Chapter Sixteen: Tacenda

Tacenda knelt near the Bog. Davriel had to be wrong. She’d believed in the Bog all her life. It couldn’t really just be empty, could it?

Tacenda... The whispered voice had the sound of rustling leaves. She stared into the glassy waters, and found—reflected back at her—the face of her mother. As if submerged in the inky depths.

Tacenda extended her hand, fingertips touching the top of the Bog’s surface. The water was unexpectedly warm, like blood.

A hand seized her by the shoulder. Miss Highwater—her grip shockingly firm—pulled Tacenda to her feet, then yanked her toward the carriage. What—

Geists. They flowed through the forest. Terrible, twisted creatures only vaguely shaped like people. And on the wind, she heard their terrible whispers. Tacenda gaped, freezing in place, but Miss Highwater stuffed her into the carriage. Davriel was already inside, banging on the roof and shouting for Crunchgnar to get them moving.

The carriage lurched into motion as the horses bolted. Trees became a blur of darkness outside the window. Tacenda felt every dip and rock in the road, the carriage rattling something terrible at this speed.

“Miss Highwater,” Davriel shouted, “which peasant is in charge of grading this roadway? Should we happen to survive, I would like to have them flogged.”

“Well,” Miss Highwater said. “You remember that meeting we had about tax revenue allocations for maintenance of infrastructure?”

“No, but it sounds boring.”

“You—”

“Let’s just compromise,” Davriel said, “and agree it’s Crunchgnar’s fault.”

Tacenda stuck her head out the other window and looked back along the roadway. Wind blew at her hair, whipping it.

The Whisperers gave chase. Their phantom light rolled over tree trunks and undergrowth—obstructions that the spirits ignored. They coursed after the carriage at a remarkable speed, and even over the rattling of the carriage, she heard their voices. Hushed whispers, overlapping one another.

Those are the people of my village, she thought, trembling. Taken by some force and made into geists. Was her sister’s soul among them, then? Twisted beyond recognition? Had Willia come with the others and claimed the living of Verlasen while Tacenda played her fingers raw?

“Miss Verlasen!” Davriel said.

Tacenda pulled her head back into the carriage as Davriel picked up her viol and handed it to her.

“Perhaps a song might be in order?” he asked.

“It doesn’t work on the Whisperers!” she said, taking the viol in limp hands. “That’s the problem that started all of this!”

“They are constructs of the power you hold,” Davriel shouted back. “There is an Entity inside you that powers your songs. That strength should be able to control them somehow!”

“You said yourself that I have only a part of the power! Something stronger than me is behind this!”

He gritted his teeth, bracing himself as they turned a somewhat sharp corner. “Earlier,” he shouted to her, “you told me that you knew what had frightened the Entity of the Bog—you said the word ‘faith.’ Why?”

“I don’t know!” she said. “It just felt right!”

“That is not an acceptable answer!” He braced himself again on the side of the carriage as they took a corner. This time it was an even sharper turn, and Tacenda was smashed into the wood, grunting. A moment later they turned the other direction, and she slid across the seat and smashed into Miss Highwater.

“That fool is going to run us into a tree at this speed,” Miss Highwater said.

A green light shone out the window. Tacenda spotted ghostly visages in the woods, making pace with the carriage. They were fast. Crunchgnar didn’t have much choice—either he took the winding turns of this forest path at dangerous speeds, or he let the geists catch them. Indeed, he’d have to speed up, as the Whisperers were—

Tacenda slammed into the wall as they took another corner.

Davriel growled and gripped the door handle. “Too sharp!” he said. “We’re going to—”

Something snapped underneath the carriage. The vehicle tipped.

At that very moment, Davriel flung open the door. Tacenda lost track of him as she felt a stomach-churning sensation, then a sudden jolt as the vehicle tipped onto its side.

Tacenda tumbled in the carriage, frantically trying to protect her viol. Miss Highwater slid down on top of her with a grunt. The vehicle ground against the roadway, dragged briefly on its side, dirt and underbrush spraying through the window across Tacenda.

At last, the carriage slid to a halt. Tacenda groaned, trying to untangle herself from Miss Highwater, who was cursing softly under her breath. Outside, the horses whinnied and snorted in anxiety, and she thought she heard Crunchgnar trying to calm them.

