Bliss

by Daniel Lawley

  “He tried to bring about our end!”

  “Even so” she responded calmly.

  “He brought about mine!”

  “I know” she spoke solemnly, betraying no emotion.

  “Then how can you?” Her words became cut off. Choked back by her tears.

  “It is hard, but practice and patience.” She affirmed.

  “Patience is a luxury I have no time for.”

  “Perhaps, yet haste is a burden you should not entertain, there is an irony in the dagger you hold to the neck of one of your own.”

  “He killed our own.”

  “Yet you are both of Laan, you too would do the same, were you to draw that blade across the flesh of his neck to purge life from body in an act of merciless brutality.” Her voice sounded dispassionate. Her words inciting those very passions she sought to dissuade.

  Armatrine pulled back the dagger, sheathing it. The ornate, leather wrapped hilt protruded from her form at its natural angle, she looked at one with the weapons, at one with killing. Yet her face painted a different picture, upon it she wore a landscape of hurt. “Tell me, it's not true” she seethed, already knowing. The gaps in her memory, the faded trauma, the sudden stop to the happiness she’d known and the sudden emergence of the order in her life. A childhood she'd always mourned, lost beyond retrieval.

  “It is, my child” came his voice from behind. She'd not known he was watching. Arlandus spoke soothingly yet his words caused her no comfort. “It was on the night I ventured to Laan to bring you back to Qesa that they attacked. The boy speaks true.

  “I want him dispatched” she pointed.

  “Armatrine, that will do no good,” he reasoned, “he knows enough that he might be useful to us. Desperation calls for brutal measures. You are living proof of that. What's more, you will be in charge of the boy's fate, it seems some of the humanity you lost on the other side, may yet be retrieved by taking him into your care.”

  ~ The Secondary Temple, Once Hallowed Grounds~

  ~ Ninth of the Sheath, Song of Sorrow~

  Those chosen few,

  Destined to recover their grace,

  Strange will of the gods unknown

  Stranger still the aether

  - Unknown source, two score years before the sacking of Laan

  High priestess Eolandre addressed the high council loudly in the chilly and echoing chamber in the secondary temple, their new home. As temporary or permanent it may become, this for now was a haven among the ruination in which they found themselves.

  The temple had remained hidden for eons. Lushly thicketed it had blended well into the mountain face from which it protruded. Overgrown vines had made their presence known across its face, camouflaging the temple from ill intent. A protective blanket cradling hope reforged. A place of diminished power, now reignited. Across one side a roaring waterfall descended to a rich lake below before flowing to join the water system of this largely abandoned rainforest. The near tropical climate still troubled her deeply. How could one half of an island present so differently to the other? The marvels of the Three. She stood before them in light robes of silver silk. Unusual yet the climate had lent itself to sickness and the spread of bacteria among the wounded, a dangerous set of circumstances if handled incorrectly. At least in the heat, the lighter robes would allow for added comfortability and less sweating.

  The inside had been troublesome. Local fauna nested within the temple proper and had protected their home fiercely. Against their deeply exhausted forces it had been a close battle to drive them out without losing anymore to senseless violence. More so, for some of their number, it had been a wrench to leave. Many among her flock wished to stay and rebuild what had been taken. She'd harboured her own doubts about where they had chosen, but as she'd grown more accustomed to the change on a personal level she knew the right choice had been made. Now would come the sanctification. The arcane inside her excited by the prospect of reconsecrating the once hallowed in the name of the Three. There could be no greater honour. It had been the circumstances which saddened her beyond repair. Over half a flock lost to the throes of untimely demise. To senseless violence and the greed of men.

  “My friends, we have journeyed far,” she began, “who among us could have predicted the trials through which we have prevailed?” Her voice bounced off the walls with a readiness that surprised even her. The council members listened, their usual jeering and jostling for favour notedly absent from proceedings. “We were…no,” she spoke as she had rehearsed, “I was caught unawares, in the throes of arrogance I falsely believed that the unthinkable would not come to pass, that none would dare to break faith against the one true religion on such a scale. It was my folly and cost us greatly.” Staring toward them she could do nothing but note the sorrow upon their faces, all men required a leader, men this weak required something more. She would give it them. “I stand before you today, a woman renewed,” she began, ”no longer will impossibility seem out of reach, no longer will the Order of the Pearl stand idly by when the boot kicks towards our teeth. The Three, in their glory and wisdom, see fit to empower us to such heights. Such feats of power. This day we will start...” She paused witnessing the anticipation wash over them like a wave. “This day we patrol our grounds with vicious power, no longer pacified in the name of peace, there can be no peace when we are downtrodden. Make no mistake gentlemen. Survival is the aim, but never will we be so brutally cast down again.” Raucous applause rung about them. They had become focused and sharp in the wake of disaster, eager to taste justice and eager to experience vengeance. The curse of belief a gift reserved for precious few among them. For now they believed and in that belief they discovered a new unity. That was what had become important.

  “Bring the boy!” She commanded.

