He has never failed me.
“The Harpy has risen. Last of a dying brood. The overlord commands that we have her watched.”
“It has already been done. My eyes have been on her since she stirred. The woman keeps to herself, offering little. That old captain, Gregory Tanev, he is her only guest. Strange company. Not a man I would keep around me.”
“The woman is sentimental.
“They all are.”
“Put more on her. The best men. Jakob and Old Shipp. I want missives every dusk.”
“They are both returned two days back. I will set them on it at once, much as they may not like it.”
“There is little I like anymore. What are you leafing through?”
“This?” Jaremy pointed to the tome. “The Book of the Faith, or so they call it. Gibberish if you ask me. I wager we will have more to do with them soon. It cannot hurt to learn of the fables they are so fond of.”
Daniel waved the book away. “It never does. There is another matter that must be undertaken in all secrecy,” Daniel began to whisper. “I will need you Jaremy, more than I ever have.”
“Whatever is the matter, my lord?”
“Dangerous men, no, not men. Creatures. They infest our city. Worse of all, the overlord does not know it.”
“We should—”
“I have done what I could. Damian is deaf to it. I will need ships moved in secret. No one can learn of it, nor my intent. Are there men you can trust?”
“Yes. Good men. What would you ask of them?”
“Warships to the west beneath the sheer cliffs, unseen. Our own fleet—the markings must be clear. Tell the captains they are rerouting patrols. Send men who will not ask questions. Then go to Old Coral, and say to him, ‘The Dagger’s Edge.’ He will know what it is about. Five unmarked cogs will be loaded, and their captains told to make for Smuggler’s Run. There you will wait. I will be there soon.
“What do you mean to—”
“Best not ask that. See to it, and now.”
Jaremy closed the tome and shuffled out.
Your path is madness, Damian. I cannot walk down it with you. Not anymore. One country burned by madmen and false prophets. I will not let them kindle the only home that did not cast me out.
Not while I still breathe.
Chapter Six
Matters of Faith
Stephen did not want to be bothered.
The old woman stood near the door to his chambers. She was comely, greying, hard, and strong of face. She wore long white robes with a gold trim; the crest emblazoned with a tall tower and the morning sun high and bright above it.
Counsel Anastasia—the lofty counsel of state indeed, he thought to himself, back turned. I do not have the time for her prattling.
Stephen browsed through the shelves, ignoring her. Most of the tomes had belonged to Priest El—Stephen’s mentor and oldest friend—though he lamented the man’s disorderly library. There were treatises and accounts of the formation of the theocracy, the trials and tribulations against the imperium and monarchy, sermons and opinions of priests ancient and living, of the disciples Luke, Savanah, and Sidney.
“Where is the Voice’s treatise on…” he muttered before placing a hand on the middle shelf, gripping it in anger. I need that treatise. It was Lutessa’s and Rachel’s crowning work. There must be some clue that will lead me to—
“The Faith awaits no man.”
He released the shelf and turned. The counsel leaned against the frame of his solar, arms crossed, forcing a brief, timid smile.
Persistent. You will not leave me alone until we have them.
He took the time to learn what he could about Counsel Anastasia. In her youth, she was the youngest first scholar, and she rarely left the libraries—save to chase down errant young pupils. Stern and taciturn, her life was absorbed by the will of the Faith. Near a quarter century ago, she had broken her habits by adopting Lutessa when none other would take the child.
The two of them will prove to be a problem.
“Of course, Counsel.” He flashed a smile, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Walk the halls with me.”
He slowed his pace as Counsel Anastasia walked close by. She swiveled her head at the slightest sound. The cathedral was quiet for all her consternation. The faint light of morning painted the white washed walls with a tinge of gold. Stephen did not think there was much to be concerned with.
“The Voice has not been seen much,” she told him as they walked the long hall of the second floor of the cathedral. “Servants whisper that she keeps the company of Ser Johnathan day and night, and the braver of the maids say much untoward about that. I know her though. That is not her mind. Has she spoken to you at all? No one could have survived Isilia if what we heard was true. I do not trust the man, no matter what she might say.”
He heard the rumours and thought they were started by the Blessed Three: they were desperate, disconsolate, and most of all, unhappy when the Voice did not fall from grace. “The Voice is lost to me as much as she is to you. I have seen her in the Halls of Prayer, lending her voice to the masses, blessing the children of Mother God. Then not again until the divine calls upon her. I do not trust the wayward knight: of that we are of one mind, Counsel.”
“Should we not act, then? I have known the child all her years, yet she looks at me as if I was some stranger to her. She trusts you and your judgment; we all do. You are a pillar to her. Lend your strength in this time of need.”
Not strong enough for her. The child is willful and distant. Little I would risk for you. “I would not stand above my station in this. Not unless the clergy rose in a single voice on the matter. They have not, lest I have been blind and deaf.”
It was an eventuality that he was not unduly grateful for. The presence of the Voice and the needs the clergy placed upon him was vexing. There was much to read, see, and organize. This last week was a blessing: many were scheming on account with the news that the knight had brought. That gave him time, brief as it was; and if the pieces fell where he wished them to, it would matter little what the lord protector and the high priestess spoke of, if anything at all.