Miss Highwater managed to stand, then she grabbed the doorway above them. Since the carriage had come to rest on its side, one door was down beneath them, the other above. There was no sign of Davriel, though Tacenda thought she had glimpsed him leaping out of the vehicle mid-tip.

Tacenda groaned and checked her viol. Remarkably, the instrument was in one piece. She cradled the viol as she climbed up on the sideways seat, then—with effort—pulled herself out onto what was now the top of the carriage. She was covered in dirt, her hair a tangled mess, and Miss Highwater looked little better.

Davriel had landed without apparent injury. He stood in the center of the roadway and—with a flourish—pulled on his long cloak. He looked remarkably self-possessed as he turned around, regarding the approaching Whisperers. His eyes bled to a pure white, his lips drawn as if in pain, and a flash of power exploded from him.

The bright flash almost blinded her in the night, and it made the Whisperers slow their approach. They circled the fallen carriage, twisted faces murmuring in an agitated way. They seemed to be wary of Davriel all of a sudden.

“The prioress’s power,” Miss Highwater said from beside Tacenda, both of them still crouched on top of the fallen carriage. “He can anchor those geists, force them to be corporeal.”

Ridiculous though the emotion was at a time like this, Tacenda found herself angry at the lord. It was distinctly unfair that he had been able to escape without getting tangled up or covered in dirt. How was it that this man managed to appear so composed all the time, despite being so useless?

“Miss Highwater,” Davriel said, turning around as the Whisperers started to draw closer, “unhook the horses and try to control them. Crunchgnar, your sword will likely be required.”

The large demon grunted and stepped over to Davriel, eyeing the spirits. Judging from the fresh scrapes on his arm, Crunchgnar had fallen when the carriage crashed.

Miss Highwater did as commanded, leaping down from the carriage and making calming noises toward the horses, which were tangled in their twisted bridles. Tacenda stayed in place atop the carriage, which seemed the safest spot for her.

At first, the Whisperers left a ring of about twenty feet between themselves and the carriage—then one tested forward. This act seemed to give the others permission, as they broke toward Davriel in a mass. Those terrible whispers accompanied them, a maddening sound, so close to being understandable.

She searched those twisted faces for signs of something she recognized. If these really were her friends and neighbors, shouldn’t she be able to tell? Unfortunately, the faces were so distorted, they were barely recognizable as human.

Crunchgnar began swinging about him like a drummer, slamming the sword down into spirit after spirit. Davriel’s spell had made them physical, and the weapon disrupted them—making their bodies puff and dissolve to green smoke that pooled at the ground, rather than evaporating away. Tacenda felt a hint of worry—these were the souls of people she loved. Would these attacks hurt them, permanently? Hopefully, the fact that the smoke pooled on the ground and lingered indicated that they weren’t being destroyed completely.

Miss Highwater frantically cut the horses free of their tangled harnesses. Davriel held his hand to the side to summon a weapon.

The viol disappeared from Tacenda’s hands. She yelped in surprise as it re-formed in Davriel’s outstretched hand, which he then thrust toward a spirit. Halfway through the maneuver, he seemed to realize he wasn’t holding a sword. He froze, then shot Tacenda a withering look, as if it were somehow her fault that he’d touched her viol earlier.

He tossed the viol aside, causing her to cry out atop the carriage. But then, she gasped as Davriel was surrounded by glowing green figures. They clawed at him, but instead of marring his skin, their fingers sank into his face. He went rigid, others holding his arms and his cloak.

Horrified, Tacenda watched as a green light began to bleed from Davriel’s face. They’re trying to pull his soul from his body!

For a moment she was back in the village, screaming into the second darkness and the terrible whispering. Listening as the people she loved were taken one at a time. Listening as—

No!

Tacenda threw herself off the top of the carriage and landed on the soft earth beside the road. She had no weapon other than her voice, so she started belting out the Warding Song. Crunchgnar roared in pain, but the Whisperers—as always—ignored it. Frustrated, she stopped singing and instead seized a sharp stone from the ground. She used it as a bludgeon, slamming it into the back of a glowing green figure, trying frantically to fight her way to Davriel.

