The woman looked strong and tall, and her eyes seemed to be filled with purpose. Daniel thought her hard and tried.
Woman or no, if she had any skill with a blade, there would be honour in combat. Even if she is an accursed Isilian.
“Do you know who I am?” Daniel declared.
“Lord Daniel Baccan. The Corsair,” the man replied.
“I would have your names.”
“A vagrant. She is Ashleigh Coburn, the last of the Isilians.”
“A vagrant?” Daniel scoffed, showing an inch of steel. “I am no fool. Your name.”
“Sebastien Tiron.”
It took all his resolve not to bare steel and cut the stranger down. The man once—or did—possess a treasure that the Voice sent north: the very relic that Lord Commander Rafael Azail was pursuing on behalf of Imperator Argath Diomedes and his dark counsellor.
The very foe that Aerona was meant to slay.
“My lord?” Sebastien asked.
Daniel shook his head. “Does she have no tongue?”
“I have—”
“Do we not have more pressing concerns, my lord?” Sebastien asked, cutting the sentinel off.
Do not think I am afraid to cut you down, whatever my sovereign may say.
“Their weapons,” Daniel barked dismissively, and his men came forth.
No sword or dagger hung at the waist of Sebastien, though all manner of weaponry was found on his companion. Her long sword was fine, well made, and sharp. The daggers were crude, though the hilts were hardened with wear.
“It is the wish of the overlord that his friends disarm themselves,” one of Daniel’s men said. “Your good steel will be returned, at his pleasure.”
“Whatever the overlord wishes,” Sebastien intoned.
The woman deigned no reply. The scowl upon her face was telling. Daniel did not think she ever forgot the dominion of the overlord for the past three years.
She will have to be watched.
The pair followed him down the docks towards the east-west road. The road was wide and exposed, rutted with deep cart tracks. The lapping of the sea was on the right. To the left was a wide green plain with sparse trees.
Ashleigh kept her eyes on the dirt in front of her. Daniel thought she possessed a death wish; the life had all but fled from her. Her companion was the opposite. Sebastien looked all around him; half surveying, half in wonder. He never tripped or lost his step, but he seemed like an eager traveler, always two steps further ahead than he should be.
Why are you here, Sebastien Tiron?
The outer walls of Lanan rose in the distance. The men at the gate raised the iron portcullis, and eyed the guests suspiciously.
They would not be alone in that.
“Come, and keep up,” Daniel declared. “The charms of the city are tempting.”
The streets were paved with dark grey stone, and wide enough for four men to walk. Day was all but fleeted, and lanterns atop tall posts were lit. The sound of bawdry ruses was heard from within taverns, and worse on the side streets and dark alleys. A man was suddenly thrown out of a tavern window across the way. He was of middling size with such a scowl on his face. He dove back in, red faced and cursing.
“They begin early,” Daniel said aloud. “It will not stop until the city sleeps in drunken dreams.”
The sentinel was despondent, and Sebastien said naught.
As Daniel walked ahead, he thought much of his home. Lanan was small, though it grew ever towards the south. The further south, the more cramped the ragged stone buildings were, and narrower the streets. The main road that ran east to west from the gates was the last remnants of old Lanan. The old buildings were evenly spaced, opening to side streets that once hosted armories and smithies, brothels and the black markets.
It was home, once. Until Damian tore it apart.
After a short time, the road gave way to a wide paved circle, and in the centre, a fountain: t’was a statue of the overlord, his sword piercing some placant foe, but in the place of blood was a stream of water from the man that emptied into a deep basin.
“The overlord?” Sebastien asked, looking upon the likeness.
“Overlord Damian Dannars,” Daniel replied. “He required ten sculptors to erect that monument. I wagered it would have been more, but the tenth had pleased him, and there was one less body to throw to the sea.”
“A cruel man,” Ashleigh said softly.
“These are the islands, not the main lands,” he said cuttingly. “A man who is not hard dies. It is no different than the bedroom, as you well know.”
