Chapter Nineteen: Unison

It was an angel.

With its wings nailed to the wall.

A beautiful—yet otherworldly—figure of pale, selenic skin and gossamer hair. Clad in a red and white robe, she slumped on the floor of the otherwise dull chamber. Colorful against grey, like a rose on a grave. Her head bowed, her wings were spread behind her like battle banners unfurled—but they’d been pierced by thick iron spikes that had been pounded directly into cracks in the stone wall.

Transfixed, Davriel forgot the geists. The pain of his compounding headaches. Anger, frustration, even a hint of fear—each bled away before this incredible sight.

The Nameless Angel. She was real. She was here. She was entrancing.

And she was dead.

The figure didn’t stir as Tacenda felt her way into the room, then knelt. She reached out, caressing the Angel’s doll-like face, then cupped it and lifted it in her hands—feeling at the skin. Since the girl’s eyesight was gone, she didn’t seem to notice that the Angel’s throat had been slit. That robe must once have been pure white—the scarlet coloring was blood.

What an incredible waste. What an injustice that something so beautiful had been ruined here, in this crude prison. This was a place where men died. Something this heavenly should not have been forced to suffer such a mundane fate.

Fool man, Davriel thought, angry at himself. Your mortality betrays you. This thing wasn’t pure, or grand, or innately good—it was simply created to evoke those emotions in you.

In any case, this was no secret passage out. The hidden stone door that Tacenda had opened looked in only at this small box of a prison.

He turned back toward Willia. The young woman stood in the doorway to the small funeral chamber, glowing green spirits gathering around her to light the hallway behind. Candles flickered in their alcoves, casting an inconsistent glow over the bodies of the newly dead who awaited burial.

Willia stared past him, toward the Angel. “She doesn’t decompose. Nobody knows why. The blood stays wet, all these months. They made Rom do it, you know. They’d locked her away, when the madness struck her. And Rom, he came to the priory to escape the blood. But as soon as he got here, they made him kill our god.”

She looked up, haunted, meeting Davriel’s eyes. “I came back here, after that first time I...I used the power. After I took my parents. I didn’t say what I’d done, but I begged for the priests to promise me, promise me that the Angel was real. They gave me false assurances, but Rom...I don’t think he could bear it. He brought me down here and showed me. And that’s when I knew. Nobody can protect me. I have to do it myself.”

“The Entity will consume you,” Davriel whispered. “It will feed your powers until they destroy everything you’ve ever loved.”

“I don’t care,” she said.

“I know you don’t right now. But you will.”

Willia pointed, and the geists—who had stopped outside near her—flooded into the room toward Davriel.

Hellfire. What did he have left—the spell to summon a weapon? Useless. Tacenda’s warding power? Only a sliver of it remained. The inkspell? He could write his last testament on the walls as his spirit was ripped from his body.

He had only two cards left to play. The Entity.

And the power to leave.

Davriel moved backward, soon bumping into Tacenda, who had still knelt before the dead angel. She was crying softly, a mournful song leaving her lips.

A part of Davriel knew he had to run. Leave this plane, slip through the Blind Eternities, escape. Deep down, he knew that this last ability he had was the source of his confidence. If things got too bad, he could always run.

You...you really are just a coward, the Entity said inside him, as if surprised. I thought when you fled before, it was wisdom. You saw that the ones hunting you were too powerful. But now...now you could have enough strength to defeat them, if you wanted. And still, you think of fleeing?

Davriel gathered his concentration and—pushing aside both the Entity and thoughts of fleeing—slammed his will into Willia’s mind. He imagined his strength as a sword piercing her skull.

Willia grunted, stumbling back. Her control slipped. She was untrained, unpracticed. So for just a moment, Davriel touched the power lurking within her.

Hellfire...

Davriel’s mind had expanded like an explosion. In the blink of an eye, he saw a hundred different planes. He saw millions of people living and loving and eating and sleeping and breathing and dying and never knowing just how tiny they were.

The same thing had happened to him when he’d first touched the Entity all those years ago.

