Followed by Fire
Page 9
Hard to get. That was fine. She wouldn’t have lived up to the Greenbriar name if she had rolled over immediately. Balvonak smirked, pressing his hand against the wall as he kept his small distance. “I’m not asking you to trust me,” he said, shrugging an innocent shoulder. “I’m merely… offering you an opportunity.”
“What you offer is cruel,” Esven hissed, summoning her mother’s ethics to regain the bits she’d lost. “I won’t take a life, let alone thousands. That makes me no better than them,” she said, throwing her arm out in the direction of Pinesguard.
“You wouldn’t have to take any lives.” Balvonak nonchalantly stretched his arms up over his head, closing one eye as he captured Esven’s attention with the other. An eerie light danced across his pupils as he added, “If you open the gates of the Netherworld, the demons would do that for you.”
Chapter Five
The days never seemed to drag on as slowly as they had since Elias Deverell met the strange man in the Pinesguard market.
‘Balvo’ appeared in his thoughts more often than he preferred. Elias wanted to believe in the goodness that hid in the hearts of everyone, but he knew better. Who heard more whispers of mankind’s failings than a priest?
It was his duty to soothe the souls of those who wandered into darkness. He held fast to the belief that every spirit was worthy of redemption—but that did not gloss over the fact that mistakes were made before people reached salvation.
Gruesome mistakes. He’d heard many tales he wished he hadn’t in his single year as Pinesguard’s holy man. He even witnessed it for himself, the night they burned Amadeia in Pinesguard’s center. The night he first met Esven Greenbriar face to face.
With a broom in hand, he continued to sweep the steps outside the church. It was tedious work. No matter how much he swept the bristles over the carved stone, more dirt leapt into the sky with each follow through. It was impossible to clean in its entirety, Elias knew. That made it the perfect chore to keep himself occupied.
He felt compelled to visit Esven. To check on her. To survey her condition. The fact that Balvo seemed to disappear from town only emphasized his desire to slip through Pinesguard’s gates.
Alas, his feet were anchored to the ground.
It would be too obvious if he left. Once a week was already questionable enough. Exiting Pinesguard under the guise of seeking the Angel Lord’s wisdom weighed heavily on his conscience as it was. It was only a partial lie; he sought the enlightenment of Brigovia’s creator wherever he went. Still, Elias’ stomach twisted each time a citizen asked him where he headed at the start of every week.
It was not just the little white lie that slid dense rocks onto his heart… but that each time he left, he felt as if he drew more and more unwanted attention toward Esven’s hiding place. Many people had fallen on dangerous times… but to be a witch in the land of Brigovia as it stood right now…
It was a death sentence.
Elias lived for the day that Esven sought shelter in his church. He knew he could protect her there. Keep her safe. But he understood her apprehension toward his offer. The walls of his holy ground would guard her, yes… but it would be the only place in Pinesguard that she’d find sanctuary if the townsfolk ever discovered her true nature. Or worse yet, the Brotherhood. The church would seem like less of a refuge to her, and more like a prison if she were to become trapped in its parapets forever.
Leaning the broom’s handle against the exterior wall, Elias turned. As perfect a chore as sweeping was, it failed to occupy his mind wholly. He needed to move. To feel purposeful. To get some blood flowing through his legs.
Advancing down the steps, he drew his hands into the sleeves of his robe. Kind nods to passersby never failed to lift his spirit. Elias delighted at the exchange of pleasantries. Even in hard times, generosity poured out of the voices of those who greeted him. For however much Pinesguard’s people thought he helped them, they assisted him, as well.
Lively movement lived in nearly every corner at this hour of the day. With the sun high up in the sky, the people flocked outdoors to absorb its warmth. Lighted days were kinder to most. It brought coins out of pockets, and gossip out of mouths. Both merchants and citizens delighted in days such as this one.
For how beautiful the bouncing bodies and sunlit streets were, it was the lack of movement that captured Elias’ attention. The shadows. Farther from the center of the town square, his eyes jumped to Pinesguard’s fallen. The beggars. The lepers. They scarcely moved their bodies, crippled by both physical pain and the shame that accompanied their existences.
