Chapter Three: Tacenda

The Man of the Manor had arrived two years ago, just after Tacenda discovered the Warding Song. He had immediately removed the previous ruler of the Approaches—a creature known as Lord Vaast. Nobody had shed tears at Vaast’s apparent death. He’d often taken too much blood from the young women he visited at night.

At least he’d never claimed the lives of an entire village in one day.

Tacenda crouched at the perimeter of the manor grounds, looking in at the stately building. A too-red light shone from the windows. The Man of the Manor was known to consort with demons; indeed, the front roadway was lined with winged statues that—as she watched their shadowed forms—occasionally twitched.

She clutched the ice pick close, her viol strapped to her back. The rear of the building would have a servants’ entrance; her father had spoken of delivering shirts there.

Feeling exposed, Tacenda left the forest and crossed the lawn. The moonlight seemed garish and bright. Could the sun really be brighter than it was? She reached the side of the manor, her heart thundering in her chest, ice pick held like a dagger. She leaned against the wooden wall, then inched along it to the south. A glow came from that direction. And were those...voices?

She reached the back corner of the building, then glanced around to see an open doorway. The servants’ entrance, spilling light across the lawn in a rectangle. Her breath caught—a group of small red-skinned creatures chattered here, just outside the door. As tall as her waist, the misshapen devils had long tails and wore no clothing. They dug in a barrel of rotten apples, throwing the fruit at one another.

Those apples...they’d be from last month’s orchard harvest, sent to the Man of the Manor as required. The villagers had given him the best picks, but—judging by how full the barrel was—the fruit had been left to molder.

Tacenda ducked back around the corner, breathing quickly, her hand trembling. She squeezed her eyes shut and listened to the creatures jabber in their guttural, twisted language. She’d often heard terrible sounds from the forest, but to see such creatures directly was a different matter.

She forced herself to move, trying to open a few windows along the wall. Unfortunately, each was latched tight, and breaking one would draw attention. That left the front gates, or the door with the creatures at the back.

She crept back to the corner and forced herself to glance at the things again. The four of them squabbled over a somewhat-whole apple. Tacenda took a deep breath.

And sang.

The Warding Song. She kept it soft, just a quiet, low chant—though her viol responded to the music, vibrating as it often did if she didn’t start playing it when she sang.

The song made warmth rise within her, passion and pain together. The music came through her more than out of her. Tonight, it seemed particularly vibrant. Alive. More so than she was.

The devils froze, and their black eyes widened as if dazed. They leaned back, lips parting, exposing too-sharp teeth. Then, blessedly, they scrambled away, screeching softly and seeking the forest.

The song wanted to grow, wanted to burst from her more loudly. Tacenda cut it off instead, then breathed out, gasping softly. The music made her feel. It pulled her from the waters, soggy and cold, and somehow breathed life into her. But how could she feel anything save anger and sorrow?

Focus on the task at hand. Ice pick held before her, she slipped through the back doors of the manor and stepped into a corridor that felt too welcoming, with its thick rug and ornate wooden trim. This was the home of a monster. She did not trust its friendly facade any more than she’d trust a little girl found deep in the forest, smiling and promising treasure.

Footsteps creaked the wooden floor in a room nearby. Certain that some horror would burst out and grab her, Tacenda took the nearby steps up to the second floor. Indeed, a moment after she stilled herself, something with dark grey skin stepped into the hallway. The enormous creature’s horns brushed the ceiling, and it stepped with heavy footfalls.

Anxious, Tacenda watched it inspect the area outside the back door. It had heard—or perhaps just felt—her song. She needed to get out of sight. She slipped into the first room she found on the second floor: a bedchamber, judging by the moonlit canopy beside the window.

She crossed the chamber to a door at the side, then slipped into a lavish washroom, with a tub that could have bathed an entire family. She shut the door, enclosing herself in a common sort of darkness. One she almost found welcoming. Familiar, at the very least.

Here, the tension of the moment finally overwhelmed her. She sat down on a stool in the darkness, ice pick held against her breast, her hand trembling. Her viol started to thrum softly on her back—and she realized she’d begun humming to try to calm herself, and stopped abruptly.

She instead felt for her sister’s pendant, which she’d taken before surrendering Willia’s body to the priests.

Willia had trusted in the angels. She’d always been the stronger one, the warrior. She should have lived, while Tacenda died. Willia would have had a chance at actually killing the Man of the Manor.

They’d always relied on one another. During the days, Willia had encouraged Tacenda, led her out to the fields to sing for the workers. And at night, Tacenda had sung while Willia shivered. Together, they’d been one soul. And now, Tacenda had to try to live alone?

Voices.

Tacenda bolted upright in the darkness. She could hear voices approaching—one of them sharp, authoritarian. She knew that voice. She had heard it when the Man of the Manor had come—shrouded in his cloak and mask—to complain about her father’s shirt delivery two months ago.

Footsteps sounded on the boards outside, the creaking of old and tired wood. Tacenda scrambled to her feet and placed herself right inside the door. A jolt of panic ran through her as that door opened, spilling light into the washroom. And then...

