“She fancies he’s screwing some lady about town.”
In that moment Bossu came in from the kitchens. He looked at the three men sitting by the fire, and then barked some orders to Genovefa. He nodded at his guests, and retreated to the kitchens.
“He’s also a vocal supporter of the Hierophant,” Bernt continued, in a low voice.
“So I was told by his patrons too,” Ulf said. “Last night we played cards.”
Bernt grinned. “Lost much?”
“Enough to put them in the mood for a chat.”
Gerard nursed his wine.
“I think we’ll need to keep an eye on mine host,” he said.
Part 2 - New Allies
Eleven – Crow’s Nest
The Crow’s Nest was an uneven pile of black stones perched on a rock spur overlooking the Puvis gorge, the remains of an ancient castle, once the home of a local potentate who had built his fortunes on exacting a fee on those that went through the passes.
“One of the many relics of a less enlightened time that dot the landscape of the Duchy,” Liane said.
Now they were riding slowly up the narrow roads that led to Puvis. There were dark legends about the Corw’s Nest, that had once been called Castle Nys. Tales of curses and bloodshed and of things less than human that were trapped inside.
Things that Bellegarde could use.
“Less enlightened but more exciting, I am sure,” Léa said.
Her horse snorted. The beasts were nervous. Léa had thought it was because Liuva and Giso, the horses not being used at carrying beast-men. But it was not that. They all were feeling it. It was a growing sense of unease that weighed upon them as they ascended along the side of the mountain.
“With a little effort,” Liane said, “we’ll bring back that excitement.”
Léa joined her wife and liege in a cruel laugh.
From that same unenlightened time they were discussing had come the Blue Flame, the fabled weapon that in the past had helped the dukes of Bellegarde against their enemies. As the menace of the Black Crusade waged by the Five Star banner against humanity grew and Bellegarde found itself imperiled, Liane and her aunt Gisla had taken upon themselves to find the Flame, and harness its power against this new menace.
“You are a true daughter of Bellegarde,” Léa said, a dark affection in her voice. Liane did not feel any sense of oppression, and was probably enjoying the bleak landscape and the forbidding vistas.
As Liane and Gisla had discovered, the fabled Blue Flame was real, a power capable of burning anything good and perverting what was left, awakening a darkness in the heart of its subjects. The Flame had transformed Bellegarde, awakening the core of evil and depravity that had made the Dukes great in the past.
Now, with the winter blocking the passes, the Duchess Adele and her daughters were mustering their forces, getting ready to push back the armies of the Hierophant when they would come pouring through the passes come spring. Various options and possibilities had been discussed in council, Gisla perusing the darkest books in her sorcerous library.
And the Crow’s Nest had been mentioned, and what laid within. What if they could harness what hid in the benighted halls of Castle Nys, winning it to their cause? The sole idea had been at the same time repulsive and exciting, and finally Léa had stepped forward, announcing that she would go to the Puvis gorge if no one else would.
Liane had felt so proud for her wife’s courage.
They had passed a few villages, eyes on them through the cracks in the curtains, but nobody had challenged them. The news was slowly spreading through the land, that Bellegarde was holding its ground against the Five Stars horde but many were still wary. Whole hamlets had been abandoned, the people fleeing to the passes, house doors hanging open and stray dogs prowling the streets. Bandits and beast-men had preyed on the fugitives. The fields would be unattended come spring. The Duchy was acquiring a dark, forlorn, sinister feel, and the countryside they were crossing looked haunted, and malign. Liane loved it - she felt at home among gnarled trees and brambles, and cherished the call of the crows. She knew that for her mother and her sisters was the same, another gift of the Blue Flame.
“How one changes,” she sighed languorously.
Léa put her hand on hers, and leaned from her saddle to kiss her. Behind them, Giso hissed, and Liuva let out an evil cackle.
Twelve – Visitors
Knocks boomed against the convent’s gate. Sister Bursar ran to the entrance all, short of breath, careful not to trip in the edge of her habit.
She placed her lantern on the cobbled floor, opened a peephole in the door, and looked out.
The snow was falling gently, and there was a coach in front of the entrance, two lamps casting a blue glow over the snow-covered ground. A shadow slid in front of the spyhole. Sister Bursar made out a cowl, a long nun’s habit, silhouetted against the night.
“Open, in the name of Bellegarde,” a voice said.
Female, authoritarian, harsh.
“Bellegarde?” she asked.
An irritated huff. “We are here,” the sister outside said, “by command of the Duchess Adele herself.”
Bursar looked around.
She was not used at taking decisions. She was expected to ask any visitor to state their business, and then she’d run to the Mother Superior for instructions. But now she was on her own.
With a sigh, she pulled the bolt and opened the door.
“Finally,” said the newcomer, stepping in. A horse neighed outside, and snorted. More cloaked figures entered the hall.
Sister Bursar lifted her lamp, and held her breath.
The woman in front of her was wearing a nun’s habit, but line no one she had ever seen. It was a deep blue, the tight top with a wide plunging neckline, and the straight skirt split to the hip, to reveal gold-stockinged legs with blue lace garters, and high-heeled boots. A chain pulled it at the waist, emphasizing the hips.
