Pillars of immense girth stood to the left and right; they were draped by banners of the Dalian state and common depictions of Mother God. Stephen thought it a laughable union and solidarity—that the magisters believed the laws of Mother God and man were one. He saw stairs wove up nearly fifty feet, cradling twin maple doors. Above, the magisters would walk and take their place. The supplicants would enter below, and look to the skies for judgment. He thought it a revolting, sickening thought: a depravity of the worst kind.
Stephen entered the audience halls, and the doors closed firmly behind. Ser Jarl arranged the men, hands on the hilts of their swords. Stephen was comforted to have the knights at his back whilst he faced those who did not know their place in Mother God’s realm.
He walked on a bright yellow carpet embroidered with white angel wings along the hem. Ahead was a narrow dais wrought of maple, enclosed by a waist high stand. There the Voice stood, as if she were confessing some crime to the holy magisters who sat in their tall seats—near twenty feet above the supplicants. They sat with their embroidered robes of the brightest golden thread, and etched upon their breasts was Gabriel holding aloft golden scales.
I will see to them in due time.
He thought the Voice’s presence convenient. This affair did not concern the Marcanas brothers to the west, nor the Blessed Three of this land. It concerned the Voice, and the Darkness that he knew she served. I have waited long for this day. It is the day you fall, and I will confirm it all in the Light of Her will.
“I have come as summoned,” he called out when it was clear the Voice would speak no words. Muted silence was the only reply from the two men and one woman from the lofty perch. Feeling foolish and embarrassed, he answered the summon again, and the silence from the holy magisters was deafening.
“High Priestess?” Stephen asked.
She turned towards him, and for the only time in memory, the woman smirked.
Three bodies thudded against the ground. The holy magisters sprawled upon the marble, and long iron spikes protruded from their backs. Blood puddled on the carpet, staining the serene angelic wings.
“Ser Jarl, take the Voice to the gaols,” Stephen declared, tasting victory. “Her sins have come to an end.”
There was the scrape of steel against leather as the Faithsworn advanced towards the dais. Mere feet from the Voice, they suddenly stopped.
“We must have words, traitor.”
Stephen looked to where the holy magisters once sat, and he saw a young man in robes as black as night; two others were at his side, one older, the other bigger and stronger.
Men in cowls. The fury of Mother God will be brought down upon you, as I swore it would. “These were servants of Mother God. This is the holy city. You shall not escape Her judgment!”
“Tch,” the bigger man grunted. “You do not use your eyes to see. You are blinded by your own ambition.”
“Lord Luc,” said the man who had yet to speak. “If I did not know better, I would say you seek a sparring partner. This traitor has supped on the misery of the penitent for too long. You would be served to look elsewhere.”
“In this city, Lord Gareth?” Lord Luc asked with a sinister grin. “Naught but cravens and cowards. They shun and curse the only men worthy of steel.”
“I know you,” Stephen said suddenly without thinking. It was not that he wore a cowl, but that he was a Dalian.
“We met in the wasteland, and I brought you to the knight-commander,” Lord Gareth replied. “Before that, I was once a steward in the service of the Voice, and other masters whom you shall not learn.” The cloaked daemon laughed. “I was sent here as a man who knew these lands well, to help you, guide you, speak to you. Yet it was you who forgot the purpose of your return. The Darkness Rising does not forget.”
There was a truth to the past that Stephen wanted no more to bury and never let rise again. The Voice, Father Dominic, and now this daemon in man’s skin bubbled it to the surface. Stephen resolved not to be bullied in his own halls, with his knight’s own steel at his back. “The godless will not hold sway in my heart, Lord Gareth. Mother God watches over me, sends Her own angels to guide and ward my persons. To Her will do I endure. To Her will do I cast you from my city. Not in chains: to Her embrace, so that she may show you the Light in a way I cannot.”
“Such a wonderful spirit that you have, good father” the youthful man in the middle declared. “Do you recall the rise and fall of the overlord to the south?”
