Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  “Well, you got your wish, didn’t you?” Floriana grinned. “People are happy to see you.”

  Matthias scoffed. “They’re happy to see my father. Without him, I wouldn’t be welcome anywhere.”

  “Maybe once, but, Matthias?” the princess got as close as she dared, squeezing his hand. “You bring hope. For twenty years, my father has had people scared into following our faith. You’re showing them they needn’t fear the Creator, but love him. That kindness and honor can stand where fear and punishment do. I know, if nothing else, I will always be happy to see you.”

  “Ahem.”

  Floriana immediately scooted away as both of them looked up to be met with Irene’s arched brow. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Not at all, Aunt Irene,” Floriana said, rising as Irene took her place next to Matthias.

  “Mm-hmm.” The older woman pushed a slim, well-worn book into the warrior’s hands.

  Matthias frowned as he opened it. The pictures were small and simple, with short sentences next to each one. “What is this?”

  “A primer. It’s a book for teaching children to read.”

  “I am not a child,” Matthias grumbled darkly.

  “No, but neither was I when I picked this up.” She tapped the book meaningfully. “This belonged to the children of my old master. They were fond of me, and gave it to me when I was freed. I learned to read from this, and it’s a far better start than Julius Vindicta’s ‘Treatise on the Application of Mandragora Jaedera in Healing Poultices.’” She nodded back at the heavy leather tome. “Unless you want to start by learning High Altun instead of the common tongue.”

  Matthias sighed. “How do I start?”

  Irene placed the book on the table, and leaned over the first page. “We’ll start with the common, or Roradan, alphabet. Now, your name starts with this letter here...”

  Chapter 19

  In the House of the Creator

  The next few days passed in relative peace. The disciples were never exactly comfortable while ever in Cyril’s shadow, but each had to do something to feel useful. Derogynes tried pulling on what diplomatic strings he had left, writing furiously about the king’s injustices to every diplomatic colleague he knew across the civilized world. Magnus, Irene, and Floriana tended the hungry and the sick, and Matthias stood by his father, speaking to people in the courtyard of Irene’s home. The warrior’s true focus, however, had drifted to his nightly lessons alongside Irene as she taught him to read.

  He was beginning to enjoy it. It was rare for him to feel clever, but as he began to get a hold of the sounds of each letter, there was a small thrill whenever he pieced together a word before Irene had to prod him. It wasn’t long before, on a crisp winter morning, he tried his hand at writing his name.

  “M, A, T, H,” he looked up at Irene, who shook her head. “No, two T’s… H, I, A, S.” His large, thick fingers were clumsy and he nearly broke the quill in his huge hand, but he attempted to sign his blocky signature with the same sort of flourish he had seen Derogynes use. “There.” He smiled at his handiwork. He knew it was sloppy and unrefined, but it was his.

  Derogynes had taken up residence in the library as well to compose his letters, and leaned over to view the warrior’s writing. “Well done. With a few more tries, it might even be legible.”

  Irene shot the ambassador a deadly glare, rapping her staff against the floor as the Andrathi’s thick neck was forced back to his own papers. “Mind your own work, Derogynes.” She turned her attention back to Matthias, and nodded approvingly. “I taught many slaves to read, but few were as excited as you.” She offered a rare grin. “Your mother would approve. She loved reading, especially poetry. Suyi had this book of Qingrenese poems, ‘Meditations on Water,’ she recited it like your father recites verses from the books of faith. I remember her favorite:

  ‘Behold the pale moons, lovers in their dance

  So far among the heavens, and yet, so near

  In still crystal water, I see them so clear.’”

  Matthias grinned. “I’ve seen her face at last. I hear she was a brave woman.”

  “Oh, the bravest,” Irene asserted. “We were slaves, and the fight for us was monumental. But as we rose, she fell. We had nothing, so we had little to sacrifice. She gave up wealth, respect, honor, comfort, her family, all of it. Because she believed in our freedom, she believed your father, and she believed in the Creator.”

  Matthias sighed. “I understand that the souls of the Virtuous stand alongside the Creator. Do you think she is among them?”

  Irene scoffed. “If she’s not, then I would change religions.” She stood, patting him on the shoulder. “Come on, then. There’s something your father wants you to see.”

