by T. M. Lakomy
“Hidden hands are behind each pawn on this earth, and each make their move,” the Crone spoke. “The Sophia vowed to rescue creation when she fell to earth, and so shall I. Within you is a spark of the Sophia, and you are my child. If life proves too hard for you and the darkness seeks to rob you of your light, then flee to me, and when the ages fade into a better world, you shall be reborn to finish your purpose. But only do so if you truly wish to resign from this fateful game.”
The Crone looked past Estella into the distance and smiled. “You have got yourself a smitten angel from the gates of heaven, I see. He will not greet me, for he knows me and fears me. But let me tell you something; you are no mortal, and though you are clothed in the clay and flesh we molded for you, it is merely your vessel for this life. Antariel hopes beyond hope to find you after, for he knows where your soul shall err.” She nodded gravely, then returned her gaze to Estella, rising to her feet and leaning on her white staff.
The Crone extended a hand to Estella who nimbly leapt to her feet. Laying a hand on her head in benediction, she said, “Go now. May the paths before you be filled with hope in a darkness where nothing can be seen. I am there always, and even Lucifer knows me. Do not be afraid, and do not fear death; it is merely a doorway into another world. Go, and may the Sophia be always with you. I watch over the fates of mankind and weave with my fingers their untimely ends and destinies. I am the ultimate face of the Norns. I am the fragmented mirror that fell from heaven and broke into a million pieces, each piece becoming an incarnation of myself.”
Estella bowed her head thankfully with renewed strength. Distracted by the sudden neighing of her horse, she turned around for a second, but when she turned back the Crone had vanished—so quickly that Estella could have sworn their whole interaction had been a figment of her imagination. Sighing with annoyance, but with lifted spirits, she ran towards Antariel. He was sprawled near the horses meticulously examining a flower, his long fingers prodding the soft petals.
“She sends her greetings,” Estella lied as Antariel turned around with a raised brow.
“I see your beguiling nature has returned, as well as your deceiving ways. Good, now we can depart swiftly.” He mounted his horse, watching Estella with an unconcealed frown.
“How are we to cross over into Britain?” she asked.
“The same way we originally came—by boat. The Crone is the most benevolent of all,” he added with a grave expression, “but do not let yourself be guided too much by her words, for she is the guardian of death. And she will not lift a finger to hurt her children, not even Lucifer.”
Estella shivered, looking back and frowning pensively. “I understood that much,” she whispered darkly.
THE PASSAGE INTO Britain was tedious, and Estella spent much of that time asleep in her room. She had paid a decent sum to obtain a small, clean cabin room furnished with tawdry curtains and a rickety bed, but the food at least was decent compared to her usual frugal fare at the nunnery. Antariel, now a welcome distraction, kept her company, and would often discuss with her the various mysteries of the world. Her dreams were visited often by the Crone, who lent her wisdom and strength and rekindled within her the fiery spirit that had once challenged kings and danced with shadows.
At length they arrived on the shores of England. When she descended into the harbor, she felt a wave of affection towards the green island, and she yearned for her manor and the children she had once cared for.
“They have all gone for their own safety,” Antariel reminded her, reading her thoughts. “Do not linger on them. And you cannot possibly regain your house now, let it go. I’ll go myself and rescue some of your wealth that’s hidden in the vaults,” Antariel added, eyeing Estella with growing concern. Her gaze had dulled and her brief joy was visibly diminishing.
17
MORTAL WOUNDS
For the ghost of the woods that stares into your bower
Was once the light of your life, the pinnacle of your tower
For the earth that’s turned by worms that repulse your hand
Shall be your gods as they deconstruct your flesh to sand
THE MORNING BROUGHT ANOTHER DULL, GREY DAY. MIKHAIL WAS awake, and although he had not slept the previous night, he wasn’t weary. He was staying as a guest at the queen’s summer abode in London. All night he had paced up and down, lost in rambling thoughts, and he could sense that the queen was also awake and uneasy.