Stephen knew more than he dared admit, but would not reveal aught to these. In his youth, he thought that those who dwelled in Darkness would come to the Light if they were only shown the way. So much pain, misery, and sorrow he felt at the hand of the pirate lords, and Overlord Damian Dannars most of all. “I would not speak of the depraved, faithless, and godless.”
“Ah but I would,” the cloaked man grinned. “Oh, he was a man from humble beginnings. Thought he could outwit kings. That he did for a time, but it was more that King Marcus had larger concerns—what with the patricide at the hands of his sons. The same sons who thought the overlord was more use alive than dead, at least until he went to a place that he could not return from.
“Ah but what a narcissist he became—that was the word you used to describe these dead men, was it not?” The man chuckled before continuing. “I was there myself—draped and cloaked as you see me now—preserving his own wretched throne. Then he was betrayed by a man who was much like a brother to him, and did something foolish. He came here. I know you will not forget that.
“What you do not know, Counsel, is that when he returned, my brothers and I, we offered him redemption. He spit in our faces. Thought he was greater than we were, believed he could control what was beyond him. All men fear, even him. No man who stares into the maw of Darkness ever comes back the same. He died for his arrogance. Do you run towards the same fate? Or will you see Light in the Darkness as your monarch has?”
What the overlord did or did not do meant naught to Stephen. Godless, faithless, depraved. That was all Damian was, all he ever would be. Lutessa is not so different. “Mother God guides my path.”
“Oh what you do not know!” the man shouted down in mirth. “Imperator, overlord, or counsel. All fall to the Darkness!” The cloaked man’s voice softened, as if he spoke to a familiar flame. “Is that not so, Lutessa? Will you show him what he needs to see, my dear?”
The Voice glared at Stephen with a mirthless smirk as her body seemed to glow and coalesce. Then a being of pure Light came from her, and in a fleeting moment, he thought that the Mother Herself had come to cast away the Darkness. Yet the longer he stared at the luminescence, the more it seemed to dull, as if it never was, and never would be again. He decried it as an illusion. The ethereal spirit took the form of a proud, stern man, with flowing hair and draping brown robes. Stephen knew it was the Light no longer as fear and recognition dawned.
“You were to be my eyes and ears, Counsel Stephen Francis. That was the purpose to your survival.”
Stephen staggered back, and wanted to deny it, but underneath the folds of the man’s robes was a faint blue glow: the same power that gave unto him the Dream, and set him upon the road of righteousness that he once thought was lost.
“I have served the will of Mother God.”
“That what not your purpose,” the brown-robed man said. “Lord Gareth heard all that you told him, of the movements and means of the Voice, and through my will I guided this country from suffering. In ungrateful defiance, you thought that our will was not the same as Hers, and strayed from the path to which you were set. The Warden could not dissuade you, and now the very Faith that you swore to protect stands upon the precipice of annihilation. Stephen Francis, you have purged the Faith.”
“It was all for Her!”
“Your hands are crimson. How many in pristine white robes must die at your feet before you are satiated? How many, Stephen Francis?”
Sweat puddled on his brow, and he despera
tely answered. “Traitors who would see the Voice fall, and the Trechtians return to enslave Her country. I could not allow that. Who but heretics would allow that? I am a savior to this country. To this Faith!”
“You do not understand aught, Stephen Francis. To love is to hate. To have peace is to war. To embrace the Light is to feel the Darkness.”
The idea was implausible. Stephen thought it rank madness. “That is not the will of Mother God.”
The brown robed man looked to Lutessa. His mouth moved, but words were beyond his hearing, as he became Light once again, dispersing into a blinding brilliance that rendered all things unremarkable.
“Commandant,” the Voice said sullenly.
Stephen felt cold steel enter his gut. His hands caught the blood pouring out as he dropped to a knee, weakening. Raising his eyes, he heard a helm hammer against the ground, and the face of Ser Rupert Duvan looked down at him.