“That may come sooner than you realize.”
Stephen froze at the top of the western stair, staring at Counsel Anastasia. There were near silent pattering of feet; and though she did not look to and fro, there was dread in her eyes.
“Speak plainly,” Stephen said almost too gruffly. He had not heard of the clergy pushing to action, though he had plenty of guesses where it had come from.
“Fathers Dominic, Augustus, and Buchanan. Their support is swelling, slowly, but it is swelling. The absence of the Voice emboldens them. I fear for Lutessa. She is near and dear to me, far more than the most devoted of our calling. Those priests are angry at her sacrilege. All that she has done to stem the tide will be undone and soon.”
“Worry not of those three,” Stephen replied dismissively, masking his relief. “I will see to it. The Voice will come to no harm. Come. This I will set to rights.” He continued his descent, and heard the pattering of soft footfalls behind him.
He curled his lips slightly into a half smile. The wayward high priestess and the old knight concerned him, but if the Blessed Three clamored enough, the Voice would have to attend them and assuage their concerns.
And who will she turn to when they press too hard, too fast? She makes this far too easy.
Counsel Anastasia caught up, worry laced in every breath. “Ser Johnathan must be returned to service or set before the clergy, and soon. Her eye must be upon those zealots.”
Yes. I will make sure of that. “A session will be called soon. Until then we wait and be patient.”
He stopped and stood near a row of thick marble pillars before a wide chamber with stained glass all along the walls. There were endless rows of pews, with a raised dais that housed the largest statue to Mother God ever sculpted: near ten feet, polished to a bright white sheen, the Mother stooping a
s if to bestow blessings to every petitioner.
“When times brings doubt, I like to come here to remind myself that Mother God is always watching,” Stephen said strongly to the counsel. “In faith, all things are possible. We owe all to her wisdom.”
“I have asked for it, begged for it,” Counsel Anastasia replied with brighter spirits. “None has come. Not from Mother God, or those who serve Her will from the islands.”
“Did you expect aught else from a land of sin? The islands are an affront to Mother God—far worse than the kingdoms to the west, and even to the now destroyed imperium to the east. The people there were lost souls, desperate for any answer—the simplest inclinations of the truth. Not so under the overlord’s rule. I was there once, two years past. I barely escaped with my life; the accompanying priests were not so fortunate. I will never forget it. Mother God as my witness, I will not.
“We need them.”
“What do we need from heathens? We trusted to a heathen once, and now we fight for our survival, and our Voice much more. Have the lessons been lost on you? They have been on her, or else you would not plead with me.”
“She wanted naught to do with them, it is true. Folly is what I call it. See past your faith, and to swords and ships. They are strength and survival, whatever you may wish.”
“Not for long I hope. Moreover, these are your concerns, not mine.”
“They are all of ours.” She grasped his arm. “We have no word from the men we sent to Isilia either. I do not like it. You know the islanders. Would they have been taken?”
“Who can know the overlord’s mind?” he asked, wishing to pull his arm away from her boney grasp. “His own affairs were the imperium, and now with its destruction, he will be wroth. If our captain tended his own affairs well, an answer will come and soon.”
“Much I will pray for, Counsel Stephen. May Mother God bless your counsels.”
“As She blesses yours, Counsel Anastasia.”
He leaned lazily against the pillar and watched old woman walk towards the thick maze of pews. There was only a handful of men and women at prayer, with no priest upon the dais. She chose a place far away from the other petitioners, knelt, closed her eyes, and prayed.
A time will come soon, Counsel Anastasia, when I no longer need your support. The realm you knew is dead and gone. It died in the purifying Light of Mother God. Her strength is ended, sadly. Steel must suffice when the Light lacks.
Stephen walked along the narrow side of the pillars, hiding in the shadows. The hall gave way to a balcony and a few thin walkways. Below the hall were long wooden tables and rows of bookshelves stuffed to the brim with journals, histories, and treatises of the Faith. It was the libraries of the Faith: four floors wide as the cathedral, stacked with every tome writ.
To his right was a single wide door of oak. It was guarded by broad man of middling height, garbed in crystalline armour, his helmet rested beside him, giving way to a shaggy mess of auburn hair. He bore no smile, but recognized him out of hand. “The first scholar is expecting you.”
“Bless you, and your steel. May the Mother of All guide your vigil,” Stephen intoned, and walked down the steps.
The stairs were long and narrow, and though the walls were of the same white washed stone as the rest of the cathedral, the faint light from low torches made it look like a dull grey. He made for the fourth underground floor, far from the offices of the first scholar, as was arranged the day before.
The first scholar was young, and Stephen felt far too weak for the station. It took him no more than a few curt reminders about who held sway in the Faith, and that disobedience would profane Mother God.
The boy shall remain tractable for years. Long enough.