An irregular storm had raged the previous night, and many people had died in it, having bled to death for unknown reasons. Naturally he suspected maleficent powers, newly emerged to join the cardinal’s ranks. A pestilence had descended overnight on London, and throughout the raging gale the vicious cries of demons tormented the skies and stirred the storms. They were an ancient plague, newly arrived and recently freed. He had rushed to his study and soon discovered that their names had not been uttered, nor had they been summoned, since the days of the Temple of Jerusalem.
Something evil was afoot, greater than he had imagined. The demons had then congregated in the air and heaped their curses upon the order, singling Mikhail out and pouring their malice upon him. Then they had vanished with the dawn. Something ominous had ushered them away, and they had fled eastwards towards the cardinal’s cathedral.
Mikhail threw the windows open wide and allowed the sun to filter in as he inhaled deeply. His sculpted features were sharp against the mellow rays of the sun. Silently he extended his mind beyond the town to sense the extent of the pestilence. Then suddenly he coughed, and as he held his hand to his mouth, he was startled to find little droplets of fresh blood. Baffled, he frowned grimly, lifting his eyes to the sky. Then he turned his dark thoughts back to the cardinal.
ESTELLA FIDGETED IMPATIENTLY as she sat in a carriage under a spell of concealment Antariel had cast. He was guiding the carriage carefully through streets where the cardinal’s inquisition still raged. Soldiers roamed the streets persecuting and questioning anyone they suspected of being Twilit, and arresting many arbitrarily. The weight of the crusade against the people had taken a cruel toll, not only on the Twilit people, but on those that enforced the papal decrees. Even the most hardened hearts broke as they were forced to murder women and children.
Estella’s thoughts were dark and dreary as they entered London, and she felt the weight of anguish and despair that pressed against her soul. The town she knew that had nurtured her youth felt so alien to her. She fumbled to remember the usual scenery, but even the things that were familiar had acquired a noxious feel. In her brief sojourn away, it was as if London had remodeled itself.
Estella felt the impending danger all around her as the carriage gently jostled down the moist, cobbled streets. Peering through the window, she saw impassive faces mutedly going about their business, dismal worry etched onto their brows. Though it had been painted as delivering the citizens from a lurking enemy within that worshipped foreign forces, eventually even the most foolish realized that the population cleansing was the fruit of a terrible political vendetta. Estella’s carriage was stopped many times, and she was questioned in monotonous tones by half-hearted guards who barely looked at her face.
At last the carriage halted, and she recognized a tall building with stately, fretted spires. Nodding to Antariel who smiled encouragingly, she pushed the carriage door open. But all she met with were the sour faces of the guards, automatically barring her entry, and she felt her spirits sink. Lady Constance had never required guards before. Estella realized with remorse that while she had fled persecution, the friends she left behind had taken the full brunt of it.
“Lady Constance is not expecting any guests,” a guard said, addressing Estella, “and does not want to be disturbed. Please make an appointment.”
“Please send word to her now,” Estella replied politely, pulling herself up to her full height. She was dressed like a common wayfarer, though particularly clean and well cared for, but nonetheless no one of consequence. The guards exchanged m
eaningful smirks.
“I have no use for such fools as yourselves. Learn to respect your betters,” Estella added, dourly pushing by them. Their nonchalance instantly vanished as they thuggishly made to grab her. She quickly jabbed a guard’s arm with spiteful force and he yelped backwards in surprise. Her malevolent, deep red eyes instantly set fear into them.
“Demon!” they howled at her, unsheathing their weapons but afraid to approach.
She laughed haughtily and gifted them with one last venomous smile before pushing open the doors and entering the house. Antariel was suddenly at her side, gracefully gliding along next to her. Entering the normally warm and blithe hall, she was appalled by the scene before her. The draperies, normally vibrant, royal hues of blue and green embroidered with silver and woven gems, were gone, replaced with plain black drapes. The crystal chandeliers were veiled and shrouded with black coverings, and the great hall’s paintings were enveloped by black shrouds. Estella walked apprehensively forward as the guards followed after her, calling for reinforcements. But Estella dodged past them through the halls she had known since childhood.
