Page 125 of The Simurgh

‘Her? Who?’

The raven pierced through the silvery curtain of pounding rain, a bedraggled creature who was struggling to stay airborne with the weight of rain upon it. It was small too, barely bigger than a dove. Clearly there were trees nearby because the raven settled upon a perch that was nearly level with Silas’s head. Which made Pitch all manner of uneasy. But he waited. For though Silas was clearly tense, he was not panicked nor insisting stupid things like for Pitch to stay behind him or do nothing while a fucking giant pummelled him.

The raven cawed. And what a pathetic song that was. Its voice broke in all the wrong places, as though it was newly hatched and had no idea how to make a sound.

‘You are not going to like this, my dear,’ Silas said, as the rain extinguished itself upon the flame umbrella.

‘Which fucking part? I’m not keen on much of this day, I have to admit.’

Silas stared at the raven that had fallen silent. Its eyes were the milky white of disease. ‘Lucifer has killed the Archangel.’

Pitch drew in his breath. ‘And the simurgh?’ Though he knew part of the answer already. The simurgh had not met its demise. The certainty was a warm tendril in that wide-open space in Pitch’s innards.

‘He has taken it, but I believe it lives. And this rain, it is his doing somehow. Heisending things here, as Arcadia commanded.’

‘The bird is telling you this?’

Silas pulled from the raven to look down at Pitch, and there was something there in his eyes, something…sorrowful? Or sorry. ‘Macha is telling me, yes.’

Pitch edged back. ‘You said she died.’

‘She did.’ He watched Pitch carefully, and all too gently. ‘But she was a powerful necromancer…and she was not yet done with this life.’

‘Or you.’

‘Or me. I have to listen, Pitch. This time I have to listen. Lucifer may try to destroy this place, but he cannot destroy death, nor one of her goddesses.’ Silas’s laughter was high, tinged with mania. ‘Christ, they have learned nothing since Blood Lake. Secrets cannot just be buried, nor drowned.’

‘Speak plainly,’ Pitch said.

‘The Sluagh Macha told us of…she was tasked with gathering the souls needed for its creation. We knew that much, but now I see the why of it. A Sluagh, it is…’ He frowned, searching for the words, then spoke rapidly. ‘A gathering of very particular souls, those of the unforgiven, the hateful, the murderous, and the cruel. Taint such misery with the Blight, and the goddess has an immensely-powerful vessel.’ The ankou was alight with a fire Pitch had never seen burning in him.

‘A vessel? For what end?’

‘A foothold in this world, one she’s been denied since Samyaza fell on the Day of Ruination. Pitch, the Sluagh will enable Morrigan to rise again, perhaps over-power Izanami.’ He shook his head, sending sprays of water flying. ‘And whatever Lucifer may have planned for this place, it will simply become a tomb for the Sluagh. One they shall rise from, whether it be a year, or a thousand years from now. Just as it is for me.’

Pitch cursed, though he’d worn them all down to the bone. ‘Are you sure, Silas? You believe all this bitch is squawking at you?’

How many damned crossroads had they stood at in the past couple of hours? Having to choose between one calamity or the other.

‘Yes.’ Silas seemed so large in that moment, like parts of him were out in the rain because Pitch’s shelter could not stretch wide enough. ‘She is in death’s hands now, so I see her truth. And I feel it.’

They stood in silence, beneath fire and the chaotic hiss of the downpour. A flood. This would become a fucking flood. Either Silas was too preoccupied, or that dunking in the pond at the countryside estate had worked miracles, but he was not yet panicked by the prospect of drowning.

Pitch would ensure that panic never rose.

When Silas opened his mouth to speak, he pressed a finger to his lips.

‘I don’t doubt you, or your conviction. Now don’t waste your time telling me to go after Lucifer and the simurgh. We leave here together, or we do not leave at all.’ Silas nodded against his finger. ‘Tell the dead witch to lead us on, and make sure she keeps her fucking lice to herself.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

SILAS KEPThis eye upon the raven, just one shadowy shape amongst many others in the drenched landscape. The downpour was incredible, a clamouring atop his head and shoulders that wore him down with each step. Even his beard felt made of mortar, pulling at his skin.

Pitch had extinguished their covering of flame. It had made it impossible to see which direction the raven flew, and Macha had come in too close once, singing her wings so badly Silas feared she’d not be able to fly at all. He’d seen the murderous glare the daemon had sent the raven’s way when the steam settled and they were once again pounded by the elements.

‘One feather out of place, and you are gone.’ He’d told the soul of the sorcerer.

The water was rising. That was plain to see, now shin-deep for Silas and licking at Pitch’s knees. He held fast to the prince’s hand, fearful that simply moving one step further apart would render them invisible to each other, such was the thickness of the cold rain. The water had found its way through the measly layer of Silas’s coat, and sought to get beneath his skin too, making him rife with painful gooseflesh.