  At her order the acolyte Dupree stepped forth from the shadows. Face veiled underneath the large hood she wore. She'd chosen to keep to her leathers and cyan robes despite the new heat. Thick curls of deep crimson reached to the light from the inside. No longer apprenticed to Arlandus the girl had found her own reasons to follow orders. Something she suspected had much to do with the swelling the boy displayed upon his face. He scuttled across the floor, lowly worm that only one such as he could be. Cowering at her feet he shivered. Something in his eyes spoke of pain, new terrifying ways to inflict agony. A trauma so vibrant his eyes focused ten thousand yards away, looking but not seeing. Robbed of sight without being robbed of vision. Truly a curse upon the deserving then. “Gentlemen of the high council,” she addressed them again, “I have never been one to be considered a zealot. Never zealous enough to be considered an extremist. But in the case of those who harm who we are I have small scruples in allowing certain among our number to heal themselves through bringing about his pain.” The girl Dupree shuffled, uncomfortable on her feet. Expressionless and sinister she loomed above him. An ever present specter at the fore of his existence. “Tell me boy, how do you fare in the bosom of our hospitality?” He only stared, eyes agape and alive with the horror inflicted upon him, yet looking into those chasms she bore witness to the burning anger, vibrant and contemptuous among the agony. She could not blame him, he may have bested the agent sent against him. Yet she stood before him inflicting all his troubles. Tortured in the name of the Three to commit betrayal against his brethren crew. What was left to him but an inheritance of hatred? His world turned to nothing. She hoped he felt every cut and blow tenfold . Thoughts of her fallen sisters and brothers twisted in her mind.

  “Need I remind you boy, that we can break you, not only your spirit but also your body” her voice seethed in a serpentine hiss. “We can drive you to the point of such agony that the only relief will be the impending death you wish so fervently for. Then, when you rest upon the precipice, the place between here and the beyond, we will rebuild you to endure again.”

  No response. Offering no acknowledgement he'd heard her words he simply kept staring outward to an expanse of nothing. She sensed the fear
within him.

  “You fear! Good, you should be afraid, right now everything is so so far from your control that you carry no inkling of when this nightmare in which you reside will end.” His eyes met hers, only momentarily, yet betrayed no emotion. “Need I remind you that the fate of every man is tied to his actions” she continued. “That every man must meet the Three either in glory or disgrace, think on it Jackson Laanson. For in the midst of your torment, there is hope, will you seize it, or will you allow it to become seized on your behalf by others baring far more malice toward you? Take him!” She ordered the girl. Snapping to action she obeyed, the only truth still open to her the second life afforded her by the Three. Of course she would remain faithful and obedient now. A lesson hard learned in the face of the most adverse of situations. Guiding him away Eolandre, higher priestess of the Three offered begrudging respect for the girl as her blue robes flapped in breeze while she walked away.

  ***

  Armatrine sat troubled, her usual clarity of mind clouded by doubt and uncertainty. Her heart split in two by the raging storm of emotions inside. She'd inflicted violence upon violence upon the boy. His body wounded, repaired and wounded again. Existing in that place between the anticipation of pain and the blow itself. Was this how she wanted to live? However short this second chance may be, is this how she desired to spend the time? Was this how the Three desired it? Brought back only as an instrument of mortal pain. Was this a life worth the living? What happened to her soul?

  By equal measure the boy was responsible for many deaths by leading his crew to the temple. He was responsible for her own in Qesa. Should he not feel the torment she inflicted? Her desire for his blood became diminished with each turning of the twin suns, his debt paid over again and again yet he endured the cycle. The Three be praised, she'd no answer and those who would guide her seemed ever more determined to live in the darkness.

  ~Qesa, First City~

  ~Ninth of the Sheath, Song of Sorrow~

  The passage of time marks the passing of love

  Cruelty runneth rampant,

  Compassion no more

  - Queen Adelaeda, first to rule the Netan isles

  The tongue protruded, he noticed. The surest sign of a struggle against death. One final act of desperation against the encroaching void. The fingers were grasped tight to the palms. There would be little half moons cut into the hands themselves. Taking the strain of the struggle. The face however, was at peace. As if in the final moment, where life had been let go from the constraints of a physical body, they had found resolution with the ending they had received. Now her body hung by the neck upon the gallows, brethren corpse to the many it shared that honour with. A banquet for the carrion eaters to gorge upon. It was the eyes they enjoyed the most. Delicacy in a time of plight. Mitrick Tenebris inspected the corpse. No secrets, even in the grave. It was interesting, he mused, that despite the tightened grasp of harrowing circumstance there was always the delectable to be found, ready to be enjoyed by those with stomach enough to do so.

  Qesa was a city much changed, nay the whole nation of Neta now found itself encapsulated in transformation. Shock had settled among the populace, it ran through them with a rampant virility that none could sate.

  The temple of the Three, oh beloved gods, tarnished in the name of piracy. Island to island the word had spread, people once complicit with the sin now rejected it with such stern vigilance. An attack on the Order themselves, ordered by one greedy crew. Now all must suffer in the name of the greater good. Recruitment had not been a difficult task. From all islands men had approached, ready to join Prince Johan’s cause. Rife with the sympathy the attack evoked within them. Good, simple folk whom he found to be strong in arm and dense in reason. Unquestioning they followed orders.