“She’s in mourning it seems,” she whispered hesitantly to Antariel.
Antariel’s eyes were jet black as understanding flooded over him and the memories of the hall screamed their agony to him. Apologetically placing one hand on Estella’s shoulder, he held her gaze.
“I am sorry for your loss, Estella,” he whispered.
She gritted her teeth, flicking his hand away, and made for the stairs where the maids had gathered, watching her fearfully. “Constance,” she screamed, but she received no reply. Then bolting up the stairs as rapidly as she could, she pushed the maids roughly out of her way.
The commotion in the house had shaken all the staff, for they had dropped their posts and duties and gathered to watch her. Some recognized her, and signaled to the guards to retreat, while others crossed themselves beneath the baleful gaze of Estella’s feral eyes.
“Where is Constance, you fools? Go fetch her now, I demand to know where she is!” But she was met only with sympathetic looks.
An older maid that Estella knew wept in a corner, unable to form words, turning her face away from her. Estella knelt beside her and shook her. She was a plump, middle-aged lady with russet hair and a freckled face, who had always used to tempt her with succulent cakes and pastries.
“Answer me, Maggie, what has happened here?” Estella pleaded.
“Please don’t ask me, for pity’s sake,” Maggie wept loudly, the only sound in the echoing silence and watchfulness of the gathered crowd.
As Estella turned to face them, she saw within their gaze a lust for blood and vengeance, and a desire to be vindicated. And in the clench of their fists and the arch of their backs she read despair and wrath. Antariel was behind them all, his gait slow and his averted gaze watching her beneath his long lashes as he leaned against the wall.
“Have you all lost your voices, men and women of the house of Rosalind Constance?” she spat at them, beginning to weep with the weight of the suspense.
“I will tell you what has taken them, Estella,” came an icy, sickly sweet tone.
Spinning around in the direction of Constance’s voice, Estella was met with a bedraggled drunk woman dressed in black silks. Her chestnut brown hair was covered with a thick, black veil, and she had obviously just clambered out of bed, or wherever she had been imbibing her liquor. Her normally soft, doe brown eyes were hollow and haggard and reddened with tears. As she smiled emptily, her unfocused gaze oscillated between Estella and the house staff crowded below. Constance swayed unsteadily as she walked, a cruel smile frozen upon her drunken lips.
As Estella ran towards her, Constance fell into her arms, clutching a bottle and laughing. She trailed her fingers through Estella’s loose hair, focusing her eyes with effort. The stench of stale liquor was upon her breath, and Estella steadied her, holding her face levelly.
“It has become very expensive to be your friend of late, Estella. Everyone you touch is doomed!” Constance’s eyes widened dramatically, then regained their former torpor.
Then extricating herself from Estella’s embrace, she began twirling in circles, laughing maniacally as her robes billowed behind her. She cackled madly as she spun in a chaotic dance, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, wine splattering the floor and her dress. She stopped just as suddenly, turning to face Estella, gesticulating and sloshing the bottle at her.
“They took Dolly from me two days ago,” she choked out, her eyes glazing over. “Hmm yes, they did . . . she was recognized somehow. Don’t ask me how, I was so careful always . . . well . . .” she paused, taking a swig from her bottle. “They took her from me in the streets. I pleaded as I have never pleaded before to any man, and begged and bribed to no avail.” Constance took another swig from her bottle, smiling again vacantly.
“What have they done to Dolly, Constance?” Estella asked in clipped tones, staring at the floor between them with fraying patience. She closed her eyes, anticipating the worst. Constance merely shrugged, idly inspecting the bottle.