The scowl returned to the sentinel’s face, but she kept her silence.
“Is that the Overlord’s Seat?” Sebastien asked, pointing to a low cliff.
“Aye. It is.”
Daniel turned towards the north. The road narrowed and climbed to a tall gate that sat flat on the crown of a low hanging cliff. The castle rose above. It sat amid a great square, with four towers rising above it, no more than thirty feet. The walls rose half of that, and a squat keep was inside of it, with four wide floors.
The men at the door were garbed in studded leather, swords at their sides. They met his eyes, and opened the way without a spoken word. Inside the castle, the guests were in awe. The main floor was carpeted from wall to wall in a deep crimson. In place of torches were endless chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The halls were long and narrow with many side rooms; twin staircases book ended the western and eastern sides. Servants and guards bustled about, and the smell of roasted pig permeated the castle.
“Take the sentinel to guest tower,” Daniel declared.
“I will not—”
“You will do as instructed,” Sebastien said. “We are guests. We will show curtesy.”
When the men had taken her down the western hall, Daniel spoke softly to Sebastien. “Willful girl. Much like another who will not live much longer. She would do well to heed her fate.”
“She is angry, my lord. That day of reckoning—that searing light from Isil’s heart—she was on that cog with me. I have done what I could for her, alas, it is not enough. I am a vagrant now, but I remember my home. I do not know what I would have done if I had to watch it destroyed, powerless to do aught about it.”
“Tell me more as we walk.”
Daniel took the eastern hall. The halls were thick with servants, and men eyed him suspiciously. He knew that maids, servants, or the dirtiest boy could be a whisperer, but did not care.
“How is it that you survived the wasteland?” he asked, taking soft steps.
“I do not know what I can tell you, my lord—or the overlord,” Sebastien replied. “The light was not like I had ever seen before. A star, mayhap, that fell from the sky and exploded.”
“I have been to Isilia. I led my Crimson Swords into that forsaken land, and I saw what it did. I have been a man of the sea my whole life: I have put men to the sword, trafficked goods to miserable cretins, and sold my sword. In my long years, I have never seen such a sight.”
“Consider yourself fortunate you did not hear the screams, my lord.”
“What I wonder, Sebastien Tiron, is what a Dalian was doing off the shores of Isilia.”
The only sound was that of footsteps above and below, but none upon the stone stairs. The healer lost colour in his face.
“Can you not walk and talk?” Daniel asked gruffly.
“Forgiveness,” Sebastien replied as he strode forward. “I am surprised, is all.”
“I advise you not to freeze in place when the overlord asks you the same question. Your affairs in Isilia are not my concern, yet they are his concern.”
“I can contend with the will of the overlord.”
“Many men have claimed such a feat. They were men high in honour, and scum without. They all entreated the overlord. To a man, they crumbled before him, and begged his forgiveness. My sovereign sits his chair for a reason, and it is not for kindness.”
“You do not know me,” Se
bastien insisted confidently, picking up his pace whilst he neared the head of the stair. “There are no men like me.”
Daniel smirked. “You are right. There are no dead Dalians today.”
Upon the top floor, the crimson carpet was etched with a design of black ships and warriors with swords drawn, and it ran the length of the hall. The stone walls were an endless mural of piracy, subservience, and decrepit monarchs put to the sword.
In the middle of the great hall were twin doors guarded by a score of swordsmen, though they were not Daniel’s. He knew these men, trained with them, fought with them. They were cruel and merciless, rough spoken and hard. He had seen them slaughter the infirm and broken for sport.
“This is the pissant, is it?” A tall man stepped forward, right hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Dalian scum from the looks, and not a day on the field,” he spat. “I do not see what the overlord wants from the likes of you.”
Daniel smiled with the knowledge that the Dalian would feel cornered “These are strange times, Davat. We are expected.”
“So you are, my lord. Let them pass.”
