Trysmoon Book 1: Ascension (The Trysmoon Saga)

by Brian Fuller

  Ready indeed, the Chalaine thought, feeling sick. She said nothing as Fenna placed the veil on her head and helped her into the cloak. Her handmaiden often acted oblivious to the fact that she couldn’t stand her fiancé, though she was certain Fenna knew better. Looking one last time in the mirror, the Chalaine couldn’t help but feel like a big snowball.

  She willed the Walls off, and the picture of the courtyard faded. “Let’s go.”

  Fenna hugged her, encouraging her, and the Chalaine fought off depression as best she could so she would appear resolute and vibrant for the people to whom she was an example. It would be difficult to fool anyone who knew her, but her act, she thought, would be enough for the commoners and nobles who knew her not at all save the legends and stories they had heard or imagined for themselves.

  She was to be the Holy Mother. She would bear the child. The child would save the world. She had to go through with it. Even if she found the man repugnant, she must put her life and her future in his plump hands and embrace a future of loneliness and misery.

  It was her duty.

  And it was time.

  Chapter 23 - Demon

  “Hello, Gen!” Fenna exclaimed brightly as she opened the door. “Are you ready to accompany the two most ravishing ladies in Rhugoth?”

  For the first time in hours, the Chalaine grinned, though briefly. Fenna’s attempts to get Gen to notice her always cheered her up, although she couldn’t fathom why they should. Gen bowed at the waist. He was handsomely dressed in a formal coat made for the occasion, all black save for silver trimming and a silver pin on his collar in the shape of a sword covering the eclipsed moon of Trys.

  “Chalaine. Lady Fairedale. I am ready to serve.”

  As always, Gen’s face and tone were unreadable, but after the incident in the library, Fenna tried to act as happy as she could with Gen’s niggardly approach to nonverbal information.

  “I do, however, have some concerns,” Gen continued as the Chalaine led them toward the maze.

  “And what might those be, Gen?” the Chalaine asked, voice distant.

  “First,” Gen outlined, “I do not like this business of you riding on the horse.” That makes two of us, the Chalaine thought. Gen continued, “You are the only ones that will be a-horse in this procession, putting you higher than those who defend you and trapping us in the middle of the mob. Secondly, riding exposed at night in the middle of a well-lit courtyard is doubly worse, since you will be easy to see, and any archers some distance away will be practically invisible to us.”

  The Chalaine didn’t look at him, eyes forward as they negotiated the maze. “Gen, if you can somehow undo decades of planning in the next few minutes, then do so with my blessing.” She regretted her tone, but had no other to offer.

  “Very well,” Gen accepted flatly. “I will be walking at your left side. At the first hint of trouble, I will push the Ha’Ulrich off the horse and ride you away from the crowd and to safety.”

  Fenna laughed, though Gen’s tone was absolutely serious. The Chalaine pictured Gen dumping Chertanne unceremoniously onto the ground and galloping off with her and had to admit it made her feel better, whether he meant it to or not.

  As they exited the maze into the Antechamber, the rest of the Dark Guard, Captain Tolbrook proudly in command, filled in around her in a protective circle. Jaron and her mother were there as well. Jaron took his place with Gen in the Chalaine’s inner circle, while her mother and Fenna were forced to walk behind. Cadaen walked behind them. After entering the castle proper, her protective ranks were again swelled by the apprentices to the Dark Guard, Kimdan proudly ordering them into formation with a wink to Fenna.

  Such a large entourage was difficult to manage in some of the narrower halls, but soon the smaller passageways gave way to the wide, sweeping halls that went around the Great Hall and ended in the ornate double doors that opened into the courtyard. The halls were filled with servants preparing food for the betrothal feast afterward, though they scrambled out of the way at the sight of so many imposing warriors. Last to join them was Ethris, who stood, Staff in hand, at the doors with the Chamberlain. He was, as on the day of the Trials, dressed in clothing white enough to rival that of the Chalaine.

  She waited as the guard fell off to the side, forming a path to the door, all save Gen, who remained, as he ever was, just behind and to the right of her.

