Kierza couldn’t help herself. She turned into the alley and came up behind the other onlookers. Ahead she could see the wall of the city, a high stone structure with a polished, steel portcullis. The main road led out from it; a wide avenue of smooth flagstone that wound its way through all the most lavish sections of the city. Standing in lines down either side were a number of the city knights, their armor burnished and gleaming in the sun. A group of men hastily tossed rose petals upon the road, scooping handfuls from wooden buckets they carried. The Lord of the city was there too. Lord Hanzaam was a fat man in lavish clothing surrounded by a number of knights in silver armor. He stood there with a pair of large, perfect, red roses in his hand, waiting to greet the Sisters as their giant carriage lumbered up to the gates.
The trumpets sounded again and the portcullis was raised. The royal carriage was pulled by four giant horses, all of them the purest white. The carriage itself was a massive thing, nearly too wide for the road. It was more like a palace on wheels, crafted of fine wood sculpted to have towers and high spires, all painted in ornate fashion in white, silver and gold. Atop the thing flew the banner of Narbereth: an eagle upon a field of yellow.
The carriage came to a halt just inside the city’s gate. Lord Hanzaam approached as doors upon either side of the carriage swung open. From each stepped a pair of Saints, two males and two females, their glassy-black Star-Armor sparkling in the bright sun. The female Saints both wore black veils of chainmail over their faces. One had hair and eyes like the finest gold, the other with hair and eyes of opalescent white. Of the males, one had hair and eyes like polished silver and the other the color of magnificent ruby. They held their respective doors open and there was a collective gasp from the people in the alley as the Sisters came out.
They were beautiful. Both in red, silk dresses trimmed in gold and silver lace. Upon the front of each was embroidered the eagle of Narbereth. They wore diamonds—Kierza knew they must be by the way they twinkled from their bracelets, rings and necklaces. They sparkled like stars in the very light of day. Kierza had never seen diamonds before. Only the Sisters were allowed to have them. Their hair was long and blonde, brushed straight and as silky as their gowns. Their eyes were blue like the summer sky. Their faces were smooth and fair, and their lips were red and full and spread into tender smiles as they came out. But there was something else about them; something that foretold a dire warning to all that they were not to be dealt with lightly. Perhaps it was their height. To Kierza they seemed unnaturally tall. Taller than the Saints who helped them down from the carriage. They were perhaps six-and-a-half, maybe seven feet tall she guessed, though they walked with a grace and softness that belied it.
As the Sisters came around to the front of the carriage, escorted by their Saints, another figure, far more imposing, stepped from it. It was King Dhanzeg. Like his daughters he was unnaturally tall, easily seven or eight feet. He wore golden-yellow robes trimmed in silver and upon his chest was embroidered the eagle of Narbereth. Upon his head was a golden crown that sparkled with diamonds. His hair was silver-gray, as was his beard and mustache, though his face seemed youthful and fair. In his hand he held a scepter crowned with a golden eagle with diamonds for eyes.
Lord Hanzaam approached the Sisters, bowing deeply before kissing their hands and placing one of his giant roses in each of them. Kierza watched as smiles and nods were exchanged between the Lord and the King. The Sisters greeted and had their hands kissed by some of the attending nobles. Kierza could hardly hear the words being spoken—mostly introductions and chat about their travels—but eventually fingers began to point and her heart quickened. They were pointing further north, toward the hill. Toward the hill where she lived with Callad and Sierla and Rook. Then she heard the Lord say something about Everlight being the most remarkable metal in the world.
Kierza turned to run but found herself blocked by a man in black leather. Her eyes scanned up and she saw Rook looking down at her. “What’s going on?” he asked. He peered down the alley. “Is… Are those the Sisters?”
“We have to go!” hissed Kierza. She looked over her shoulder to see the Lord leading them away from the road, northward.
Rook tried to press himself around her to get a look past the others huddled in the alley.
She grabbed his chest and forced him to look down at her. “They’re going to our house!”
