by T. M. Lakomy
“Why here of all places?” Oswald frowned, leaning against the old oak doorframe.
Mikhail sighed. “Because ever since that night I have been plagued with dreams, and in my dreams I was led here, to find what I needed. The culmination of my dreams, the key, must be concealed here,” he waved around him resignedly. “Otherwise the Lord would not have led me here.”
“You should not let yourself be carried away following omens. They could prove to be nothing more than a distraction intended to divert you,” Oswald snorted.
“I have encountered some interesting people here. People who appear simple on the surface, but who hide something. London has surprised me,” said Mikhail as he rose from his chair, beckoning to Elmer. Oswald observed him with curiosity.
“I think I understand who you’re referring to. Lady Estella has wrought her charms on you. But this fair lady of a duchess is nothing to trifle with—Portuguese blood, nothing but lust for gold.”
“She has done no such thing,” Mikhail grimaced. “Come, we must hear the verdict of the Blind Sage. In all his years of scouring the darkness for divine secrets, there must be something he has found.”
“And what if he doesn’t know?”
Mikhail’s face darkened and he turned away, his expression inscrutable.
THE STREETS OF London were busy as usual, and though accompanied by Oswald, Mikhail and Elmer still got curious stares and misgiving glances from passersby. Oswald wanted a select tavern far from the prying eyes, so they took a long, winding path across the quarters of the rich. He showed them around the Silver Quarter, which was a square filled with some of the city’s richest houses. Polished marble from Italy decorated the square in elaborate patterns of mother of pearl and black marble. No carriages were allowed in this quarter. Instead scores of servants with great umbrellas escorted the nobles into their houses, sometimes laying thick velvet carpets before them so the rain did not impede their path. The houses themselves were beautiful with arched balconies, intricate lattice work, and doors with Saxon art embossed into the wood with silver.
Now with the influx of trade and marriages into moneyed circles across the western hemisphere, strange yet beautiful artistic inclinations had sprung up. In the middle of the square was a statue of St. Michael. Mikhail stopped to admire the work. St. Michael held a polished silver spear and the wings on his back were carved in such a way that it allowed slots for heavy silver feathers amid the marble, giving the statue an impressive effect.
A group of noblewomen passed by casting coy glances at Mikhail as they swiftly took note of his clothing and his long hair. Dressed in pale floral silks, they chattered among themselves while Mikhail shook his head in amusement.
“You would find the world a more pleasant and intriguing place if you didn’t think of looking into everyone’s thoughts wherever you crossed them,” commented Oswald.
Mikhail lifted a haughty brow as Oswald led them through the Silver Square towards another cobbled street. They could see beyond it a high palace with golden spires, and so down this alley they entered the Gold Quarter. Several gold statues lined the square before the great palace, where the aristocracy and royalty met and courted.
“We are invited there soon, my friend.” Oswald patted Mikhail on the back with a knowing wink.
Mikhail sighed with blatant disinterest as they continued their tour of the square. There were golden statues of saints and angels in pious postures, and royal effigies with banners woven of gold thread. At the center of the square was a great rose with petals wrought of delicate gold and amber, the stem encrusted with emerald and golden thorns. Curving out of the central rose flowed other stems leading to more roses branching out across the square.
The palace itself was surrounded by other royal houses with regal banners of gold and white fluttering in the breeze. Oswald rattled on about how there were rooms entirely fashioned of amber and mother of pearl, and how lush crimson velvets carpeted the halls. Estella, with her love of garnets and crimson, came to Mikhail’s mind unbidden, and he smiled almost unconsciously. A Twilit artfully hiding at the very heart of the church’s bosom—and yet no one could peel off her mask. Though her boldness impressed him, he disapproved of her indulgent ways. And he knew her allure was his weakness, so he tried to stifle the effect she had on him as best he could.
