by Steve Thomas
Harlin stared blankly ahead, uncomprehending, like a lamb about to be slaughtered. There was nothing left to say. Braxim plunged his magical blade into into Harlin’s chest. With a twist and a surge of magic, he expanded the spike to crack open the man’s rib cage, splitting open his chest and flaying his ribs like the wings of a hawk. Braxim grabbed hold of the man’s still-beating heart and rode his soul as it fled to the depths of whatever realm held the Pact.
He landed like a hammer upon a slab of meat in an ethereal plane of flesh and bone. The red-gray ground gave way under his feet, oozing blood with his every motion. Spires of bone jutted from the ground in all directions like collapsing pillars. The sky was solid black, yet he could see clearly. The threads that Almondo had mentioned were indigo braids of light extending from his body, one forward beyond the horizon and the other…
Harlin slumped on the bloody ground, spasming. Braxim placed his right hand on his thrall’s shoulders to steady him, and he felt at once the shoulder in the ethereal plane and the heart he clutched in the physical world, both in equal measure. “Stay and rest,” he said. “I need you alive for a little longer.” Harlin’s soul nodded and closed his eyes.
He followed the first thread, the one that lead him into the distance. He could still feel Harlin’s heart beating in his fist as he left the poor wretch behind, sinking into the festering ground.
He passed through forests of bone and lakes of blood until a figure appeared atop a writhing hill, connected to Braxim by the magical thread. Whether it was his mother or father that carried the Sangrook bloodline, Braxim couldn’t know. He only knew that he must steel himself to slay his parent, to sever the magical link between himself and the Pact and set himself free.
He heard a low, proud chuckle from behind. “Heh heh heh. Oh, Braxim, I didn’t think you had this kind of magic in you.”
Braxim spun, coming face to face with the gaunt, hunched frame of his brother. His stomach churned. How could he face the man who he had murdered, his own brother? The fantasy of demanding an apology seemed so petty, so wrong now.
Orkael circled around him. “Well, well. Look at you, Braxim. How long has it been? Twenty years?”
“Three months. Orkael, I—”
“Don’t bother. If you’re here and you look like that, then you’ve been continuing my work. I know you think I was being selfish, going mad with power.” He chuckled. “But I’m just happy to know that the Sangrook legacy is living on, in part thanks to me. I haven’t explored far, but oh the things I have learned down here. What changed your mind? Guilt? No, you’ve always been so sure. Do you just enjoy the thrill of killing family members?”
Braxim ground his teeth and frowned. “I haven’t killed them. I put them to use.”
“Always so practical.” Orkael stopped and turned to face his brother. “Like when you were so upset that I killed a worthless prince. Well, I suppose I could learn something from you. If I had been more practical, been more like you, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation. I would be alive and you would be my servant.”
“It’s too late now,” said Braxim. He flared his magic, conjuring a spear in his left hand. His parent was still standing oblivious. If he could make the shot, aided by the power of the Pact, he could end this. He would sever both himself and Orkael from the Pact. He only needed to get past the ghost of his brother.
Orkael flashed a serpentine grin. “Drawing a weapon first? You’ve changed.”
Braxim drew back his spear and aimed for the shadow in the distance. Orkael pounced.
***
When it was over, a spirit slid into Braxim Sangrook’s body. He gave Harlin’s heart a squeeze and the thrall dropped dead, finally released. Sangrook stumbled away and came to rest leaning against a tree. He was winded, worn out, and felt older than ever. The fight had taxed him, even in the spirit world.
He reclined against the tree until he caught his breath. But he couldn’t wait forever. He still had work to do. He patted his blood-soaked hands on his cloak and felt for the journal tucked away in a pocket.
He slid it out and flipped open the cover to the first page, where Braxim and Orkael’s names were written.
With a stroke of a finger still stained with Harlin’s blood, he crossed Braxim’s name off the list.
Argentatus
The Great Pontiff has shown himself immoral and negligent in his pursuit of corruption. For this reason, he has left me no choice. Henceforth, the Inquisition shall assume leadership and administration of The Church of the Converged God.
