by Steve Thomas
He turned his eyes once more to the heretic, who was standing over a fire-pit. The fire was already lit and glowed blood-red, with no hint of any other tones. He stood, twirling his hands and chanting in some infernal language. He closed a fist and emitted a wave of frost that turned the moisture on Pashel’s chest to ice and froze over the only way into and out of the cave. He was trapped alone with the heretic.
As Pashel stepped away from the jagged mass of ice and into the firelight, he felt a profound loneliness. The white noise of thousands of voices of the Convergence drifted away. He felt cold, hungry, weary, angry, and profoundly alone. But no, he wasn’t alone, not quite. There was something else in his mind, something that wanted to taste the flames.
And he felt the heretic trying to push into his mind.
He stepped forward, drawing on the magic of the Convergence to ward himself against fire and magical attacks. But as he stepped deeper into the cavern, the blood-red light washed away his magic as well.
The heretic crouched and grabbed a blanked to wrap around himself, then sat by the fire. “The Convergence can’t reach you here, or maybe it’s you who can’t reach the Convergence. I’m a little hazy on the details.”
Pashel scooped up a rock and approached the old man. He may not have access to magic, but he was still trained to fight. He would capture this enemy, or kill him.
The heretic prodded at his unearthly fire with a stick. “I take it I’m under arrest,” he said with equal parts menace and irony in his voice. “I wonder, what gives the Convergence the right to incarcerate, torture, and execute people? You seem to do a lot of that for a religion centered around unity.”
Pashel raised the rock over his head. “We cannot suffer servants of the Despot to run free,” he said. That mantra was ever close to his tongue.
“The Despot.” The old man traced the symbol carved into his chest. “Not his true name, but accurate enough. Well, you’ve managed to corner a servant of the Despot. Excellent work, I’m sure. Your handlers will be oh so grateful. But I’m afraid we won’t be leaving this cave for a while, so why not pass the time with a nice chat? If you can keep me amused until my fire burns out, I’ll come willingly.”
“The only thing more dangerous than a heretic’s blade is his tongue,” Pashel said, reminding himself as much as he was declaring it to the enemy. He knew he couldn’t overpower the heretic. He was severed from the Convergence and equipped only with a pair of pants and his boots. The old man had every advantage. And so Pashel resolved to wait. He dropped the rock and paced in front of the ice, searching for any opening, any avenue of attack.
“So resolute,” said the heretic with a detached grin. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t even have to listen. But…” The crimson light flared. “You will amuse me.”
Pashel felt a tug against his soul. It was something like the feeling of connection brought by the Convergence, but where the Convergence was like a million men each pulling the same plow through a field, this was like two men trying to pull open the same door from opposite sides. It was hostile, competitive, and cruel. It was a duel of spirits and a contest of wills.
“You must be wondering why I wanted you specifically. It’s because I could feel our bond. You’re linked to me, linked to what you call the Despot.”
“No,” said Pashel, but he knew it was true. It was the darkness he tried to deny, that he pretended was a disease. But he knew all along, in the depths of his mind, that it was another link so very similar to the Convergence.
“But I have to know why you cling to the Convergence.”
“I’m an orphan. They raised me.”
“I was an orphan, too,” said the old man. “In a way. But tell me, who killed your parents?” He laughed. “Oh, they never told you, did they? It never fails. They send squad after squad to arrest me for the high crime of abducting innocent villagers and forcing them into my cult, and half the time, every member of that squad was a victim of the same story.”
“That’s a lie,” said Pashel. It had to be. The Convergence had rescued him. They had cared for him, given him life, and helped him suppress his link to the Despot. But they had lied about what was wrong with him and made him choke down poison. He felt the heretic rooting around in his mind. Were these disloyal thoughts his own, or was the witch implanting them? And if they were false thoughts, they were also old thoughts, so had the heretic been inside his mind for years?
“There it is,” said the old man with a self-satisfied smirk, as if he had just picked a lock. “You may want to…” A sudden wooziness hit Pashel, as if a night of drinking had just caught up to him. He slumped against the cavern wall and crumpled to the ground.
And he had the dream again.
***
The metallic stench of blood assaulted Pashel as he cowered under a table. His mother lay beside him, her face locked in a rabid scream, eyes open, blood still dribbling from the gash in her neck and oozing onto the tips of her curly red hair. Pashel could feel the floor beneath him becoming slick. “Don’t fight,” had been her last words.
His father was backed into a corner. He was scared, yes, but his eyes showed equal parts fear and determination. Three inquisitors bore down on him, climbing over the bodies of their comrades. One of them collapsed, his legs severed at the thighs. The other two turned their attention away from Pashel’s father and flailed their swords uselessly at the air where their comrade had just been standing.
Both their heads rolled to the floor a moment later.
“Loose arrows!” someone shouted, and a wooden shaft sprouted from Pashel’s father’s chest. A Templar marched forward, flanked by two more inquisitors with bows drawn, a silvered shield raised high. Some unseen assailant, the family’s protector, hammered against the shield, but each blow was lighter, fainter, until they stopped altogether and the Templar marched on. He plunged a dagger into the dead man’s eye.
