Hour after hour and day after day it was the same endless desert. Dunes rose and fell. Food and water lingered. She felt her own strength fading, but she pushed on.
She had to. Amerie, the knights who trusted her, the priests who depended on her, they awaited her. She would not let them down.
A thirst had overtaken her, and as she upended the water skin, only small droplets fell on her tongue. She tossed it away. “That is the last of it. Either I find Amos—or I die.”
If Amos walked the desert, she saw no sign.
Hours came and went. The dunes no longer rose and the sand stretched for miles. Her throat was bone dry, but stubbornly, she pushed on. Amos will not win. I will not let him. I cannot. Cannot …
The desert seemed to darken, as if the sun was blotted out. A wind picked up, swirling sand and dust. Justine fell to her knees and closed her eyes; the storm was beating maliciously at her and she tried to summon the strength to stand but her legs faltered.
So far only to—
The wind gusted at her, breaking thought. She writhed, struggling against it, but her body would not obey. The flight from Trecht, the trials of Gabriel, the strike against Lord Theodore, it all was for naught. It would end in the desert; the faithful defenseless, her father’s burden buried like the towers and people that once dwelt beneath the storm.
Unwittingly, Justine opened her eyes; the sand churned like a twister, stinging her flesh, the very realm naught but a haze. But she saw a shadow beyond it growing steadily; it was wide like a building, though no structure she knew could saunter like it seemed to.
She crawled forth, but the swirling sand pushed her back; she felt her limbs stiffen. I must, I must, I … As the words trailed off, her left hand groped the satchel at her waist and she withdrew the God Stone, gripping it so hard crimson seemed to flood all around her.
Yet it was silent. Dormant.
Justine raised the God Stone above her. “Mother, your strength, I need it,” she said weakly, tasting sand and dust. “I cannot falter here. I cannot.”
The storm never relented.
“Please.”
The God Stone suddenly reverberated in her hand; the Light pulsed, threading echoes across her sight. She felt it creep across her flesh, cascading against the storm. Distantly, the shadow darkened, no longer growing but casting a strength across her flesh.
Justine fell to the ground, losing all feeling in her body.
The storm ended.
Get up.
Justine heard the muffled voice in her head, though all was dark.
You have come unbidden. Get up.
Justine willed herself to a knee and opened her eyes. The storm was gone. A long stone walkway opened before her, leading to a wide structure wrought of grey-green stone, narrowing near the precipice.
He awaits you.
She stood and gazed into the God Stone, its Light illuminating, pulsating. “Mother, my thanks,” she intoned and stepped forward. The stone never dulled.
The walkway was smooth, as if it was only constructed the day before, far away from the sand and heat. Short walls rose to either side adorned with murals depicting sovereigns and monarchs sitting upon thrones of wood, stone, or gleaming crystal; some held scepters, others staves and swords; they all wore crowns, but some of bronze and iron, others gold and silver. None seemed to akin to Trecht. What is … it does not …
She kept looking to the depictions, seeing plate and chainmail clad warriors; some knelt in prayer before a great Light, whilst others held swords and halberds high, as if calling upon the great shadow above them. That … that is like the castle in the forest, but that is so far away. Who would draw them here?
Turning to the opposite wall, she saw scholars nose deep in books, whispering to each other, leading ragged men towards a mountain. Is that the great mountain that Lord Theodore built his city upon the slopes? Yet these scholars look not at all like nobles.
Justine raised her eyes: the walkway was near ended and two men in brown robes stood sentry, holding long, smooth quarterstaffs with their right hands. Justine froze, holding out the God Stone and the Light-forged bastard sword shimmered in her hand, light gleaming off the metal.
The men looked like Gabriel.
“You have found the Mother in your heart,” the robed man on the left said solemnly, his plain and creased face belied no emotion. “So the high servitor had told us.”
“Who?” Justine asked, but she did not lower her sword; she did not trust them.
“High Servitor Jophiel,” the other had said; his face was smooth, but there was no hint of youth in his voice. “He shall answer your questions.”
