1. The Flight — Lirael (Patreon)

The Flight — Lirael

The key comes three nights later.

I'm awake. I'm always awake at this hour.

I hear the metal on stone first. A short scrape, something pushed under the door, then quick steps going away without running. The way people walk when they don't want to be heard running.

The thing crosses the gap and stops in the middle of the floor. Small. Dark. Old.

A key.

There's a key on my floor.

I don't move. I stare at it the way a rat stares at cheese in a trap, and my first thought isn't escape.

It's: who had the nerve?

Who?

The girls from the refectory, maybe. I was never able to call any of them a friend. They eat together; I eat in here. They sleep in the dormitory; I sleep behind a door that bolts from the outside. They talk while they work, and when I pass, they stop. Some look away. Others look too fast.

Maybe one of them.

Or one of the old women. There are two or three who watch me too long sometimes, with something on their faces I spent years failing to name and decided, a while back, was pity.

Pity doesn't open doors. But maybe one of them got tired of feeling it.

Or it's none of that. Because they've done this before.

They left bread in the cell on the third day of a fast. They left my door on the latch for a whole night, and I spent that whole night sitting on the bed, watching the line of light on the floor, not moving a finger. In the morning the bishop came. He looked at the door. Then at me.

And he smiled.

I wasn't beaten that day. The smile was worse than the whip.

I look at the key.

So it's a test? And if it isn't?

Neither answer is a good one. If it's a test, I know the price. Pain passes. It always passes. Enduring is the one thing they taught me properly.

But if it isn't a test and I stay — tomorrow comes the white. The black stone. The hooded men. And the thing the bishop said was larger than me. The thing I needed to learn how to open myself to.

The skin on my back pulls tight just remembering. Three nights weren't enough to close all the lines. One of them still burns when I breathe deep.

I look at the key again. One of the two prices is bigger. I know which.

But there's the other thing. The thing I've been shoving into some corner of my head since I heard the two of them behind the altar door. Since I heard what they meant to do with me.

I don't know what's out there.

That's the part nobody understands. I don't know. It's been years.

I don't know the name of the nearest road. I don't know if there's a village. I don't know what a coin is worth. I don't know whether a woman alone can walk into a city and ask for food, or whether somebody grabs her by the arm before she finishes asking. I don't even know where exactly this place is.

I know there's forest on one side because I can see the treetops through the high gap in the wall when I stand on the bench. That's all. A forest. The temple. And the whole world somewhere past the wall.

God, what do I do?

I close my eyes. And I pray.

I open them immediately.

Oh God. I prayed. Again. I asked for help from the same one who left me in here.

I wait for something. Anything.

Nothing. Of course. It never answered before — why would it start tonight?

I pick up the key.

The metal is cold. Lighter than it looked on the floor. One of the teeth is chipped and there's a dark stain on the grip.

Rust, probably.

Probably.

I hold it with both hands and slide it into the lock. Slow. Slow. The metal scrapes inside.

I turn it.

The bolt runs back with a click that, inside my head, wakes the whole temple.

That's it. It's done.

I freeze.

Nothing. No bell. No shout. No sandal coming down the corridor.

I wait. I count to a hundred. Still nothing.

And then my breathing decides to betray me. It comes short. Fast. Too loud. I try to hold it and it gets worse, and I have to cover my mouth with both hands to muffle the sound of myself.

Stop. Stop it.

If they catch me in the corridor, it's over. If they catch me in the courtyard, it's over. And I'm not strong. I can't put a man down. I can't even use the knife I hid properly.

Thirty-seven stones between the kneeler and the door. Twenty-two whole. Nine cracked. Six replaced.

I count. I count again. Twenty-two. Nine. Six. Thirty-seven.

My breathing comes back.

I stay there looking at the floor. My counting. It's still mine.

The bishop can give the order. He can make me say the numbers. He can beat me until I lose one and start over. But this — this is still mine.

I get up.

I was never strong. I'm only stubborn in a way they always mistook for obedience.

I open the door.

The corridor is dark between one torch and the next. That dark is mine. Years of watching through gaps. Years of listening to footsteps. Years of memorising which stones creak, where the light reaches, how long a round takes to cross the north corridor.