The wide doors groaned open. The hall was long, with basins of water streaming down the sides, and a single throne atop a low dais with twin lions sculpted beside it. The murals extended to these stones walls, but depicted the overlord as a pirate on one side, and his own coronation with the Crimson Swords kneeling, upon the other. The caricature on the back wall was the most emphatic: monarchs of the east and west kneeling before the overlord.
Overlord Damian Dannars sat lazily upon his gilded throne. He was dressed in boiled leather beneath a ring of mail, and his bastard sword propped up on the side. There was a dried parchment in his hand. He was pouring over it, face unreadable.
“Overlord,” Daniel intoned.
“The cretin can wait.”
It was no more than half a minute when the overlord tossed the paper away, and swung himself around. He sat staring at the Dalian. “Sebastien Tiron. Some healer of small account, yes? Heh, from Serenity, if I do recall. No more. You will have to claim a new title. You cannot heal what has been burned away. Heh. Might like to see you try. See what kind of man you are.”
“He—”
The overlord cut Sebastien off. “We will get to him soon enough. I reminded him who holds sway here, must I remind you?”
Sebastien did not reply.
“Good. You are a servant, and do not think yourself above your station. More than could be said of others,” the overlord looked at Daniel, and he felt his impenetrable gaze, before returning it to the healer. “What do you have for me? Every man must have a use, or be drowned in the sea. The gods of the realm may greedily drink up piety, but those below hunger for more exotic tastes.”
“I have news.”
“News. Heh, I have heard this from others who know far more than you. You are not a whisperer. No birds sing to you. Why should I heed it?”
“I know why you sent swords to Isilia before the fall—”
“Ignorant creature! You speak of news, yet you deliver it old and cold, and lie to my face! None of my own went there until after your work and—”
“She found It. Not what you sent, but she found It.”
Damian’s face was half curiosity and half fury. Daniel knew that many had lost more than their lives for less than interrupting the overlord.
“I pulled her body from the ruins, Sebastien,” Daniel piped in, annoyed at the revelation. “There was little enough left of her, and naught of what you speak. Do you long for the Deep Below?”
“I did not say she kept It. Someone else took It.”
“Who?!” the overlord demanded, eyes bridled with rage.
“If the Corsair had bothered to look in the throne room, he would see that a trail of blood ran north, and then west. The man was near death, but he took It from the carnage. He was looked for but—”
“Where is It now!?”
“Where else? I can procure for you, if you but aid me.”
“Why should I not simply gut you where you stand and raid those shores myself?”
“Ask the Shadow why.”
It was quiet for a time, but then Damian spoke.
“Bring him here, the wretch.”
Daniel obeyed, for now.
Chapter Three
Trials of the Faith
Lutessa stood vigil o’er the dead.
She felt cold, soulless, and perpetually empty. She wanted to come sooner, to say the words that lingered in her heart. Some petitioner, priest, or matter always held her back.
These few minutes are mine—and hers.
She placed freshly plucked daisies at the foot of the tombstone, put a gloved hand upon on the stone, and prayed her fingers would not brush the engraved words. They did, and the pain was so real. The words she had written herself, but still she hoped.
Here lies Rachel Du’vron. Warmest of friends, closest of allies, beloved servant of Mother God. May she find rest in Her warm embrace.
She dropped to her knees and wept. The demands of the Voice were so cumbersome, her time so brief, she was not there when Rachel was lowered into the earth.
I owed her more. She meant more to me than that. I have betrayed her, and her memory. Mother God it hurts. Forgive me. Rachel. Forgive me.
Lutessa knew that it would not be long before a messenger placed a hand on her shoulder, reminding her that the Voice was needed in the Chamber of Judgment.
Mother God… may that be delayed… I need my Rachel and she is here… but…
“Forgiveness,” Lutessa plead, speaking softly into the dirt. “Forgiveness for not shielding you. I did not heed you three years past. Much has come and gone; opportunities lost to set the realm aright. Three years ago I set your death. Forgiveness.”
