by A J Callen
Euriel stood straight, her back to him, as two great protrusions, one on each shoulder blade, struggled to emerge from beneath her smooth, pale skin.
Niclas stepped back. “What sorcery is this?”
A moment later, a nub of pointed bone from some dark appendage pierced the skin at one shoulder, puncturing the surface and extending up a few inches until the tip of a feathered wing appeared.
Niclas released his hand from the hilt of this sword. Awe had replaced fear as he witnessed the miraculous transformation before him.
Euriel turned, her chest now covered in dark brown feathers, her naked feet turned into grasping claws, yet in all other aspects she remained the woman he had first seen.
“You should sit down, my friend.” Count Borodin pulled a chair next to Niclas. “For if you faint, I will have to call Frieda and she does not like to be disturbed when she is tending to the others.”
Niclas’s thoughts whirled, trying to settle on some image or explanation that could make sense of what he was seeing, yet he could force none to fall into place to explain who or what stood before his eyes.
Had he been drugged by food or drink? No, he had accepted none nor been offered any. “The ... others?” Niclas slumped down in the chair, dumbfounded and drained from what he had just witnessed. Before him, Euriel extended her wings.
“The Sirin, my lord, all those who still remain of my kind. We have gathered here for protection from our enemies and to seek allies in the battle to come.”
Niclas shook his head as if coming out of a trance. He could not disavow what his eyes had revealed, yet he was unready to accept the fantastic creatures of legend to explain it.
“Battle? The Kingdom is at peace with all who would dare to threaten it.”
“No, not all.” Euriel gently flapped her wings before folding them once more.
“They gather their forces in the depths and darkness of the earth and will not strike with the full force of their murderous rage, until they believe their master has gained the strength to enter our realm and defeat all who would oppose him.”
“The Choldath? Do you understand how mad you sound, dear lady, if that is what you are? Or is it I who is mad, for sitting here listening to you?”
“It is madness only to those who refuse to accept the terrifying truth. Why do you think Count Borodin insisted that you alone must visit Kardi? Had he presented a formal request to the Council explaining any of this, we would have unwittingly revealed ourselves to our enemies.”
“And can you name any of these supposed enemies in Avidene?”
Euriel lowered her gaze. “I cannot, for they remain hidden in plain sight and will not risk exposing themselves until their master regains strength sufficient to prevail in our world.”
Niclas rubbed his temples again, hoping he might touch some place where reason still resided inside his chaotic mind. He wondered if he, too, had joined this mad legion of the damned. Euriel, the Divine Adoratrice, descended from the Sirin of legend, stood before him—yet before entering this house, he did not believe such a magical being was possible.
What was he to think then of her grim warning? Niclas paused and drew a calming breath. “I cannot deny that you are a miraculous vision to behold, yet I need time to make sense of everything I have witnessed.”
Euriel stepped forward and touched his arm lightly.
“Then be quick about it, my lord, for at this very moment the demons conspire and seduce many to their cause. In exchange for granting their most secret desires, those filled with anger and without hope surrender willingly their souls for promises of untold wealth and power. That is the reason for the disappearances. Our enemy needs the blood of innocents to be spilled on the earth, so that their master may gain the strength he needs to return to this world and rule it for eternity.”
“Are you saying they were murdered?” Niclas asked, incredulous.
“Sacrificed.” Count Borodin looked up from his old book with more than a hint of irritation glinting behind his spectacles. “Drained of blood, to be precise, and their bodies burned most likely. Those who do this will prove themselves worthy to the Choldath and be rewarded with their darkest heart’s desire.”
Niclas rose from his chair. “And where is your proof of these vicious killings? Not a single sign of violence has been found to warrant such a claim.”
“And none will be, I venture, for all we have now are the words of a dead man said to have partaken of water from a tainted well,” Count Borodin said.
Niclas’s stomach tightened, his suspicions now broiling in a cauldron of dread and foreboding. “What do you know of the death of Baerwald Flax?”
