Silence Falls (Sequel to Promise the Sky)

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Keenan

Bron opens his mouth, calling on vocal chords that had once been nothing more than rot, that had been rot for over a hundred years before my grandfather was even born. I wonder what he wants, this man who can kill without a moment of thought, who can kill faster than I can blink. I wonder what he wants, what a dead man wants in a world that is no longer his own.

I watch his lips form the words, treating them harshly, insistently, because there is nothing else that matters.

"Where is the Viper?"

He repeats the question.

"Where is Viper?"

And I realise that some things never change, that no matter what death does to a man, he is still the selfsame creature as drew his first breath upon this land, a matter of centuries ago.

"She died in the rain," I say, almost hypnotised, "so they buried her in the sun."

"The Cradle?" He breathes, and laughs. It is just as chilling as expected. "They actually left her in the city where magic was born. And what about me? What place is this hellhole?"

"They buried you next to the sky."

He nods once, as though thinking. But I believe he already knows where he is because his olive eyes flash darkly before he says, "Those cursed mountains," and frowns.

He isn't speaking to me, not anymore. The words are only three, but they're layered with inner meaning. And then he's done, striding past without even a second glance. I am not a short man, but I'm only just taller than his shoulder - and his reputation, and his determination, and his presence all seem to make him loom.

"Where are you going?" I ask, words so quiet they're almost a whisper.

He falters, still facing away, shoulder at my shoulder, and his feet draw to a stop. As he turns back to face me, the cloak floats out around his legs, briefly flicking across my ankle. The contact, laced as it is with his latent resurrection magic, feels... important.

"I'm going to find her," he says, as though he can't quite understand how I don't already know this.

"And then?" I ask. "What then?"

The expression almost seems to melt off his face, replaced by hatred. I'm not scared. I glower.

"I have business," he says.

"And what business is that?" I ask, anger flaring, "everyone that ever wronged you is dead. And do you know what? It made no difference. The sun continued to rise and people continued to sin."

His eyes narrow dangerously, turning to dark, green slits.

"And who are you, boy?" He growls, "To stand here at my rebirth and tell me about the way of my world."

"I'm Keenan Nottinghan," I say, "seventh generation since your death. So it's not your world: it's mine."

For just a second his lips purse, his fingers twitch. I grit my teeth.

And then he laughs.

"Do you really think I can't taste the flavour of your magic? Did you really think that I couldn't feel what I was taking as you leant over my bones? You're nothing. You've never used your magic but for a second. You're unfit, you're unpractised. You know nothing of war and so you know nothing of death. You know nothing of love, and so you know nothing of life. If this is your world, then it is a world suffocating on its own rolls of fat."