She had little effect. The spirits didn’t even seem to notice her there.

Not him too! she thought. He’s the only hope I have!

She felled the spirit in front of her, its form melting away to dark green smoke, but others pressed in and the whispers surrounded her. She thrashed, trying to fight through—and again she felt helpless.

The spirits didn’t attack her, but they would take everyone around her. Everyone she’d ever loved, or even come to know. Leaving her alone in the infinite, pure blackness.

A blast of light washed over her, a blue wall of force, dissolving spirits in a ring. She stumbled to a stop, rock clutched in her fingers, to find Davriel crouching at the center. He stood up, blue smoke coloring his eyes. As another spirit came in—its head at a crooked angle, its gaping mouth as long as its forearm—Davriel raised his hand and released a blast of blue light.

“How?” Tacenda said. “I saw them taking your soul!”

“The ward I took from your mind acted as a shield for my soul, once I activated it,” he said. Though his voice was calm, his face had gone pale and he was shaking. “That done, it was a simple matter to use the dismissal spell I’d taken from those hunters.” He wiped his brow with a trembling hand. “You were worried for me? Foolish child. I was, of course, never in any danger...”

He glanced down toward the flowing green smoke. A head stretched from it, with a twisted, too-wide mouth. Hands reached up, re-forming.

“Hellfire,” he said, sending out a ring of blue light as he dismissed the spirits again. This flash seemed smaller than his previous uses, and the geists almost immediately started re-forming from the ground.

“Useless, idiot hunters,” Davriel cursed. “I’ve seen devils with more efficient magic. Go! Get to the horses.”

He shoved Tacenda toward the carriage, and she moved up beside the vehicle, pressing her back to it as Davriel sent a blast of light to aid Crunchgnar. The tall demon had no soul to lose—and the spirits weren’t pulling green light from him—but they were clawing at him, scratching his arms and trying to force him down to the ground.

Davriel’s blasts incapacitated many of the Whisperers, though stragglers were floating in from the forest. Tacenda started, realizing that a few of these had stopped at the edge of the roadway where they were looking at her. Too-long heads twisted in strange angles on their shoulders as they regarded her, then one raised its hand, pointing.

She felt a tremor inside. These newcomers were able to see her? What had changed?

“Davriel!” she shouted, backing along the fallen carriage, near the wheels. “Miss Highwater!” She held out her rock in a threatening manner.

The geists stopped in place. They...they were frightened of her rock?

No. It was the necklace she’d wrapped around her wrist earlier. The geists stared at it. While three just stood there, the last one changed, the eyes shrinking toward more normal human sizes. Its quivering form stabilized, and the face almost became human, recognizable.

It backed away, putting its hands to its face.

Miss Highwater leaped between Tacenda and the geists, slamming her knife into the side of a spirit’s head, causing it to stumble and start to disintegrate. She pulled Tacenda toward a skittish horse with a simple bridle, cut from the carriage harnesses.

“On!” Miss Highwater said. “You can ride?”

“Yes. My father taught me, in the evenings after—”

“Less storytelling. More getting the hell out of here. Dav! We’re ready!”

He emerged from the other side of the fallen carriage, looking somewhat haggard as he blasted the pair of geists who had been looking at Tacenda. The one whose face had momentarily started to re-form wasn’t among those. It had trailed away into the forest; she could pick out its green light moving among the trees.

Crunchgnar—bleeding from cuts along his arms—heaved himself onto a horse’s back and kicked the poor thing forward. The animal held him, barely. Miss Highwater held the reins of another horse for Davriel as he prepared to climb onto its back.

“Davriel,” Tacenda said, leaving her horse and grabbing his arm. “Something is odd about one of those spirits!”

“Which one?” he said immediately, scanning the area. His spell and Crunchgnar’s swords had left most of the Whisperers formless, but the coating of green smoke on the ground trembled, hands and faces re-forming.

Tacenda pointed out into the forest. “A group of them came after me—the only ones who have ever tried to attack me. But when they saw the symbol of the Nameless Angel, they stopped. One ran out into the forest!”

Davriel frowned. “Miss Highwater, keep the horses ready. I’ll return shortly.” He then strode out into the forest.

Tacenda hesitated, then ran after him.

“What?” Miss Highwater screamed after them. “Are you insane?”

