by Law, Lincoln
Faulkner’s step faltered. It was strange enough to see a young boy out so late, but when he came running towards you, you knew something was wrong. I’m not even wearing my uniform and he comes running for help, he thought, sure of his assumptions.
The boy brought him under the sanctuary of the umbrella, both their bodies bathed in light from the lamp and the hearthflies now fluttering above them. The boy looked up to him, and Faulkner had to step back slightly. The boy’s eyes were milk-white and ghostly, as though he were blind, and his face marked with the bruise-like tattoos that conveyed he was one of the Blessed—bound to eventually be Cursed and turn into a night fiend…but Faulkner had never heard of someone Blessed not already a night-fiend. In fact, he could barely remember a time when he had seen a person marked; he just knew what it meant.
There was silence for a time, the sound of the rain patting against the oiled canvas keeping the moments that passed from seeming quietly awkward. The boy grimaced strangely, perhaps a little offended by Faulkner’s backwards step. But then he spoke in a soft voice:
“I know where Harriet is,” he said. “I know the exact room.”
For a time, Faulkner stood there, completely unsure of whether to cry or laugh or hug the child. More than anything he wanted to swear. He resisted though.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “How did you know…my wife’s name…let alone what’s happened.”
“I know where she is,” he said simply. “And I can help you get to her. My name is Nataniel.”
The boy held out his hand. He was not particularly tall, so he had to lean his head back to look Faulkner in the face, and hold his hand up to have it shaken.
“Faulkner,” he replied, extending his own hand and grasping Nataniel’s firmly. The boy had a strong grasp for someone so young—perhaps it was an effect of his Blessing.
“I will see you tomorrow, then,” he said, as he turned and ran away.
Faulkner was flabbergasted, silent for almost a full minute. He then shook himself from his confused reverie and continued his way down the road towards the next inn he could find.
*
Nataniel crawled into bed, surprised that neither Byron nor Delilah heard him leave or return. Despite his short adventure in the rain, he found sleepiness return to him quickly and he changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed. He fell to sleep in minutes, but that did not mean he was not aware of anything.
He felt the tug on his mind as his body was pulled deep into his dreams, sinking into the blankets and his pillows and beyond. He surfaced in what was clearly a girl’s room.
The walls were white, as was much of the furniture. Beside the bed was a wooden bedstand, painted blue, a softly glowing lamp sitting atop it, and at the other side, a small bookshelf filled with cloth-wrapped tomes and paperback novels, atop which sat a statuette of what he recognised as a faerie—a small, sprite-like figure with glittering, butterfly-esque wings. His eyes then fell on the sleeping figure on the bed. It was Elenor.
I wish she would wake up, he thought, and as if she had heard him, she stirred. She seemed so peaceful in her sleep, that he felt guilty for waking her. It seemed, though, that she had woken of her own will, for she had risen before noticing he was in the room.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, as she gasped, taking her own robe from the bedpost to cover herself with. She had been wearing a soft purple night gown, which she deemed insufficient to cover herself with, though it seemed perfectly fine to Nataniel.
“Oh, don’t apologise. I had a feeling you would be coming.”
“You did?” he asked, realising how silly he sounded.
“Yes,” she replied. “I always know when you’re coming. I just never know when you’re not.”
“Do you mind?” he asked, pointing to her bed.
“Not at all.”
He sat down next to her, the mattress soft, squishing beneath him. He did not look at her, but about the room, at the drawing on the cupboard, at the stained glass that made up the lampshade, and finally at the faerie once more, set in stone as if Medusa herself had petrified her.
“I have to ask how you controlled me and spoke to me before.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You know…before. You guided me to that Faulkner fellow.” To her confused look, he added, “He was the one with the missing wife. The one who I am supposed to help.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Nataniel,” she said, on the verge of laughter. “I would hate to call you insane, but when you start hearing voices…”
“It wasyour voice!” he argued, trying to keep quiet so that he did not wake anyone else in the house, though some strange sense told him this house was much larger and grander than his own. “You spoke to me in your head, just after we left the ball.”
“Oh you can be so silly,” she said, giggling.
“But I’m not joking. I heard you. I swear.”
“Well I don’t know what you heard,” she explained, “but I know for a fact that I have not been talking to anyone in my sleep. You really must’ve dreamt it.”
She shrugged off her robe and hooked it over her bedknob, climbing back under the covers. “Now I really must get some sleep. I have an important engagement tomorrow, and I really do not wish to look tired.”
“Of course,” he said, snapping himself from the world of the faeries. It was like he had fallen through his roof and come crashing back onto his bed, bouncing against the springs in the mattress. He opened his eyes and looked out the window. The clouds above were thick, silver and grey swirling together in a mass of saturated shades. At the fore were soft and lined with silver, while the higher the clouds went, the darker they became till they acted almost as a backdrop of deep, dark blacks and greys; massive, bruised clouds signalling a coming storm. Rain continued to fall.
Today, he had to act upon his statement to Faulkner.
