Here Shines the Sun (34 page)

Kierza hardly noticed the King’s words as he spoke idly of his latest journeys and the beauty of this or that particular city. All she could feel were Fayre’s harsh eyes upon her and she rarely dared to look up from her chalice of wine. Kierza nibbled at the biscuit she was given and looked across the table. For a brief moment her eyes caught Rook’s. He forced a smile at her and squirmed in his seat as Callista turned askew in her chair, eyes wandering upon his body. She saw Callista’s leg move up and down against Rook’s and Rook took a sip from his chalice before gently scooting his chair a few inches further from the woman.

“So, you’re a blacksmith?” Callista’s voice was as smooth and vibrant as a symphony. Her blue eyes focused on Rook as she raised her golden chalice to her red lips.

Rook nodded and took a sip of his own drink.

“Oh, don’t be modest, boy!” cheered the King. “Word of your Everlight has spread far and wide throughout the kingdom. My nobles flock from all corners to be in line for your weapons and armor. Tell me about it.”

Rook cleared his throat. “It’s just a special formulation of metals with some alchemical tricks to make it light and strong.”

“Light and strong! How modest!” said the King. “I have heard your weapons and armor are as light as a feather with a grain like Narberethan rosewood. I have heard they are as silver as the moon on a cloudless night, and that they are completely unbreakable.”

Rook nodded. “It’s a good metal.” He took a nibble of his pastry.

“Good metal indeed! It is something I’ll have to see for myself!”

“Where are those silks from?” snipped Fayre, her face twisted in disgust at Kierza. “Why does a slave girl get to wear such a fine dress?”

Kierza squirmed in her seat.

“Fayre, we are with guests. Mind your etiquette.” said the King. He took a sip of his wine and shook his head, chuckling. “My daughters, aren’t they precious!”

“The silks are from Escalapius. My home country.” stated Sierla. “Kierza helps to make the dresses, so she gets to wear the dresses.”

“Ah, and such fine dresses they are!” boasted the King. “Finest I have seen in all the lands! Why, my daughters would be honored to wear something so grand as what you have!”

Kierza’s gaze flicked to the Sisters at that remark. If ocean eyes could turn to seas of fire, they did so now as the Sisters regarded the dresses that she and Sierla wore with smoldering contempt.

Fayre’s eyes locked on Kierza’s heart pendant and her lips furled. “Why don’t you boys go check out the swords,” she sang out. “Ertrael, Galavriel, have our little prince show you his weapons and armor. Let us know if they’re worthy of our palace guards.”

Kierza looked over at the Saints. The ruby-haired Saint—Ertrael—pursed his lips and his eyes caught hers. In that brief moment she saw those gem-like eyes speak a dire warning to her.

“Yes, Fayre.” said the chrome-haired Saint. “It would be our pleasure.”

Ertrael strode over to Rook and patted him on the shoulder a couple times. “A Jerusan boy.” he said.

Rook looked at him. “How do you—”

“Just a hunch.” said Ertrael. He smiled softly at Rook.

“Come on,” barked Galavriel. “Let’s go.”

Rook looked at Kierza, his face paling. Then he looked over at Callad and Sierla.

Callad nodded at Rook. “It’s fine, son.” he said softly. “Show them what you make, and how valuable it is to all the nobles.”

Rook stood up slowly, but Kierza could see his knuckles tightening around the chalice as he set it down. Quickly she stood up and leaned over the table to kiss him. “It’ll be alright,” she said into his ear. “I love you.” And then more quietly added,
“Be careful of the red-haired one. He’s been staring at you the whole time.”

Rook looked at her and breathed deeply. He forced a smile. “I’ll be back soon. I love you.”

“Come on,” said Saint Galavriel, placing a hand upon Rook’s shoulder. His chrome eyes flicked toward the door. “You heard the Princess. Let’s go.”