Moving through the forest at night was difficult. There always seemed to be some unseen branch clawing at her dress, or some pitfall where the ground was a foot below where she expected it. The first darkness soon surrounded them, but Davriel summoned a light in the form of a small flame from his finger—the last remaining bit of his pyromancy.

She kept up with him, chasing down the glowing green light, which had stopped moving. They came upon the geist, who knelt beside a tree, head bowed. It had started to fuzz again, its shape distorting.

“The symbol,” Davriel said, waving his free hand toward Tacenda.

She unwrapped Willia’s necklace from her wrist and handed it to him. Davriel stepped around the geist and presented it. The thing looked up, fixating on the symbol—the shape of spreading wings.

“Is it the power of the church?” Tacenda asked.

“No,” Davriel said. “It’s the power of familiarity. Remember what I told you? Spirits such as these can sometimes be recovered through a reminder of something they knew in life.”

The geist reached out reverent fingers and touched the symbol of the Nameless Angel. The face faded from monstrous to human. Agonized human. Though it could shed no tears, this thing was weeping.

It...it was Rom.

The old hunter-turned-gardener was a geist now? But how? He wasn’t from the village.

“What...” Rom’s spirit whispered. “What have you done to me, m’lord?”

“What do you remember?” Davriel said, voice soft, even kindly. “The last thing you recall?”

“I saw you off into the night,” the spirit said. “I was tired, and returned to my room to sleep. I couldn’t. Like usual. Remembering all those that I’ve killed...” The glowing spirit blinked, then looked toward his hands. “Oh, Angel. I thought I’d find peace here. But no...never peace...”

“Why is a priest a Whisperer?” Tacenda said. “What is happening?”

“The priory has been attacked since we left,” Davriel said. “The souls of the priests made into geists. I worry that whoever is behind this realized that the spirits of your village wouldn’t harm you, so they have begun seeking the souls of people untouched by the Bog.” He dropped the symbol. “Apparently, the Angel was no help to them.”

“I saw her,” Rom whispered. “When I first got here. That’s why...why they asked me to come...she’d gone mad, like the others...” The spirit bowed its head, weeping softly.

“Rom,” Davriel said. “Something happened a little under twenty years ago, at the Bog. The Entity within it fled for some reason.”

“Twenty years ago...” Rom said. “I wasn’t even here then. I was killing demons.”

“Davriel,” Tacenda said. “A little under twenty years? We know something that happened. Fifteen years ago.” She gestured to herself. “I was born.”

Davriel frowned at the words, then glanced back toward the road—where the army of spirits had re-formed. They were now flowing out into the woods. “Come.”

He quickly started through the underbrush away from the geists. She reached toward Rom, but the quivering spirit was beginning to distort again, muttering about his murders. Feeling a chill, Tacenda scrambled after Davriel. She pushed through the underbrush, stumbling, practically on hands and knees.

“Your warding power isn’t simply the strongest it’s been in generations,” Davriel said. “The Entity of the Bog moved into you and your sister. What was left of it, at least. It was afraid, perhaps being whittled away by something.”

“The church,” Tacenda said, grunting as she pulled herself over a log. “Don’t you see? The prioress arrived some two decades ago, and the priests arrived in force. Souls began being converted, and they gave themselves to the Angel instead of the Bog. The Seelenstone!”

“The Seelenstone is a trinket with a fifth-rate glamor charm on it,” Davriel said. “Good only for wowing peasants. It stills souls, but otherwise...”

He stopped in the forest just ahead of her. She looked over her shoulder, feeling cold as the green light of approaching geists flowed toward them.

“You told me,” Tacenda said, “that the Bog’s power had seeped into the souls of the people here. What would have happened to that power when the people died?”

“I’d guess that normally, it would have returned to the Bog.”

“Unless some device—some magical trinket—was collecting those souls instead? Might it have begun gathering the strength of the Bog, siphoning it off? So the strength of the Entity in the Bog shrank, until it grew desperate enough to try something new? To pull the rest of itself out and seek a host?”

“Two hosts,” Davriel said. “By accident. It sought the womb, a child being born, but ended up split between twin sisters. Whoever is behind this must have realized the source of your power, and killed your sister for her half. But it couldn’t touch you. Why?”

