The Shadow Crucible

by T. M. Lakomy

  Woodcraft approached Estella. He looked pale but relieved. “What on earth was that about?” he asked hurriedly.

  Estella shrugged. “He was drunk and thought it would be entertaining for me to kiss his arse—sorry, I mean his feet—and that didn’t quite turn out too well for him.”

  The earl leaned forwards with unconcealed concern. “You know the people here love you yet fear you. They sense something about you is different, and they think it’s either piety or the damn opposite.” He was angry, but doing his best to contain himself. Her eyes were cold and she made no pretense of her disdain. The earl opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it. He forced a smile. “Why aren’t you wearing the opals I bought you, my rose?” he asked, his tone falsely sweet.

  “Oh dear me, I was planning to wear them but I got distracted with a little matter of business. Please forgive me, I could wear them to death they are so beautiful.”

  Woodcraft failed to catch on to her insincerity. Feeling that the chill between them had dissipated, he cleared his throat, pretending to be interested in a table of canapés.

  “I have someone to meet now—you understand what I mean. I shall be gone for the night. Leave at midnight and someone dressed like me will be there to escort you back, you know the usual drill.” He didn’t face her and Estella hummed in acquiescence.

  “Of course, my dear, enjoy your night,” she said, moving away from the table. But not fast enough to miss the thoughts spilling out of Woodcraft. That black box . . . Estella gritted her teeth with bitterness, then went to join the dance.

  Her head spun with the liquor, yet still she danced bewitchingly. As a crowd of noblemen drew near to watch her, she dazzled their senses, pulling them even closer to her. The liquor was making her exceedingly bold and reckless, and she watched carelessly as the men’s lusts awoke and they began arguing among themselves over grievances that had never happened. She laughed, fanning herself as she went to refresh her wine.

  A shadow behind her alerted her to a certain male presence. She turned around with a coquettish look, only to find the count staring into her face with a cold and disapproving gaze. She blushed as he reached out, taking the goblet from her hands, and setting it firmly on the table.

  “Oh, don’t presume to tell me how to behave, Count Mikhail of Somewhere,” she smiled.

  “Let’s go for a walk at least, while Oswald undoes the damage you’ve done to those men.” He looked her over with a belittling ferocity that stung her pride.

  His eyes were stormy grey and implacable as they made their way to the exit to the royal gardens. He walked with her silently, but held her arm like any gentleman would, greeting passersby with his frosty charm. Estella offered them a distracted smile. As they walked, the shadow around the count grew, engulfing her senses, till she was no longer able to sense anything but her own pounding heart.

  The garden path was a beautiful snaking pathway of smooth stones leading to alcoves, glades, and other secret little places. Along the path were endless varieties of roses and flowers. There was a maze, too, in the darkness. The count made in that direction now.

  Betraying nothing of his thoughts to her, he said, “Your betrothed seemed quite concerned about that trick you played on the king. You are lucky to have the gift of theatrics, or you might have found yourself being hanged for witchcraft.” He gripped her arm as he led her further into the gardens where the laughter of amorous couples faded and the silence deepened.

  Estella stopped abruptly in her tracks, her face hidden in shadow. “What do you intend to do, Count? I don’t appreciate being humiliated by kings and their like. And I don’t think you have half the brain required to understand what is between me and Woodcraft.”

  The count paused. Then, without responding, he led her deeper into the gardens. Estella’s mind raced and her heart pounded, wondering what could await her there.

  “Tread carefully now, make no noise,” Mikhail’s voice dropped to a whisper and Estella followed his lead beneath a thicket of thorns.

  Faint gasping noises echoed in the dark from where two figures crouched. The dim rays of moonlight that fingered their way through the gloom revealed a dark-haired man, muscular and tall and naked, sweating with exertion. The sweat gleamed on his taut skin while he crouched on hands and knees, a second figure holding his hips. At first Estella could not tell who it was, but the moonlight finally flooded through the thicket onto the golden hair of Earl Woodcraft. The other man she recognized as Matthew Rood.