- Statement of the Grand Inquisitor
Pashel lay on his straw-filled mattress, his heart racing, an acolyte at his side. Her leg crossed over his own and her naked breasts heaved as she caught her breath. With one hand, she clung to Pashel and with the other she brushed back her tussled blond hair.
For most members of the Convergence, this would be a moment of reflection on unity and connection, a spiritual experience. He should have felt the bliss of love and acceptance, and of being part of an interlinked community. A little promiscuity was encouraged to maintain the Convergence, and acolytes were the hubs in a vast web. After all, spreading that connection was every acolyte’s role, the first lesson taught to a prospective member of the Convergence’s inner workings. But Pashel was no ordinary inquisitor. Something inside him was always pulling away, nipping at the threads that bound him to his role in life. Without them…
The acolyte’s vigorous assistance had brought him closer to the Convergence, yes, but he needed something more potent, and quickly before the afterglow faded away. He stood. A draft cooled his body; inquisitors’ chambers were meant to be unpleasant. He crossed from one corner of the room to the other and pulled open a desk drawer. There, stashed among devotionals and dossiers, were a bottle and a cup. His medicine. He carefully measured out a dose and stashed the bottle back in its drawer.
The acolyte lifted her head. “Will it hurt?” she asked timidly as she flowed off the mattress.
Pashel lifted his cup, careful not to spill any of the precious tonic. “You? No.”
He heard a sigh of relief. “Leyrel told me she broke out in hives and her hair fell out.”
It had been even worse for him. After that episode, his hair had never grown back, while Leyrel’s was down to her chin again. “That was after a mission that went on too long. It’s worse the longer I go without, but I’ve taken my medicine—both stages—every day for the past month. You’ll be fine.”
On the other hand, it was painful for him every time. Pashel brought the tonic to his lips and tilted it down his throat, trying his best not to give himself time to taste it. He doubled over, groaning, leaning on his desk with one hand. As the tonic’s effect hit him, it felt as if his blood were boiling, as if his skin might melt. The magic of the medicine was hard at work subduing whatever evil possessed his body, had possessed him since the day the Convergence took him in. After ten seconds of agony, his blood calmed down and he breathed easily at last, feeling the serenity and connection of the Convergence.
When he turned around, the girl was sitting on the edge of his bed cradling her head in her hands.
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t expect you to be in any pain,” he asked.
“I’m not,” she said, “but I felt…something.”
That wasn’t supposed to happen. The Convergence should have absorbed and diluted any side-effect as long as Pashel hadn’t missed a dose. Members of the Convergence healed quickly from injuries and rarely became ill because they shared so much of each other’s burdens. But to actually feel the force that tormented Pashel, that was uncommon. It seemed to stand apart from the Convergence, as Pashel often felt he did himself. “Put it out of your mind. I’ll ask for someone else next time.”
Her green eyes were full of curiosity and resolve as she slid into her hose. In her mind, this wasn’t over, but Pashel knew this was his curse to bear, and he would not allow it to corrupt another member of the Convergence, le
ast of all an acolyte who still acted as a temple prostitute. He needed the Convergence to become pure of whatever corrupted him, as pure as possible. The Convergence was his only defense.
The acolyte slipped her bright blue frock over her head. She looked back and forth between Pashel and the drawer, and after a moment’s hesitation, said, “There’s no right way to say this, but you aren’t nearly the monster Leyrel said you were.” She cringed at her own rudeness.
The words stung, but not nearly so much as knowing that they came from a place of truth. There was an evil within him, something Sister Neshka had called “roiling blood.” They treated it like a disease, an affliction. It helped to think of it that way. It was the roiling blood that was evil, not Pashel.
“Like I said, I hadn’t taken my medicine for too long before Leyrel.” He shut the drawer and ushered her to the door. “I thank you for your assistance. You’ve strengthened my bond with the Convergence. All become one.” Those were the words one said to an acolyte, the last part of the ritual. Laying with an acolyte was more than sex. There was a magic to it that only the Convergence could provide. It was as essential to the religion as any other ritual.