Most people were so, so insignificant. But some...some individuals moved worlds. Some individuals created worlds. He wanted so desperately to be one of those. A person who controlled fate, rather than living by it. It was the great contradiction of his life, perhaps every life. He acknowledged that the world worked by incentives. At their core, people were creatures of instinct.

Yet Davriel Cane wanted to believe he was different.

His control slipped. He was too tired, and the power inside Willia was too vast. Unless he used his Entity, he would never be able to defeat it. Davriel was forced back, and awareness of the room returned.

The geists surrounded him. They clawed at him, their icy hands sinking into his skin, brushing his soul. Davriel groaned, sagging, held up by the multitude of spectral hands. They picked at his spirit like ravens at the intestines of the battlefield dead.

Tacenda’s song grew louder. A dirge for the fallen.

Davriel grunted beneath the touch of the Whisperers, and felt his soul—his very being—slipping from his body. He used the last sliver of Tacenda’s power to resist them, and it just barely prevented his soul from being taken. But in that moment, he broke down and tried to flee. He tried to send himself into the Blind Eternities and leave this plane.

He failed.

The Whisperers had hold of his soul, and their touch anchored him to this place. He tried again, and again failed.

For the first time in ages, Davriel Cane felt a true panic.

It is time, the Entity said. You know it is.

No, Davriel thought, smelling blood and smoke.

Why? the Entity demanded. Why do you resist? Use me!

No!

Why? Why would you choose death?

“I,” Davriel screamed, “WILL NOT BE THAT MAN AGAIN!”

He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

I see, the Entity said. You are not the person I thought you to be. So be it. Die, then. I will find another.

His strength exhausted, his options expended, Davriel fell slack in the grip of the geists. And yet, their fingers on his soul loosened.

He opened his eyes. Around him, the geists had stopped moving, withdrawing their hands. They were looking to the side, toward the dead angel?

No, toward Tacenda. Her humming voice rose in the room. The song had never worked on these creatures. He didn’t completely understand why, or what had changed now.

It’s her song, he thought. The one she’s humming. Is it different?

Exhausted, he reached inside himself and found one of the only spells he had left, and used it. A simple summoning charm.

The viol appeared in his hand. “Tacenda,” he said. “Whatever you’re doing, keep going.”

§

Tacenda cradled the face of the dead angel, humming the song. The one she had heard in the distance, leading her here. Around her, the sounds of the Whisperers faded. She heard her viol somewhere, suddenly responding to her song—like a call and reply.

Everything around her was the second darkness. And yet, she looked upward, and something seemed to shimmer—glowing above her. A figure, made of pure white light, with wings that seemed to extend into eternity.

“Tacenda,” Davriel said. She felt him scramble up to her, crawling across the stone floor. “This song...it’s different. The Whisperers have frozen as they listen to it. Even your sister seems transfixed.”

“It’s a song I don’t know,” she whispered, breaking it off. “I’ve forgotten it.”

“That makes no sense! Just get back to singing!”

Instead, Tacenda reached upward, toward the light. The figure reached out its hand, touching hers.

“The Angel’s soul,” Tacenda whispered. “It’s still here. Trapped, like those of the faithful...”

“That’s nonsense,” Davriel said. “Angels are creations of magic. Like demons, they have no souls.”

And yet, Tacenda touched the light.

Child, a somehow familiar voice said, why have you stopped singing?

“How can I sing that song?” she whispered. “When they’re all dead? When I’ve forgotten the warmth of the sun? When I’ve lost even my sister to the true darkness? How can I possibly sing now?”

Because this is when songs are most needed.

“The Song of Warding doesn’t work. It’s what they needed, but it didn’t save them.” She lowered her head. “There’s no light left. And I cannot see.”

That is the secret, Tacenda. What do you do, when the night grows cold and the darkness comes for you?

She looked up.

What song would you sing, the voice asked, if you were to choose?

“Does it matter?”

It always mattered. Listen to the music, child. Hear it. And sing.

Tacenda started to hum. Again her viol responded, encouraging. Something stirred inside of her and she rose, resting her fingers on Davriel’s shoulder. She took the viol carefully from his hands, then stepped back into the funeral chamber.

