The Shadow Crucible

by T. M. Lakomy

  “Queen, this is madness!” he rebuked her. He was at a loss, essaying to dispel the fog that had settled over his senses. He gently grasped the queen by her shoulders and pushed her back firmly. She clung to him, arms wrapped around him, breathing huskily into his ear as her grip hardened.

  “I want you, Mikhail,” she purred. “I need you so badly. You are the only one who can fulfill me, you can satisfy my desires. Use me, take me as you wish.” One of her hands went to his member and a flash of anger crossed Mikhail’s face. He pushed her back disgustedly, slapping her hard across the face.

  “Wake up, Queen,” he said. “This isn’t you. Only today were you berating me for my weaknesses with Estella. Remember, we only fall for the demons whose sin we already carry within us. Yours is obvious, too obvious for someone as wise as you to fall for!” He pushed by her as she held her breasts seductively and picked up his dressing gown. The thunder in his face was terrible, and his grey, icy eyes were murderous. “Get out of here. You are all the same; professing holiness and breaking my back with tasks only to give in to the demons. Estella was right after all, you are all base self-deceivers!”

  But the queen did not move. She hunched slightly, and he could see that she was weeping. Mikhail sighed deeply and approached her. As he stooped to pick up her fallen gown, she turned around skittishly and her eyes were wild. Then she jumped on him, landing inelegantly on top of him, wrestling with him. Mikhail grasped her hands and yanked her away.

  “You do not want me, do you, Mikhail. Is it because I am not Estella? I can assure you, I can satisfy you better than she can. When was the last time you tasted the bliss of something regal, befitting of your rank, instead of following cheap, baseborn witches, spat out by both God and the devil?” Though her mind was deeply poisoned by the demon’s spells, they only revealed and amplified her deeply seated sins and subconscious grudges, bringing them out and drowning all reason.

  The vitriol in her voice did not anger Mikhail, but aroused his pity. He lifted the queen up as she struggled feebly. Then he forcefully draped her gown around her, eyeing her as one would a chastised child.

  “Tomorrow you will tell me how this demon fooled you,” he remarked, “and maybe we can overcome our pains together. I do not wish another recurrence of this event ever again.”

  “You could be king by my side, think of what you are doing when you reject me,” she whispered huskily, grabbing his hands.

  “I never wanted that position. And I am not the man for you.” Grasping her by the arm reprovingly, he pulled her towards the door.

  The queen followed meekly, her head hung. When he opened the door and gently ushered her out, she pulled away from his grasp recalcitrantly. The malice gleamed in her eyes again, burning with an intense venom, and she smiled, regaining her customary poise. Without saying anything further, she glided down the corridor where the candles in their sconces were emitting a reddish light. Mikhail sighed.

  “I cannot be held responsible for this, at least,” he mused to himself testily, and closed his chamber door. Collapsing in his bed, sleep was instantaneous. But his lucid dreams were troubled, and he strained his ears for the sound of further mischief.

  MISCHIEF CAME AGAIN in the guise of a heavy wing brushing against Mikhail’s arm. It was past dawn, and both his body and mind ached. As he opened one eye begrudgingly, he was met with the bored, disinterested gaze of Antariel, who was standing by his dresser, inspecting the bottle of wine he had drunk the previous night.

  “I see you are expressing a quite common human pattern of altering your habits based on the ones you love and care for,” he noted. “You also now drink this vintage, in which a soporific has been drowned? Who would have thought the Dancer in the Dark would affect you so much?”

  The mocking tone was laced with subtle hatred, and Mikhail snorted. Crossing his arms against his chest, he met his interlocutor’s gaze lazily. Mikhail’s icy grey eyes were stark and unbending, but Antariel was the swallowing chasm that drank your will and turned it against you. Mikhail’s deep-seated fears began to stir, and dark memories chained in childhood bonds began clamoring for release. Mikhail cursed loudly and tore his gaze away as Antariel laughed. His voice was melodious as usual, and the dimples in his cheeks were a strange complement to his belligerence.