“He confided to Bishop Jubert that he witnessed a strange ceremony in the forest when he was hunting deer. That’s what I know of it,” the Count said.
“And the nature of this ceremony?” Niclas asked.
Count Borodin carefully turned the page of his book, slowly and quietly.
“A bloody human sacrifice. That is the nature of it,” he said.
Niclas rubbed his fatigued temples and exhaled, a half-breathless murmur of amazement and incredulity. “This… Well, you know, this is madness.” He raised his hand. “I won’t hear another word of it. Send for the coach at once. I will not spend another minute in this madhouse.” Niclas strode toward the door.
Count Borodin nodded. “Madness it may be, yet there is method to it for those steeped in the dark arts.” He ran his finger down the page and sighed. “Baerwald said he recognized the victim.”
Niclas paused. “Who?” His blood pulsed in his temple, as if his head would explode.
“Xonsu, the missing courtesan slave. He happened upon the vile scene just as the dagger was about to be plunged into the poor girl’s heart.”
A bitterly cold shadow passed over Niclas, chilling deep into his soul with familiar dread. “And did he tell you who was there?”
Count Borodin shook his head. “He could not see a single face for they were all shrouded in black.”
“Did he recognize any voices?”
“Only one spoke, the man who killed Xonsu, and he was unfamiliar—as was his tongue.”
Niclas paced the floor, feeling caught in a snare of delusion yet ignorant of who had set the trap and for what reason. He grabbed Euriel’s arm in a fit of desperation. “And how do I know that such an extraordinary creature as you is not allied with the very demonic enemies you profess are conspiring against us?”
“The woman you heard screaming was wounded in her familiar form. The arrow almost pierced her heart. They hunt us throughout the known world, my lord, for the glory of their master and will not stop until the last drop of Sirin blood falls on the ground and dyes it bright red.”
“If I am to believe any of what you have said, I must know who leads these murderous traitors.”
Euriel turned away from him. “Anthor Koldrin. You know this name?”
Niclas shook his head. “No, I do not.” A huge, heavy weight of dread settled on his chest. He released Euriel’s arm and breathed deeper, as though there was suddenly not enough air in the chamber.
“My father…” he gasped, “My father was never the same man after he returned from his journey to the mountains. He never spoke of what he had found, yet I believe to this day if he had not gone then my family would still be here.” Everything was hushed, and Niclas heard nothing except the labored breathing of his own struggling lungs.
Count Borodin closed the book and stared at him. “So, Niclas, what does your heart and reason now tell you about what you have witnessed this night? Is Euriel Glanduer our rightful Sirin queen, our dearest gift of the heavens, or is she a ghastly abomination, something conjured up by our enemies to deceive us?”
Niclas’s soul was shaken to the very core by revelations beyond his willingness to accept. “What you both ask, I cannot answer for. I am overwhelmed and conflicted by all I have seen. I must clear my thoughts and consider everything for the sake of my own sanity
. Until then, I will speak to none about this. On that you have my word.”
“Then your noble word shall be your bond of fealty, for I have no choice but to accept it.” Euriel turned her back to him once more. Inside a few moments, the transformation reversed itself almost effortlessly, free of any of the strain and contortions of the first. She buttoned up her tunic and faced Niclas again. “But the time is short, my lord, and Anthor Koldrin grows stronger every day… and soon, all will know his name.”
Count Borodin placed his hand on Niclas’s shoulder. “Come, the hour is late. We are all hungry and tired. We will talk more after dinner. I will have a room prepared for you.”
“And Sir Razmig will return in the morning?”
“Yes, though you may wish to consider different lodgings until you set sail for Avidene.”
“Why?”
Euriel brushed back her hair. “You must be careful, now, and avoid raising suspicions. We have revealed ourselves to you and there are others seeking to kill those who have witnessed what you have laid eyes on this night.”
“Surely, you do not fear the Lady Omarosa?”
“I cannot say, though the Barons of Varza expelled the Sirin centuries ago and do not wish to see us return.” Euriel ran her slender fingers over the ancient book. “That is our greatest vulnerability. We are fearful of whom to trust with the secret you now carry.”
