“What’s going on?” Three knights in white armor raced down the hall.
“An intruder!” yelled the man in a robe from his door.
The maidservant pointed. “It… it was just there! It was a phantom! I’ll swear to it on my grave!”
“Councilman!” cried one of the knights, running up to him. “Are you hurt?”
Rankin clutched the shard of Valclarinax to his breast. If Tarquin had sent the creature for him, it meant that Tarquin knew he had sent Ganomir to collect on him. It meant that Ganomir had failed. Rankin’s eyes began darting around the hall, wondering where the thing might appear next.
“Councilman,” said the knight, grabbing Rankin by the shoulders. “Where did he go? Did you see him? What did he look like?”
Rankin looked at the knight and then tore himself away. “The Iron Witch is reborn!” he cried, backing away. “The Iron Witch comes again!”
“Councilman?”
Rankin turned and fled down the hall.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Saint Isley was in his private chamber of the church’s tower. The gaslamp on the wall was turned low as he sat alone at his desk, his finger tracing passages from a bible as he read them. His window was opened and the curtain fluttered with the soft, night breeze, but on it there was a cry. Isley sat up straight, listening. He heard the cry again. He went to his window and pulled back the curtain.
The wide avenue below was well lit by gaslamps and Isley was certain that he saw Councilman Parvailes in his red robes. He was running—stumbling really—toward the church, often looking behind him or to his sides. He waved something in his hands around. “No!” Isley heard him cry. “Back! Back whence you came! Leave me!”
Isley turned from his window and raced from his room. It was late and the nave was mostly empty but for a handful of his Wolves that were praying, though the church’s wide, double-doors were still open to any who might come. Isley strode down the isle between the pews toward the doors and stepped out onto the steps leading up to the church. Rankin was at the bottom of them, clawing his way up, his head turning from side to side, or glancing behind him, all the while waving a sparkling, silver shard in his hands. “Back!” cried the old man. “Back! Leave me!”
Isley hopped down the stairs and helped the old man to his feet. “Councilman Parvailes,” said Isley. “Tell me what troubles you?” Isley scanned the streets. Other than a few passer-byes who were watching Parvailes with some alarm, he saw nothing.
Rankin turned to face Isley, his bony hands gripping at the Saint’s breastplate. His gray eyes were wide and shone with wild fear. “He’s sent them for me! He’s sent them to take me! Help me! Help me!”
Isley took Rankin by the hand. To say he was surprised to see the Councilman here would be an understatement. None of the Councilmen had ever been amiable with him, and Isley could not say he was fond of them either. Still, he held no enmity toward them and if Rankin had come to him for aid, he would provide all he could. “Of course I will help you. Tell me what troubles you, my brother? Who has sent who to take you?”
“Lord Tarquin raises the dead against me!” cried Rankin. “The unholy seek me out! They come to claim me, and my soul is heavy! I shall sink into the earth upon my passing! The Lands will take their dues!”
Isley smiled softly at the Councilman. “The dead hold no sway here.” said Isley, doing his best to conceal his own curiosity. He wondered if the Councilman spoke of the same unholy specter that had paid him a visit not so long ago. “The unholy grasp at you with but frail fingers. Take the Goddess’s hand and you shall be uplifted from more than just they.”
“Tell me, Saint,” said Rankin, still clutching at Isley. “If I repent my sins can my debts to the Lands yet be paid? Can my soul be eased into the next world?”
“Aeoria forgives all, and these Lands are her’s.” said Isley warmly. “Aeoria reaches out with her love to all who seek it. Fear nothing, my brother, for the Goddess is with you.”
Isley led Rankin into the church and sat with him upon one of the front-most pews near the altar. He sent one of his Wolves to fetch some tea and another to burn a brazier with an incense of purification. The old man was silent, but seemed calmer and more at ease now that he was sitting here. Isley did not press the Councilman for information, nor did he seek to speak the words of Aeoria to him. Instead, Isley wanted the man to reach out to him in his own time and sat silently beside him. As Rankin sat with a cup of steaming tea held to his breast, Isley eyed the silver shard he clutched. At length, Parvailes took notice.