She smiled and bowed, then slipped through the door.
“I never caught your name,” said Pashel.
“Surya,” she said. “All become one.” She bowed and drifted down the hall toward the acolytes’ quarters.
Pashel barely had time to step into his pants before there was another knock on the door. It creaked open before Pashel had a chance to respond. “Another acolyte? You’ve been an inquisitor for five years. Why haven’t they assigned you a permanent partner?”
It was Darbo, a Templar from Pashel’s squad. The Templars and inquisitors were the military arm of the Convergence. Inquisitors rooted out heretics and the Templars struck them down. He wore a mail hauberk underneath a black tunic embroidered with the Three Points, a triangle with a line drawn inward from each vertex and tipped with an arrow-head, the symbol of the Convergence. Darbo’s light armor meant a field mission. It meant travel on foot. The longsword and kite shield on his back meant he was leaving soon.
Darbo was smart for a Templar. Rather than the usual brutes who let the Convergence do their thinking for them, Darbo had begun an education before his parents dedicated him to the faith. He was probably the only Templar who could read his own orders. He even owned a pair of spectacles, which he wore over his wide face in Pashel’s doorway.
“You know I have a sickness,” said Pashel. “A partner would defeat the purpose. I have to dilute my attentions so no one else catches the disease.”
Darbo leaned into the door frame. “I wish I had thought of that. I might even sleep with you a few times if that’s what it takes to start a parade of acolytes into my bedroom.”
Pashel scowled. “Don’t mock my disease.”
Darbo raised a hand defensively. “Just a joke, Pashel. He reached into the leather satchel hanging from his shoulder and pulled out a scroll. “We have orders. You, I, and Reylla move out tomorrow.”
Reylla was another Templar, Darbo’s assigned partner in all things for the past few months. It would have been called an arranged marriage outside the Convergence. They lived together, ate together, fought together, and lay together, and their bond was strengthened by divine magic. It was a beautiful thing, one which Pashel would never know.
“Where are we going?” Pashel asked.
“Redbramble,” said Darbo. “It’s a farm village a week north of here.” He handed Pashel a rolled-up piece of paper, which Pashel unfurled to reveal an illustration of three horizontal lines beneath a circle. “One above many. The mark of the Despot.”
“They found half a dozen men hanging from trees with this carved into their chests. Three of them had been reported missing months ago.”
Pashel titled his head. “So we have a heretic running amok.”
Darbo took the paper back. “Not recently carved. They were all scarred over.” Pashel raised an eyebrow at this. “And there’s more. They appear to have hanged themselves.”
“How can you tell?”
“A witness. There was a woman who said she saw six men climb a tree, tie nooses around their own necks, and jump off.”
Six men, all committing suicide at once. There was only one explanation. “The heretic bewitched them and made them kill themselves.”
Darbo nodded. “Our sources put him in a cave outside the town. Our orders are to take him alive for questioning.”
“Escorting a heretic for days is a dangerous game. You never know what filth he’ll try to pour into our minds.” He’d been taught to be vigilant, even more than most. His affliction made him particularly susceptible to heretic lies, or so Sister Neshka always said. She had been a harsh mistress, never missing an opportunity to remind Pashel of the evil roiling inside him. So he’d immersed himself in the texts, sat in countless interrogations, and arrested dozens. Only constant exposure to evil would prevent him from becoming complacent, and the darkness inside helped him know exactly who he was hunting.
He pulled on his padded shirt and blackened mail. He strapped on a belt with a short sword and a satchel of bone meal for spell-casting, and slipped his prayer beads around his neck. And last, he pulled a fresh bottle of medicine from inside his desk and hooked it to his belt. That should get him through the journey, at least well enough to hold onto himself until he returned to the temple.
He had a heretic to hunt.
***
They traveled by foot with the swift pace granted to them by the power of the Convergence. They felt no fatigue, because the other members of the Convergence would help them shoulder it. Perhaps some acolytes would sleep in the next morning. Perhaps an old priest would doze off during a meeting. Most wouldn’t notice any difference. Pashel liked to believe that there was an order devoted to eating and sleeping to provide endurance to the rest of the Convergence.