Rook held Kierza with his dark-eyed gaze for a moment and smiled faintly at her. Exhaling deeply, he turned to the King and the Sisters and bowed. Then he led the two Saints out the front door. The sound of the door shutting made Kierza flinch.

“So,” said Fayre, turning sideways in her seat to face Kierza. She crossed her long legs and folded her arms over her chest. “Why does a slave girl get to wear such pretty dresses?”

Kierza swallowed hard and stared down at her biscuit.

“We heard rumor that you were coming to town.” said Callad before Sierla could say something. He looked at the King. “I thought it prudent to have her dress accordingly.”

“She’s just a slave.” said Callista. “She shouldn’t wear something so nice.”

“I’m sorry. Shall I change into something else?” Kierza did not look up from her plate.

“It’s fine, Kierza.” said Sierla. “In our house we wear what we want.”

A palpable tension filled the room.

“I-I-I’m sorry,” Callad stood up and bowed deeply. “If it displeases my country’s Princesses to see a slave girl so dressed, I will have her change immed—”

“What’s this?” Fayre grabbed at the heart pendant around Kierza’s neck.

Kierza swatted her hand away and clutched the pendant to her chest. She immediately knew that was a huge mistake.

Fayre’s eyes shown as if lightning had flashed above her head.

The King chuckled from his seat. “Oh Fayre, settle down.” He sipped his wine. “My daughters, aren’t they precious!”

Fayre stood up. “Let me see it! Now!”

“Go ahead, just give it to her.” Kierza heard Callad say.

Slowly, Kierza removed her hand from her chest and Fayre snatched the pendant away, snapping the chain.

“What is this?”

“Just a pendant.” muttered Kierza. “It belonged to my mother.”

“I want to see it.” said Callista. She rose from her seat and walked around the table. “Give it here.”

Fayre swatted at her. “This is kind of pretty.”

“My daughters,” said the King. “Mind your etiquette now.” He chuckled. “Aren’t they precious!”

“Give me it, I want to see!” said Callista, taking it from Fayre’s hand.

“Who are you to have something so pretty, huh?” Fayre locked her eyes on Kierza.

“I-I’m sorry,” said Kierza meekly. “May I be excused?”

“Yes,” said Callad, rising from his seat. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you—”

“I didn’t say she could be excused!” said Fayre.

“I-I’m sorry,” said Callad. “It’s just—”

“This is our house!” Sierla stood up. “I will not have you insulting us and taking our things.”

Callista fixed Sierla with a hateful stare. “Paniel, Rael,” she snapped her fingers. “See to it that these two stay in their seats.”

“Yes, Princess. Right away.” said Saint Rael, the Saint with the white hair and eyes. She and Saint Paniel strode forward.

“My King,” Began Callad. “Please forgive—”

“Shut up and sit down.” Saint Rael grabbed Callad’s arm and pushed him backwards into Sierla. Paniel, the Saint with the golden hair and eyes, stepped around and Sierla screamed as she was pushed down into her chair.

Callad held up his hands and slowly took his seat.

“Oh, my daughters!” chuckled the King. “So precious!”

“Now, where were we?” said Callista. “Oh, that’s right,” she fixed Kierza with her gaze. “Who are you to have something so nice?”

“It’s… it’s just a trinket.” spoke Kierza.

Callista tossed the pendant back to Kierza.

“Hey! I wanted to see it again!” protested Fayre.

The King chuckled. “Aren’t they precious!”

“Give it to me!” Fayre’s long nails scratched at Kierza and she screamed.

“Hey!” boomed Callad. He began to stand up but Saint Rael slammed him back down into his seat.

Kierza screamed as Fayre tore at her for the pendant. “Give it to me! Give it to me!”

“Why’s her dress so pretty? Who does she think she is?” Callista grabbed up a handful of Kierza’s dress. There was a ripping sound.

Kierza released the pendant, suffering a long scratch down her right arm as Fayre tore it away from her. She felt warm blood running off her arm and looked down. The woman’s nail had sheered through her dress as well as the leather armor she wore beneath it. Kierza clutched at the wound, sticky blood trickling out between her fingers as she stared in disbelief at the deepness of the gash.

