Litany of Winter

The next morning, Neumann led them past the archive without stopping.

He took the nine down a narrower stair and through two doors Severin had never seen open. Below the second landing, the walls were bare and every door carried an iron inventory plate instead of a room name.

At the end of the passage stood a black iron door with no handle on their side. Most of its center was covered by a thorned iron ornament, overlapping circular bands joined by hooked metal with long spikes thrusting outward at the sides and along the vertical axis. An almond-shaped iron mouth lined with small teeth sat at the center. Just above it, beneath a pointed crest, the key sat recessed in a narrow metal housing.

Neumann stopped before it. ”That’s as far as you go.”

Martin looked at the door. ”What’s behind it?”

”The Lower Vault.”

No one asked what was kept inside.

Twenty paces back, a side room had been prepared. Two long supply tables had been pushed against the walls. A waist-high stone working table stood in the middle, surrounded by a clear square of floor. Green chalk, a bowl of saltwater, two squat blue-oil lamps and an iron box of folded parchment sat on one supply table. A brass pendulum lay beside them.

A man in a dark coat of heavier cut stood over an iron transport case on the other table.

”Meet Warden Dante Bocca,” Neumann said. ”He’s responsible for the Vault and one of only two people in the Order allowed inside.”

Bocca gave them a brief nod and kept one hand on the case until Neumann finished.

”Initiates, I will require your full attention,” he said. ”No one touches what’s inside. Your job is to help keep it bound.”

Bocca pointed to the chalk. ”Three lines around the table. Follow the diagram exactly. If you break a section, erase it and draw it again. Don’t patch it.”

Johann and Andreas took the first side. Rafael crouched opposite them with the measuring cord. Severin ended up beside Martin, copying a curve around one corner while Neumann stood behind them.

Martin kept the chalk close to the stone and lowered his voice. ”I think that’s where they keep all the cursed stuff.”

”I just wish they’d let us have a look inside.”

Neumann’s boot stopped beside them.

”Keep drawing,” he said.

Bocca made Severin redo one symbol because its lower stroke sat too close to the middle line. While he corrected it, Anna slid the saltwater beneath the working table and Madeleine filled both blue-oil lamps where Bocca indicated.

Then Bocca opened the iron box.

Inside lay two strips of pale parchment covered in silver writing.

”Binding seals,” he said. ”They’re prepared before anything is taken out. If one shifts off its mark, tell me. Don’t touch it.”

He placed one on the floor at each end of the working table, aligned with the innermost chalk line, and checked them himself.

Bocca took up the brass pendulum last. He lifted it by its chain and let the weight hang still over the empty tabletop.

”Some objects react before there’s anything to see. The pendulum gives us an early warning.”

Paul nodded toward the transport case. ”What are we binding?”

Bocca looked at Neumann.

Neumann folded his arms. ”Might as well tell them.”

Bocca nodded and unlocked the case.

A layer of black cloth covered whatever lay inside. He folded it back carefully.

Severin had expected something obviously dangerous, maybe a lump of flesh kept alive in a box or some ugly piece of bone.

A face stared back from the case.

The mask was pale enough to look white in the lamplight, though the surface had yellowed in fine scratches. A sharp nose divided the long, narrow face. The eye openings were deep and black. The mouth was dark and thin, curved just enough to resemble a patient smile.

Greened bronze curled across the forehead in raised ornamental strands, with worn traces of gold along the ridges. A round medallion sat above one brow. Dark red streaks had dried beneath the metalwork and around the eye sockets, running down the pale face.

Martin stopped smiling.

Bocca lifted the mask by two leather straps and placed it flat on the working table inside the innermost chalk line.

”We call it the Echoing Visage. It was recovered seven years ago in Mossbarrow, a small coastal city in the Aethermere Crown.”

Above the mask, the pendulum remained still.

”A fanatic there used it to replace the city’s mayor. The Visage can mimic a voice after hearing it once. If it’s worn long enough and fed that person’s blood, the changes go further. The wearer’s face begins to change as well. Eventually, they can take the mask off and keep the face.”

Thomas stared at the mask. ”Why would anyone want someone else’s face?”

Bocca lit the lamp. A low blue flame settled above the wick.

”He used it to impersonate the mayor and take his office. With that influence, he stole money from the city and slept with women who believed he was the mayor. He was deliberately trying to father children with them, and several conceived. When the Order searched his rooms, we found preparations for a ritual involving the children they were carrying.”

Madeleine’s attention left the mask for the first time. ”What kind of ritual?”

Bocca answered in the same flat tone. ”The fanatic believed an unborn child might make a suitable host for summoning a Horror into this world. His notes suggest he hoped the result would be far stronger than an ordinary summoning.” He paused. ”Other pages suggest he may simply have wanted to see what would happen.”

Severin looked at the slight smile cut into the mask.

”Luckily, he never managed to perform the ritual,” Bocca added. ”Then we brought the Visage here.”

Rafael and Anna took the near marks, Paul and Madeleine the far side. Martin stood beside the lamp just inside the outer line. Severin waited beyond it with the other three, the spare materials at their feet.

Bocca raised the pendulum over the mask.

”Watch the flame and the seals. If I give you an order, follow it exactly.”

Bocca spoke the opening words, a short phrase Severin did not understand.

Both parchment strips warmed, their silver writing turning from dull gray to white as the pendulum shifted toward the mask.

Bocca pointed toward Rafael. ”Say your name.”

Rafael glanced at the pale face. ”Rafael Montoro.”

Then the mask answered in Rafael’s voice. ”Rafael Montoro.”

