Scar Night Page 0,5
“Are you afraid?”
This time there was no army of heathens: nothing but the cold temple stones between Dill and the night sky. He swung the sword backwards and forwards in fierce arcs. “Are you afraid?” Slash. “Are you afraid?” Cut. “Are you afraid?”
He leapt, stabbed the sword into the wall. The tip of the blade sank an inch deep between the stones. Mortar crumbled. The hand guard jarred against his fist. Wincing, he dropped the weapon again.
Dill squeezed his stinging hand under his armpit, and folded to his knees beside the fallen sword. “Why are you afraid?” he asked himself.
Why was he afraid? Temple service was a privilege, an honour, Soul Warden a position of respect. Hadn’t his ancestors performed this duty? His father, Gaine? But they’d been Battle-archons, they’d trained with the Spine, flown far across the surrounding Deadsands on behalf of the temple. They’d warred against the Heshette and carved the will of Ulcis into heathen strongholds. While Dill himself…
Dill lifted the sword in both grubby hands.
Who am I? An angel who reads about the exploits of his ancestors in books, who stands on his balcony day after day watching the airships return from the river towns, the Coyle delta, the bandit settlements where Battle-archons once fought and died.
Places he would never see. Now churchships and warships ploughed the skies, and an angel’s place was here in Deepgate among the chains. While his father’s armour rusted in a locked storeroom deep in the heart of the temple, ivy had grown unchecked around Dill’s spire. Dust had thickened the old stained-glass windows. Now spiders lived among the jumble of rafters high above his cell, softened the wood with their cobwebs. Now damp crept up the stairwell and saturated the rooms below, all of them empty but for mould and snails.
Dill had been born too late .
But they’d still given him a sword. That meant something. Didn’t it?
A hammering at the door startled him. Dill scrambled to his feet, replaced the sword in its mount, then brushed soot stains deeper into his crumpled nightshirt and padded over to open the door.
Presbyter Sypes stood wheezing on the landing. A black cassock engulfed the old priest, and melted down the spiral stairwell behind him. Only his head and hands were visible: the head shaking like a bone loose in its socket; the hands grinding his walking stick into the stones. “Nine hundred and eleven steps,” he said. “I counted.”
For a moment Dill just stared at him. Then he stammered, “Your Grace, I didn’t expect…I mean, I thought…”
“No doubt,” the Presbyter growled. “I seem to have been climbing up here since breakfast.” He hobbled into the cell, dragging his robes, scowling. “So this is where all the temple candles get to. Place looks like the Sanctum itself. Your clothes”—he handed Dill a rumpled bundle tied with string—“but you’ll need to fold them again. I dropped them, twice.”
“Please, sit down, Your Grace.” Dill scraped a stool closer to the fire.
The Presbyter eyed the tiny stool. “A terminal manoeuvre, I suspect. My bones are still climbing steps. No, I’ll rest here by the window until they realize I’ve finally arrived.” He gathered the folds of his cassock and perched on the window ledge, folding his hands over the silver pommel of his walking stick.
“Well,” he said.
Dill fumbled with the bundle against his chest.
“I said, well?”
Dill hesitated. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said, lowering his eyes.
“Are you really?”
Dill nodded.
“Not nervous?”
Dill shook his head.
“Really?” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Good.”
A long moment of silence passed between them. Coals shifted in the fire. Dill glanced back up. His sword was still there, glinting in the candlelight.
“Callis’s own sword,” the Presbyter observed.
Dill gave the weapon another brief look. His head dropped even lower as he turned back.
The Presbyter’s gaze travelled round the cell, lingering on the cracked tiles, Dill’s stool, the candle-chest, snail-bucket, and sleeping mat. There was little else to snag anyone’s attention. His hands twisted on the top of the walking stick. “Well—”
“Thank you,” Dill interrupted, “for bringing my clothes.”
Presbyter Sypes coughed. “I was coming up anyway, on my way to the observatory. Thought I’d wish you luck for the big day.”
Dill’s cell wasn’t on the way to the observatory. It wasn’t on the way to anywhere.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Not nervous?”
“No.”
The Presbyter chewed his lips, struggling with something. Finally he said, “Been up on the roof again, have you?”
Dill flinched. “I…”
“Certain priests have nothing better to do than spy and snipe.” The Presbyter’s entire face wrinkled.