But a member of the Convergence must be conscientious of the collective, and so they stopped at an inn after three days of running.
Pashel collapsed onto a bench in the dining hall. Darbo and Reylla took their time speaking with the innkeeper and arranging for food and lodging while Pashel collected himself with deep, slow breaths. His blood was running hot again after days of exertion. Drawing on the strength of the Convergence didn’t come easily to him. It was like sucking honey through a straw and left him exhausted.
“You’re not looking well,” said Darbo as he slid onto the bench. He passed Pashel a cup of wine and a plate bearing a cluster of grapes and a small loaf of honeyed bread.
“Must be getting old,” said Pashel. “I can’t keep up with you two.”
Darbo chuckled at that. They had trained together in the Order of Haspeth, the militant branch of the Convergence. Darbo had always been tall, strong, and fierce, qualities which had put him on track to become a Templar almost immediately. There had never been any question for him. By the time Pashel joined the Order, all he knew was that he needed to stay in the shadows of the faith.
“Somehow I doubt you were ever young,” said Reylla. She drank from her cup, eying Pashel. “I once knew an inquisitor who couldn’t draw power. For the longest time, we all thought he had some illness of the mind that kept him at a distance.”
Pashel had heard stories like these. After all, he wasn’t the only one taking medicine and there was no shame in it, at least not in Vestige. The Convergence wanted to find a place for everyone. “A common story,” he said. “Did they find a cure?”
Reylla smirked and brushed her short brown hair away from her eyes. “A bath of fire did the trick. We determined he was a heretic in hiding.”
“Reylla!” said Darbo. “I’ve known Pashel since we were children.”
“I’ve known plenty of sinners and heretics, some when I was a child,” she said. And Pashel had known plenty of self-righteous bullies who wielded their faith as a weapon. “I saw that potion you drink every morning, Pashel, the one y
ou think you’re sneaking past me during prayers. When they transferred me to Vestige, I thought that living at the seat of the Convergence would immerse me in higher standards of devotion and purity, but all I see is compromise.”
It was compromise that had saved his life and his soul. “Then I’m glad Vestige is the seat of the Convergence, and not wherever you came from. It is the Despot who rules through fear and death, not the Converged God.” His blood heated at the mention of the names of the warring gods, as if invoking them together awakened some battle within himself.
Reylla scoffed. “You can’t even look me in the eye when you spread that filth. Soon, the faith will be on the right track again. And you—”
He felt the power welling within him, two clashing forces wrestling for domination. The fire in his blood wanted to spill out and vent its rage upon the Templar woman. But the Convergence strove only to soothe and bring peace between them. It was like a leash around a tiger’s neck, and the tiger was straining to break it.
“Enough,” said Darbo. “We are on a mission to capture a servant of the Despot, and I’m ashamed that I have to remind you this isn’t an internal investigation. We already have a suspect, so the two of you can stop trying to frame each other.”
They ate in silence from then on. Reylla was from one of the northern colonies, where the Convergence was as much of a tool of survival as it was one of expansion. It was a colder, harsher place where disobedience meant exile, and exile meant a frozen corpse.
Pashel took in deep breaths to calm his nerves. He scanned the room, trying to look anywhere but at Reylla. This was an active way-station by the looks of it. The innkeeper leaned against a counter built into the half-wall between the great room and his office. He was an old man with a short white beard. He looked vulnerable back there, but he did enough business to hire two burly bodyguards. The innkeeper was talking to a pair of hunters, most likely discussing the rate of a night’s lodgings and where to hang the pheasants they carried. There were a few dozen people filling the great room’s tables. Many were pilgrims on their way to Vestige, judging from the frayed burlap tunics that had been in circulation for decades. Hunters milled about, lean, blood-stained men who refused to leave their knives behind the counter, trading their kills for a soft bed and a night away from their families. And of course there were ample groomed and practiced whores there to help pilgrim and hunter alike. A few musicians huddled by the fire, playing a gentle tune that blended into the hum of chattering guests.