“Prince Adonis Marcanas,” Lutessa admitted.
The cloaked figure seemed to roil. “If it is not recovered—”
“Ease yourself, Lord Luc,” the cloaked figure on the left remarked dismissively. “Our road leads to Trecht. It will be ours, as if the Voice handed it over to us, here and now.”
“Lord Aleksander, upon your counsel, we fled Lanan without Subversion. The call in the Void is more than the Cleaver Prince. Five stones they have now. Enough strength to bar Sariel from us.”
“None can stop His ascendance, least of all the Trechtians. They covet what they do not understand.”
“Was Rafael Azail as powerless, Lord Aleksander?”
“Enough!” The voice was deep, throaty, and coarse. The speaker pulled down his hood, revealing dirty brown hair. His face was scarred and mutilated.
A daemon made flesh.
“The Faith has much that must be done, if Her Voice believes as she always has?” the cloaked man asked.
Lutessa felt terribly small, like a petulant child again, under the stern watch of the scholars who demanded no more than strict obeisance. “The Mother’s Pilgrim—”
“I asked of the Faith, not your patron god!”
“The Faith needs more than fervent belief,” she offered, not comprehending why the words spilled out as they did. “Our fleets have been made ready, and the princes are none the wiser. They are worthless to us: Counsel Stephen Francis cannot be brought to heel. The Faithsworn are a weapon I cannot wield.”
“She does not know,” Lord Aleksander said in a half-mocking tone, as the cloaked man looked her square in the face. “You do not know that he was once ours, before his betrayal.”
Lutessa knew that the counsel danced with daemons, made pacts with monsters, but these men?
The Mother’s Pilgrim did not betray me. “That makes the knights more intractable.”
“Your ears are open, but you do not listen, little girl,” Lord Aleksander laughed, and a mocking mirth accompanied every word. “Did you believe that only the counsel was taken by Darkness? No. The Faithsworn themselves are sworn to our cause: the captains hear our will, and they will obey when called for. Your counsel thinks himself safe. That is why he has accomplished much. Yet not in the name of Mother God. Sariel. He is no more than a puppet dancing to our strings.”
“Unneeded and wasteful,” Lord Luc scoffed. “He has lived beyond his usefulness.”
“Come forth, Lutessa,” the figure by the window commanded suddenly.
Confused but compelled, she did as bid, taking slow, careful steps. Trust in him. The savior of gods and mortals, the Mother’s Pilgrim voice told her as the warmth of Gabriel’s Gift grew with each step. Standing in front of the cloaked figure, she was terrified and repulsed, and doubted that such a man could ever be trusted. Suddenly, as if in a trance, she saw the man with unseen clarity: familiar, garbed in ashen armour, an insignia of a mottled bird engraved on his chest.
I know you.
Before she could utter a word, swirls of shadows cascaded at her feet. She panicked when she could not move, and despaired when the man’s outstretched hand was suddenly near her chest. A great fear came upon her as she saw Gabriel’s Gift come forth from her breast, resting in this man’s hands; its glow piercingly bright, though dark tendrils spiraled forth.
“Your wish,” the stranger croaked. “What is it, Lutessa, Voice of Mother God?”
It was such a simple question of the heart, but it took moments for her to come up with any answer. “To preserve the people of Mother God. To live in a realm without orphans. No war, suffering, or hunger. To live and breathe in the Light.”
“What would you sacrifice for this dream?”
“My light. My life.” That answer came quickly, as naught e’er did. “I give myself to that end.”
“You are a worthy vestige to that end.” She suddenly felt a searing pain, as if her insides were being torn to shreds. “A gift freely given, willingly taken, is life anew, and not a slayer of spirit.”
“Lord Kaldred!” she screamed as Darkness suffused her.
Lutessa could not say how long it was since she screamed Lord Kaldred’s name. All around her was dark and lonely, without substance or form.
“The gift is poison.”
She looked around frantically for the voice, but she saw only formless darkness.
“To trust was the end, heh. Temptation was the death of us.” The voice was different from the first.
