“What do you suspect?”
Rachel thought the words were said so calmly, so serenely. She knew her friend would not believe a word that she would say in reply, but a willing ear would be a comfort. “It could be several things, Lu. For instance, wait—“ Rachel stopped suddenly, and pointed to the Cathedral of Light in the distance. Its white walls shone, even in the evening gloom, its gilded steeples palpable. Lutessa looked on, like some eager pupil. “What do you see, Lu?”
Lutessa giggled. “Is this some trick question, Rachel? I see the bastion of Light itself, blessed by the wisdom of Mother God—our Light in the dark. What do you see?”
Lu will not believe a word of this. “I see three hundred years of labyrinths wound up in marble and white stone. I see secrets and trysts of women with power. I see a burden that none of us can rightly understand.”
Lutessa shrugged her shoulders and sighed. “Rachel, for near three hundred years the faithful have been persecuted—by the old Marcanas kings, and the succession of imperators. If it were not for the exploits of Justine the Indomitable, these walls would not stand. If there are any secrets and trysts, it is in treachery and betrayal of emissaries that have come to the White Walls, not in those who serve it faithfully.”
“The Voice is hiding something—it is why Trecht and Isilia keep coming back.”
“Naught is hidden, Rachel. It is our land they want. They always have.”
Rachel looked her friend in the eyes, and she saw conviction and resolve. “It is more than that.”
Lutessa roped her in for an embrace, and Rachel held her close. “Rachel, seek out the Light. Pray. You will have an answer, then. I shall leave the door open. Your soul needs guidance.”
Rachel simply watched Lutessa walk away down the empty street, east, towards chambers the Faith had made ready for them. Rachel did not avert her eyes until the she felt terribly alone, and then made for the Cathedral of Light.
She walked the side streets, avoiding the market squares. There was some joviality and raucous clamour in the distance, though she ignored it. Nearing the cathedral, there were a few knights with one fist against their breast, their other hand clasped about her sword. She could not tell if they regarded her, but she knew they would not care about her, if she did not start trouble. The knight at the door merely nodded his head, and signaled her into the cathedral.
Rachel walked upon the wide marble floors, looking ahead to the Hall of Prayer in the distance, past the long bridge that nestled over the upper floors of the libraries. Robes shuffled to and fro, and a few whispers echoed off the walls, though at the end of the hall was empty, save for the sculpture of Mother God—her wings stretching endlessly, looking down upon the children—and Rachel felt a warmth of light surge through her as she knelt, closed her eyes, and prayed.
Mother God. When I was but a child, you gave me succor when I had none. I do not recall much of my mother, and of my father, I have no memory. Your servants offered me salvation, guidance. I may be an orphan, but they were my family, and those girls who I dined with tonight, and Lutessa, her especially.
Yet I cannot seem to follow blindly as I used to. I do not reject your succor—no my faith has never wavered in you—but I cannot escape these feelings, these premonitions, that those who serve your will do so as liars. Thieves, I fear, knock upon our doors, and though your holy knights repel them and their kind, they are never truly ended, and the cycle continues. Do the knights and wizened priests, do they know that time is short? Does the high priestess know? Do they delay the inevitable?
The more I read, Mother God, the more nervous I become, and the more I want to ask questions that none wish to answer. We, your children, are we fated to thrash vainly in this mire? Do we wait for your guidance? Will it come. I fear there is so little strength left in the faithful. When Isilia comes—or perhaps Trecht or the reavers—will it be our last? Will you send us a Voice that shall lead us out from this darkness? Or, is the Time of Ascendance inevitable?
I want to believe as Lutessa does. Faith, my faith, it is not enough. Deliver unto me a sign, I beg! I beg! I must know. I want to act.
Rachel opened her eyes. The sculpture of Mother God looked down upon her. She felt naked and judged. The warmth was still upon her, but if there was a sign—
A shadow seemed to pass by her left eye, and she heard the distant patter of feet. Looking to the far left of the hall, she saw a door that lead to a stair. A steward should stand vigil there. She hurried off and ascended the stair.