  The Chamberlain tapped his staff on the floor loudly three times. “Open the door for the Chalaine, the most Holy, the Mother of God.”

  The doors swung inward slowly and silently. A chill gust of wind blew brightly colored leaves about the floor, ruffling her veil and giving her goosebumps despite her cloak.

  A great cheer went up, and the Chalaine walked forward stiffly, Gen following close behind. Before her was the great corridor of light spanning the long courtyard all the way to the Chapel on the other side. In the distance, visible on the steps to the Chapel, was Chertanne astride a tall black horse. He, too, was dressed in white, and at the opening of the doors he rode forward slowly, a protective ring of his own guard forming about him. Chants of “save us” and “bless me” rose in swells from the crowd, and Chertanne waved and smiled, soaking up the adoration.

  The Chalaine felt her stomach wrench as he approached, taking his time as if to make her wait. But all too soon he was there before her, smiling grandly. He dismounted and bowed as deeply as his gut would comfortably permit, extending a white-gloved hand.

  “Come Chalaine!” he invited enthusiastically. “The people and our betrothal await. I’m afraid your zealous guard will have to let me touch you just a little lest I be accused of letting you fall from the horse. It is rather spirited.”

  The Chalaine took the proffered hand, and Chertanne helped her to sit sidesaddle. Gen approached and Chertanne’s guards stiffened. No one took Gen lightly any more. At last the Blessed One mounted, placing his arm around the Chalaine’s waist. To everyone’s surprise, he galloped away, leaving all protection and ceremony behind, thundering across the courtyard to raucous applause from the crowd and a number of oaths from the Dark Guard.

  Chertanne rode back and forth, circling around to wave to the crowd before galloping forward again. From her unsteady perch, all the guards trying to catch up, Gen sprinting to lead the charge. But before they could get close, Chertanne would spur just ahead again. By the time he reined in the horse at the steps of the Chapel, the Chalaine felt ill-used and didn’t wait to be helped down. The Pontiff was there along with several Puremen, and they bowed deeply as Chertanne dismounted and handed the reins to an acolyte.

  “I hope you enjoyed the ride, Milady,” Chertanne joked sarcastically.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen a horse handled more poorly, if I must be honest; and I suppose I should, in the presence of so many holy men. The ride’s only virtue was its brevity.”

  “As I hope this ceremony is,” Chertanne whispered, coming close. “The night is young and too full of promise to spend in an old Church.”

  The Chalaine remained silent as everyone waited for the rest of the assembly. Gen arrived first, expressionless, though staring at the Blessed One so intently that the latter turned away and pretended to oversee the care of the horse. It took several minutes for the entire entourage to gather on the steps and regain their composure.

  Not many were allowed into the ceremony. The Dark Guard and Chertanne’s soldiers were placed around the entrances and exits, bolstered by Rhugoth’s own soldiers. Gen was permitted to enter with the Chalaine, as Dason was for Chertanne. The Chalaine invited Fenna to come with her, and a modestly sized group of nobles and Churchmen from all three of the human kingdoms had entered previously. The most notable absence, the Chalaine knew, was Chertanne’s father. She had learned that Torbrand had never really been close to his son. Even if he were, he was terribly busy trying to battle his way through the heart of Tolnor before another winter hit.

  The Pontiff signaled everyone to enter the narthex. The heavy o
aken doors to the Chapel were shut behind them, and Puremen led guests through side hallways and entrances to be seated. The Chalaine and Chertanne, each with their protector, were told to stay with the Pontiff for the procession. Fenna squeezed the Chalaine’s arm as she left, whispering, “Good luck. I’ll be waiting for you up front.”

  The Chalaine watched over her shoulder as the Puremen chanted, warding the doors against evil and assault. Gen stared into the back of Chertanne’s head as if trying to determine the best way to whack it off.

  “It inspires and gratifies me to see you together,” the Pontiff said, grasping the Chalaine and Chertanne by the hand. The Pontiff was an old man, wrinkled, gray, and gaunt, but he possessed a kind aspect. He would undertake the long, treacherous journey to the Hall of Three Moons with them in the spring for the marriage, though the Chalaine didn’t know how one as old as he would survive it. The expeditions sent to find the Hall in the abandoned city of Elde Luri Mora had all taken casualties and suffered much privation. She wasn’t even sure if she could withstand the trip.