— 7 —
Penance
As a general in the Valdarian army, Sir Erich Spengle’s private barracks quarters were spacious compared to those of his subordinates’ and offered an air of solitude. A window on the southern wall gave a view of the vastness and serenity of the Graymere Lake whose mirror-like surface reflected the roiling, black clouds in the heavens and flashed with their lightning. It had been a long and wearing day escorting the Princess as she strolled the park with Saint Ophelia, and Sir Spengle wanted nothing more than to forget the blood and screams of the children. Still, there was one more horror he had to endure before he could retire for the evening. It was a horror he subjected himself to willingly; a penance he placed upon himself for the day he let his wife die and his son be taken by the very Saint he often served. Serving her was a penance too, he supposed, but it was not one he enjoyed. It was a humiliation, and a reminder of just how utterly powerless he was despite his station in the army.
Sir Spengle removed the black helmet from his head. Its crest of raven feathers were slightly matted from the day’s storms and he brushed them out with his hand before tossing it upon his bed, along with his sword. At the far wall was mounted a wooden rack, and upon it he placed his bolt-thrower. His black, steel boots clanked upon the stone floor as he walked to his open closet and knelt before it. With gauntleted hands he removed a heavy slab, revealing a secret compartment beneath. In the darkness of the hold was a large, fragile object wrapped in a baby-blue blanket with the name ‘Marlon’ embroidered in white.
Taking the wrapped object, Sir Spengle sat at his chair and placed it upon his desk. He unwound the blanket as a surgeon might the bandages from the face of a burn victim, to reveal a large masonry jar. In it was the skeleton of a baby, its bones held together by strands of mummified tendon and flesh. At the bottom of the jar were the rotten remnants of a white blanket, as well as some black soil.
Spengle rubbed his finger over the glass where the skeleton’s head rested, as if doing so might somehow comfort the thing. He smiled at it. “Marlon.” he whispered. His son would be fifteen now. He’d be nearly a man. Spengle often wondered what might have become of Marlon, had Saint Ophelia of the Many Tears not come for him that day. Would he be a thatcher like his grandfather? A soldier like his father? Perhaps something more; something greater. Perhaps he would have been a hero. But then, what hope of being a hero was there? And a hero to whom? A hero for the King and Queen was nothing more than a villain in disguise. A hero to the people? There had not been a hero for the people in fifty years. No, Marlon would have been like everybody else, no matter he a thatcher or a soldier. He would have lived to see his first child taken to wither and die upon the breast of the Dire Mother and spend the rest of his days living in fear that the Vampire would come for the rest.
A tear fell from Sir Spengle’s eye. Guilt wracked him and he held his head in his hands. “Oh Marlon,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry.” How many other children were in jars just like this, because he himself was a knight in the Withered King’s army? Truly, what hope would Marlon have had when his own father helped perpetuate the crimes of the kingdom?
Through his tears Sir Spengle forced himself to gaze upon his son. He stared until the horror of its empty eyes became real again; he stared until he remembered that in the bottom was not black soil, but the flesh that had once covered the bones of his boy. He stared until the screams of baby Marlon echoed in his mind as Saint Ophelia tore him from his mother’s hands. He stared until he remembered his wife’s eyes as Saint Ophelia tossed her the s
ack of coins as payment for providing her duty to the kingdom. And he stared until he remembered how weak and small he was to let his wife attack the Saint; how pathetic he was to stand in the corner as Ophelia cut her arms off, and then her legs.
As a final insult, he let himself remember that he had once had the chance to end it all when that man from Narbereth—Gabidar Notaro—came through a few years ago. Gabidar had taken an interest in the young Princess, the Vampire of Valdasia. He said he had found out from one of the locals who she really was, and that she was originally from Jerusa with a brother living in Narbereth. Gabidar had told him that the brother wanted his sister back, and that he was willing to help steal her away.
As a Knights General, Sir Spengle had access to the castle; he was able to get them close to the child. All they had to do was take the monstrous thing from her crib. But after they had snuck into the child’s room, Gabidar took one look at the thing with her fangs dripping with blood and her gown stained crimson, and ran. And all he himself had the courage to do was snatch his own boy from the Dire Mother’s shelves.