Dwelling beneath torn cloth that served as a shield from the sun, the collection of outcasts sat in their squalor. The cobbled stone roads gave way before it touched them, leaving them with nothing but filth to rest in. Pinholes of light pierced through the holes in the fabric that covered them, bringing only minimal warmth to their tired, ragged forms.
The priest watched as a man, flat on his back, with a thin cloth of tattered wool, moaned and turned away from the sun. Gripping his stomach, the leper buried his face into the blackness, preferring to spare those who traipsed by the unfortunate burden that was gazing at him.
A beggar rattled a small, cracked bowl. His effort was weak. Unenthusiastic. His eyes were turned ever downward, finding himself unfit to meet the eyes of those who walked with the jingle of coins in their pockets.
Elias’ brows came together. He patted at his robes, finding the loaf of bread he had stashed there after he broke his morning fast. Approaching the small handful of downtrodden people, he stopped before them, wearing a gentle smile on his face.
“Hello, my brothers. My sisters.” He nodded to each of them, his voice soft and forgiving. Elias knelt, lowering himself to their level, as they all claimed a low spot on the unpaved ground. “How do you all fare this fine day?”
His placidity earned him a few weak smiles. One of the lepers lifted his hands, wrapped in soiled bandages. He tried to cover his face, to cast even more shadows over the unsightliness of his appearance. Elias reached out, lowering the man’s arm. “Please, my friend… you’ve nothing to hide from me.”
Kind as the gesture was, it created mixed emotions in the man. He wanted to be seen as he was, as any human being did—but time spent in the unforgiving gazes of regular folk had rattled his nerves. He’d spent too many hours listening to the whispers about his hideousness that he began to believe them, himself. “Th-thank you, Father. I am sorry.”
“You’ve no reason to seek my forgiveness,” Elias replied, reaching in his robe to remove the bread loaf. “Tell me,” he started, tearing it into equal portions for the few who lived there, “what is your name? I regret to admit that I haven’t seen your face in Pinesguard before.”
The man stared at the bread, feeling the saliva collect in the pockets of his mouth. He shuffled in his spot, unable to take his eyes off of the morsel. “They… used to call me Edgar, Father.”
“Used to?” Elias reached out, offering Edgar his piece whilst simultaneously handing out the others.
The bread sat in his blistered hands for only a moment before he shoved it into his waiting jaws. It tasted of everything he’d ever wanted. He could not savor it enough between the few teeth he had left. Several tears ran down Edgar’s cheeks as he chewed. When he had the wherewithal to redirect his focus back to Elias, he swallowed the mouthful down, wiping the breadcrumbs from his lips with the back of his threadbare sleeve. “Nobody ‘round who needs to use my name anymore, Father. Don’t know that I’ve heard it spoken in some time.”
The confession painted sympathy on Elias’ face. He dashed it away, certain Edgar had seen enough of both disdain and pity to last him several lifetimes. He replaced it instead with another warm smile. “Well, then let me be the first in a very long time to say that it is nice to meet you, Edgar.”
The man returned his smile. It was a unique thing, sporting three yellowed teeth that dangled on the edges of his diseased gums. But it was
genuine, and for that, it was immaculate. “Thank you, Father.”
Before Elias could open his mouth to say more, the clopping of nearby hooves caught his attention. A shadow fell over him and he turned, following the long, dappled lines of the horse’s legs up to its rider’s face. Perched atop the beast, the symbol of the Brotherhood fell into view. It was hard to miss: perfectly emblazoned in all its glory on the rider’s chest plate.
Short, well-kept hair. Bold posture. Rigid exterior. Elias recognized him straightway.
“De’Savaria,” the priest announced, offering a nod from his place on the ground. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
“And you, Father Deverell.”
Kind though his word were, Elias sensed the fragments of disgust that lined them. It was not uncommon. In the few years that he had known De’Savaria, disdain was among the most prominent sentiment the man displayed. Elias understood it, given the man’s history. Disdain was often a side effect of heartache. “It is a lovely day,” he uttered, gesturing his arms out to enhance his small talk, “is it not?”