Pashel was alone in a pool of blood. He curled into a ball and sobbed. It had all happened so quickly. One moment, they were eating dinner together, and before his mother had even sliced the bread, a Templar kicked down the door and inquisitors streamed in, steel bared.
Now inquisitors were wrapping their dead in blood-soaked rugs and scouring the house for anything they could justify calling heretical artifacts, smashing what they could and carrying out what they couldn’t. They ignored him as they cleaned out his home, confiscating every fragment of his life, until the priestess stepped in.
She was an old woman, with her white hair coiled into a tight bun, walking slowly on her aching knees. When she crossed into the room and her pristine white shoes slapped onto the bloody floor, the Templar and inquisitors dropped to one knee. She nodded at them, then raised her right hand into the air, opened wide with her fingers splayed, then closed it into a tight fist. The others returned the salute. The inquisitors set back to their work of looting Pashel’s home, and the Templar stood tall.
He removed his glistening helmet and cradled it in his left elbow. “Sister Neshka, thank you for coming.”
“You may thank the Converged God for placing me nearby.” She smiled and craned her head as she scanned the room until her gaze finally landed on Pashel. “Has the boy given you any trouble?”
“None.”
“Good,” she said. “Then perhaps we can yet redeem him. All become one.”
“All become one,” repeated the Templar.
Neshka drifted across the room, paying no heed to the red stains climbing her white silk skirts. She lifted an overturned chair and dragged it with her, leaving tracks through the red floor, until she reached Pashel. She gingerly climbed down the chair, groaning and waving off the Templar’s attempt to help, until she came to a rest on both knees, one arm resting upon the seat of the chair and the other hand reaching for Pashel.
“I’m sorry you had to see all that,” she said, her voice oily with practiced sympathy. “You were wise not to fight.”
Should he respond? His parents had j
ust been murdered by the Convergence. He could think of nothing he could say to this woman that wouldn’t end with a sword in his own neck. So he bit his tongue.
“You don’t want to talk to me. I understand. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either. Nevertheless,” she finally let the outstretched hand drop to her side and strained to lift herself to her feet. “Nevertheless, you’re a ward of the Convergence now. You’ll come to learn that all these events are the will of the Converged God. You may even thank him someday.” She gave him the same salute she had given her soldiers, outstretched fingers that collapsed into a fist, all becoming one.
She hobbled her way out and called over her shoulder. “Bring him to the temple. Gently, if he lets you.” She came to a stop, leaning against the door. “The Converged God shall protect you, my son.”
***
Pashel awoke in the cave, drowning in long-lost memories. “What did you do to me?”
“Just a rather advanced counter-spell. You should have kept up with your studies. I didn’t even trigger any traps.” He was grinning again, always grinning. Pashel wondered what it might be like to be so smug. “The Convergence likes their orphans to forget where they came from. You’d be surprised how many children they abduct, though I suspect you’ve delivered a few yourself.”
“The child of a heretic must not be held responsible for his father’s crimes, but should be taken under the wing of the faith.”
“And a little memory loss helps speed the process along.” The heretic tightened his blanket around his shoulders and closed his eyes. The fire was burning low now. It wouldn’t be long before its magic faded and Pashel could arrest the man, if he kept his word.
But the mission felt less important now. At the least, he could conduct his own interrogation, try to sort through the lies and learn what he could from this man. “Why did you lure me here?” he asked.
The heretic shifted his weight. “Ah, so I managed to jog your curiosity after all. I brought you here because I need a new inquisitor.”
A new inquisitor. That implied he had an old one. Is that how he’d learned about Pashel? How many spies did he have hidden in the Convergence? He thought back to Surya, the acolyte with whom he’d shared an odd connection during his last treatment. Was she one of the heretic’s servants? Was she like him, afflicted with roiling blood?
“I know about the medicine,” said the heretic from behind the dying fire. “Most men taking it don’t last into their forties. You may as well use wine to suppress your link to the Despot. It’ll kill you just as fast, but you’ll have more fun dying.”
Again, the old man told Pashel something he already knew but wouldn’t dare admit. He dreaded his medicine every night, dreaded missing a dose, knowing the pain it wrought no matter what he did. But no, these were the words of a heretic, designed to tear him from the Convergence. “You’re lying. You’re trying to make me doubt my faith.”
“Do you feel dishonesty? We’re linked already, so you should be able to tell. All I’m asking is that you let me in now and again to keep an eye on things. In exchange, I’ll teach you magic you’ve never dreamed of.”
The Despot pulled at him again, bringing his mind closer to the heretic’s. Indeed, he felt only honesty, albeit a sinister sort of honesty that traded only in dark and disturbing truths. And with a wink, the heretic unlocked more memories. Pashel remembered the beatings, the days of isolation, the hard labor, the hours spent reciting scriptures that burned his tongue, and most of all the shame. The Convergence had taught him from a young age that he was sick, that his very spirit was rejecting the holiness of their faith. There was an evil inside him that needed to be driven out, and they’d tried every method they could find.