The fourth floor was barely brighter than the stair, with only two scholars that he could see. They both sat near each other on the far-left side, noses inside thick tomes, with mountains of books piled all around them. He thought the lads would not hear a shadow stalker if it gorged on a fat bull not five feet from them.
He pushed into the stacks and crossed rows of bookshelves until he reached the right corner of the far wall. He stood before a tall, wide bookcase that was full of mundane accounts on the architecture of the theocracy and other great countries. It did not take long before he found the book titled ‘Of Stone and Mortar of the Mountain: The Styles and Form of Imperial Wonders’ authored by Marcus Hakh. Stephen retrieved the book, and the entire shelf pushed out and to the right, revealing a dark stair. He lit and removed an ensconced torch, and the shelf moved back into place.
I know so much, but the mysteries of this passage is not among them. At least he is not lost for humour with that book and this opening.
The stair was short, steep, and oppressively dark. The further he descended, the thicker the air was, almost choking. It did not bother him much anymore, but he was almost gagging the first time he made this descent; and he was half worried some wayward scholar heard the cacophony.
Suddenly a large chamber opened, and rows of tall stone coffins filled the space.
The Tomb of the Voice. Three hundred years of history. Fitting that he chose a place of death.
The rows began at the far end, starting with the left. On the top of each tomb was an engraving of a likeness, and at the foot, a four-foot plaque that detailed when they reigned and glories and wonders they wrought. There was fourteen of them, the most recent interred not a decade ago.
Stephen barred the door on the far-right side of the chamber. That was the other and more commonly used entrance for visitors to this crypt.
Where is that daemon?
“Where I always am,” a voice called out, deep and guttural. “The torch by the door, then come towards the rest of Justine the Indomitable. We have little time.”
Stephen waded through the rows of tombs until he stopped at the likeness of a warrior with long, flowing hair, and two hands clasped around a great sword.
The warrior Voice. They might have a chance if they only followed in kind. The strong survive and the weak die. That is the nature of our realm.
Stephen turned to the side and saw a cloaked figure. The glower of the torch only gleaned the faintest outline of a long, strong face.
“Have you found Gabriel’s Gift?”
He will not like this. “Clues and conjecture, naught of substance. Time, I need more time, and I will find it. The Voice is occupied still with the return of Ser Johnathan, and those who would usurp her place. I will find it.”
“You have been gifted time,” the man growled. “You have done naught but waste it. Use what little is left of it fruitfully. Else you will wish you had.”
“His will be done,” Stephen intoned. The eyes of the cloaked figure bored into him. The stranger always seemed to know his thoughts. “A man has returned who may know much.”
“Men return to die here. This man knows naught.”
“He is the lord protector and he—”
“He is naught! Use him to whatever end you wish. Slay him, if you like. There is no more use for that mongrel.”
I do not believe that. He is important to me and my own memories; he has to be.
“You will have a guest soon,” the cloaked figure declared suddenly. “A servant. The man is loyal, and worth more than you. He will come to you as crew on the Damsel; that ill-fated ship you sent east. Slay them when they return; no one must learn of our guest. He has been bestowed the name of Warden, and has our trust. You will entrust Gabriel’s Gift to him. Should you be empty handed, you will not survive as you did before.”
“His name—”
“Be satisfied with name that you have been given.”
“His will be done.”
There was an immutable silence, and Stephen felt eyes that he could not see boring into him. I can feel him groping my mind. The answer is plain to him as the sun in the sky. Why must he force this?
“Tell me of the swords,” the cloaked figure said.
“Time.”
> “You have been given time, servant. Do you forget that life was given to you to act upon his will? You exist to see His will, and you beg for time. There is no time, not anymore. Emperor Archelaus stirs in Edren, impatient. His mind must be forced away from us. See them fielded and ask not for time!”
“To whom shall the swords of the Faithsworn be raised ‘gainst?”
“The Corsair. He will arrive two days after the Warden. When the Warden is here, burn any ship that comes. I will not have him on these shores.”
“His will be done.”
“Fail and writhe in the Unseen Realm!”
The tomb was dead and cold, as if no trace of the man never came to pass.
Deals with the daemon lords are wrought with peril, Stephen reflected, but this I owe to Mother God.
Thus I must turn to Her warriors of old.
Chapter Seven
The Wine Sinks
Aerona leered at the drunk.
“You do be a pretty one. It be good that you come here all on your own. A man longs for company on nights like this. You do far worse than Gibbs here.” The man could not walk straight, his words were garbled, and he swished ale out of his stein. He smiled, and there was a hint of lust in his eyes. “Come with me. I do tell you stories.”
She caught his wrist as he stumbled forward, and twisted hard. The man dropped his drink and cried out in pain.
“No need to be so hard on Gibbs.”
She rounded on his face, knocking some teeth loose.
“Mercy,” he wailed.
“Leave me alone.”
Aerona released her grip, and Gibbs ran out the front door, cursing into the dark of night. Near every eye in the tavern turned towards her: labourers, pirates, smugglers, and traders. Some of the men chuckled, and the rest returned to their drinks.
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