“A lovely day for those who the Angel Lord shines His light on,” De’Savaria replied, his nose crinkling upward as he gazed upon the vagabonds.
Elias shrugged. “He created the shadows, too, and even those are nice when the heat of the sun becomes too much to bear.”
A small snort followed. His eyes traveled to the hands of the outcasts, lingering on the pieces of bread that they chewed upon. Once more, his focus flicked to Elias’ shoulders. “The Angel Lord has vexed these people, Father Deverell.” His tone dripped with reined irritation. “I must admit, it puzzles me to see you assisting them.”
His brazen words and obvious contempt made the drifters withdraw. They turned away from De’Savaria, sheltering themselves from the revulsion they had came to know all too well. Their actions made Elias’ heart drop. He turned back to De’Savaria, inclining his chin. “They are still children of our god,” he uttered, removing the few coins he had from his pockets to place into the beggar’s broken bowl. They clattered into the bottom with resonance as Elias’ gaze drifted away. “Parents may spank their children, but it does not mean that they love them any less.”
The observation made De’Savaria grunt. As he reached out to gingerly stroke the neck of his horse, he muttered, “You seemed distracted during service today. I prefer that the word of the Angel Lord be spoken with more enthusiasm, Father Deverell.” Tearing his eyes away from his steed, he found Elias’ face. “Is there something troubling you that I could help with?”
It was both a slight and a genuine offer. Elias grew familiar with De’Savaria’s wavering support. He took a slow breath in through his nostrils and exhaled. “Your offer is appreciated, De’Savaria. I know the Brotherhood lives to spread the word of the Angel Lord. But I am skilled in absolving any repercussions that stem from common troubles.”
De’Savaria stared down at Elias, without skipping a beat. “And what of uncommon troubles?”
Suspicion. Elias recognized it as soon as he heard it. With a confident smile, the priest turned to face him. “No such thing exists. Troubles are troubles, De’Savaria, and if the number of people who seek holy exonerations from them is any indication, troubles are never uncommon occurrences.”
A silence followed. Then, a smirk. “Father Asher has taught you well,” the mounted rider murmured.
Elias nodded, though he was struck by the sudden mention of his mentor. “Indeed, he did,” he replied, simply to fill the silence.
Father Asher. He had been a fine mentor. An unmatched warrior of Brigovia’s Angel Lord, and an even greater friend. Though age had separated them by well over two decades, Elias Deverell and William Asher found common ground in their maturity, their generosity, and their faith.
Asher had taken immaculate care of the church and its inhabitants. His death left a lot to live up to, when Elias was forced to step in for the executed priest. He missed him. He missed him terribly.
“A shame,” De’Savaria mused, inspecting the integrity of his gauntlet, “that his virtue did not protect him from corruption.”
The words were a dagger in his chest. Elias closed his eyes immediately, that he could try to rid the sting from his heart. Father Asher’s fall from grace was widely spoken of, but regardless of how often it touched Elias’ ears, it did not make it any easier to listen to. “If we were all born perfect,” he said, easing the tension in his jaw, “we would all be gods.”
A stillness trailed after Elias’ words. Then, a laugh. It was smug, and tinged with depraved amusement. “So we would.” He reached down and seized the reins on his horse, wrapping them around his hand. “If you should change your mind, know that the Brotherhood is always available to aid the church. Good day to you, Father Deverell.”
Elias watched as De’Savaria guided his stallion away and into the crowd. Bodies parted away from him as if commanded by magic, though the priest knew the only power De’Savaria possessed was unmatched sureness and skilled swordplay. The Brotherhood’s leader did not align with Elias Deverell. They shared one thing and one thing alone: a love for Brigovia’s Angel Lord. Elias often clung to that common ground to get him through his interactions with De’Savaria.
