The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(144)

"I do not think that could happen here," Mal said. "We have a God in Heaven, and do not worship men."

"Perhaps not. But to rule in secret, that is wrong."

"They seek to rule us?"

"They think you will take our lands, and those of our friends."

Mal nodded. "They are probably right."

"They are very afraid of you, and will break our oldest laws to protect our land."

"How do we stop them?"

"I do not know," Kiiren said.

"What about Sandy? He was lucid for a while, down in the cellar, better than I had seen him in years, and yet now…"

"That was Jathekkil's doing."

"How? Why?"

"Your brother was kept in irons for long time, yes? This hurt Erishen, made your brother soul-sick. Freeing him, your brother suffered for short while but then recovered."

"But–"

"Touch of iron sends Erishen back into depths of mind. Sandy is sane. But this cannot last. Kept like this –" he gestured to the supine figure "– he will soon be unwell as before."

"But you can make him whole again," Mal said. "Can't you?"

Kiiren shook his head. "Can you mend cup that is smashed to pieces? Ship that founders on rocks?"

"Then you can drive Erishen out, so he may be reborn."

"There is only one way to make it happen. Body must die, as Jathekkil tried with you."

"No. There must be something–"

"There is not. For either of you."

Mal shuddered. "You're saying Suffolk – Jathekkil – was telling the truth? That I have part of Erishen's soul?"

"Did I not tell you you are touched by Erishen?" Kiiren placed two shakholaat cups side by side. "If I pour into one of these, and my aim is not true, will not some fall into second? So it was with Erishen."

"Get it out of me."

"I cannot. Do you not listen to what I say?"

"I don't believe you. You're just saying all this because you want to keep Sandy to yourself."

Kiiren hesitated, looked at Sandy, then back at Mal.

"No. You may have him, if that is your desire. Take him. Go."

"You mean that?"

"Do not ask second time."

Mal stared at his brother. "But… he is not cured."

"There is no 'cure'," Kiiren said wearily. "If he goes with you and wears iron, he remains as he was. If he stays… He will be Erishen."

"So I lose him either way."

Mal rubbed a hand across his face. Was this not what he had wanted all these years, what he had prayed for? An end to the fits, the ravings, the silences? But at what price? He looked once more at his brother's face, serene and so like his own.

"Do it," he said. "I will not see him suffer any longer."

Kiiren inclined his head, mumbling thanks in a garbled mixture of English and Vinlandic.

"Enough," Mal said. "I have to go, before I change my mind."

He got to his feet, pulled on his boots and walked out of the camp without looking back. Night was falling fast. He had better get back before curfew. But back where? Not the Faulkners' house. Gabriel had moved in with Ned, and Mal was not about to intrude on them.

Walsingham's money lay heavy in his pocket. Thirty pieces of silver. He had to wrap his arms about his chest to stop himself from throwing the purse in the river. As he approached the bridge at the near end of St Olave's Street, a slight, fairhaired figure jumped down from the railing. Hendricks. Her grin faded as she realised he was alone.

"Sir?"

He shook his head, and they walked into Southwark together, the darkness gathering around them like a cloak. He glanced at her profile as they walked, recalling that first day in Paris Gardens.

"What of your friends?" he asked, more to take his mind off Sandy than out of real interest.

She told him about Parrish and Eaton, and the disbanding of Suffolk's Men.

"And you?"

"With my master gone, I have no other employ."

He laughed bitterly. "That makes two of us. Unless you count Walsingham, and he has not charged me with any duties. Yet."

It was not quite the truth, but he was too weary to explain. Perhaps tomorrow. After he had drunk himself into oblivion, and sobered up again.

"You're going to work for Walsingham?" she asked.

"I need something to occupy my days. And I must confess that ciphers are intriguing."

"I could help," she said, glancing up at him shyly.

"You?"

"Why not? Did we not work well together?"

He stopped, and drew her aside into an alley, where none could see.

"It is too dangerous for a woman," he said softly.

"Then you do think of me as a woman."

In the gloom he could barely make out the pale blur of her features, but he could hear the smile in her voice. By way of a reply, he put his arms around her and bent to kiss her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and rose on tiptoe; at the pressure he let out an involuntary hiss of pain. Muttering an apology she transferred her hands to his waist. Her lips burned against his, and he drank from them like a man parched. Or frozen.