Soul Taken

Prelude

He stood in Mercy’s bedroom, in the heart of the home of his enemy.

He frowned a little. No, she wasn’t his enemy anymore. His ally, then. She had asked for his aid—something even his Mistress seldom did, untrustworthy servant that he was.

He had helped Mercy—maybe—and then she had, she had . . . done something to him. He wasn’t sure what to call that, either, because it had felt as though she had saved him until the effects wore off and he understood that she might have destroyed him instead. Hope was the most deadly of emotions.

He didn’t think she was his enemy. But certainly not his friend.

He held the silk fabric of his treasure carefully. It was very old now, though not as old as he was, and he seldom got it out of its protective box for fear of damaging it. He brought it to his nose and pretended that he could still smell the rich jasmine perfume she had worn to cover the scents that healthy human bodies used to carry in a time before daily—or even weekly—baths. He missed those scents; everything smelled weak and pallid to him now.

This frail cloth, a gift to the person he had once been, was his touchstone, a reminder that once he had been whole. Once there had been joy. He was taking a chance leaving this here, this last scrap of his soul. Mercy was unpredictable, and she brought chaos in her wake.

He brought the embroidered silk belt closer to his body at the thought of releasing it into chaos. But only for a moment. Because Mercy, unlike himself, did not harm the innocent. She would keep this bright and pretty thing safe, he thought with sudden relief at the truth of that, understanding, at last, the impulse that had moved him to bring the belt here.

He lay down upon Mercy’s bed, put his head on her mate’s pillow, and held the loops of the silk girdle against his cheek. He closed his eyes.

He was not a Christian, had never been that he could remember. But the ironic words of the child’s prayer came to him.

He laughed silently as tears rose in his eyes. His mouth moved without sound against the old silk belt, mouthing the words “Ardeo. Ardeo. Ardeo.”

I burn.