The steps seem to creak with every step. She heard no sound but her footfalls, though the questions in her mind raged, and she hoped this was the sign she begged for.
The Hall of Faith opened before her. Rachel looked to the left, and the immense doors to the Chamber of Judgment were shut, though no knights stood at guard. She looked to the walls, and the torches burned as if they were just lit. Instinctively, she walked the hall to the right, and ascended the western stairs to the solars of the Voice and her counsels.
If I have erred in this, they will send me back to the monastery and—
She heard the faint whisper of voices coming from above, though she could not puzzle out the words. Hurrying her steps, she reached the upper hall. The whispers were louder, but she saw no knights, not even outside the chamber doors. Something is wrong.
With each careful step, the voices became louder and clearer. Rachel stopped at a near door. It was slightly ajar, and the voices were clear. She could not see much, but one voice was the calm and serene voice that had to belong to High Priestess Gloria, and the other was quick and slithering. Rachel was sure she had not heard the voice before. She leaned against the wall, ear towards the opening, and listened.
“Did you not command Ser Jacob to sail east, towards the waste?” the slithering voice asked with annoyance. “I thought it was the Voice who rules in Dalia, not the knight-commander.”
“How little of affairs you truly understand,” the Voice replied sharply. “I do command the Faith Templar, but they are dwarfed by the Order of Light. Lord Protector Ser Johnathan Falenir agreed with the knight-commander. I was in no position to gainsay them.”
“You accepted their foolishness willingly, then?”
“Privily? No. I did all that I could to make them see sense. They would not. What could I have done?”
“Assemble the clergy and made it public?”
“Public? Public?” the Voice bristled. “We have fought the imperium for three years. Every day I walk through the streets of my city and see families in mourning. Sons and daughters did not return home. They do not wish for war any longer. It would only have strengthened the knight-commander’s position.”
“You know what they are after, what they seek,” the slithering voice said. “My attention must be elsewhere. I cannot ward you from what will come. Imperator Argath is defeated for the nonce, but do not think that King Marcus will leave you alone. Then there is another…”
“What do you know, Amos? What have you not told me?”
“These reavers as you call them, they are more than smugglers and pirates. This Damian Dannars has called all the cutthroats to his banner. He has played the imperium, the kingdom, and even you, High Priestess Gloria. Whether he will appear before the king, I know not, but Trecht knows about Gabriel’s Gift—from these reaver’s lips, no less!”
Rachel swallowed hard. She had read about Gabriel’s Gift before, though most scholars dismissed it as myth and fantasy. It was purportedly in the possession of Justine the Indomitable, and gave unto her the strength of Mother God. Is that why they keep coming? To retrieve—
“It will do the king no good,” the Voice insisted. “For all your gifts, even you do not know where it rests. I guard its secrecy, as all those who came before me have. Even if these madmen burned Dale to the ground, they would not find it.”
“Is that what you want?” Amos asked, clearly annoyed. “Have I wasted my time with you and yours? The blood of the Faith gave birt
h to Lord Kaldred, and for that your flock shall be spared to witness the Time of Ascendance, but not if those armoured fools cannot be tempered.”
“Do not threaten me, Amos? You would not escape the city alive if you turned your cloak.”
“’Tis you that have betrayed me, High Priestess Gloria. Too long has this struggle gone on. Far too many years of agony and misery. If you would not be made tractable, I shall find a worthy vessel to supplant you.”
“You will leave my presence at once, Amos,” the Voice shouted. “Flee to your master and tell him that we must have further discussions upon our agreement.”
“You are a fool, Gloria,” Amos said, laughing. “If only you knew what Lord Kaldred had wrought.”
“Put that away, Amos.”
“Are you frightened, Gloria? What liars you faithful are. I thought this is what you always aspired towards.”
