Chapter Ten: Davriel

According to Davriel’s pocket watch, it was almost two in the morning by the time they turned onto the last road, approaching the priory. Davriel had expected the girl to doze off at some point during the ride, but she continued staring out at the trees and the patterns of shadow made by their passing.

Of course, spending the ride in silence didn’t mean that Davriel was left alone.

We cannot hide for much longer, the Entity said. We need to prepare for what to do when we are discovered.

You’ve been saying that for months now, Davriel replied in his mind. And lo, here we are. Still safe. Still alone.

They hunt you. They will find your hiding place.

Then I will seek out another.

Davriel could feel the Entity stirring inside his mind. Davriel smelled smoke, and his vision faded. The Entity was playing with his senses again.

Do you not remember the thrill, the glory of conquest? It said. Do you not remember the power of that day?

I remember, Davriel replied, smoke thick in his nostrils, realizing that I’d drawn too much attention. That the strength I had, no matter how glorious, wouldn’t be enough. That the ones who wished to claim you would defeat me easily if I stood alone before them.

Yes, the Entity said. Yes, there was...wisdom in that realization.

Davriel cocked his head, then banished the Entity’s touches upon his senses. What? he thought at it. You agree that I shouldn’t have used you further at that moment?

Yes, the Entity said. Yes.

Odd. The Entity normally wanted him to draw upon it, use it for its true purpose—as a vast reservoir to power his spells. With the Entity, he could make his stolen abilities last weeks under constant use. As it was, spells he stole from the minds of others usually faded a few hours after he first employed them. Some lasted longer, and others vanished after a few minutes, particularly if he’d been holding them for a while before their first use.

You are not yet ready, the Entity said. I saw that. I have been working on a solution. The multiverse boils in your absence. Forces clash, and the boundaries between planes tremble. Eventually, the conflict will find you. I will have you ready and prepared. Ready to rise up, and claim the position that is rightfully yours...

It fell silent, and didn’t respond as he prodded it. What was it planning? Or were these just more idle promises and threats?

Feeling chilled by the conversation, Davriel turned his attention to the task at hand. He’d stolen several abilities from the hunters at the church. Though—even as he considered them—it was difficult not to notice how they seemed so insignificant compared to the power of the Entity.

Never mind that. From the leader of the hunters, he’d stolen a very interesting banishing spell. It was strong, but—as proven by her attempt to use it on him—it couldn’t affect a human. He could use it to dismiss a creature of magic, like a geist or even an angel, though the effects would be temporary.

The pyromancy, of course, would also prove useful—though now that he’d used it once, its strength would fade until it left him entirely. He’d hoped for something useful in the mind of the old diabolist, but the only talent he’d found in that man’s skull was a scribe’s inkspell—for making words appear on a surface as you imagined them. Hardly much use in combat. Though, he also still had the weapon-summoning spell. That would linger, like the pyromancy, for a few hours.

Not a particularly powerful arsenal, but he had survived with less—and he should add the prioress’s talents soon enough. Indeed, light from ahead on the old forest roadway indicated they were near. Tacenda perked up in her seat. She was a tough one, though that was not uncommon for these Approachers. As hardy as rocks and as stubborn as boars—with roughly as much sense as either. Otherwise, they’d have found somewhere else to live.

Of course, Davriel thought idly to himself, what does that say about me, a man who came to live here—of all places—on a whim?

You didn’t come on a whim, the Entity told him. I brought you here deliberately.

Davriel felt a sudden spike of alarm. He sat up straight, causing Miss Highwater—on the seat across from him—to snap her ledger closed and come alert.

What? Davriel demanded. What did you just say?

The Entity settled down again, quieting.

You didn’t bring me here, Davriel thought at it. I came to Innistrad of my own will. Because of this plane’s demonic population.

Again, the Entity said nothing. Miss Highwater looked about, trying to figure out what had concerned him. Davriel forced himself to paste an unconcerned expression on his face. Surely...surely the Entity was merely taunting him.

And yet, he had never known it to say anything that—at the very least—it didn’t believe was true.

