Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  Stefan had rejoined Matthias’ side. “Tell them the truth.”

  Matthias thinned his lips and slowly nodded. “You would know me as Matthias, son of Stefan.”

  “Stefan?” the village leader chuckled, shaking his head. “A fine time for a joke, Matthias, but Prophet Stefan has been missing these twenty years and his son killed just as long ago.”

  Matthias frowned with frustration, but steeled himself. “The Prophet stands before you, here,” he gestured to the wolf.

  “Friend,” the village leader crossed his arms as men of the village began to gather around him. “We owe you our lives and homes, but do not mock us, please. We are all believers in the Prophet, here.”

  “He doesn’t mock you,” Magnus countered, stepping forward and gesturing to Matthias. “If you know me, brother, then I beg you look at his eyes. His are the same as your Prophet’s.”

  The village leader looked from Magnus to Matthias, then turned to the rest of the defenders. Princess Floriana stepped forward first. “I did not believe this warrior was our Prophet’s son, but that is changed. I have everything to lose by believing him, and I say he is the lost son of our Prophet, and Stefan himself stands before you in the guise of a wolf.”

  The village leader narrowed his eyes, seeing black cloaks gather behind Matthias’ broad back. “And just why does the princess stand to lose everything by believing your story?”

  “Because her father, your king, is a traitor. It was he who turned my father into a wolf, and left me in the woods as an infant to die!” Matthias declared.

  “Heresy!”

  Everyone’s eyes turned to the lead Inquisitor, Braya herself, as she slid off her horse, her face red and twisted into apoplectic rage. “You dare!” She pointed an accusatory finger at Matthias. “You dare speak such—such lies about our king! The Beloved of the Prophet! The hand of the Creator himself!” She turned, eyes wide with indignant fury to Floriana. “And you have been taken in by these falsehoods, Princess? This utter fantasy?! I knew no good could come of you traveling alongside that pagan Andrathi silver-tongue!”

  “And whatever is wrong with being pagan?” Derogynes retorted, stowing the longbow he had used in battle and crossing his arms.

  Braya sputtered, but soon recovered herself, her face as red as the sun-shaped scar on her forehead as she returned the focus of her ire on Matthias. “By the authority vested in me by King Cyril, Defender of the Faith, I am placing this heretic under arrest, to be prosecuted and interrogated in the capital.”

  “I rescind that order,” Floriana declared. “As princess and your future queen, I declare that you will not lay a hand on him, Braya.”

  The Inquisitor turned, taking a step closer to Floriana. “You would act against your father, little girl?” she asked in a deathly quiet voice. “You would displease him so? Stand against the man that raised you? What kind of ungrateful daughter are you?”

  The princess could not meet Braya’s intense gaze, and for a second, she faltered. “I…” She shook her head, her voice soft, but growing again. “I am ever my father’s loyal daughter.”

  Braya smiled, satisfied. As she uncoiled her whip, and it ignited in flame, she wound her arm up, looking up at Matthias with a determined look in her eye. Then, suddenly, ice sprouted from the ground, consuming her whip in a cloud of steam as the fire was extinguished, and her hand was caught, the Inquisitor nearly thrown off balance. Her eyes drifted back to Floriana, who was holding her wand aloft.

  “I am ever my father’s loyal daughter, and that, Inquisitor Braya, is why I cannot allow him to sink further into madness, and—and tyranny!” Floriana gasped, shocked at her own words.

  The ice crackled, and Braya was released, the Inquisitor once again working herself into a frenzied rage. “You dare commit treason against your own father? And for such a foolish heresy? You are lost, Floriana, and it pains me to do so, but if I have to take you and this savage beast of a man kicking and screaming back into the light of truth and virtue, so be it!”

  On her command, the Inquisitors readied their weapons, until a lone arrow buzzed through the air, tearing through the Inquisitor’s banner. Braya turned to see that the villagers of Ferrin’s Glade stood beside Matthias and Floriana, their weapons pointed at her.

  “The Inquisitors will walk away empty-handed today, Braya, if I have anything to say about it.” The bearded village leader stepped forward.

