The Shadow Crucible

by T. M. Lakomy

  Copyright © 2017 by T. M. Lakomy

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

  This edition published by SelectBooks, Inc.

  For information address SelectBooks, Inc., New York, New York.

  First Edition

  ISBN 978-1-59079-415-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lakomy, T. M. (Tamara M.), author.

  Title: The shadow crucible: the blind god / T. M. Lakomy.

  Description: First edition. | New York: SelectBooks, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016039483

  Subjects: LCSH: Human beings--Fiction. | Good and evil--Fiction. | Apotheosis

  Fiction. | Redemption--Fiction. | Imaginary wars and battles--Fiction. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction. | Horror fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6112.A387 S53 2017 | DDC 823/.92--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016039483.

  Text design by Pauline Neuwirth, Neuwirth & Associates, Inc.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my beloved mother, Stephanie Lakomy, and my love, David Solomon.

  Without their unwavering support, I would never have found the

  strength to finish writing, nor to believe in myself. And to my furry

  children, Heeba and Weezou, for their unconditional love.

  I would like to also dedicate this book to Agnieszka Kurzak,

  my dear grandmother.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1.Into a Spider’s Web

  2.Burned by Mind Games

  3.The True Nature of God’s Shadow

  4.The Death of Innocence

  5.Wading into Fate

  6.Revelations of the Dancer

  7.A Deadly End to the Masquerade

  8.Eyesight for the Blind

  9.The Cruel Game

  10.Your Enemy’s Embrace

  11.The Devil in the House of God

  12.Flight of the Dancer

  13.Earth Is His Footstool

  14.A Reprieve before the Storm

  15.The Ageless Temptation

  16.An Audience with the Hidden Guardian

  17.Mortal Wounds

  18.Cross Purposes

  19.Walking down Sundered Paths

  20.Made in God’s Own Image

  21.The Discourses of Heaven and Hell

  22.The True Crossroads of Choice

  23.The Mote in Your Own Eye

  24.Deus Ex Machina

  25.False Eden

  26.Twilit Gods

  27.Fall from Grace

  28.Posterity’s Legacy

  29.Blind Dogma

  30.The Authors of Human History

  31.The Promises of the Primordial Goddess

  32.The Tapestry of Creation

  33.The Music before the Throne

  34.The Transmigration of Souls

  35.The Threefold Death

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I WOULD LIKE TO THANK MY EDITOR, MOLLY STERN, FOR ALL THE hard work and patience she put into The Shadow Crucible. Without her help and astute mind, this book wouldn’t be what it is. I would like to express my deepest gratitude.

  I would like to thank everyone who made this process happen, and all the great people who helped me grow on my journey. Elayne Bines, you’re one of them, and all the Lakomy family, who are as tough as nails.

  And to all those who didn’t believe in me, you just made me work harder to reach my goals, so keep up the good work.

  PROLOGUE

  If I rolled the dice carved out of my weathered bone

  And offered of my blood the libation to the fane

  When even the reaper’s mockery forsakes me alone

  My own clangorous thoughts are the last to remain

  “STRAIN YOUR EARS—DO YOU HEAR THAT? IT SOUNDS LIKE HUMAN voices, listen.” The demon shook Estella gently. “Estella, listen! I need your wits about you, there is no time for dallying in sleepiness.”

  Estella’s back stiffened and her cloudy eyes sharpened as she began to pick up the faint sounds of weeping in the humid air. She nodded at the demon who, with a sigh of relief, grabbed her arm, pressing her forwards.

  “Don’t touch the walls, their magic is stronger than you can combat. And be vigilant, we are approaching human activity—and for the worse I deem.”

  Fear pressed against her heart with each step as the echoes of human misery became more audible. The source of the lamentation soon became visible under the eerie light of dozens of candles flickering in sconces. There were rows upon rows of them—men and women and children, bound by their ankles and necks to the walls with chains. They had barely enough room to maneuver to nearby chamber pots, and their raw necks were sore and bloodied with the stain of blood extending down their chests. The miasma of human waste mingled with unwashed bodies, assaulting their senses. Estella retched involuntarily, nearly leaning against the wall for support before the demon seized her, yanking her back.

  “Fool of a woman! You want to end up chained like they are? Look at what they have done to them, look closer!”

  As he shoved her toward a row of men and women she tripped, hitting the ground painfully. They cowered in fear at the unexpected noise, dropping the quills and parchments they had been holding. Estella froze in horror as she looked more closely at the prisoners. Where their eyes should have been were empty sockets, carelessly bandaged with filthy linens. Infected pus mingled with blood, and their mouths hung open with thirst.

  “Give us water, we cannot write any longer!” came the cracked, beseeching voice of an old man. He was filthily clad in sackcloth, and his sparse beard sagged against his unresponsive child as he sobbed to himself like a helpless infant.

  “We cannot write any longer, have mercy for God’s sake!” A woman’s shrill cry resounded over Estella, and soon they were all reaching for her, grabbing blindly and begging.

  Estella covered her mouth with her hand and threw herself at their chains desperately.