  “I’ve come to warn you, old friend, and seldom do I consider people like you worthy of my attention, so do your best to hearken.” Antariel closed his wings abruptly as he spoke, allowing the dawn light to stream in, striking Mikhail squarely in the face. Then he seated himself gracefully in an armchair to the right of the bed. He did not look at Mikhail, but seemed lost in thought. Mikhail clambered out of bed with grim resignation and turned to his wash basin.

  “What is it this time? News of Estella?” Mikhail asked. Neither his nonchalance nor the firmness in his gestures betrayed any emotion as he washed his face and combed his hair.

  “No, this is a different need, but a pressing matter, surely.” Antariel watched the ceiling with feigned interest. “I happen to have come across a very unsavory individual on his way to report to Samael.” Antariel produced in his slender fingers a sapphire gem sparkling in the cold light of the morning. “I happen also to have bound him. Nothing seems to assuage my anger quite like thwarting these fiends. Well, you will be surprised to hear what I learned.” Antariel raised an elegant, thick brow in Mikhail’s direction in faint amusement.

  Mikhail observed him intently through the mirror suspended over the wash basin, and nodded coldly in encouragement.

  “It seems your queen was having particular moods last night of a certain lustful nature—quite extraordinary for someone who leads an order of pure-blooded nobles,” Antariel said sarcastically. He flipped the gem into the air, and Mikhail faced him with unadulterated disgust.

  The gem produced a blue flame in midair, and a presence momentarily was projected from it. It was a winged being with vivid green eyes, clawing at invisible walls as its fangs bled and its skin peeled away in slivers. As the gem fell back into Antariel’s grasp, the projection vanished and Antariel put the gem away.

  “He was sent to the queen and a darkness was set into her,” Antariel explained. “It found a home there easily, within her bitterness toward the king. Yet she was not the end goal. You were, Mikhail, you were her plan; seduce and obtain a child that would be tainted by Samael, that it may be the antithesis of light.”

  Mikhail crossed his arms, half-dressed, and the muscles in his arms tautened as he threw his head back and barked a shallow laugh. “As if I would fall for these tricks,” he snarled, balling his hands into fists. Suddenly he slammed his fist into the mirror. It shattered as he drew back unconcernedly, inspecting his bloodied fist.

  “You are aware that precisely because your Templars select certain lines to continue the orders, it is easy to find who holds the lineage of the Holy Blood?” Antariel’s tone was a quiet reprimand.

  “So you’re saying they knew we were seeking out the new light of the age,” said Mikhail. “And while we trusted ourselves not to fall into their designs, and searched for the lost branches that we couldn’t keep track of, they hatched plans to destroy us from the inside out.” Mikhail strode to a chest beneath the window, threw open its heavy lid, and rummaged for a long while within. A heavy pile of manuscripts had accumulated beside him before he managed to find the one he was looking for. Yanking it out with a flourish, he marched to a table before Antariel and sat down in an armchair opposite him.

  “I can spare you the long search here, Mikhail, for there are details omitted from these scrolls and things that have escaped the prying eyes of your order.” Again Antariel refused to meet Mikhail’s glance, keeping his attention fixed on the ceiling.

  Mikhail ignored him and loftily unfurled the scroll, his long fingers touching a few places across the parchment where a heavily laden family tree bore certain names underscored in red.

  “Prince Lucas was one of them,” said Mikhail, “he could be a
target. Dame Mary Elise of Spain is also a target and . . .” he trailed away doubtfully.

  “Oswald of Albany,” interjected Antariel, finally detaching his gaze from the ceiling to reveal a strange merging of concern and tranquility. “Uncouth as he is, he is also an heir to the august family tree. A distant branch, however. And here is where I shall end my visit to you.” He rose to his feet, suddenly grave, the bottled up scorn threatening to rupture his equanimity. Mikhail frowned, still hunched over the polished table.