  Matthias rose, rolling his mighty shoulders as he slipped on a cloak and grabbed his sword and shield before heading off into the snow.

  “Come, my son.” Stefan came to his side. “Today, we will see where I turned the Fravani to our faith, and where your mother was buried.”

  Magnus and Irene joined Stefan and Matthias through the crowded streets of Stefanurbem. The city was overflowing with crowds gathered for the coming of the new year, 1368 of the Age of Ash. Garlands of holly still hung from houses having celebrated Sanctilis, and stalls were selling beer and spiced wine to ward off against the cold.

  The houses of Stefanurbem were all fairly new, as far as Matthias could tell. Their white-washed mud and daub walls were still fresh, and the timbers and wooden tiles on their roofs still full of color. But then, they crossed a bridge on to a smaller island, and Matthias recognized the work of the Altani. Older and smaller stone houses, piled up on one another, and as they approached the center, he was immediately struck with a sense of the familiar.

  Just as it was in the Bybic holy place, there was a stone circle that had five pillars rise above it. Only, where there was once a sacrificial altar and carvings of the Altani gods, now there were carvings of animals; a wolf, a stag, an eagle, a kraken, and a griffin. Below the carvings of each animal were lists of names, none of which Matthias recognized. Stefan drew near, his fur brushing against the warrior’s leg.

  “Each animal represents a virtue. The stag stands for honor, the griffin for compassion, and so on. I came across each on my pilgrimage; the wolf made me understand the Creator, the kraken led me to invent wands. The names are those of the Paragons; martyrs who gave their lives for the virtues, and humanity’s freedom. I forsee many, many more names being honored as such in the years to come.”

  Stefan tilted his head to the tall stone building beyond the stone circle. It was the biggest church Matthias had yet seen in Fosporia, with high stone walls and windows of colored glass.

  “And there is the church where your mother’s grave lies. Suyi was fond of it in life.”

  Matthias nodded, and scanned the area. The stone circle was packed, and even here, there were stalls. Only, a small fraction of them sold goods. Most were exchanging money. He saw several coins of a dozen different lands being exchanged for the simple, silver and copper pennies the Fosporians used. He felt on edge; the black robes of the Inquisitors seemed to be everywhere, here. And then he heard the wolf at his side growl low.

  “Disgraceful. This was a place of quiet contemplation and prayer.” The wolf raised his head to the great stone church that loomed ahead. People had gathered in long lines around tables where priests sat, surrounded by ledgers and lockboxes.

  “What is this?”

  Matthias gripped his sword a little tighter. He had become wary of his father’s anger. The wolf’s white fur was standing on end, and his sharp, dagger like fangs were on full display as he snarled. The lines dispersed as the wolf stalked closer to the priests, Matthias trailing after him.

  “Be on guard,” Matthias muttered to Magnus and Irene, locking eyes with an Inquisitor for a moment. The Inquisitor immediately ran off, doubtless to report to Braya. “I fear there may be trouble soon.”

  They moved quickly
through the line as anxious petitioners made room for the large, angry wolf in their midst. Only the man at the front of the line was unaware, deep in his discussions with the priest.

  “Name the deceased and time of death,” the priest sighed in a bored monotone.

  “Artorus Semper, Father, dead these three years,” the man said softly.

  The priest irritably tapped on the lockbox. “Ten silver and his soul will be prayed for to be released into heaven. Do you have any sins of your own to confess?”

  The man hung his head. “I have coveted my neighbor’s wife. And I have lied to my own wife.”

  “Lying is an offense to faith and honor both, and coveting another man’s wife is an offense against honor and the honor of your sister among the Virtuous. Fifteen silver, and your faith and honor will be restored in the sight of the Creator,” the priest snapped.

  “Fifteen?” the man’s face fell. “But… last year, it was only ten.”

  “Now it is fifteen. For an extra silver, you may pray at the grave of blessed Paragon Suyi. Pay, or face the fires of the Tyrant’s Hell. Next!”

  Matthias looked down at his father, a low growl emanating from the wolf. “Sacrilege!”