He was a coward, he knew. He had risen to the rank of a knight not because he wanted to be a hero or a fighter, but because he had hoped to avoid the horror that all other parents in Valdasia endured. But his rank secured him nothing. And he hadn’t helped Gabidar get into the Princess’s room to help steal the child away. He had done it to get his own boy back, and to use Gabidar as a scapegoat should they get caught. He would have said that he had found an intruder in the Princess’s room and taken all the credit and glory for saving her.
Sir Spengle hated himself. These thoughts and memories were his penance.
At length, after his eyes had no more tears and his heart and mind were numb and once again nothing meant anything to him, Sir Spengle wrapped the jar back up and placed it in its dark grave. As he moved the stone back to cover it, there was a heavy knock upon his chamber door.
Stone-faced, Sir Spengle answered it to find Saint Tiffany of the Graves standing there. She was in a black cloak, soaked with rain, with its hood pulled up over her head. Round eyes, like rich honey, stared at him from a pale, youthful face, smudged with dirt. From the sides of her hood, hair like crystalline amber poured. The front of her cloak was open slightly, giving just a hint of her Star-Armor. Her leather bodysuit was dirty and scuffed, and wet soil was stuck in all the stitching. Her gloved hand was worn and grimy, and in it she held a tall, iron pole upon which a lantern swayed in the storm winds, its soft light diffusing into a glowing orb in the rain.
“Will you ferry them for me?” asked Saint Tiffany. Her voice was so hoarse that she mostly just breathed the words. She pointed her finger and Sir Spengle turned to see a wooden cart laden with bodies. One was a naked, young man, stiff as a board. His chest and abdomen had been carved open and all his organs removed. Beneath that was a plump, teen-aged boy and a fat little girl. Both of them were clothed but white as ghosts. Where their wrists poked from their shirts Spengle could see torn flesh and dangling, blue arteries long bereft of any blood.
Sir Spengle turned his eyes back to the Saint. She placed a heavy, gold coin in his hand. He nodded and grabbed his own cloak from the hook on his wall. He threw it over his head and stepped out into the rain.
The barracks and their stables sat beneath the foreboding castle of Valdaria, and it was a dark, black, cold thing. It loomed like a watching specter high overhead, haunting the countryside atop a steep hill that was home to an eldritch forest. Black storm clouds dogged its crooked towers and rain danced off the structure’s ivy-covered stones. Lightning flashed, illuminating its rusty, barred windows, all of them devoid of light. To the south, Graymere Lake spread like an ocean. Its shores were always strangely placid, even in the worst storms. Gentle waves lapped at the docks where huge galleons and warships creaked and swayed with the blowing winds. Out toward the stony breakers a lighthouse cast a beam of eerie, yellow-green light through the rain.
Eastward from the barracks was a lonesome path that disappeared into the woods beyond. It was heavily trodden by wagons and carts, perpetually muddy and pocked with puddles from the unending storms that plagued the city of Valdaria. It was a path that Sir Spengle knew well, for another penance he willingly subjected himself to was helping Saint Tiffany ferry the dead to their final resting place, a necropolis that his cowardice helped populate.
Sir Spengle grabbed the handles of the cart and pulled it down the muddy path as Saint Tiffany of the Graves led the way by lantern light, singing solemn elegies as she went. Her voice would often give out, causing her to breathe the melodies more than she was singing them. Here and there she would stop her tunes to rub at her sore throat, only to start swatting at unseen things around her head. “I’ll sing! I’ll sing!” she’d crack, and then start back in on her ragged songs.
Ahead, the forest gave way to a high, stone wall covered in dark-green ivy. Thunder rumbled the angry heavens above and lightning flashed, casting light on the rusty, iron gate of the Great Necropolis of Valdaria. The scent of fresh, wet earth was strong here and there was something pleasing about it to Sir Spengle. Saint Tiffany breathed her songs as she swung open the gate, and a pair of stately ravens gave a cry as rusty as the hinges.
