He left the room and ventured out into the corridor, taking a moment to place himself on the map he'd memorised, then setting off left for the servants' stair. He went up two flights and quickly found the high priest's bedroom, which, together with the man's vast private office, occupied half the floor.
The ornate patterned curtains that hung over the three doorways to the room had been drawn back from the middle entrance which, by tradition, lacked a door, in imitation of the temple. This was where High Priest Bern received formal petitions. Mihn stepped silently through and checked his surroundings. The single oil lamp hanging in the corridor gave only a little light, enough to reveal the bare outlines, but that was sufficient for him to make out the shelves against the walls, and only a desk and a couple of chairs standing in the centre of an otherwise clear floor.
On the right was another doorway, which led to the high priest's bedroom. Mihn guessed it would be locked, despite the weak security he'd encountered thus far, but he didn't bother trying it -he didn't need to. He pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his shirt and scattered them around the desk, then unstrapped the jar and set it on the floor.
Above him was a long beam running the length of the room, almost as wide as his body and certainly big enough to perch on while he watched events unfold – he was pretty sure anyone entering the room soon wasn't going to be bothered about looking up, and he had the witch's spell if they did. He carefully unknotted the wire holding the jar's lid on. The jar itself was little bigger than a flattened palm, and twice the thickness. It had a dark green swirling pattern on it that Mihn didn't recognise. Once the lid was dislodged he didn't wait around but launched himself off Jopel Bern's desk. He grabbed the beam above and quietly swung himself up until he was lying flat along it. Then he kept very still and watched the jar.
It did precisely nothing. One heartbeat stretched into five, then ten. Mihn realised he'd been holding his breath and let it out softly… and as he did so a dull green glow began to build around the mouth of the jar. Without warning it rose in the air and expanded into a cloud larger than a man before coalescing into a figure.
Merciful Qods, let the witch's magic work here too, he prayed as he gripped the beam tighter.
The daemon was the size and approximate form of a large man, and naked, with irregular clumps of spines like a mangy porcupine. While its left hand was relatively normal – if you ignored the over-long lingers and claws the right was much larger, with two stubby, finger-like protrusions from which extended a spray of long, thick spines.
As Mihn watched, the daemon twisted its body left and right. It had no neck on which to turn its flattened head, but it did have an assortment of eyes to cover most angles. For a moment he wondered why it was turning – until he heard a snuffling sound and saw the hanging flap of skin on its face twitch up and jerk first in one direction, then the next.
Realising what it was doing, Mihn readied himself to leap from the beam the moment he saw the quill-arm rise. The daemon continued to look around, sniffing the air with increasing vigour, taking a step forward towards the neatly stacked shelves on the opposite wall. It continued by fits and starts, following a scent Mihn couldn't fathom, until it reached a corner shelf.
The daemon sniffed hard, grabbed the end book and flung the entire row of files and books onto the floor, then gave a growl and swept something else aside – a wooden panel, Mihn guessed, from the way it clattered to the floor – and peered at the wall.
Mihn couldn't see what it was looking at, but whatever it had found didn't worry the daemon. Nor, it appeared, did the sound of a muffled voice from the high priest's bedroom. With a heavy, rolling sound that might have been a chuckle, the daemon reached out and wiped its hand against the wall before reaching into a recess and pulling out a thick book. In the faint green-tinted light of magic playing around the daemon, Mihn saw the corners of the book gleam.
Silver, most likely; it's a grimoire – but what's a priest doing with a grimoire? Only mages bother compiling a book of spells.
The daemon turned back, hefting the large book in one hand with an appreciative grunt. Though he couldn't see its mouth, or even if it had a mouth beneath that strange, oversized nose, Mihn could tell it was pleased: it had found what it had been looking for.
There were more noises from the bedroom now, and the daemon raised its lethal right arm. Looking up, it caught sight of Mihn, perched on the beam. The flaps of its nose rose towards him.
'The one who is to be protected,' the daemon rasped as if through a throat made of sandpaper. 'He should not have worried. I smell power on you. You belong to one greater than I.' It raised the book. 'The writings of Cordein Malich; the account of his obligations and the scent of his soul. Tell the other I am satisfied.'
In the next moment the bedroom door was flung open and High Priest Bern emerged like a ghost in a billowing nightgown, his walking stick raised threateningly. The daemon moved forward almost lazily and flicked its spiny hand out to impale the high priest in the chest. Bern gave a wheeze of pain as the spines ripped right through his body and emerged out his back, spraying blood over the wall behind. The daemon gave another laugh and turned its body towards Mihn, the gleam of two of its eyes bright in the darkened room.
'The other requested mayhem to aid your escape.' It reached out and dabbed a finger to the blood pouring out of the high priest's wounds before licking it clean. 'Mayhem will be a pleasure.'
CHAPTER 18
He watched the dawn break, the weak rays puncturing the cloud. Something in him recoiled from the light, but he faced it down, as he had every morning for years. The feeble winter sun was still strong enough to sting his eyes at first, if he'd been awake all night glorying in the darkness.
Despite the rain and thick stone walls, he could still smell them from his vantage point, still hear their breath and feel the hot pulse of blood in their veins. Sometimes the smell was too insistent, making sleep impossible, and on those nights he would find himself a dark corner as far from others as possible. Even the foul winter nights of driving rain and biting wind wouldn't affect him; the discomfort was barely noticeable against the warm hunger simmering inside.
With the dawn came voices, movement, animal calls; the bark of dogs and crow of cockerels. He managed to smile. Another night survived. Another night of sitting there watching the sleeping city, waiting for life to be breathed back into the streets. Another night where he did nothing. The sunlight crept over his skin and drove the feelings away, driving the darkness back down into the pit of his soul.
It was getting harder every year, but recently it had become much worse. He felt a tear on his cheek and gently wiped it off with one finger, holding the tiny drop of water up for inspection before tasting it delicately with his tongue. He spat it out immediately and felt the shame well up.
He pursed his lips. The dawn was here now and he was safe. One night at a time, that's all he needed to remember, even though it was harder and he was feeling the need much more strongly. Though it had threatened to boil over many times, he'd managed to resist.
He'd managed without the voice in the shadows for years, and he could survive this absence. He had to; to do otherwise was unthinkable.
I will not become a monster, I will not permit it.
Despite his brave words, he knew it was not so simple. Battle could not frighten him; violence and death were just happenings around him, but succumbing to his need was a terrifying prospect, one he could not even afford to contemplate.