Epilogue

To Davriel, headaches were a familial kind of pain.

The kind of pain a family member could inflict. The kind of pain that you had known for so long, you sometimes welcomed it because you recognized it so well. The kind of pain you almost mistook for something else entirely.

He settled down in the prioress’s chair, behind her desk, sighing and holding his cup of tea. He worked a little further on the contract before him, written in demonic script—but that headache did make it difficult.

Why can’t you fix headaches again? he asked the Entity.

It didn’t respond.

Still sulking? he asked. Because I didn’t take the power?

Contemplating, it said softly. I had always assumed that someday you would awaken. I’ve been forced to see that might not be the case. You are not worthy of me, and never were.

Don’t be like that, Davriel replied. Think how jealous you’d have been with another Entity dividing my attention.

You have failed greatly, Davriel Cane, it said. You will know the cost of this day. You will curse yourself when that which you love burns, not because you had too much power. But because you lacked the strength to stop your enemies.

Davriel shivered. There was something about the way the Entity spoke...a hostility he had never known from it before.

They will come for you, the Entity warned. Those who search for you will hear what has happened here. You have just ensured you will never, ever be able to hide again.

It fell silent. Davriel sighed softly, then took a sip of his tea. For the moment—that deliciously floral taste in his mouth—he didn’t really care about the Entity. He gladly felt the tea soothing him. It always had helped with the headaches.

On the floor in front of the desk, a body stirred. The prioress blinked open her eyes. Elsewhere in the priory, Davriel heard calls as the other priests started to wake up. The girl had restored their souls before leaving—he’d ascertained that when he’d found the prioress breathing—but it seemed that it took a little while for their bodies to recover.

The prioress sat up, putting her hand to her head. She looked up and frowned, noticing Davriel at her desk.

“You lied to me, Merlinde,” Davriel said softly. “You have kept terrible secrets from me.”

“I...”

He held up the tea. “I found an entire tin of Verlasen dustwillow in your cupboard,” he said. “I expect you to explain yourself posthaste.”

She frowned.

“Also,” Davriel noted, “there’s the small matter of a deific angel kept locked in your catacombs—an angel who was slowly siphoning power away from the Bog, building a crescendo of untapped strength that begged for some foolish mortal to abuse it. But really, let’s keep our attention on the serious problems. You explicitly told me you were out of tea.”

She pulled herself to her feet and glanced out the window at the risen sun. “What happened?”

“Hmm?” Davriel said, sipping the tea. “Oh. Willia Verlasen killed her parents by accident, after reclaiming the power locked in the catacombs. She returned here, intending to confess—then lost her faith when she found out you’d murdered her god. She instead began gathering the power of the Bog and, enthralled by its promises, started to pull the souls out of the people of Verlasen.”

“Hellfire,” the prioress muttered. “Young Willia? Are you sure?”

“Well, the first few times she tried to kill me last night, I was a little uncertain. But when she actively commanded an army of geists to rip my soul from my body, the truth finally dawned on me.” He sipped his tea. “I stopped her, by the way. You’re welcome.”

“It was your duty,” she said. “As Lord of the Approaches.”

“I really should have read the entire contract,” Davriel said. “Where was the part about cleaning up your messes? Right after the articles of caveat emptor, I assume?”

She didn’t reply, instead standing in the sunlight and closing her eyes, then letting out a long sigh.

Davriel rested his fingers on a sword he’d placed on the desk—long, curved, and wicked. Poor Crunchgnar. Was it strange that Davriel was going to miss the sour fool? He’d never find another demon who was that fun to tease.

“We will need to prepare,” Davriel said, sipping his tea. “After the events of last night and this morning, we may see an increase in...inquiries after me. Ones we will not find easy to turn aside.”

She glanced at him.

“I am still rather put out to find a dead god in your basement, Merlinde.”

“She wasn’t our god,” the prioress said. “Any more than the Bog was. She was our burden. Both were.”

“Well, now they’re someone else’s burden,” Davriel said. “Poor girl.”

“What do you mean?” the prioress asked, turning. Then she paled, looking at what he’d been writing. “Have you been profaning my priory with demonic magic, Cane? How dare you—”

He looked up, pointing his pen at her. “Don’t even start. Just don’t. Besides, this is barely magic. It’s more a legal document encouraging the dark forces, reminding them that there is one being most likely to win my soul above all others.”

Hopefully. Almost, he would pray to that dead angel, if he thought it would help.

Please...

His heart leaped as he heard a group of startled screams echoing from below. He jumped to his feet, tucking a bundle under his arm and pushing out into the hallway. The prioress followed as he dashed down the steps, following the shouts, and entered the catacombs.

He quickly walked to the small chamber where the Seelenstone had once been kept. Several young priests were in the room, screaming in fear—likely they’d been trying to find a way to put the trinket back together. If so, they had been interrupted by a dark figure forming from smoke in front of them.

Davriel quickly took off his cloak, and settled it on the dark form as it took shape. It wasn’t entirely covering, however, and so the prioress gasped as Miss Highwater appeared. One of the priests actually fainted.

“Don’t gawk,” Davriel said to the others. “It only encourages her.”

The demon caught his eye, then smiled.

Relief flooded through him. It was her smile. He’d been half afraid a new creature would be created to fulfill the instructions he’d written.

“Did we win?” she asked him.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Davriel replied. “My peasants are back, but our little musician girl absconded with an ancient and incalculably valuable power.”

Miss Highwater, true to form, held out her hand expectantly. He smiled, then unwrapped her ledger from the bundle of clothing he was holding and handed it to her.

She eyed the priests, who were trying to inch out of the room. The prioress, showing good sense, had folded her arms but didn’t appear like she was going to make any demands of him.

“Only one fainted,” Miss Highwater muttered. “I really am losing my touch, aren’t I? And you. You let the girl get away with the power of the Bog? Really?”

“I was busy mourning Crunchgnar’s untimely demise.”

“You sap,” she said, flipping through her ledger and the notes at the back. “Joke all you want, but I know you’re going to miss him. Anything else I should know?”

“The priests were hiding an angel. They locked her up when she went mad—then made poor Rom slit her throat.”

“Cute,” she said. “And I’m supposed to be the demon.”

“They might be in the market for a new object of worship,” Davriel said. “You could apply.”

“What do you suppose their policy is on nudity?”

“I’d guess somewhere between ‘Hell no’ and ‘Oh, angels above, my brain is melting.’ But remember, they do have nice hats.”

She chuckled. “I’ll pass. I believe I still have an unfulfilled contract with a certain willful diabolist. As for Tacenda, I suppose I’ll need to track her down. Really, Dav. How did you let her filch that power from you?”

“Perhaps I just didn’t want it.”

Miss Highwater snapped her ledger closed, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Tacenda really did deserve the Entity,” he said. “She did most of the work—singing and reclaiming the souls of the villagers. You should have seen her. It was very heroic.”

“You don’t believe in heroism.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “I absolutely accept that it is an attribute others believe they possess. As for Miss Verlasen, well, the truth is that I needed to prove a point.”

“By doing nothing?”

“Nothing is the very thing to which I am best suited.” He held out his arm to her, and she took it. “Come. Do you think we can expect the peasants to get back to the harvest today? They’ve spent an entire day dead, so they should be well rested, and I appear to be down to a single tin of tea...”

End