  As the man began to reluctantly dig in his pocket, Matthias approached. “We’re here to visit the church.”

  The priest tapped his lockbox. “The church is only open to visitors that pay a nominal fee, friend. It’s the resting place of Paragon Suyi, so praying to her will grant you special favor with the Creator.”

  With those last words, Stefan leaped up on the table, knocking the lockbox to the ground as coins spilled all across the frozen dirt and stone. He snarled at the priest, his fangs snapping as they hovered less than inch away from the man’s face, now ashen with fear. He fell over backwards from his chair, shrieking as he scrambled into the crowd to keep away from the wolf. “They are using my wife’s grave as a way to make money? They’re using her corpse, as if she were a juggler’s act at a fair?!”

  Stefan let out a low, angry howl, jaws snapping at anyone who dared come near. “This wretch dares, dares to charge money from lost souls for prayer? To use the graves of the departed as props in an utter scam?! This is an abomination! Where is his virtue, his faith and HIS honor? If Cyril has done this, he shames the Creator, himself, and all of Fosporia!”

  “Father…” Matthias tried to inch towards the wolf as the Inquisitors pushed their way through the increasingly panicked crowd.

  The wolf would have none of it. Tearing at the ledger with his powerful jaws, the wolf leapt to the next table to terrorize the priest there, snapping at his robe and kicking the lock box to the floor. Travellers greedy or desperate enough to brave the vicious wolf swarmed over the fallen money, totally ignoring the impotent protests of the priests as they tried to push people back.

  Matthias’ heart leaped into his chest as he saw the Inquisitors had cornered Stefan, spears and staffs prodding him and poking him, even as the wolf’s back arched and he snapped his jaws around one spear, shattering the wooden shaft. One Inquisitor moved to strike, but his sword may as well have hit stone; the blade reverberated off the wolf, and then a great force of magic threw the Inquisitors surrounding the beast to their feet.

  The shocked silence was palpable. Furious whispers flew through the crowd. “The Prophet has returned!” Some cried out, bending their knees and clasping their hands in prayer. “Praise the Creator, Stefan has come back to us!”

  “Blasphemy!” Braya shrieked, her fiery whip striking the ground like a bolt of lightning. Her eyes locked on Matthias. She was shaking with such fury, the cowl covering her shaved head began to unravel, and her fiery eyes seared into him. “Fraud!” The whip struck again, lacerating the feet of people nearby who had bowed before the wolf. “You fools! You bow before a false idol, a parody of our beloved Prophet.” She pointed an accusatory finger at Matthias. “This savage has tricked you all!”

  “How did you do that?” Matthias asked his father, as he, Magnus, and Irene gathered around the wolf. The Inquisitors charged, but Magnus cast them aside, summoning a wall of arcane energy.

  “Criedeam would not let me be harmed before my time.” Stefan’s voice was soft in Matthias’ head, and the wolf slumped, panting. “I am weakened. Leave me. Protect my disciples.”

  “I am not leaving you!” Matthias hissed through gritted teeth.

  Irene looked over to the wolf. “Not this time, Stefan. None of us are leaving you.”

  “Lady Irene! Hierophant Magnus!” Braya stepped forward, coiling her whip. “You were once faithful servants of the Creator and his chosen; step aside, and you walk away with your lives and freedom. I want only the wolf and the savage.”

  “We are faithful servants, Braya,” Irene returned. “What happened to you? You were such a sweet girl. Would your father be proud of how you whip innocents in the streets, burn books, and have your subordinates burn victims of your zealotry?”

  “My father was born a savage, saved only by the Prophet’s grace,” Braya spat. “Do not lecture me about the past! While you hid, I have served my king and god for years! I am a servant of virtue and light, and if you do not stand aside and let me put a muzzle on that bewitched creature, I will have no choice, Lady Irene.”

  Irene stared down the Inquisitor and stepped forward, rapping her staff against the ground, the gnarled end sparking with energy. “Don’t underestimate me, girl. I may be old, but I had to earn my freedom by learning to command the winds, when you were still bouncing on your father’s lap.”

  Braya returned the gaze. “So be it. May the Creator have mercy on your soul, Lady Irene.”