Behind, the spirits coursed around the kneeling Rom, who held the symbol of the Nameless Angel in his fingers. Tacenda thought she saw him drop the necklace and rise, his face distorting fully.

“Come,” Davriel said, pulling her along with him. They emerged into open air, reaching the roadway. It wove a winding course here, and they’d cut through the forest to emerge into another section of it.

“We should return to the mansion,” Davriel said.

“The power,” Tacenda said. “The rest of this...Entity that lives inside me. It’s at the priory. Inside the stone.”

“It was at the priory. Someone has obviously claimed it.” His expression darkened in the moonlight. “I swear, if I’ve somehow been played by the prioress after all...”

Tacenda glanced back at the forest. Those spirits were coming faster and faster. “They’re speeding up,” she said. “We have to try to outrun them!”

“Miss Verlasen,” he said, aghast. “Run? Me?”

She took him by the arm, but he remained steady. What was he waiting for? As she was about to begin running along the road, she heard the beating of hooves.

A moment later, Miss Highwater tore around the curve up ahead, riding bareback on one of the horses. Visible by the light of the lantern she carried in one hand, she appeared to have slit her skirt up the front and back for riding. She led two other horses behind her on a rope, and was trailed by Crunchgnar on his beleaguered animal, which seemed a pony by comparison.

Miss Highwater pulled her horse to a skittish halt near Davriel.

“Excellent timing,” he said. “And with proper flair, too.”

“I’m charging you for this skirt,” she said. “You’re lucky we rode off to try to intercept you on the other side here—Crunchgnar wanted to wait like you’d ordered.”

Tacenda eagerly scrambled up onto one of the horses, taking little notice of the lack of a saddle. “What made you decide to come for us instead?”

“If my years of service have taught me one thing,” Miss Highwater said, “it’s to never count on Davriel to be on time for an appointment without my help.” She turned her horse, fighting to keep the feisty beast under control. She appeared to have picked the most difficult of the animals for herself; Davriel’s stately black mare stood placidly as he hauled himself up.

“On toward the mansion?” Miss Highwater said, nodding along the road in the direction opposite the spirits, who were beginning to flood out of the forest.

“No,” Davriel said. He took a deep breath. “Back the way we came. To the priory.”

“But—”

He kicked his horse forward, straight toward the mass of geists, and Tacenda joined him. Miss Highwater cursed loudly, but then followed, as did Crunchgnar—whose horse was making an incredible effort to not collapse under his bulk.

As they reached the spirits, Davriel let out a blast of blue light. This time it made only the very closest of the spirits disintegrate. Fortunately, the others did waver for a moment, as if stunned.

Tacenda and the others entered the mass. She was sure she felt the touch of ghostly fingers brush the skin of her legs. Their ice seemed to reach her very core, chilling a part of her that hitherto had always known only warmth.

Then she was out of it, thundering after Davriel, clinging to her horse. She didn’t have to do much—she gave the beast free rein and tried to hang on with her knees.

It had taken well over an hour for them to reach the Bog from the priory—but they’d stopped for Davriel’s nap during that, and had ridden the rest of the way at a leisurely carriage pace. Their return took a fraction of the time.

The ride worked each poor horse into a lather, but never once did Tacenda have to urge her mount forward. The whispering spirits chased them the whole way, and it seemed that no matter how hard the horses ran, the geists were always just behind. Flowing through the forest, staying out of reach—to the point that Tacenda worried she was being herded in this direction.

They eventually galloped from the forest onto the priory grounds. The suddenly open sky presented a field of stars—the moon had begun to set. That struck a sudden note of terror within Tacenda. She looked over her shoulder, past the ghosts, toward the eastern sky. The horizon was obscured by the trees as always. But she did see a faint glow, heralding dawn.

They’d been about their investigation all night. Soon, when the sun rose, Tacenda would become blind again.

She turned back around, trying to wrestle control of her horse as they neared the priory. Only then did she notice that all of the windows were dark. The bonfires and lanterns at the perimeter had gone out, and not a single candle seemed lit anywhere in the building.

