The Song of Glory and Ghost by N. D. Wilson

Author:N. D. Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-02-12T16:00:00+00:00

9

Glory Hallelujah

EL BUITRE STORMED OUT OF HEAVY DARKNESS INTO AN uneven ring of orange light cast by an iron lantern dangling from a swaying chain. It was the only light visible in any direction. His watches trailed behind and above him in two wings of three, and his right arm hung limp at his side. The sharp point of an arrow was sticking inches out of the back of his right shoulder.

Wincing, the Vulture reached up and pulled the lantern chain. Metal clattered above him and black iron stairs began to lower out of the darkness like a drawbridge while two more shapes entered the ring of light behind the Vulture.

Women. The first was Mrs. Dervish. Her long black skirt was twisted slightly, her blouse rumpled but still buttoned up all the way to her chin. Her cheeks were flushed and the bun on top of her head was fraying.

The second woman was a head taller than Mrs. Dervish, but half her thickness. She was wrapped like a mummy but with strips of shadow instead of cloth, which made her very little more than a shadow herself. But her long bare feet were visible. As were her long-fingered hands, her collarbones and throat, and her sharp jaw and thin parted lips and pointed nose. Yet a blindfold of shadow had been bound tight across her eyes and brow, creating a gulf of nothingness between the lower half of her face and her uneven nest of perfectly white hair.

As the iron stairs settled into place and the rattling of chains and gears drifted away across the unseen world, the Vulture looked back at the women.

“You lied,” he said. “Tiempo was there. I thought you said he was good as dead.”

“He was not there, William,” Mrs. Dervish said, her voice sounding like a teacher addressing a student she fears. “The priest’s work has begun to unravel on every side. You have seen it yourself. He is gone.”

“Don’t start.” The Vulture spat and raised a foot onto the bottom stair. “Shall I leave you out here with your guide? Miracle was waiting in ambush, sheltered in a faster time—a time much faster than any I have ever walked. He knew I was coming, Dervish, or do you not see this arrow in my flesh?” The Vulture began to climb, stomping his anger with each step. “Tiempo was there!” he shouted. “Or another with his powers. Tell me, which is worse?”

Mrs. Dervish moved toward the stairs, pulled up her skirt, and climbed them briskly.

“The girl,” she said. “His pupil, he gifted her with an hourglass of his making. That is all. She cannot—”

“A pupil! No consequence of his labors should exist! Tiempo and his line should be no more!” The Vulture vanished into upper darkness.

“William, wait! Maybe there’s—”

Mrs. Dervish vanished up the stairs after her master, along with her voice. At the bottom of the stairs, the woman swathed in shadow swayed in place and said nothing. The drawbridge stairs began to rise in front of her.

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