*
Faulkner lowered himself to the ground, pushing himself down further and further until it seemed he was almost a part of the shadows covering the cobbles in the alleyway. He leant against the wall of the shop beside him, hoping that he could keep still. The voices were growing louder, their discussion quite undecipherable but still unwanted. Finally, the first, booted foot of the two men appeared, and Faulkner held his breath.
The two Blue Guards passed quickly, quite luckily for Faulkner. Once on the ground he had begun to fight the desire to sneeze from dust that had swirled up. Holding his breath seemed enough to avoid the thunderous sneeze that had been growing.
The two Blue Guards disappeared further down the street, and after a few moments of silence, Faulkner let out a quiet sigh, thankful. He then sneezed.
He had seen his face in The Morning Pundit that day, and had quickly left the inn he had stayed at for somewhere safe: Ophelia’s. Getting there, however, was not a particularly safe trip.
There seemed to be a larger number of Blues marching the streets, patrolling both the quieter and busier sectors of the city. It was almost as if they had been given the task of capturing him.
Almost, he thought, stifling a quiet, incredulous laugh. It’s bloody well true, it is. By why does he want my child dead? It just doesn’t make sense.
It would be nice to give in and see his wife again. At least he could care for her as she deserved during the last few months of her pregnancy. For a moment, it seemed almost tempting. It was most definitely the easier of the two options. At the end, though, it would all seem worthless. The baby would be dead, he and his wife broken, their lives shattered by the expected tragedy.
Having me wanted is probably the Architect’s sick way of providing himself some measure of warmth. If he shows some mercy, perhaps we will give up easier. Perhaps I’ll retreat into the tower for the next few months with my wife, alive, but lost. There was a horrible sense in his words he could not deny. If I was there, I could at least comfort my Harriet in our turmoil. I could give her strength. He fought away the t
hought though. No! I have to fight this injustice. I have to rescue her and then we can escape. It is the only way we can keep our blessing.
He looked to the fire-peaked tower, the flames blisteringly bright before the rumbling, rolling thunderheads. I will do this.
He wondered for a time how they would be treating her at present. If they intended to kill the child, would they leave her malnourished so that the body would destroy it itself, or would they keep the woman well so that they could perform the murder with a newborn? Would it be a quick murder, or ritualistic? It pained him to think of either. He could not deny the haunting images. As far as he knew, chances were that he would never even know the gender of the child before it was ripped away from him. He would never see if it had his eyes, or Harriet’s, or her nose, or his ears. It would be faceless, and that would be the greatest pain.
I have to stay positive, he forced himself to remember. I have to be sure that this child, and Harriet, will make it. We will do this!
As he walked down the nigh-empty streets, the few people that he passed tended not to stare or even look up. Everyone kept to themselves—a rather convenient idiosyncrasy caused by all of the over-fanatical superstition. As the heavens opened up, Faulkner found himself passing even fewer people, and absolutely no Blue Guards. It was strange considering the picture in the newspaper and the fact that there was a highly wanted man within the city, but Faulkner shrugged it off as dumb luck, sighing audibly as he arrived at Ophelia’s house, safe and calm.
He paused at the doorstep, wondering whether it was too early to stop by. It was still morning, noon still a couple of hours away, and their engagement wasn’t meant to begin till later tonight. With the situation the way it was, though, he thought it best to keep in a house of an ally—she was probably not quite a friend yet—than that of a stranger. He knocked.
After a few moments, the sound of footsteps rushing down the stairs came through the muffled door, and then the door opened. It was Ophelia, hurried and jittery.
“Get in,” she said, pulling him off the doorstep, rushing him up the stairs and into her room. “Stay here. If my mum knows we have a wanted man in our house, my room no less, I’ll never be trusted again. Give me two minutes.”
She left the room again and returned shortly after, explaining, “I just had to let mum know that there was no one at the door.”
“Ah, okay.” He was seated at her writing desk, the chair firm, but comfortable. “Forgive me for being early, but…”
“I saw The Morning Pundit. You do know what this means for me?”
“Yes, I know it puts you in great danger. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not just that! This is my job. This is my life! This,” she lifted up her fire stick, “is what supports my mother and I. Without this, both of us would be living in the slums, and none of us would survive. You do know what this means if I get caught?”
“You would lose your job,” he finished for her, though the question was entirely rhetorical.
“More than that! I would lose my life. There is no way a girl my age and my mother in the state she is in could survive on the streets. After a day, I’m sure my mother or I would end up raped, abused, injured or dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Faulkner said, feeling very much like a naughty child before his mother, “but I need you to do this.”
“And I will do it,” she assured him, her anger not entirely absent in her voice. “Just remember what this may cost me.”
“Yes,” he said, bowing his head, feeling as the gravity of his situation came over him. He took a moment to draw in the silence, the soft scent of the smoke from the fire, the warmth in the air. “And again…thank you.”
Ophelia simply nodded.
Faulkner suddenly remembered the Nataniel boy telling him of his wife, and said, “Also, I know a third person who may be able to help us. He says he knows where my wife is…exactly.”
“Really? How?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to ask him. It was late and raining. I don’t think he wanted to stand out in the rain for too long.”