Kierza heard Sierla hiss,
“You are monsters! You are no Princesses, just monsters!”
And then the entire room suddenly seemed to give pause.

“What did you say?” Fayre’s voice was tight and sharp. Her blue eyes cracked like glass. Fayre moved forward but Kierza stood up and pushed the woman with her left forearm. In that instant a golden disc of energy burst from the silver plate in her armor and Fayre was tossed back into her sister. The disc fizzled out like a dying firework, leaving only the scent of ozone behind. The two Princesses froze, their bewilderment quickly fading into terrible anger. An awful stench drifted into Kierza’s nose. The perfume of the Sisters that once smelled of fresh roses now had a rotten air.

Kierza trembled. “I-I’m sorry…”

Before Kierza’s very eyes the two women seemed to grow larger and more spindly than they had been. Their dresses, which were once lovely red silks, faded to drab, ugly rags. The diamonds they wore now became coals set upon cheap, tarnished metal. Kierza’s mouth opened wide in terror as she caught their eyes. Once blue, they had become withered, cracked, colorless marbles. Their hair was no longer blonde and silken, but rather coarse like autumn straw. And their flesh—it had become like ancient porcelain, cracked with blue veins. They snarled, and their bony hands and savage nails were now raised in anger.

Kierza screamed as they descended upon her like vultures.

“How dare you wear something so pretty! How dare you wear things so beautiful!” the Sister’s screeches echoed in Kierza’s mind as their talons ripped and tore at her. She felt her left sleeve being sheared from her arm. Kierza flailed and kicked and screamed, but kept her eyes closed as tightly as she could against the razor-like nails that raked at her face and tore at her body. She felt her veil being ripped from her head; felt her hair being pulled; felt gashes opening all over her body and warm blood running from her face and chest, arms and legs. She could hear the fabric of her clothing being shredded as if she were being savaged by wild beasts. And all the while the Sisters shrieked and screamed at her.

“My daughters, aren’t they just precious!”

“Stop it! Stop it! Leave her alone!” Kierza heard Callad’s voice boom above the tumult she was engulfed in, but all she could see were flashes of nails, fabric, leather and blood being flung high into the air. She tried to scream but the searing pain of talons tearing her flesh made her voice stick in her throat and only a terrible squeal came out. She felt hair rip from her scalp and fall upon her face. Somewhere, Kierza heard Sierla screaming and shouting.

And then Kierza felt herself tossed from the Sisters’ grasps and she tumbled backward over her chair, collapsing upon the floor. She curled up into a ball. She felt the frayed ends of her clothing, wet and heavy with blood, clinging to her body. Her mind was a disarray of screams and pain. She heard Callad shouting and she cracked her eyes and looked up to see him struggling against one of the Sisters. Then Sierla’s screams pierced her. Across the room she was beset upon by the other vulturous woman. Clothing and hair, blood and flesh were thrown high into the air. Sierla’s screams gurgled in her throat. Callad roared out, punching the Sister he struggled against, and then the two Saints were on him.

Kierza heard the King chuckle behind her, “My daughters, aren’t they precious! Aren’t they just precious!” And then pain gave way to unconsciousness.

— 14 —

The River’s Edge

It was late, but Hadraniel couldn’t sleep. The rugged cliffs at the western edge of the Gatimarian Mountains were swept by cool winds that proved a soothing balm to Hadraniel’s wounds, though not enough that he could properly rest. He lay upon his back, naked but for his breastplate and the blanket around his waist, gazing up past the tops of high pines, staring into the infinite blackness of the nightly heavens. Beside him, Karinael slept peacefully with her wool blanket wrapped around her body. He wished he could roll over on his side and wrap his arm around her, but he knew that position would cause his hands and his side to burn with agony. It was best to lay flat with his hands gently upon the cold surface of his breastplate.