Miss Highwater got her horse to stop, then climbed down. Davriel didn’t bother with any of that. He just stepped off the horse and hit the ground, skidding to a halt. How in Avacyn’s name did he manage that without tripping? Tacenda was far less skillful as she accidentally made her horse rear as it pulled up. She slipped off in a half intentional attempt at dismounting, and hit the soft ground in a heap.

Crunchgnar arrived last of all, his horse barely at a trot. He stepped free, grumbling quietly about his hatred of horses—though the poor animal had been the one to suffer. It, like the others, took off in a sweaty canter as the glowing line of spirits coursed out of the forest.

Instead of advancing, the Whisperers spread out, making a ring around the clearing. We’re going to be trapped here, Tacenda thought. Have I lead us to our deaths?

Davriel let the horses go without a second glance. Perhaps he knew that after such a hard ride, they’d be too exhausted to carry riders further. The poor animals would be lucky if they survived the night.

As will we, Tacenda thought.

Crunchgnar led the way into the priory, sword out, carefully checking one way, then the other. Davriel followed, then Miss Highwater with their single lantern.

The hallway was dark, empty—but two corpses lay just inside. Church guards, fallen where they had stood, eyes open and mouths frozen mid-scream. They looked just like the first victims of the Whisperers that the village had found.

Davriel nodded to the right, and Crunchgnar led the way—stepping with a silence that seemed at odds with his stature. Miss Highwater slipped a few half-melted candles off a windowsill, then lit them on the lantern. Tacenda took one, though the quivering light it provided seemed a frail thing.

They passed a couple more bodies—servant youths, who were priests in training—though most here had probably been in bed when they’d been taken. Tacenda’s heart thundered in her ears, and she felt anxious at walking so slowly after their rush to arrive. A glance out the window showed the geists approaching the priory, surrounding it in an increasingly tighter ring.

Crunchgnar reached the point in the hallway where Davriel’s disturbing runes covered the walls, then eased open the door to the prioress’s office. They found the elderly woman’s body slumped at its desk—frozen like the others.

Davriel cursed softly. “It might have been easier if she were behind it,” he said, “as I leeched her powers away earlier.”

Tacenda shivered, looking around the darkened hallway. Would the soldiers here have been able to fight back if Davriel hadn’t stolen the prioress’s abilities?

“What now?” Miss Highwater asked.

As if in response to her question, a faint vibration struck the building, thrumming through the stones. Something about it...there was a tone to the sound. As if...it was part of a song Tacenda knew...

“Down,” Davriel said, turning and leading the way toward the stairs into the catacombs. They reached the stone steps, a hollow tunneling down into the earth. The shape of it, from the landing, looked reminiscent of the way the mouths of the spirits had twisted when screaming.

“I inspected the Seelenstone soon after arriving in this land,” Davriel said, starting down the steps. “I recognized the wards it had on it, but I sensed no well of power as you describe, Miss Verlasen. Still, I believe you must be right on some points. The Bog Entity sought a host in you, after being threatened over time by the church’s expansion here.

“But as it was split by the birth of twins, the Entity was not complete, and therefore cannot communicate with you. The Entities can affect one’s senses, however—which could alone be the explanation for why you are sometimes blind. Perhaps it is trying, and failing, to override your vision as a way to communicate. I cannot explain why the loss would be so regular.”

“How do you know so much about it?” Tacenda asked.

“Let’s just say, I have encountered a similar circumstance myself,” he said. “I...” He trailed off, stopping in the stairwell, cocking his head. Tacenda looked up, past the two demons.

Whispers.

She could hear them echoing above, soft but haunting. The geists had entered the priory.

Davriel continued downward, and Tacenda gave chase, holding up her candle and shielding it with her hand from the wind of their quick descent.

“Our focus must be on your talents,” Davriel said. “Though shrouded in superstition, there is likely a seed of truth in the stories your people tell of this Nameless Angel. I can only assume that I missed something about that stone.”

They reached the catacombs, and Davriel opened the door without needing to be told where to push. He turned right, following the winding path toward the room with the Seelenstone. Soon, Tacenda spotted its glowing walls and ceiling, lighting the way.

They stepped into the room where the stone lay, undisturbed, on its pedestal. Someone else sat at the back of the room, staring at the stone with its swirling colors. A young woman with golden hair and pale skin.

Willia.