“At my words, he fell back in his seat, overtaken by clear shock and apparent horror. Watching him, I felt my hopes shift from under me, as though they rested on sand. How had I so entirely misconstrued his instruction? Had God created me and my kind solely so that innocent maids and gentle priests could name us evil?
“His hands clasped each other around his crucifix. For a moment it seemed that he would not speak—that he could find no words sufficient to denounce me. But then he asked, whispering terribly, ‘Do these men and women die to feed you? Do you slay them?’
“I wished to cry out against his revulsion. But I did not. Irradia’s need for his guidance was vivid in her gaze, and it restrained me. Instead I answered, ‘I do not slay them in order to feed. Yet they are slain. They die at my hand. Their life becomes mine as they nourish me, and they fall.’
“His voice trembled. ‘Then how can it be that you desire baptism?—that you seek the embrace of Mother Church?’
“There he saved me, although he did not know it. Despite my distress, and his, I heard his bafflement—and his sincerity. I had misread him. He had been profoundly disturbed, shaken to the core, but not by abhorrence. His nature may have lacked that capacity. He had asked an honest question. His dilemma was one of incomprehension.
“And Irradia clung to his every word, as though it issued from the mouth of Heaven.
“I replied as well as I could, like a man who had been snatched back from the rim of perdition. ‘I did not cause what I am. I cannot alter it. But I have met kindness from you, and from Irradia. I have learned to know love. And I ache for the teachings of Mother Church. If the grace of Heaven is without end or limit,’ I pleaded softly, ‘surely it holds a place for such as me?’
“At first he did not answer my gaze. Raising his hands, he fixed his eyes upon the crucifix. Prayers I could not distinguish murmured from his lips. Unsteady light from the hearth colored his features, and Irradia’s. Together they appeared to contemplate the flames of everlasting torment.
“When he had finished his prayer, however, he turned toward me. Tears reflected in the lines of his face, but he did not waver.
“‘Then, my son,’ he avowed, ‘I will baptize you tomorrow.’
“I heard him without moving, without breath. Trained to apprehension, I feared that if I stirred his promise would be snatched away.
“‘Father—’ protested Irradia. Perhaps he had answered his own uncertainty, but he had not yet relieved hers. ‘If he is a vampyr—’
“He silenced her gently. ‘Whatever he is, my daughter, he has been created by God, for God’s own reasons. It is not our place to judge what the Almighty has made. In baptism Heaven will accept or reject him, whatever we do. But if for the sake of our own fears and ignorance we refuse that which Heaven welcomes, our sin will be severe. Mother Church does not empower us to withhold the hope of redemption.
“‘If he is accepted, the flock we serve will see it. That will do much to ease his way among us.’ His tone darkened. ‘And if he is rejected, they will be forewarned.
“‘But there is a condition, my son,’ he told me before I could speak. ‘You must cease from slaying.’
“My hopes had blazed up brightly. Now they dwindled again, doused by Father Domsen’s words. ‘Then I will die,’ I retorted bitterly. ‘Does Heaven honor self-murder?’
“He shook his head. ‘It does not. Yet you must cease,’ he persisted. ‘Since you require sustenance, as do all things living, seek it from those whose lives have already been claimed by God. Nourish yourself among the dying. It will—’ He faltered momentarily, and I saw a new sorrow in his gaze. Yet he did not relent. ‘I fear it will not be pleasant,’ he continued more harshly. ‘But I cannot condone any other course for you. To take lives which have not yet been called by Heaven is more than murder. It is blasphemy. It offends the sacredness of God’s creation.’
“At once a great relief washed through me. The restriction he required would not be pleasant. In that he spoke more truly than he knew. Yet its difficulties were within my compass. In Heaven’s name, I could bear them gladly.
“‘Father,’ I vowed, ‘I will do as you say.’
“Irradia stared at me with wonder, as though she hardly dared to believe that her doubts had been lifted.
“Father Domsen showed no relief, however. He accepted my oath without question, but it did not ease him. Wincing, he bowed his head and slowly slumped into his seat. Perhaps he had seen visions in the firelight, and Irradia’s face, and mine—sights which wracked him.