He released a frustrated breath and held his hands in front of his face and recoiled slightly at the sight. It had been five days since suffering the wounds, and despite his and Karinael’s best efforts at shining their Caliber to hasten the healing, all his burns remained tender and sore. His hands were covered by a layer of fresh, pink flesh, but it was unsightly flesh. It was thin and wrinkled, taught in other parts. The slightest bump would set them ablaze with pain. His body had fared slightly better, having been protected by his armor and his bodysuit. Still, parts of his side and abdomen had been scorched and when Karinael helped get the burned suit off of him he saw his skin peeling away as the leather came off. And his face. He still could not look at himself in a mirror. Karinael assured him that it was not bad, that she loved him no matter what, but he still felt like a monster. The left side of his face always felt stretched, like it was tugging his lips up into a crooked smile. Though his hands could feel little, they felt enough to know the skin was a melted mess. His left ear too. Thankfully his eyes had been spared.

Hadraniel groaned as he sat up, his side and abdomen blossoming with terrible, burning pain. His armor and belongings lay in a heap nearby, in the small grotto of leaves and dry pine needles beside the boulders and cliffs that surrounded him. His bodysuit was a tattered and burned mess, completely unwearable. Unfortunately, getting a new one was going to prove difficult for the time being. But even if he could get a new bodysuit, he wasn’t sure his wounds would let him wear it. All he could do right now was hope that Ovid would show up with Erygion.

Hadraniel did not like working with Ovid. He knew Ovid was only in this to get his Sanguinastrum, and once he had it, there was no telling when he might sink his sword into their backs. Still, Hadraniel had to give Ovid some credit. Ovid had helped Karinael bring him here after his wounds proved too much to allow him to travel. Hadraniel did not like Ovid knowing of this location, but there was little he could do. There was no way he could have gotten here himself and Karinael needed Ovid’s help. This small grotto, at the edge of the mountains where none of Gatima’s men ever came, had been the secret meeting place for Erygion’s Saints the last five years. Hadraniel and Karinael had met with Erygion here many times over the years and it had become the one safe refuge in Jerusa. Unfortunately, now that Ovid knew about it, this was no longer a secure location.

To make matters worse, when they arrived here a quick-hound had been waiting for them with a note from Erygion. In the note Erygion wrote that he had fled Sanctuary and that he wanted them to gather all the loyal Saints and bring them here. The note was crudely written and had taken Karinael a while to decipher, but it was the best any of them could do. Over the years Gabidar had taught Hadraniel and Karinael to read and write at a rudimentary level, and in turn, they had taught Erygion. It wasn’t much, but at least they all had a way to communicate without having to be standing in front of each other. Unfortunately, with Hadraniel’s wounds, there was no way he could go out to gather the Saints as Erygion wanted, and Karinael refused to leave him here alone. And being that there was no way Hadraniel or Karinael were going to tell Ovid who all the Saints loyal to Erygion were, there was only one option left: to send Ovid out to find Erygion and bring him back here. Hadraniel didn’t like it one bit, but being that Erygion had possession of Ovid’s Sanguinastrum, there was little chance of betrayal. At least, he hoped so. Even still, Hadraniel was beginning to wonder if something had happened.

Ovid had been gone four days now. He had returned the first night with some interesting news, but after that he had completely disappeared. According to Ovid, the entire world had seen the constellation appear that night he and Karinael fought Ithuriel. Ovid said that their little show in the sky had set Sanctuary and all the Kings of the kingdoms on edge. Apparently, it was also now known that Hadraniel and Karinael had something to do with it, and according to Ovid, Sanctuary had a bounty on their heads. Typically, a Saint who ran afoul of Sanctuary or the kingdom they were assigned would simply be recalled, but he and Karinael—and Ovid—knew why that was not the case. They had their own Sanguinastrums, and therefore could not be recalled. According to Ovid, Sanctuary was trying to play down having them recalled by saying that they were wanted for questioning. It was a believable answer. But again, they all knew the truth, and Sanctuary would be damned before they admitted that some of their Saints were off their leashes.

