"We suspected as much Marcus, it's okay," Umaryn said softly, cutting a small bite of the lamb shank her brother had roasted for the meal. She smiled sadly as she chewed.
Marcus tried the lamb as well, "This is very good. Well done Malwynn. Might I ask you both a difficult question?"
The twins inclined their heads positively.
"Are you going to kill this Apostle if you find him or her? If this is all true?"
"Probably," Malwynn said flatly, chewing his own bite of lamb.
"You realize you'll both be marked for death if you kill an Apostle in Daris? Especially if they are anyone important, or popular in the city."
Mal got serious, "If we need to kill this Apostle Marcus, I'd be willing to bet we'll have enough dirt on them that we'll be carried through the streets like we'd just killed the Tyrant King ourselves. This person is a villain Marcus. Evil through and through. All we need to do is reveal that, and just about anything we decide to do will be justified."
Umaryn shrugged, "Besides, this won't be the first city we've pissed off. It's starting to become a bit of a bad habit."
The three laughed.
The entire evening from appetizers to main course then a wonderful dessert of fresh berries took no more than three hours. Once the food was gone Marcus politely took his leave, and the Everwalk twins walked the knight down the exterior stairs that doubled back over and over down the side of the building. At the base of the tall structure were the separate covered stalls where Bramwell the Gvorn and Tinder the horse lived. Marcus kept his massive Gvorn mount there the entire time they were eating.
"Sir," a young woman said as she handed the reins to Marcus.
"Umaryn, Malwynn, I want you to meet Chelsea Rourke. Chelsea is my squire. She's a sergeant in the Darisian 2nd Infantry. That is the regiment I'll be commanding."
"Good day sir, ma'am," Chelsea said briskly. She was young, a few years behind the twins at least. Her short hair was pulled into a tiny blonde ponytail. Mal thought she was very pretty in the blood red uniform of a noncommissioned officer in the Varrland military.
Mal smiled at her, "Pleasure to meet you Chelsea Rourke. I'm Malwynn."
"And I'm Umaryn."
The squire's eyes lingered on Mal for a few seconds, giving Marcus and Umaryn a quick laugh. Chelsea's face blushed when she realized she was caught on to.
"Don't be embarrassed soldier. Malwynn is a rugged and handsome young man of quality. I'm quite positive you aren't the first lady to give him that kind of sideways glance."
The twins chuckled before Chelsea replied, "Well I apologize nonetheless. It isn't my place to look at your friend like that."
"Your modesty is flattering Chel, but don't let it bother you. You've got enough on your plate as it is, having to take care of Marcus here. Keep him in one piece and you're sure to shine." Umaryn gave Marcus' massive Gvorn a brisk scratching under the chin. It gruffled happily and nudged her affectionately.
Marcus shook Malwynn's hand strongly, and gave Umaryn a long, warm hug. The newly minted Knight Major put a foot in a stirrup and pulled his huge body up into the saddle. He was a man truly made for war; tall, strong, and with a commanding voice. From his seat atop the Gvorn as the sun set he looked like an old painting of a proud war commander. Umaryn caught herself giving the man a little extra attention and blushed.
"Ahem. So Marcus we'll be in touch as we move forward on what we talked about," Mal said, trying to move the conversation along.
"Very good. Do be careful you two. You have bright futures. I'd hate to have that changed because of some bad choices."
"Get out of here Marcus before someone important sees you associating with us hoodlums," Mal said giving the Gvorn a hearty thwap on the rump.
"Be well you two. Be smart," the knight said softly before ushering his mount off into the cooling summer night.
A moment later Chelsea exited the stalls mounted on a horse, "It was a pleasure to meet you two. The Knight Major speaks very highly of you both. He's very thankful for your assistance the day when he lost his unit Apostle."
"A dark day Sergeant Rourke. We're both happy to have been able to lend the assistance we did. Marcus is a good man, and an excellent warrior," Malwynn said.
"He is. I'll see you both soon?" She smiled at Mal warmly.
Umaryn nodded, "Indeed Sergeant Chelsea, have a good evening."
