The Crypts beneath the Church of the Moon
Nkemi held the ward on her breath; she held it in her mind, and she held it all through her. She held it stretching out beyond them like a map; she could not see the contours of it but she knew they were there, gleaming, spilling forth in mona and life.
Ezra rose at her side, and offered his name also.
The ghost shivered; it drew down close to them, pouring itself into a vessel to match theirs. It did not fit; it could not, anymore, Nkemi understood without understanding. She watched, standing straight with all the fullness she had to offer.
Everus Verona, the ghost greeted them. Nkemi bowed her head in respectful greeting once more, for all who were holy were worthy of respect, in the name of the Circle if not their own. She thought of the echoing, chanting songs; she thought of the Haras’turga, the pouring of water on to dirt, the giving with no expectation of return, with only gratitude.
Nkemi watched. Let me closer so I can be warm, the ghost asked; darkness writhed on the floor around them, spilling forth where it could not be contained. The shape of the ghost changed too, movement beneath stillness, like deep water. A locked section, Ezre said, bricked over and sealed with a ward. The edge of Nkemi’s gaze flicked sideways, and the corner of her mouth rose in the tiniest of smiles. It was easy to forget sometimes the age of her companion; he held himself with the dignity of a man. He was, Nkemi thought, tolerant and a little amused, only a boy after all.
Nkemi turned back towards the ghost, with the fullness of her attention once more; there was nothing of the smile left on her solemn face. She looked down at her own hands, small and dark, and then at the strange shadowy shape before them. She thought of it.
She would have liked, Nkemi knew, to offer comfort. She would have held, gratefully, the hand of a dying woman; she would have knelt and sat as long as it took, whatever crumbled around them, and held on, and offered the warmth and strength of her hands, if it might have offered the slightest easing.
Nkemi knew enough to know she did not know, here, what it meant to offer a hand, or her warmth; she felt the chill of the chamber prick over her. She ached with the loneliness of the creature before her; she held firm, fast, inside the boundaries of herself, and did not open any wounds she did not know how to heal.
Do not give too deeply; do not stretch yourself too thin. It was a lesson taught all clairvoyants who reached outside themselves, and all prefects who reached for justice. It was a lesson spoken and felt; it was a lesson which, unlearned, made itself known and demanded respect. Nkemi rooted herself in her own vessel; she knew its contours and shapes, and she filled them, every drop of her, and held on. The upkeep rang through her teeth, and throbbed in her temples.
“I do not know,” Nkemi spoke truth, simple and honest. She looked at the ghost; she bowed her head, but did not close her eyes. “I know that we are here, now: I know that we will listen.”
“I know,” the Mugrobi said, lifting her gaze once more, “that truth is a pillar of honor. I know that truth is a sacred thing,” Nkemi settled her hand over her chest, and felt the beating pounding of her heart beneath, fast and hard. She breathed in deep, and exhaled out once more, her breath tangling and shifting in the air, and lowered her hand.
“I know that truth may outlast even the cycle,” Nkemi promised, softly. “Speak your truth to us, Everus Verona, and let it wash you clean of fear.”