“‘Leave me now, my children,’ he breathed thinly. ‘I must pray.’ His sorrow did not abate. ‘I must pray for us all. Tomorrow the will of Heaven will be made plain.’
“I heard his grief well enough. Yet I did not understand it. He had glimpsed a future which lay beyond my comprehension. And,” I admitted ruefully, knowing the aftermath—knowing my failure, and its cost—“I made no attempt to grasp it. As Irradia and I departed, my heart arose, and an unwonted joy seemed to chirp and warble in my blood’s vitality. My deepest dreams had become real to me again, brought back from transience and illusion by the good Father’s willingness to hazard my baptism. His restriction I welcomed, for it provided a reply to my shame. And—most joyous of all things—I saw hope in Irradia’s gaze again. He had restored her dreams also. She clasped my arm as we made our way from the chapel, and her smile held a hint of its familiar pleasure.
“Before our ways parted, she addressed me gravely.
“‘Aposter, I said that I would abide Father Domsen’s judgment. Now I say that I will stand with you when you are baptized.’ Her tone was firm, and clarity shone from her eyes. ‘I do not believe that God’s face will be turned away. If my trust has worth in Heaven—as it must, for God is good—it will weigh on your behalf.’
“Laughing, she kissed my cheek to forestall any return for her generosity. Then she was gone.
“As I returned to my loft, I sang her name as I would the most sacred of the hymns. Before Heaven she had taken a vow of her own, and I cherished it. After all my fears, I was avid for the morrow, and for my sacramental union with Mother Church, and for her.”
My own grief welled up in me. I had come to understand Father Domsen’s sorrow. I did not think that he had foreseen his own weakness. Rather, I conceived that he knew the public life of Sestle, and the worldly affairs of Mother Church, better than his innocence could tolerate. For that reason, he had sequestered himself in Leeside chapel, hoping that broader, more hurtful concerns would pass him by.
Past my pain, I sighed, “But the time appointed for my baptism never came.”
Involuntarily I paused, striving to master myself.
“It did not,” interjected Bishop Heraldic suddenly, “because Heaven spoke to your priest—your Father Domsen—and gave him better wisdom.”
No doubt His Reverence believed that he had been silent too long. Fearing the effect of my tale, he wished to assert himself in the hall. But I had no patience for him.
“No,” I retorted harshly. “It did not because Cardinal Straylish found me.”
When my ire had stifled the Bishop’s interruption, I added, “Or I should say that he found Irradia.”
Of all my victims, my prey, she was the most blameless—and the most dear.
“Later,” I told Mullior’s assembled lords and authorities, “I learned of the wide net which he had cast over the city, searching for me. I heard how he had become suspicious of Leeside, for that region seemed exempt from my activities. And I was informed that rumors of a stranger had at last reached the ears of his agents—a stranger who seemed to have no dwelling place, but who had been befriended by the maid Irradia, the chapel’s adopted daughter.
“On the morn of my intended baptism, however, I knew none of this. Ignorant of the ruin prepared for me, I readied myself gladly, singing her name, and remembering a
ll the words I must say in the liturgy of the sacrament. When the time came, I crept from my loft so that I could join the worshipers gathering before the doors of the chapel, as was my custom.
“Entranced by excitement, and by the prospect of Irradia, I was slow to notice my peril.
“The doors remained shut, although the time of worship was near. That in itself was strange, and should have alerted me. But there were other signs also. Men on horseback crowded the approaches to the chapel. Ruffians unlike the Leeside congregation in both aspect and comportment shifted among more familiar men and women, attentive as hounds. And Father Domsen stood at the doors as though he meant to address his flock in the street. His old eyes hunted the growing throng anxiously.
“When he saw me, he beckoned. The gesture appeared to cause him pain.
“I approached to discover what he wished of me. As I drew near, I heard him speak the name I had given myself. ‘Aposter. There he is.’
“Finally I grasped that there was something amiss. Events had gone awry in Sestle. Perhaps I should have fled. But I did not conceive that I was in peril. I could not. At that moment I feared only for Irradia, and for the priest.