Oswald led the way past the Golden Square with purposeful footsteps down bustling streets and shaded alleys. Many times he stopped to look behind them to ensure no one was following. The farther he led them away from the comfortable rich quarters, the dingier the streets became. Maids carried buckets of human waste out of the royal houses and dumped them into the poor quarters near the river. The cloying smell of cheap meat and burning fat permeated the air from the many sausage vendors and tripe pie stands. Ragged children were plentiful; some maimed, others hale but frail and caked in filth. They gathered around avidly, but one icy glance from Oswald and they backed begrudgingly away.
Soon they were traveling through quarters where artisans sold a mixture of carpets and small paintings—mostly holy icons. Fortune tellers in heavily patterned shawls peered from behind the doors of their shops. The artisans’ quarters were clean but meager. Tapestries hung from the doors of shops while owners sat outside on stools casting rune stones with what looked like polished bones. Children gathered black sticks and threw them into the air singing, “One for sorrow, two for joy, seven for wealth and nine for grace, six for death and three for danger!” They laughed as they played near a bent old man selling bracelets made of jade and malachite beads. Casting a glance at the three travelers, he winked.
“Jade for verity, malachite for high esteem! And you, grey-eyed one, here is red jasper for passion,” he laughed with his pale eyes twinkling.
Mikhail did not so much as acknowledge this remark as he walked till a child tugged on his arm, grinning. Turning around, he saw that the old man was watching him intently now, and his thoughts were a smoky cloud of hunger and poverty. He had sensed the touch of a woman on Mikhail’s mind. Mikhail felt irritated that he needed to shield his thoughts among beggars, of all places.
The child tugging his arm held the red jasper bracelet out to him. It was a masterful piece of work, blood red jasper stones cut round and smooth and threaded together. The clasp was a base metal hook, but this wasn’t noticeable amid the beauty of the stone that had a vivid and unusual hue. Mikhail took it from the boy and the old man’s thoughts projected hope mingled with images of good food and warmth. Feeling touched by the old man’s plight, he took out his pouch of money and gave the boy five pieces of silver. The boy grinned and kissed Mikhail’s hand.
“My grandpa says she loves red, and from the scent he caught she would really appreciate it on her wrist. Red is her fire unrestrained, and you could balance it for her.” Then the boy rushed off before Mikhail could respond with more than a frown. He mentally reached out to the old man, who had his eyes closed. He was dream catching, utilizing the thoughts the count carried and milking it for all the information it held.
The count realized the true extent to which the church was misguided in its approach to the Twilit. Even a pauper such as this, given the right environment to thrive, wielded great potential. These gifts could yield an unexpected bulwark against evil. The church could, instead of persecuting them, learn from their wisdom. But because they were left to their own devices, they were easy pickings for the heathen gods.
OSWALD HAD CHOSEN a little wooden inn that was particularly shabby, but surprisingly clean. It was patronized mostly by woodworkers and craftsmen, alongside a few artisans and jewelers. They all sat quietly drinking ale and partaking of common fare.
“It’s good clean food, I can guarantee that,” said Oswald reassuringly.
They chose a table positioned near the stained glass windows that yielded a view of the road. The diners and drinkers scrupulously paid them little attention, although brief subtle looks were exchanged. Oswald ignored them as he called for the innk
eeper impatiently. A man with a ruddy complexion, dark blond hair, and a dyed yellow beard bustled over, taking in their simple yet richly cut clothing.
“Three of your best beers,” Oswald began, “then two roasted ducks with a side of liver and onions, and a platter of cheeses and goose liver. The best, my friend, and I do mean the best.” Oswald’s expression was carefully schooled into a friendly grin, but the innkeeper read the subtext easily. Nodding, he left for the kitchen, soon returning with three, foaming jugs of beer. Mikhail sipped his beer and was pleased to discover it wasn’t watered down, despite the location.
“So my friend, what do you believe could be the ramifications of this calamity?” Mikhail asked, setting the jug down and eyeing Oswald cautiously. Oswald leaned forward.
