cavernous darkness of the nave as Seisyll Arilan and Michon de Courcy made their way silently back to the mouth of the stairwell that led to the royal crypts. There, while Michon kept watch, Seisyll used his powers to shift the tumblers in the lock that secured the gate to the stair, stilling any sound it might have made as they swung it open far enough to slip through.
Quickly they ghosted down the worn steps, their way now dimly lit by the faint violet glow of handfire that Seisyll conjured for that purpose. He kept it small, and shielded it with his hands as best he could, for brass grilles pierced the ceiling of the crypt to admit air and light from the nave above—and would also betray their presence, if anyone entered the nave and noticed light from below. But some light they must have to make their way among the tombs to where Sief’s coffin lay.
Threading their way between the tombs of generations of dead Haldanes, they came at last to the side vault where Sief’s coffin awaited proper interment. Here were no ceiling grilles to betray them, but the scent of the wilting floral tributes was strong, and Seisyll found himself stifling a sneeze as he and Michon eased to either side of the coffin. He was already pulling a pry bar from his belt as Michon began moving the flowers to one side. They had known the coffin was sealed, so they had come prepared.
You can put a damping spell on this, while I pry? Seisyll asked, as Michon laid his hands flat on the coffin’s polished top.
Give me a moment, came Michon’s reply.
The pale eyes closed. A slowly released breath triggered a working trance. Soon a faint, silvery shimmer began to crawl outward from Michon’s hands, gradually covering the lid of the coffin and then spilling down the sides. After another slow-drawn breath, Michon opened his eyes, moving his hands apart but still touching the coffin lid. At his nod, eyes vaguely unfocused, Seisyll applied his pry bar and began to work the nails out of the oak.
There was no sound save Seisyll’s increasingly labored breathing as he prised each nail free. Michon collected them as they were removed, dreamily laying them beside the flowers on a nearby tomb-slab, keeping the muffling spell intact until the coffin lid moved under their hands.
Together, he and Seisyll slid the lid partway toward the foot of the coffin, exposing the shrouded body nearly to the waist. The waxed linen of the cerecloth had molded itself to the dead man’s profile, and retained something of its outline as Michon reverently peeled it aside. A whiff of beginning corruption joined the stink of wilting flowers and the dank tomb-scent of the vault, and Seisyll drew back a little in distaste.
You’re welcome to go first, he whispered in Michon’s mind.
Michon merely gazed on the dead man’s face, obviously still deep in trance. In repose, Sief’s features were sunken and yellowed, bearing little resemblance to his appearance in life, but Michon’s touch to the dead man’s forehead was gentle. Again his pale eyes closed.
For a long moment, only the gentle whisper of their breathing stirred the silence of the tomb—until a little gasp escaped Michon’s lips.
“Jesu!” came his breathy exclamation, quickly stifled.
What is it?
Read with me on this, Seisyll, Michon ordered, shifting back into mindspeech. There isn’t a great deal left, but I’m not liking what little I’m seeing.
Without comment, Seisyll put his repugnance aside and laid his fingertips beside Michon’s on the dead man’s forehead, extending his Deryni senses for a deep reading. His first impulse was to recoil, for Sief had been dead for several days, and physical decay had left little in the way of a matrix to hold his memories to any coherence. But he mastered his distaste and made himself delve deeper, following the pathways already broached by Michon’s probe—and began touching on fragments of memory that he liked no better than Michon had done.
For images
Quickly they ghosted down the worn steps, their way now dimly lit by the faint violet glow of handfire that Seisyll conjured for that purpose. He kept it small, and shielded it with his hands as best he could, for brass grilles pierced the ceiling of the crypt to admit air and light from the nave above—and would also betray their presence, if anyone entered the nave and noticed light from below. But some light they must have to make their way among the tombs to where Sief’s coffin lay.
Threading their way between the tombs of generations of dead Haldanes, they came at last to the side vault where Sief’s coffin awaited proper interment. Here were no ceiling grilles to betray them, but the scent of the wilting floral tributes was strong, and Seisyll found himself stifling a sneeze as he and Michon eased to either side of the coffin. He was already pulling a pry bar from his belt as Michon began moving the flowers to one side. They had known the coffin was sealed, so they had come prepared.
You can put a damping spell on this, while I pry? Seisyll asked, as Michon laid his hands flat on the coffin’s polished top.
Give me a moment, came Michon’s reply.
The pale eyes closed. A slowly released breath triggered a working trance. Soon a faint, silvery shimmer began to crawl outward from Michon’s hands, gradually covering the lid of the coffin and then spilling down the sides. After another slow-drawn breath, Michon opened his eyes, moving his hands apart but still touching the coffin lid. At his nod, eyes vaguely unfocused, Seisyll applied his pry bar and began to work the nails out of the oak.
There was no sound save Seisyll’s increasingly labored breathing as he prised each nail free. Michon collected them as they were removed, dreamily laying them beside the flowers on a nearby tomb-slab, keeping the muffling spell intact until the coffin lid moved under their hands.
Together, he and Seisyll slid the lid partway toward the foot of the coffin, exposing the shrouded body nearly to the waist. The waxed linen of the cerecloth had molded itself to the dead man’s profile, and retained something of its outline as Michon reverently peeled it aside. A whiff of beginning corruption joined the stink of wilting flowers and the dank tomb-scent of the vault, and Seisyll drew back a little in distaste.
You’re welcome to go first, he whispered in Michon’s mind.
Michon merely gazed on the dead man’s face, obviously still deep in trance. In repose, Sief’s features were sunken and yellowed, bearing little resemblance to his appearance in life, but Michon’s touch to the dead man’s forehead was gentle. Again his pale eyes closed.
For a long moment, only the gentle whisper of their breathing stirred the silence of the tomb—until a little gasp escaped Michon’s lips.
“Jesu!” came his breathy exclamation, quickly stifled.
What is it?
Read with me on this, Seisyll, Michon ordered, shifting back into mindspeech. There isn’t a great deal left, but I’m not liking what little I’m seeing.
Without comment, Seisyll put his repugnance aside and laid his fingertips beside Michon’s on the dead man’s forehead, extending his Deryni senses for a deep reading. His first impulse was to recoil, for Sief had been dead for several days, and physical decay had left little in the way of a matrix to hold his memories to any coherence. But he mastered his distaste and made himself delve deeper, following the pathways already broached by Michon’s probe—and began touching on fragments of memory that he liked no better than Michon had done.
For images
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