The Prelude to Darkness

by Brenden Christopher Gardner

  The dagger impaled the lord through the crown of his head.

  “A-Amerie,” Justine said faintly.

  Amerie sighed at Justine, feebly shaking her head. She grasped the God Stone.

  Amerie … Amerie … why … why …

  “Will you not tell her?” a snake-like voice asked.

  “If not today, she would have brought us ruin before long. The Duvan line must end.”

  Amerie. Justine knew that was Amerie’s voice. Arrows. Amerie’s arrows. They pierced Justine, through the gaps in the chain. She knew that now.

  Amerie was a traitor.

  “And the temptation shall be gone?” the snake-like voice inquired.

  “We had an accord,” Amerie said. “Father Curtis and I will decide our course. It shall be an heirloom of our holy kingdom, grasped only when the Faith is threatened, not for vendettas.”

  “Just so. I shall keep it safe. I do thank you, Amerie Akellin.”

  Darkness and shadows clouded Justine’s sight, and she could not understand what was said. Yet it hardly seemed to matter.

  Death had come.

  You did not think it would end so easily?

  The snake-life voiced echoed in her mind. Amidst the darkness and shadows stood a blackened figure, lanky, with a cunning, devious smile. Justine knew who it was, but the voice was different. It could not be.

  Long ago the Dark God taught me to shape-shift, the snake-like voiced persisted, and Irwin Kole felt like a well-worn boot. You, much like your father, are far too concerned with righteousness and justice; it is too simple to pull you to where I desire.

  Justine tried to pull towards Amos, but she could not. She had no strength.

  Mark this well, oh Gabriel’s gift to you. He opened his palm revealing the God Stone, its Light swallowed by Darkness. They shall say that a divine radiance cast back the shadows of the imperium’s legions, yes, they will say that, but you and I, dear Justine, we know better. It is not divine radiance, but a blinding illumination.

  You never were the Bringer of Dawn, but your arrogance, your unceasing righteous, you have carved the path to the field of the dead. The Marcanas family is mine. Amerie Akellin, Father Curtis Lakin, and whoever they choose are mine. And, of course, what remains of the imperium, are mine.

  The Dark God comes for them all.

  Darkness swallowed Justine.

  Light Within Shadows

  Falling Light

  24 September 14813

  Arthur was losing his patience listening to the guildsman’s prattling.

  “And that is why, my lord, that the Guild desires a reprieve of, ah, the foremost tariffs.”

  Arthur steepled his hands and studied the angular features of the snivelling messenger from the Guild. The full light of the afternoon shone through the window behind, revealing every movement from the guildsman: his eyes seemed to shift to and fro, waiting, unnerved, as if afraid of what would be said.

  The Guild knows the answer I will give, Arthur thought. This rat knows it too. “What has fallen the kingdom these past few months? Do you and your masters know that?”

  “M-my lord?”

  Another naive puppet, or a wretch lost in his own arrogance. Frustrated, Arthur turned his back to the guildsman and looked out the tall window. He knew that the Guild could not be willed away, but he wanted to remind himself of what still stood, what was worth all the blood, all the sacrifice.

  The west of the city lay sprawled out, and the people walking to and fro were no more than tiny specs. Most were woefully ignorant of what passed in the private chambers of the castle and in meetings of council. It seemed better that way: it was all madness and hard choices.

  Arthur sighed. He looked past the city walls, beyond the green plains and dense thickets of forest. Smaller towns, villages, and farmland lay from the coasts to the mountains. Some villages had no more concerns than wolf packs and bandits. It may be for the best.

  “My lord?”

  Wrenching himself away from the window, he was reminded of the guildsman who clearly saw no value past his own coffers. “Would you prefer to answer my query at sword point?”

  “Affairs of the kingdom are not—”

  “Concerns of the Guild?” Arthur cut in sharply, not wanting to listen to any more foolish babbling. “Near half the kingdom has sailed east. Men and women in the provinces starve, and more will succumb to the cold in the months ahead. Our ports and ships, they are not what they were. And yet the Guild would ask the crown for relief from tariffs? Is that what you would ask of me?”