“What is that?” asked Isley.
The old man handed it to Isley. It was a fine metal, polished smooth, but sharp and ragged like a piece of broken glass. “That is a fragment of the Valclarinax.” said Rankin. “It is all that remains of the holy sword.”
Isley had never heard of the Valclarinax before, but being that the Councilman said it was a holy weapon, it piqued his curiosity. “How did you come about this?”
“When I was a young man, I stole the sword from this very church.” said Rankin. “It was said that the sword had been blessed by Saint Rachiel of the Blessed Hand in the First Age. I took it to slay the Iron Witch, and when I struck her down, the sword shattered like glass and all of her unholy revenants fell.”
Isley had heard an occasional mention of the Iron Witch from the people in the city, though he did not know the entire story. He had also heard that Rankin was once hailed a hero before becoming a Councilman. “So, the stories of your heroics are true?”
Parvailes looked at Isley. “I am so far from the man I once was.”
“Then tell me of who you once were,” said Isley, handing him back the shard. “And together we might find where you went astray.”
Rankin nodded. He told Isley the tale of how the Iron Witch came to power, and of the horrors she brought upon the people of Duroton. He told him of her revenants—creatures brought to life through magic and Blood Iron—and how they had all fallen when he struck the Iron Witch down with the Valclarinax. Finally, Rankin told Isley that when he went to the Dragon Forge he had seen a necklace of Blood Iron around Lord Tarquin’s neck, and that Tarquin sat upon an iron throne. He told Isley that Tarquin had a servant shrouded in black iron with a mask of slag painted with a shockwave down its front. It was a revenant, like the ones he had faced down as a young man, and Tarquin had sent it after him this night in retribution for having sent Ganomir to collect on him.
Isley did not tell Rankin that he himself had been visited by the same creature a few nights ago. He felt an ease, however, knowing that it was not the Council or the King who had sent it, but rather Lord Tarquin. Isley would deal with Tarquin in due time. Right now, however, he had a duty to this man. If the Councilman was honest in wanting to repent, Isley would see to it that he was back in the Goddess’s graces.
“To face down one such as the Iron Witch all alone took great courage.” said Isley. “I suspect it is a courage you still possess, for the Goddess does not bestow such gifts to men lightly. Tell me why, then, you fear Lord Tarquin? What broke the resolve of the man you once were?”
“The people put me upon a pedestal for what I had done.” said Rankin. “I struggled with the notion that I was a hero, and in time that struggle turned to contempt as I looked out upon them and realized that I had accomplished what their nobles and knights dared not. I was nothing but an indentured servant to the Lands. I had nothing. I had come from nothing. Yet, I risked my life for all those who had everything yet repaid nothing to the Lands.
“I let a blackness take my heart, and when the King offered me titles I accepted everything, always playing the humble hero. In time my humility earned me a seat upon the Council, for the King said that Duroton needed somebody as virtuous as me to lend it a voice. But on the Council I watched how the others worked their wills to get more. And my own hand started
grasping.”
Here Rankin paused. Great weights seemed to settle upon his shoulders. He looked at Isley. “But that is the thing about sin, Saint Isley. It’s always tit for tat. A treasure for a treasure; a lie for a lie. Upon the Council we all worked our deals. In time we were all bound together by our perversions of justice. It became hard to distinguish right from wrong; every wrong I was party to made the last seem not quite so bad. Over the years I would try to atone for my sins, but being party to corruption means you are ever in its shadow. Everything is traded in gain, and even when you want to do right, you must sign for a wrong to see it happen. Tit for tat. This for that.”
Isley nodded with understanding. “Let us pray. Let me help lead you to your salvation.”
Rankin shook his head. “Do not pray for me until you have heard all of my confessions.”
“What do you wish to confess?” asked Isley.
“Too much for one night.” said Rankin.
“The church is always open.” said Isley. “My hand is always extended to you or anybody else who would take it.”
“Thank you, Saint Isley.” said Rankin. “Thank you for hearing me. Thank you for not treating me as a stranger, as I have treated you all these years.”