“Pointing toward me, he repeated, ‘There he is.’ I saw now that weeping filled his face.
“Then some blow or bludgeon seemed to take away the back of my head, and I stumbled into darkness.”
There I paused. I had reached the crux of what I must relate, and I faltered. “My lord Duke,” I inquired hoarsely, “may I have more wine? I thirst.” After a moment, I added, “And I am afraid.”
Duke Obal flicked his fingers, a brusque command. His strained gaze did not leave my face.
At once a fresh goblet was given to Lord Ermine at my side. He offered it to me, frowning in solicitude. I accepted it and drank. With the wine I swallowed cries I did not mean to utter, fury and woe I could not afford to express. Only my tale stood between me and death. And only my tale held back Obal’s fall.
Bracing my heart, I continued.
“I awoke to a dazzle of illumination”—light as acute as my distress in the Duke’s hall—“and the sound of screaming. I found myself seated erect, but my limbs were bound so that I could not move. The pain of damaged bone filled my head. And hunger— A considerable time must have passed since I had last fed. Two days? As much as three? I had not drawn sustenance the night before I was to have been baptized. Now the yearning to survive blazed in all my veins. My weakness was such that I could not have stood if my arms and legs had been free—could not have remained upright if my bonds had not held me.
“The voice that screamed was one I knew well. It had grown dear to me, a treasure of sweetness, now betrayed to agony.
“In frailty and desperation, I labored to clear my sight so that I might determine the nature of my plight.”
Some among my auditors must have guessed what I would relate—and anticipated it with relish.
“I sat, secured by ropes, in a chair of iron which had been placed on a low dais against one wall of a stone chamber, windowless and cold. By its shape, the room was an oubliette. But if it was, then night had fallen on the world, for no hint of sun or sky showed above me. Instead the chamber was lit by torches and braziers by the score, leaving nothing unrevealed.
“Arrayed around the space and awaiting use were objects and devices which chilled my chest, instruments of torture— I saw racks and thumbscrews, an iron maiden, eye-gouges, flails and lancets and brands, flaying tables, cruel gibbets where a body might hang for days without death, castrators, rape-engines, alembics a-fume with acid. By such means was Hell made tangible, temporary flesh given its first taste of eternal excruciation.
“Clearly the room was a testing chamber, where the servants of Mother Church searched for truth among the wracked limbs and torn flesh of Heaven’s foes. I had heard that clergymen and inquisitors employed such instruments against evil, but I had given the matter no thought—no credence. It had no place in Father Domsen’s teachings, or in Irradia’s beliefs, and I had put it from my mind.
“Now I saw that I must expand my understanding of Mother Church.”
Bishop Heraldic might take offense at my words, but I did not care. Closing my eyes against illumination and memory, I went on.
“At the center of the room, a man stood beside a long table with his work displayed before me as though for my inspection. Despite my weakness, and my damaged head, I knew him at once for a clergyman. He wore the robes and chasuble, as crimson as anguish, of the lords of Mother Church, but he had set aside the miter of his office, leaving his head unrestricted, and his hands were flecked with blood. His features had been formed for piety, strict of mouth and nose, lean of cheek, his brow lined with denunciations. Rue and eagerness defined his gaze. Two ebon-clad men, bulky and muscular, awaited his commands, but did not put themselves forward to assist him.
“With each touch he lifted new screams from Irradia’s raw throat.
“She lay naked on the table.” The memory was vivid to me, etched so deeply into the passages of my brain that I believed it would endure when my flesh had fallen to worms and corruption. Merely closing my eyes did not shut it out. “Her arms had been drawn above her head and clamped in iron fetters, and her ankles were knotted to rings set into the wood. Thus outstretched, she might shift her hips and writhe, but could do nothing to avoid her tormentor’s touch. Already blood and pain in profusion marked her helpless flesh.
“In one hand the clergyman employed a curiously serrated blade—in the other, pincers gripping a sponge damp with vitriol. As I watched, he stroked his blade tenderly across her belly toward her breasts, laying bare her nerves, then squeezed his sponge to drip acid into the streaming wounds. Her skin and tissues steamed with liquid fire as she shrieked out her hurt to the high ceiling and the unattainable sky.
