The Gathering Storm
Page 214

Alain stepped forward, unhooked the flask, and took out the stopper. Willibrod drank nothing stronger than vinegar, apparently, tinged with a scent so sharp it gave Alain a headache. He handed the flask to the other man. Even so, Willibrod could not hold it because he trembled so violently, and the flask tipped out of his hands and spilled onto the floorboards.
Gasping and choking, Willibrod cried out in pain as liquid pooled over the wood and began to soak in. He flung himself onto the floor and writhed there, licking it up like a frantic dog.
Alain dropped down beside him.
“Don’t touch me!” Willibrod jerked back from Alain’s hand only to slam into the bed’s wooden frame, but the impact had no effect on him.
“I pray you, Brother. Let me.” Alain salvaged the flask; perhaps a third of it had leaked out. The liquid stung his fingers and he winced at its touch.
Willibrod yanked the flask out of his hand and set it to his lips, gulping desperately while Alain hastily wiped his fingers on his leggings. The vinegar was raising blisters on his skin.
“What are you poisoning yourself with?” He blew on his hand, but blisters kept popping up where the liquid had burned him. Willibrod lowered the flask. His hands had stopped shaking, but his face was as ghastly as ever, his mouth caught in its eternal grimace. “The distillation of life,” he whispered, eyes lolling back like one drugged. “The souls of dying men. It makes a strong potion.” Had the pain of his affliction driven him insane? Yet the expression in his eyes had an awful clarity, the look of a man who knows he has done something so horrible that he can never atone for it.
“Kill me,” Willibrod begged hoarsely, voice barely audible.
The aroma of the vinegar and the putrid smell of sores and lesions stifled, as choking as smoke. Alain coughed, fighting for breath, and took a step closer to the other man just as a shudder passed through Willibrod’s frame, a palsy that made his body jerk and tremble. Alain bent to hold him down, but before he could touch him, Willibrod’s eyes shifted; the stark agony of his gaze dulled and his expression changed in the same manner that the sky changes color when a cloud covers the sun.
“Stand back!” The stink of his breath startled Alain badly—it was like the stench that rises off the battlefield, attracting carrion crows. It was the reek of decay and despair, yet he spoke like a triumphant general. “Do not touch me! Why have you come here?”
Outside, Rage barked twice, then fell silent.
Alain stepped backward to touch the entrance flap. “You are not Willibrod any longer.”
“Willibrod died in the attic under the care of the sisters of St. Benigna. Life did not leave him entirely, but he died nevertheless.” That death’s-head grin did not falter. “Now I am Father Benignus, taking my revenge on the world.”
“You are taking your revenge on folk who never did you any wrong. Folk who had nothing to do with the pain inflicted on you by Biscop Antonia and Lady Sabella. The evil done to you does not justify the evil you do to innocent others.”
“What makes you think I believe in right and wrong any longer? How did God reward my loyalty or the faithful service of my fellow clerics? Now I have power, and I will use it as the whim takes me. I do not serve either God or the Enemy. I serve only myself.” The potion had renewed him. He rose, looking vigorous and unexpectedly powerful, if no less hideous. “Are you with me, Brother Alain? Or do you prefer to die and let your soul feed mine?”
2
LIATH swept through the entrance and stopped short. It wasn’t only the run from Sorgatani’s wagon that made her heart race. What she saw made her tremble with anger and apprehension. The tent lay empty, its disarray evidence of the hasty departure of Sanglant and his retinue. He was gone, gone, gone. How could he be so stupid?
A bowllike lamp placed on a closed chest kindled with the force of her feelings. Flame sheeted the surface of the oil.
When she spoke, her voice shook. “He’ll have gone back to his army.”
“So we believe.” The shaman did not venture past the threshold, only ducked her head down to examine the interior. Behind her, the misty late night haze dissipated as dawn’s twilight lightened the sky.
“You saw him go?”
“I did not, but others did.”
“They didn’t stop him?”
The oil burned so fiercely that she reached with her mind’s eye and shuttered it as one might shutter a window. Just like that, the flames died. Smoke curled up, vanished, and left a faint scent. She crossed to look down into the lamp. That brief flare had scarcely affected the level of the oil in the shallow lamp bowl. In Sorgatani’s wagon, while searching for Hanna, an entire bowl of oil had been consumed. She had imagined innocently, foolishly, that the force of her seeing had eaten up the oil quickly but now she realized that she had drifted within that gateway for far longer than she had guessed. She had searched for Hanna all night while Sanglant gathered up his daughter and his servant and staggered back to those he trusted.