by T. M. Lakomy
Hecate turned to face her, her grave visage pensive and wistful. Without answering, she pointed to the left towards an undulant path. It suddenly appeared more solid and tidy, with shiny slabs of white marble inlaid with moonstones that wanly reflected some unseen light.
“That path you see before you, that shining sanctified road that delights the walker, is the only pathway of the four that will eagerly lead you to its destination without hesitation or delay. It is to the delight of those who follow without thought or consideration, but it is only for the lighthearted hypocrites and the self-righteous. It will take you past the Elysian Fields where the blissful folk live in everlasting music. But its end will not be what you expect, for it will not lead you to those hallowed fields but past them to the dark valley. This glimmering road is wrought of deceit—it is the path that leads to hell, paved with good intentions.”
As Hecate’s words resounded into the silence of the misty plains, the path of moonstones began to glow faintly. It was pleasing to the eye and indeed of all the paths it was the only one that was lit. It stretched far into the distance, gleaming enticingly. Estella smirked, for she had heard the expression before, but never actually seen that doomed path. She reveled in the notion that many religious fools would walk that path alongside the hypocrites.
Without further ado, Hecate lifted her right arm and the mists were cloven to reveal a muddy track where thorns and brambles grew. Small animal carcasses and bones were caught in the thorns, and jagged pieces of stone intermingled with the mud. The reek of death emanated from it, hanging ominously in the motionless air. Estella took a step forwards and descried in the distance that the path, which was particularly wide at the beginning, narrowed and sank into ravines and chasms. There one must clamber and cling to the path, or fall and break their bones instantly. Or they would fall outside of the path and risk having their soul and mind stripped in Tartarus.
“Let me guess,” said Estella with a chuckle, her eyes alight. “This is the famed path of ascetics; those who walk through the eye of the needle—conceived only for the amusement of the gods, I’m sure.”
Hecate’s severe face yielded a faint smile and a twinkle in her stormy eyes. “This is the fabled path indeed, of the pious religious folk that throw themselves willingly into torturous deprivation, hoping to obtain salvation though self-denial. That just leaves us with two paths left.” Hecate blinked twice, expressionless.
Nana clambered onto Estella’s cloak and perched on her shoulders. Estella looked behind her where a rough, practically nonexistent path could be faintly descried. It had a few stone slabs hewn to a ragged levelness. Chisels and axes and other instruments to cut and shape rock lay around haphazardly. The path was merely at its beginning, and beyond the first few slabs a wind of choking sands and rock debris raged. Each slab of the few built had been laboriously and meticulously hewn through tremendous travails. Building a pathway fit for walking would have been an immense, lifelong work of drudgery.
Estella raised a brow, stroking Nana. “I doubt you would risk your delicate paws for the sake of that famed path. The path that one forges for themselves for the sake of freedom, built on merit and morality against all odds and the wills of the capricious gods . . . Let’s do ourselves a favor and turn towards the magic, silken roads that our patrons wrought with their moonlight spun hair?”
Nana answered merely with a blink of her yellow eyes, tenderly nibbling Estella’s fingers. Hecate’s approving gaze swept over them briefly before she turned to face the remaining path ahead.
“This is your last chance of succor; the path of dreams and spun hopes. The Twilit pathway sails through the air and rides the waves of perdition that rock the other paths and destabilize all other endeavors. There you may find respite in the knowledge that this path is yours, and loyal to you. But it does not prevent intruders from coming in to sway you. This is the only path that will not betray. Only you can forsake it by giving in to the intrusions of foreign hells. I cannot see where it shall lead you, for they were wrought by hidden golden hands in the elusive hours of creation. No one shall have the mastery over them, but they are known to you. Find your way home and be loyal to who you are.”
But there was no path to see ahead, and Estella, standing by Hecate, could not discern what she was pointing to and was troubled. Yet before she could question further, Hecate produced out of the mists a white staff and smote the ground imperatively before them. Estella’s heart pounded with trepidation, for she was acquainted with her world, but unused to this peculiar entrance into it.
