Here Shines the Sun (20 page)

Some time past before Spengle had the strength of will to stand up from the grave. When he did, he found Tiffany huddled in the corner of a mausoleum, curled into a ball. He ran to her and grabbed her by the arm. “Tiffany,” he said. “Are you all right?”

She looked at him. Her eyes were red and swollen from tears, but frantic. She tried to speak but no sound came from her lips. Still, Spengle could make out what she was trying to say. “I sing and I sing but the dead are never content! Why do they haunt me! I long for the grave so that I might know peace!”

“I am haunted by the dead too.” said Spengle, taking her hands in his. “By my son Marlon, taken from me these fifteen years.”

“Peace!” mouthed Tiffany. “All I want is peace!”

“Those like us shall know no peace until the dead know their peace.” said Spengle.

“How do we give them peace?” mouthed Tiffany, as if begging for the answer. She pushed Spengle away and began swatting at the air, and then curled back up into a ball, wrapping her head in her arms.

Spengle thought for a moment. He had never dared consider how to bring peace to the dead. Thunder rumbled. He looked out to the hill where the castle stood, its haunting form silhouetted against the angry heavens that flashed with lightning. He licked his lips. Anxiety burned his stomach. He closed his eyes and trembled, but tried to steel himself. Then he reached out to Tiffany. “There is only one way to give the dead peace,” he said with some trepidation.

She looked at him. “Anything!” she breathed. “Anything!” She sat up on her knees. “Anything!”

Spengle stared into her amber eyes. “You have to do exactly as I tell you.”

“Yes!” she mouthed, swatting around frantically. “Anything!”

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It was late when Sir Spengle found himself in the narrow, torch-lit halls of Castle Valdaria’s dungeons, escorted by a handful of his most trusted knights. At this hour there were very few guards down here, and the ones he did encounter he dismissed for the night. He made his way to the lowest level where the ones awaiting execution spent their time. The rats squeaked as loudly as the door when Spengle and his men entered into a dismal chamber, lit by a lone torch on the wall. Inside was a single, large cell with rusty bars and thirty ragged looking men being kept little better than feral dogs.

“Up, all of you!” barked Spengle.

They all sat up from the rotten hay they laid upon, their ankles shackled and chained to the wall behind them. “What’s this about?” asked one of the men, cautiously.

“My penance.” said Sir Spengle.

The captives all looked at each other, confused.

“All of you are sentenced to hang.” said Spengle. “But for what? You there, what was your crime?”

The man stood up and hobbled as best he could with chained feet over to the bars. “I tried to hide my firstborn son, Jackson, from Ophelia when she came to collect our duty to the kingdom.”

“And you, what was your crime?” asked Spengle.

The man stood up. “The same. But it was my daughter I tried to hide.”

“And you?”

“I cursed the name of the Dire Mother.” said the man. He stood up with the rest of the captives and they all came toward the bars. “We have all done nearly the same crimes.”

“If you were given the chance, would any of you stand against the Dire Mother and Withered King?”

The men all turned their eyes down.

“This is no trick.” said Spengle. “I said I am here for my penance, and I hold true to that. I spit upon the Dire Mother. I curse the name of King Verami and I swear to you all I would see the Vampire of Valdasia burned.”

One of the men looked up. “I would light the torch and put it to her myself.”

The other men all started looking up.

“I offer you a chance to strike down the Dire Mother.” said Spengle. He turned to the knights with him. “We who seek revenge are many. Come tomorrow, more shall have joined our ranks. Even now my men whisper the words of revolt to the townspeople.”

“Why do you come to us?” asked one of the prisoners. “Why do you ask us to strike down the Dire Mother?”

“Because you have nothing to lose.” said Spengle.

“It’s impossible.” said one of the men, shaking his head. “We have no weapons, and even if we did, no one can face her. And what of the King? What of the Vampire?”

“Verami will be taken care of.” said Spengle. “And I myself will deal with the Vampire. I will see to it that you are all armed when the time comes.”

“But how? How can we face the Dire Mother?”

Spengle looked at the man and held out his hand. The man looked down. Laying upon Spengle’s palm was a long knitting needle. The man looked back at Spengle. “No!”

