Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [133]
If Dartun’s order wouldn’t respond to her demands that he divulge any activities to do with raising the dead, then it would be tantamount to a declaration of war.
There hadn’t been strife between cultists for thousands of years, ever since the original disagreements that had spliced them into their separate orders.
Things were suddenly looking complicated.
She sighed. This was not like in her youth, all those years ago on Ysla. The cultists’ isle had been unlike any other island in the Archipelago in geological, botanical, or entomological terms. Its climate was warmer, for a start. But then it had been augmented so much by the various cultists inhabiting it using their relics that it no longer much resembled the island the original Dawnir had created. Lush green meadows, ridges of igneous rocks, crescents of beautiful white beaches, deciduous trees budding and shedding in rhythm with the artificial seasons. And those open blue skies always visible from the hilltops. All the cultist orders were entitled to have use of land there. Their different divisions possessed lodges scattered around, or gathered in village complexes, where their members were able to interpret relics in comparative solitude.
It now seemed a world away.
Her mind drifted back to Dartun, and then she made her decision. His tampering with the forces of life and death was simply wrong, and his reckless opening of doors to new worlds posed a risk to all these islands lying under the light of the red sun. Clearly, it was her responsibility to bring him to justice.
Through the dark alleyways, where the city’s snow-scrapers hadn’t yet ventured with their shovels, she marched with the letter she had resolutely composed. No lanterns around these parts of the city, but it was a clear evening, and the twin moons illuminated the treacherous snow clearly. Glowing paths stretched in front of her. Although not particularly late, there was no one else visible, few footprints. There were obviously better places to be than out in the cold. One hand was buried in her pocket, wrapped around her ultimatum. She had to present it in person, alone, but several steps behind her were other members of her order, armed with Sterkr relics. She was not quixotic about this business. She wanted some protection, but did not want her arrival to seem intimidating. Not yet.
Papus reached the inconspicuous entrance, knocked several times before a hatch slid back aside and a frosty welcome was muttered.
“I want to see Dartun Súr, as a matter of urgency,” she demanded.
“Not gonna happen without an invitation,” came the response.
“If you don’t let me see him urgently, it will mean a massive rift between our orders,” she said, and slipped the missive through the bars.
“Hang on,” the voice murmured, then whoever was behind the door was no longer there. Papus waited in the cold, reflecting that Dartun was probably on some far-off island as Verain had suggested.
Eventually, the door opened, and one of the Equinox stood facing her.
“He’s not here,” he said, her letter visible in his hands.
“Where is he then?”
In the poor light of the doorway she barely perceived his shrug.
“I want some bloody answers. Maybe you can help me instead.”
“Listen, lady, I don’t know what you’re after. I told you, I’ll give him your message when he returns.”
“You’re not following,” Papus snapped, discreetly dropping a relic from her sleeve into her hand. “I’m not going anywhere until someone senior from your order talks to me.”
“I just told you …” he began menacingly.
Papus thrust the relic toward him, a bolt of purple light crackling around his body, an electrifying net.
His mouth opened wide, displaying a scream, but no sound came out. After a moment he collapsed onto the floor in soundless agony.
The letter of warning