And they’d never let him feel the resentment. They’d locked it away along with the memories of his parents and the day they were murdered. He knew they still watched him. The Convergence was full of people like Reylla, always seeking out the sins of others so they could ignore their own. The Convergence had brought him nothing but pain and rejection under a thin veneer of purpose, and his roiling blood had ever tried to burn its way out. He had been their unwitting thrall for years.
But defecting to a new master wasn’t a solution.
The fire sputtered out in a puff of smoke, but the cave held on to its crimson hue, illuminated by the glow of the Despot’s magic. “I suppose that’s all the time we have together,” said the old man. He stood and kicked at the ashes to douse the remaining embers. “So. We had an agreement. You entertained me until the fire faded. I’ll come willingly if you insist, or you can join me. Which will it be?”
He was still smiling.
***
When Pashel trudged back to the tree in the muddy valley, Rige and a swarm of villagers were hard at work digging graves, even though the sun had already set. Rige jogged up to the inquisitor and thrust a blanket into his arms. Pashel thanked him and draped it over his bare shoulders.
“I’m glad this is over,” Rige said.
“You’re up late,” said Pashel.
We’ve all been itching to bury these men so their families can finally have peace. It’s been hard to sleep with servants of the Despot hanging from a tree so close to town, but we didn’t want to take them down…”
Pashel nodded. “I understand. Give me a shovel and I’ll help.”
“No, no,” said Rige. “You’ve done so much already. And your friend Darbo…I’m sorry, but he fell.”
“I know,” said Pashel. As soon as his link to the Convergence had been restored, he marked Darbo’s absence from it. “He died with honor. All become one.”
He spotted Reylla sitting alone by a campfire, then patted Rige on the shoulder and approached her. She wore more bandages than clothing. Her armor, black and bent, lay in a heap beside her. Her hair had been reduced to ashen stubble, and her face was red and blistered. She had been burned, and badly, by the hanged men.
Pashel sat and drew the blanket close around his chest.
“Did you kill him?” she asked through a clenched jaw.
“Yes,” he told her.
“Did you bring proof?”
“No,” he said.
Reylla grunted. “So you abandoned us in battle, got Darbo killed with your negligence, and you can’t even prove that our mission was a success. I should have asked for authorization to kill you before we even left. “
Pashel said nothing.
“I know you’re a heretic, even though Darbo vouched for you. I don’t know whether you fooled him or he had a blind spot for you, but you aren’t fooling me. You woke up the hanged men and chased after the witch, alone, with no one to verify your story. And I don’t know how, but you blocked me out of your thoughts. Meanwhile, a man I loved and you claimed to hold as friend died because you weren’t here to do your job and protect us from witchcraft. And look what they did to me!
“I knew you were a heretic from the moment we left. I know all about the medicine you take. It’s what they use to excommunicate apostates or rehabilitate servants of the Despot. It doesn’t calm you down. It doesn’t quiet your blood. It suppresses an unholy soulbinding.
“I’m reporting you when we get home. The whole Convergence will know what a monster you are. You’ll pay for what you did to Darbo, and I hope they’ll let me swing the axe.”
He understood now that she was right. He was bound to the Despot. That was the darkness that roiled his blood, that kept him an arm’s length from the rest of the Convergence. But he was also a slave, an abductee. He had been raised to hate himself and take dangerous medicine to suppress his true nature.
That was over now. He was done letting the Convergence tell him who to be. It was time for him to change the Convergence.
“Enough,” said Pashel. He leaned close to her ear and whispered. “If I’m a monster, it’s because of people like you.”
He drew strength from his soulbindings, the Convergence and the Despot both. If the Convergence was a web, then Pashel was th
e spider. He followed the web of the Convergence to Reylla’s mind and unleashed the fury of the Despot in a psychic assault. She sputtered and fell onto her stomach, convulsing.
He bundled himself tighter in his blanket and smiled while Reylla gasped for one final breath.
***
Home in his chamber, Pashel sat on the edge of his desk as Surya glided through the door. “I thought you told me you’d ask for someone else,” she said with a playful smirk.
“I realized that you’re exactly who I need.”
“Well.” She pulled her dress over her head and slipped into bed.
Pashel moved to join her.
The spider crawled into the web.
The bed shook. The floorboards rattled. Pashel’s flask of medicine tumbled off the desk.
And shattered.
Purged
The Sangrooks have been ousted from their seat of power. Their Empire has been shattered. Their clan has been scattered. And yet, they remain a threat. They are a blight, more dangerous than any army, more deadly than any plague. They must be destroyed to a man.
- From the Proclamation of the Sangrook Purge, King Althurel II of Vestige
A girl drew her hood tight as she approached the ancient stone bridge that spanned the roiling river. The horizon would bleed soon, marking the time to rush home, but before the sun set and the fireflies swirled, she had important business to attend to.
She glanced back and forth, checking all angles around herself to ensure that she hadn’t been followed. When she was certain, she spun in one last circle and ducked under the arch and into the shadows.
She stepped carefully over the rubble. Driftwood, garbage from the town, and fallen bricks all littered the ground. The river was still high from the recent rains, so she held on to her skirts with one hand to keep them dry as she crossed.