“Speak to my face, cursed shadows. I am the Voice of Mother God. Heed my will!”
As if summoned from the Void, two men appeared upon thrones. Upon the left she saw an older man with long white hair and gnarled knuckles, sitting high on a darkened seat. To the right, far closer to her, was a far more youthful man with long flowing blonde hair, stern and hard, on a tall wooden seat sided by two stone lions.
“Imperator Argath Diomedes and Overlord Damian Dannars,” Lutessa said softly, hardly believing what she saw. “You are dead men.”
“Heh,” Overlord Damian scoffed. “Death would be a kindness to us after the betrayal we suffered. We are kept alive by some power unseen. The Dream he calls it. Whatever tripe that is.”
“Lord Kaldred is our gaoler, High Priestess,” Imperator Argath explained. “Bound to the stone, we remain, for what purpose, only he is aware of.”
Lutessa did not know what this was: a dream, a vision, a hallucination. She was sure it was brought on by Lord Kaldred and his manipulation of her stone. That did not bear any real meaning. For the stones were the masters, and the chosen few were subservient to them.
To suggest the opposite is madness.
“Lord Kaldred died in the Calamity!” Lutessa exclaimed in incredulity. “He cannot imprison you or come to me and—”
“Then how do we live and breathe?” Imperator Argath asked condescendingly from the dark throne. “Neither the overlord or I should have drawn another breath. Yet here we are, bound to his will.”
“There is a darkness at work, can you not see that?” Overlord Damian exclaimed “And you would take his gift. Would you be like us?”
“A gift freely given, willingly taken, is life anew, and not a slayer of spirit,” the imperator intoned. “Were these not the words said to you?”
“The Mother’s Pilgrim—” she began, though the overlord cut her off.
“Our words are wasted on the wretch. Do you not see that Argath? The voice inside the stone still compels her. As it did us. All that we built will be brought to ruins.”
“As once the great mountains were shorn, the seas succumbed to the terrible storm, so too will the Light be twisted into the endless Abyss,” the imperator said solemnly.
Doubt, anger, and terror churned through her. Obstinate denial was what she wanted to profess, but knew it would be vain to these men, whoever they were. There was so little that made sense, but she was sure that they were not who they said they were.
“The Mother’s Pilgrim is who I trust,” Lutessa protested. “Who I will always trust.”
The men were gone as quickly as they came, as if they never were at all. She sat down in the darkness, but saw a light, almost like a shaded star on the horizon. It seemed to grow as it moved towards her, pulsating ever brighter. The dark did not give way to it, but joined with it, immersing her in a brilliance that she had never seen before.
The only thought in her mind was warmth and cold as she closed her eyes.
The chambers of the monastic scholar were all around. Lord Kaldred placed Gabriel’s Gift in Lutessa’s hand. She gripped it fiercely, basking in its Light. Lords Luc and Aleksander were no longer there, but she could feel them somewhere close, like growing shadows, hid within a deeper darkness. “You are Lord Kaldred. The Faceless Shadow.”
The daemon revealed the ugliest smirk she had ever seen. “I was called that once, ere I shall be called that again.”
“You brought ruin to Isilia.”
Lord Kaldred turned and pla
ced a gloved hand on the side of the window, staring listlessly out at the falling rain. “It was not I that brought ruin to that land. I counseled and advised Imperator Argath Diomedes, to avert his madness. My face—” he paused and drew fingers softly down the skin, pained at the faintest touch. “It is my just reward for opposing those who sow the seeds of discord. Isilia was a troubled land, folded together on treachery and betrayal. In the end, Argath saw what he had wrought, and would have repented, if not for Lord Commander Rafael Azail’s treachery.”
“They are dead?”
“Imperator and overlord both.” Lord Kaldred stared down at his hands. “I could not ward Isilia’s sovereign from madness, nor purge it from their lord commander. I do not mean to make the same mistake.” The daemon walked towards her. “Discord now gathers in Trecht. The same madness is there. We must see that it does not come to pass.”