“How many of you still have sons and daughters?” asked Spengle. “How long will it be before they are taken?”

“But, to do what you ask…”

“You are all sentenced to hang within a week.” said Spengle. “You have nothing to lose. This is your chance at revenge. Your only chance to save the rest of your sons and daughters from what might become of them.”

The men all stared at the needle.

“Today I helped Tiffany of the Graves bury a fifteen-year-old boy named Marlon and a twelve-year-old girl named Catherine.” said Spengle. “Tomorrow there will be others. The day after there will be others. And it will never end.”

One of the men grabbed the needle from Spengle’s hand. He fixed Spengle with his eyes and drove the needle deep into his own ear, screaming.

— 8 —

Debts

It was late—well into the night—and Rankin Parvailes was tired from the road. The week-long journey back from Mount Yotun had taken a lot out of his old bones and he had hardly slept in the carriage at all. His mind had been restless, troubled by what he had seen in Tarquin’s fiery cave. Now back at the castle in Durtania, he had to know. He had to see if it was gone. Rankin wasted no time excusing himself from the caravan, explaining to Balin that he was ill. Moving as quickly as his rickety body would allow, he soon found himself in the bowels of the castle, in buried halls used to hide away secrets best forgotten. In the pocket of his red robe he had a ring of keys, and using his oil lamp, he fumbled to find the one that unlocked the seldom-visited chamber he stood before.

“Councilman, may I assist you?” asked a knight who stood a lonesome watch in the hall.

Rankin grumbled something and handed the knight the lamp. He tried key after key until finally the steel door clicked opened. Rankin stepped into the room and pressed a brass button on the wall. The gaslamps made some pops and clicks, but after several moments only one lamp flared to life, casting the room in shadows that wavered in its eerie, yellow-green glow.

“Shall I—”

Rankin took back his oil lamp and then slammed the door shut on the knight. The Councilman found himself alone among shelves of ancient documents and stacks of artifacts hidden away in crates. There was a musty but pleasing odor of antiquated books upon the air. Rankin looked to the far corner. It was dark, the light of the gaslamp unable to reach it. He pursed his thin lips and walked forward. The light of his oil lamp made the shadows of the high shelves tilt and sway as he went. As he neared the corner, the dreadful odor of blood iron hit his nose. Rankin felt himself tremble, but that stench of wet rust gave him hope. Perhaps he had been mistaken; perhaps it was still here.

Upon the floor was a large chest. Above it was a small shelf with books and papers. Rankin took a deep breath and pulled out a journal bound in red leather. Upon its spine was embossed a terrible mask. He opened it, and his heart sank. Many pages had been torn from it. Rankin frowned as he placed the book back in its place. He looked down at the chest. His heart began beating faster. He breathed deeply again, trying to steel himself. His brittle knees popped as he knelt before the wooden box. There was a brass lock on the front of it, but something told him that he didn’t need to bother with the keys. His bony fingers shook as he placed them on the lid. He closed his eyes and lifted up, rusty hinges groaning. More of that dreadful odor poured out.

Rankin opened his eyes. It was empty.

He collapsed onto the floor, clasping his hands over his face. He sobbed alone for a long while until at last he regained his composure. He struggled back up to his feet and walked to the door of the chamber and opened it a crack. The knight was standing there and Rankin said, “Summon the Jinn, Ganomir. Quickly, please.”

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Isley was poring over a number of different bibles on his desk when there was a knock at his chamber door. He finished the note he was writing in his journal and set his pen down next to the inkwell. “Come in.” he said.

The door squeaked open a crack and a young woman in black and white robes popped her head in. “Saint Isley, Lord Egret is here to see you.”

Isley stood up from his desk. “Thank you, Mysandra.” he said. “Please, have him come in.”

The door opened wider and Lord Egret, Commander of the Durotonian Guard, stepped through. He was a tall man with hair as yellow as autumn straw that draped over his shoulders and onto the black shroud he wore. At his side hung his sword, Thundercracker, in a black scabbard. The yellow crystal in its pommel gleamed as if lit from within. “Saint Isley, you sent your Wolves for me?”