“No man is a stranger to the Goddess, and therefore no man shall be a stranger to me.” said Isley. “Get rest, and see me again tomorrow.”
“Saint Isley,” began Rankin. He turned his eyes down. “I… I fear to return to the castle.” He looked back at Isley. “What if the specter comes to me again? My soul is still heavy. I have not confessed everything.”
Isley waved over a couple of his Wolves. A pair of men in white and black robes came up to him. “Make a room for the Councilman within the Hallowed Halls, near Father Bellarifon’s chamber.” said Isley to them. “See to it that he is comfortable.” Isley turned back to Rankin. “The Hallowed Halls are built upon an ancient ground that was blessed by the Goddess herself. You will be safe there, for no demon or wraith can walk those halls.”
“Thank you, Saint Isley.” said Rankin. “I do not deserve your generosity.”
“We are all brothers in this world. We must all help those who extend their hand to us.” said Isley. He motioned to the Wolves and they escorted Rankin away. Isley watched until the old man was gone from view and then he breathed a long breath, thinking the night couldn’t get any stranger.
He walked the dark halls and up the winding stairs back to his own chamber. He shut the door behind him and went to the bible he had been reading, marking the page he was on with a ribbon and then closing it gently.
“Saint Isley of the Long Hours.” rumbled a great voice. Isley spun around. Sitting in the shadows of the corner near his open window was the giant, blue wolf, Solastron. Upon his chest the fur was caked with dried blood, and the fur upon his belly was red and crusty. “I know the hour is late, but would you give council to me this night?”
“I… Why, certainly.” said Isley, rattled by the fact that a wolf was speaking to him. He had never had any dealings with Solastron before. He knew that Solastron was Lord Etheil’s beast; he had heard the whispers that he was the spirit of the Blue Wilds. But Saint Isley had never heard that the wolf could speak, and he didn’t quite know what to make of it. “I did not know you spoke in the tongue of men.”
“Very few do.” rumbled the wolf. “Count yourself alone with Lord Etheil on the matter. But I must ask that you do not share this knowledge with any.”
“Of course.” said Isley. He looked at the wolf’s bloodied fur. “You are injured. Bear the touch of my hand and they shall be healed.”
The wolf wuffled and then stood up to his full, menacing height. His eyes sparkled like blue gemstones in the moonlight. “The wounds I carry cannot be healed so easily, Saint Isley of the Long Hours. They were born in an ancient age by the swords of Hell’s Judges. The one upon my chest is Anger and the sword that cut me is named War. Upon my sides are the scars of Desire, Pestilence, Famine, Scorn and Fear.”
“They are ancient, yet they still bleed?” asked Isley.
“I was upon the Shardgrims. There I sensed a great evil and my wounds were awoken.” rumbled Solastron. “The hour is late, Saint Isley. This age wanes, and there shall be a violent birth of the next. I have been idle, stayed by the scar of Fear upon my side. But Anger’s bite has stirred me.” He turned his head and wuffled. Then he said, “My charge comes due, and I must not fail.” He looked to Saint Isley. “Speak words of comfort to me. I desire to hear the Goddess’s voice as it was penned in Her book for mankind.”
Isley glanced at his bible and picked it up. He turned to Solastron and nodded. “Certainly.” Isley pulled his chair out and turned it around to face the wolf. He sat down and Solastron padded up to him, sitting before him. Isley looked up to see the wolf’s massive head above him, aquamarine eyes staring down intently. Isley had given sermons to thousands. He had sat alone with hundreds of different people to read them passages. But never had he felt so awkward in doing so as he did now. Isley cleared his throat as he paged through the tome in his hand. Having sensed the wolf’s troubled heart, Isley went to a passage he thought might help ease his spirits.
“The people of Jebuthon were dismayed when Aeoria told them that she would be going away. ‘But what should we do?’ they asked. ‘Will we not be like a flock without a shepherd, destined to scatter and lose our way?’
