Ammas and the wolf were no longer alone in the temple. In truth Ammas was never alone, nor was anyone else, especially where the Veil of Ravens was thin, as it surely was in an abandoned temple that sat atop a gargantuan graveyard of both catacombs and the hastily built resting places of the victims of the Yellow Death. Without the spirit salve on his eyes, he could usually ignore them.
But when the salve was at its full effect, no one could ignore them, if the cursewright desired.
The sight was one he would never get used to, though he had first witnessed it before he had come of age. Ammas knew it was only his perceptions that caused the ruptures in the Ravens' Veil to appear as doors, rather than holes in the floor or ceiling, but without that perception he would surely go mad from lack of ability to shut out his view of those ruptures. They were not pleasant things to see.
Sometimes they did indeed appear as physical doors, complete with frame and hinges -- weathered ancient wood, polished oak, rusted iron as one would find on a sealed mausoleum. Sometimes they were stone or wooden arches concealed by a fluttering curtain, its fabric black and glossy, as if woven from raven feathers. Sometimes they manifested as simple yawning black pits not at all dissimilar to the catacomb entrance beneath this very temple. Whatever their shape, what lurked within them was always the same: the spirits of the Dead, severed from the world by the Ravens' Veil, watchful and forlorn . . . and when roused, very, very angry.
Above the werewolf, a creaking vault like those found in the depths of treasuries and banks. To Ammas's left, a broad archway, icy air wafting from it like an awful exhalation of corruption. To their right, at a slight angle, a jagged hole framed between two of the temple's columns. And in these rooms of the dead, all the same things could be seen: huddled shapes, some bloated with stagnant water, some skeletal shadows, some pale and languid, as if just beyond the moment of departure. Beyond the terrible shapes, windows -- as varied as the doors, looking out on strange and grotesque vistas, alien landscapes that lingered in the memory no more than that of a forgotten nightmare, recalled only when some innocent image in the waking world summons up the dread the sleeper felt as he tossed and cried in the dark of night.
The shapes watched. The windows beckoned. In his youth Ammas found himself drawn toward the terrible doorways as much as he was repulsed by them: the moth flitting into the flame. Where did those windows go? What other doors might be found beyond these? What really lay beyond the Veil of Ravens?
"You must never go into those rooms," Othma Sulivar had told him long ago. "They are not fit for the living, and if you pass through them you will never be seen in this world again." Ammas had his own copy of a book containing the Lady Terazla's advice, but this book was not the sardonic aphorisms and tales of N'del Teraz. These were stern warnings originally written in a shaky hand: admonitions and pleas of caution for cursewrights who shared Lady Terazla's dubious gift of the haunted eyes. There had never been many cursewrights with that ability. Most drew their powers from far less dreadful wells. Airy spirits, such as the one caged in the catacomb and which gave such comfort to Carala as she struggled to keep her wolf caged, were a common one. In these days so long after the fall of the academies, Ammas might well have been the only surviving cursewright with a connection to the Dead.
Now with the spirit salve burning below his eyes, the doors thrown wide, the Dead watchful and growing agitated by the threat to the man who allowed them to taste the living world from time to time, all those warnings came back to him. The wolf gnawed on his shoulder, oblivious to what was about to happen. Only when Ammas chuckled, a dry and whispery laugh, did unease gleam in its golden eyes.
It reared back. Ammas hissed with pain as the fangs withdrew from his flesh, some of them quite raggedly. Blood flowed freely, and he supposed this fresh set of robes was ruined. No matter.
"Why do you laugh, man?" the wolf snarled, lapping its chops greedily. "I can let you live. You can be one of us. You know how to fight. We will share the she-wolf with you. She will find you a satisfying mate, I am sure." It crouched back, snout wrinkling to display its fangs, preparing to strike. "Your throat next. Give her to us. The white moon would welcome you if you do."
"I told you I would not be merciful," Ammas murmured. "Goodbye, wolf."
Its eyes narrowed. Ammas's voice suddenly erupted in a furious scream.
"Kill it! Tear it asunder! It invades my home and would close the doors!"