  “The Guild has made generous donations, my lord. We are not unaware of affairs, but if the books are not balanced—”

  Arthur rounded on the guildsman. He had enough. “Would you proffer such words before the king?”

  The guildsman took a step back, lips trembling, and inclined his head slightly. “The king need not concern himself with such matters, but I—”

  “The tariffs remain. Now leave.”

  The guildsman turned and rushed hurriedly towards the study door.

  That will not be the last of them, Arthur thought solemnly, taking a seat at his desk. The days have been trying for us all. Still, we must persevere, at least until these matters end.

  “My lord?”

  Arthur’s manservant, Bernard, stood at the inside of the door with head bowed, his pointed beard covering the golden lion on his doublet.

  “Are there more, Bernard?”

  Bernard raised his eyes. “But one, my lord.”

  “Send him in.”

  The manservant closed the door and strode across the chamber.

  “Bernard?” Arthur asked, alarmed. He stood grasping an ornate dagger. “What do you …”

  “Oh, that will not be necessary,” Bernard replied, but with a quickness of speech that Arthur had not heard for long years. A speech that he was glad to be without.

  He dared not move. The lie that he kept tread carefully towards him, who had the king’s ear, who gifted a terrible treasure on the kingdom.

  “Elder Amos.”

  The pressed doublet faded to brown robes, Bernard’s short-cropped hair seemed to lengthen, and his eyes turned to a dull, rheumy yellow. Arthur placed the dagger back on the desk, inviting the elder to sit.

  “I have news.”

  “Where is Bernard?”

  Amos smiled dervishly. “He has taken ill. On the morrow he will stir and be quite remorseful that he was bed ridden.”

  “So he shall,” Arthur intoned. He did not care for the elder’s manner, but there was little he could do about it.

  “Are you not curious, my lord?”

  “Of course I am, but I do not take well when my servants are mishandled.”

  “And your wards?”

  Arthur saw a flicker of knowing in Amos’ eye, and his heart sank. Justine … no … “She is dead?”

  “That seems to surprise you, my lord. Did you not ask that of me so long ago?”

  “You are twisting my words,” Arthur insisted. Whatever Justine may have done, he still promised Jonas. “I gave my word to my friend the night before his execution. You have made me a liar.”

  Amos leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I made a liar of a man who ratted out his closest friend, all for the pursuit of power.”

  The truth stung, but it was truth all the same. Arthur always thought that King Adrian, lords Jonas and Theodore, none of them could see what loomed before the kingdom: the God Stone could not lie in the hand of any man, and these elders would not be disobeyed.

  And if they could not see sense, they could not be suffered to live.

  “Justine, she—”

  “Was willful, righteous, and troublesome at best,” Amos said. “She could not resist the allure of the endless strength, and in the end, it consumed her.” He chuckled, and though it was low and faint, Arthur could not recall a more cacophonous sound. “You have not asked how she fell.”

  Arthur did not want to, not of that girl. Sti
ll, he did not think the elder would relent. “How?”

  “Amerie Akellin punctured her full of arrows, and all those loyal knights looked on. Only a mercenary stirred, but he was so full of holes that it was quite the vain effort. So much death.”

  Arthur grimaced; he knew that the elder was smiling gleefully, and it took so much to stay his hand. I am so sorry, Jonas.

  A stillness hung in the air. It was within these walls, so long ago, that he falsely pledged his support to Jonas. For a fleeting moment, he thought his old friend stood there, smiling, so full of hope.

  A dream extinguished, and a line ended.

  “And, you shall be pleased to know,” Amos said, cutting the silence to shreds, “that in a few days time Ser Marcus Rennet shall arrive with Lord Theodore Rusels’ head. I could not fault you for vengeance, if you walked that path. Oh I do wonder what such a noble lord will decide to do.”

  If only it was Amerie, Arthur thought, then I could ask her why. No, it would not matter. He looked at the still grinning face of Amos and said, “It has come to an end.”

