Free Empire of Night by Kelley Armstrong Page A

can.”
    â€œI don’t care who they are,” Ronan said. “I don’t trust anyone who asks Ashyn to follow him into the night. Only a fool would suggest she obey.”
    â€œFool?” Simeon bristled. “I am a scholar under Master—”
    â€œA scholar? Well, that explains it.” Ronan turned to Ashyn. “We’ll let the scholar investigate. You need to get back to camp.”
    The monk pleaded. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. As for exactly what, he wouldn’t say, only growing agitated and telling them he’d explain as they walked.
    â€œI’ll crest the ridge,” she said. “If I see no caravan, this young man will escort you back to the prince to explain yourself.”

TEN
    â€œH ow much do you know of penitents, my lady?” the monk asked as they walked.
    More than I want , she thought, but said only, “Some.”
    Simeon explained, “Penitents believe that the path to enlightenment lies through suffering—”
    â€œWe don’t need a religion lesson,” Ronan cut in. “We need to know what’s over the ridge.”
    â€œHave you been to the shrine near Westerfox, my lady?” the monk asked.
    â€œUntil a fortnight ago, I had not left Edgewood since arriving before my first summer.”
    â€œOf course, because it guards the Forest of the Dead,” the monk said. “There are many shrines, my lady. For pilgrims and those seeking spiritual guidance. The one near Westerfox is particularly sacred to penitents. That is where one might seeour deepest, most holy form of penance. The mummies.”
    Simeon sucked in breath. “Yes, of course. The Order of Kushin—”
    â€œLet the old man tell his story,” Ronan said.
    â€œHave you heard of our mummies, my lady?” the monk asked.
    â€œNo, but I understand the basic concept, as it is practiced in the desert regions. On death, the body is exposed, and the heat dries it.”
    â€œTrue, that is their custom. With us, as monks near the end of life, if they do not feel they are close enough to enlightenment, they begin refusing food. Then they start drinking a special tea, which slowly poisons them and preserves their body as it withers from lack of nourishment.”
    â€œThey mummify themselves?” Ronan said. “While they’re still alive?”
    â€œWhen they are nearing the end, they are placed in a special box, dry and heated to create a desert-like environment. Inside is a bell that they ring several times a day. When the bell no longer rings, the box is sealed and transported to the shrine. If the spirits have shown favor, when the box is opened, the monk is mummified. He is then dressed in fine clothing and placed on display, so that pilgrims may reflect on his sacrifice.”
    â€œThat is the stupidest—” Ronan began, but he was silenced by Ashyn stepping on his foot.
    â€œThat is the purpose of your journey, then?” she said. “You are transporting these . . . potential mummies?”
    â€œTo Westerfox, yes. It is a long and slow procession, but we do it each spring. This time, we bring four boxes.”
    His voice lifted, as if this were some great accomplishment, and Ashyn dutifully murmured her congratulations, while secretly agreeing with Ronan. To mummify oneself while still alive? Surely that could not honor the spirits.
    The group crested the ridge. Below were two wagons—basic, open affairs, each bearing two coffin-like boxes. Two men huddled around a fire. Both were dressed like the monk—in simple clothing and no shoes. Their camp lay on open ground, with no trees or rocks nearby large enough to conceal attackers.
    Ashyn started down the hill. Ronan prompted the monk again to explain the situation.
    â€œIt is . . . difficult,” the monk said.
    â€œTry.”
    â€œI do not mean that I am loath to do so, but that I know what I have to say will be difficult to believe. It