"You as well," she said as she too ushered her mount off. Chelsea got up to a slow trot to catch up with her commanding officer before he rounded the cobblestone street corner.
"She seems nice," Mal said as the twins turned and started up the long journey of stairs to their home far above the city.
"Yeah. It helps you think she's pretty too. I wonder if we can befriend her. Maybe we can get her to talk Marcus into helping us? Does that sound manipulative? That sounds manipulative," Umaryn grinned.
Mal half sighed, half laughed, "Oh sister. You and getting people to do what you want..."
A lone woman sat in an austere office. She wore plain robes made of a fine cream colored fabric that ran from her shoulders, and fell down to the simple mosaic tile floor. Each tile was painstakingly laid by hand by loving crafters, forming the image of a simple pillar of flame. The holy pyre.
The woman sat behind a simple wooden desk, no more ornate than the monotone robe that adorned her body. Sitting atop that desk, just an inch from her outstretched fingers was a locked chest, no bigger than a loaf of fresh baked bread, and colored the same.
The robed lady reached out a bit further and caressed the edges of the locked box. Her fingertip glided along the sturdy metal corner, and her fingernail dug at the row of hinges, testing their strength.
The office door was ajar, and a youthful Apostle ducked his head in, "Bishop?"
The woman reined her thoughts in, but her fingers never stopped moving along the treasure in her hands, "Yes Minister?" Her voice was husky, almost sensual.
"I'm sorry to intrude, but there are some papers that need your attention before the end of business today."
The woman smiled and leaned back, leaving her prized possession alone for a moment, "It's a good thing we cannot lie to one another here at the Cathedral of Kincaid, elsewise I'd suspect you were vying for my undivided attention."
The young man smiled, "Well I'd be lying for certain if I told you I didn't want all of your attention to this."
The woman nodded, and slowly stood, her bones creaking.
"May I ask you a question Bishop?" The young Minister posed as he stepped fully into the office.
"Of course," she answered as she walked the box over a tall bookshelf nearly overflowing with religious texts. She lovingly placed the chest in a spot that it had clearly come from.
"I have to ask, what is in that little box you covet?"
"You cut to the quick young one. I like that about you," she said softly, taking a step back to ensure that the box was precisely where she wanted it.
"Complimenting me isn't an answer," he said with a smile. "So? What's in the box Bishop?"
She turned on her heels quickly, facing the door and her junior Apostle, "My dear associate this box contains a tiny little something. A miniscule nothing that can change this world."
The man perked up, "You should share what's in the box then."
The woman put her hands firmly on the shoulders of the man, and looked straight into his eyes. Her words were full of a conviction and purpose that only those fully assured of their pure righteousness can have, "James, I believe that what is in that box can ruin this world, change it for the worse. Rest assured though my friend, many have died to ensure that its contents are never let out to ruin everything our church has built, and I intend to make sure it never sees the light of day again."
- Chapter Two -
THE CHURCHES
Malwynn was on a quiet walk, all alone. He did this more frequently than he would like, but his sister was dedicated to finishing her armor, and there was little he could do to derail her once s
he'd left the station on an idea. Mal was walking in the place he himself was fixated on; The Cathedral of Saint Kincaid.
The expansive Cathedral of Saint Kincaid dominated the middle of Daris. It ran hundreds and hundreds of yards across in every direction, and the bulk of it was open to the public. Malwynn used that to his advantage. It was a good idea to become intimate with the layout of the place. He fully expected it to be the scene of murder soon. He had the where. Now all he needed was the who, and the how of it.
The bulk of the sprawling religious complex was open gardens. Delicately carved stone fountains fed by deep aquifers bubbled out delicious and clean water that locals bathed their feet in during the hot summer days. They quenched their thirsts from the same source, hoping that the unending honesty of the Saint's body lying in repose would transfer into their lives. It was common for parents to pray to Saint Kincaid in the hopes that they and their children would be honest. Giving their children water from his fountains helped to foster that hope. Malwynn wasn't sure if the long dead Saint was listening to their prayers or not. He sipped from the water, and said a prayer to an ancestor spirit in the hopes the water wouldn't prevent him from lying when it mattered most.
