Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) (6 page)

“He brings only your destruction.”

Slade raised his scimitar. “Any last words?”

Padraic found himself glad that the banter had come to an
end, for he had grown weary. He looked past Slade as a twinkle caught his eyes
in the distance. At the edge of the Lurkwood stood an ethereal woman clad in
gossamer.

His wife looked like she did on their wedding day: resplendent
in ivory, wearing a garland of wytchwood, dark hair springing capriciously
about her throat and face. Padraic blinked away a tear to discover a host of
figures had joined her, wreathed in alabaster, blue, green, and rose spirit
fire. Many of the shades he knew in life, while others remained unknown to him,
yet they seemed somehow familiar.

Edora beckoned to him. Slade swung his scimitar, but the Marshal
did not see it or feel its sting. Padraic Duana died with the name of his wife
on his lips.

Bishops, Queens, and Pawns

Sarad Mirengi offered an exaggerated nod to the man
kneeling at his feet, his countenance a well-practiced mask of concern.

The supplicant before him, a philandering noble with a taste
for young flesh, looked up at him expectantly with wet eyes. Sarad favored him
with an indulgent smile and sat back in his satin lined chair, which resembled
nothing so much as a throne.

“My son, there is no question that your carnal appetites are
an affront to God,” Sarad said, savoring the moment as Duke Vachel Ogressa’s
face turned ashen. “Be that as it may, none may say that they are perfect in
the eyes of the One God. Through your urges, he tests you, preparing you for
his divine light. Your suffering shall purify your soul, my child. If you give unto
him, he shall give unto you and cured of your base afflictions shall you be.”

The color returned to Vachel’s face. “Thank-you Prelate,
your words have not fallen on deaf ears.” He wiped at tears with a sleeve, and
produced a coin purse from his tunic. He held it up in both hands as if
offering a relic. Sarad indicated his tea-table with a nod, as if above the
profanity of material wealth.

“You are pardoned, my child. May His light illuminate the
dark corners of your soul.” Sarad held out a hand and spoke in the tongue of
the ancient prophets of Aradur, his words charged and resonant, as if they
emanated from a vast distance, echoing from outside the constraints of this
world. A golden aureole of light encircled his hand and fanned outward.

Vachel closed his eyes against the vivid glow, and a smile
spread across his face as he basked in the warmth of Sarad’s blessing. A sense
of contentment washed over the kneeling Duke. The clerics of the One God had
been pardoning sinners for decades, but he had never heard tell of anything
like this. Rumor had it that Mirengi was favored by God, but Vachel never
guessed that the prelate was gifted with such miraculous power.

Suffused with renewed energy, Vachel sprung to his feet, the
heady sensation of the preternatural ritual coursing through his veins with all
the fire and potency of a strong Galacian whiskey.

“Go now, my child. It would please me to see you again,
Vachel. Next time you are at court do stop by for a visit.”

“You may count on it, your Holiness.” The Duke genuflected
and then swept out of the room.

As Sarad watched him go a crooked grin crept across his
face. He could use a man like Vachel. Having leverage on a man who was both a
Duke and High Lord of House Ogressa would prove most advantageous in the months
to come.

With each pardon he performed his renown grew—as did the
number of men in his thrall. The ritual was little more than a light show, save
for a little twist. Sarad wove an invisible charm, planting a seed in Vachel’s
unconscious mind. The suggestion would firm its hold over the ensuing days, and
the supplicant would find his mind drawn back to the Prelate of the Church of
the One God. He would remember Sarad with admiration and reverence. After the
hypnotic suggestion took root, with little effort Sarad would be able to
subjugate the Duke’s will entirely should the need arise. In the meantime, he
had guaranteed another loyal supporter.

He reclined in his chair, relishing in his new, opulent
chambers. It had only been a few short weeks since his predecessor had gone to
his great reward. The stubborn old bastard had hung tenaciously onto his
vitality into his eighties, and Sarad had already wasted enough time waiting
for the pious fool to expire.

Getting close enough to kill his predecessor without being
detected proved to be a near impossible task, what with the throng of the One
Guard milling about and the myriad wards wrought in time beyond record when
Galacia yet boasted wizards of merit, which is why he had waited as long as
possible for nature to take its course. Yet Sarad’s timetable for advancement
to the Church’s highest office in Galacia had run out and he had been forced to
take matters into his own hands.