The mask’s lips had not moved.

Bocca watched the pendulum. ”Again.”

Anna spoke next. The Visage repeated her words perfectly, down to the clipped way she pronounced the last syllable.

Thomas tried a sentence, and the Visage repeated that too.

By the fourth voice, Martin had leaned toward Severin.

”Still ugly as fuck.”

The mask said, ”Still ugly as fuck.”

Martin stared at it. ”Fuck off.”

”Fuck off,” the mask repeated in Martin’s voice.

The brass weight drifted away from the mask and angled toward Martin. Bocca turned with it.

”Don’t move,” Bocca said.

Martin’s grin disappeared. ”I’m not.”

The mask inhaled, and Martin’s breath came from the dark mouth.

Martin’s shoulders jerked as he opened his mouth, but nothing came. Another breath sounded from the mask while he clawed at his collar.

”Stay where you are,” Bocca ordered.

Martin tried to inhale again. His chest strained beneath his shirt, but no air came. The mask breathed for him.

Paul moved first, leaving his mark to grab Martin under one arm. His heel dragged through the middle chalk line.

The blue flame snapped sideways and went out.

”Weber, stop!” Neumann shouted.

Paul hauled Martin half a step. One parchment seal curled off the stone.

The silver writing flashed hard enough to sting Severin’s eyes.

The mask kept repeating ”Fuck off” in Martin’s voice.

Martin was on his knees, both hands at his throat, face already darkening.

Severin stepped forward, then saw the outer line beneath his boot. He stopped before putting his weight down.

Martin struck the floor with one hand. Severin was only three strides away, close enough to reach him in a second.

A yellow streak across a boot flashed through his mind, followed by two extra names on Peters’s slate.

”Where?” Severin asked.

Bocca was already moving. ”The spare lamp. Bring it around the outside of the outer line.”

Severin turned, snatched the reserve lamp from Johann and ran around the outside of the binding instead of through it.

Neumann grabbed Paul by the back of his coat and dragged him away from Martin. ”Nobody else crosses!”

”Anna,” Bocca said. ”Wait for my word.”

Anna had gone pale, but she stayed where Bocca had placed her.

Bocca dropped to one knee beside the damaged line, keeping clear of the inner line. The pendulum whipped between Martin and the Visage, striking Bocca’s knuckles before he shortened the chain in his grip.

”Hale. Set it there.”

Severin set the lamp on the clean mark Bocca indicated.

”Light it.”

His first match broke. ”Fuck.”

The second match caught, and blue fire rose as both seals twitched against the stone.

One seal began sliding toward the mask.

Bocca barked another word in the unfamiliar language.

The Visage screamed in Martin’s voice. Martin convulsed on the floor, heels striking the stone, his mouth stretched open around a scream that never came.

Madeleine flinched back. Rafael caught her sleeve before her heel came down on the middle line.

Bocca gave another command, and the silver writing on the nearest seal flared white.

”Neumann, the chalk.”

Neumann slid a fresh piece of green chalk across the floor without crossing the damaged line. Bocca wiped away the broken section with his glove and redrew it between the two intact marks.

For a second, Severin looked into the darkness behind the eye openings, though he had watched Bocca place an empty mask on the table.

”Anna. Now.”

She followed the route Bocca indicated, stepping between the intact marks. Then she dropped beside Martin and pressed two fingers to his neck.

”Shit. His pulse is racing.”

”Keep him there.”

”Sir, he’s not breathing.”

”I know. Buy me a few seconds.”

The mask took another long breath.

”Everyone except Anna outside the outer line. Now.”

Rafael pulled Madeleine back along the clear route. Andreas caught Paul by the sleeve when he tried to move toward Martin again.

Severin stayed by the lamp.

”Hold the flame steady,” Bocca said.

The flame had begun to tremble. Severin steadied the lamp against the stone.

Bocca pressed the loose binding seal flat again. The silver writing brightened across the parchment.

At the final command, the Visage’s mouth opened a finger’s width, and Martin’s breath rattled out of it one last time.

The seal snapped flat against the stone. Blue flame bent toward the mask.

A second seal slid across the stone until both strips pointed inward.

Bocca closed his fist around the pendulum chain, and the mask stopped breathing.

Martin sucked in air so violently that Anna had to brace his shoulders.

He coughed, rolled onto one side and vomited onto the stone beside him, then lay there dragging breath into himself.

Bocca did not touch the mask until the silver writing had faded back to gray.

When Bocca finally covered the mask, Severin realized he was still gripping the base of the lamp.

Neumann released Paul.

Paul looked at the ruined chalk under his boot. ”Shit. I thought he was dying.”

”I know,” Neumann said.

Anna checked Martin’s eyes and pulse while he sat against the wall. Red pinpricks had appeared around his eyes.

”Say something,” Severin told him.

Martin swallowed. ”Please get that thing away from me.”

The covered mask stayed silent. A short, stupid laugh came out of Severin before he could stop it.

Bocca took a fresh incident sheet from the transport case and wrote for nearly a minute before speaking.

”We’ve seen it copy voices before,” Bocca said. ”We’ve never seen it interfere with someone’s breathing from across the room.”

Paul stared at the ruined chalk while Bocca added another line to the report.

Bocca looked at Neumann. ”Make sure the Vault copy is updated before tonight.”

On the floor, one of the binding seals had browned along the edge nearest the broken chalk line.

Bocca wrote across the new entry in block capitals, large enough for Severin to read from where he stood: BREATH TAKEN WITHOUT CONTACT.