The Dead roiled and surged through the open doors as if they had only been waiting for the invitation. At last the werewolf seemed to realize its peril, as all these dead and hungry things rippled toward him. The Veil of Ravens clung to them as they passed through the doorways, draping them in black, from the most skeletal and fragmentary to the most robust. Their voices were low -- they did not scream or moan but simply whispered insensibly, more like the sound of air blowing through a pipe -- but there was an intelligence in them. These were not merely mindless spiritual notions. They were more substantial than the airy spirit in its cage, and infinitely more perilous. And now they moved with a single purpose, borne aloft on a wind that stank of ancient graves and crypts: destruction.
The wolf turned tail and tried to flee toward the doors and onto the street. It cast terrified eyes over one shoulder, shrill barking sounds quivering from its throat. But there was no time. The Dead were far faster. Black bony hands clutched its shoulders and drew it back; black arms swollen with putrefaction caught its thighs in a grip of iron and pulled it to the floor. It howled again, now in terror.
Ammas did not want to watch, but his duty commanded it. Slowly he rose to his feet, nursing his injured shoulder, his gray eyes blazing above the spirit salve.
A skeletal set of fingers, fearing neither infection nor the rip of fangs through flesh, caught the wolf's muzzle and wrenched it backward, exposing the roof of its mouth and its lolling tongue. Strangled cries rose from its throat. The bony claw curled in the beast's jaws and scraped downward. The fangs were ripped from the gums, pattering on the floor in a spill of blood. Now the wolf screamed in agony. A vaguely female shape draped in a shroud of midnight rose up before the toothless wolf and thrust what might have been a hand deep into its chest. The wolf's body began to spasm as its heart ruptured from within, bursting, flooding its chest with its tainted blood. It fell to its knees.
The shapes of the Dead, clad in sable, fell on it.
It was over quickly, and lasted far too long.
Ammas at last closed his eyes and gazed at the floor. As in Orson's garret an icy wind blasted through the temple, nearly dousing the braziers, the doors slamming closed and vanishing. The spirit salve might have been nothing but a sweet-smelling jam smeared into the cursewright's flesh.
He fell to his knees, exhausted. The noises from above had stilled. The wolf's companion had no doubt killed Barthim and would be here soon to finish the job. And who knew what remained outside the temple, prowling and only waiting to pounce?
With a pained grin, Ammas hauled himself to his feet, the skymetal dagger in his hand gleaming hungrily. He knew how to rekindle the spirit salve. The Dead were still roused, and would be more than happy to render him assistance again. Slowly he staggered toward the spiral stair which would take him to the auxiliary chapels, where perhaps he could at least avenge his friend's death.
*
What Ammas's terrible cry had meant, neither Carala nor Casimir had the faintest idea. All they knew was the moment those words left his mouth, the already chilly catacomb seemed twice as cold. The wolf's howls became a series of panic-stricken noises that, despite sounding like a retreat, were in no way comforting. The airy spirit seemed to cower in its cage, its illumination no more than that of a dying candle.
Through it all Casimir repeated the words in Carala's ear, through his own terror, through his own uncertainty. One of her hands clutched the small of his back, clinging to him, as if the boy's physical presence were the name Ammas insisted she remember.
Slowly, her fingers relaxed. There was still that wolfish scent in the air which called to the thing inside her, but it had changed -- it had no vitality in it, and was slowly giving way to a lower, even more rank aroma that made her nervous rather than eager. Carala rose unsteadily to her feet. Casimir watched her uneasily, waiting to see fur sprouting on her body; or that disturbing, hungry look on her face. But he saw nothing other than Carala, pale and slender and sporting lustrous black hair, hazel eyes fearful but not mad or wild.
"Thank you, Casimir," she murmured, her fingertips caressing the charm about her neck. "Do you mind if I keep this?"
He couldn't imagine Ammas objecting. "No, milady. If it helps you feel better, I think it's yours more than it's mine."
Carala smiled faintly. Standing beside Casimir, they both peered up the catacomb stair. The airy spirit seemed to be reviving a little.
The silence drifting from above was very, very loud.
Neither the princess of the House of Deyn nor the orphan boy from the brothel next door were the sort to cower in a tomb while a man they considered a friend and mentor -- or at least someone who commanded respect, in Carala's case -- perhaps lay bleeding out on the mosaic floor above them. "Let's see," she whispered in Casimir's ear, and took the boy by the hand to lead him upstairs, wanting to see if Ammas was safe, if there was anything they could do to help him.
*