I go barefoot. The stone is freezing. I've got the rusted knife gripped in my hand — I hid it behind a loose stone two winters ago. I don't know how to use it. But a blade feels better than two empty hands.

I take four steps.

I stop.

Sandal. One. Two. Pause. A light drag on the left foot.

Father Merian. Coming up the east gallery.

I don't need to see him. Merian has dragged that foot since the winter he fell down the sacristy stairs.

I look at the bend. If I keep going, I walk straight into him.

I back up two steps. There's a recess between two columns, too shallow to hide anyone straight on. Sideways, maybe.

I get in. I hold my breath.

The dark robe comes first. Then the lamp. Merian passes less than two arms from me. He's half asleep. Scratches his beard. Yawns.

The light comes into the recess and reaches my feet. It doesn't climb any higher.

I stay still. He goes on. The dragging fades down the corridor.

I wait five heartbeats. Then ten. I come out.

It's strange. I spent my whole life learning where they were so I wouldn't be caught doing something wrong. Now I'm using all of it to get away from them.

I almost smile. Almost.

The forbidden altar door appears at the end of the corridor.

And I stop.

The way out isn't there. If I keep going up the north passage, I reach the great hall. From there I can try the courtyard. I can just go.

I should just go.

I look at the door. Behind it is what they brought in that chest. What those men carried in at night. What the books in the crypt call the things faith can't kill.

And tomorrow they mean to use something from in there on me.

I swallow.

If I'm leaving with no food, no money, not even the name of a road — I'm not leaving empty-handed. And if there's something in this temple that even they hide, I want it with me.

I get to the door. Its own lock. Of course.

I look at the key in my hand.

No. It would be ridiculous.

I put it in anyway.

It goes in.

I stand there looking at it. I turn.

It turns.

No. Wait. This isn't supposed to happen. A cell key doesn't open an altar door. There's no reason in the world for anyone to make a key that opens both.

The cold starts at the back of my neck and goes down my spine. It passes exactly where the marks still hurt.

Nobody left me a key to get out.

Somebody left me a key to get in here.

I stand still. The door open in front of me. The corridor behind me.

I can still leave. I should leave.

I go in.

The smell changes immediately. Metal. Old wax. And something sweet underneath. Too sweet.

The altar is a low stone covered in black cloth. On top of it, a twisted iron stand, metal fingers closed around a small vial. Alone.

No priest. No chain. No rune on the wall. No sign telling me not to touch it. Nothing.

That's worse.

I go closer. The vial fits inside my closed hand. Black glass. What's in it is darker. Thick. When I tilt it, it takes its time running down the side.

Demon blood. That's what the books call it, anyway. The same books that spend pages promising power and a few lines warning about the price.

Power always has a price. That part they repeat plenty.

I look at the door. Then at the vial.

Price I know how to pay.

I lift it off the stand.

Nothing happens. No alarm. No flame. No creature bursting out of the floor.

That was too easy. I know it was. I know I should think harder about it. But I'm too busy trying to stay alive.

I push the vial against my chest, inside the habit, and I go.

The back corridor is the worst stretch. Straight. Long. Three torches. No corner to duck into.

I keep to the wall. My bare feet already hurt. The habit is too white for this dark — in the middle of the night I'm a moving smudge. I bunch the hem in my fist so it won't drag. The cloth rustles with every step, and every rustle sounds like a bell.

I pass the kitchen. The priests' washroom. The storeroom stairs.

I hear a cough. I duck into a doorway. I stay there until the cough turns into snoring.

I count. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. I move on.

That's when the vial goes warm against my chest.

I stop.

It isn't heat from my body. I know because my skin is cold. The thing pulses. Once. Then again. Slowly.

And between one pulse and the next, something turns up inside my head.

Drink me.

I press the cloth over the vial. No.

Drink me now.

It isn't a voice. Not exactly. It doesn't come in through my ears. The sentence is simply here. Finished. Like somebody set it down inside my head while I wasn't looking.

Great. Now I'm hearing things.

It's hunger. Fear. Three nights without sleep. That's it. That's all it is.

Move, Lirael. Move.

I reach the great hall.

And there's someone in the corner.

I stop.

