Chains of a Dark Goddess (8 page)

“General Togisi’s inquisitors show little restraint. They are getting out of hand. He needs to bring them under control.”

“I think they mean well but I agree. They stopped short of torturing me.”

Ilsimia frowned and shook her head. “That’s exactly what I mean. I’ve heard a lot of stories like this lately. You’re a Knight Avenger, a member of the First Lancers under Togisi’s command, a former squire to Breskaro, and you’re living in the household of Sir Fortrenzi. Your word should have been more than enough.”

“What can I do? They know all that. It’s just their way. And it will be until General Togisi or the Matriarch herself makes them change. You’re just lucky you’re a priestess. I hope they’re gentle with Sir Varenni’s cousins. They’re interviewing the family now. They might show less restraint with them.”

“Think they’ll learn anything?”

“I doubt it. No one in his family would have any motive to steal Breskaro’s body. It’s surely a ploy by our enemies.”

“What benefit is there for someone to steal a decaying body, even of one’s enemy?”

“There is little good,” said a clear but ancient voice, “and much ill that sorcery could do with a corpse, especially that of a hero so many people revered.”

They turned to face an elderly priestess dressed in sky blue robes.

“High Priestess Maedara,” said Ilsimia, bowing alongside Kedimius. “Thank you for coming.”

“The Matriarch said you needed my help.”

Maedara was the strongest medium in Issaly. Retired, she left her cloister only when it was absolutely necessary. Leaning on her staff, she reached out and touched the forehead of each with her thumb and whispered a short blessing. She lingered over Kedimius.

“You are disturbed, child.”

“Sir Varenni was my master. Practically my father.”

She nodded. “Yes, you have suffered much in his death. And you are not alone. I have met others whose lives were almost shattered by his passing.”

Kedimius raised an eyebrow. “Could one of them be responsible for—”

“Stealing his corpse? No, none of them would have done that. Come, let’s get a closer look.”

They walked down to the mausoleum, and the White Guard backed away when they saw Maedara. The closer she came to the mausoleum, the deeper she frowned, until her face was a mass of scowling wrinkles. Upon reaching the threshold she said, “Foul sorceries took place here. Of that I am certain.”

She stumbled backward and Kedimius caught her. She nearly passed out, but after a few deep breaths she recovered, though she was trembling slightly.

‘You have strength … and character,” she said to Kedimius. “I might have fallen into Shadow without you.” Maedara turned to Ilsimia. “A dark ritual took place here, but it will take time for me to analyze it. I will need assistance from the Sisterhood of Seers, and your help would be most welcome, Sister Ilsimia.”

“Of course, High Priestess Maedara. Anything I can do.”

Maedara turned to Kedimius. “Her Excellency has requested that you personally notify General Togisi.”

“He doesn’t know yet?”

“He left the city in a hurry this morning, heading for his estate. Word came last night that his daughter had died, may the Goddess bless her.”

Kedimius looked stricken. “Albiria? What happened?”

“I do not know. Tell General Togisi what you have seen and what we are doing. The White Guard may wish to send a report along with you, so check with them before leaving.”

“Why me, High Priestess? Why not one of the couriers or a member of the White Guard?”

Maedara shrugged. “I have no idea why the Matriarch selected you. I didn’t ask. Perhaps she wishes the news to come from an eyewitness.”

“Should I wait a little while to make sure nothing else happens?”

“There was evil here, child, I have no doubt of that. But we can handle it without you. Getting away from it may help you clear your mind, and your heart.”

“Ked,” said Ilsimia, “what about Sir Fortrenzi? Should we notify him? He was so close to Sir Varenni. If he must learn it, he should learn it from us.”

“It would be best,” said Maedara, “that Sir Fortrenzi not find out. I fear it would greatly upset him. He has never gotten over the death.”

“He never mentions Master Varenni,” Kedimius said, “but he sometimes screams his name in his sleep. I can hear him all the way down the hall in my room.”

Maedara nodded. “I pray he finds peace someday. It is not good for his soul.”

“If this is resolved quickly and word doesn’t slip out,” Kedimius said, “we won’t ever have to tell him about it.”

Chapter 11

Present Day

Midnight approached before Orisala fell asleep and Breskaro left her side. She had listened attentively throughout the day as he recounted his last battle, walking in the Shadowland, Nalsyrra restoring him ... memories of Orisala as a young child, tales of her wondrous mother, Adelenia, who had died giving birth to her.

High Priest Artorio had waited for him outside the convalescence ward. 

“I — I would like to ... speak ... with you. Please, follow me.”

Artorio led Breskaro away from all the buildings to a clearing hidden in the thickest part of the garden. Artorio stepped over to a rose vine that climbed a tall arbor. The vine was laden with golden blooms tinged with crimson on the ends. He examined several leaves then sniffed one of the roses.

“My favorite,” he said. “It is the prize of our gardens. It has been here longer than I have. What do you think of it?”

“Roses mean nothing to me.”

“My apologies,” replied Artorio. “So … your daughter. You called her Orisala. And Nalsyrra called you Breskaro.”

“What of it?”

“Neither is a common name. You are Breskaro Varenni, a Champion of Seshalla, a colonel in the Issalian army, the commander of the Valiants, and a hero of the crusades.”

“And if I am?”

“I am not a fool,” Artorio replied nervously. “I know what you are. You died seven years ago. Your body was shown in Issaly. You were embalmed and entombed. Now you have returned from the dead by some sinister art.”

“Have you told anyone?” Breskaro asked icily.

“Not even our high priestess. I wanted to speak with you first. I don’t know your motives, save that I believe you have come to this temple in peace and that you must love your daughter very much.”

“I have one motive. I am here to see that my daughter is safe, and in time, I will have in my possession a device that can restore her.”