This would also explain why Erygion fled Sanctuary and sent the quick-hound. By now Sanctuary likely knew Erygion was helping them and that he had been planting fake Sanguinastrums. Ovid had not mentioned anything about a bounty on Erygion’s head. Sanctuary would probably keep this a secret. They would never admit that one of Aeoria’s Guard had betrayed them. Hadraniel figured that Sanctuary probably had their most powerful and trusted Saints out in force looking for Erygion. The name ‘Nuriel’ passed through his mind and he cringed.

Hadraniel frowned. No use worrying right now. They would not know the extent of damage their constellation had stirred up until they could speak with Erygion in person. He only hoped Ovid would show up with him soon.

Hadraniel puffed out a breath and watched Karinael sleep. Stars above, he wished he could wrap himself next to her. He sighed and touched his left cheek, the act sending a terrible pain through both his face and his fingers, and he hissed. Then a sound caught his ear and he sat up straight, listening. There was the pop of a twig snapping. Footsteps. Someone was coming.

He nudged Karinael with his elbow, careful not to use his hands. “Karin,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

Karinael stirred. “What? What is it?” she asked, her voice soft and subdued by sleep.

“Somebody’s coming.” There was another crack of a twig. Whoever it was, it was large. The footfalls were too heavy to be Ovid’s. Hadraniel thought it could be Erygion, but it could also be Leviathan Hydra, or even Titan Mammoth. Hell below, would Ovid have led Leviathan Hydra here? He stood up. He felt useless. He couldn’t even hold his sword if it came to a fight.

Karinael got to her feet and drew her sword. It was too dark to see anything clearly. The moon was lost behind the tall pines, and everywhere the shadows of boulders and trees cast everything in blackness.

“Run,” hissed Hadraniel. “Hide.”

“I’m not leaving you,” said Karinael, stepping in front of him. Then, into the darkness of the surrounding wilderness she yelled, “Who’s there?”

“Karinael of the Generous Hand,” replied a powerful, familiar voice. It was Erygion. Hadraniel felt his tension melt. The large man was built like a wall, armored in a full suit of star-metal. His white cape bearing his stellaglyph fluttered lazily with the winds as he stepped from the shadows of some pines. His imposing figure was nearly as black as the night around him, the moonlight only dusting his form. He wore a bell-shaped great-helm upon his head, and through it flowed his long, sapphire hair. He smiled at their sight as he crossed his massive, armored arms over his chest. His blue eyes, however, betrayed a weary and distressed look.

Karinael ran up and threw her arms around him. “Erygion!” she chirped. He patted her on her back, his star-metal gauntlets clanking loudly upon the back of her breastplate. “We were getting worried.”

Hadraniel took a few timid steps forward, his waist wrapped with the blanket. “Saint Erygion,” he said. He swallowed hard and looked down. “It’s good to see you.”

Erygion’s eyes scanned him as he removed his helmet, letting fall his long hair. He frowned. “It’s as bad as Ovid said.”

Hadraniel suddenly felt ashamed. He knew he looked a mess. His flesh was scorched but healed in a gruesome manner. The longer Erygion stared, the more a monster he felt. “It was Ithuriel,” he could hear Karinael whisper. “Hadi… he… he saved me.”

“He knows,” said Ovid, stepping from the shadows of the forest. “I told him everything.”

Hadraniel looked up. Ovid smiled wickedly, bouncing something in his hand. It was his Sanguinastrum. Hadraniel looked at Erygion.

Erygion didn’t say anything, but his eyes spoke volumes. Primarily, that he too knew it was a bad idea. Erygion strode forward and Hadraniel felt his armored finger lift up his chin. Despite the coldness of the star-metal, the touch burned with pain and Hadraniel flinched. He looked up at the tall man and held out his hands, displaying the extent of the damage, and frowned.

