toward the door.
Maude stared with openmouthed astonishment. He’d gotten a good read on his only student throughout the years he’d been teaching her. She admired his mindfulness and calm attentiveness as much as how unwaveringly he cleaved to the ancient code of nonviolence. And while she’d known these unduly powerful weapons existed, it was common knowledge that they’d always been a last resort.