The grounds were laid out in concentric rings that became smaller the closer one got to the center. The outermost and largest ring was primarily open gardens, and the scattered fountains. At each of the cardinal directions of the Cathedral were small temples that were staffed all day and night and stood solely for the purpose of the Blessing of Soul's Rest; the prayer that released the soul of the dead. Far too many people died in a city this size for there to be a lone temple. In fact, there were more temples and churches all throughout the city. Most of them blessed a dead body each and every day, holding back the inexorable tide of undead that threatened to overwhelm Elmoryn daily.
The middle ring of the grounds marked the border to where the body of Saint Kincaid's power began. Anyone who stepped past the wide stone walkway and moving closer to the tall baroque Cathedral would find themselves unable to lie, or tell falsehoods. Several times Malwynn walked across the path and found a quiet place to test the Saint's magic. When he tried to say a lie, or bend the truth his mouth simply refused to work. It was the equivalent of a verbal dry heave.
It terrified him.
The center ring of the Cathedral was occupied by several small out temples scattered among more fountains and manicured hedges where marriages happened, and where merchants from far and wide came to agree on business deals. Most of the buildings were no bigger than the modest farmhouse Mal and Umaryn grew up in.
The inner circle of the Cathedral was where the majesty lay. Stretching into the sky like a carved stalagmite made of glass and stone was the Cathedral building proper. A central bell tower scratched at the feet of the clouds, standing more than ten stories tall, and casting a long shadow across the city. The central nave extended under the tower and back to two huge transepts spreading wide like a cross. At the rear of the majestic vaulted ceilinged nave was the chancel, where the altar itself was, and where the body of Saint Kincaid was entombed. He rested in a stone sarcophagus, surrounded by stained glass windows two stories tall, and was flanked by several golden racks of empty metal tonic bottles that hoped to absorb some of his Way. Apostles fluttered around like worker ants, tending to the needs of their religious hive. It was said that at any given moment a hundred ancestor spirits could be in the space, seeking a respite from their eternal existence
Malwynn had only built up the courage to enter the church building once, and today would not be a second day of that nonsense.
As it turned out, Umaryn hadn't finished her armor the prior day. A customer needing to repair a very special saddle had pulled her away, and she was quite able to repair it with the Way. After casting the minor repair spell, she'd been taxed beyond the point she felt she was at her best, and she'd returned home. As Ivan had told her once, "There was no sense in doing anything other than your best."
Today, she was about to complete her very finest project. The armor she planned on wearing herself.
Harold stood over her as her strong and agile fingers danced. She threaded a strong cord through lacing holes in the final layer of Plains Walker plate. He was wide eyed and amazed at how naturally the complex knots came to her.
"You really are something else Umaryn. I've been doing this since I was a child, and I can't do that half as fast as you."
Umaryn didn't respond. She was too close to finishing her masterpiece to allow any distractions.
"I love the color. It was a good choice. Your blood won't seem nearly as shocking if you're ever hurt while wearing it."
She kept her head down, focused.
"I don't mean anything by that. I'm sure you're a talented warrior. For a woman."
Umaryn stopped and looked up at Harold with a frigid stare.
"That came out wrong. I apologize," Harold looked mortified.
She returned to her lacing.
After a minute of silent lacing it was done. Umaryn sat the armor down on the workbench and pushed her chair back to bask in the glow of her own pride. The armor was exquisite. Her heart raced, and she longed to share it with her brother, and her dead family. Sadness crept into her.
"Umaryn it's amazing. It's a work of art. Will you let me show it in the window? It will bring in so much business. I'll build a stand, right here," Harold was lost in a dream of future customers as he walked over to the open glass window where Darisians walked by obliviously.
Umaryn's hands, still hot and nearly raw from the frantic work slid over the hard, yet smooth plates of hardened armor. She gripped the chest of it, formed to fit the curve of her breasts, and lifted it. It was light, yet felt stronger in her hands than coal forged steel. A tingle moved from the tips of her fingers up and along her arms. The vibration leapt up and down her spine as she felt the soul of her armor coalescing into reality.
