Journey to the Water Chapter LXI: The Empty Tower

Journey to the Water cover image: three evergreen trees stand on a hillside, shrouded in bluish fog. Subtitle reads: the sequel to Beyond the Frost-Cold Sea.

When Bran had healed, and warriors from other clans of the forest folk began to arrive in small bands from elsewhere, I turned south again, my hands empty. I had been unable to secure the ritual knife, and I had decided, for better or worse, not to try to take it with me back to Deinaros’ tower. I had contended with gods before, and on occasion even emerged victorious, but I did not wish to confront the god of the grove. The knife belonged to the people of the forest, whether it was being kept from them within the silver tree or not. It was their choice and their duty to take it by force, if they saw the need, and not mine.

My duty was to confront Deinaros. He had lied to me about the knife—it did not belong to him, and by all evidence, it was not the creation of his teacher Maponos. It was a gift of the god of the grove, to be given and taken away as his divine whim dictated. What other falsehoods had he told me? I had been so eager to follow his orders, to finally have someone to give me a heading on this directionless journey I had undertaken these past years, that I had swallowed his word whole. I had even received a warning from Ashoka, champion of Phyreios, reappeared after all this time. He had said not to trust Deinaros. I had dismissed him. Having been deceived by his gods, I thought, Ashoka was too wary and too willing to believe frightening stories told by superstitious townsfolk. I thought myself wiser, having seen more of the world. I had been wrong.

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The Book of the New Moon Door: Part Three, Chapter Twenty-Two

Sacrifice

The Book of the New Moon Door cover image: A book with yellowing, wrinkled pages lies open on an old wooden desk, with a sprig of lavender lying in the center.

Table of Contents

“What have you done?” Isabel gasps.

In an instant, the sky full of eyes turns to her, stretching the loose flesh of each socket. Though the eyes are bright and alert, the skin is gray and soft with advanced decay. Rot has settled in to the wall of books, as well, and the pages swell and blacken as white mold creeps over the covers. Isabel can only guess what happens once they disintegrate entirely. A cold, damp wind whistles between the moldering bookcases and across the office floor, tugging at stacks of wet, sticky paper and the lines of the ritual circle.

She takes one cautious step into the room and weighs a quick escape over the impending panic that will surge through the temple if the people there can see what’s happened. She closes the door and turns the lock.

The diagram on the floor is one she doesn’t recognize. Three concentric circles enclose the office from the line of books to a foot before the door; the outermost circle is solid and thick, while the inner two are thinner, with deliberate gaps of thirty degrees or so that don’t overlap. In each gap is a sigil. Isabel can recognize Ondir’s, Alcos’s, and the symbol for protection. Inside the innermost ring is the sigil for sacrifice. In front of it sits Father Pereth.

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The Book of the New Moon Door: Part Three, Chapter Three

Circles

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Father Pereth is, in fact, still alive. The novice with the smudged face escorts Isabel through the sanctum, where the priests in prayer don’t look up to acknowledge her, and down the narrow hallway to the high priest’s office. The door is closed, and someone has carved the sigils of the seven gods into the wood with a pocketknife, in an attempt to ward the room against the dead, should they have breached the outer doors. There had only been one body in the morgue, and the rest seem to have been repelled by other means. It’s fortunate that this warding wasn’t put to the test. Isabel doesn’t know what might have happened.

The novice knocks, and the sound of furniture being moved and the lock disengaging follows. The door swings open to reveal Father Pereth, his cassock dusty and his hair disheveled, but otherwise unhurt.

He takes one look at Isabel and says, “You.”

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The Book of the New Moon Door: Part Two, Chapter Twelve

Revelations II

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Isabel closes her eyes. As she has no physical eyelids at the moment, it doesn’t do anything. Her vision is still filled with ghosts, crowding in around her, blocking all escape routes.

But they’re not coming for her. They’re moving past her, like an unending river of death across the fields. Their incorporeal steps sink into the ground as though they’re trudging through a mire, slowly and doggedly.

“Where am I?” asks the ghost of a young woman, a tattered shawl gathered around her head and trailing misty fibers. Tied around her chest is a sling to hold a young baby, but it is empty, lying flat against her swollen breasts.

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The Book of the New Moon Door: Part Two, Chapter Eleven

Revelations I

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Isabel falls quiet. There’s a long walk ahead of her, and a longer night after that. She has to conserve her strength. There have been more sleepless nights in the last week than she ever had to endure as an apprentice, and even then, young as she was, she had not endured them happily.

The wind blows cold, and it carries a smell of frost as it crosses dry, brown fields on its way to the sea. Isabel can just make out the shapes of cut rows on either side of the road. Harvest time is well under way, and winter will follow, bringing with it a slight relief from the walking dead. Spirits are no less angry in winter, but bodies without the breath of life cannot keep their limbs from freezing solid, and their decay slows along with their chance of spreading pestilence. Winter, as the old sayings go, is when Sentinels retreat to their cloisters to study the same dusty tomes they studied the year before, and the year before that, going all the way back to the first Sentinel Rainier.