“To them Aeoria said, ‘Let not your hearts be troubled, for you have heard my words and seen my deeds and therefore will not be left as orphans. If you keep my words I shall never leave you. Believe in me, for in the house of my Mother and Father there are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, would you not sit again before me? When I am gone remember me and my words, and where I am you may be also, and you will know the way to where I am going.
“‘Yes, a little while and the world will see me no more, but you will see me if you keep my name. As I have lived, you can also live. And if you do you will know that I dwell within you, and you within me.’”
Solastron made a contemplative rumble.
Isley looked up to him. “Have you heard the words and deeds of Aeoria, my friend?”
Solastron regarded the Saint for a moment. “More than that. For I am her hound.”
Isley eyed the wolf keenly. “You are her hound?”
Solastron swished his tail. “I have heard it said that you seek a woman named Celacia, and that with her you believe you shall awaken the Goddess.”
“I do.” said Isley.
Solastron swished his tail again, his eyes flashing in the gaslight.
“Does that displease you?” asked Isley.
“She is the final herald.” rumbled Solastron. “When Death walks the Earth and the Raven wields Dragonfire, my final charge to the Goddess comes due.”
“What is your charge to the Goddess?” asked Isley.
“Sit with me, Isley of the Long Hours, and I shall tell you the tale of Aeoria’s fall.” said the wolf.
— 36 —
Burnt Offerings
The bright face of the moon just began to show itself in the darkening, summer sky and a cool breeze swept through the open windows of the fully renovated Venzi cottage where two extra bedrooms had been added. One was home to Saint Ertrael and a larger one was made for the three young Notaro boys. Jocab and Tomas shared a bed and beside them, on his own bed, was little Galen. All three were bundled up tight in their blankets and their eyes were closed in sleep. Galen had a peaceful look on his face, but his chest moved up and down with ragged breaths.
Ertrael sat reclined at the end of Galen’s bed, his head resting on the wall as he sang a soft and somber song. Kierza had been listening to it with some interest as she stood with Rook in the shadows of the room. It wasn’t a song she had ever heard
before, and its words were sad but somehow made comforting by the Saint’s voice, which, like his Caliber, was warm and soothing. She thought it some type of elegy; a lamentation to somebody dear and departed; a song to ease a loved one into their final slumber.
Kierza slipped her hand into Rook’s. “It’s a beautiful song.” she whispered.
“Do you think Galen will sleep through the night?” asked Rook.
Kierza smiled and nodded. “I think he will. I think tonight he will.”
The bedroom door creaked open as Ertrael’s song came to a close. Sierla floated into the room in her nightgown, carrying a tray of cookies and some glasses of warm milk. “Oh,” she said with some surprise. “They are sleeping.”
Kierza smiled. “It turns out that Saint Ertrael knows a lullaby or two.”
“Not really lullabies” he said quietly. “Just some songs somebody I know used to sing.” Ertrael sat up on the bed, careful not to disturb Galen. Kierza watched with amusement as the Saint’s eyes went to the cookies and he licked his lips like a little boy.
Sierla shivered. “It is cold in here.” She went to the window, resting her tray on the sill. She was about to close the window but stopped and stared out into the yard for a moment.
“Something wrong?” asked Ertrael.
“It was nothing.” Sierla said. She closed the window and locked it. Then she padded over to Ertrael and he scooped up a couple cookies and a glass of milk. Sierla gently placed the tray on the nightstand next to the bottles of medicine for Galen. “I’ll leave these here then,” she whispered. “Just in case they wake.” She turned back to Ertrael and pecked him on the cheek. “Goodnight, my Saint.” she whispered. She tapped him on the nose with a finger. “And save some cookies for the boys.”
“Goodnight.” said Ertrael, wrapping his arm around her back.
Sierla smiled and then went over to Galen and then Tomas and Jocab, giving them each a kiss on the forehead, saying her goodnights to the sleeping boys. Finally, she went to Rook and Kierza, giving them each a kiss. “Goodnight my handsome son and beautiful daughter,” she said. She turned to Rook and placed something in his hand. “Ralf just sent this. You come home before it’s too late. No more staying out until all hours.”
Here Shines the Sun Page 67