Sanctuary
The temple is a flurry of activity—unusual, for any place dedicated to the god of the dead. Death, so the saying goes, always has time to wait. The clerics rush in and out of the wings, carrying ledgers and lists of names and figures. Incense hangs heavy in the air, and a pair of monks sing a thin, melancholy hymn.
Watcher on the wall, protect us. Master of the gate, watch over us.
It is a song Isabel knows, but she’s heard it chanted only once before: at the small chapel on the mountainside from which she and her teacher had planned their excursions into the vampire’s lair. That one-room church, little more than a hermitage deep within the vampire’s territory, was one of the few places protected against his thrall.
Fear, cold and heavy, sinks into her belly. Now she understands the scope of the danger the Resurrection Act poses. If what the priests fear comes to pass, this temple may well be the last place the walking dead cannot invade.
Guardian of the bridge, have mercy on us.
Isabel pushes that thought aside. Nothing has happened yet, and she has more immediate concerns.
Father Pereth stands at the center of the chaos, a troubled look on his normally stoic face. The two clerics conversing with him wear similar expressions. He catches sight of her and beckons her with a nod.
“Come on,” she says to Berend.
He gestures for her to go ahead of him.
“Sentinel. It is good to see you,” Father Pereth says. “Brother Kelun, will you mark down that Sentinel Rainier has been released?”
A passing monk bows slightly, and he makes a mark on the paper in his hand before folding it up and continuing on his way.
“I trust your stay in the dungeon wasn’t overlong,” Pereth continues.
“I’m fine,” says Isabel. “I’m so sorry to trouble you again, Father, considering the circumstances, but I need your help. It’s about the murders.”
Pereth frowns. “I’m sorry, my child, but I cannot spare anyone. The current situation requires the full attention of the entire Church of the Seven. A conclave is being called as we speak.”
“This is the perfect opportunity for him to strike again,” Isabel argues. “He’ll take advantage of the chaos. We need to find him before he does that.”
“I’m sorry,” Pereth says again, with a slow shake of his head. “I understand the dangers of any delay, but these decisions are being made by those with more authority than I. For now, we will have to rely on the constabulary to prevent further violence. As soon as I am able, I will assist you. You have my word.”
“It will take days for more sentinels to arrive from Vernay,” says Isabel. “I saw him last night, before I was arrested. He is moving through the city now.”
Pereth only shakes his head again. “I’m sorry.”
Berend steps into her field of vision and turns to look at her. “Then it has to be you and I,” he says.
Father Pereth holds up a hand. “You misunderstand me. This is a very dangerous task. If I had them, I would send at least two or three clerics. Accomplished though you may be, you alone are inadequate support for a sentinel against a necromancer of this caliber.” Turning to Isabel, he says, “You said you saw him?”
“Yes. He was dressed as an acolyte of Alcos, but I couldn’t recognize his face,” Isabel says. “I’m sure he intended to kill me.”
“I will put the word out,” Pereth intones. “Unfortunately, that is all I can do at the moment. I am sorry.”
There’s no use pressing it further. Isabel bows, keeping her face blank to hide her disappointment and fear. “I understand. Thank you for your time, Father.”
Shepherd of all souls, bearer of the light at the end of all roads, the hymn continues, hear our prayer.
“I have a solution,” Berend announces as they leave the temple.
Isabel sighs. “You heard the high priest. The answer is still no.”
“That’s not what I meant. Lucian Warder is going to give a demonstration of his device to a friend of mine this evening. His mysterious research partner should be there.”
Isabel stops halfway down the temple stairs. “And if he isn’t?”
“Then we’ll have to find his lair later. Perhaps tomorrow.” He goes to the step below hers, blocking her path. “Look. This is clearly a dead end. The whole church is bound up in this nonsense surrounding the council act. We’re not going to be able to wait for them.”
“It’s not nonsense,” Isabel says. “You understand that, don’t you?”
“So some researchers at the university want to cut up some bodies. What does it matter? As long as they’re buried properly, nothing will happen.”
She sighs. If she doesn’t have time to wait for a cleric to clear his schedule, she certainly doesn’t have time to explain this to Berend. “These will be murder victims,” she says before she can think better of it. “Victims of starvation, mistreatment, the sort of accidents brought on by a violent life. In the best of cases, spirits don’t like their former homes being tampered with. At worst, it only takes a single restless ghost to call up all the bodies in the university.”
Berend gives a shrug. “I suppose so. This is all well above my pay grade.”
“So is the rest of this,” Isabel interrupts. “You’re not trained to resist magic. If you go into the necromancer’s lair, where he’s had all the time in the world to prepare his rituals, you’ll die before you can draw steel, and you’ll become his thrall.”