“I believe you, for a start. Just six months ago my father took his own life after having a vision of a world ruled by Samael. But before you offer me pity and condolences, keep it, and move on; I won’t dwell on the subject. So what do I think? We are sinking further and further down the rabbit hole they have set as our course, and rapidly losing mind and sight. That’s what I think.” Oswald crossed his arms defensively.
“Every age we had a promise that God would send us a shining light to aid us in the divine struggle, to guide us,” Oswald continued. “But every time that light is extinguished at its source or it perishes later, and seldom does it accomplish what it came here to do. And though we have fought to protect our flock, seeking out the holy lineages of the Magdalenes, searching for the signs and omens of where the divine child would be born, often we have failed. Our church sisters who are blessed with the sight have languished long in their quest to grabble some knowledge from the blind cloak of night. And sometimes we succeed in crucial moments and many lights are born that break through, redeemed from Samael. But only for a short time. It is a cruel jest. We are cheated of our purpose, and Samael’s reign prevails over the endless night. Lord knows how much we needed a new light in this world—a new messiah—and now it’s gone.” He paused, rubbing his chin pensively.
“I have one proposal for you, Oswald,” said Mikhail, “and if you of all people cannot heed me, then I am at a crossroads between our orders. For I will not forgive myself, nor anyone else that will not heed me and assist me in my work.” The pupils of Mikhail’s icy grey eyes were unnaturally dilated, and his strong square jaw was clenched. “Listen to me carefully—the only people who received signs of these lights were the outcasts that are born touched by the hand of the darkness, or if you wish, the hand of the Twilit gods. And the gods fight over these people, making their lives unbearable, for they seek to feast on their souls, devouring them, or twisting their arts to evil. Those that resist end up tormented and half-crazed, seeking refuge in religious orders and pretending to be ascetics. No one comprehends how these people are chosen, but there is no doubt they see beyond the veil, and that it reaches out and beckons to them. For their minds and eyes are open to it.
“The sacred pineal gland was somehow not rotted in these people. Perhaps the Twilit gods preserved them for their own ends, whether to have people to worship them or even offer themselves to them. For these Twilit gods often descend in human form to take women and sire upon them gifted children. I have seen it happen, and our order preserved many records of such children becoming magicians and great alchemists and traversing the gates of night to seek infinity’s secrets. Great figures like Merlin. We need to reach out to them, register them and their gifts, lift the stigma, and fortify our efforts with their sight.”
The food then arrived, the innkeeper laying the dishes on the table as Oswald cautiously selected his words.
“But they are mostly tainted, my friend,” Oswald gravely reminded him. “Many of them do not accept our Lord as their savior. How can we reconcile the sacred and the profane? What would you have us do, bring the demiurges into our hearts? Our hearts which we have already consecrated to the one true God?”
“I don’t see why we can’t collaborate without merging together,” Mikhail articulated. “Since I’ve been here I have already encountered two unique Twilit gifts, and I am sure half the artisans share the same. The jewelers who peddle sacred stones with mystic properties—very popular among the empty headed nobility, I might add—actually do catch petty little fiends, forcing them into the stones. Their ability is real, and you of all people ought to understand how important it is.”
Oswald nodded reluctantly. Elmer was distractedly looking out of the window where a group of people were gathered. Though they seemed poor, they were well-mannered. The women had their hair and faces meticulously shrouded, so their features could not be seen. The men looked like peasant workers, for the most part, their skin tan, their features sharp, and their eyes keen as eagles. They entered the inn and were met with the same scrupulous silence as before. While Mikhail and Oswald continued their heated debate, Elmer watched the newcomers with an uneasy interest. One of the women seemed familiar—her feminine gait was full of a confidence the other peasants lacked.
The group chose a table at the far end of the inn and the women removed their shawls—all except the one Elmer had noticed. This woman had golden skin, thick arched eyebrows, and perfect, full, rounded cheeks. As she called for wine, her voice was clear and dominant. Elmer felt confused—the voice could only be Estella’s. Excusing himself, he quietly moved closer to the group to get a better look at the woman. She smelled of Arabian musk and rose, and the hand clasping the wine glass held a ring with a single garnet.