“I am Mistress Maeva,” the strange nun said. Her full lips were painted blue, and her eyelids were golden, her lashes long. The cowl hugged her face, and a long strand of black hair escaped from it, and brushed the woman’s cheek. “I am the Mistress Superior of the Order of Hildegarde of the Blue Flame.”
She was impressively busty, her breasts pulling at the fabric of her habit.
Sister Bursar curtsied. “Welcome to the Monastery of Beinot,” she said. “I am the Bursar, my name is sister—”
Her voice trailed off as her eyes goggled. Behind Mistress Maeva were two other nuns, wearing the same blue habits and equally made up. They were hugging together, and shared a salacious smile. “These are my sisters, Arnelle and Auriane.”
Two more women entered through the door, both black haired and wearing blue flowing dresses under their cloaks. They too had heavily painted faces, and the younger of the two had half her face hidden by her hair.
“And these are the lady Bélise of Bellegarde, daughter of our beloved Duchess,” Mistress Maeva said, “and the lady Gisla of Beaubois—”
“The sister of the poor, late Duke” Bursar breathed. She curtsied again. “Your brother was a benefactor of the order, my lady.”
The lady Gisla nodded. “It is because we care for you that we are here tonight,” she said. “To help. We need to see the Mother Superior.”
“Alas, my lady, you arrive late,” Sister Bursar said.
Gisla arched an eyebrow. “How so?”
“By your leave, my lady—” the nun said. She cleared her voice. “News of the death of your dear brother came, and of the coming of the army of the Hierophant. Panic seized my sisters—”
Gisla and Maeva traded a glance. “And?” asked the lady.
“They fled, my lady. Stories are told of what the Five Stars soldiery does to women, no matter if they wear the habit or not. So my sisters fled.”
“It also happened in Tarelle,” mistress Maeva said. There was a cruel bend to her lips. “The monastery lays abandoned, and foxes and crows
make their home in it. Claire of the Hearth has abandoned her people.”
“Do not say so, Mistress,” Bursar said, looking down in shame.
“Are you alone here, sister Bursar?” Gisla asked.
“Almost, my lady. By your leave, there is only me, and four novices.”
Thirteen – Jurgen of Nys
Léa advanced in the darkness, carrying a candle in her left hand. The place smelled of must and humidity and more unpleasant things. Bats cried and fluttered in the air above her. She pulled her cowl closer.
Something moved in the darkness. She heard it, faint like a rat scurrying on the flagstones. She turned.
Red eyes blinked in the darkness.
“Your flame hurts my sight,” a raspy voice said.
Léa held her breath, and lifted her right hand, shading the candle. Steps came closer, and the owner of the raspy voice came forward, emerging from the shadows like he was made of the same stuff. “Who are you?” he asked.
Léa took a step back. The thing in front of her had maybe once been a man, but was no more. Dressed in a long, black coat, he stood on thin legs, and waved at her a hand with fingers unnaturally long, tipped wit sharp black claws. His high-domed head was completely bald, his face long and gaunt, his eyes sunken in a web of lines, the nose but a slash. His ears were large, like bat wings. His skin was pale in the poor trembling light of the hidden candle.
“I am Léa of Bellegarde,” she said, straightening her shoulders, proud.
The creature arched its eyebrows. “None I know in the Duke’s family with that name.”
His front teeth were long and sharp, like a rat’s.
“I am of Bellegarde by way of marriage,” Léa said.
The creature was slowly walking around her, sniffing the air.
“I may be prisoner in this forsaken place,” he said, “but I have ways of knowing what goes on in the Duchy. And I know the Duke has no male relations you could marry. So who are you, and why are you lying to me?” He grinned, his sharp teeth glinting. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“You are Jurgen of Nys,” Lèa smirked. “The one they call the Thrice Cursed. And I am Léa of Bellegarde, the wife of Liane of Bellegarde, the late Duke’s first daughter.”
The creature’s beady eyes widened.
“It is true then,” Jurgen said, “that the Flame burns anew, and Bellegarde is once again serving the Darkness.”
Léa nodded. “We do as we please,” she said. “We serve no one but ourselves.”
“Oh, so wonderfully put!” Jurgen laughed, a screeching, wheezing sound. He waved his skeletal hands. “I always hated the sanctimonious attitude of the later generations of your family. This new turn pleases me immensely. And what do you want here, Léa of Bellegarde?”
Lèa chuckled. “Can’t you imagine?”
Jurgen shook his big bulging head. “Imagination—Imagination can be a cruel thing when you are trapped in the darkness for long centuries, with your mind your only company.” He leaned closer, and Lèa could smell the decay emanating from him. “Don’t invoke my imagination,” Jurgen said. “Tell me what it is that brings you here.”
Léa shook her head, and her cowl dropped, leaving her hair and her neck exposed.
“I am here for you,” she said.
Jurgen sniffed, leaning closer still, his eyes into Léa’s.
“Have you any idea of what you are saying?” he smirked.
“Of course I have,” Léa snapped. “Bellegarde faces a new enemy—”
“Oh, I see. You seek new alliances, new supporters. And you thought about me. This is so deliciously perverse. Whose idea was it?”