The carriage slowed as it approached the lights—two massive glass-covered lanterns, burning oil. Fire: the universal sign that civilization lay beyond.

“Ho, the carriage!” a friendly voice called.

Tacenda perked up. “I know that man, Davriel. It’s Rom. He’s—”

“I’m familiar with him,” Davriel said. “Thank you.”

Miss Highwater drew up the window shade, revealing the old monk as he stepped up beside the vehicle.

Rom performed a bow—a little unsteady on his feet—for Davriel. “The Man himself! Lord Davriel Greystone! I suppose we should have been expectin’ to see you tonight.”

“My visit became inevitable once those hunters were sent my way, Rom,” Davriel said.

“Aye, I suppose that’s true,” Rom said, glancing down the road toward the priory, visible in the distance with light pouring out of its windows. “Well, that’s a worry for younger men.” He turned back to the carriage and nodded to Miss Highwater. “Feaster of Men.”

“Rom,” she said back. “You’re looking well.”

“You always say that, miss,” Rom said. “But while you haven’t changed a blink in forty years, I know right well I’ve turned into an old scrap of leather left too long in the sun.”

“Mortals age, Rom,” she said. “It is your way. But I would sooner bet on the scrap of leather that has stood sturdy for forty years than I would the new piece untested.”

The old man smiled, showing a few missing teeth. He glanced up at Crunchgnar—who, judging by the way the roof groaned under his weight—had moved over to watch the old hunter.

“Well, let’s get you in to the prioress, m’lord,” Rom said to Davriel. “Ever since I arrived and told her about the village, she’s been wanting to speak with...” He trailed off, squinting into the carriage. Then he started, noticing Tacenda in the seat for the first time. “Miss Tacenda? Why, you said you were goin’ to stay at my cabin!”

“I’m sorry, Rom.”

“I found her in my washing room,” Davriel noted. “With an eye for vengeance and a rusty implement in hand. Ruined one of my favorite shirts when she stabbed me.”

“Did she now!” Rom said. Davriel might have expected the man to be aghast, but instead he just laughed and slapped his leg. “Well, that was right bravely done, Miss Tacenda! I could have told you it would be useless, but my, stabbing the Man himself? The Bog must be right proud of you!”

“Um...thank you,” she said.

“Well, I’m glad to see you safe, miss! I was goin’ to go back for you, after tellin’ the prioress what you told me. But she said she needed every soldier here, even an old one like me. Just in case. So she set me watchin’ the road instead.”

Rom opened the door to let Miss Highwater out. Normally, when Davriel visited, she and the other demons would wait outside the priory. Instead, one of the monks or priests would drive Davriel and the coach inward. Tonight, however, Davriel stopped her by climbing out himself.

“Dav?” Miss Highwater asked.

“I want you out here, with the carriage,” he said. “If something happens, I might need you to join me quickly.”

“You could just all come in,” Rom said. “Pardon, m’lord, but they could, if they wanted.”

“I’m sure the prioress would love that,” Davriel said.

“She ain’t the lord of this ground,” Rom said. “Pardon, but it’s the archangel’s own truth that she ain’t. And if you’re worried about the destroying light, well, I don’t think any of these young pups here have enough power for you to fear—and my own skill ain’t enough to singe a devil these days.”

Davriel looked toward Miss Highwater, and she shook her head. Crunchgnar likely would have relished the chance to stomp around on holy ground and desecrate an altar or two, but Davriel didn’t ask him. Instead, he waved for Tacenda to join him. The young woman scrambled out, bringing her viol.

Davriel left his sword-cane, confident he could summon it with his recently acquired spell. “Be ready,” he said to Crunchgnar. Then he nodded to Rom, who led the way farther along the road, toward the priory.

Leaves crunched underfoot, and things rustled out in the trees. Likely just forest animals. An unusual number of them lived close to the priory. Davriel passed between the burning lanterns along the road, entering the clearing where—at the very center of a gentle slope—the priory stood proud beneath the moon. The long, single-story building had always looked lonely to him.

Tacenda glanced over her shoulder, back at the demons. “I don’t understand,” she said softly to Davriel. “Rom acts friendly toward you, but at the same time I feel like we’re walking to battle.”