The name rung through her mind. Amos had mentioned him—and Gabriel. “Where is he?”
The robed man on the left grunted and pointed to the smooth door that stood slightly ajar. “Follow the path to the serpent’s spine. He awaits you there.”
Breathing deeply, she held her blade aloft and entered the structure.
The walls towered high above, and the thin windows near the roof let in no sand or dust, only the piercing sun. Men and women in brown robed passed to and fro through the hall; some into small antechambers, others gathered around pedestals holding pristine statues of men, spherical relics ornately crafted, or weathered armaments. Justine’s eye caught a tower shield: taller than she was, it depicted a red dragon on a field of green. That is of no noble house in the kingdom. Nor do the shamans revere relics like these. What jester rules this place?
None of the robed men and women looked towards her, or the Light-forged blade in her hand. Fears flittered through her mind for what that meant; that all these were like Gabriel, and their blood might have to fill these halls. Amos and Jophiel first, she told herself, picking up the pace.
In the distance were spiralling staircases with red carpet atop the stone steps on either side. The hand rails looked to be of bronze, depicting the scales of a lizard. Justine hurried up the stairs.
She came to a long hall with stone benches erected to either side, facing towards a wide dais with a red curtain hanging above. Curling to the rightmost side, she strode forward. The Light of the God Stone seemed to clasp to her tightly, relentless.
“Amos!”
The Betrayer turned from an immense door littered with symbols she had not seen before. His pale face and rheumy yellow eyes were slithering like a snake. He glared back at her.
Justine held the sword with both hands; the Light pulsed through her, unafraid as she felt.
Amos laughed. “Have you forgotten the Dream so readily?”
That barren wasteland never left her mind, nor the blackened creatures with terrible scythes. She did not forget feeling powerless, until the Mother spoke to her and she confronted the Dark God. “I have not.”
“It seems that you have,” Amos said. A sickening smile spread across his face. “Few amongst you can survive its terror, never mind slay a man from it. You should be commended for that, but no more.”
Justine listened to Amos once, but not again. “I am through with your lies.”
“Lies?” Amos seemed to chew the word. “I have not lied to you. You are not the Bringer of Dawn. You are a pawn, a useful pawn, yet a pawn all the same. What you have done is what I wanted you to do. Across the sea and into your enemy’s city you followed me, and then the Desert of Death, oh so very aptly named. Yet it has weakened you. There may be a Light-forged sword in your hand, but I doubt you could harm me like this.”
Justine grimaced and her whole body felt like lead. The Light kept her strong, but she would not let him know that.
She charged at Amos.
Amos thrust his hand out, revealing a crystalline stone, glittering like a sapphire. A darkened fog seemed to suffuse him.
Justine felt her body stiffen; her fingers still clasped the Light-forged sword, but she could not move.
Just like in the basement of Gabriel’s castle.
“Oh, how frail and weak you are, Justine Duvan,” Amo
s cackled. “You wield pow’r that you do not understand, and never will.”
As Amos’ words faded, Justine heard a grating sound. The door behind her foe began to illuminate: a large symbol on the left that looked like a P and R crossing each other glowed red, and to the right what looked like a W, D, and M interposed on each other, though circled, matched the other’s radiance.
“Power and wisdom,” Amos croaked, his voice scraped against the grating. “Power without wisdom is wanton destruction—the evisceration of all life. Wisdom without power is noise without meaning—void of purpose. My brother’s nonsense.”
Justine thrashed against the bonds, but her body would not listen. She did not care a whit for Amos’ words.
Then the symbols darkened and the door pushed inwards. A robed man with a hood drawn stepped forth: brown, like the others, but an enormous serpent was upon his chest, its tail twisting down a leg.
“Brother,” the man said, looking towards Amos. “You should not have brought her here.”
“You admit to abandoning her, High Servitor?”
Jophiel … she thought, trying to size up the robed man. She did not see much difference between the three of them. They were all manipulators, and everyone else the subservient. “Release me!”