It had been quite the challenge, for employing even his not
inconsiderable magic proved difficult. Aside from having to avoid tripping any
of the wards, many of which would trigger in the presence of even the weakest
of cantrips, if the Prelate died suddenly there would be an investigation. If a
discernible residue of magic remained, the wizards from Arcalum would know
there had been foul play.

In the end Sarad settled on a devilishly simple plan. Consulting
an ancient grimoire acquired through black market dealings, he discovered a
spell that detailed a clever way to bring death to ones enemies with a small
investment of power, and, more importantly, one which would allow the arcanist
to cast the spell off site.

Safe in his own chambers, he wove the spell without fear of
detection, for while wards were placed outside the cleric’s dormitory and in
the keep proper, there were none inside their modest bedrooms. The ritual
required one black spider and a fingernail, lock of hair, or any other part of
the victim’s body.

It had been easier than expected to procure the components. The
vain Prelate wore his hair to the shoulders in a silver mane, and was
fastidious in matters of personal hygiene. His predecessor had a habit of
combing his hair before audiences, so when Sarad made an unscheduled visit, the
Prelate hardly had time to give his locks the proper attention, and as such
left his comb out. When the opportunity presented itself, Sarad adroitly
plucked a hair from the comb, the aged patriarch none the wiser.

Once ensorcelled the spider’s bite became deadly and, thanks
to the totem, the insect unerringly homed in on the victim. The poison stopped
the heart within mere minutes, and the cause of death would be virtually
undetectable. He had engineered the perfect murder. As Sarad congratulated
himself a toothy grin erupted on his face that was anything but holy, for now
there was but one man who outranked him in the Church and that was the Holy
Father himself, the Shining One, who dwelt in far off Aradur, half a world
away.

Sarad was snapped from his reverie as he felt a familiar
pull in the back of his mind, like the chime of a low-pitched, resonant bell. An
electric tingle swept up his spine. His Lord summoned him. The wolf-like grin
melted and his face became a stoic mask, empty of emotion. He rose and strode
with slow, deliberate steps toward his study.

He locked the door and then spun his hands, fingers splayed,
over one another in a circular motion. His pale blue eyes narrowed as he
focused his will and cast a spell. Sarad summoned a ward, as a failsafe, to
prevent anyone from barging in on him. The ward would make it virtually
impossible to break down the door by any mundane means.

That done, he waved his hand cursorily over the floor in the
center of the chamber and spoke a single word:
Ikoro
. The floor wavered
and shimmered, like the heat wave distortion in the air above a torch, and then
cleared to reveal a spell-circle rife with arcane runes and sigils, which were etched
into the floor in silver and intersected by long, sweeping lines.

Sarad used an illusion to hide his Wizard’s Circle from view,
lest anyone entering his study discover the true nature of their nascent
Prelate.

With the illusion that obfuscated the circle dispelled,
Sarad readied himself to commune with his masters. He sat in the center of the
circle between a series of intertwining lines, closed his eyes, and began to
chant. The words he spoke would be indecipherable to any listener, save one of
his order, as a coherent language. Rather, they sounded like a discordant,
sibilant song pronounced in phonemes instead of words.

The circle began to emit a scarlet light.

He could feel the heat leeching from his body, as if an icy
fist held him fast it its grasp. Sarad opened his eyes. A shadowy form
coalesced in the scarlet blaze. The figure sat cross-legged, suspended in mid
air. His body was wreathed in waves of scarlet energy that clung to him like
liquid fire. His eyes, however, were an inky void, as depthless and as devouring
as a starless, moonless night.

“Sarad,” the figure said simply.

“Greetings, my Liege. I humbly await your direction.”

“You have done well by securing the office of Prelate. We
are pleased. How go your efforts at subverting the court in Peidra?”

“I have made progress, faster than anticipated. As we
discussed, it is too early to begin posturing for political influence. However,
my blessings have ingratiated me to many members of the court and gentry, and
the number of those who seek the sacrament is growing exponentially.”

“Excellent. Before long they shall seek your counsel, and be
as clay in your hands to be shaped to our will. When House Denar is at its
weakest, the Hand will strike and you will open the door for our return.”

“So shall it be, my Lord.”

“Long have our agents been abroad in Agia, and long have
they waited for this moment. Hitherto, they have remained hidden, masquerading,
but soon shall they reveal themselves as the servants of a power long-forgotten
but not gone.”