A blind, unreasoning fear settled over Niclas’s heart. He followed the Count and Euriel back up the stairs as if in a trance, heading toward the hopeful comfort of early morning and what he dreaded would soon become the return of a menacing storm—one unlike any other he had ever known.
Chapter 9
Unanswered Questions
The uncommonly chilly wind at sunrise blew through the barn window, rustling the chains on their hooks and unseating the little balls of gathered dust and cobwebs from their corners of the stone floor. Simon turned on his side hoping to warm his face but could find no soothing heat from the faint morning rays. It wasn’t a dream. He’d be a freeman come winter.
He yawned and opened his sleepy eyes, wishing he could strike out right now for Farrhaven and the promise it held, though he still had to wait a few more days.
Simon pulled Baxley’s thick blanket and quilt toward him, hugging them tighter against his chest as he squinted through the window. Sparrows chirped and flitted from branch to branch on the old elm used for tethering horses. By the end of the week, he’d be rid of Baxley Pumberton forever.
Why destiny had decided to favor such a lowly and miserable wretch, Simon couldn’t begin to fathom, nor did he wish to—just in case his questioning should offend some higher power and cause destiny to change her mind.
He stretched his arms out and yawned again, surprised he didn’t feel the normal pangs of gnawing hunger that forced him to wake early each day. In truth, he could not remember the last time he’d slept so soundly and deeply on a full stomach, untroubled by dark forebodings and by the waking screams of his old childhood nightmares.
“And I thought only my horse could snore to wake the dead.” Mr. Byrch was cutting thick slices of hard yellow cheese and cured bacon. “Get up and take care of your business. The water bucket’s outside. Be sure to wash your hands and face, and then come back in and get changed. There’s a fresh pot of black tea and plenty of time to eat before we ride to town. I want you to fetch a few more supplies while I discuss important matters with his Lordship before he departs.”
Mr. Byrch stuffed his mouth with a piece of cheese the size of Simon’s hand.
Simon looked at the folded brown tunic, breeches, black pants and hose. He picked up one of the new leather ankle boots and placed it next to his foot. It looked to be a perfect fit.
He rose to his feet and took off his ratty, old tunic. If fresh food and clean clothes were now part of his new life of service to the crown, what did he have to fear from the Rites of Succession? From hard-fought experience, he knew he could run faster, fight harder, and carry more weight than any young men his size and larger, if it came down to a test of strength. And for those times he’d been beaten by another slave’s skill or deception, it was he, Simon Blackfyre, who was still there to tell the tale.
Mr. Byrch swallowed down another mouthful. “You can ride, can’t you, lad? And I mean, ride well—so you won’t be slowing me down.”
“I was the stablehand for my last owner, Mister Krechfield.”
“Mmm. Did he give you that eye brand on your chest?”
Simon brushed back his long hair. “No, sir, and Plotmir Weezgout, the slaver, didn’t recognize it either. I’ve had it all my life.”
“Nasty piece of work that Weezgout from what I’ve heard. Men like that should feel the other end of the lash for as many years as they’ve held the handle.”
“We can only hope we’re sold to a kind enough master who values hard work and treats us well, but most of us never leave the camps.”
Mr. Byrch sliced another piece of cured bacon. “Why did Krechfield have Weezgout sell you then?”
“Someone else thought they’d be a better stablehand than me. We had a scuffle to sort it out.”
Mr. Byrch sipped from a cup of black tea. “Then I hope you left him in good repair to undertake his new duties.”
Simon brushed back his hair behind his ears. “He can still ride well enough with one less toe on each foot, I suspect.”
The big man laughed, a deep, warm rumble filled with good humor. “Well lad? Unless you have the manners of those you share the pen with, best you hurry outside and do what needs to be done.”
After washing off as much dirt as he could see and feel, Simon returned and grabbed his new clothes. He stepped behind a cart and began changing, relishing the sensation of clean fabric against his freshly-scrubbed skin.