  “For all that I failed to do, I certainly hope he will.” Irene looked back to Stefan and Matthias. “But I won’t fail him today.” She swept back her steel-gray hair and stepped out of Magnus’ protective ward, slamming the ground with her staff as it sent a stinging hail of ice and sleet toward the Inquisitors.

  Shouting in her rage, Braya smote the ground with her flaming whip, clearing the air as she charged toward Irene, but the old healer was ready for her. Before Braya could strike with her whip, Irene leaped aside, blocking the attack with her staff and extinguishing lingering flames with a wave of her hand.

  “You’re sloppy, Inquisitor.”

  “You’re slow. No heretic has escaped my reach,” Braya declared. She produced a slender wand to send a volley of fireballs, which Irene blocked with a swing of her staff.

  “How sad are you, girl, that you see heretics wherever you look?” Irene chided in a matronly tone. She caught the whip with her staff, and with one pull, yanked the vile weapon out of the Inquisitor’s hand. As Braya leaped for it, Irene side-stepped her and grabbed the coiled length of leather in her hand, the flames leaving her unscathed. “This ugly thing has caused enough people pain.” She focused on the whip for a brief moment until its enchantments burst, consuming the whip in overgrown flame and leaving a smell of burnt leather in the air.

  Braya howled in anger, her eyes wide as she tore off her cowl to reveal her sun-shaped scar and shaved head. “That was a gift from the king! A badge of my office! How dare you, heretic!”

  Matthias had watched the fight, and as he caught Irene’s eye, he nodded then poked Magnus. “We have an opening while Braya’s distracted. Take my father. Run!”

  “W-what?” Magnus sputtered, grabbing a hold of Stefan’s neck as the weakened wolf leaned against him. “What about you?”

  Matthias gave a bleak grin. “I’m good at taking hits.” He shoved the smaller man on his way. “Go!”

  Magnus looked over Matthias, then down to Stefan, still panting with exhaustion. “Creator be with you, Matthias. I’ll bring everyone back to help.” The curly-haired disciple tugged on the wolf, and steered him away from the crowd and back to the house.

  The battle had turned in Braya’s favor, if only just. In a fit of rage, the Inquisitor pounded Irene with a constant barrage of fire and earth, keeping the older mage firmly on the def
ensive as she blocked blow after blow with her staff. Her age was catching up with her, and she was breathing heavily.

  “Irene!” Matthias shouted, his hand immediately wrapping around his sword.

  She shot one glance in his direction, and with a wave of her hand, paralyzed his legs as she had when she healed him. “Not this time, Matthias. I owe your family too much,” she gasped weakly as she nearly missed a fireball. Braya was getting closer, circling in on the mage, and it seemed that this had been exactly what Irene waited for. She smacked Braya’s wand hand with her staff faster than the Inquisitor could react, and her wand tumbled out of her grasp.

  Crying out in pain, Braya was silenced as Irene struck again, hitting her firmly in the stomach before raising her hand, and watching as the Inquisitor rose into the air.

  “This is witchcraft! Dark magic!” Braya hissed through gritted teeth, legs kicking in desperation.

  “No, child,” Irene said with a hint of pity. “You think all magic is merely a tool for conquest, enforcing your will on the elements of nature. But it is so much more than that. It is our faith, our wisdom, and our freedom. This is the same magic the Prophet taught me to make the lame walk again and heal the sick. And I hope it will heal you, in time.” Irene’s face hardened. “But I will ensure you never harm an innocent or enforce my brother’s corrupted will again.” She clenched her fist, and Braya cried out in pain as her arm twisted in unwholesome, bone-snapping angles, her fingers suddenly bent and gnarled. Matthias winced, thinking back to his duel with Alfred.

  She let Braya drop in a heap. With hot tears of pain streaming down her face, Braya stared red-eyed at Irene, cradling her disjointed arm. “What did you do?”

  Irene regarded her with an icy glare. “I broke your arm. That should keep you out of trouble for a while. Now, with that taken care of, I—” Irene gasped sharply, then looked down as she saw the point of a spear shoved through her middle. As the Inquisitor that had impaled her pulled back, she faltered and fell to her knees, blood oozing from the open wound.