Erygion placed a large, heavy paw upon his shoulder. “Come, sit.” he said as he led Hadraniel over toward a large boulder that lay between a pair of pines.

Hadraniel took an uncomfortable seat on it as Erygion knelt beside him. Hadraniel hissed in pain as Erygion grabbed his wrists. In a moment Erygion’s own hands were encompassed by a brilliant, white Caliber energy. Hadraniel could feel the warmth of it transferring into his own hands. Of all the Saints, those of Aeoria’s Guard were the most powerful and the most gifted with Caliber strength. They were an elite few, and of them Erygion’s power was legendary. Hadraniel knew of no other Saint—save maybe Nuriel—whose Caliber could even closely match that of somebody like Erygion.

The glow of the man’s Caliber intensified until at last Hadraniel had to close his eyes. For the first time since he was burned the wounds finally felt soothed. Erygion’s hands traveled up to Hadraniel’s face and then down his body. After a few long moments the glow of Erygion’s Caliber was gone and he stood up. Hadraniel held up his hands and opened his eyes. His heart sank.

“Your pain should be gone.” said Erygion. “Unfortunately, I am not as gifted in healing as Saint Nanael of the Bright Hand. The flesh will never heal properly. The wounds were too great. Wounds can heal, but not all scars can be forgotten.”

“Told you that was never going to heal right.” Ovid’s deep voice cut through the night. Karin shot him a nasty look. He chuckled.

Hadraniel sighed as Karinael took a seat next to him, rubbing her hand up and down his back. “It’s fine, Hadi. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters to me.”

He clenched and unclenched his hands a few times. It was true that the pain was gone, and for that he was thankful. He went to feel his face but Karinael grabbed his hand. She looked into his eyes. “Hey, I love you,” she said. She kissed him. Hadraniel brushed his hand through her long, amber locks, trying to force a smile. She kissed him again.

“You were lucky to survive Ithuriel.” said Erygion. “Count yourselves alone in that feat.”

“I wouldn’t say they survived Ithuriel. I’d say they were lucky that I was there.” said Ovid, smiling. He strode forward.

Hadraniel let loose a sigh as he stood. “It’s true.” He looked at Ovid. “And for that I thank you.”

“But you did save me,” said Karinael, taking Hadraniel’s hand in hers. For the first time in days it caused him no pain. “Don’t take that away from yourself. He had no hand in that.”

“Didn’t I now?” Ovid chuckled.

Erygion turned to Ovid. “It would be best if you got back to your post. We don’t want any further suspicions.” He gazed at Ovid’s feet, and thankfully the soil was dry. “And I don’t want Leviathan Hydra following you here.”

Ovid nodded.

“Do like we discussed.” said Erygion. Here his countenance became more severe and his sapphire eyes burned into Ovid’s. “Can I trust you?”

Ovid’s lips curled into a wicked smile, his black eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Just until we get to Narbereth. Then I do my own thing and you can go to Duroton. Once we’re to Narbereth, I’m no longer part of anything.”

Erygion nodded. “So be it. It’s your right.” His eyes focused on the Sanguinastrum Ovid held. “Use your freedom wisely. And try to remember that you are a Saint of Aeoria.”

Ovid chuckled. He turned and the darkness swallowed him as he strode away.

Hadraniel shook his head. “He knows too much.”

“He does,” agreed Erygion. “Nothing to be done about that now.”

“Did you give him his real Sanguinastrum?” asked Hadraniel, hopeful that maybe Erygion just gave him one of the fakes he was planting back at Sanctuary.

Erygion nodded. “He saved you both from a terrible fate. He sought me out for you.” Then, as if he sensed Hadraniel’s thoughts that he should have just smashed it, he said, “It is not my right to recall a Saint. We are all bound by those collars. You and Karinael promised him his Sanguinastrum if he helped, and I honored that pact. If we cannot work in the Goddess’s footsteps, then we have already lost.”