The hall is empty. Empty pews. Empty pulpit. Moonlight coming through the high windows and drawing pale rectangles on the floor. But in the far corner, in the darkest part of the darkest place, there's a thing.

Watching me.

I can't see the shape. I see the lack of one. A black silhouette that isn't any object's shadow, almost fused to the wall. Too tall. Too wide at the shoulders.

Horns. I think those are horns.

And the eyes. Those I can see. Black all the way through, no white anywhere, and deep inside there's a violet glow moving slowly. Oil on water.

My mouth goes dry. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand.

It's still there.

And there's something about that feeling — not about the face, not about the shape. About the way of being looked at.

I've felt this before.

My head goes searching. It doesn't find it. My body finds it first. Locks up. All of it. The same way it locked when the key turned in my door after the last prayer of the night.

God. What is that? What is that?

The creature raises an arm. Slowly. No hurry. It's too long. So are the fingers.

It points at the high window above the long table.

Then it speaks.

"Run."

The voice is rough. Deep. But it doesn't come from the corner — it turns up inside my ears, in the same place the vial spoke.

And my legs obey. One step. Two.

I'm already halfway across the hall when I catch it.

I obeyed. I didn't think. A man's voice gave an order and my body did what it was trained to do.

For a second that frightens me more than the creature does.

Then I remember where I'm running. Out.

Right. Tonight it can give me orders.

I climb onto the table with both hands and one knee. The skin on my back pulls. Burns. My elbow catches something.

The vase goes over.

No. No, no, no.

It hits the stone and the world explodes. Ceramic breaking. Shards skidding. Echo climbing to the ceiling.

And a door opens. Close. Very close.

Sandal. Two fast strides. I know them before I turn.

Brother Celd. He does the hall round when he can't sleep.

I turn. He's already on me. His hand goes into my hair at the roots. Pulls. My head snaps back so hard I'm looking at the ceiling.

The scream dies before it gets out.

"Got you."

The fear turns into something else. The knife. It's still in my hand.

I come up with it. Clumsy. Fast.

Celd catches my wrist before the blade gets anywhere near his throat.

Of course. Of course he does. I've never put a knife in anyone.

He twists. The pain opens my fingers. The knife hits the table.

"You little—"

He stops.

His hand is still in my hair. But something has changed in his face. The eyes. He's looking over my shoulder.

No. Behind him.

A hand comes out of the shadow. Long. Grey. So thin it ought to look weak.

It doesn't.

The fingers close over Celd's mouth. They cover him from the chin nearly to the eyes. He lets go of my hair. Tries to scream. Only air comes out through his nose.

Another hand appears. Settles on his shoulder. Doesn't grip. Just settles.

Celd starts shaking. So do I.

The shadow behind him moves.

No. It opens.

That's the only word I have. The dark opens. The hands pull. Celd goes backwards.

He doesn't fall. He isn't dragged along the floor. He doesn't hit anything.

He's here.

And then he isn't.

I stand there. My scalp is burning. My hand is still raised as if it were holding the knife that already fell.

I look at the corner. I don't see Celd. I don't see the hands.

Only the eyes. Violet inside the black.

"Run."

This time I don't need telling twice. I grab the knife off the table. I run.

Behind me another door opens. Then another.

"Who's there?"

A lamp comes into the corridor.

"The hall!"

"Light!"

Footsteps. Many.

I go through the window any way I can. I don't measure the drop. I land on the other side and the ground meets me hard. Every bit of air leaves my lungs.

For a second there's nothing. Then pain. Knee. Palm. Back. All at once.

I'm on all fours in the dirt.

Breathe. I can't. Breathe. Nothing. Get up. Get up now.

I hear voices at the window. That settles it.

I get up.

And I know where I am. The vegetable beds. The well. The fig trees.

My chest tightens.

The garden. The same garden I've watched take the sun every morning since I was small. The most beautiful thing I know of in the world.

Except there's no sun now. There's moon. There are torches coming up behind me. And men shouting my name.

I run. I know exactly where to.

Past the well — not on the right, the stone sinks there. Left. Between the beds. I don't step on the herbs because turned soil catches your foot. Stone. Then gravel.

The side door opens behind me. Light spills across the garden.

"There!"

Shit.

I cut behind the first fig tree. Two men come in along the central path. If I go straight, they close on me before the wall.