  “I thank you, Holy Father,” the Chalaine said, curtsying. “It as honor to see you again after all these years.”

  Chertanne inclined his head briefly but said nothing.

  The Pontiff straightened, leaning on his staff. “I shall lead you both forward. After my sermon, I will ask both of you to come before the altar and I will recite the oath of betrothal. I’m sure you know it well. Remember that the only answer you need give is ‘Under Eldaloth’s watchful eye, I swear’ and everything will be well. And most of all, be at ease. You are in a house of God doing God’s work.”

  The Chalaine imagined he gave much the same speech to every nervous couple he betrothed. She wondered if he’d had any report of the difficulty between her and Chertanne—or if he cared.

  The Pontiff turned, rapping on the dark wooden doors with his staff. At once they swung open and all talk inside died down. The Chapel was one of the first structures built after the people who fled westward from Lal’Manar settled Mikmir. Unlike the fine white marble interiors of other buildings inside the castle walls, the Chapel was made of rough, dark gray stones and heavy pillars hewn from quarries in the Cathedral Mountains to the north. The roof arched high, supported by heavy wooden rafters from which hung three sets of chandeliers. More light was provided by lanterns that hung from the walls and pillars, casting a bright yellow glow about the room.

  Everyone rose as the Pontiff led the couple and their guards down the center aisle that split thin rows of oaken pews. Flower petals, preserved fresh against the season, were strewn thickly about the floor, and as the Chalaine walked, she could smell their fragrance rise as their footsteps crushed them. Everyone watched reverentially, heads bowed.

  The aisle terminated at the foot of a raised dais. From the dais rose a stone altar, now covered with a finely embroidered cloth made of red silk. The Pontiff signaled that the Chalaine and Chertanne should sit together, the Chalaine to the right of her fiancé. The First Mother sat to the Chalaine’s right, and Fenna after. Gen stood at attention at the end of the row, Dason on the opposite side. The Chalaine gripped her mother’s hand and leaned on her as the Pontiff struggled up the short stairs to the dais with the help of an acolyte. Once he managed to get to the altar, he signaled for all to be seated.

  “My brothers and sisters in Eldaloth,” the Pontiff began, his powerful voice belying his age, “I welcome you to this most blessed event. I welcome nobles from all three kingdoms here this night, a sight not often seen in Ki’Hal. I would ask that you put aside grudges and hatreds tonight, especially between countries that are warring, that we might be unrestrained in feeling of Eldaloth’s presence.”

  The Chalaine’s mind wandered as the Pontiff delivered a long discourse outlining the history and prophecy that she had known—and recited—since she could speak. Her mother also seemed lost in thought, and after one look at Fenna, the Chalaine doubted her handmaiden’s mind dwelt much on the holy. Instead, she seemed preoccupied with finding ways to provoke a glance from Gen. Gen’s studied disinterest could not be broken, and Fenna whispered that wooing Gen was like trying to woo a rock.

  While the Chalaine figured she should be irritated by Fenna’s obsession and nonstop conversation about the young man, she instead found them a rather pleasant diversion from her own concerns and whispered in return a promise to help Fenna find devious ways to spark Gen’s attention. Unfortunately, the Chalaine had even less experience than Fenna in such matters and doubted she would tender much useful assistance. At the very least, the attempts would prove amusing, and getting Gen to show some shred of emotion—even if utter disgust instead of swooning love—would be a victory.

  “All rise,” the Pontiff commanded, and the Chalaine shook herself out of her musings and decided she should pay better attention. Chertanne also rose slowly, and he took time to tuck his shirt back into his pants while the Pontiff began the familiar ritual of praise.

  “It is by faith, my dear children,” the Pontiff said, “that we have arrived at this point in history where the great events preceding the return of our God Eldaloth are before us. Chant with me now our praise:

  “Praise be to Eldaloth, God of all,

  Creator of all,

  Protector of all,

  Father of all.