With that said the ephemeral figure nodded once, and the
scarlet bindings that wound about him frayed, then dissipated. The lambent
threads lashed and snaked in the air like a taut sailor’s line abruptly cut. A
preternatural wind swept through the chamber. The arcane light spun into a
vortex, churned into a ball, then a pinprick before disappearing completely,
leaving an exhausted Prelate of The Church of the One God in its wake.

†

Elsewhere in the capital, a careworn Eithne Denar,
Queen of Galacia, resisted the impulse to rub her aching head.

She remembered the most valuable lesson her father had
taught her—never let the gentry see you rattled. She heard his voice even now.
They
are jackals, Ith. If you prick your finger and let slip a single drop of blood,
they’ll take your whole hand, so eager will they be for a taste of it.

The queen wished for nothing more than to throttle the reedy
man who lectured her in a tone thick with condescension. Her tenuous grasp on
the favor of the court, however, stayed her hand. At thirty she was a
relatively young sovereign in the eyes of the gentry—a fact that Lord Geoffrey
Oberon was all too happy to remind her of. She could ill afford to alienate
House of Oberon as she had need of their ample resources and familial ties with
the royal house of neighboring Phyra. As the breadbasket of the continent of Agia,
Galacia long suffered a precarious position, and had need of all the allies she
could muster.

“Lord Oberon,” she said, “I sympathize with your concerns,
however, I feel they merit further consideration before any action is taken. We
will wait until more intelligence is gathered.”

“But, my Queen,” Oberon said, glancing around the room to
indicate that he addressed the entire assembly, “It is unthinkable to allow
Ittamar’s trade treaty with Aradur to go unopposed. By allowing the savage
North to engage in commerce freely with our allies, without even so much as a
formal complaint, we are condoning their infringement into southern lands, and
a possible alliance with a nation that has long been known for its
litigiousness. Furthermore, competition with the North could drive up the price
of Aradurian goods.”

“Dear Lord Oberon,” Eithne said with a warm smile, “I know
how much you enjoy curried chicken, but I don’t think you have need for worry.”
She paused a moment to allow her other advisors to chuckle at her joke. “Aradur’s
vast deserts do not allow for much fertile ground. They will always need our
grain.”

Oberon’s face colored and his lips pressed together in a
scarcely concealed grimace, which gave her a small rush of satisfaction.

“We’ve had two decades of peace with Ittamar,” Eithne
continued, “and I will take no action that could be construed as hostile unless
absolutely necessary.”

Lord Geoffrey Oberon nodded stiffly. “Yes, my Queen,” he
said and then took his chair, joining the other High Lords at the ovular
mahogany table that sat Galacia’s High Council.

“That,” said the queen, “concludes the Council of the Six.”

The five Lords, each the head of one of the original five
ruling houses of Galacia, stood and waited for their queen to exit the audience
chamber before filing out themselves.

Though a few may have shuddered involuntarily, as if walking
through a patch of cold air, their subconscious minds perhaps registering what
their physical senses could not, none noticed the invisible presence that
hovered near the door, watching them intently.

†

Eithne enjoyed a rare moment of solitude in her private
chambers. She raised a glass of wine to her lips with a delicate hand and
sighed deeply. After a heavy draught of the potent red, she placed the glass
down on her gilded, ebony dressing table. Eithne removed the slender circlet of
platinum that served as the symbol of her office with care, so as to avoid
snagging her chestnut tresses.

A knock sounded at her door. Eithne closed her eyes. “Who is
it?” she said, affecting her most regal tone.

“It’s Ogden, Your Grace,” a familiar voice announced.

A smile lighted her delicate features. Ogden had been her
father’s Steward, favored advisor, and confidant, so few found it surprising
that he fulfilled the same role for Eithne. As much an uncle as advisor, she
relied heavily on the venerable Ogden’s counsel. She rose and opened the door. “Come
in Ogden. What brings you to me?”

“A matter of some importance, I’m afraid. This has just
arrived via Aradurian messenger.” He held out a letter in his gnarled hand.

Eithne took the letter gingerly, as if it were a coiled
viper. The envelope read in a spidery hand
For the Eyes of Eithne Denar,
Queen of Galacia
. She turned the envelope over and her eyes widened. The
letter may have been delivered by an Aradurian courier, but it bore the seal of
the royal house of Ittamar. Galacia had not received official word from Ittamar
for some twenty years, since the tenuous peace treaty had been drawn.