She walked as if into a cold wind. Among the spirits of the dead. These Whisperers had once been her people. They were not monsters. They were her friends, her family, people she loved. They had simply forgotten that.

It was time to remind them.

Tacenda opened her mouth, and sang. Not the Warding Song—that had always been the song of the first darkness, sung while the people slept. A song of haunted places and barred doors. As she felt their fingers upon her skin, she sang a different song. The song of her youth, the song she’d sung to them while they worked.

The song of lives lived. A joyful song, an emotion that kindled as she let it out. Cold fingers on her skin seemed to warm as she remembered days in the sun, a light she could not see, but could feel nonetheless. Days singing joyful tunes to the workers, the women of the village, the children who danced around her.

It was so hard to find warmth in the darkness. But when the night grew cold and the darkness came for you, that was when you needed to light a fire.

And make your own light.

§

Davriel pulled back against the wall. He’d been too tired to rise, too tired to do anything but crawl toward the girl.

Tacenda’s song washed through the room, an incongruously—almost impossibly—joyful sound. It was not a song one expected in a crypt or on a night spent fleeing ghosts.

The geists stood mesmerized before this strange, almost forgotten emotion. Their master, Tacenda’s sister, turned her head and closed her eyes—as if confronted by a sudden unbearable light, though Davriel saw no such thing.

The faces of the geists began to melt. Or...no, they began to unmelt. Quiverings ceased. Distortions reversed. Hollow eyes blinked with awareness, and mouths shrank from gaping maws into cautious smiles. All around him, terrors of the night became washwomen, farmers, smiths, and children.

Never in his life had he been so happy to see a group of peasants.

That song filled the chamber. It made stones rattle like percussion. It thrummed through Davriel, a jubilant, elated melody. He found himself standing up, his fatigue lost before that amazing, exultant sound.

Willia, however, growled. She seemed to visibly shake as she howled in anger, scrambling forward, losing all semblance of control. She reached toward her sister, as if to grab Tacenda and strangle her—or pull the power by force from her.

No you don’t, Davriel thought, pointing at her and summoning the last remnants of a fading spell inside his mind. The inkspell.

With it, he painted Willia’s eyes black.

She screamed immediately, stumbling and falling to the ground. “The darkness? No, I banished you!” She trembled, holding out her hands, unable to see them. “The second darkness...”

Hellfire. Tacenda’s song overwhelmed Willia’s mournful cries. The tune was so blasted optimistic, it made him want to dance. Him. Davriel resisted the urge as the song infused the catacombs. Crypts vibrated with the enthusiastic, eager tune, and even the bones seemed to be rattling with excitement.

The geists began to walk toward Tacenda, pulsing with a green light that was somehow more alive than the sickly glow they’d expressed earlier. One by one, they merged into Tacenda, their light adding to one that grew around her. Dozens upon dozens of them walked into the room, moving with increased speed, joining that pulsing light.

Until at last, Tacenda stood alone above the cowering form of her sister.

“I don’t understand,” Willia said, clawing at her face, trying to make herself see. “What happened to the geists?”

“They remembered who they were,” Tacenda said.

“That song,” Willia looked up. “I remember that song. Tacenda...I just want to escape the darkness.”

“I know. But you shouldn’t have done so by banishing it to everyone around you.” Tacenda reached out and touched her sister. “I’m sorry. But for you, Willia, there must be a third darkness.”

Tacenda pushed her sister lightly, and Willia’s body fell backward, then a puff of light emerged from her. A soul, sickly and green. It distorted, then quietly vanished, fading away.

As soon as Willia died, a second—far more powerful—green light burst from her corpse and streamed into Tacenda. Tacenda tipped her head back, eyes opening wide, as the light encompassed her.

This is your final chance, the Entity said inside Davriel. She will be overcome by the power for a short time, and your talent gives you an ideal opportunity. Reach out and take her power, Davriel. You could still have us both!