  Praise be to the Ha’Ulrich of Eldaloth,

  Ilch’s bane,

  Gatherer of the Nations,

  Father of the Return.

  Praise be to the Chalaine of Eldaloth,

  Healer of mind, body, and soul,

  Divine beauty incarnate,

  Mother of God.”

  The congregation chanted with the Pontiff. The Chalaine always felt strange when praising herself, and over time, it became harder to envision herself as the woman in the prophecies. That woman was holy and powerful while the Chalaine felt increasingly like a stranger to choice and dignity.

  The Pontiff waved them down. “You may be seated. It is an honor for all of us to be here in the presence of the instruments of Eldaloth for the working of his will. It was by the treachery of Mikkik that our God was taken from us. It was through Eldaloth’s will that Trys was darkened that we might be protected from the power of the Evil One, and it was through his mysterious means that these two were born to bring forth a tabernacle worthy for his return. May we never be weary in our watch against evil, against the machinations of the Ilch. All rise.”

  Once again the congregation rose and repeated the chant, and again they were seated as the Pontiff continued.

  “We must remember that Eldaloth’s murder and the murder of the Gods that served him came about through the wickedness of one who should have been faithful and grateful to his master and was not. We must also obey all the commands of Eldaloth, lest we too become servants of evil and partake of the bitter pains of the Underworld.”

  The Chalaine couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed as if the Pontiff stared directly at Chertanne, who studied floor with his head in his hands. “But God’s purposes cannot be frustrated. For there are always those willing to serve him at great cost, and through great faith they put down the forces of darkness. All rise.”

  A third time, the congregation rose and chanted, but as “Mother of God” sounded to end the chant, a deep rumble shook the building, and the air turned instantly and bitterly chill. Exclamations of fear came from those who could find a voice. The Chalaine found Gen at her side immediately, pulling her off the bench and toward a doorway to their right as the building continued to shudder and heave. Her mother, Fenna, Chertanne, and many others followed close behind them as the shaking sent showers of stones and debris raining down from the roof.

  Before she could think to be afraid, Gen pushed her to on the ground and under a pew. Fenna came soon after, also helped by Gen, and the Chalaine clung to her as stones shattered around them and slammed into the bench above their heads. Screams of pain mingled with the cacophony as the deep rumble continued, the air filling wi
th dust and the floor with debris. Abruptly, the rumbling stopped, though the cold remained. A thin mist gathered on the floor, mixing with the cloud of dust.

  The Chalaine pushed Fenna out and scrambled from underneath the bench. She found that the combination of her veil and the dust and darkness practically blinded her. All three of the chandeliers had fallen, and all but two of the lanterns lay smashed and smoldering. She floundered, feeling unbalanced, and tried find something to steady herself with. Gen grabbed her with one arm and she took Fenna by the hand. Cries and howls of pain echoed unnaturally in the murky gloom.

  “Is my mother alive? Where is she?”

  “I am here, my daughter. I am well, as is the Blessed One. We must get out! This doorway has collapsed. I cannot see the others clearly.”

  “I must stay and help the wounded, mother,” the Chalaine protested.

  “You will not,” Gen stated. “There is something wrong here. We must leave immediately.”

  “Gen is right, my child,” her mother agreed. “You must go!”

  Gen guided the Chalaine back toward the center aisle, trying to help her over the wreckage and the bodies on the floor. As they neared the altar, the Chalaine heard Ethris chanting. A globe of blinding light appeared in the center of the rafters, illuminating the scene below and dispelling the shadows.

  Chunks of the stone and woodwork that made up the ceiling had fallen to the floor with enough force to shatter some of the heavy oaken pews. Peculiarly, however, the bright light revealed that all exits to the Chapel had collapsed, trapping the congregation inside. Those who were able frantically lifted stone and wood to extricate the wounded from the rubble, while others worked at removing stones from the doorways.

  “Something is not right. Something is coming,” Gen muttered, mostly to himself, his head darting about, searching for some enemy or some explanation. Her defender’s left arm was broken and bleeding, hanging lifelessly at his side. Fenna noticed the same.