Byrch glanced at him and frowned. “Did the Pumbertons do all that to you, lad?”
“Only a few. They’re not anywhere near as bad as the others.” The crosshatched scars marking Simon’s back had been accumulated over years of disobedience to the whims of several owners even more cruel than Krechfield. “I’ll do my best, Mister Byrch, so that it doesn’t come to that again. I promise.” He tossed his old, filthy, and torn clothes into the corner.
Byrch chewed on piece of dark bread as if mulling over what the boy had said. “We don’t use the lash, Simon, but you have to follow instructions and see your responsibilities through to the end or you’ll end up back in Weezgout’s cage, or worse if you’re fool enough to try and run away.”
Simon shook his head. “No, sir. I gave his Lordship and you my word. You say there’s no lash, no fear, so I must take you at your word for that is the only hope I have of becoming a freeman.”
“Right then, lad.” Mr. Byrch examined the contents of his large saddle bags. “That Pumberton whelp is one vile, lumpish bugger. You’ll be happy to see the last of that one, I’ll wager.”
“Yes sir. Things would have been much worse for me if Mister Baxley had been my legal owner.”
“We’ll speak no more of him then. You’ll be joining some good people once we reach the caravan.”
“Caravan, sir? Are you bartering me already to the nomads?”
Byrch laughed and shook his head. “Nay, ye smart ass, ’tis the Journey of the Initiates among whose privileged ranks you may now include yourself, Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby.”
“Religion, at least the way I’ve been trained, doesn’t hold much hope for the likes of me, Mister Byrch, although I’ll close my eyes and pray if I’m told to. Is this a pilgrimage then, sir?”
“Of sorts. You could call it that. You’ll meet others, sons and daughters of nobles, freemen, and others like yourself who have been chosen by the Holy Seer to train as protectors in the rites.”
“Oh. And how is the choosing done? I mean no disrespect, sir, but I have never met her. The Holy Seer I mean. So, what can she know of me?”
Mr. Byrch scratched the thistly hairs of his beard as though t
rying to root out something trapped deep within. “What the Holy Seer knows or doesn’t know is beyond my ken to understand, and I wager beyond his Lordship’s too. Suffice it to say that her bishops and monks delivered the last royal census that was taken when you were but a wee pup, but as to the actual choosing… well, none can say except the Holy Seer herself.”
“Then if I may ask one more question, sir, Mister Byrch.”
Byrch frowned. “And what if I said no?”
Simon lowered his gaze. I have offended him. Apologize and keep your fool mouth shut for once, he told himself. “Please forgive me, Mister Byrch. I trust you will instruct me in all that is necessary when the time comes.”
“There’s nothing wrong with asking questions, lad, but I’m not the one who can answer them. Even a noble as powerful as Lord Lionsbury follows order sometimes, and his come directly from the Holy Seer herself. Enough said on the subject for now?”
“Yes sir.”
“You quite sure? I mean, I wouldn’t like to be leaving anything unanswered, you know.” He coughed, a cough that said everything had been answered.
“Quite sure, Mister Byrch, sir. Thank you, sir,” Simon said. His eye twitched. It never paid to ask too many questions or to get beyond his station and he berated himself again for opening his big mouth without thinking.
“In five days,” Mr. Byrch said, “We’ll take the King’s Road through Twillingate, past Ironfield and on to Lundy’s Hill. The caravan will be camped there for the night. Until then, you will practice your horsemanship and we begin by sparring with staffs. You don’t want to get knocked on yer ass the first day you arrive, do you lad?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. And again I apologize. Sometimes, curiosity gets the better of me. It’s just that I’m so glad to be, to be with you, sir, and not—”
“It’s all right, lad. Those who can answer you will do so when time and circumstance allow. Now pack your kit and meet me over by the horses. I have a new mare for you and want to see how you handle yourself.” He handed Simon a slice of bread topped with cheese and bacon. “And don’t make me regret this. I want us both back before dark in time for supper—such as it is—from the Pumberton’s stewpot.” He put his huge hand over his stomach and burped.