Artorio was astonished. “I am an expert on all known forms of healing. I have near heard of such an item.”

“It is an artifact of dark magic.”

“Ah, I see. And what will you do to secure this dark artifact?”

“Whatever I must.”

“That frightens me, Sir Varenni. Nothing good will come from embracing dark powers.”

“Nothing good came from embracing Seshalla, either, and I was told all my life about what a just and loving goddess she is. My reward was an endless walk in the Shadowland.” He drew his sword. “I will do what I must, and no one will interfere with me.”

Breskaro’s eyes flared as he intoned a short incantation. With a flick of his wrist, his blade sped toward the rose vine and snipped off one flower. Breskaro reversed his sword swipe and batted the flower against the priest’s chest. Artorio caught the rose and watched in horror as it withered and turned to dust in his hand.

“If you report my presence or hers to anyone, I shall kill not only you but every member of this temple. Every invalid in your care. Everyone in the nearest town, friend or foe to you. I will then systematically hunt down every Keshomaean I can find.”

The high priest’s eyes were wide. His mouth hung open. He backed up against a dense stand of bamboo. As Breskaro stared at him, a trickle of fire seemed to run down his blade. 

Artorio swallowed, nodded. The dust that was once a rose fell from his hand.

Breskaro sheathed his sword, dispelling the seeming that had caused the illusory flame.

“Y-You are no longer the devout hero everyone admired. That much is certain.”

“Am I not? That man was a shadow. Oh, he was a more appealing shadow than the one who sits before you now, but no less a shadow. What I would do should you betray me is no less than what we crusaders did to those whom the Matriarch named infidels.”

Breskaro reached out the bag of money Nalsyrra had given him. The priest took it with trembling hands. Nalsyrra had suggested donating a dozen gold coins, five times what a common laborer could hope to make in a year. Instead he gave the priest all but that many, a small fortune. 

“Remember what I have said, priest. I have been generous to you, as you have been to my daughter. When I return, I will reward you further. If you should cross me in any way, everything you hold dear will suffer the fate of that rose.”

~~~

Breskaro stayed with Orisala at the Temple of the Rose for three days. When she slept, he practiced his incantations in the garden outside her room. The devotees, acolytes, and priests avoided Breskaro and did not trouble him in any way. Artorio would appear each day, briefly, to ask if everything was satisfactory.

On the evening of the third day, Breskaro said a tearful goodbye to Orisala. Then he went to speak with Nalsyrra. She was out in the moonlit gardens, playing with her child, Zyr. 

“Strangely, these last few days were happy to me. Or at least I remember this as happiness. My soul may be dead to flowers, sun, and sky, but it is not dead when it comes to Orisala.”

“We love our children dearly,” Nalsyrra said in her sibilant tones. “And you fought your way back to life for her.”

“I feel I must go now.”

“That is wise. You have much to do. The Fourth Crusade is gathering. According to the Star Spirits, the Issalian forces will begin marching in eight weeks, in Winter. Once they have word of you, they won’t wait for Spring.”

“What state is Mûlkra in?”

“Plagued by internecine warfare, assassinations, corruption, poverty, lawlessness. The usual. But it has grown worse than normal the last few years. Jackals devouring a carcass.”

“And somehow I must rally these people to follow me, after I’ve recovered the artifact? That won’t leave me much time.”

“Once you meet your benefactor, Harmulkot’s ghost will join you. With her direction, presence, and power, you should be able to unite the Mûlkrans.” 

“Her
ghost
! Is Harmulkot
that
weak?”

“Are you surprised? A goddess can be no stronger than her nation. Harmulkot has been neglected by her people for a long time. The Seshallans have eradicated her worshipers throughout this region for two centuries now. And she made many mistakes along the way. Key among them was falling to a curse that bound her to her qavra, unable to be reborn, trapped in her current ghostly form. There is little left of her, but I believe it is enough to accomplish everything you must and to restore Orisala.”

“For that I only need the Akythiri Mechanism and her knowledge?”

Nodding, Nalsyrra drew her grimoire from her pack. “You will need this, the Grimoire of Therunsaya. It has all that I taught you and much more.”

“You don’t need it?”

“I know that book by heart. I have other, more obscure grimoires stashed in safe places. You have a good mind and an incredibly strong will. I think, given enough time, you could learn and use almost every spell in this grimoire. But since you lack the time, I advise you to avoid the rituals and all the spells that must be scribed and prepared in advance.”

Nalsyrra reached into her pack and pulled out a small copper rod studded on each end with a crystal.

“This is the part to fix the mechanism. You will find one like it attached to the device. Simply pry that one loose and replace it with this one.”

Breskaro took the part, which was warm and seemed as if it were vibrating subtly, wrapped it up, and placed it within a saddlebag. 

“What will you do now? Head back your Mountains of the Stars?”

“Not yet. It is peaceful here and the Star Spirits do not currently require anything of me.”

“You could help me,” Breskaro said eagerly. “My chances would be far greater with you along.”

“I like you, Breskaro, and if I
could
help you, I would. But I cannot. It is forbidden for me to help any more than the Star Spirits have dictated. However, I can help you indirectly. I will stay here and see that the temple is safe and that your daughter is protected.”

“I am grateful to you for that. But I will personally see to it that the Resbani don’t come here again.”

Chapter 12

Avida emerged from behind a thick bank of clouds and illuminated fourteen crosses on a low, barren hillside. Tied to them were thirteen ragged men of various ages and, on the nearest cross to the road, a young girl. They were crucified in the so-called
gentle
style, with platforms the tips of their toes could just reach taking some of their weight. That way they would suffer for as long as possible. A guardhouse sat atop the summit of the hill, but the lights were out, the guards asleep.