  “Hmm, yes, that is so,” Amos replied, his grin fading to a petulant smile. “There are no living lords who could rival your power, not now or in the years to come. The God Stone is buried so deep and so far, that no successive king will ever hold it again. And, though the realm is fractured, King Adrian will enjoy greater power than he ever had. It has all ended quite well for you.”

  Peace would reign, even if it was soaked in so much blood. There was still another matter, more pressing than all the rest. Arthur leaned across the desk and plead, “And my son?”

  “On a ship sailing east. It left this morning. The winter will be long and hard, but Ser Eovald has suffered worse, has he not?”

  Arthur sat back, relieved. “The imperium shall be his?”

  “Yes,” Amos replied. “Yes, he has agreed to drop rank and title. Imperator, he says, is much to his liking. I do not know how he is your issue.”

  “He has a lot of his mother in him.”

  “The woman you had slain for stumbling upon too many secrets?”

  Rage coiled inside Arthur. He rose, hands gripping the desk and said, “Our affairs are at an end, Elder Amos.”

  “For the time,” the elder said, scraping his chair across the stone floor as he rose. “You still have many long years, and there are tasks that the king cannot be aware of.”

  “If you think—”

  “I do not think,” Amos said sharply. “I know. You care too much for your son not to obey. You are not Jonas Duvan.”

  “As you say, Elder Amos.” The words hurt, tore at his insides, but he had to say it.

  “Until we meet again,” Amos said, raising his hood and making for the study door, “Lord Arthur Diomedes.”

  316 years later…

  The White Walls

  Early Gloom

  25 April 15129

  Rachel raised her glass, joining the toast at the long table.

  She looked to her old friend, Lutessa, who beamed back a wide smile. There were other priestesses, scholars, and stewards at the table. They each said short speeches of congratulation, and Rachel knew there were many more, and she was surprised the red wine had not gone to her head.

  The Unwavering Prophet was filled to the brink; and the servants scurried around from table to table, removing wine bottles and replacing them with bottles of red and white wine, of all vintages and ages, she was sure. There were some plates stacked up, and others with half eaten roasted chicken. If Rachel’s table was indicative of the others, she did not think there was much that they ate.

  “Rachel, hey!”

  Rachel turned her head to the sound of the voice. Most of the table looked towards her, and the speaker—Annabel, a pudgy brunette, and by her tones, the woman was not doing herself any favours this night—she smiled slightly and said, “Leave them be girl.” She pointed wildly to the other tables. “Truftan Monastery was our home. Spread a little cheer to us. You always kept to yourself, but not this night!”

  Smiling, Rachel knew there was truth to that. When she was old enough to know what it meant, she was alone, and that meant putting up walls. Often she lost herself in study, and though the scholars spoke her praises, they were concerned that she would be lost in books until she met the warm embrace of Mother God.

  Then Lutessa came into her life.

  Rachel looked to her oldest friend; she was still smiling, her cheeks reddened, and she inclined her head. Rachel drained her glass and said, “Forgiveness, my sisters—for you are that, as any who e’er was, blessed by Mother God. So much has come to pass, I cannot rightly believe that we have all finished this journey, and for mine and Lutessa’s work to be exalted no less.”

  “The book worm cannot rightly believe it!” Jess shouted; she was a tall, ungainly girl of nineteen seasons. Rachel did not know much about her, but her presence was hard to miss. “I can remember the years before study, you always snuck into the libraries, and whatever chastisements of ‘play, play!’ the scholars shouted at you, it never did deter you. Not that your friend was much different.” Giggles broke out across the table. “You are the best of us, make no doubt. Your work deserves exalting. What did those old codgers say?”

  “Oh, do let me do the voice!” Annabel proclaimed. No one offered a word of disagreement, waiting for her to begin. She did so, and Rachel thought she sounded old and baritone. “The work is unusual, if I do say so, but a worthwhile insight into the men and women who bring the word of Mother God—a perpetual reminder that we who follow in Her name are but humble servants, flawed, but capable of great deeds.”