One of the children tugged at her shawl, revealing the brown hair with reddish glints beneath as she took out a deck of battered tarot cards and began shuffling them. The light filtering through the window caught the iconography illustrated on the cards as she passed them to the woman opposite her. The woman shuffled them reverently and cut the deck before returning them. The shawled woman then set about making a Celtic pattern, placing the cards face down on the table. She observed them carefully, putting a finger to her lips, then started turning them over, one by one. The scene had drawn a crowd, and the people gathered around observing in silence. Some watched with greedy rapture, fumbling with coins in their hands, possibly hoping to ask the woman a favor to read their fortunes.
Mikhail strode over to the table, but immediately the lady in the shawl stood up to block his passage, brandishing a tarot card. It was Estella. “Knight of some godforsaken order or not, you shall not trouble me further,” she commanded, her eyes glowering with a red light.
As she barked the commanding words, Mikhail felt a searing knife dig into his chest, as if assaulted by some invisible force. Then she turned on her heel and quickly disappeared into the crowd, and was soon lost from sight. Mikhail, startled by the sudden blossoming of pain, staggered outside the inn clutching his chest. Estella’s companions emerged hurriedly from the inn, shooting him fearful glances as they rapidly dispersed.
Estella, as he expected, was the last to leave. She wore a fretful expression on her face as she bolted from the inn, attempting to join the dispersing group. But Mikhail was too quick for her, grabbing her by the arm and hauling her down an alley. He slammed her unceremoniously against the wall and pressed his fingers into her temples. As Estella kicked in vain, he threw himself into a full assault to find what was protecting her mind. But there was nothing.
Estella relented her thrashing to meet his searching gaze. She could feel his intrusions falter against her barricaded mind, and as he exerted himself, oblivious to everything around him, she blinked at him distractingly. He removed his hand, perplexed with his failure, and she leaned in quickly. Pressing her lips against his, she bit down hard. Disconcerted, Mikhail backed away from her, as if she were a glowering hot coal that had just been dropped into his hands.
“Never been with a woman, Templar? I think you’re pursuing me because you just can’t resist me. Why don’t you try getting a whore instead,” she spat.
Pulling her shawl over her face angrily and without waiting fo
r a response, she turned from him in contempt. As she strode away, she kept up a perfect semblance of control—except for the light tremor in her hands. Then she was gone.
Mikhail leaned against the wall, the pain in his head growing into a merciless headache, with his tumbling thoughts denying him any respite. Surprise and affronted pride mingled together. Oswald and Elmer, emerging from the inn, saw the look on Mikhail’s face and exchanged dubious glances. Then they trailed behind as Mikhail set out to follow Estella’s wildfire trail, marching in heavy silence until they neared the artisans’ quarters. Here, the winds bore the acrid smell of burning wood and hair, and smoke rose in a twisted, black spire. Shrill cries of terror reached their ears, and the sound of many footsteps made the earth shake.
The clangor of wailing and burning wood was half drowned by orders bellowed from an army on horseback. Mikhail was assaulted by the deluge of emotions coming from the people that lived there. He knew from their terrified thoughts that the church had instigated a hunt, burning down their quarters and dispersing them, then carrying away the ones that opposed them and culling the rest.
Mikhail and his companions pressed forwards urgently, assessing the turmoil as they went. They were aghast to see carnage worthy of the crusades. Burning torches and brandished swords were held aloft by men clad in church armor with red crosses emblazoned across their chests. Houses burned around them as men, women, and children were hauled out by their garments and hair into the street. Some fought back, using their small magic to blind the knights and flee, while others drove the knights into a mental frenzy until they rode off, their horses bewildered. But they were still sorely outnumbered.
Mikhail found Estella easily. She was the source of the knights’ wrath. Atop a building, arms outstretched, her head covered but her eyes glowering, storm and darkness gathered around her. The knights before her were writhing on the ground, clutching their heads and screaming. Mikhail saw endless hordes of demons gathering from both ends of the streets, summoned by her incantations.