Still, Empress Adelheid’s grandfather had refurbished the domed hall, and one of her great-aunts had built stables where once the emperor had housed his guests. The stone ladies glowered at them, faces half obscured, but they were only stone and could not therefore impede their progress.
“Look!” said Pietro, and coughed. Coughed again. “A light!”
Focas looked at Pietro. Together, without exchanging words, they nodded. “I’ll go ahead, Your Excellency. In case it’s bandits.”
Her chest hurt. She was too tired to complain. She just wanted to rest her feet. Focas strode ahead. Truly, it was remarkable how well he had held up. He was as strong as a bull, and far more tractable than his companion. His form faded into the haze, although by now they could see the curved facade of the grand court that greeted visitors. They paused where the paved road gave way to the broad forecourt. Turning, Antonia looked into the haze over the plain, but it was impossible to see anything. On clear days, one could see Darre away in the distance, surrounded by fields.
She choked, coughing. The mule wheezed.
“Hsst!” whispered Pietro. “Do you hear?”
“Where did the light go?” she asked, scanning the wide court and the semicircle of columns, but no lantern or torch burned now.
“Hsst! Look!”
Ghosts advanced out of the fog, wreathed in trailing haze, formless and faceless although about the height of men.
She was ready. She had always been ready, knowing how little surety there was in traveling with such a small party. She unsheathed her small knife and grabbed at the mule, pressing the point to one of the veins in the side of its neck. A trickle of blood flowed over her fingers as she spoke the words that would raise a galla. The air hummed. Where blood beaded on the mule’s hide the haze coalesced as though forming a rope out of darkness. The tang of the iron forge drifted up from the earth.
“Your Excellency! See what I have found!” Focas strode into view, easy among the ghosts. “We have found what we sought! They have been sheltering here in the catacombs. This good captain says the princesses are alive and in his care.”
Too late! The spell had gone too far and must be released or else rebound upon her. The stink of the forge gusted on the breeze. A shadow spilled into the ground beside the pooling blood. The mule brayed and jerked away from the knife, then collapsed as its blood pumped onto the ground.
“What—?” cried Focas, as the men behind him drew their weapons.
It was a small galla, appetite whetted by the taste of blood, but it would demand more before it could be dispatched. It would turn on her, or on anyone. Its substance thrummed in the air as it materialized into this plane. Its muttering words—pain pain pain—ghosted in the air like the sound of tolling bells. The air of this world burned it. It was angry, and trapped, and panicked. She had to act quickly.
She sealed the spell with a name.
“Pietro of Darre!” she whispered without hesitation.
“Your Excellency!” cried Focas, hanging back as the others cried out loud in fear. “What foul creature plagues us?”
“A traitor among us! One who does not serve the empress has brought a demon into our midst to murder the princesses!” She flung up her hands; her sleeves slid down her arms as she cried out. “St. Thecla save us! Matthias, Mark, Johanna, Lucia! Marian and Peter! Deliver us from evil! Seek the one whose spirit has fallen to the Enemy! Seek the one who would destroy us! Take him! Take him! Drive his soul into the Pit! And then begone!”
The shaft of darkness that formed the body of the galla in this world writhed like a chained soul seeking release. The stink choked her, but she kept her arms raised; she did not falter. The galla had the gift, or curse, of sight. They could see into the souls of every man and woman. The darkness lurched, spinning sideways.
Its bell voice rang dully. “Pietro.”
Pietro screamed. He, and the darkness, vanished, and only his bones remained.
The galla had escaped back to its own sphere. That whiff of iron dissipated, subsumed in dust.
Men shouted and wept but gathered most pleasingly around her as sheep flock to the shepherd when they fear the assault of the wolf. Focas fell to his knees, sobbing. The mule struggled to its feet, but collapsed again.
“Your Excellency! I am Captain Falco.”
“I know you, Captain Falco. You are the empress’ most faithful captain.”
He nodded, acknowledging what was to him not compliment or flattery but the breath that allowed him to exist. He appeared unshaken by Pietro’s death, but it was difficult to judge.