“Oh nothing, they just hanged her, the tiny little thing, still clutching her doll . . . and I could not save her. I wanted to die with her, you see, but they didn’t allow it, and she had held onto me so fiercely before they ripped her hands away. I watched her being hauled to the gallows, her screams and tears rending my soul and wrenching my very spirit from its abode . . . . See they hanged her, Estella, and I cannot forget her face seeking me out in the crowd, locking with mine. A little child hoping I could save her and calling out your name. And till the very last moment when the noose was tied around her neck she still held her doll and hoped for salvation. Then she was hung and I thought I would die, too. Even her body was denied to me for burial. They said they would toss her to the dogs.”
Constance watched Estella disinterestedly, her speech lending her the appearance of lucidity, but her mind irrevocably vacant. Estella nodded, sinking to the floor and leaning against a wall with a blank expression as she strove to cover the tremor in her breathing. Constance watched emotionlessly as Estella began to scream a high-pitched wail of wrath. Then cradling her head in her arms, she began to sob inconsolably. Antariel reappeared at her side in a flash, but did not dare to touch her.
“I promise you, Cardinal,” came Estella’s anguished voice, “I will cut out your heart while you are alive and eat it. That is my vow to you.” Her voice bore no idle menace.
“Eat his heart out, Estella,” Constance hissed fiercely, “and send me his carcass to crucify once you are done. Then we can poison the king. I want to make wine of his blood. And of his carcass—a feast for the crows!”
“I promise you I will go after him, Constance, even if it proves to be my undoing.”
“Your undoing?” replied Constance. “You only think of yourself. You fled, leaving everyone to pick up the broken pieces you cast behind you. There have been many Dollys killed because of you. How dare you stroll back into my life! Why didn’t you confront him before if you could, you coward?” The venom in her voice was matched by the look of revulsion on her face.
Estella froze, rocking herself back and forth and weeping. Then Constance’s face crumpled, and she threw herself beside Estella, placing her head in her lap. They wept together, holding hands, decorum and shame cast away.
ESTELLA RUBBED HER eyes vigorously, expelling the drowsiness that had settled on her. She was lounging in a sumptuous guest room, the exquisite dressers already littered with bottles of wine. Antariel had gone to her manor to fetch her clothing and jewels from the hidden vaults. She was left alone in the dimly lit room with the curtains drawn. She welcomed the gloom and savored it darkly.
Her heart brooded, weaving strands of dark thought as she lay on her back holding a glass of wine. Basking in her wrath, she yearned to hack the flesh away and devour it. She already knew what she wanted, and it did not matter to her that Lucifer possessed the cardinal. All she wanted was his
death, at any cost, and his heart hot and throbbing in her hands to gnaw and devour. Decades of violence and oppression had bred within her people a ravenous inclination—the desire to hurt and maim. This relic of her heritage in the inhospitable regions of the world fueled her feral savagery, and she drew the poison from those ancestral wounds, and it fed her wrath.
Antariel soon returned. He had spirited to her numerous chests, heavily laden with her finery and gold. As he sat down beside her, watching her, Estella pushed the wine and a fresh platter of food toward him.
“Eat and drink,” she said. “I don’t know if I will emerge from my trip unscathed, so relish the moments you have with me. I think I understand the old Crone now. I shall not fear death. I shall eat his heart out, though I pay and perish.” Estella spoke softly, and her hands sought out Antariel’s. He grasped them readily, watching her with dark eyes.
“I will not let you perish and I will aid you in your vengeance, but this is not what I intended for you when I brought you here. Be cautious and be reasonable. Do not bring further ill upon this town. You will be seized and tortured yourself! There is only so much I can do among a horde of devils, and I need to know you can escape.” He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them as she cradled his cheek, smiling ruefully.
“Do not be concerned by the cardinal, my old friend. I am more afraid of the greater danger I am offering my spirit to.”
Antariel stiffened and ripped his hand out of her grip. “Do not sell yourself, Estella,” he rebuked her. “Have you learned nothing from your woes and mistakes, even with me?” Estella leaned towards Antariel playfully.