“I did.” said Isley. He bowed politely and then came up to the Commander. Beneath the shroud, Egret wore a full suit of black, plate armor. The brilliant, yellow lightning bolts painted up his arms were revealed as he and Isley clasped hands around their forearms. Isley looked him in his icy-blue eyes. “Please forgive me for summoning you here. I know it is not entirely proper for a subordinate to request the presence of his commander, but I needed to speak with you in private and there are far too many eyes and ears at the castle.”

“Agreed.” said Lord Egret. “But, as you are aware, the Council has it out for you. And my Dark Star Knights think you steal the hearts and minds of the people away from them. Their allegiance to me hangs by a thread, and you sending your Wolves to me is seen as an insult by them. A private visit here isn’t the easiest thing for me.”

“I am sorry. I would not have asked you to come here if it were not of great importance.” Isley shut the door behind Egret. “Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

Egret looked around the room and the clutter of books and documents. He had never been to Isley’s private chamber before. He turned his gaze to the desk and all the different bibles. He stepped over to them and picked one up. He looked down at the others. “These are all opened to the same passages.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing.” said Isley, brightening up. “They’re not the same.” He picked up the largest of the tomes. “This is the bible as recorded here in Duroton. The one you hold in your hand comes from Penatallia, and the others are from Narbereth, Jerusa, Escalapius, Valdasia and Dimethica. All the kingdoms are represented here in these bibles. The passages are all very similar, but the wordings from the Durotonian bible create vastly different meanings from the ones found in the other countries.”

Egret set the bible back on the desk. “The texts from the Durotonian bible have been passed down from the Jinn for ages. Our bible contains the exact texts as written by the Saints of the First Age. Sanctuary’s Oracles adulterated the texts used in the bibles of the other kingdoms. That is well known here in Duroton.”

“Yes, but the interesting thing is, that even among the kingdoms of Sanctuary the texts are different.” said Isley excitedly. “Look, here in Jerusa, the passage reads, ‘And offerings of bread and wine were given by the people to their King, for he alone held their salvation now that the Goddess slept.’ But here in Penatallia the passage reads, ‘And offerings of blood were given by the people to their King, for he alone held their salvation now that the Goddess slept, and the people were to atone for their sins.’”

Egret shrugged his shoulders.

“Now look at how it is written in Duroton.” said Isley. He read the passage, “And sacraments were given to the people by the Saints so that they might hold the name of Aeoria sacred while she slumbered, for within the hands of the people laid their own salvation.” Isley looked up to Egret. “Vastly different meanings. In Duroton, everything is written of the Goddess’s love for the people. In the other kingdoms, it is all skewed so that the people should hold their kings sacred. I am cataloging every change from the Durotonian bible.”

“Sounds like fun.” said Egret. He smiled at Isley. “Aren’t you glad I made you learn how to read and write.”

“I am forever grateful and in your debt for that.” said Isley with a bow. “I know that me and you have not always seen eye-to-eye in regard to Celacia. However, the more I read, the more I am convinced that you are right in that she is the herald of the end times. However, I am equally convinced that she is also the salvation of the world.”

“And how goes your quest to find Celacia?” asked Egret, genuinely interested. They had not spoken of Celacia for a very long time. Egret knew that Isley still sought what happened to her, but he had stayed away from the subject as much as he could. Celacia had become something of a taboo subject at the castle. The Council did all they could to strike her name from all records.

“That is why I summoned you here.” said Isley. “I think I found something.”

Egret looked at Isley curiously.

“The other night I stumbled upon a number of documents dated ten-years ago.” said Isley. “One of them contained a reference to a place known as the Dark Holds and it said that they should be prepared to accept a prisoner.”

“Are you certain it read ‘Dark Holds’?” asked Egret. “There is a dungeon deep within the castle known as the Black Cells. They are for containment of Dark Star Knights, should one ever be arrested. They are seldom used. The last time they were, to my knowledge, was to contain Lord Etheil and his wolf, Solastron. That was ten-years ago. But I have never heard of the Dark Holds.”

“No.” said Isley. “I am certain it read ‘Dark Holds’.”

“May I see the documents?”