She had, in every way an Artificer could, given birth to a living thing.
And with a soft voice that reminded her of her dead father Ellioth, it spoke.
'I am not being worn.'
Umaryn's hands let go of the armor and it dropped to the table softly. She was shocked. The artist drew in several sharp, ragged breaths, unsure of what had just happened. She looked up at Harold, but he was still rambling on about how he would position the mannequin in the window. He hadn't heard the armor's voice. She slowly lowered her fingers to the rich red plate again. When her skin graced against the armor, she heard the voice speak once more.
'Are you safe?'
Umaryn smiled. Her mind began to assemble what was happening.
'I am very strong. I can protect you.'
Umaryn closed her eyes and whispered in the voice of her thoughts, "I know. I am very safe."
'That is good. I will protect you when the time comes, but you must wear me.'
"I promise I will wear you when the time comes."
"Did you say something?" Harold asked suddenly, as if the world had suddenly begun to turn for him again.
"I… Harold I think this armor might be alive. Truly alive."
'I most certainly am. You made me.'
Harold looked confused for a moment, and just as Umaryn was about to elaborate, he put it together, "I swear on all the ancestors have you made an artifact? A holy creation aware and alive, perfect in more ways than one?" He was practically shaking with enthusiasm. Sweat ran down his face.
"I think so. I was just talking to it in my head."
"May I touch it? Can I touch your armor? They say a non-artificer can tell when something is… special. When it's an artifact." Harold lowered his body down to his knees and crept up to the table, his eyes exuding a love for the armor that bordered on the strange.
"Yeah. Yes. Go ahead." Umaryn sat the armor down and pushed it towards the man. After nodding at her Harold reached out, his hands shaking from the sudden reverence. The journeyman armor maker closed his eyes and placed his palms on one
of the glossy hide plates. Umaryn could see his fingers were sweaty.
Only a moment later he jerked his hand away and tumbled back onto his hindquarters, a wild eyed grin spreading from ear to ear, "You’ve done it! You've done it. An artifact made right here! Thanks be to the ancestors and the spirits of the created you have worked a miracle right here! Do you know what it can do?" Harold was practically foaming at the mouth with joy.
Umaryn slowly began to grin with him, feeling the joy of what she had done. Making the armor had been one thing, but creating an artifact was an entirely different matter. Now her desire to share this with her brother was paramount. "I don't know the Chant of Assessment yet. I'll need to find an artificer who knows it to discover what abilities it has, if any."
"You realize the Guild will want to see it!? To ratify it, to denote its birth. We've got to go to the guildhall at the rail yards and show this to them. You'll be famous!"
"I don't want to be famous Harold. I just want to be a creator. A simple woman that makes things of value." Umaryn was suddenly skeptical.
"Oh don't fret lady Everwalk. Gather your things, come with me. We must go now! Someone there can cast that chant you don't know, and tell us what your armor can really do!" Harold stood up, and gestured for her to get her things. After a bit he realized that she was far less excited about the Guild than he was. He stopped, and spoke to her slower, "Umaryn, you have created something special. Something rare. To not share it with the Church of the Created just moments after it is brought into the world is a lost opportunity. Please. Come with me, and share your creation. I beg you."
Umaryn saw the raw emotions, all of them, in his eyes. He wanted so desperately to be a part of what she'd done, and she didn't have the heart to deny him. Besides, she hadn't visited the Guildhall yet, and this was as sure a way to gain entrance as any.
"Very well then, as you wish."
Umaryn and Harold stood side by side at the entrance to the Daris Artificer Guildhall. The cacophony of noise from the trains coming and leaving made her ears ache. Hundreds of people shuffled about, carrying baggage, paper tickets, and the dreams of a different place. She'd gathered the armor in a large burlap sack that she carried carefully. The irony that she carried something solely designed for protective purposes so gingerly was not lost on her.
The Motive for Massacre (The Kinless Trilogy Book 2) Page 2