At first nothing happened, and the vapors continued to hang like morose clouds. Then suddenly overhead a ripe, silver moon shone its cold, clear light through the fumes. The remaining mists where the moon’s rays fell began to glitter and sparkle. A floating path like a ribbon of the Milky Way was suspended in the gathering gloom. It began to spiral and swirl beautifully, like a bird proudly extending its wings and fanning the endless greyness of the atmosphere to a shimmering haze.
Estella joyfully turned around to thank Hecate, but she was already gone. The only companion she had to ease her loneliness was Nana, and even the cat seemed suddenly sterner. The solace of her gentle eyes was banished as a concerned wariness emerged. Estella sighed and took the first step into the glittering haze with Nana proudly marching ahead.
23
THE MOTE IN YOUR OWN EYE
Naked spirit as a silken silvery ribbon pale
Fluttering as a loose leaf unbound from its solitary tree
As a fragile tongue of flame, held to earth through an iron nail
Each day tearing a little more, into frayed slivers, free
“She’s gone, but not dead. But gone, as usual!” Mikhail strode up and down Rosalind’s hall thunderously, pressing a kerchief to a gash above his brow with a grimace. He was dissecting repeatedly in his mind his encounter with Lucifer, mulling over every detail and handling each moment again as though he could force it to yield some withheld information. He was still gripped with shock at the events that had occurred. Lucifer had not dared slay him, as he so easily could have done. Mikhail’s sword and initiations had delivered their ultimate promise; for as soon as he had extricated himself from the rubble, he challenged the archangel to the sword, and with his faith he survived both temptation and cowardice.
Mikhail coughed, and as he brought his hands to his mouth, he was unpleasantly aware of the presence of blood. He ignored it temporarily, dismissing it as the whims of a weak human body. Though his heart was weighty, he was also relieved. Whatever anger had been held against him had evaporated at the tale he brought them. They were aghast over the details of the encounter with the archangel. Not only did they never imagine he would endure such a dire meeting and survive it unscathed, but he had prevented an important pawn from falling into the enemy’s hands. Additionally, the vessel of evil, the cardinal, had been destroyed. Oswald was sheepishly trying to make amends, offering Mikhail fine wines and other delights, which he declined curtly. The queen’s attentions, meanwhile, had shifted from admiration to something far deeper, and many of the Templars now regarded him with something akin to awe.
The Templars were now gathered in the large hall pouring over strategy. Mikhail turned to look over at them and saw one of them suddenly fall backwards with a loud clank of armor. Immediately, both Mikhail and Oswald were at his side. Alarm was painted over Oswald’s face, deepening the cracks and furrows of his brow and darkening the hollows of his eyes. The Templar was already dead, and his skin had prematurely taken a greyish tinge of rot. A thick streak of blood left his lips, and swiftly an odor of decay began to emanate from him as if he had been dead for days. Mikhail’s jaw tightened as he closed the knight’s eyes solemnly. A viscous, grey, murky substance oozed out from beneath his eyelids, releasing an unnatural, putrid odor.
“This must be that pestilence brought over by those blasted demons,” said Oswald, recoiling in disgust. “All of us be damned if we fall for it! Have we n
ot immersed in the sacred wells and performed the appropriate purgative measures? To what avail are our orders if we are to fall like commoners!” He prodded the dead knight with blatant revulsion. “To be our stinking end! We must have pissed on a holy relic or tripped on some saint’s altar to merit this bad luck.” Oswald’s words earned him a disdainful look from Mikhail, who rubbed his temples, his patience fraying.
“Have some respect for those that died in your service and the service of God,” Mikhail rebuked him. “If this is how you treat such cruel occasions, no wonder the other side is winning. No decorum for the dead?”
Oswald, usually quick to retaliate, bit his tongue. Since Mikhail’s return from his encounter with Lucifer, he had taken full rein of their enterprise, and Oswald had not argued against this. Oswald turned away, muttering something inaudible as Mikhail kept his steady gaze on him.