“Amos, no I—“
Speech lead to gurgling and the tearing of flesh. Rachel did not know what to do or think. The Voice, did he just… Without thinking, she burst into the solar. High Priestess Gloria’s robes were tainted the crimson of blood as she lay upon the floor, her fingers limp. Amos wore robes of dark teak, and his black hair fell down his back. He smiled wickedly at her. Rachel looked to the knife in his hand, soaked in blood from hilt to tip. She started to back away in a panic, realizing she had no steel to defend yourself.
“Now, now, you must remain,” Amos said.
For reasons she did not understand, she stayed still. She feared for her life as this man walked forward. He cupped her head in his hands, looked deep into her eyes. She felt violated.
“Rachel Du’vron.” She felt a chill shoot down her spine as he said the words, as if his very speech was venom. “The pragmatic scholar. I have been watching you for longer than you know. Much longer. Although, I must admit, I have more of an interest in your friend. You two are inseparable, ever since you met in Truftan Monastery.
Lutessa! Rachel willed her body forth, but her muscles would not respond. The creature smiled back wickedly.
“Oh how concerned you are for her.” Amos cackled. “You do misunderstand me. I have no intention of spilling your life’s blood.”
Amos turned his back to Rachel and walked to the Voice’s desk. As he did so, she could move again, but she could not—would not, flee. “Who-who are you? Why did you do this?”
“You heard it all and still you ask that question?” Amos stepped over the corpse of the Voice and looked out the window, into the darkness of the night. “The realm is changing, Rachel Du’vron. An end is near. It will not come for years, but it is not a far-off spectre. Myth and legend will become as real as the robes you wear. Strong women are needed to lead into this future. ‘Tis why you live.”
Rachel did not know what that meant. Any of it. The knowledge that secrets and trysts were held within the walls did not comfort her. “And Amos, who are you?”
Amos turned and faced her. His eyes were dead shot. “A man who has seen too much, and lost more than I should have. An observer upon the stage. Will you not play your part?”
Rachel felt naught but anger and frustration. None of it makes sense it—
She collapsed to the floor suddenly, her head searing with pain, and a screaming voice echoed inside her skull. “Make it stop! Make it stop Amos!”
“Look upon me!”
Rachel looked up, hard as it was. Amos’ hair billowed, as if a wind tore through the solar, and he still grinned maniacally. She saw a black nimbus surround him, and a faint blue glow that seemed suffused his figure. No account, no interpretation she ever read accounted for what she saw.
“Though you are young, dear Rachel, you have been chosen. Lutessa has been chosen. Serve It well and be rewarded. Think yourself greater, and—“ Amos laughed and pointed to the corpse of the Voice. “There are always those who serve.”
The blood and the lifelessness filled Rachel with dread. In an instant she saw Lutessa—not Gloria—coated in a crimson. It was too much. The voice. The visage. The terror. “Release me!”
“Serve!” Amos said, though it sounded like a thousand voices at once. “Serve and—“
“Rise. If you want to serve, you must rise.”
Rachel looked up at Lutessa. She was dressed in her white robes of the Faith. Rachel rubbed her eyes and looked around. She was in her squat apartment in the eastern residential district. “How did I… come here, Lu?”
Lutessa chuckled, and her long brown hair waved to and fro. “You had far too much wine last night, Rachel. So did I, but you came home much later. I dozed off, but when you came through the door an hour later, I woke up. You stumbled about. I helped you into bed. Seems like you needed some extra hours, but the faith awaits no woman.”
Rachel breathed deep, looked past the drapes to the city of Dale bathed in the mid-morning light. Did I… dream it all? The Voice, Amos, that voice roaring in my head? It seemed so real, it— “The Voice?” she asked inexplicably. “Is she…”
“In the Cathedral of Light, doubtless, awaiting us—us and the others. Come. You can eat after the ceremony. Get dressed. The Faith awaits no woman!”
