Chapter Nine: Tacenda

Tacenda forced herself to keep moving, to try not to think too hard about what had happened. She instead decided to check on the bodies of the villagers and the priests, while the demons nursed their wounds at the front of the old church.

Still, she couldn’t keep herself from glancing at the bodies of the fallen soldiers, and each time she did, she felt sick. She was accustomed to the hardships of life in the Approaches, but there was something disturbingly brutal about these corpses. Men and women slain in battle.

How many horrors could she witness in one night before she collapsed beneath it all?

Just keep going. Help those you can, she thought, rolling over Ulric the cobbler and settling him beside his family. Don’t think about how, under any other circumstances, you’d have hailed the demon hunters as heroes...

She squeezed her eyes shut, and took a few long, deep breaths. She would keep going. She had to. She was the village’s protector. She’d been chosen for this.

She opened her eyes and sat back on the hardwood floor. So far as she could tell, none of the comatose villagers had been harmed during the skirmish. The closest any had come to danger was when Davriel had unleashed his stolen pyromancy. She’d used Ulric’s cloak to beat out the flames nearby.

Nearby, Gutmorn limped through the ashes, his leg wrapped in a bandage. The lanky demon knelt down, tenderly lifting something from the black char—a horned demonic skull. Ash flaked from it as Gutmorn lifted it to his face, and a low groan escaped his throat. An anguished, raw sound. His terrible eyes closed, his head rested lightly against the skull, and his posture crumpled into a stoop.

Tacenda could almost see humanity in the poor thing.

“Gutmorn,” Davriel said from the front of the church, “your leg wound is bleeding through that bandage. The cut is deeper than you indicated.”

The demon didn’t stir.

“Return to the manor,” Davriel said. “Get that wound sewn up and warn Grindelin that some of the hunters escaped us. They could decide to look for easy pickings at the manor.”

Gutmorn stood up. Wordlessly—still cradling the skull—he limped from the broken church. Miss Highwater reached up and rested a hand on his shoulder as he passed, and though the taller demon didn’t look at her, he did hesitate beside her.

Tacenda felt as if she were intruding on a personal moment where she didn’t belong.

Gutmorn finally vanished out into the night, and the sound of beating wings announced his withdrawal. Davriel strode through the room and inspected Crunchgnar. The burly, flightless demon was carefully wrapping his forearm in a bandage. He’d taken far more punishment than Gutmorn, but seemed indifferent to his wounds.

“Don’t even think about sending me away,” he growled at Davriel. “I’ll heal this up within the hour, and I won’t leave you alone. You’ll end up getting killed early and breaking our contract.”

“Alas, you’ve caught me in my design,” Davriel said. “It has forever been my intent to seek suicide merely as a means of inconveniencing you.”

Crunchgnar growled, as if believing it to be true.

“So far,” Davriel added, “the noxious air of your presence has not been enough to do me in, but I am nothing if not determined, so I shall find another method.” He turned toward Tacenda. “Do you require more time for recovery, Miss Verlasen?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, standing up.

“You wouldn’t be with us if that were true,” Davriel said, then pointed into the night with his cane. “But let us be off. There is no more to learn from the dead. At least, not the kind who cannot speak.”

They struck out into the night, Miss Highwater carrying the lanterns. Davriel’s former reluctance appeared to have vanished. Indeed, as he led the way through the village back toward their carriage, his gentleman’s sword-cane rapped the ground with a vigor that Tacenda might have considered eager in someone else.

“Where now?” she asked him.

“Those men obviously came through the priory on their way here,” Davriel said. “Some had wards on their minds to protect against my talents. I was already intent upon visiting the priory—both to ask after this priest who claims to have seen me, and to see the prioress. She has magical talents that help in interacting with spirits. The arrival of these hunters reinforces my decision. The prioress has several questions she must answer.”

“You...aren’t going to kill her, are you?”

“I think it shall depend greatly upon her responses.”

He slowed in the night, and Tacenda drew up beside him, confused—until she saw the carriage ahead. Or, more accurately, the gruesome figure beside it. Poor Brerig—the small, simple-minded demon—had been discovered by the hunters, likely before their assault upon the church. His deformed corpse had been nailed to a nearby door, his head removed and placed beside the flickering lantern on the ground. The mouth had been stuffed with what appeared to be garlic.

Davriel didn’t make a noise, though his hand upon the knob of his cane tightened until it trembled, the knuckles white.

“These,” he said softly, “are your ‘good people,’ Miss Verlasen. Would that both gods above and demons below could protect me from good people. A man dubbed evil will take your purse, but a so-called ‘good man’ will not be content until he has ripped out your very heart.”

She stepped back. There was no threat to his voice—indeed, he spoke with the same lighthearted tone as ever. And yet...

And yet.

Since their strange meeting, she had lost most of her fear of him—until that moment. Standing on the roadway, the light of the lanterns somehow failing to reach his face. In that moment, he seemed to become shadow itself, so cold as to smother all warmth. Then he spun, strange cloak fluttering around him, and stalked to the carriage, its horses—fortunately—neither accosted nor stolen.