My own… Faithsworn…
Cold steel pierced through the back of his left thigh, pinning him to the marble floor beneath. Then another to his right, and a blinding pain seared his sight. Lady Sophia Locklet emerged as a half-seen visage: the sheaths of her short swords were empty, and revulsion was the only emotion that lined her face.
Again. And again.
The pain was blinding. Stephen looked down and saw two more blades protruding between his ribs. Ser Matthew Saram and Ser Donnovan Luiko were before him, arms crossed. Stephen could only think of how young they were. How their faith had sustained them. That they were like sons to him.
Then Ser Jarl Yannif brandished his own long sword. A man utterly loyal.
I have allowed this. My faith was not strong enough.
“Why?” Stephen stammered.
Ser Jarl thrust the long sword into Stephen’s heart.
He could still see, but it was so dark. He searched everywhere for Mother God’s Light. He was her son. She would come for him. She had to. It was Her duty.
She had to.
There was no Light. There was only a face in the Darkness.
And the eyes wept blood.
Chapter Thirteen
In the Name of the King
Daniel awoke in a stone chamber.
The pale light of dawn shone through thin, white curtains, and the sounds of blue jays and cardinals floated on the wind.
He thought it some half-remembered dream as he looked ‘round the chamber of his youth. It was adorned with the yellow and green banners of the Trechtian kings, paintings of verdant landscapes of the main land, the great lion stitched into the colourful rugs. He scooped up cold water from the stone basin, and suddenly remembered what had come to pass, and that it was the furthest thing from a dream.
My companions and I are guests of my younger brother, Brayan, and there is much that must be decided today.
Three nights passed since his lord brother revealed his intentions, and Daniel did not want to acquiesce. I want the Corsair. I want that feared smuggler and pirate, that warlord who made the Marcanas brothers tremble.
The Corsair had died at the foot of the Crystal Throne. Before that, he protested to himself, perhaps as far back as the day Damian Dannars became overlord. It certainly did not come with that man’s death. If aught, it reminded me why I left it behind. There was so much that had eluded Daniel since, but he was sure that internal strife and wars would only embolden the forces that sought their end. The daemon from Lanan—the very embodiment of destruction and desecration—still walked the lands, if hidden in the shadows. That should be the foe, not another coup or uprising.
That does not matter, not to my brother, Daniel reflected, patting his face dry. He knew his brother, though years distanced them. Brayan was carved out from their lord father’s idyllic influence.
I want King Tristifer to feel my pain. I lost my brother to Marcanas ambitions. I want him to lose his. Then, I want him to die.
Daniel stared listlessly at his sword propped up by the bed, and he could see rivers of blood gushing down the steel. Is that what I am?
“Traitor!” The call came from beyond the chamber door. Daniel thought the voice was that of the man with the verdant cloak. “Lord Brayan has made ready to receive you. Do not make him wait.”
Daniel sighed, and garbed himself in his now darkened leathers, more grey and brown then black, and cinched his sword belt around his waist; though he let his cloak drape on the bed post. He was a prisoner in all but name, though dignity and honour was something no man would take away from him ever again.
The swordsman was not without. He descended the wooden stairs alone. There were no maids or servants scuttling about the estate. Brayan had explained that their father took most of the man servants with him on his westward journey, leaving only a paltry retinue of maids and guards at his beck and call. Daniel saw none in the manse—only the sellswords.
My brother is not taking any chances.
On the ground floor, three ragged, worn figures gathered round the hearth with heads bowed, whiled they scooped up bits of fruit from round stone bowls. “My lord!” one of them called out as he sat down near them. Jaremy had lost none of his enthusiasm from days of capture, greeting Daniel with a warm, welcoming smile. Ashleigh Coburn gave him only a most cursory of nods, sullenly picking away at a bit of apple. Ser Johnathan only raised his eyes briefly. Daniel did not have words or hunger, and sitting down, he stared into the fire.
