He couldn’t stop shaking.
The water coming from the tap was warm on Rambolt Eells’ hands. He’d wanted it to be cold, to be refreshing and cleansing. But it was warm, and faintly brown with rust. Fetid and thick, and probably running straight from the sewers. He scrubbed his red hands again and again, trying to remove the stains from his trembling fingers. Dirt. Grime. Raw sewage spilling over his hands. The water is disgusting. Just like everything else in this damn city.
The red wasn’t coming off of his skin. He yanked the knob on the sink and shut off the flow of dirty water. He clutched the edges of the sink and breathed deep. Stop shaking, you coward.
His reflection in the bathroom mirror surprised him. The X-shaped mark on his face still burned and swelled, the raw skin almost pulsating. It had seared away the hair on either side of his head, just above the temples, giving him a permanent widow’s peak. A surge of stinging pain shot across his flesh every time he blinked. He reached a hand up, tenderly, to touch the soon-to-be scar, and once again found himself shaking as his red-stained fingers came into his vision.
“Literal blood on your hands, I see,” cam a voice from his left.
He spun towards the open window in the bathroom. Dusk had settled, the sun revealing itself as a thin red line below the clouds that still poured acid rain. The gabled roofs of Celedin were silhouetted by the glowing horizon, tracing a jagged line along the sky. The floor in front of the window was wet from rain—he always kept the windows in his room open. How else was he to hear the troubled shrieks of the city?
On the sill perched a rot crow. Its black feathers were matted with the filth, a product of living in the skies of Celedin. Its beak was scratched and misshapen, and sagging growths sprouted from its neck and torso. Dark liquid dripped from its feathers and beak, which Eells knew could be either the same water that came from his tap or blood from a corpse that was stuck in the drains in the street below.
The rot crow spoke without moving its beak. “Do you think this time it will stay there?”
Eells turned back to the mirror. “I’ve not the patience or the time for you, Silas.”
“Come now,” the rot crow said. “It’s been years since we’ve spoken. Surely you’ve something to say to me.”
“Nothing,” Eells said.
The bird cocked its head. “Not surprised to see me?”
Eells turned the faucet back on and ran his hands under the warm water.
“No, I suppose you’re not,” the rot crow said. “Not after what you did outside the Council’s tower. You knew I would come. Tell me, did they reprimand you at all? Did anyone say anything? Or did you just stride back to the abbey, climb those stairs, and lock yourself in your bathroom to contemplate the horrors you’ve committed?”
“Horrors,” Eells said. “I’ve done no injustice.”
“Tell that to the dead men you left in Rilani Plaza.”
“They were not worthy of their lives,” Eells said. “They were wastrels, blasphemers. The Aether coursed through them like it was their blood.”
“Did it now?”
“I’ve done the Real a kindness, clearing those rats from the streets.” Eells turned to the window. “I am no longer a mere man, Silas. Can you not see my face? The mark left by the Council?”
The rot crow preened itself. “All I see is the scarred face of a madman.”
“This,” Eells said, touching his tender skin, “shows that I am more than other men. I have ascended. I can do it now, Silas. I can cleanse this world, like I’ve always intended to.”
Silas cawed once, a guttural, high-pitched sound. “Is that your plan, then? To kill everyone? That’s how you’re going to cleanse everything?”
Eells shook his head. “It is not as simple as that. Man is a diseased rat. They bring plague upon the Real. But I am not mad. I know that I cannot eradicate all the rats that scurry through alleys and mortar walls. That is impossible. But what I can do, Silas, is burn away the plague. The Aether is the disease that the rats transmit. I need only kill the carriers. The presence of the Aether will die without its hosts.”
“You’re mad.”
“I am not mad.”
“Then why am I here?” Silas said.
Eells bared his teeth. “Why are you here, Silas? What guilt do you seek to feed off of? I feel no remorse for my actions today.”
“Did you feel no guilt over Wesh Armitage?”
Eells blinked and took a step back.
“Was he not worthy of his life?” Silas said.
“How dare you?” Eells said.
The rot crow cawed three times, quickly, almost like laughter. “How dare I? You’re the one who killed him.”
“Armitage gave his life trying to find the source of the Schism. We were partners.”
“And then you shot him in the heart. I was there. In fact, I believe that was the last time you and I talked, was it not?”
“It was the last time you haunted me,” Eells said. “Which doesn’t explain why you’re here now. What have you come for, you wretched thing?”
“That’s no way to talk to your brother,” Silas said. “After everything I’ve done for you.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Eells said. He shut off the water again and wiped his hands. A faint brown stripe was left on the towel that hung by the sink. “I have a mission. I have a higher calling.”
“That’s right,” Silas said. “I heard about that. You’re hunting the source of another Schism. Do you think you’ll kill any more innocents this time around?”
“Begone,” Eells said. “You’re not wanted here, Silas.”
“You’re breaking my poor heart,” Silas said.
“I didn’t cry for you when you died.” Eells grabbed his long coat off the hanger and threw it over his shoulder. He turned the knob on the door. “I won’t cry for you now.”
“I wouldn’t go that way,” Silas said. Eells paused and looked at the bird.
“There’s constables in the great hall,” Silas said. “They’re looking for you.”
“What?” Eells said. He felt both fear and fury rising in his stomach. They wouldn’t have the audacity to come for him, would they? “I’ve done nothing that wasn’t within my right as Bereaver.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Silas said. “But there’s still two dead men outside the Council tower. They still want to question you. Learn the circumstances behind their deaths. Write accounts for their grieving widows and fatherless sons.”
Eells said nothing. He felt his face stinging.
“Besides,” Silas said. “You’ll want to get moving towards the epicenter of the Schism if you want to catch her.”
“Her?” Eells said.
The rot crow spread its filthy wings and cawed once before flying out into the night sky.
“Silas!” Eells bolted to the window and clawed out into the rain, trying to catch the bird by its feet. “Silas, you bastard, what do you mean ‘her’?”
But it was too late. The rot crow disappeared into the downpour. The sun was gone now, and the rooftops were lost in the drowning haze of steamy rain. The water was cool on Eells’ face. He breathed hard, frantically searching the roofs and the clouds for any sign of the rot crow. In the silence he heard voices behind him, followed quickly by a pounding on the door of his room. The voices called his name. They shouted questions. They sought answers.
Eells looked out into the desolate, reeking streets. His rapier was at his hip. He had his coat, and he had his mark.
“Her.”
Something about that simple world told him that Silas was right. The source of the Schism wasn’t an event, but a person. A woman. The rending of the fabric between dimensions was caused by a woman. A woman who was here. In his city. She was the source of the unholy energy of the Aether. She was the carrier of the plague. Eells ignored the calls and pounding behind him and stepped onto the windowsill. The street was only eight stories below.
She wouldn’t wait. He had to find her, before he lost her again.
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