He knew the man loved his god. For that, Elias was grateful. But De’Savaria loved too much, and for all the wrong reasons. It was that love that had deafened him to the point of disability. In his desire to force others to invite Brigovia’s Angel Lord into their lives, his screams of subservience left him unable to hear the sentiment behind the god’s teachings.
De’Savaria was not the only one.
Part of Elias wished that De’Savaria could have helped him. The man overflowed with unbridled capability. Anything that De’Savaria set his mind to would undoubtedly be done. But the leader of the Brotherhood was the last person who could assist the priest with his troubles. He was, after all, the very man who pulled Esven’s mother from her home and burned her at the stake. The same fate awaited Esven, if she were ever to be discovered as a witch.
Elias offered kind nods to each of the vagrants before he stood back to his feet, and pulled his hood over his head.
She would never be ousted. He wouldn’t let that happen.
What began as a promise to Father Asher evolved into something much more. Elias had been trained for two great purposes: to honor the word of the Angel Lord, and to uphold Father Asher’s wishes.
Though it was the former priest who had brought them together, Elias found that after some time, he had naturally come to enjoy Esven’s company.
Perhaps too much.
On his walk back to the church, he found himself frowning. It was easy for a priest to grant clemency to others—but it was far harder to absolve himself. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes Father Asher had. He couldn’t. Not after witnessing the consequences with his own eyes. Elias had the good fortune of learning from his mentor’s missteps.
As he approached the grand entry to the church, a woman trotted down its steps and came to his side. She gently grabbed his arm, a soft smile blossoming onto her face. “Father Deverell? Some peasants are in the church to see you, seeking a meal, medicines, and a kind ear.”
Elias pushed thoughts of Father Asher from his mind. He focused on the young maiden’s face and returned her smile. “As it turns out, I have been richly blessed with all of the above, and I am more than willing to share.”
With her delight showing on her face, she led him back up the church steps. It would be good. Another deed to hopefully keep his mind from Esven.
Five days. One hundred and twenty hours. Then, he could revisit her. Make sure she was in no danger. As Elias opened the doors and disappeared inside the consecrated walls, he inhaled, holding the breath in his lungs.
He could wait. As could she. She was a capable young woman. He turned a corner, off to find the remedies for the sick who had gathered in his halls.
Yes. Soon. The sight of Esven’s safety would be just the me
dicine his own mind needed, if he could manage the wait.
Chapter Six
Esven no longer needed the dawn’s lively chorus of singing birds to wake her. She had grown quite accustomed to rising with the sun. Today, however, she sat on the edge of her simple bed, staring at Balvonak’s sleeping form across the room.
She had provided him with a blanket, a pillow, and little else. The witch couldn’t scrape away the mild bitterness that she wore at the sight of Maritimus, curled up in a tight black ball, atop the fire demon’s chest.
The sleeping cat rose and fell with each deep breath the slumbering demon took. A soft glow from the foxfire molded over their bodies. Esven tapped her fingers on her cheek, annoyed, as she rose to her feet. How could Maritimus grant his unattainable acceptance to a man who wanted to destroy humanity? The cat had always been selective about who he laid in the company of. It seemed his standards were slipping.
It was early, but Esven could no longer battle the eagerness inside that prompted her to usher Balvonak out the door. Mostly, because she wanted to rid herself of untrustworthy company. Then again… a very small part of her… just a microscopic sliver… actually entertained the idea behind Balvonak’s suggestion.
Small though it was, the fact that she entertained it at all scared the ever-living shit out of her. For that, she needed him gone.
Traipsing over to the window, Esven spread the cloth that served as her curtains. Light flooded into the small room, landing on both the demon and the cat. Balvonak made no notice of it. Maritimus lifted his head, glaring at Esven with sleepy eyes.
“Don’t get sassy with me, you little turncoat.” The witch frowned at the feline before crossing her arms over her chest. She flicked her gaze to Balvo. The light did little to stir the demon into a waking state. Her foot would be the next best thing.
She extended a heel, issuing a gentle, albeit potent tap in the side of his ribs. Her efforts earned her a grunt and a single, open eye.