Tacenda followed, hesitant, shooting one last glance at Brerig’s corpse. She would bury it, she decided, once her village had been rescued. The small demon had been kind to her. Certainly, he hadn’t deserved such a fate.

Hadn’t he, though? she thought, climbing into the carriage. He was a demon. Who knows what horrors he committed over the course of his life?

She didn’t know, and neither had the hunters. Perhaps that was what left her so uncomfortable. But what were they supposed to do? Ask a demon to list his crimes before destroying him? In this land, you didn’t have time for such niceties. If you didn’t strike quickly, the things that moved in the forest would claim your life before you had a chance to speak.

And thus, the night made monsters of them all.

Crunchgnar was already looking better. He took the driver’s seat, causing the carriage to groan beneath his weight as he settled in. Miss Highwater again sat inside the carriage, a small lantern hanging beside her head giving light as she opened her notebook ledger and started writing.

Tacenda climbed in last, checking on her viol, which she’d left on the seat. The carriage lurched into motion, and Tacenda found the following silence overpowering. She searched for something to say, and blurted out the first thing that came to her—though upon reflection it might not have been a wise choice.

“So,” she said. “Voluptara?”

Miss Highwater paused in her writing, and Davriel—sitting on the seat beside Tacenda—chuckled softly.

“You heard that, did you?” Miss Highwater asked.

“They name themselves,” Davriel said, leaning toward Tacenda. “If you couldn’t guess that from ‘Crunchgnar’ and his fine, extremely creative moniker.”

“I was young,” Miss Highwater said. “It sounded impressive.”

“To a sixteen-year-old boy, perhaps,” Davriel said.

“Which was exactly the point. Remember, I was only twelve days old. I’d like to have seen you do better.”

“Sulterix,” Davriel said idly. “Lusciousori.”

“Can we stop the carriage?” Miss Highwater said. “I need to go find that demonologist and nail his tongue to something.”

“Bosomheavia—”

“Oh stop,” Miss Highwater interrupted. “You’re making the child blush. Look, why don’t you tell me the answer to Brerig’s riddle? The devils have a betting pool going.”

“Oh, that?” Davriel said. “It was a specific rock I saw once in Cabralin, shaped like a gourd.”

“That’s...oddly disappointing,” Miss Highwater said. “How would he ever have guessed that?”

“He couldn’t have, which is rather the point.” Davriel eyed Tacenda, and her confusion must have been obvious, for he continued. “Each of the demons has a contract with me, and the one whose conditions are fulfilled first gets claim upon my soul. Crunchgnar, for example, earns my soul only if I live until sixty-five without dying.”

“Which is clever,” Miss Highwater said, “because it gives Crunchgnar ample reason to protect him.”

“Brerig got to claim my soul if he answered the riddle I gave him,” Davriel said. “He didn’t place stipulations on what the riddle could be, unfortunately for him.”

“I still think that was intentional,” Miss Highwater said. “He was always happiest when he had a master to serve long-term. It gave him purpose.”

“The riddle,” Davriel said. “Was ‘What am I thinking of right now?’”

“That’s...not a riddle,” Tacenda said.

“He accepted it as one,” Davriel said. “So it satisfied the contract.”

“But there are no clues!” Tacenda said. “There isn’t even any context! It could be literally anything. Or, technically, nothing. And you could just change the answer if he happened to guess right!”

“That, at least, he couldn’t do,” Miss Highwater said. “Davriel had to write the answer on the contract before burning it to seal the pact. Anyone else summoning the contract to read would find that spot indecipherable—but if Brerig guessed right, he’d have instantly known. That said, he only got five official guesses a day. And, of course, Davriel picked something virtually impossible to get right.” She shook her head.

“You were pulling for him, weren’t you?” Davriel said, amused. He didn’t seem to care at all that they were discussing the fate of his soul.

“It would have been hilarious if Brerig had somehow guessed,” she replied. “I’d have liked to see Crunchgnar’s reaction. You know, I half expected you to give the answer to Brerig the day before your sixty-fifth birthday, just to make Crunchgnar explode in frustration.”

“Ah?” Davriel said, then spoke very softly, glancing upward toward the driver’s position of the carriage. “My dear, do you really think that I’d sign a contract that gave Crunchgnar a chance at my soul, even if I did reach sixty-five?”

“I’ve read the contract,” Miss Highwater said. “It’s airtight. The definitions are specific. The contract spends two pages on defining times, measures, and ages! You...”

She trailed off as Davriel settled back, smiling.

“How?” she hissed. “How did you trick him?”

“He gets my soul,” Davriel whispered, “if I live to sixty-five without dying.”

“Ah, hell...” Miss Highwater said, her eyes widening. “You’ve died once already, haven’t you? How?”

Davriel just continued to smile.

“All that talk of times and measures in the contract,” Miss Highwater said, “it was just a distraction, wasn’t it? I never realized... Hellfire! And they call us demons.”

Tacenda looked from one to the other as the carriage bounced over a bridge. What a bizarre conversation. “So...” she said, frowning. “What’s your stipulation, Miss Highwater?”