“See how she prattles, brother?” Amos said. “If she was what your goddess thinks she is, would she not burst free from my grasp?”
Justine felt the eyes of the high servitor; she could not see them from the shadows of his hood, but she thought he could see through her. He should not have told you to get up.
Jophiel was in her mind. Out of my head! she thought back.
We do not have time, child. You have been thrust into a conflict that should not have been yours. I regret that I could not see it sooner.
I told you to get out!
So much anger, Jophiel’s voice said solemnly. You have Her blessing. You grasp it at need, but you would rather bury it.
“She is not who you thought she was!” Amos shouted.
“No, she is not.” Jophiel’s voice crackled and he revealed his palms: a clear crystalline stone upon the right and a fiery orange twin upon the left. “Shorn of our father’s blessing, she will do as was ordained.”
What is—
Pain coursed through her; she felt as if her flesh was torn apart and reknit. Crying out in pain, her sight darkened, and all that remained was High Servitor Jophiel, Darkness and Light suffusing him.
Wage your war, child, Jophiel said in her mind. Or all shall be lost.
Then, nothingness.
By Steel, By Faith
Early Light
15 September 14813
Justine opened her eyes to a clear blue sky.
The God Stone?! Where is it? Where? she thought, thrashing about. The side rail of a trading cog hemmed her in on the right, and to the left stretched the side of a long cabin.
No God Stone.
She pressed her hands against her body, feeling boiled leather, but did not discover a pouch or satchel.
“We did not steal from you,” a burgeoning voice said suddenly. A barrel-chested man in whites and greys pointed a fat finger towards the aft of the cog. “Further down there, that pile.”
Relief flooded Justine as she retrieved the pouches and satchels, sifting through them until see felt the God Stone: its Light faint, but threading through her. Just a little longer, and it will be ended. Rising, she cinched the pouches and satchels to her waist and turned to the man. “My thanks, captain?” The man nodded his head. “Where are we?”
“On my ship, though that is bloody obvious,” the captain boomed, grinning. “We are near the southern islands. I suspect Master Irwin will want to see you.”
Justine did not know how she arrived here, or how this captain knew the trader. Shaking her head, it did not seem to matter, nor did the captain appear inclined to wait. “He may,” she replied calmly, not wanting to belie much. “Did he send you? Where did you find me?”
The captain cleared his throat. “If he did, I would tell him that the Seeker is no errand ship.” He shook his head. “No, Master Irwin puts coin in my coffers, but he did not send me. I was just finshin’ a run when one of my crew spotted you on the southern shore of that eastern land. I will not be callin’ it Isilia; do not want to give heed to what Lord Theodore thinks. It was strange, though. You were not soaked to the bone, as I thought you would be. It is as if you jus’ collapsed there. You do a bit of wandering, lady knight?”
The shore? The thought seemed ridiculous, but so did waking up on a trading cog on the southern seas. Her memories were fuzzy, but Justine recalled standing in a grey-green temple in the middle of the desert, God Stone in hand, before Amos and Jophiel. Then they did, they … she shook her head, feeling the captain’s eyes on her. “I may have.”
“Whatever affairs you carry for Lady Justine is your concern, no doubt.” The captain, whoever he was, clearly did not recognize her, and she did not try to correct him. “Second time in as many turns of the moon I have seen one of you. Makes me wonder what Master Irwin has planned.”
So do I. “You would have to ask him.”
The captain nearly bent over double, erupting in laughter. “I do avoid a blade between my ribs,” he said quickly before straightening and wiping tears from his eyes. “Well, we will meet with him soon, doubtless you before I. Can I trust ya not to jump ship?”
Answers, Justine needed answers, and it seemed that the Seeker would lead her to them. Or more lies and deceptions; false promises and wayward leads. She kept that to herself, and said, “I give you my word.”
“A word of a knight, now that is what I can trust.” The captain turned and waved. “Speak not to my men but do what you like.”
