Page 84 of The Simurgh

‘I need it to be with you. Keep it, until we are free of this land.’

A tickling irritated Pitch’s skin beneath the bandalore, followed by the crawl of something against his palm. He wrinkled his nose.

‘I don’t think it wants to stay.’

Silas kissed his forehead. ‘The scythe wants what I want, and that is to stay with you.’ He pulled his hand away.

There was no sign of wood or string . Instead, Pitch now wore a ring. Identical to the one Silas had, and upon the same middle finger, as though a strange matrimony had taken place.

The ring was plain, no etchings, no gemstones, and when he tilted his hand this way and that the metal was dull. Another time Pitch might have mocked the simplicity, scoffed at the lack of dazzling precious stones, but now he thought it the most precious thing he’d ever been given.

‘This is quite the gift.’ He spoke so quietly he could barely hear himself.

‘And you are quite the recipient.’ Silas tucked a strand of Pitch’s stiffened hair behind his ear. He seemed set to say more, his lips parting, when his gaze suddenly darted over Pitch’s shoulder. ‘Shit.’ In one quick move he placed himself in front of Pitch. ‘I thought her too close to death to concern us.’ The scythe had shifted from ring to broadsword before Pitch took a step to his side.

Macha was sitting up, swaying, bracing herself on a great chunk of amethyst, a piece of the shattered wall. Her lids were heavy, and there was a crooked smile pushing up blood soaked cheeks. She sat in a sea of ash and remnants, mixed into a horrid slurry as she bled into it.

Silas raised the sword, stepping forward. And Pitch reached for him, grabbed his coat sleeve. The ankou gave him a quizzical look, but Pitch shared his confusion. What the blazes was he doing? Surely he wished Macha dead? He’d just brought down her entire, odd little family, it was likely more cruel to allow her to live. Certainly more dangerous.

But he could not stop Iblis’s words echoing in his head. His talk of the three children of Azazel having to choose between death at the hands of the Order, or the haven Iblis made for them in the UnSeelie Court.

‘Don’t worry, master. You are not discovered here yet.’ Macha gazed up at Silas, utterly unafraid. She looked so terribly young, the peeling away of the feathered mask had somehow caused the child within to emerge.

‘What do you mean?’ Silas’s sword lowered a few inches.

She touched a finger to her temple, which was covered in blood. ‘There are one or two who are true to me, only one or two, but that is enough for us here.’

‘One or two what?’ Pitch glanced about the empty chamber, where the only thing of note was the hole in the wall. There was no sign of a door, just as Silas had said. Nor a section of wall that might shift, no sign at all of where those who’d filled the chamber earlier might have entered and exited.

Macha giggled, as she’d done when they all began to die. ‘Souls, silly daemon. Not all my ravens were stolen by Her, she left the weakest with me.’

Silas lowered the sword entirely. His gaze was fixed on the sorcerer.

‘What is it, Silas?’

‘Her melody is different to what I recall.’

‘Is she not dying? That may account for it.’

The ankou shook his head, flecks of mud leaving the strands. ‘No, it is more than that, there is a lightness there now I cannot place. Necromancer, who stole your ravens? Speak quickly now, I have no patience for delay.’

The ankou had a resonance in his voice now, a strength he’d not had when Pitch lost him in Sherwood Forest.

But Macha did not seem so awed as Pitch. She sighed, clutching her hands to her chest. Dark grains trickled between her fingers, handfuls of ash escaping her hold. Raining back down to join the larger spill around her.

‘Silas,’ Pitch warned. ‘That is not any ash, it is –’

‘Her kin. I know. Macha, tell me who stole your ravens, or I shall –’

‘She did.’ Macha winced, dragging herself a little higher so she could bow at the waist. ‘The goddess who shouts at me. Always shouting, even though I tried so very hard. I tried, I truly did, but she still took them from me. And they don’t like her, not a bit. The souls hate her even more than they hated me, Master Death.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Can you imagine that?’

‘You are speaking of the goddess Morrigan?’

‘You are so smart. Handsome and so smart. And I knew after the Fulbourn that I had the wrong master.’

Silas glanced at Pitch, who shrugged. ‘Her mind has gone, it was not strong to begin with.’

Silas edged closer to the sorcerer and Pitch went with him, not about to allow any distance between them in the foreseeable future.