  Braya’s eyes widened with recognition. “Hierophant Ferrin? You, too, would join this heresy? You would stand against your god, the one who knows and loves you?”

  “I don’t stand against the Creator, I’m standing against you,” Ferrin declared. “This is one of several villages under my care, and when I saw with what little regard the king’s Inquisitors cared for my people, the choice seems readily obvious.” He patted Matthias on the back. “This man and the princess, without knowing a single soul amongst us, stood by my people when you were too busy hunting down heretics to realize this place was almost put to to the torch. I was preparing to travel to the King’s Council, but run back to Cyril and tell him that so long as he has such skewed priorities, he doesn’t have my blessing or the Creator’s.”

  Braya shook in impotent rage. Flushed and humiliated, she looked back to her own men and barked her orders at them, leaping on her horse as they stormed out of Ferrin’s Glade. “You have all consigned yourselves to the flame! May the Creator have mercy on you all, for the king shall have none!”

  Chapter 15

  In Pursuit of Virtue

  Faircliff Castle was under siege. That was the only way Cyril could justify the rabble clamoring at his gates. The first snows of winter had fallen on Stefanurbem, and with the harvest taken care of, he had summoned all the Hierophants and Priests to him for the annual Council. But outside, it was not the Hierophants in their flowing robes and their retinues, but commoners, angrily demanding to know why their King had taken their loved ones prisoner and declared them heretics. They demanded to see them, but the King would not bow to their whims, even if he could produce those that had already been branded for heresy and given over to Bai Feng.

  “Your Highness?”

  Cyril turned to face Hierophant Daveth, who looked out of place in his robes of state. The Commander was sailing perilously close to the wind with the King after his failure at Springhead, and his continued well-being rested on whatever news he received about his daughter.

  “What do you want, Daveth?”

  “I have word, sire,” Daveth bowed his head before producing a scroll. “Your daughter is alive and well, as is Ambassador Derogynes.”

  Cyril snatched the scroll out of Daveth’s hand and his eyes narrowed as he looked it over. “She was seen in the company of Hierophant Magnus, my sister, an Altani warrior and a white wolf?” the king hid his true feelings as he turned back to the noble. “Do you know anything about that?”

  The Hierophant frowned. “I don’t remember any wolf on the battlefield. But if Magnus is with them, then your daughter was successful in her quest. Perhaps the Altani warrior is a prisoner?”

  Cyril stroked his beard, frowning deeply. If Stefan was with the Princess, then there was no telling what he had told her. He remembered how persuasive the Prophet was; she may have been turned against him. “Or her jailor.”

  “Highness?”

  Cyril waved it off. “Never mind, Daveth, never mind.” The king straightened himself, dusting off his fine robes. “The council awaits.”

  Fosporia was still small, and its territories only divided between fifteen Hierophants, and under them, a couple hundred priests. The priests wore simple robes of black and white, and their superiors, the Hierophants, were marked by gold lining on theirs, but both looked severe and austere compared to the Council’s guests. At the end of the great gathering were three bearded men wearing silk robes in various shades of purple, gold, red, and green. Heavy, bejeweled amulets hung from their necks, gold cords girded their well-fed waists, and they wor
e laurel wreaths of silver on their heads. These were the Magisters of Torinus; lords of one of three Altun cities left on earth. And every one of them had kept their position and fortunes by selling their own people to Qingren.

  All rose for Cyril. Only his robes and finery matched the Magisters’, and they knew it. The three men of Torinus bowed their heads as they would to an equal, while the Hierophants and Priests prostrated themselves as the King passed them. Cyril mounted his throne, and two attendants placed the gold and silver crown upon his head.

  “Blessed ones, and most Virtuous lords,” Cyril intoned, “let us give thanks unto the Creator and his Prophet. Let us pray for the fortitude of our faith, the boundless nature of our compassion, the pureness of our honor, the light of wisdom, and everlasting freedom.” He scanned the heads assembled. “Where is Hierophant Ferrin?”

  “Ferrin, Your Highness, did not arrive with us,” a clean-shaven and young Hierophant declared. “But more than he are missing these days. Why have you loosed your hounds on your own people, my king, and why did you not come to us if you suspected heretics in our lands?”