  The two were lost in the throes of pleasure, the earl gripping Matthew tight and plowing him hard. With every thrust, Matthew moaned and shuddered with pleasure. Estella averted her eyes to find the count watching her. She turned away noiselessly and made her way back to the footpath with the count walking slowly behind her. Once there, she stopped and swerved to behold the count, who was observing her with a mixture of pity and distaste.

  “You were aware of course, weren’t you? A marriage of convenience so you did not have to marry into the royal houses?”

  “Yes,” she said coldly and turned away.

  “Why is marriage so repulsive to you?” the count inquired. Estella stopped in her tracks and turned to faced him.

  “None of these nobles could ever understand me. They make my skin crawl. Besides I am not one of them, I was robbed of what was mine. I refuse to bear the children of some rich man who will indulge in wine and whores till I am old and withered when he will discard me for others. I am Tsura the Seer. I owe nothing to the royalty of this land, and certainly will not be bound by the shackles of men who are so ungifted and stupid!” She spat out the last words with vitriol, and continued walking.

  “But not all would cage you like an exotic beast or bird to display,” said the count, following her quick strides, “nor as a toy for the bedroom. Some would value you for who you are and let you ride and rule by their side.”

  “Oh shut your mouth, who do you think you’re fooling, me? I’ve lived here years and years and I know the hearts of these people. They are riddled with vice and boredom. There is nothing remarkable about any of them, nothing at all. I am alone in the underworld of the Twilit people.” Her voice trembled as he stared into her eyes.

  “There are others like you,” he said. “Our orders seek them out and we cherish them. I, for one, cherish you, though you offer me only hatred in return.” Estella looked away uneasily.

  “I underestimated that fool, you may be surprised to know,” she said. “Yesterday he bought a matching wedding ring and bangle imbued with a slow-acting latent poison. And he would have watched me die slowly, languishing in pain, just to preserve his secret. He distrusts me to keep my side of the bargain. He might not be of the sharpest wit, but he knows there is danger around me. I suppose I inspire such drastic measures from men, or perhaps the demons that plague me are addling his reasoning.”

  “I see,” said the count frowning. “As head of the Northern Order, I will come myself to admonish him for his betrayal.” His eyes glittered with unusual malice. “But end the betrothal, Estella, you cannot live your life a lie. It is a wasted effort.” His voice was pleading again. Moving closer to her, he touched her cheek with a ringed finger. She trembled, pushing the count away, but inadvertently stumbled heavily, colliding with the ground and clutching her head feebly.

  “Bound beyond the gates of night, he clambered over and fell,” Mikhail intoned, “and from out of nonexistence he finds the substance of existence; the womb of infinity, and there he swelled and fed and ripped through the womb and fell like a meteor upon our world.”

  Estella writhed on the ground, eyes glazed, and the count, kneeling by her side, murmured in understanding. Cradling her head, he sought her eyes. They were entirely black. Gazing deep into her soul, he saw nothing but the vast empty spaces behind the stars, the endless dark—the primeval birthplace of light. Estella shook, her whole body rigid. The count laid his hands upon her, invoking the sacred incantations of the holy orders. He iss
ued commands while the blackness in Estella’s eyes seemed to engulf all light around her and the stars far above began to wheel.

  “Watch them burn, the wheels of heaven. The greater ones guard the throne itself. Aren’t they beautiful? But tonight I cannot see the seventh sky.” Mikhail traced symbols upon her face and a glowing pattern emerged. He traced his fingers all over her shaking body till she ceased trembling and finally swooned into a comatose state.