  He came to the city docks. Proceedings would soon begin. Above him, thunder shook the clouds and lighting screamed across the starless sky. The storm had come to Qesa. The first droplets of rain descended. Fat with perspiration, swift with the wind and gravity upon them. The corpses began to swing in the wind. Grim kites dangling. A dark jig to the heavens. There would not be a street corner in all of the capital where the same image could not be seen. The message was clear. The time for tolerance had finished. Now was the time for a reaping of those who brought misery upon their fellow man. Of course it had not only been those involved in piracy. There had been an increased vigilance toward the examples set against petty crime, thievery and more serious domestic troubles. All the bodies would serve his purpose. They had served themselves to him for the culling when they had become accused of their acts. It had not finished there. Common folk, free of crime had seized opportunity to be rid of folk who troubled them. A love rival accused, a debtor finished, a merchant on direct competition silenced. Wares forfeit to the crown. Those left behind would flourish. He laughed to himself silently. They were exactly as he assessed them to be. Fear ruled the streets, pogroms became the social order. Genocide against the self.

  Qesa’s main docks sparked, alive with lightning. Their metallic form outlined against the horizon by the energy in the atmosphere. It was time to begin. Despite the rain they would continue, there was no excuse for the slow in processing. With prisons so full, with gibbets so empty, they must keep on demand. They were brought forth. Each shuffling step one chained moment closer to their end. Upon a wooden seat he perched, about him no papers or orders. This was mere formality, fate had sealed the book of these lives eternally shut. It was he, tool of destiny, whom upheld the sanctity of divine edict.

  About them guards waited, burgundy naval uniforms flapped in the storm. Each soldier undisturbed by the bluster of the dark Netan weather, trained halberd points toward the frightened rabble. Rain water would soak musket papers rendering them useless.

  “Those of you brought before the crown” he began. The voice his new body still came as surprise, it boomed against the howl of the wind with the smallest of efforts. The glamour of magic still flowed in his veins. “Stand accused of piracy in the highest order, crimes of sedition against the crown and acts of an entirely treasonous nature” disgust became apparent in his tone. “No defence is to be offered, for these crimes are found to be most heinous and indefensible.”

  A woman among them wailed, the guards came to attention, those sharp steel teeth trained expertly upon her. She rushed forth as far as her shackles would allow and threw herself to her knees. “Have mercy sir, I beg you, not for me but for my son, for my child. He did nothing. The Three, mercy.”

  Mitrick smiled deeply, her fear a succor to his desire. “It's alright gentlemen, stand down your points” he addressed the guard. “This is natural to a mother, rest assured special care will be taken of the boy, I shall ensure it so that he receives a quick finish next to you upon the gallows.” He reveled in the moment, his judgement law. “For all of you, you find yourselves late to an appointment with the rope, guards!”

  Without word they were led to a makeshift iron girder smelted upon two more infused into the ground. Ropes longer than the drop to the ground were placed in a noose around their necks. “Do not forget the boy!” He ordered, zeal in his words. At his command a lump of raw iron was shackled to his feet. The force of which would snap his neck against the waiting rope. The woman wailed harder, in contrast to those sharing her fate. Desperately clinging to dignity they remained silent.

  “It is time” he spoke softly. At his word they were dropped, from the docks downward. Twisting writhing ropes in the fury of the storm. All but one, where he hung dead from the impact. The boy, now gone. Never to become a man.

  “Excellent work General” came a voice from behind. Unexpected and alive with glee. “It seems I gave, and from what you took has been formed the return of social order to the streets of Qesa. Never before have I felt so empowered. The people fear the crown, my guard, you. It is singly your responsibility that we find ourselves at the juncture we do.”

  Startled, Mitrick turned and bowed deeply to Prince Johan. �
�Your Majesty, to what do we owe this unexpected and yet most welcome honour?” He cooed buoyantly, knowing how to appeal to the prince’s unmetered desire for pomp and power.

  “Stand, stand” commanded Johan, permissive toward his prized servant. At his order Mitrick rose. Tall he stood. His new body larger than anything he'd experienced as a priest within the Order of the Pearl. Towering above the prince he gazed into his eyes. Deep and blue they transcended the beauty of the usual eyes the nobility possessed. It was a shame Mitrick noted that behind them presided a man so predisposed to being manipulated that he'd so far offered no resistance as he'd led the man’s principality into near ruin.

  Johan stood a half foot shorter than his malicious general and almost the same wider. He wore an unfortunate face, goitered grotesquely. Physical humanity seemed far beyond his being and yet it was true. The beauty Mitrick now possessed seemed to question the very thought that both men were of the same species. A deficit in admirable physical qualities pervaded the Prince’s very existence. Johan sat down. Mitrick had hardly noticed the palanquin for Johan’s ability to purloin all attention around him. Embroidered in golden thread he wrapped a sheet around himself for protection against the high winds of the storm.