“My relationship with the priory is...complex,” Davriel said. “As for Rom, I’ll let him speak for himself.”

“M’lord?” Rom said, looking back from ahead of them. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say worth hearin’. I stay out of it these days. I had enough of that foolishness when younger.”

“You know Miss Highwater,” Tacenda said.

“I tried for ten years to destroy that demon,” Rom said, then grunted. “Damn near got myself killed a half dozen times on that fool quest. I eventually learned, never hunt a demon smarter than you are. Stick to the dumb ones. There are plenty of those to keep a hunter busy all his life.”

“I thought you hunted werewolves when you were younger,” Tacenda said.

“I hunted whatever tried to hunt men, miss. First that was demons. Then wolves.” His voice grew softer. “Then angels. Well, that broke stronger men than me. When it all settled down, I found I’d become an old man, best years of my life spent knee-deep in blood. Came here to try to escape that, wash a little of it off, spend some time huntin’ weeds instead...”

“Do you know a priest named Edwin?” Davriel asked.

“Sure,” Rom said. “Eager, that one. Young.”

“Tell me of him,” Davriel prodded.

“His head is filled with the talk of the righteous inquisition. Talk from the more zealous minds back in the heart of human lands. He’s started down a road already, the type that you never realize only goes one way...” He glanced back at Davriel. “I shouldn’t say more. Talk to the prioress.”

A few priory cathars waited by the doors of the southeastern entrance. White coats over leathers, with large collars and peaked hats that shadowed their faces. They glared at Davriel.

“Nice hats,” he noted as he swept into the priory. The church really did have the best headgear.

Rom led the way down a small corridor, and Davriel followed, his cloak billowing to brush both walls. The priory was a humble place. The prioress eschewed ornamentation, preferring bleak wooden corridors painted white. They passed the steps down to the catacombs, where they kept that silly artifact they said had been given to them by an angel.

Davriel’s passing drew some attention—heads peeking out of doors, others running off to spread the news that the Man was visiting. Nobody interrupted him, at least not until he approached the prioress’s door. Just before he arrived, a priest burst out of a side corridor, then—face flush from a quick run—positioned himself between Davriel and his destination.

He was a young man with stark black hair, peaked like a man twice his age. He wore no armor, just the robes of his station, but he immediately drew his longsword and leveled it at Davriel.

“Stop there, fiend!” the young man said.

Davriel cocked an eyebrow, then glanced at Rom. “Edwin?”

“Yes, your lordship,” Rom said.

“I will not stand your reign of terror,” Edwin said. “Everyone knows what you’ve done. An entire village? You might frighten the others, but I was trained to stand for what was right.”

Davriel studied the youth, whose off hand started to glow. It was often their first instinct, to try to hit him with destroying light. They were all so certain that secretly he was some kind of unnatural monster—rather than just a man, the most natural monster of them all.

“Edwin,” Rom said. “Calm down, lad. This won’t go well for you.”

“I can’t believe you let him in here, Rom. You forgot our first lessons! Don’t speak to the monsters, don’t reason with them, and—most importantly—don’t invite them in.”

“You claim you saw me on the road seven days ago,” Davriel said. “You say I was there, with two geists, attacking some merchants. How did I look?”

“I don’t have to answer to you!” Edwin said, holding his sword up, lamplight gleaming on the length.

“Did you even see my mask?”

“I... You fled into the forest before I could see it!”

“I fled? On foot? I didn’t use a carriage? And you just let me go?”

“You...you disappeared out into the forest with your geists. I didn’t see your mask, but the cloak is obvious. And I didn’t give chase, because I needed to check on your victims!”

“So you told everyone you’d seen me,” Davriel snapped, “when all you really saw was an indistinct cloaked figure?”

“I... I knew what you were...” Edwin said, wavering. “The inquisitors talked about lords like you! Feeding off the innocent. Searching for unprotected villages to dominate. Your type are a plague upon our land!”

“You were looking for a reason to blame me for something,” Davriel said. “This was just the first chance you found. Foolish boy. How tall was this figure you saw?”

“I...” He seemed to be reconsidering his accusation.

