Kill the Dead, Tanith Lee [a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT] 📗

of travelling, what I might find.”

“Didn’tsound like it.”

“No.”

“So what will you do?”

“Let it finish dying on its own.It already practically has.”

“That doesn’t sound like aghost-killer talking.”

“It isn’t, anymore.”

Myalwent cold. He was not sure why. He stared at Dro, and now Dro smiled and lookedaway.

“Soyou needn’t worry about the only real ghost left here. I mean Ciddey,” saidDro. “I’m afraid her sister didn’t escape my vengeful headlong zeal. Which ismaybe just as well. But Ciddey... she can be your problem.”

“Thankyou.You said she’d feed off me.”

“Maybeshe won’t. I’ve realised something. It doesn’t always happen that way, or notpermanently. She’s already manifested out of your vicinity, in Cinnabar’svillage street. When Ciddey’s strong enough, she may always be able to maintainherself, without—” Dro broke off.

“This isn’t you talking,” Myalsaid.

Drostood up again and walked off. Myal got up and followed. Halfway back along thenatural brick dancing floor, Dro turned.

“Why don’t you go and write yourdamned song?”

“Or, put it another way, get lost.”

“What a talent you’re developingfor words, Myal Lemyal.”

“It’s being with you,” Myalsnapped back. “It rubs off. I’ll start limping next.”

“Allright,” said Dro. “I’ve seen you physically housed. I’ve told you you can getback into your body. I’ve explained Tulotef. What else do you want?”

“Youthink explainingis enough? Tellingis enough? I want some proof.”

“Whatproof?”

“Waittill nightfall. Then meet me in the town. Just as you are, without any bloodytrance like the one your redhead dumped me in without a may I or a shall I. Fleshand blood, a reformed ghost-killer. In Ghyste Mortua after sunset. Safe.”

Something ran over Parl Dro’sface.

“I decline.”

“You’re afraid.”

“Yes. Probably. But not of whatyou think.”

“I’mnot thinking. My mind’s a blank.”

Drosaid nothing, not even the inevitable retort.

“Aftersunset,” Myal repeated. He struck a pose, and did not feel foolish doing so.“If I’m still there,” he announced, “I’ve got a feeling you have to be.”

“Yourmagnetic personality,” said Dro. He was recovering.

“Notquite. But it occurs to me you either come after me or leave me enough help sothat I can follow you, one way or another.”

“Whichmust mean I need you for something.”

“Right.”

“Iwonder what it could possibly be.”

“Cinnabarknew.”

“Cinnabarprobably supposed you were my fancy boy.”

Myaltook half a step back.

“AndI suppose that’s what you think it is, too.”

“Whatis?”

“Thefact that I—I’m drawn—that I—” Myal blushed, and very painfully. He turned,scooped up another flint and hurled it at the hill of Tulotef where once theflints had crashed on uplifted faces in a deadly rain. His body lay in a hoveleight miles away, yet the astral body could still burn with embarrassment. Orseem to, feel as if it did. “I’ll see you up there in the town after sunset,”said Myal. He strode away toward the hill, leaving Dro standing still as ifossifying along with the lake, the land, the bones of the fish.

A fewminutes after the sun had submerged, carelessly smudging the horizon, CiddeySoban found herself lying in a great bed, under a raven-wing canopy, alone.

Thesmoke-pink shades of sunfall made no impression on the room. Dusk wasidentified by a solidifying of furnishings, walls, thoughts. Ciddey sat up inthe tomb-cold sheets, and understood that Myal, who had been with her a momentago—before the brief blending of day had interrupted them—was gone. And notonly gone. The paranoia of her condition instantly overwhelmed her with theapprehension of bad news.

ParlDro was in Tulotef, and Myal had gone to meet him.

Myalwas Dro’s accomplice. Apprentice, maybe.

Andshe, lonely and lowering herself, wrapped in the warm arms of Myal, hadbetrayed herself to him. She had felt a sinister joy as she told him. But shehad been unwise.

Stupidto think the dead were a fraternity. Myal would be loyal to his master, Dro.Even in death, Myal would stand beside Dro, against her.

Ciddeybeheld her sister’s lovely childish face floating bloated in water. That waswhy Ciddey kept dreaming she herself was dead. Identifying herself with Cilny.Foolish. Ciddey was not dead. The well, the stream—no, she was alive. It wasMyal who was dead. Myal who had made her come with him to this strange town.

Theday had gone so quickly. Why could she not remember it?

Somewhere,music played on the streets, and bells began tenderly to gild the darkness. Adrop of blanched almond yellow hung in the window, slid away, was replaced byanother. Ciddey recalled the procession in which the town’s duke, or earl,would be riding.

Defencelessand alone, and well-born, she must appeal to him for protection. The murderercould not touch her then. Indeed, she might ask for vengeance. Dro had killedher sister. Yes, she had pursued him to exact payment for that. And now shewould. She must.

Sheflung herself from the bed and ran through the closed door, not noticing, anddown the curiously deserted stairs of the inn, on to the black-lit streets.

CHAPTERTWELVE

Theprocession blew down the wide street. The lamps and candles hung from it likepale fruits, but it came like a long wave of sombre weather, a dark wind. Thepriesthood wore dull crimson habits and dull gold cowls, tarnished as if underwater. Censers smoked and imparted an oily fragrance. Boys in livid white sangin high voices above the bells. A carriage passed behind funeral horses withstained-glass eyes, then another, and another. The earl or duke rode amongarmed mailed men. A greenish storm of cloaks swirled about them.

Wherethe wide street led into another a flight of broad stairs came down from anupper thoroughfare. Ciddey stood on the stairs, holding herself upright,waiting.

Asthe priests and the carriages unfurled, she tossed away her hair, combing itwith her fingers. When she saw the mailed men, she searched their ranks,looking for her assailants of the previous night. But she found it hard, nearlyimpossible to recall their individual appearances. Within the processionalcrowd every face looked blurred. Even the face of the duke-earl, riding in hisrich regalia among his men. He was expressionless, his features like oldembroidery in a faded tapestry.

Nevertheless:“My lord!” Ciddey cried out, raising her small fists. “I beg your mercy! Mylord, hear me!”

Andthen, in a terrible series of moments, she became aware the procession wasunhaltable, that she was to be ignored. She felt both panic and bruised ego.She uttered a scream of frustration and flung herself off the stair against thenearest horse.

Fora second,