Not a word passed her lips for a time. There were so many burdens on her mind, and she was less sure of the proper course. She wanted to talk to Rachel, and hear her counsel. Lutessa put her thoughts together and said, “The realm is crumbling all about us. It will not be long before the white is stripped from me. I can die a beggar; I care not. It is Mother God’s children I fear for. I know what I must do. It is hard, you would say as much. If only you were here. If only you could guide me once again. Alas, now you advise Mother God, no other. Rachel…”
Minutes came and went without a word. Her thoughts drifted to cowardice and deeds undone.
If only I were not so afraid.
The wind suddenly picked up, voiceless. She thought it was the realm trying to sweep her sorrows away. Then she heard soft footsteps behind, and a voice that may have been kind and warm, but she thought it only brusque and heartless.
“It is time, High Priestess Lutessa. They await you in the Chamber of Judgment.”
My time is at an end, then.
Lutessa rose, but did not turn until the messenger was out of sight, and the patter of feet soundless.
She turned away from her friend, and the Cathedral of the Faith rose in the distance; its steeples stretching high above, piercing the sky. The house of the Faith was a shining beacon of hope; its white-washed stone and marble an embodiment of the Light itself. To her, it did not matter how dark the day was; the cathedral would always pierce through it, and Mother God’s will be done.
She believed it from her days in Truftan Monastery, all the way to her ascension as the Voice. The Faith always stood against the darkness. It did not matter what was thrown against those walls; the Light would be everlasting. It was a truth she could no longer believe in. No beacon, no embodiment of Light. It was a den of death and despair.
Lady Tiffany Hart awaited with hands clasped behind her back at the eastern entrance to the lichyard. The woman was tall and broad, and her face seemed to be cut from stone; her long hair was brushed out and lapped against her back. The woman did not deign a smile as she led Lutessa on.
She walked a narrow path that ran along the walls of the cathedral, towards its northern end. The outer walls of Dale r
ose to the left, with men in crystalline armour and hard boiled leather atop the walkways. The men never looked down; their eyes were always out towards the sprawling grasslands. She wondered how far they could see atop those heights. As far as they need to, a comforting voice said. She shook her head, turned away with a frown, and followed the knight through a side door.
The steps inside were white-washed and thick with dust. It led to a secret door in the her solar, hidden behind a row of bookcases. Lady Tiffany excused herself, waiting outside, and Lutessa changed into freshly folded robes. Whatever awaited her in the Chamber of Judgment, she would do so with dignity. The robe was long and pristine, without mark or blemish upon it. She replaced her thin white gloves, and strapped on a fresh pair of knee high white boots. Her brow was bare; she never wore an ornament upon her head.
Title or no, I am a servant of Mother God, not a queen.
The upper halls were quiet. She thought there should have been a bustle of servants and maids scurrying about like mice. Worry to your own affairs. Soon they will have much to talk about. She opened the doors to one and all.
As she passed through the long hall, terrifying visages filled her sight: walls painted in blood, bodies torn and mutilated, women and children terrified as they watched a cloaked man butcher any soul who drew breath.
The night that Rachel and El died, whence it all fell apart. That monster, whoever it was, came for them first, they said. Enraged, he called for my name, and tore apart whoever stood in his way. It was only when he knew I was not here that he left.
That I must give answer to, though what they expect me to say, I do not know.
“High Priestess. If you will, stay close. Many are here.”
It was the voice of Ser Harbert, captain of the Faith Templar. His stern, commanding voice took the visions away, and she stood before tall twin doors, amid men in crystalline armour guarding it.
She nodded her head slightly, and walked forth.
So many had come.
It was a great sea of humanity that stood before her; their eyes following her every movement. Slowly, a path opened on the right that led behind the raised tiers. Every seat was filled. She ascended the steep stair that lead to the Crystal Throne of Mother God. There were two tall seats beside it: for the counsels of faith and state. Counsel Anastasia sat to the left of the throne.
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