Lutessa left, and Rachel withdrew smallclothes and a folded white robe from the dresser. All her life she wanted to put on those white robes, but it felt wrong to her, somehow. If that dream is real…
She walked the streets of Dale with Lutessa, Annabel, Patricia, Heather, and Lilly. Rachel said very little while walking the cobbled streets. The markets were busy with trading and bartering. Children scurried off towards the smaller churches, though some clung to their mother’s skirts protesting another day. When the Cathedral of Light came into view, knights stood all along the walkway, and at the oaken doors, a score of Faith Templar stood at guard, faceless and emotionless.
Inside priests and priestesses hurried along the marble floor, past the fluted pillars, and towards the Hall of Prayer. Rachel followed as Lutessa lead her around the side and onto the central dais. Rachel looked up at the sculpture of Mother God. She still looked down sternly, and Rachel felt hollow and afraid.
Looking out to the crowd, she saw the faces of the clergy sitting along the hundreds of pews. Some yawned, though most sat attentively. One or two had fallen asleep, though they seemed to be older in years.
Time passed intermittently. Lutessa tried to share whispered words, but Rachel shook her head. She wanted this to be over. That did not stop the others from chattering away. They spoke of the ascension ceremony, accepting the blessing of Mother God, and one or two spoke uncouthly about a couple of handsome young priests.
The whispers were silenced as the first scholar arrived. Anastasia was short, comely, and her long auburn hair was turning grey. Rachel knew that she was Lutessa’s surrogate mother. In a way she was mine too. I have never known a stouter friend.
“Brothers and sisters,” Anastasia declared at the dais. Rachel thought there was a sadness in her voice. “Today, the Voice was to give blessing to these sons and daughters who have become mothers and fathers to Her most holy flock. They have laboured long in their youth, and now are called to serve Mother God’s children. It will be a hard life, but they have accepted it.
“High Priestess Gloria knew this too. All too well. These sons and daughters will still become mothers and fathers, though the ascension ceremony will not take place today.”
The assembled chattered frantically. Anastasia shouted, trying to calm them down, but to no avail. Lutessa squeezed Rachel’s hand and whispered, “What does that mean?”
Rachel looked at every face, youthful and aged. She thought they knew it too, though the words had yet to come.
Rachel said the words as Anastasia did.
“High Priestess Gloria, Voice of Mother God, is dead.”
Book III
Rise of the Corsair
The Coming Tide
Dawn
6 October 15120
Daniel stood before the great doors of Castle Marcanas at the h
our of dawn.
The city was still and quiet, and the castle seemed half asleep. The right oaken door was half open, and a helmeted knight of the Royal Protectors stood on guard, his right hand on the hilt of his sword. The sun gleaned off the gilded plate and his verdant cloak flapped in the wind.
A day will come when the king will wrap a cloak around my shoulders, Daniel thought. I care not for my lordship—Brayan can have that. I will stand as a knight.
The knight grunted and pointed inwards. The king must have told all his knights. Daniel inclined his head slightly, showing respect. The knight showed no emotion as Daniel walked into Castle Marcanas.
Stepping on the rich red carpet, he thought the pale rays of the sun gave the castle an orange glower. The stone walls rose high to either side, and the green and yellow banners stretched down from the ceiling; there the great lion of Trecht stood on its hind legs, blood and slobber dripping from its jaws.
Of maids and manservants, he could only hear, not see. A knight approached from the left, helmet in the crook of his elbow. “Daniel Baccan, son of Lord Devan Baccan, I presume?”
“Ser!” Daniel replied with his back straight. He thought it important to not forget an ounce of formality, even when the king was not present. “I am Lord Devan’s, son, here to answer the summons of King Marcus Marcanas.”
“Come with me,” the knight replied, though not willing to wait before walking down the western hall. “And say not a word.”
Daniel followed the knight diligently. He peered down open halls and antechambers as he passed them; maids were preparing tables and benches for the morning meals, and he saw a few old men cloistered together deep in discussion. Along the walls were great suits of gilded plate, long handled axes and halberds, bastard and great swords, all encased in great glass enclosures, nestled beside the walls, each with its own plaque. He knew that these were famed weapons of lore from knights of high repute, but the lessons of who they were, what they did, faded from his mind.
The Prelude to Darkness Page 22