  There was a murmuring of agreement rippling through the gathered nobles. The Magisters watched silently to see how Cyril would react.

  “Do you not trust your king, young Danarian?”

  The Hierophant suddenly looked unsure. “Your Highness?”

  Cyril leveled a stern glare with his golden eyes. “You are the youngest of our number, Danarian. And the only one born free. The rest of us,” he gestured to the other Hierophants around him. “Were born slaves. I, myself, have served at the Prophet’s side and freed many slaves across Qingren. And what have you done with your freedom?”

  “I have endeavored to serve Fosporia and our people, as my father before me.”

  “Really?” Cyril smiled in a deceptively mild manner. “Then why are you so concerned about the Inquisitors? Surely, if there were a problem, you would have brought it to them?”

  “They are the problem! They locked away people I knew, friends, members of the Virtuous and followers of Stefan that have done nothing to deserve their fate!”

  “We are aware of the people taken from your lands. You fancy yourself the equal of any of us, those who have known the lash and the chain, and what have you and your friends done with your freedom? You’ve besotted yourself. You’ve become a slave, Danarian.” Cyril raised his hand, and a priestess timidly rose, unable to look the young man in the eye. “A slave to vice and debauchery. Mother Regina here, your vassal, has admitted her sins under your lordship… for you drove her to break her vows of chastity, did you not?”

  Danarian looked at the priestess with a look of betrayal on his face, as the others muttered their disapproval. Cyril hid a smirk; he had been sitting on that little tidbit for a year, now, saving it for when he needed it. “Do you deny it?”

  The Hierophant balked, then hung his head. “I—I laid with Mother Regina.”

  The uproar was enormous. Hierophants could marry, but priests were sworn to celibacy and chastity. The king shook his head. “Pitiful. You have your freedom from birth, and you use it for sacrilege and fornication.” There was a pause, then Cyril turned to his guards. “Take him away.”

  “What?” Danarian looked from the approaching guards and the king. “My king, please! Mercy! I have served you dutifully!”

  “Your Highness!” another Hierophant stood. “Fornicator or not, Danarian is still a Hierophant! Does he have no chance to repent?”

  “He carried on a dalliance for years,” Cyril declared as Danarian struggled against the guards. “He had his chance.”

  “Please—my king, please!” the young man shrieked, kicking and struggling as he was dragged away.

  “Danarian allowed his lands to be turned into a haven for wickedness and debauchery,” Cyril declared. “He turned his friends, and soon his own people, away from the Creator’s light. If any of you can think of any greater example of heresy, speak now,” the King said, daring anyone to speak.

  When no answer came, Cyril was satisfied. He raised his hands. “You are dismissed, my lords. The stench of sin hangs in the air, and I will not have it taint this august gathering.”

  “King Cyril, we have traveled all this way—”

  “Tomorrow, my brother. Then we will discuss all matters.”

  Staring at their king, one by one, the court left until only Cyril and the three Magisters remained.

  “You handled that well, Your Highness,” one of the bearded men, Magister Angelus, stated. He seemed the natural leader of the three, casting his dark eyes towards the other two until they nodded in agreement. His long gray beard was adorned with gold trinkets, and had a single strand dyed red, running down the middle. “How long were you holding onto that bit of intrigue?”

  Cyril smiled bleakly. “I assure you, Magister, I endeavor to reveal sin as soon as I come across it.”

  “Of course,” Angelus chuckled. “Torinus is gladdened to receive such a friendly welcome to Fosporia, good King. We bring good tidings; our mutual friend has brought us together.”

  “Our mutual…?” Cyril narrowed his eyes. “You know of the Vocendi?”

  “He came to us some time ago, knowing his appearance startles you, good king. Thus, we are here to speak in his stead,” another of the Magisters, a fat and balding man by the name of Gallienus explained. “We wish to entreaty with you in good faith, Your Highness.”

  “You speak of good faith, and yet you ally yourself with the demons of this world? The very beings that destroyed Altun?” Cyril scoffed. “You would expect me, a disciple of the son of the one true god, to be party to such creatures?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a disciple hunting his chosen Prophet,” Angelus whispered, leaning in close to the king. When they parted, he wore a harmless smile.