The Entity was right. By instinct, Davriel reached out—and he found that the completed power of the Bog was settling within Tacenda. It didn’t rebuff him as it had before. For the moment, it was as confused as she was.

He could take it. In that moment, he saw himself as the bearer of both Entities. He’d become a being with unrivaled strength. He saw kingdoms bending to his will. He saw himself with power over fate, over destiny, over millions of lives.

Such power! Such incredible power!

And such misery. Broken bodies as far as the eye could see. He saw himself as that terrible man, sitting upon a harsh throne. He saw himself forced to destroy rival after rival.

No time to rest. No time for fiddling with word puzzles. No quiet nights spent reading while Miss Highwater tried to figure out how to cook human food.

Davriel Cane was no hero. But he knew what he wanted from life. He’d discovered that truth after terrible personal experience.

He would not become that man again. And so he withdrew his hand, and left the power alone.

§

Tacenda’s sight returned.

She gasped as light blossomed inside her. A wonderful, pure verdant light—a light that seemed so powerful as to shine through stones as if they were paper.

You have been chosen, a voice said in her mind. And you have done well.

Tacenda fell to her knees before the power, which somehow she already knew intimately. This power that had created her and given her purpose. The power they’d called the Bog. The secret of the Approaches.

Her destiny.

“You...” she whispered. “You were in all of us. Everyone in the Approaches. But strongest in my sister and me. An accident, splitting between us?”

No. I often seek the strongest host, the Entity said. Though once the priory began to siphon away my power, I had to accelerate the process.

The light grew, consuming all that she saw. Her soul vibrated with the pure beauty of its song. And within the Entity, she saw the souls of thousands who had been nurtured here in the Approaches. The Entity, seeding its power among them, letting it grow with their souls, then reclaiming it again—enhanced and aged—when the people died.

“My sister,” she said. “Can we restore her? Can we make things go back...back to the way they were before?”

No. Your sister’s choices changed her, and those around her, forever. That is life, and growth.

“I don’t like it,” Tacenda said. “I rediscovered the Song of Joy. Shouldn’t that make things better?”

Different, yes. But ‘better’ is a matter of human perception. Regardless, I will not force you to bear me. If you wish to release me to another, you may do so. Or, in turn, you can keep me—and use my strength as your power.

“What...what will that do to me?” she asked. “Will I become evil, like Willia became?”

That depends on your choices. But you cannot go back to being what you were, either way. You can return to your village without me, and be forever changed. Or you can take me. And be forever changed.

For only the dead ever stop changing.

Tacenda wavered, then settled on a decision.

I will bear this power.

Perspective slammed into her like the weight of a mountain. She saw...saw worlds. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. So many people.

Power permeated her. She knew, instantly, the generations who had lived in the Approaches. Memories of the ages, the essence of all those who had come before. She gasped beneath the weight of it, becoming one person with ten thousand souls.

And then...she let some go. The Entity didn’t like it, but she was its master. She would not keep the souls of those who could still live. She gave back Jorgo and his family. Dakna the schoolteacher. Miller Hedvika. Rom and the priests. Every person whose body still lived, waiting for the spirit to return.

That didn’t include her parents, who had no bodies to which they could return. Those souls snuggled in against her own, warm and soft. But not her sister’s soul. Tacenda had recovered the power she held, but poor Willia...she was just gone.

Tacenda’s glow expanded. She was the power, the souls. The Entity of the Bog, Tacenda of Verlasen, and a thousand others all at once.

Tacenda turned, looking at the poor corpse in the prison, its wings nailed to the wall. “I saw the Angel’s soul. I touched it.”

I know nothing of this, the Entity said. I do not think it possible.

Yet it was true. She was a child of two worlds, two gods, two ideals. As she considered it, something deep within her exploded, awakening at the power.

Wait.

She stepped up to Davriel, who was actually looking haggard. She reached and touched the side of his face.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice overlapping to her own ears as if a thousand people had said it. Then she stabbed her power into his head and withdrew the small piece of her strength he had taken from her earlier in the night. “But never try to reach inside my mind again.”

Then—complete for the first time in her life—Tacenda vanished.