  The girls around the table applauded, and Lutessa put a hand on Rachel’s shoulder, smiling. Rachel could not help but smile herself. The work—The Guile of Disciples—was her prized labour of many long years into the lives of Luke and Savanah; and not their works under the light of Mother God, but who they were, as people, making their way through troubled times in a war-torn realm.

  What I shall never tell them, Rachel thought, is I wanted to do that, on account that I needed it. Lutessa, too, or I do not read her rightly. We who were abandoned and disregarded. The Light of Mother God was never enough. Not when the imperator wages war wantonly. We are all frail and fragile; we must see to ourselves first, before we seek Her Light.

  “’Tis a worthy work,” Lutessa said, turning her eyes towards the group. “Surely you all will do the same in the days to come. If I was not sleepy-headed during the ceremony, Annabel, you were elected as a scholar, were you not? Patricia, Heather, Lilly, you as well, no?”

  “We shall all be drunken bookworms together!” Heather cried out. She was stout and round with short cropped brown hair. “Will that not be a lark to the first scholar?”

  “My surrogate mother shall not approve.” Lutessa chastised, though she smiled broadly all the same. “You would do well not to forget that, else we may not remain in the clergy overlong.”

  The table erupted into giggles once more. A lanky manservant came, refilled their glasses, and Rachel took the opportunity to toast, once it was just them again. “To the girls I am proud to call sisters, to what we achieved, and what we will achieve ever more!”

  “Hear, hear!” Jess shouted. “Do stay out of your cocoon this time, dear Rachel.”

  Rachel pointed at the girl with her left index finger, though she thought her smile gave too much away. “I have been left in there far too long. I have never had greater friends. Blessed be your lives under the Light of Mother God!”

  The merriment went on for hours. Rachel said little else, nursing her wine, ever careful not to drift too far into drunkenness. She felt Lutessa’s eyes upon her often, appraising, concerned, but never chastising. I will not hide much from her—I never could.

  The wine stopped flowing, the tables in the Unwavering Prophet emptied, and the girls said their good-nights and farewells on the streets of Dale.

  The pale moonlight flittered from above, and the streets
were empty. Lutessa stood beside Rachel, never missing a step. She drank more than I did. I am surprised she has so much calm and balance. Rachel tried to keep her eyes forward, watching her steps on the cobbled roads, lit faintly by the evening lanterns.

  “Will you share with me what is on your mind?” Lutessa asked.

  “I never could hide aught from you, could I?” Rachel looked to her friend, and Lutessa’s face was full of knowing. Rachel decided to come out with it. “It is this past war. I know the history of the Faith as much as you. Whether it be Trecht or Isilia, we have had no shortage of foes or interest in our green, fertile lands. Once more the knights dispatched the imperium, and I do not doubt they will lick their wounds for some time, but I fear it is not over.”

  Lutessa raised an eyebrow, and though the night shaded most of her face, it was clear she was surprised. “I have never known you to resort to guesswork, Rachel, nor give into unfounded fears. Certainly, they will return, but not for some time. You must know this.”

  Rachel shook her head. She could not explain it, not even to Lutessa, but this was different. “Why else would Ser Jacob Merlen not pursue the Isilians into their homeland? The knights could hammer out peace and subjugation. End the Isilian threat.”

  “You think you know more than the knights?” Lutessa asked, smiling. “Likely it is the same as it was before. You read the history just as I have. You surely recall why we have never once struck back a foe left our lands?”

  Rachel nodded absently, inviting Lutessa to continue.

  “If the Voice gave consent to such a course, it would leave us exposed to the Trechtians to the north. The heralds have not spoken of King Marcus in some time. I worry for what he will do, and likely the knights do as well. We cannot forget the rumours of the reavers, either. Trials may lie ahead of us, dear Rachel, but it is on account of our other foes, not the Isilians.”

  Rachel had considered that, but dismissed it summarily. If it were true, the king would have sailed east, conquering Isilia whilst the imperium was distracted. If it was those reavers that we heard tales about, what better time than the three years past. “No,” she had finally said to Lutessa. It came out flat. “I am not ignorant of history, no more than you are. There is aught else that is remiss, if only I could figure out what…”