Lutessa knew that all too well. The Marcanas brothers would leave the Eastern Lands a ruin if they were allowed. The pursuit of the stones meant little else. “What must be done to stop this, Lord Kaldred?”
He placed two hands on her shoulders. She felt such a warmth in his touch. “Gabriel’s Gift—I have given to It aspects of Dominion, so that you can harness the Darkness in the hearts of the Faithsworn. Wield it, Lutessa, and bind them to your will.”
Them. The Faithsworn. It became clear to her that was the reason for the fleets. For Counsel Stephen Francis and the knights who served him. Light and Darkness entwined as one to forge a realm worthy of Mother God.
“What of Counsel Stephen Francis?” she asked.
Lord Kaldred scowled, recoiling at the mere mention of the counsel. Cascading shadows suffused him, as he dispersed from sight.
Lutessa found herself alone in the dark. None of the men had a presence anymore. She placed Gabriel’s Gift within her robes again, feeling its warmth permeate her body and soul. The rain still fell in sheets, but there was a leather-bound tome on the table, old and worn, beneath the flames of guttering candles. Pulling up a chair, she brushed the cobwebs and dust off it, and read the title, ‘Time of Ascendance.’
She knew what it foretold: the rising of the Lord of Death, the dead rising with Him, to seek vengeance upon the faithful for courting with Mother God Herself. The realm would be wreathed in fire and flame, in shadow and darkness. Yet there would be one who would rise, a warrior sworn to the Faith, who wielded Light itself. None knew what would come of it, but the prophet foretold the end of all life, reborn upon battles outcome.
Oft she thought that Counsel Stephen Francis was set to bring it about— his Faithsworn the embodiment of Light—to wield against the power of Darkness.
Yet, if Lutessa obeyed the will of the Mother’s Pilgrim, there would be no Darkness to fight against.
Light and Darkness would be as one.
But then, she wondered, if the dream was not a dream, and if the imperator and the overlord were not facades, did they not warn her against this? Did they not fall for the same ruse?
I can only trust what I know.
Chapter Ten
Hearth and Home
Daniel smelt the burning peat from his fire-side seat in the Crowned Prince.
Though neither ale, meat, or the sound of merriment blocked out his memories.
He was knocked down hard by knights he had never seen before. They were armed with what seemed to be bladed quarterstaffs. Regaining his feet, he charged at the assailants, only to be tossed aside, and he bled from cuts on his legs by the weapon’s wicked reach. The knights pointed and laughed in a language he had never heard before. He tried to stand, but could not.
The knights were suddenly quiet, and a tall man with flowing white hair knelt and held Daniel’s head. Never giving his name, the knight said in a grating voice, “This is no longer your fight. It never was. Remain in this hovel, my lord.” Daniel never learned his name, but he would never forget the stern face, hard eyes, and long flowing white hair.
The serving wench brought him another mug of ale. The woman was long legged, buxom, but she had a wide, ugly face. He thanked her, flipped a silver coin through the air, and took slow, steady sips. He searched for the secrets and trysts of the Marcanas brothers, and he thought there was no better place than a tavern occupied by disgruntled commoners.
Two men sat side by side at the near end of the bar, huddling together, but not speaking low; they were burly and barrel chested, with slimy long hair. Daniel thought them to be deckhands. He listened intently.
“I tell you Barrin, it is war that is coming.”
“Shut your hole, Darrin.”
“I mean it,” Darrin pounded his chest. “I have been thinking of it ever since the dromonds came back near a week ago. I unloaded the Blood of the Lion myself. Best ship you ever laid eyes upon. Princes, both of them, they were there, and the eyes do not lie.”
“They slew their father,” Barrin said quietly, though not enough. “What do you think they would do to snoops like you? They do not care for our lot.”
“I would die a hundre’ times over if it meant not losing a brother again. Robert died under that prick’s watch. What did we ever want in Dalia? Grasslands, forests, beasts, and piety. They can keep ‘em all, makes no difference to me. I will not die for Adreyu’s pride.”
“You been drinking during the day, Darrin?”