  1

  INTO A SPIDER’S WEB

  But the reign of horror is deeper than knowledge’s reach

  And the extent of the darkness is a seed that burgeoned well

  Woven with the fabric of your secret code and the melody of your speech

  As a vine leaning for support, bound to an inextricable spell

  CARRIAGES HASTENED ACROSS THE STREETS, THE RAIN HAMMERING the muddied ground as peasants and lesser nobles rushed around on the business of the day. The leaden sky reflected the sour moods and grim faces of those below, while the bitter wind lashed at exposed hands and dashed rain into eyes. Only the vendors remained, advertising their goods from their stalls and shielding their eyes from the downpour. Nobles caught in the deluge hurled insults at carriage drivers as they sped by, splattering mud on their refined garments. On a miserable autumn day such as this, decorum and deference were left to drown in the rain.

  He had arrived that afternoon, his black cloak trimmed with silver and fastened by a serpentine clasp shielding him from the merciless wind. The cloak was lined with royal blue and every now and then a flash of pure, vibrant color would leap in a sudden gust of wind amid the dismal scenery of London. The sound of his black kid leather boots as they struck the cobblestones was inaudible amid the cacophony of the street.

  On another, more temperate day, he would have been something to stare at. Foreign and striking, he radiated power. The sigils that flashed from the silver rings on his fingers marked him as
a Templar, and the head of his order. His long, dark hair was bound in a ponytail, and his piercing, ice-grey eyes were unnaturally deep and frosty. He kept his eyes averted as he moved through the crowd, though he absentmindedly flipped through the people’s thoughts as they passed him, reading in their minds the mundane cares that occupied their existence. Only when a passerby jostled against him unwittingly would a bluish spout of fire kindle in his eyes, startling them away as they stammered apologies.

  “None empty, my lord.” A hunched man walking ahead of the grey-eyed man stopped abruptly as he straightened his shoulders and laid down his master’s heavy luggage. Clad in brown suede and leathers, he looked incongruous and wet as he turned around to face his master. Even through the heavy haze of the rain he could feel his master’s wrath. The grey-eyed man nodded, turning swiftly to look through the crowd—but still there was no sign of a vacant carriage.

  “Night will be descending soon, and I don’t fancy walking further in this unsightly place.” His tone was laced with irritation and he gestured with his head perfunctorily towards the street. “Shall we stop a carriage and demand politely to share?” he suggested, his eyes glinting with dark humor.

  “I doubt that would avail us anything, my lord. These people aren’t of the sharing type.”

  “Then I suggest we get walking again, Elmer,” he sighed, reining in his anger and flashing an apologetic smile as he patted Elmer sympathetically on the back.

  Dusk came rapidly and without omen. The light failed from murky grey to reddish brown, but the rain had abated and the wind also, leaving only the lingering cold and frost to inflict misery upon the walkers. Many people congregated now in the inns and taverns they passed. The warm, inviting fires burned merrily within, snatches of laughter emerging each time a door opened. But nothing was suitable for the grey-eyed foreigner. Innkeepers were now at their doors enticing customers with promises of warm beds and delicious meals.

  “Why don’t you two fine lords come in and taste my hospitality?” A grinning, toothless innkeeper detached himself from the door of his inn to bar the travelers’ way. He was a round-bellied and good-natured man with shrewd, calculating eyes.

  “I doubt anything you have would suit me, old father,” the grey-eyed man smiled.

  “Oh, but please try me. These parts are rough at night, and two fine looking men such as yourselves would do better to be indoors.” The innkeeper’s tone was serious now, and genuine.

  The grey-eyed man considered him thoughtfully. He was right—the night could prove to be dangerous for them if they were left out in the cold at the mercy of whatever brigands ruled this part of the town. It would be better not to take any chances tonight, as Elmer was tired and so was he.

  “I won’t take a room in your inn, but I would reward you handsomely for showing me somewhere befitting my position, somewhere clean and of good reputation.”

  The innkeeper seemed to be in an internal dilemma as he frowned wordlessly to himself. He looked down and fiddled with a length of beaded necklace protruding from his pocket before speaking.

  “I know somewhere,” he finally said. “It’s a good place, but begging your pardon, you are the ones I need to know are of good character and won’t harm the lady that owns it. She is nobility but runs homes for the needy. Sometimes to fund her orphanages she will accept lodgers, but only of the highest character.” The innkeeper lifted his eyes defiantly, and it was apparent that whoever this lady was, he was particularly fond of her.

  The grey-eyed man bowed cordially. “I am no renegade foreigner, but a count, and though my name and title are of little worth in this time and hour, I promise you that I shall treat whoever shelters me for the night generously.”

  The innkeeper nodded appreciatively, then bustled back into his inn. Five minutes later, he reemerged with a disheveled looking child.

  “This is my boy, Roy,” the innkeeper said, puffing out his chest proudly. “He will escort you to your lodgings.”

  “Have no fear,” the count reassured him, “we are men of our word, and your boy is safe with us.” He pushed his cloak aside to reveal a long sword in a silver and white gem scabbard. The innkeeper nodded and slapped his boy on the back towards the two. Then, bowing profusely, he wobbled back into his inn and closed the door a bit too firmly behind him.

