Page 49 of Requiem of Silence

“Your precious Darvyn was in no danger, child.”

“He nearly drowned in Death River!” Rage exploded from her, unwilling to be controlled.

Murmur wisely sobered. “Very well, I vow it. None here will harm another living being as part of your training. Does that make you feel better, child?”

“Not really,” she grumbled.

“The war I warned you of is upon us,” he said. “There is little time to waste. If you two do not master your power and help fight for the side of the Living, your world will cease to exist.”

Ella’s eyes were wide; she held Ulani against her. For her part, Tana did not appear to be affected by this dire pronouncement.

“The dead are coming, Kyara.” Murmur gazed at her, unblinking. “And right now, the three of you are all that can stand in the way of the extinction of the human race.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

While safety is harmonious,

and eternal,

and ethereal,

and ubiquitous,

it is not guaranteed.

—THE HARMONY OF BEING

Once again, you follow Nikora through the castle. Usable rooms are often far away from one another. You tuck this information away for when you escape. They cannot martial whatever forces they have effectively with a layout such as this. You do not know their numbers, having only seen a handful of servants, Nikora, and her subordinate, Cayro, but they must be few.

This time she leads you up to a rooftop surrounded by crumbling stone. You briefly wonder if it is safe up here or if the stoneswill fall away and leave you tumbling down into the swirling abyss of white below. The weather is calm, thick flakes of snow fall lazily, but a storm here would be devastating. When you have your power back, you will be sure to create a tempest to level this castle once and for all.

Nikora cradles the disgusting jar of human flesh to her bosom as she would a child. She is a zealot, you can see the fever in her eyes. Faith has made her weak as it does all men. You have never made such a grievous error.

In the corner of the roof lies a tarp covered with a soft sheet of snow. She removes the tarp with a flourish to reveal smoldering ashes of some kind. You see melted metal gears, wood that is blackened and charred.

“Was this the Machine?”

The light of pride shines in her eyes. “Yes. Our greatest achievement. The Great Machine combined the magics of Earthsong, Nethersong, and blood magic and imbued the result—quintessence—into a physical object. Power to the powerless, strength to our kind.”

The light in her eyes dims as she looks toward you. “Now there is only a finite amount of quintessence left in the world and we have no way to make more.” She squeezes the jar containing the petrified remains of a deity. You fight to keep from rolling your eyes.

“And you believe we can use the Songs and the quintessence that you have gathered?” You try to prod her along. The cold bites at your exposed skin; you wonder if she feels it.

“We are draining Nethersong from our slaves the way we have since times of old. The Wailers will provide the Earthsong, and blood is readily available.” She eyes your arms, and you take an alarmed step back.

“Oh yes, my dear Eero, your blood is necessary. Since you will control the Earthsong, we will require a sacrifice from you.”

Your jaw clenches. “And where will this sacrifice go? What will be done with the Earthsong and the blood and the Nether?”

She gazes toward the mountain peaks that surround the castle. Soft clouds cap the summits in the near distance, though visibility is low due to the snowfall. Her expression is difficult to read, but it appears as though she is coming to a decision. When she focuses on you again, the fever is gone from her eyes, leaving only determination.

The rattling of chains behind you causes you to turn. The other Physick, Cayro, is at the head of a group of servants leading the Wailers. Manacled together hand and foot, your men shuffle along like mindless, brainless automatons. Which you suppose is what they are. They have no free will, it was all subsumed by their programming. But there are only twelve of them.

“I will not tell you all, Eero, only what you need to know. You think you hide your desires from me, but I see through you,” Nikora says.

When you turn, she has grown quite close, within spitting distance. The damaged flesh on your arm burns at the thought of harming her even only with spittle on her cheek. The pain you can ignore, but along with it comes a flash of despondency, a fleeting sense of despair that makes you almost stumble. You know it is the work of the spell she carved into you—not just physical pain then, it lays a mental tripwire that would be impossible to disregard.

“Follow my instructions exactly,” she says, “and you will live to see our rise. Perhaps then, we will become the allies you claim you seek.”

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