Death Bringer. Derek Landy

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СКАЧАТЬ into the High Priest’s office with his head bowed.

      “Late again, Cleric?” said Auron Tenebrae, High Priest of the Order, Patriarch of this Temple and a man with a gaze so withering the sun itself dared not show its face when he was in one of his moods. Or so the legend went. “This is the third time this week. If our little meetings are too much of an imposition for you, please let it be known and we will surely reschedule around your most arbitrary of whims.”

      Craven bowed again. “My deepest apologies, Your Eminence. I have no excuse for my tardiness, other than I work without cease for the good of the Order.”

      “And I’m sure we appreciate it,” Tenebrae said, already sounding bored.

      Craven bowed so low his back hurt. He hated the High Priest, hated the distaste that flowed from him daily. A constant stream of snide remarks over the years, collecting in a vast reservoir inside Craven’s mind that he was never going to forget, and was certainly never going to forgive. No matter the flattery he offered, the compliments, the fawning, all he got in return was this river of barely concealed contempt. The worst of it was that Tenebrae made no effort to confine this contempt to moments when they were alone. Standing at the High Priest’s shoulder was Nathanial Quiver, Cleric First Class of the Necromancer Order, stringent Keeper of the Law and a man who seemingly possessed no facial muscles that would enable him to smile. Any such muscles, Quiver probably thought, would be put to better use on a good frown.

      “Cleric Wreath,” Tenebrae said, “you may continue.”

      And the last of Craven’s supposed peers, the last to witness this constant belittling – Solomon Wreath. Cleric First Class of the Necromancer Order, infamous Field Operative and notorious trouble-maker, standing there in his tailor-made black suit while the rest of them wore proper Necromancer robes.

      Craven had a special place of hatred reserved for Solomon Wreath, down deep in his heart.

      “I believe Valkyrie is about to make a breakthrough,” Wreath said, and Craven’s eyes widened in alarm. “She’s becoming more proficient at Necromancy with every lesson. She’s taking giant steps now, progressing faster and faster. If she continues like this, I’m confident that she will choose Necromancy over Elemental magic when it’s time for the Surge.”

      “I see,” said Tenebrae. “And how has Pleasant reacted to this?”

      Wreath allowed himself a smile. “They’ve argued about it enough, so he’s not saying anything for the moment. He trusts her to find her own way, and so do I. It’s just that I think her way will be our way.”

      “And you think she’s safe out there, with Lord Vile on the loose?”

      Wreath hesitated. “I think she’s as safe with Skulduggery Pleasant as she’d be anywhere. Besides, Vile hasn’t been seen since he attacked Pleasant in the Sanctuary. He may well have vowed to kill the Death Bringer, but for all we know, he won’t be returning.”

      Craven coughed lightly, and waited till they were looking at him. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I fail to see how any of this is a noteworthy development. We do not all believe that Valkyrie Cain will be the Death Bringer, Cleric Wreath. Some of us, in this room, believe she’s just another unexceptional girl.”

      “Unexceptional?” Wreath echoed. “This girl is but a few months away from her seventeenth birthday and already she has saved the world and killed a god. What have you done?”

      Tenebrae chuckled and Craven bristled. “What I mean to say is that while she may have the makings of a fine sorcerer, I have yet to be convinced that she will ever have the power to become the Death Bringer and initiate the Passage. And even if she does have that potential, she is, as you say, not even seventeen. She won’t experience the Surge for another three or four years. You want us to wait four years to see if she might be strong enough?”

      “You have an alternative to waiting?” Wreath asked. “Did someone invent a time machine while I wasn’t looking?”

      “Your sarcasm notwithstanding, I think it would be a mistake to put too much faith in a girl so heavily under the influence of Skulduggery Pleasant. Besides which, we have plenty of our own candidates. Take my protégée, for example. I believe that Melancholia St Clair has been showing signs of definite—”

      “Melancholia?” Tenebrae interrupted. “You’re still insisting on her? Cleric, I haven’t seen anything special about that girl at all. The only extraordinary quality she seems to possess is the ability to look extraordinarily annoyed whenever I see her. Which hasn’t been for quite some months now.”

      “Begging your pardon, High Priest, but I have been spending a lot of time as her personal tutor, and I think she could be the one.”

      Tenebrae sat back in his chair. “You’re tutoring her?”

      “Yes, High Priest.”

      “But I thought you wanted her to excel,” Tenebrae said, laughing while Wreath smirked. Craven’s face burned, but he managed a grateful smile nonetheless.

      “Waste your time however you want,” Tenebrae said, waving his hand. “But right now, the Cain girl seems to be the one viable possibility we have. No other Temple around the world has any candidates of worth. All eyes are resting on us. Cleric Wreath, I hope she doesn’t let us down.”

      “As do I, Your Eminence,” Wreath said, nodding instead of bowing. Tenebrae didn’t seem to mind.

      Craven stormed into the depths of the Temple, replaying the conversation in his head, substituting the things he had said with the things he wished he had said. They were so much better, all the caustic witticisms that occurred to him afterwards. They made him sound strong and smart and in control. In his imagination, he never blushed.

      He reached the heavy wooden door, and spent a few moments calming himself. Tenebrae’s days were numbered, as were Wreath’s. Quiver, he wasn’t so sure of. Quiver never mocked him. Quiver never mocked anyone.

      He entered the room, and Melancholia raised her head.

      “I’m tired,” she said. She spent half her time tired. The other half was spent pacing the floor, practically crackling with energy. It was either one or the other – extremely powerful or extremely weak. Craven had wanted another few days to run more tests, to find the source of the instability and purge it, but his patience had run out.

      “It’s time,” he said. “I’m presenting you to the High Priest. Clean that sweat from your face and follow me.”

      “I don’t feel well,” she said, almost whimpered.

      “I don’t care!” he roared, and grabbed Melancholia’s arm, yanking her to her feet. “They will not laugh at me again! No one will ever laugh at me again! We will wipe the smiles from their smug faces and they will worship you and obey me!”

      She looked at him fearfully, with tears in her eyes, and he caught his anger and quelled it. He couldn’t afford to lose her. He couldn’t afford to lose the trust he had spent so long building up while he was carving those symbols into her flesh and listening to her scream.

      “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “I’ll be with you. No one will hurt you while I’m with you. You’re a very special girl, and I love you as I would my own daughter.”

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