“Cover his body and take him to the Alban Chapel,” Mikhail ordered. “Burn him there and keep the remains immured within the caskets of the catacombs. We must prioritize this persistent blight, or we shall all fall.” When he met the eyes of his weary knights he added compassionately, “I suggest you all take the night off. It has already been tragic beyond words.”
“I suggest you take your own advice then, our valiant hero,” said the queen, smiling wanly at Mikhail. Her words were full of pompous vanity, and the diadem of beryl and gold wire that held her mane back pierced the gloom of the hall, eclipsing the strange fire in her wise eyes. Mikhail nodded without looking at her, bowed stiffly, and turned to take his leave.
“It is not your fault that you lost her, or that she spurned your love,” came the suave tone of the queen behind him. “She was closer to the beasts than to the angels. You were spared, believe me.” Mikhail stopped in his tracks, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“This is the last time I will allow you to mention your assumptions on my feelings and moods, Queen,” he said, enunciating each word forcefully. “Please conserve your wisdom for strategic purposes.” He turned around to face her contemptuously. “The devil does not concern himself with beasts.” Then he turned away.
As he walked up the staircase each footstep was laden with the burden he had long bore. Resentments and grudges unfurled as his shadow darkened and his mood, long hidden beneath a veneer of immovability, was finally unleashed in the full ugliness of his sour temper. By the time he reached his chamber door, he was flexing his fingers with uncontrollable wrath. He undressed slowly before the large glass mirror, watching the mask of writhing emotions contort his features. He felt as if he had lost again, and the formidable adversary he had faced had shamed him by blowing him away like a leaf in an autumn gale. Estella had seemed frightened, but in control of her wits enough to escape Lucifer’s clutches.
By the time Mikhail was fully disrobed, he was heaving and his body was taut. He knew she would return again, unexpectedly, the trick that no one foretold and no one could catch. He wondered whether she herself knew how much she was a dancer of her own fate, running from one thing to another, only to find her doom unexpectedly around the next corner. Then, instead of faltering, she would twirl on her feet and bolt through secret paths, only to be at the mercy of fate again, at another turning of the roads.
Mikhail strode to his dresser and poured himself a draft of strong wine laced with a soporific to ease his turbulent sleep. As he watched the aged night with her heavy fingers wrapped tightly around the choking stars, he felt a faint sympathy for his adversary Antariel. Since Estella had departed, he had taken to haunting the night airs, seeking a pathway to the closed doors of the Twilit realms. Often Mikhail would catch a glimpse of him in his dreams, beautiful and sad, with a fiery flambard sawing through the memories he had of Estella. He wanted everything that was hers, even memories cherished by others, and he brought them to life in his own dreams. And he sought to guess from these memories where she would be winding her footsteps in the many dimensions of the mansions of space.
THE QUEEN SAT alone in the hall, having banished the knights to other rooms. She mused over her thoughts with a gnawing loneliness. She was glad to have been able to dispose of the king, for she had long tolerated his debauched ways. He had forsaken her for younger women and boys to assuage his lusts, except on rare nights when he was drunk and rough. She was envious of Estella and of the pivotal part she played in the game. And while Estella rejected it utterly, the queen pined for the opportunity to prove herself. She was lonely, being of high station, and unable to find solace with someone who shared her dreams and aspirations. Her youth had been lost waiting for the love of her king. In Mikhail she saw someone worthy to succeed the empty throne after she forced her consort to abdicate. But she felt shame for the unrequited admiration she bore him, for this man who could not see her worth, being blinded with his love for some base witch.
Suddenly she felt a pressing need for fresh air as a wave of claustrophobia seized her. She ascended the staircase opposite her, leading to the balcony. Her footsteps were hurried, and her heartbeat accelerated as the desire to breathe and be free intensified till beads of sweat glistened on her brow. Heaving with waves of panic, she realized that her tingling skin was feverish and feared that she might have taken ill, or worse, caught the pestilence.