Davriel raised his hand and rubbed his fingers, summoning his stolen pyromancy. The power was still with him, though fading. He made flames dance around his fingers.

Was Edwin lying on purpose or not? Could Edwin have plotted to kill Tacenda’s parents for some reason, then let the sister escape so she’d be able to identify the killer as Davriel? Had he then attacked the merchants himself, then used the attack to focus everyone on Davriel?

Perhaps he could scare out the truth.

“Rom,” Davriel said, “You should fetch some water. I’d hate to burn the place down by accident. And maybe get a mop to deal what is left of this young man.”

“Yes, your lordship,” Rom said. He took Tacenda by the arm, steering her away from the conflict, farther down the hallway.

Edwin went white in the face—but to his credit, he tried lunging at Davriel. All in all, it wasn’t a bad maneuver. Davriel’s cloak, however, produced afterimages that confused all but the most precise swordsmen. The boy’s attack went to the right. Davriel stepped aside, then lightly tapped the blade with a flick of his fingernail.

The youth spun around, growling, then lunged again. Davriel, in turn, activated the weapon-summoning spell. Doing so sent a small spike of pain into his mind. Stupid spell. Still, it worked, bringing to his hand the last weapon he’d touched: in this case, the young priest’s sword.

Edwin stumbled, off-balance as his weapon vanished, then reappeared in Davriel’s hand.

Davriel raised his other hand, letting the flames rise around his fingers. “Tell me, child,” he said. “Do you really think that I would run from you?”

The young priest stumbled back, shaking—but yanked his dagger from his belt.

“Do you really think,” Davriel said, “that I would take souls in secret? If I needed them, I would demand them!”

He needed something to enhance the moment. Perhaps that inkspell he’d stolen from the old demonologist? It barely gave Davriel a twinge of pain as he used it to paint the walls black, like pooling ink. He made eldritch letters break off the main body of darkness and move across the floor toward Edwin. They flowed like shadows, written in Old Ulgrothan.

The young priest started to shake visibly, and stepped backward before the arcane scrawl.

“I did not kill those people,” Davriel said. “They served me well. But your accusation has done incredible harm. Whoever is really behind this got away and has used you as a distraction. So, answer my questions. What did this person look like?”

“They...they were shorter than you are,” Edwin whispered. “Slighter of frame, I guess. I...I was so sure it was you...” His eyes opened wider somehow, as the letters inched toward him. “Nameless Angel, forgive me!”

He turned and fled.

Davriel watched the youth go, lowering his hand, banishing the pyromancy. He couldn’t know for certain, but his instincts said that this Edwin was no hidden criminal mastermind. He’d seen an attack on the roadway, perhaps one intentionally designed to provide a witness. Indeed, it seemed likely that the attack on Tacenda’s parents had left the sister alive for the same reason—so she’d run and tell people what she’d seen.

Could it be that whoever was behind it knew that sudden disappearances would cause rumors to spread, and bring hunters to investigate? The first strikes could all have been about providing cover by deflecting attention toward Davriel.

Shorter than I am, Davriel thought. He was five feet ten inches. And slighter of frame. That didn’t mean much, because with his cloak, people usually saw him as being bigger than he was.

“Are you quite done?” a voice demanded from beside him.

Davriel turned to find the prioress standing in the doorway to her room. With furrowed skin and a head topped by a silver bun, she was aged like an old chair you found in the attic—logic told you it must have once been new, but really, you had trouble imagining it had ever actually been in style. Simple white clothing draped her body, and her lips were stamped with a perpetual frown.

“Stop threatening my priests,” she said. “You are here for me. If you must claim a soul, take mine. If you can.”

“I will have vengeance for what you have cost me, old woman,” Davriel said.

He met her eyes, and the two stared at each other for an extended period. Worried whispers came from the other end of the hallway, where monks and priests had gathered to watch.

Finally, the prioress stepped back and let Davriel into the small room. He stomped in and, kicking the door closed, tossed away the sword.

Then he slumped down into the chair behind the desk. “We,” he snapped to the prioress, “were supposed to have had a deal, Merlinde.”