All it did was remind him of the destruction that followed in his wake. He knew it was unfair to think, but it seemed every choice he made was followed by the dead, whether they fell with sword in hand or no.
“You are no worse for the wear, my lord,” Jaremy offered. “Take more than days in a dungeon to master us. Think that boy wants our help?”
“All he will get from me is his entrails spilled on the floor,” Ashleigh cut in. “Once I throttle him and demand Retribution’s return. The man had no right to take her from me.”
“You would do well to listen to the young man,” Ser Johnathan declared without looking up from his meal. “Whoever he is, he kept us locked in his estates, and not the city dungeons. If King Tristifer learnt of us, they would be wrapping nooses ‘round our necks. An effort that he can still make happen.”
“I knew we should have not come here,” Ashleigh muttered.
Daniel sat in brooding silence. He knew that his brother would be here soon; and with Brayan’s revelations would be questions that Daniel would rather not answer.
“Did we learn aught that was useful?” he asked, steering away from the question that one of them would inevitably ask.
“The aged had little to tell, though they were full of suspicions,” Ser Johnathan replied. “Well-wishers who desire a return to what was, though no longer possessing the strength to do aught about it. I doubt if their sentiment was echoed by their younger brethren.”
“Traders, merchants, peddlers, shippers,” Ashleigh pronounced each vocation with revulsion, “useless to the last. None would spare a glance for those who do not have coin. Sariel could stand before them and think less of Him than the coin he might barter. Wretches would die without a care in the realm.”
Jaremy shrugged his shoulders. “Useless drunks. The lot of them.”
“And your own queries, Daniel?” Ser Johnathan asked.
“Before my own imprisonment, there was talk of strange knights asking questions to merchants. They were not royal knights—of that they were sure of—and if they were Faithsworn, not even the most ignorant of coin mongers would have forgotten that. Aerona is in this city, by her will or no, I would not hazard a guess.”
“The look on their faces when they find us!” Jaremy declared, laughing aloud.
“Whatever comes of this, see that they do not,” Daniel scolded. “Know your foe was a saying Aerona was fond of. We know little and less about them, and fared even worse in our last encounter.”
“As we do the master of this manse,” Ashleigh grunted and spat out an apple seed.
; “All but one of us,” Ser Johnathan declared. “You know our captor, do you not, Daniel?”
“I do. Lord Brayan Baccan is his name. My younger brother.”
Ashleigh looked ready to leap up, but a cold laughter echoed behind, and Daniel knew who it was. Brayan approached with mirth still on his lips. He wore loose-fitting breeches, and an embroidered green doublet, trimmed with black, and the golden lion of Trecht upon the breast. Daniel guffawed at his brother’s ironic pride—Brayan was no more ridiculous than he was in childhood.
“Yes, yes,” Brayan declared. “My long-estranged brother returned to me with such wonderful company. I do hope you will forgive me for such rude treatment.”
There was a brooding silence as Brayan leaned lazily against the mantle, and his probing eyes seemed to read every emotion.
Do you read my desire to lop your head off, brother, ending this madness of yours?
“I should slay you where you stand,” Ashleigh said sternly, throwing what remained of her breakfast into the fire.”
“Ashleigh Coburn, if I have the right of it?” Brayan smiled wide, though Daniel saw that no mirth ever crossed the sentinel’s lips. “Warrior of the now former Isilian Imperium, and the fearsome Sentinels of Umbrage, no?” Brayan did not wait long for an answer. “You have slain many men and women in your time — surely the prospect of more cannot stay your sword?” Ashleigh’s face turned to revulsion.
Your words still do not sway the other sex, brother.
“Jaremy Dahk,” Brayan said “Close confidant of my brother, though quite unremarkable beside. Stalwart with a blade, no doubt, if but shifty and underhanded. I do not doubt you served my brother well.”
“You should have known better to invite me into your home,” Jaremy replied.
“That will be clear soon enough.”
“Enlighten us, then,” Ser Johnathan said.
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