“Labourin’ for the bloody wealthy, you lout. Curses, so have you, ‘less those bruises are from layin’ with the woman.”
“If only she squirmed like yours did!” Barrin laughed heartily. “Ah but you are still a fool. Adreyu does not make those decisions. King Tristifer does. They were likely mad to face him. Ignore the prattle and what you saw. It is not worth it, mark that.”
“One brother is like another. Chimeras, that is what they are. All of them to blame. If I had but the strength of youth, I would go do something about it. No, do not say it would not be so.”
Daniel cursed the pair of them for fools. He had heard talk of war countless times. Whoever the Dark Brotherhood truly were, they seemed to want naught more than strife.
Damian succumbed to it in the end; if only that bloody fool had listened. You could have stopped this, curse it all. Now another fool will do naught while the realm burns.
Frustrated but alert, Daniel heard more speech.
“You seen them asking questions and like in the market? Does not seem like none of the knights from the castle.” The voice came from a near table, no more than ten paces to the south. The speaker was dressed as a merchant, diminutive, and balding.
“You have seen more than I have,” replied a woman with long flowing hair, and stern, cold eyes.
“They came to my shop, asked for my patron list. Showed me steel if I did not do as they asked. So I showed it to them all, not wanting trouble, and none of our knights in sight. Just stood there they did, reading, as if naught were the matter. Thanked me, and left.”
“That all?” the woman asked, leaning forward. “What did they look like?”
“All in plate, much like our knights,” the man described, scratching his head. “Seemed like a bladed staff was above their shoulder. A woman, two men, or as like I am a fool.”
So they are here. At worst, there would be some treaty between the crown and the knights. Heh, now if the cloaked men would show their faces, we would know what to do at last.
“You are a fool,” the woman chastised. “Likely the most excitement a tailor ever had. Strange, I wonder who they were after.”
“I would not want to guess,” the man replied. “Nor be the poor sots when they find them. Must be some guests of the king. I would not stand in their way, if you see them. I cannot say why they may come to your stand. Do not be so pig-headed if you do.”
“I shall show you pig-headed—”
Daniel had little ale left in his mug. Lifting his eyes, he espied a lanky swordsman in chainmail closeted with the proprietor. The man seemed young but aged, stern and severe. Swirling his cape, the stranger
walked out. Daniel cursed his judgment, and chose to go after him.
The muddy streets outside the Crowned Prince was a mess of bawdy labourers, shouting and jeering. Uncaring, he pushed through the crowds, looking all around for the strange swordsman. Towards the west, he saw a dramatic flair of a verdant green cape, and barreled ahead.
He crossed through side streets and alleys, past warehouses, hovels, taverns and brothels of ill repute. The strange swordsman seemed to be one step ahead. He wanted to call out and challenge him then and now, but thought it foolish in the waning afternoon. He cursed and jumped ahead, spattering his leathers with mud, pushing through the muck.
Mud and dirt gave way to green and cobbled stone, and he hid behind hedges along the side of the road. There the stranger ascended a low hill towards the eastern gates of the city.
Turn and show yourself.
The stranger bowed his head slightly to the guards at the gate, handed over worn parchments, and was let through.
Daniel unsheathed a thin bladed dagger from his boot, and scraped the mud and dirt off his trousers and sleeves, before removing his cloak. He tried to figure out who the man was, but it had been too long since he was in the halls of Trank.
He thought it likely to be a sellsword off to sell his whereabouts to some up jumped noble or a merchant looking for royal favours.
He searched through the inside pockets of his cloak, rummaging for the papers that he had made ready. Flint, dust, coins. His fingers brushed the flimsy scratch of parchment. There were two pages that he held in his hands affirming him as Lord Brayan Baccan, son and heir to Lord Devan Baccan. If my brother aged well, they will not know the difference.
“Documents, have you?” the portly guard on the right asked with hands held out. Handing them over, Daniel stood with hands behind his back, head held high, looking down condescendingly. He felt awkward and clumsy. “All in order, my lord, though if I may say—”
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