The captain’s men scurried about the deck: they checked the rigging and exchanged terse words, some descending to the lower decks, while others looked about with narrowed eyes. Justine ignored them and pushed to the prow of the ship and leaned over the side. She stared into the clear blue water; the cries of birds distant, interrupted by the grunts of the crew as the oars dipped in and out of the water.
She withdrew the God Stone from its satchel. Turning it, she wondered once more how a crystalline stone caused so much strife. It did not resonate nor speak to her. She would have given anything for the Mother’s voice, as it was in the Dream so many months ago.
Is that my lapse, or is it my desperation? I never prayed, nor do I want to. The priests are sheep, weak, needing succor. I will never be that, even if I have to … Justine let the words trail off.
The realm seemed still, and her mind wandered. Wage your war, child, Jophiel told me. Or in my head. Did I imagine that? No. His was not the first, but do I trust it? I trust the Mother, but him? He is no different from Amos and Gabriel. They have to die. All of them. She gripped the God Stone hard, her blood dripping over the rail. I will not forget, I can never forget. This is my father’s burden; what he began, I will end. Then all of this … all of this will be at an end.
The God Stone did not stir. You bleed me, like you did him. Turn the seas red, but I still will not serve you. Amos! Jophiel! Do you understand!
The God Stone did not stir.
Months had come and gone and still she did not understand Gabriel’s accursed gift. The Light still threaded through her; the presence was unmistakable. If she commanded it, the bastard sword would come into her hand. Light-forged, it will serve. It will serve against these manipulators.
The wind blew softly, the cerulean blue rushed past, the grunts thundered in the stillness, and naught changed. It will, but not now, she thought, placing the God Stone into the satchel, before wrapping her cut hand with a linen cloth. Unless some magicks were wrought, it must have been weeks since I rode to the desert. My people seemed safe, but Amerie, she was disconcerted, for more than my journey. It … she let her thoughts stray, before realizing what it must be. It must mean that she feared Lord Theodore to sail. I must—somehow—arrive before his legio
ns do. I must. Irwin will see to that.
Whispers seem to travel on the wind, and distantly, the blue was broken by dirty yellows and greens: a land began to rise slightly with dense, sprawling woodlands. The southern islands, she thought as the trading cog drew nearer, travelling westward down the coast. The beaches were abandoned but for small creatures that clicked and clacked. The trees, old and gnarled, were stunted but overcome with thick growth; birds of all colours flittered to and fro, and squirrels hurried from branch to branch.
It is so peaceful, so innocent to the horrors of tyrants.
More of the captain’s men thudded above deck; the navigator and the crewman in the crow’s nest were shouting back and forth. Justine thought it loud enough to wake the dead.
“Not long now,” the captain said from behind her.
Justine allowed herself a brief smile. “It is beautiful, all of it. Mayhap because it is abandoned, lest I am a fool.”
“I would account no man a fool, or woman, or knight.” His face flushed, and he hurried his words. “That is Master Irwin’s intent, the wise man that he is. Lord Theodore has left us alone because he cannot find us.”
“One slip up, and—”
“We would be gone before that bastard would know a thing.”
Justine did not want to argue. “Are you holed up—”
“There,” he cut her off, laughing. “You will see it once, but not again.”
She thought the man intolerable but watched as the cog passed under a sheer cliff wall, the waters calm and steady. Spires of rock thrust up from beneath the water—some rising just above the rails, others towering far over it—guarding a cavern mouth, dark and drear.
The cog meandered through the spires slowly; the brightness of the morning had all but faded, and an impenetrable dark was toppling over Justine. In the distance shone the orange glower of torches, growing steadily brighter. She saw that stalactites hung from the cave wall, drifting barely above the sails. Her eyes drifted to and fro towards the widened harbour filled with trading cogs, barges, and a single war galley at the far end. Men and women in whites and greys were busily loading and unloading ships, carrying crates into natural tunnels at the back of the cavern. A handful of swarthy men in burnished chainmail oversaw the labour.
The Prelude to Darkness Page 17