Within the cemetery grounds countless tombstones and mausoleums stood in disarrangement, as if the hand of a god scattered seeds and they sprouted where they would. They went on in all directions, as far as the eye could see. Many were ancient things, the headstones leaning like crooked teeth, the stone bleached white and their epitaphs all but weathered away. Here and there a neglected mausoleum stood tall, and sagging willows sat like hunched maidens mourning at the graves.
From the gate a muddy trail meandered its way through the tombstones and Sir Spengle pulled the cart as he followed Saint Tiffany. A mile passed beneath their feet, and then two, until at last Tiffany came to stop near a clutch of mausoleums where three fresh graves had been dug. Aside each was a mound of black earth and a polished headstone ready to receive its epitaph. A lone shovel stuck out from one of the mounds of freshly dug earth. Spengle brought the cart up to the graves as Tiffany planted her lantern nearby.
“The man first.” breathed Tiffany. She pulled a star-metal dagger from her side and knelt beside the first headstone.
Sir Spengle slung the naked, gutted corpse over his shoulder. It was so light that it was little trouble to walk it over and toss right into the empty grave. He watched for a moment as Tiffany used her dagger to scratch the epitaph into the stone as she sung her ragged tune. Then he grabbed the shovel and began dumping the wet soil over the corpse.
Tiffany was something of an oddity among the Saints and was the only one Spengle knew of who could read and write. Aside from the nobility and a select few such as himself, nobody in Valdasia could. All the other Saints in Valdaria held high stations or acted as bodyguards for the nobility. What, if anything, Tiffany had done to earn her lowly station tending graves nobody knew. Of the matter, the only thing Spengle knew was that long ago the King and Queen had her learn enough of the language so that she could carve names into the monuments.
By the time he had filled the grave Tiffany had finished the epitaph. In the glow of the lantern he could see that it simply read, Petre, aged 28, followed by a crude four-pointed star of Aeoria. Spengle helped Tiffany lift up the stone and plant it in a more-or-less upright position at the grave.
“The—” Tiffany’s voice cracked and gave out. She tried to clear her throat, holding her neck with one hand. Her lips moved, but no sound came out, not even the hoarse breathing she had been singing her songs with. She rubbed at her throat some more and then mouthed the words, ‘the boy next’.
Sir Spengle dragged the boy from the cart by one arm and then across the grass and pushed him into the grave. Again, he filled the grave as Tiffany carved out the epitaph, but she could sing no more. Her voice was gone. Her mouth would move but not even a whisper pass
ed her lips. She’d often set the dagger down to start swatting around at the air. Eventually she became so frustrated that tears began rolling from her eyes. At length she stopped what she was doing and curled her knees up to her chest and began rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around her head.
By this point Sir Spengle had already finished filling the grave. He stepped over to Tiffany and moved her arms down from her face. “I’ll sing for you.” he said. He began to hum one of the tunes that he had often heard Tiffany sing. She smiled at him and mouthed the words, ‘thank you’. Spengle leaned against one of the mausoleums and sang while Tiffany carved out the epitaph. Eventually she finished and he went over to help her set the headstone.
As he tilted it upright he read what she had carved: Marlon, aged 15
“Marlon…” Spengle stopped singing and fell to his knees. “Marlon. Marlon would be fifteen. Even had he lived, this would be my boy. He would never be a thatcher. He would never be a soldier. He would never be a hero. All he would ever have been is a corpse.”
Tiffany tapped him on the shoulder and motioned at his mouth, urging him to sing, but he couldn’t. He looked back at the tombstone. His eyes filled with tears. “Marlon. My boy Marlon. They took you as a baby, and now they take you as a boy. Will they take you again as a man? Will there ever be peace for you, Marlon?” Tiffany tapped him on the shoulder but Spengle ignored her. “Marlon. All you would ever have been is a corpse. There had never been any hope for you. The children are born, and the children die. And all the while I stand and watch, stand and help. Aeoria forgive me.” He looked up to the stormy heavens, rain splashing on his face. “Aeoria forgive me!” he screamed, and then he was broken by guilt and collapsed upon the grave, sobbing.
Here Shines the Sun Page 17