  “My lords, follow me, Roy at your service,” the boy beckoned.

  “Tell us more about this mysterious lady,” the count said as they walked.

  Roy lifted his head smiling and made a detour, pointing with his chubby fingers left, past a few taverns and bakeries, then onto a cleaner, higher-leveled road.

  “She’s named Estella but we call her Maria Estella or Stella Maris, like the saint. She’s the daughter of Duke Raymond Delcour, you know the one who married the Portuguese contessa. The contessa died and Estella came here as a child, so I heard, and Duke Raymond brought her up, and then he passed too. That’s why she’s so pious, they say. Many of the nobles hate her work with the poor, but Mother says they can’t say a thing because the convents and clergy love her. Papa said when she dies she could become a saint!” Roy turned his head to face the count, his green eyes gleaming fervently.

  Their steps were now pressing into a wealthier quarter. Elaborate statues flanked large mahogany doors and the poor, clad in rags, were hard at work sweeping the streets clear.

  “So what does she look like, this Estella?” Elmer asked, tearing his eyes away uncomfortably from a little ragged girl with bare feet who was sweeping dead leaves and litter nearby. The count tapped her shoulder as he passed, and a glint of gold flashed briefly in her hands, which she rapidly concealed in her garments, stifling a faint gasp.

  “God bless you, kind master,” she breathed.

  “You will see,” Roy smiled in response to Elmer’s question as he led them down a snaking alley.

  Emerging into a wide courtyard, they stopped abruptly in front of a well-kept manor house with large windows and stone walls covered in climbing rose and ivy. Little, curious faces poked out of a doorway held ajar in the young night. Roy pushed through the open door, casually brushing past the children and leading the way in with the two following suit. They passed a vast corridor flanked with sconces revealing the pale glimmer of a crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling.

  “What are you doing here Roy?” a little girl drawled, following them as she held her doll protectively.

  “Errands, Dolly.” Roy’s tone was suave for his age and Dolly smiled, revealing missing milk teeth.

  Then turning to point at the two guests, she asked, “And these are new friends for Mother Estella?”

  Roy nodded. Upon reaching the end of the corridor, they turned left towards a large hall with a crackling fire. Large paintings cluttered the walls and the strong, exotic scent of musk and sandalwood permeated the air. There were heavy tapestries, deep red and embroidered with gold, and the well-polished floors were scattered with an array of comfortable armchairs, poofs, and cushions. Amid the cozy disorder, a vast table extended across the length of the hall. Silver chandeliers sparkled and mirrored the dancing flames, and a large velvet armchair stood near the fire with gold painted claws.

  “Sit here, I’ll go fetch Mother Estella,” said Dolly, gesturing towards the chairs. “What shall I tell her you want? She doesn’t like to be disturbed this late, you know.”

  The count seated himself in a plum velvet armchair while Elmer deposited the luggage on the floor with a sigh of relief.

  “Tell the mistress of the house I have been directed here to seek shelter for the night. If she can be so kind as to show us what she has to offer . . . though at this tardy hour I doubt I would decline anything she has.” His eyes swept over the halls thoroughly with unconcealed appreciation. “I would pay handsomely, of course.”

  As Dolly nodded and left them, the count pulled a leather pouch from beneath his cloak, and leaning towards Roy beckoned him forwards.

  “Give this to your papa for me,”
he said, drawing out two gold coins. “I think I will like this house already, it feels . . . appropriate.” Roy fixed the gold with rounded eyes, extending his hand almost reverently to grasp them. Then grinning wildly he made a large theatrical bow, dimples showing in his suddenly elated face.

  “You won’t regret your choice my lords, have a sweet, sweet night!” And he departed in a flash.

  Faint footsteps resounded from somewhere upstairs, then softly descended a distant staircase. With measured, haughty steps, the lady of the manor approached the hall. And though the count was seldom impressed by anything, he felt a slight tingling of trepidation.

  Finally Estella made her appearance. Upright and supple, she strode across the hall with the grace of an eastern dancer. The candle she held refracted its wan light on the many rings glinting on her fingers, golden with rubies and opals. Even from a distance the count could see the smoldering fire of her eyes, betraying an almost feline ferocity. He was troubled instantly, for this was no simple English rose. Nothing about this woman was tame, and she radiated poorly concealed power.

  Estella swiftly settled herself across from the count in a luxurious, cushioned chair. Smiling in the candlelight, the fire in her eyes subsided to a crimson twinkle. As he took in her striking appearance, he guessed her to be in her late twenties. Her dark, curly hair was heaped neatly on her head with clasps of garnets, and tinged red in the fluttering light. A high brow with thickly arched, lofty eyebrows framed a pair of magnificent, almost slanted almond eyes and kohl lashes. Her cheekbones were high and her heart-shaped lips full. Clad in a plain yet rich blood red dress, her golden skin glowed, exuding the scent of wild roses.

  The count realized that, for the first time in his life, his attention had been swept into unknown regions. Estella knew the effect she had, and much like a theatre performer, utilized her assets to her advantage. Smiling, her sweeping gaze flickered from innocuous to shrewd in the space of a moment.