Crossing herself devoutly and chasing her alarmed thoughts away, she threw the balcony doors wide open and gasped with relief as the ruthless cold air washed over her. But it did nothing to attenuate her feverish need for freedom. She stepped out and unclasped the silken, green cloak that covered her, and it dropped to the floor in a pool of forest green. She stood with arms outstretched and gazed at the stars. The rough winds blew her garments around her and unkindly chafed at her skin. This was what she craved, but as she looked down on the sleeping town, she felt a slight trepidation and fear. Something unusual had swept over her, kindling ancient desires and needs that she had long forgotten and buried deep within her. Somehow Mikhail had reminded her of them, even though her subconscious was warily guarding the truth from her.
The winds tugged at her bound hair, and she released the golden pins holding it. It fell freely, dancing in the wind, and she felt lighter than she had in years. She sighed, for though she had been queen for many years, she was merely forty-two. But she had been made to feel older and wizened by the behavior of the king. Her thoughts were interrupted by her awareness of a presence behind her, observing her predatorily. Her guard immediately went up, and she reached for a dagger hidden within her robes. She turned around swiftly, ready to confront an intruder, but seeing nothing but bats perched on the spires she relaxed.
Yet the feeling lingered. She frowned, perplexed, wondering at the strangeness of her moods that night. Thinking perhaps she just needed sleep, she turned back to retrieve her cloak, but as she turned her senses froze. A shadow waited for her patiently, tall and thin with brilliant green eyes, watching her with interest. It had a single pair of translucent wings like those of a dragonfly, and the bright eyes radiated raw lust and passion. The lips were full and half open, his gaze cunning, and he was dressed in thin black linen that wrapped tightly around his loins.
The queen, nonplussed, took a step back, drawing a ward sign before her. The demon’s face distorted and fangs emerged. He threw his head back, rasping as his claws elongated and became talons, and the gargling noise from his gullet elevated into a shrill screech. The queen warily drew out a pouch from her robes and approached the fiend steadfastly. The demon pulled back his head with inhuman flexibility and smiled, his fangs receding.
“I have only come to give you one gift,” he said, and the tingling heat in her body rekindled. She felt her loins throb with heat. Before she could cast her last binding spell, he had seized her by the throat and forced his lips upon hers.
MIKHAIL WAS SLEEPING heavily when he became aware of the door to his chamber opening. His mind was addled with sleep, but he still managed to glean the aura of the intruder. He found it, to his vague surprise, to be female, benevolent
, and strangely familiar. His strength, shaken and bled over the events of the last few nights, was still recovering, so he cautiously spread his awareness, extending it around the chamber and hall to seek out any unholy presences. He felt them far away and elusive, and so he prepared himself mentally for some trickery to unfold. Unsure as to why someone would disturb his slumber, he slowly opened his eyes.
Though the candles of his chamber had nearly died out, he was able to groggily descry the form of the queen at his door. But to his shock, tonight she was different in every possible way. The long years she bore with dignity and poise seemed to have fallen off, and the youthfulness of her face had returned, as well as a lushness in her bright cheeks that radiated so brightly he could almost feel it. Her long, yellow hair was unbound, and the few grey strands had vanished. Mikhail thought maybe it was due to the trickery of the light, but he was taken aback. Her green eyes sparkled with an incongruous malice and tenderness as she approached him, barefooted. With each step her hips and breasts swayed sensually. Crestfallen, Mikhail realized she was wearing nothing but a white, silken gown bound by a single strap, her ample bosom on display.
Mikhail sat up in his bed, dismay replacing his initial disquiet. He passed his fingers through his hair, perplexed, seeking to pierce her mind and reveal her motives. But her mind was sealed. Only lust radiated from her as she approached his bed, her pink, moist lips opened slightly. Mikhail pushed back his covers to get out of the bed, only to remember his own nakedness. The queen quickly blocked his way, pressing her breasts against him. She unfastened her gown strap, and the silk fell from her graceful shoulders to the floor. She arched her back and moaned softly, looking into Mikhail’s eyes with longing. The closeness between them made his skin tingle, and he felt the strange, alien emanation from her wash over him and awaken his senses.