Then peace. It was time.

Vengeance.

She leaped out of the shadows and raised her makeshift weapon at the Man: a domineering figure with a pencil mustache, dark slicked-back hair, and a black suit. The ice pick made a satisfying thunk as she slammed it directly into his left breast, just to the side of his violet cravat. The pick ground bone as it sank in deeply.

The Man froze. She seemed to have genuinely surprised him, judging by the look of shock on his face. His lips parted, but he didn’t move.

Could she...could she have pierced his heart? Could she have actually managed to—

“Miss Highwater!” the Man called over his shoulder. “There is a peasant girl in my washroom!”

“What does she want?” a feminine voice called from the other room.

“She has stabbed me with what appears to be an ice pick!” The man shoved Tacenda back into the washroom, then yanked the pick out. The length glistened with his blood. “A rusty ice pick!”

“Nice!” the voice called. “Ask her how much I owe her!”

Tacenda gathered her courage—her fury—and stood up straight. “I’ve come for vengeance!” she shouted. “You must have known that I would, after you—”

“Oh, hush, you,” he said, sounding more annoyed than angry. His eyes clouded briefly, as if filling with blue smoke.

Tacenda tried to lunge for him, but found herself magically frozen in place. She strained, but couldn’t so much as blink an eye. Quick as that, her confidence evaporated. She’d known all along that coming here would be suicide. She’d hoped to exact some kind of vengeance, but he didn’t even seem to be in pain from the wound. He tossed his jacket onto a chair in the bedroom, then prodded the small bloodied section of his ruffled white shirt.

The woman who’d spoken earlier finally stepped into the room...and woman might have been a misnomer. The creature wore human clothing—a fitted grey jacket over a simple knee-length skirt—and wore her black hair in a bun. But she had ashen grey skin and dark red eyes, with small horns peeking up through her hair. Another of the Man’s demonic minions.

The demon tucked a ledger under her arm and walked over to peek in on Tacenda. Again, Tacenda tried to struggle, but couldn’t budge from her former posture—standing up straight to challenge the Man.

“Curious,” the demon woman said. “She can’t be older than sixteen. Younger than most of your would-be assassins.”

The Man poked at his wound again. “It strikes me, Miss Highwater, that you are not treating this situation with the gravity it deserves. My shirt is ruined.”

“We’ll get you another.”

“This one was my favorite.”

“You have thirty-seven exactly like it. You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if your life depended on it.”

“That’s not the point.” He hesitated. “...Thirty-seven? That’s a tad excessive, even for me.”

“You asked me to see you properly stocked in case the tailor got eaten.” The demon woman gestured toward Tacenda. “What should I do with the child?”

Tacenda’s breath caught. She could still breathe, though her eyes were frozen open, staring straight ahead. She could barely make out the Man through the washroom doorway as he slumped down in a chair in the bedroom.

“Have her burned or something,” he said, picking up a book. “Maybe feed her to the devils. They’ve been begging me for live flesh.”

Eaten alive?

Don’t imagine it. Don’t think. Tacenda tried to focus on her breathing.

The demon woman—Miss Highwater—leaned against the washroom doorway, arms folded. “She looks like she’s been through hell. And not the nice parts, either.”

“There are nice parts of hell?” the Man asked.

“Depends on how hot you like your magma. Look at that bloodied dress, ripped and covered in dirt. Doesn’t something about her strike you as odd?”

“Dirty and bloody,” he said. “Isn’t that how peasants normally look?”

Miss Highwater glanced over her shoulder.

“I don’t keep up on local fashions,” said the Man from his seat. “I know they’re very fond of buckles. And collars. I swear, I saw a fellow the other day with a collar so high, his hat rested on it, rather than touching his head...”

“Davriel,” Miss Highwater said. “I’m being serious.”

“I am too. He had buckles on his arms.” The Man held up his left arm, gesturing incredulously. “Like, just wrapping around his upper arm. No purpose at all. I think the people are worried that their clothing will run off if it’s not strapped in place.”

Tacenda bore the exchange in silence. Their conversation was odd, but also so dismissive. She really wasn’t anything more than an inconvenience to them, was she?

Still, the longer they spent arguing, the longer it would take for them to feed Tacenda to the devils. She couldn’t help imagining the experience, lying immobile as the creatures fought over her as they had the apples. Until finally, they started to feast upon her flesh—the pain sharp and real, though she would be unable to scream...

Breathe. Just focus on breathing.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Even her lips were frozen—her tongue and throat as if stone—but perhaps...with effort...

She drew in a deep breath, then pushed out a soft—but pure—humming note. Her viol responded, strings vibrating in harmony.

The Man of the Manor stood up in a sharp motion.

Warding Song. Sing the Warding Song! She tried, but all her effort amounted to nothing more than a quiet hum, and it didn’t seem to bother the demon or her master.

“Send for Crunchgnar,” the Man finally said. “We’ll have him bind the assassin, then make her explain who sent her.”