  8

  EYESIGHT FOR THE BLIND

  I am deeper than the oldest hollows and bottomless wells

  Where beyond, ages shine by in their distant trajectory across the sky

  Where the endless chiming of the world’s reckoning bells

  Know full well that by forgetfulness they die

  “HOW LONG HAS SHE BEEN HERE, MIKHAIL?” CAME A DRY FEMALE tone. The voices were distant and vague, like transient echoes beginning to fade into nothing. Estella was jolted violently back into awareness after having been plunged for so long in a chaotic slumber riddled with dreams and ill omens. She did not move though, even as the coldness of the ground she lay on began to penetrate to her bones. She held her breath and waited to regain her senses fully.

  All she could yet discern were the unnerving rasping noises around her; there must be at least four or five of them on all sides of her, but never too close. And she could hear a strange hissing and muttering from farther away. A chill permeated the air, imbuing it with the heavy taste of fear. How long she had been unconscious she couldn’t yet fathom, but a creeping sense of urgency swept over her, accompanied by a dark foreboding.

  “I think she is already awake, Mikhail, why don’t you introduce her to us?” The female voice that spoke was falsely welcoming. Estella stiffened, bracing herself as Mikhail’s footsteps approached. She felt him before he actually knelt beside her, his presence a tingling allure to her senses. She opened her eyes momentarily to see him crouching some distance from her, hesitating.

  “Don’t get too close, she might get frightened and bolt!” the dry female voice resounded in the drafty hall.

  A snort echoed in return and Mikhail called out to Estella, “I will approach you but I need you to trust me. You are not among enemies here. This is Queen Mary, Oswald, my trusted friend, and the Blind Sage. You are in a safe place, Estella. This is a sanctuary, built underground, hallowed, and sacred. The seer of our order, the Blind Sage, contrived an impregnable fastness to withstand all evil. But for gazing into the darkness he paid the ultimate price—he was blinded. Yet he remains the unwavering bulwark of our order, providing the most precious knowledge we need to retaliate against the enemies of God.”

  Estella raised herself painfully to her elbows with aching limbs and found herself on a stark marble floor inlaid with intricate patterns of cosmic scenes and esoteric symbols. She was lying in the very middle of the largest one. Taking in her surroundings, she saw she was in an underground vaulted hall. Around her sat three shadowy figures in high backed chairs shrouded in darkness.

  Behind them was a swirling, luminous haze that whispered and hissed. A shadow detached itself from the fog, cloaked and hooded, its ghastly countenance peering right into Estella’s eyes. As she looked into the shadowy substance of the grim figure, a dark vapor rippled across her vision and she felt her sight tingling in response. This strange feeling affecting her seemed to twist her power, amplifying it in unfamiliar new ways. And she could feel the manifestation in the underground vault spreading and growing stronger.

  Turning to Mikhail, she spat, “Why am I here?” Her head reeled with a throbbing ache and she found she could do no more than sit up. She wondered whether she could escape without being fished back in.

  Mikhail raised his hand gently as if he were courting a beast that might attack. Now level with her, he stretched his hand out in a peace offering. Estella cast one glance at him with a ready host of snide comments to throw at him, paused, then screamed in disgust. Recoiling in horror, she thrust a kick at him. He dodged her and grabbed her legs. She screamed even more shrilly and thrashed fruitlessly.

  Through the power present in the chamber augmenting her sight, she could see him truly for the first time. His face, which was habitually a tableau of imperious grey eyes and fine chiseled features, was distorted and deformed like melted wax, disfigured into a hideous mask. It was as if a lesser, deformed version of Mikhail was before her—one that was demonic, maimed, swathed in smoke with gaunt, reddened eyes, a window to the barren wasteland of his soul.

  “You can see it?” Mikhail asked, beginning to understand. “Yet why suddenly now . . .” he wondered, looking around uneasily. “If you can see our inner darkness then you truly are a seer. But this isn’t truly me, it’s my demon; the dark inhabitant inside all of us. We have a divine spark of God, but our material body is a home to spirits and demons. Each of us have them, even you, ugly and petty, feasting off your life force and your sins.”

