In the Ruins (Crown of Stars 6)

“Is this the right stream?” Pietro asked for the fourth time, breaking off to cough again. He hacked incessantly.

“We are on the right road. It rises.” Speaking hurt, so Antonia spoke little.

The mule tugged at its reins, trying to get to the water. Focas knelt at the bank and scooped up water, tasting it. He spat it out, then wiped his lips. “Not as bad as before. It might be safe to let the poor beast drink. It doesn’t taste of rotten eggs like it did downstream. It isn’t warm.”

The two soldiers looked at her. She nodded. “Let it drink, then, but not too much. I’ll go ahead.”

“Your Excellency!”

“I do not fear bandits.”

“You should, Your Excellency!” exclaimed Focas. “Dogs, too. We had to beat off that pack last night. They smelled us.”

She hesitated. She hated showing fear, but in truth the dogs had been starving and therefore dangerous. At last she settled down on the ground and waited while the mule drank and Pietro washed his hands and face in the streaming water. It seemed clear. Although the constant rain of dust out of the air had certainly fouled it, it didn’t stink the way it had down by its confluence with the Greater Tivur, whose course led through Darre and thence south through rolling hills to the sea.

Those hills were on fire. At intervals the haze lightened, and since they were moving slowly upslope as they walked northeast, she caught glimpses of the red rim of fire that scorched the western horizon at all hours, easiest to see at night, of course, but visible during the daytime as well.

Her legs ached and her hip shot through with pain as she rose, but she closed her lips tightly as they moved on. In a hundred paces more the famous lady columns ghosted out of the fog: stone columns carved into the shapes of dour women, escorting them into the garden of the long-dead emperor who had built the most beautiful paradise known on Earth, so it was said. Some called it a replica in stone of the garden that grew at the entrance to the Chamber of Light, but Antonia knew better. The Dariyan emperors had scorned the truth. They had worshiped idols and demons. Therefore, everything they had built, while sturdy, was irrevocably tainted by the kiss of the Enemy.

Still, Empress Adelheid’s grandfather had refurbished the domed hall, and one of her great-aunts had built stables where once the emperor had housed his guests. The stone ladies glowered at them, faces half obscured, but they were only stone and could not therefore impede their progress.

“Look!” said Pietro, and coughed. Coughed again. “A light!”

Focas looked at Pietro. Together, without exchanging words, they nodded. “I’ll go ahead, Your Excellency. In case it’s bandits.”

Her chest hurt. She was too tired to complain. She just wanted to rest her feet. Focas strode ahead. Truly, it was remarkable how well he had held up. He was as strong as a bull, and far more tractable than his companion. His form faded into the haze, although by now they could see the curved facade of the grand court that greeted visitors. They paused where the paved road gave way to the broad forecourt. Turning, Antonia looked into the haze over the plain, but it was impossible to see anything. On clear days, one could see Darre away in the distance, surrounded by fields.

She choked, coughing. The mule wheezed.

“Hsst!” whispered Pietro. “Do you hear?”

“Where did the light go?” she asked, scanning the wide court and the semicircle of columns, but no lantern or torch burned now.

“Hsst! Look!”

Ghosts advanced out of the fog, wreathed in trailing haze, formless and faceless although about the height of men.

She was ready. She had always been ready, knowing how little surety there was in traveling with such a small party. She unsheathed her small knife and grabbed at the mule, pressing the point to one of the veins in the side of its neck. A trickle of blood flowed over her fingers as she spoke the words that would raise a galla. The air hummed. Where blood beaded on the mule’s hide the haze coalesced as though forming a rope out of darkness. The tang of the iron forge drifted up from the earth.

“Your Excellency! See what I have found!” Focas strode into view, easy among the ghosts. “We have found what we sought! They have been sheltering here in the catacombs. This good captain says the princesses are alive and in his care.”

Too late! The spell had gone too far and must be released or else rebound upon her. The stink of the forge gusted on the breeze. A shadow spilled into the ground beside the pooling blood. The mule brayed and jerked away from the knife, then collapsed as its blood pumped onto the ground.

“What—?” cried Focas, as the men behind him drew their weapons.

It was a small galla, appetite whetted by the taste of blood, but it would demand more before it could be dispatched. It would turn on her, or on anyone. Its substance thrummed in the air as it materialized into this plane. Its muttering words—pain pain pain—ghosted in the air like the sound of tolling bells. The air of this world burned it. It was angry, and trapped, and panicked. She had to act quickly.

She sealed the spell with a name.

“Pietro of Darre!” she whispered without hesitation.

“Your Excellency!” cried Focas, hanging back as the others cried out loud in fear. “What foul creature plagues us?”

“A traitor among us! One who does not serve the empress has brought a demon into our midst to murder the princesses!” She flung up her hands; her sleeves slid down her arms as she cried out. “St. Thecla save us! Matthias, Mark, Johanna, Lucia! Marian and Peter! Deliver us from evil! Seek the one whose spirit has fallen to the Enemy! Seek the one who would destroy us! Take him! Take him! Drive his soul into the Pit! And then begone!”

The shaft of darkness that formed the body of the galla in this world writhed like a chained soul seeking release. The stink choked her, but she kept her arms raised; she did not falter. The galla had the gift, or curse, of sight. They could see into the souls of every man and woman. The darkness lurched, spinning sideways.

Its bell voice rang dully. “Pietro.”