  “The queen, when she failed to seduce you, went after Oswald,” Antariel said evenly. “And I must say she succeeded. The deed is done, and before you tear down the door and cut his throat, remember something; your vanity and arrogance has cost you this error. Before you chase after others and belittle their lack of piety, have you not looked at the signs writhing within yourselves that are open doors of invitation to lure them? You are mortal and fallible, and no amount of grace from God is enough to bathe you clean from infamy and error.

  “You are all weak in mortality, the flesh is corrupt, and the vessel of clay that holds the divine spark is fragile. Between the spark and the clay are the cracks wherein demons enter to spread their poison. You reproach the Twilit world for reveling in their weaknesses while you hide from your own. In your denial you distance yourself from them, encasing them in stone with a millstone to drown them into the deep water of oblivion in your subconscious mind. There the demons come fishing at leisure, and there they find the weaknesses that can bring your ruin. At least those that embrace their weaknesses are more able to contain them, unlike those whose darkness has grown unchecked and forgotten, just like the primeval error of the false creation, dressed in light but rotted inside.”

  Antariel’s words stung like the lash of a hundred scorpions. The windows flew open, and in a blink of an eye he had departed. Mikhail, impassive throughout the damning speech, put his hands together in prayer and closed his eyes.

  Antariel watched him briefly. “At least Estella is no tool for anyone,” he said to himself as he vanished.

  “WHAT HAVE WE done? We have sinned against God himself, and against everything we vowed to protect!” The shriek was shrill as only injured vanity could express, and it resounded gratingly in the empty hall. Oswald held his face in his hands moodily near the hearth, and refused to answer any of the queen’s remonstrations.

  The queen had no recollection of the previous night, only the awful realization of what must have transpired when she found herself naked in Oswald’s chamber with a satisfied Oswald next to her snoring loudly. Her screams had woken the entire manor, but she had forbidden anyone from entering. Mikhail, however, had furthered her humiliation by refusing to meet with them until he attended to some business of his own, and was therefore absent all morning. The queen was in shock, but held herself with her habitual decorum, though she was aghast at herself.

  Sitting on a high backed chair with her fine, polished nails digging into the sides of the wood, her black robes swathed her form as if in atonement. The regular merry twinkle in her eyes was gone, and the youthfulness that had enchanted Oswald and disconcerted Mikhail the night before had vanished. It was replaced with an even heavier burden of age, almost defiling her fine features. There was shame and worry etched on her brow, and her gaze meandered across the chamber where paintings of the temptation of Eve gnawed at her and chafed her soul.

  Oswald was already miles ahead in calculations and assumptions, grating against the letter that Mikhail had left him. He didn’t want the task of reading it out to the queen. He patiently waited for his debilitating headache to cease, so he could ride out to seek Mikhail at Saint Michael’s monastery.

  “If you were not so deeply drunk, you would have been able to avert this calamity, you wretched fool!” the queen cried.

  Oswald at first seemed immune to her wrath, her words falling on deaf ears. Then he grunted, refusing to acknowledge the reprimand, and lifted his head up, looking her squarely in the eye.

  “And if you weren’t so lusty and eager to please, maybe I could have refused you,” he retorted, “but I did not know it was you at first. I was fast asleep and woke to you straddling me. I couldn’t understand how it could possibly in my wildest dreams be you. Finally when it did dawn on me, the spell had done its work and finished and there was nothing further I could do. And since neither of us have been in our regular state of mind, we can hardly blame ourselves for what happened last night. In fact, I should be the one angry with your ladyship; you allowed that demon in and you fell to it!” Oswald’s flat tone was devoid of the usual deference he reserved for the queen. His rough features were tired and unapologetic, and the deep furrows around his sunken eyes had taken an even more aged tinge.

  “You haven’t merited yet to look me in the eyes, you commoner!” the queen breathed at him, embers lighting up in her tearstained eyes. Oswald snorted and rose to his feet, straightening his cloak.

  “I think yesterday made me too acquainted with you in a way we both will never forget,” he retorted. “We must first understand the scope of the damage inflicted, then you need to be brought before the sacred grove and purged of sin, and so should I.”

  The queen flinched uncomfortably in her seat and turned away.