“Appalled beyond bearing, I croaked, ‘Stop’—and again, ‘Stop.’
“Her tormentor lifted his head. Setting aside his implements, he seemed to regard me kindly. After a moment, he addressed me.
“‘I see that you have regained consciousness.’ His voice was husky and avid, a voice of passion—as well suited as his long fingers to caress or flay. ‘That is well. You must attend what transpires here.
“‘I am Straylish,’ he continued, ‘High Cardinal of Mother Church, and worldly suzerain of all this land in the name of Heaven. What you are’—he appeared to smile—‘will be made plain to God’s judgment.’
“He confused me. Living in Sestle, I had heard him spoken of often, yet I did not comprehend his power—or his intent. Did he not already know me? ‘Father Domsen—’ I began. But there my voice, or my heart, faltered. I meant to say that the priest had already betrayed me. Cardinal Straylish knew perfectly what I was.
“How had Father Domsen turned against me? And why? I had seen sorrow in him, but not distrust. His grief had given me no hint—
“And if Father Domsen had turned against me, why did the High Cardinal now inflict such suffering upon Irradia?
“‘I am not done with him,’ replied His Reverence sternly. ‘Like this maid—her name is Irradia, I believe?—he also has countenanced the presence of evil among us.
“‘It is true that he served me in the end. Repenting his folly—or so he said—he identified you to my men, so that you would work no more abomination. I doubt his sincerity, however. I do not know how long he was aware of you. Later you will confess the truth, so that I may pursue Heaven’s judgment accurately.’ The High Cardinal flexed his fingers in anticipation. ‘But he did not come forward until after I had taken her.’ A gesture indicated Irradia. ‘I fear for him that he was moved to aid my search, not by genuine repentance, but rather by a desire to spare this weak daughter of his congregation God’s wrath.
“‘That doubt I will resolve later, however. For the present, her guilt compels me.’ He spoke as lovers do, in eagerness
and intimacy.
“Now I understood Father Domsen, although His Reverence still baffled me. At the time, I gave the matter no further thought. I cared only for Irradia—cared only that I might find some means to halt her great pain.
“Nevertheless between that day and this I have ached with regret over the good priest’s plight—yes, and burned with shame for my part in it. I find no fault with him that he chose to sacrifice me as he did. For Irradia’s sake, I would have done the same.
“Yet he did betray me, and I am certain that his gentle heart bore the burden heavily. Irradia I had apparently doomed by the simple sin of accepting her goodwill. But if I had not revealed myself to Father Domsen, he would have been spared the necessity of denouncing me.”
It seemed that my confession meant nothing to my auditors. Their silence had closed against me, unyielding as the doorstone of a sepulchre. Even the Duke and his adherents stood motionless, almost breathless, as though snared in dismay.
Sighing, I labored onward.
“As I say, however, such considerations came later. At the time, every faint scrap of my remaining energy and attention was concentrated toward His Reverence. I knew how I had come to be where I was. But I could not conceive why my captor continued to harm Irradia after I had fallen into his power.
“‘Father Domsen has told you what I am,’ I countered through my weakness. ‘She is no longer needed. What do you want from her?’
“‘What do I want?’ My question appeared to pique the Cardinal. ‘For myself, nothing.’ With the tip of his tongue, he moistened his lips. ‘For my God, however, I desire the utter extirpation of Satan and all his minions. And toward that end, one small step will be taken here.
“‘It came to my attention,’ he explained, ‘that a vampyr preyed in Sestle—a vile spawn of Hell, devouring souls to feed its own damnation. For some weeks I hunted him in vain. Infidels and scum, apostates and heretics I sifted without number, seeking Heaven’s foe. And at last I gleaned the tale of a Leeside maid befriended by a stranger—a man without apparent homeland, history, employment, or domicile. By degrees I learned to believe that this stranger was indeed the abomination I sought—that this lost maid knew who and what he was—and that she had condoned his evil by concealing his identity. Therefore I gathered her to me.’
Reave the Just and Other Tales Page 24