I know another way. Behind the tool shed. The passage is narrow and the sisters don't use it because the gutter drips and leaves the ground green.

I use it.

My foot slips. I hit my shoulder on the wall. I keep going.

A voice shouts from the other side. I don't know whose. Another one answers.

They're trying to box me in. Of course they are. They know the doors.

I know the spaces between them.

I come out behind the beds. More light. A torch passes on the other side of the hedge. Down. I go through crouched. My knee complains. Doesn't matter.

The fig tree at the south wall comes into view. I know that tree. I know the curve of that branch. I spent years looking at it.

And then I see the crates.

Three. Stacked against the wall exactly where the lowest branch passes overhead.

I stop for half a second.

No. Nobody stacks crates like that. Not there. Not at the wall. Not under that particular tree.

I look back. Key. Altar. Vial. Window. Now this.

Somebody laid a road out for me. A road straight through my own prison.

My stomach drops.

Maybe I'm not escaping. Maybe I'm going exactly where something wants me to go.

A torch comes round the hedge.

Doesn't matter. I'll find out later. First I get out.

I run to the crates. Up onto the first. The second wobbles. I catch the branch and the bark scrapes my palm. I climb.

The habit snags on a splinter. I pull. It doesn't give.

Behind me somebody shouts:

"She's on the wall!"

I pull harder. The cloth tears from the knee to the hem and my leg is bare to the cold wind.

Good. Less to hold me back.

Onto the third crate. I catch the branch. It's higher than it looked every single time I stared at it from down here.

I haul myself up. My back burns. One of the lines opens again and I feel warm wet under the habit.

I don't stop. Never stop.

The wall is an arm away. I reach. My fingers find stone. Slip. Again. Hold.

I climb.

And then I hear the voice.

It isn't a shout. It doesn't have to be.

"Lirael."

My body stops. All of it. My hands freeze on the stone. The leg that was going up goes back down to the crate.

Before I think. Before I want to.

That voice. The same one that says kneel. The same one that says look. The same one that says count.

The bishop is in the garden.

I don't look. I can't.

"Stop."

My foot starts to go down.

No. No.

My body heard him. My body always hears him. My hand loses its grip on the stone.

No.

I squeeze until my nails hurt.

"Lirael."

No. I say it inside my head first. No.

My body doesn't understand.

So I say it with my mouth. Low. Almost without a voice.

"No."

The word is so small that for a second I think it didn't come out.

But it did. I heard it. I said it.

No.

I climb.

Behind me something changes. The bishop shouts my name. This time he shouts.

Doesn't matter.

I throw myself over the edge. Belly on the stone. Elbow. Hip. I drag the other leg up.

And I'm sitting on top of the wall.

On the other side the drop is enormous. Much bigger than it looked from below. Much.

I'm going to break my legs. I'm going to break both of them. I'm going to lie down there until morning. They'll find me. They'll take me back. I'll find out what a new kind of punishment feels like.

The torches reach the fig tree. I have seconds. Maybe less.

The wind hits the bare leg where the habit tore.

I look back. One last time.

The whole garden below me. The well. The herbs. The fig trees. Torches crossing the paths I know better than any prayer. Men running.

And the temple. My entire world. Grey stone. Dark windows. The tower.

Up there. In the highest window.

The thing.

It's there. It climbed four floors in the time it took me to cross a hall and a garden. Almost entirely hidden in the dark, only the eyes showing — black, with that violet moving inside them.

It's looking at me.

Then it smiles.

And finally I see the teeth. White. Far too even. Far too many. The mouth opens almost to the sides of the face, too wide to exist.

I should be terrified.

I am.

I also don't know what it did to Celd. I don't know who left the key. I don't know who set up the crates. I don't know if I'm escaping something or walking straight into the mouth of something else.

Behind me the bishop shouts:

"NO!"

I look at the creature. For the first time that night, I almost smile.

"Whatever you are…"

I breathe.

"Thank you."

And I jump.NEXT: THE PACT

The Master says this is where the story actually starts. I was there — he's right.

I jumped off that wall thinking the worst thing in the temple was behind me.

— Lirael 🐺🕯️

18+. What's behind this door stays behind it.