  Cyril’s face darkened. “Speak quickly, Magisters.”

  “Forgive us, we do not mean to offend,” the third magister Nonnosus said, the oldest of them all with a stooped and fragile posture, as if he were slowly being crushed under the weight of his own finery.

  “We wish to speak plainly, so there is no misunderstanding, King Cyril,” Angelus bowed low, kissing the king’s hand. “We have come to offer our submission, and Torinus itself; the last, true city of man.”

  Cyril jerked his hand away. “What of Vorenus and Draecta?”

  Gallienus scoffed. “Vorenus is a fishing village carved out of ruins, and Draecta is a mountain cave so encased in ice and snow we haven’t heard from them in decades. Torinus, however, still tends the flame of old Altun; a flame that needs to be rekindled.”

  “The time has come for humanity to reclaim its place,” Angelus added. “We are Magisters, stewards of the old empire, that have for thirteen hundred years been wanting for an Archon.”

  The word rang in Cyril’s head. The Archons, leaders of Altun, had all been Priests and men of faith. The idea was tempting. “What do you propose? Can I trust the word of slave traders?”

  Nonnosus cracked a wicked grin across his craggy face. “We have been out of the trade for nearly three decades, now. If our sources are correct, it is you that has revived the old business.”

  “My colleague merely means to say, sire,” Angelus offered in apology, “we have all made hard decisions, and the nature of our profession has an unfortunate side to it. Bring the wolf to Torinus; we know the rituals that our mutual friend spoke of. By sacrificing him to our friend’s master, we can bestow upon you magnificent power.”

  Cyril sneered, grabbing Angelus by the hem of his robe and jabbing his wand in the Magister’s side. “You would suggest I turn against my Prophet and God? Offer him up to a demon of Hell?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down.

  “What inspires this loyalty, Cyril?” Angelus spoke softly. “You bow, scrape, and pray to the same god that abandoned us to the whims of demons. When have your prayers been answered, in all these years? We are giving you the opportunity to turn the Prop
het’s work to something transformative. Let us give humanity the leader, and god, it deserves. Let us give them you, Archon Cyril.”

  Cyril let him go, his hand trembling at the thought. “And after this dark business is done… what then?”

  The Magisters all smiled viciously, as if they were hounds being thrown fresh meat. “Then, my king, we ensure humanity is forever free. Forever respected. We strike at Qingren, and punish them for all the years of wickedness they have indulged in.”

  The king and the Magisters soon concluded their business, and Cyril retired from the throne room, dismissing his guards. The two guards went their separate ways, assigned on patrols throughout the corridors of Faircliff Castle. One discreetly knocked on the door to Ambassador Bai Feng’s chamber.

  “Come in,” the Jaoren called. The Hegemon’s Tsuriin messenger sneered at the guard, flaring his wings out at him.

  “What does this human want?”

  “There, there, now,” Bai Feng said quietly, not looking up from his desk as he finished composing a letter to Kazan. “He’s one of mine. I pay him better than Cyril does.”

  “You’re not as out of your depth as I thought, Ambassador.”

  The Jaoren cast his Tsuriin counterpart a look. “I’m flattered,” he said dryly. The guard whispered into Bai Feng’s ear, and the ambassador’s marble white face fell.

  “What?” the Tsuriin demanded as the guard left. “What is it?”

  Sullenly, his purple eyes wide with dread, Bai Feng looked up at the messenger. “What I feared from the start; King Cyril plans to make war upon us.”

  Letters flew between Braya and the king as quickly as messengers could deliver them. The correspondence centered around one thing; this Altani savage that dared claim he was the son of the Prophet, spreading heresy and blasphemy wherever he went. Braya and her Inquisitors hounded this would-be heir of Stefan as he traveled throughout Hierophant Ferrin’s lands, guarded by Ferrin’s men and the renegade princess. The sword of justice would fall swiftly upon them all, Braya was certain, as soon as she could find a way to break this strange hold that hulking beast of a man had on the people.