“Hm?” she said, turning back to her ledger. “Oh, I can claim Davriel’s soul once I manage to seduce him.”

Tacenda felt a spike of surprise, then blushed furiously. She clutched her viol, then looked from Davriel to Miss Highwater. Neither seemed the least bit bothered by the idea.

“He’s quite stubborn,” Miss Highwater continued. “I assumed I’d have his soul in under a day. Yet here I am, four years later. Doing his ledgers.”

“Perhaps I just don’t like women,” Davriel said lightly.

“Please. You think I’m that oblivious?” She stabbed her ledger with a particularly sharp punctuation mark, then looked up. “You are something else entirely.”

“Have you considered that perhaps you just aren’t as attractive as you’ve always assumed?” Davriel said.

“I’ve claimed plenty of souls using this exact contractual stipulation. Both men and women.”

“And it was so kind of them to take pity on you,” Davriel said. “Really, they should be congratulated for bolstering your self-esteem by seeing the true beauty inside of you. Commendable people, every one.”

Miss Highwater sighed, glancing at Tacenda. “You see what I have to put up with?”

Tacenda lowered her head in an attempt to hide her deep blush.

“Look what you’ve gone and done,” Miss Highwater said to Davriel. “Scandalizing the poor thing.”

“You...” Tacenda said. “You really... I mean...”

“It’s not the only way I can claim souls,” Miss Highwater said. “But it’s worked well for me in the past. And, I’ll admit, it’s kind of expected of me at this point. I wasn’t at all surprised when Davriel suggested it during the summoning and binding process. More, I was interested that a person who already had a contract on their soul would dare try to make another. Davriel is a special case though. He’s very persuasive. Infuriatingly so.”

“But...earlier, you were so embarrassed by your name...”

“Because it’s silly. It doesn’t mean I’m embarrassed of who I am.” She eyed Davriel. “I’m just rusty, that’s all. I spent years trapped in that stupid silver prison.”

“You could have practiced your arts of seduction on the other demons,” Davriel noted.

“Please, have you seen what most of them look like?” She looked at Tacenda again, who couldn’t believe this conversation was still going on. “Crunchgnar is comparatively good looking for a demon, child. Trust me. Some of the others have hooks for hands. Literal hooks.”

“I’ve always wondered about that,” Davriel said. “Seems terribly impractical. ‘Thornbrak, will you pass me that pitcher of human blood? Oh wait, I forgot. You lack opposable thumbs. Or fingers.’”

They let the conversation die off finally, Miss Highwater returning to writing. A quick glance showed she was writing down what they’d discovered at the village.

Geists created from the souls of the people. Returned to attack their friends and family, so they’re quite far gone.

Traitor likely involved, killing the priest who was protecting the church. Check to see if any bodies are missing from the village?

Bog seems likely involved. What is it, truly?

Someone—likely the traitor—was at the village physically earlier today. Tacenda heard footsteps. Why didn’t they strike her down?

Tacenda determined not to break the silence with another stupid question. She instead drew up the window shade and watched the dark forest outside.

A fancy scholar from Thraben had once come to draw maps of the Approaches. He’d tried to name the forests closest to them “the Verlasen Wood,” but they’d forced him to cross it out. The woods weren’t theirs. Nobody could own these woods.

“The soldiers shouldn’t have killed Brerig,” Tacenda said softly. “Maybe we humans have been hunted for so long, we’ve learned how to survive at the expense of remembering what it means to be human. To be just and good.”

Davriel snorted. “‘Being good’ is simply a method used to signal that one is willing to conform to societal norms. Agreement with the crowd. Look at any history book, and you’ll discover that the threshold for acceptable conformation varies widely depending on the group.”

“You said yourself that stealing the talents of good people is harder for you,” Tacenda said. “So goodness must exist.”

“I said that it is more painful for me to use talents leeched from people who view themselves as pure. Which is a different thing entirely.”

“I knew good people,” Tacenda said softly. “In the village.”

“The same village that locked you outside at night?” Davriel said. “Leaving a child to face the horrors of the forest alone?”

“It was my fate,” Tacenda said. “I was chosen by the Bog, and I have to follow my destiny.”

“Destiny?” Davriel said. “You need to learn to abandon this nonsense, child. You people put too much stock in fate—you must choose your own path, make your own destiny. Stand up and seize life!”

“Stand up?” Tacenda said. “Seize life? Like you do, sitting alone in your manor? Seizing the occasional nap?”

Miss Highwater stifled a laugh at that, earning her a glare from Davriel. He looked back at Tacenda. “Sometimes, the most ‘honorable’ choice a man can make is to do nothing at all.”

“That’s contradictory,” Tacenda said. “You want to justify being impassive while better people die. You want to pretend that nobody is good so that you don’t feel guilty for ignoring their pain. You—”

“That will be enough, child,” he said.

She turned away from him, looking out the window once more. But he was wrong. She had known people who were good. Her parents, and their simple love of making clothing. Willia, who had been determined to learn how to force back the darkness—so it could never make anyone frightened again.

One way or another, tonight Tacenda would see Willia—and the others—restored.