  “You are lying to me,” she hissed. “That is no shadow! I know what I see inside of you,” she added, eyeing the movements of the wraiths outside the circle. “No, it is something akin to the demons that wait outside this circle.” Her high-pitched voice reverberated in the hall, echoed eagerly back by the wraiths slithering behind the enthroned watchers.

  “Don’t they all think they are so pure and holy, these proud, sinful ones,” sneered the queen. “We must exorcize her now, see how he is coming for her!” The cold authoritarian voice barely concealed the disdain aimed in Estella’s direction.

  “You cannot exorcise me, you old, useless witch!” Estella flung back. “You have no authority over me! You won’t even come close enough that I may see the true ugliness within your soul! Whoever is coming for me is merely amplifying my gift, I have never seen with such clarity before.” Mikhail gripped her shoulders and yanked her upwards. “Get off me!” she cried.

  Mikhail’s ravaged, melted face contorted into a pitiful apology. “There is a dark trail leading to you, Estella. Something dreadful is dogging you. Cavorting with the hidden forces may have opened you up for malefic entities to use you as a weapon. We have no choice but to purge you of it, locking your mind and sight away—for your own safety.”

  Mikhail hauled her towards the epicenter of the circle where rings of iron in the marble held links of rope and chain. Estella’s countenance darkened with grim realization. She feigned weakening, then dealt him a blow to the face with her elbow. Mikhail, surprised, growled in response, momentarily dazed. She bolted towards the edge of the circle where the old man was seated. Aware of the commotion around him, albeit wizened with age, he did his best to obstruct her passage, flailing his arms and cane. But he was blind and milky eyed, and the malevolent mask upon his face was writhing piteously as if in perpetual torment, and so Estella brushed by him easily. But Mikhail’s awareness was ubiquitous and he intercepted her just as she was exiting the circle.

  The wraiths that gathered around her were like the fabric of mist, without substance. Faceless, they hovered in the air whispering her name, exuding a pull that beckoned her to them. But they reeked of death, and she knew their kind. Cheated of escape, she halted.

  “They are all after you, Estella,” said Mikhail. “If you leave now they will have you, and nothing will stop them.”

  She turned around with wrath etched into her hardened features. “I was living in peace till you barged into my life, Templar! Ridiculous, puny little devil that you are—and now you claim I am part of your mess? This is about you, not me, you fool!” She jabbed an angry finger into his chest. “You. Your church. You ignorant fools!” The three others had left their seats and gathered around Estella near the edge of the circle.

  “Do not be so sure the enemies of the church value you more than we do, we are all cattle for the slaughter in this material world,” intoned the Blind Sage severely.

  Without warning, the queen slapped her hard across the face. The queen’s face was distorted with her own inner darkness, though it was unlike th
e truly demonic nature she had seen in Mikhail. Estella recovered from her shock, grinned maniacally, then spat in the queen’s face. Oswald grabbed her, dragging her by force to the chains. It was then that the atmosphere in the room shifted—the cold, moist air clogged with fetid odors seemed to vibrate, and whispers rose like a sea of angry wasps, converging around them into one malicious entity. Estella’s strength weakened as dread began to seep into her veins. The impulse to flee became overwhelming. Mikhail and Oswald bound her with the chains and left her on the ground to shiver, their expressions unfathomable.

  “He is coming for her,” the old sage rasped urgently. “I feel it in my very bones. I can almost see him! Quick, let us begin!” The others broke away, swiftly regaining their seats while chanting vehemently under their breath.

  The cold that penetrated the hall dug its talons into Estella. Then a shape began to materialize before her outside the circle. The wraiths parted like cloven hay before the scythe and a shadow emerged, towering and dark. From the distance she could see it bore a tall crown of steel that tapered off jaggedly like bent blades. The crown sat atop an odious, malformed head—one-eyed like a cyclops with a single, putrid, bulging, lidless eye. There was a gash for a mouth where long, blackened teeth gnashed together, oozing stygian liquid filled with maggots. He was wreathed in swirling, hissing vapors.