“Can we trust him?” Ophelia asked. “What’s his name.”
“I think we can trust him. He’s only young. His name is Nataniel.”
Ophelia looked as if she was about to fall off the chair.
“Fourteen year old? Face markings?”
“Yes, exactly like those of a blessing.”
Ophelia appeared to hesitate for a time, chewing on her lip softly.
“Do you know him?” he asked.
“Well…not really. I ran into him once.” He saved my life, she thought. She remembered the flames, the heat, the melting figures as they had been consumed by the brilliant, burning light. “I think we both left a lasting impression.”
“It is all right to have him come then? I don’t want to have told him yes only to discover that both of you don’t get along.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine,” she said quickly, realising his meaning. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean there was a rather…hectic occurrence that happened at our meeting, and…well…it’s very difficult to forget.”
Even now there were the sounds of the screams from the night fiends resonating in her thoughts, like boisterous, high pitched raven calls mixed with bear and lion roars.
“I suppose you know where he lives then?” Faulkner asked.
“Yes, and I think we’ll go there now. We can let him know of the plan there.”
“Very good.”
Both of them gathered the few things they needed and left down the road.
*
As they travelled down the walkway through the rainy, empty street, a figure up ahead appeared. A tall, shifting figure with an extraordinarily pointed head…or hat, rather. Even in the grey, desaturation of the rain, the blue of its robes was obvious.
“Damn,” muttered Faulkner, pushing Ophelia into the alley beside them. “Vindicator.”
She gasped to herself, pushing herself against the wall as if to be consumed by the shadows. There was quiet, and then the rustling of the Vindicator’s thick robes, and the tinkling of the chained charms about his cape.
Sounds of hammer against wood beat through the air, and then the snapping of wet fabric, like a whip crack, as the Vindicator shot down the street, lifting quickly off the ground as it passed the alley.
The pair was paralysed by terror, frozen for a short period. Then, nodding to each other, they rushed down the street once more. They paused momentarily before the sign the Vindicator posted, reading it over.
THE MARKINGS OF THE BLESSED
Any person you know of, Marked by the Tyndibar Well (symbolised by the dark, bruise-like markings on their neck and face) should be handed in voluntarily to a Vindicator, so that the correct procedures may be put in place to protect the marked and the general public from possible attacks. Though they are not Cursed yet, it is recommended they be surrendered to the Architect to avoid catastrophe.
While this is not an order, your compliance would be appreciated.
At the bottom of the poster was a thin, slanted and complicated signature—so convoluted in fact that neither Ophelia nor Faulkner could decipher a name. Below the signature, though, in bold capital letters, were the words HEAD VINDICATOR.
“I wonder if Nataniel’s family would hand him over,” Ophelia mused out loud. “They’re good enough to have him in their home with his markings. This might tip them over the edge. Then again…they may not.”
Faulkner hummed in acknowledgement.
The road for the remainder of the short walk was empty, apart from a dark carriage which passed them, coming so close to splashing water from the curb onto the pair that Faulkner had already begun screaming obscenities before he had noticed they were not wet. The embarrassed expression on his face made it quite obvious how he felt.
They arrived at Nataniel’s doorstep, soaked to the bones, but safe nonetheless. They knocked, hearing footsteps on the other side of the do
or, and creaking as it opened. In the doorway stood the boy Nataniel, his expression plain and his face marked, the curling, bruise patterns like the very flames that could consume a night fiend.
“Hello,” he said impassively. “Come in. Quietly. My parents are out, but if anyone sees me bringing strangers into my home people might get worried.”
They moved quickly, entering the warmth and colour of the front room.
“Will your parents be back any time soon?”
“I don’t think they will be home until tomorrow. They had some very important business to tend to, and they said they might stay the night there so that they could have a few drinks.”
Ophelia nodded in understanding. Driving a carriage at night while drunk was not quite as dangerous as walking the streets at night drunk. The dimmed notion of common sense and balance often led to a number of incidents with the night fiends, resulting most commonly in terrible injuries, or death.
He invited them over to his dinner table, where they all sat down. Once comfortable, Ophelia said, “Hello, Nataniel. I’m Ophelia.”
“Hello,” he replied, appearing very polite and mature for a boy his age. “I’m Nataniel.”
“I know,” she said, almost whispering. She was loud enough to be heard, though.
“Huh?”
“That LampLighter you met the other night. That was me.”
“I knew it!” he exclaimed, almost bursting out of his seat. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! I recognised your voice when you spoke,” he pointed. “I just couldn’t pick where from.”
“Well, yes, I’m her. And thank you again. I can’t remember for the life of me if I thanked you properly.”
“I know you would’ve done the same,” he said. She nodded.
“We have to do this carefully,” she began after the moment of silence. “The Architect’s tower has many guards, not to mention the five Vindicator towers around it. We can hope and pray that the Vindicator’s are still out posting signs up while we’re trying to infiltrate, but that hope may only be left to luck.” To Nataniel’s question of ‘what signs?’, she explained the Vindicator she had seen and what the sign had said before continuing. “We can hope.”