  MIKHAIL’S RAPID STRIDES took him through the streets past rich and poor, all bearing the same burden of oppression from unseen powers and a reigning ruler gone mad. The people now knew they had given in to something dark and dreadful. When the hangings had first begun, many had followed with religious fervor. Then they had slowly begun to realize the true extent of the deception and infamy. And after so many children had been hung for made-up crimes, they soon realized they were all doomed, and no salvation could absolve them from the coming darkness that would swallow them whole.

  But life had to go on, and it did. People went about their daily lives in hushed whispers, as each day the pestilence claimed new dead. The sickness was real, and they knew its source was diabolical. Slowly, a bridge was building between the Twilit folk and the religious ones, as the latter sought the Twilit people’s help behind closed doors in exchange for protection and wealth. And it worked; a trade began in spells and enchantments, and it held off the worst of the assaults from the demons. But it was not enough to protect them entirely, and many were left to the mercy of the thrown dice of capricious gods.

  Mikhail, however, no longer felt the need to hide behind a disguise. He bore upon his brow a silver circlet set with a triangular jet, the emblem of his realm. His grey cloak billowing behind him in the wind caught the wan light of the sun and shone silver as a pure stream. The petty minions who had worked for the fallen cardinal were now beneath the thumb of the king. They shrank away from him into the shadows, hissing angrily, for the lightning in his eyes was terrible to behold. The majesty once covered beneath layers of piety and ruggedness was now revealed, and he shone brightly. He was an image of the splendor of noble kings of old, those whose hearts were pure enough to commune with the living spirit of God.

  As he went down the cobbled streets, many demons that lingered and feasted upon the minds of their prey slunk into the nooks and crannies where they were soon immured in shadow. And Mikhail was aware of the prying eyes of greater fiends, sweeping off to bring tidings of his coming to the king’s court. He smiled coldly and pressed ahead.

  24

  DEUS EX MACHINA

  I come wailing before Mercy’s gates as the furnace of hell thrives

  And watch the blinding sunlight pour blinding fire on our sores

  For the father of lies with the perfect creator connives

  And they have sealed us out of heaven and barred eternity’s doors

  “YOU HAVE DISAPPOINTED ME, KING OF MEN. I THOUGHT YOU HAD an adequate spirit for me to wield. I thought you understood what you were asking for, and yet it seems to me that I have ended up with a broken vessel fit for nothing. Come, beg at my feet, kiss them, lick them, and prove to me your undying loyalty!”

/>   The commanding voice was a razor that skinned the flesh with relish, and like the flail of a fiery whip, each word seared with excruciating humiliation. It seeped through his pores, excoriating his frayed will and violating it with ease, shredding apart any parcel of defiance. It perforated his mind perversely, conjuring up his mortal weaknesses and stripping them bare, reminding him that he was nothing.

  Each time the king mustered some protest, however frail, it was inevitably crushed. Samael projected the abominable decay of his own soul back to him, leering at him through his putrid eye. The devil he had bargained with was as ancient as the void itself, and the evil that resided within it was the primordial darkness of God’s own shadow—the self-devouring antithesis of light. He bred the pure horror that was the fabric of nightmares, and the knowledge that there was no mercy in it quelled all hope of redemption.

  There was no corner in the king’s antechamber that was impervious to the shadows, for the heavy drapes were drawn and the windows barricaded shut, though it was broad daylight outside. But within these shadows there was no hope of hiding, and no respite from the rotted eye that balefully stripped everything of life. And it spread its watchfulness like a disease, insinuating itself within the king’s thoughts.

  The king’s tarnished silver crown glinted in the thick gloom that weighed over them, but the usual malice in his gaunt eyes was extinguished. He radiated the vulnerability of an aged man, and the stiffness in his movements revealed the resigned bitterness of a man who knew he was damned.

  “I was never aware that your man the cardinal would fall, and that Lucifer had games of his own to play,” came the voice of Samael, hoarse and parched, as if unused to speaking.

  The king’s grip on his staff tightened, and his knuckles whitened. Samael was seated before him in the king’s own throne, weighing him with his malevolent gaze.