With a sudden ache like a knife to her ribs, Isabel misses the library in Vernay. Her superiors will learn of her failings in a few short days, when Father Pereth’s request for her replacement reaches them. They will turn her away, or worse, allow her in and follow her through the halls with looks of pity and distrust, as though she’s a vagabond relying on their charity.

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The Book of the New Moon Door: Part Two, Chapter Two

Disbelief

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Isabel shivers. The water turns cold around her, and a lattice of frost spreads out across the side of the metal tub from Geray’s ghostly hands. She draws her knees up to her chest.

“I didn’t do anything,” she says, and she’s almost sure she’s telling the truth. “You were doing unregulated, experimental black magic in an unstable space, and now you’re surprised something went wrong?”

He sneers. His teeth shine white against the black hole of his mouth. “Fix it.”

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Announcement: The Well Below the Valley

The Well Below the Valley cover image: A dead tree stands on a field of short grass, against a blank gray sky. Text reads, "Space Whales Press presents The Well Below the Valley, an audio drama."

I am starting a new project!

(“But don’t you have enough projects?” Yes. Yes, I do. Let’s not talk about that.)

On a rainy morning in 1922, an archaeologist is found dead in a London hotel room. At first, it is assumed his death was a natural one, but questions soon arise:
Who has been following the professor around Oxford?
What happened on his last field expedition, which was cut short and declared a failure?
What became of his crew?
And how did he drown, miles from the harbor and with no other sources of water nearby?
In a world still living under the shadow of the Great War, four intrepid investigators must discover the secret Professor Ragnarsson was murdered to keep, and learn that the world is darker and more terrible than they could ever have imagined–and that they are the only things standing between the earth and its total destruction.
Introduction to The Well Below the Valley

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The Book of the New Moon Door, Part Two: Chapter One

Arden Geray

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Half an hour later, the constables pull Isabel out of the ruins of Arden Geray’s house. They take Berend and the professor away—to a hospital, she hopes, but her ears still ring and she can’t make out what they’re saying. Beside her, the earth churns and settles as the dead writhe in mindless rage. She can do nothing to quiet them.

The constables don’t notice the subterranean movement in the dark. They place Isabel in an uncovered carriage to take her back to the chapel on the blue field. Geray’s ghost follows.

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The Book of the New Moon Door: Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Gate

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“Wait,” Berend says as they reach the bottom of the stairs. The house is still dark, but it’s an ordinary darkness, and the streetlights are visible from the front windows. An intermittent dark stain leads from the front door toward the back of the house.

Isabel takes an instinctive step back. Is it blood? It was too dark, before, even with her candle, and she hadn’t noticed it. There are no other signs of violence that she can see, though the holy symbol of Alcos on the mantel remains corroded and black.

“We should keep moving,” she says. She doesn’t want to give Geray a chance to begin another ritual. She had sent the ghosts away, but a powerful enough draw could bring them back, and others besides.

Gods. For the briefest moment, she had held their tethers, felt them straining against her will. It was nothing like the gentle touch of the bell and her own ritual circles. The ghosts were in terrible, agonizing pain, crying out with a sound that Isabel could feel rather than hear. She had released them as soon as she had the awareness—she should have taken the time to guide them across the veil properly, but she could barely think. Still, the sensation of it lingered.

If that is what necromancy feels like, she cannot think of a reason why anyone would willingly perform it.

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The Book of the New Moon Door: Chapter Twenty-Eight

Brace

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Just like Berend suspected, Isabel’s sword proves far more effective against the ghosts. It’s light and springy in his hand, lacking the weight and authority of his own two-handed saber, but when it cuts through the misty forms, the spirits recoil and visibly dim. Their figures remain intact; they’re not like Mikhail, broken and screaming.

Out of reach of the blade, the ghosts rally their energy, brightening and pressing forward again. Something—Geray, the house, or some mystical nonsense Berend won’t even try to understand—is giving them strength. Unfortunately for him, he is made of flesh, and can’t do the same. He’s not as young as he once was, and it’s so very cold in this hallway. The candle hisses and gutters, but for now, it stays lit.

A hand of fog rakes at him with talons like a hawk’s. He brings the sword up, but it’s no use—the ghostly arm passes right through it, and its fingers reach his chest. He feels as though he has swallowed ice, the cold moving down the inside of his body. There is no pain, no sensation of being cut, but the ghost tears through his clothing and skin, leaving bloody marks from his shoulder down to his belly. The wounds ooze, and frost collects at their edges.

They aren’t deep. Eventually, Berend guesses, the spirits will draw enough blood to kill him, or he’ll freeze to death in the aura that surrounds them, but for the moment, he is still able to fight. He’ll keep them off of Isabel until she finishes whatever she’s doing.

It is that moment when she slumps over, hat askew, her body curled around the chalk circle inscribed on the wooden floor.

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