“We’ll see. I’m rather good at not dying.” Berend places his hat back on his head with a flourish. “Besides, I’ve set up this meeting. You won’t get into Lady Breckenridge’s estate without me.”
“Fine. I’ll go with you.”
Berend takes her to a second-story apartment in the city center, above a manicured garden. They are greeted first by a doorman in a starched uniform, and then by the Lady Breckenridge herself. She’s of middle age, and her accent is evidence of a formal and expensive education. Her dress is dove-gray silk, with tapered sleeves and a modest neckline. Isabel remembers, suddenly, that she hasn’t brushed her hair since yesterday morning.
“You must be the Sentinel,” Lady Breckenridge says. Her handshake is firm, and her smile is warm and genuine.
Her expression changes when she catches sight of Berend’s bloody sleeve. “What happened here?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Berend says, but he hides a smile.
Lady Breckenridge clicks her tongue, sounding rather like a worried hen, and plucks at the tear in his shirt. Turning to Isabel, she says, “Please, sit down. I’ll be right back with him.”
Before Isabel can answer, Lady Breckenridge whisks Berend down the hallway and out of sight, leaving her in the parlor alone.
It’s a beautiful room, decorated in soft blues and subtle floral patterns. An empty table has been set up in the center for the demonstration. Isabel takes one look at the plush chairs and decides not to sit down. There could be all manner of debris clinging to her clothes from the ordeals of the past two days. She stands beside the table, hat in hand, feeling terribly out of place.
She’s annoyed with Berend for leaving her here. His arm is perfectly fine—she saw to that herself. There’s no need to fuss over him.
When he returns with Lady Breckenridge, he’s wearing a new shirt, and she leads him and Isabel to a back hallway alongside the parlor. It’s very dark. A sliver of light slips in at the end of the hall, from a gap between the boards.
Isabel puts her eye to the hole. She has a good view of the table, and of the chairs on the facing side of the room. The space must be ingeniously concealed by the pattern of the wallpaper, because she hadn’t even guessed at its presence when she was in the parlor.
“Warder will be here soon,” Lady Breckenridge says. “You must be absolutely silent here. The wall is thin, and I am risking my reputation by hiding you here.”
Isabel straightens up and nods in acknowledgement.
“The door behind you leads to the back staircase,” their hostess continues. “You’ll be able to leave after the demonstration.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” says Berend.
“I’ll let you know when he arrives.”
Lady Breckenridge leaves, and they wait in the cramped, dark passage. It soon grows warm, and Isabel is uncomfortably aware of her breath and Berend’s, too loud in the close space. With a jostling of elbows, she unbuttons her coat and arranges her sword belt so the weapon hangs at her back.
“Careful there,” Berend whispers. “I’d rather you not injure me any more than I already am, seeing as I’m your only support against this necromancer.”
Isabel lets out another too-loud breath. “You’re still on about that.”
“Indeed I am.” He comes closer and looks through the gap. “True, I’ve never fought any sort of wizard before, but it’s been a long time since a wizard has meant anything on a battlefield.”
“This isn’t a battlefield, Mr. Horst. It is the place of his power, where he has had all the time in the world to prepare his rituals in advance.”
Berend stands up again. “Perhaps. But steel and shot have never failed me before, and I’ve lived quite a long time for someone in my line of work.”
Isabel shakes her head, even though he can’t see her. “You said you experienced some kind of illusion. Never mind the necromancy—you would go to shoot him, and he would no longer be there.”
“Fair enough,” Berend says. “Then let me ask you—what can he do to harm me, beyond normal means?”
“The fact is, I don’t know. Not without seeing the place.” Her head is starting to ache. When was the last time she slept? “There hasn’t been an active necromancer in…years. Decades. Our records say that one could seize a person’s body, command it to do his bidding. He could drain your vitality, leaving you helpless. There could be any number of reanimated bodies or trapped spirits there.”
“What you’re saying is that we need to approach it defensively,” says Berend.
Isabel sighs in frustration, rubbing at her eyes. Before she can answer, the front door opens downstairs, and Lady Breckenridge taps on the wall near their hiding place.
Isabel holds her breath, not daring to move. There are footsteps coming up the stairs, and then the creak of the parlor door, and the sound of a heavy object being set down.
Slowly, so as not to give her position away with the rustling of clothing, she bends down and looks through the opening. A leather case sits on the table at the center of the room.
“Mr. Warder,” Lady Breckenridge says. Her voice comes through the wall, as clear as if Isabel were standing right beside her. “It’s an honor to meet you at last.”
“The pleasure is mine,” a familiar voice says. “Allow me to introduce my assistant, Mr. Arden Geray.”
Thanks for your patience! We’ll see the demonstration, and learn more about Warder’s assistant, next time.
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