Isley looked at Egret. “And here we come to the next order of business. As I was reading the document I was attacked by a shade shrouded and masked in iron. He stole them all.”

“A Dark Star Knight?” asked Egret. “I know tensions with them over you are high, but I don’t think any of my men would come to assassinate you. However, I wouldn’t put it past the Council to send an assassin for you. You and your Wolves might be loved by the people, but you have many enemies among the nobility who think you sow dissent and take the peoples’ faith from the Lands.”

“I restore faith in the Goddess, nothing more and nothing less.” said Isley, fixing Egret with his silver eyes. “But I tell you, it was not a man that came for me. It was a shade. A wraith. One of the dead. It smelled of wet iron. Rust.”

Egret raised an eyebrow. “Dark Holds and ghosts? I thought you didn’t use Ev.”

Egret could tell Isley hadn’t taken kindly to the comment. “I tell you the truth.” said Isley. “The one who attacked me was neither of life nor death. It came and went through a gateway not of this earth.”

“Lord Tarquin, then.” grumbled Egret. “His sword, Whisper, has the ability of teleportation.”

Isley shook his head, becoming annoyed with his Commander. “No. It was not Lord Tarquin. I am telling you, it was a shade. I grabbed its arm and my Caliber was anathema to it. Beneath its shroud I felt death and decay.”

Egret didn’t know exactly what to say. He didn’t doubt that Isley had been attacked, but he wasn’t quite ready to believe it had been by a ghoul. At last he looked at Isley and smiled. “Ghosts and apparitions are the domain of the church. If you’re truly being haunted, perhaps one of those bibles contains a prayer?”

Isley laughed. “I can handle the shade on my own, I think. But, friend to friend, will you find out what the Dark Holds are?” asked Isley. “I know that is the place the document mentioned. It was signed by King Dagrir and authorized by the Council.”

“King Dagrir? It was his father, King Garidrir, who had Etheil placed in the Black Cells.”

“Like I said,” said Isley. “It did not reference the Black Cells, but rather a place called the Dark Holds.”

Egret nodded. “I’ll look into it. But, friend to friend, are you so certain that finding Celacia is a good idea? If she is the herald of the final age, perhaps it is best she remains forgotten.”

“From death comes creation.” said Isley. “I am more certain than ever that Celacia must be found. It is her path I must walk beside. The day she left she came to me in this very church and made me promise that if she did not return a few years hence, that I would try to find her. Place aside all you might fear of her, Egret. Celacia is a friend and has done nothing to make me think otherwise. I believe she is in trouble and that Lord Tarquin, the Council, and even King Dagrir had something to do with her disappearance. Time is short. I must find her before the final star falls.”

Egret placed his hand on Isley’s shoulder. “We are friends and I will help you in any way I can. Beneath the Duroton sky, if there is a place known as the Dark Holds, I will find it.”

Isley smiled. “I am ever in your debt, Lord Egret.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“Thank you for coming, Ganomir.” said Rankin. He led the Jinn toward the back of the room. He showed Ganomir the empty chest.

“The artifacts of the Iron Witch are gone.” said Ganomir.

Rankin turned to face him. Ganomir was in a black robe, his face concealed behind a mask of black fabric and goggles whose green lenses seemed to radiate in the dim gaslight. “Your Dark Star Knight, Lord Tarquin, took them. He has taken the Iron Witch’s mask and used its blood iron to raise revenants. He usurps more power than he is due.”

“Are you certain of this?” asked Ganomir.

“I have seen it with my own eyes.” said Rankin. “Atop the skull of the fire dragon he sits upon the very throne of the Iron Witch. Upon his neck is a chain of blood iron. In his service is at least one revenant, but that number will grow if it has not already.”

“Impossible.” said Ganomir. “The Iron Witch’s throne was lost when King Garidrir had the tower destroyed.”

“Then see it with your own eyes.” said Rankin. “Go to the Dragon Forge and you will see that he has found it. He tampers in dark arts of which even your order is forbidden.”

“I will go.” said Ganomir. “I would see this throne he sits on with my own eyes.”

“Very good,” said Rankin, stepping up to him. “And after you see it, there is a duty you must fulfill.” He took the Jinn’s gloved hand and placed something heavy into it.