Moira Ashenveil's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The scythe would not leave Moira's hand. She walked from the crypt with the blade cold against her wrist and the four crossings still fresh in her chest. The marsh was quiet now, which was worse. Quiet meant something else was listening. She found the mausoleum by the sound of bells. Cracked walls, a black hole where the door had been, rubble spilling into the mud. The bells came from inside, small and bright, out of place among the broken stone. A figure sat on a fallen slab, swinging its legs. Bright coat. Skull-shaped bells at the points of a jester's cap. A painted grin stitched across a face Moira knew. It was Vesper's face. Vesper, her teacher, the one who had taught her to read hands. Vesper, who had told her something was wearing their face before they disappeared entirely. The jester wore it like a mask that fit too well. "You," Moira said. "Give it back." Moros Mirthbane tilted the stolen face. The bells rang. "Which one. I have a drawer full." "The one you're wearing." "This?" He touched Vesper's cheek with two fingers. "Barely a face. Half-gone when I found it. I'm holding it together." "You're eating it." "I'm keeping it warm." The grin widened. "Your friend was already tearing. I got there first." Moira lowered the scythe. She had come here to guide. She could still guide. "Take it off. Put it down. I'll walk you to the door myself. No blade." "The door." Moros laughed, one short bark. "You think I'm one of yours." "You're wearing a dead thing's face. You're close enough." "I'm not ready to pass. I'm not ready to be anything." He held up his hands. The palms were open, but they kept changing, one moment Vesper's thin fingers, the next a stranger's. "See? I don't know which set is mine. If I let this face go I lose another inch of the map." "Then you lose it," Moira said. "Vesper is still in there. Give them back what's theirs and I'll help you look for your own." He went still. For one breath she thought he would do it. Then he stood. The bells shivered. "No," he said. "I've worn worse and kept it." He stepped backward into the black doorway of the mausoleum and was gone. Vesper's face went with him. Moira ran to the opening. Cold air came up from below. She put a hand on the broken frame and felt nothing on the other side, no floor, no stair, no soul to reach for. Reason had failed. He had heard her out and chosen the theft. She looked down at the scythe bonded to her palm. She had told him no blade. She had meant it. That promise was spent now. Somewhere under the marsh, Vesper was still fading. Moira had until the last thread to cut the thief off the face.