“It was mine.”
Jurgen nodded. “Léa of Bellegarde, I see now you are a woman after my own heart.” He cracked up in another wheezing laugh. “When I still had one, I mean.”
Léa laughed with him.
“We have a deal, then?” she asked.
“Ah, a deal—” Jurgen said. “To serve the Blue Flame and Bellegarde. It would be so sweet, after so many years in the dark, at the edges. My children would be in a frenzy—”
“Let’s do what needs to be done, then,” Léa said. She was surprised in discovering not a hint of fear in her spirit, but a growing sense of excitement, of anticipation. Of arousal.
“But how do you plan to free me from this place?” Jurgen asked.
Léa laughed. “The only way possible,” she said.
This was the moment of truth. She stood still, holding Jurgen’s red gaze.
He was silent for a moment. “I see,” he said finally, all mirth gone.
“There is no other way,” Léa said, and there was the faintest hint of sadness in her voice.
“Of course there isn’t,” he replied.
For the first time he touched her, his cold fingers caressing her cheek, running down her neck. She felt a shiver, and her nipples stiffened. “You are very beautiful, Léa of Bellegarde,” he said.
“I know,” she said, pride burning in her eyes.
She bent her head gently to the side, stretching her neck, and blew the candle out.
For a long moment she was in utter darkness, waiting.
Then his big hands closed on her breasts, and a long cold spike of ice stabbed at her neck, sending a throbbing shiver down to her sex. She moaned, and relaxed into the embrace of Jurgen of Nys.
Fourteen – Change of Habit
“I am not familiar with your order, Mother Maeva,” sister Bursar said.
“The proper title is Mistress,” Maeva corrected her.
They were walking across the courtyard. Sister Bursar wondered how it was possible for the three nuns not to feel cold, considering how much of their flesh was exposed. Behind her, the sisters Auriane and Arnelle laughed softly, as if they were able to read her thoughts.
“It is a very ancient order,” Maeva went on. Hips swaying, she strode slowly, ignoring the snow on the ground. “Older, indeed, than your order of the Hearth. But we have been through hard times, and there is only a few of us left.”
“My sister the Duchess Adele has been a fervent supporter of the Flame,” Gisla said. She grinned. “Hers was a sudden, momentous conversion, and she has the future of the fait in the duchy at heart. With the trials that await us, a strong faith will hold our spirits high.”
Bursar arched an eyebrow. She glanced at Arnelle and Auriane, that were standing by the side, cuddling each other, talking in whispers and giggling. “I see,” she said.
They entered the main building and Biursar led the guests to what had been the study of the Mother superior. She led the way, holding her lantern high.
Once inside, she used the lantern’s flame to lit two candles on the desk. Behin her, Maeva paced in front of a tall bookshelf that occupied a whole wall of the room. She ran a finger on a shelf, and rubbed the tip against the thumb, wriggling her nose fastidiously. The Bursar noticed her fingernails were long and painted the same deep blue of her lips and her habit.
“It is the Duchess’ wish,” Mistress Maeva said, “in the face of the coming hardships, and the state of abandon of the Duchy’s monasteries, that our orders join into one.”
“A merger?” sister Bursar said.
“We are here to induct you,” Maeva said, “into our order. Then I will take place as Mistress Superior.”
“I don’t see how—” Bursar started.
“I will let my sisters explain the details to you,” Maeva cut her short. “With lady Bélise’s help.”
The two blue nuns hummed happily and advanced on the black-clad sister. Auriane placed her hands on the shoulders of sister Bursar and pushed her against the wall, while Arnelle, leering, rubbed herself against the side of the plump nun. Sister Bursar’s babbling protests were silenced when Auriane slammed her blue mouth on hers, and pushed her tongue deep down her throat.
Fifteen - Blood
Léa curled on the ground of the crypt, shuddering as in a fever. Her hair had escaped her do, and fell over he
r face, sticking to her sweat-bathed cheeks. Pain racked her body, like a million hot irons poking at her flesh, and her heart was pounding out of pace, weakly, with a stab of pain at every beat.
Jurgen cleaned his lips on the back of his wrist. There was color in his sere features. He looked down at Léa, and sighed.
“It is not pleasant,” he said.
She looked up. She could see him clearly, as if the black pit in which they were was brightly lit by the sun. She snarled at him. Words were too complicated, they required too much concentration. She had no time for that now. For her there was only pain, the blade piercing her heart with every breath, and the lacerating hunger growing in her belly.
Jurgen was looking around the room, like it was the first time he was seeing it, like a blind man whose sight has been miraculously returned.
Léa groaned, and tried to stand, but she was shaking too much. She crumpled into a heal, and rolled up in a fetal position, her arms wrapped around her legs.
Jurgen sighed.
“Let us finish our business, Léa of Bellegarde,” he said.
He bent down,and his strange skeletal fingers grabbed Léa by the hair and pulled her up. She squealed, and tried to break free. He slapped her, hard, once.
They stared at each other in the eye for a moment that seemed to last forever. Then he grinned at her, showing his rat-like teeth.
“Here,” he said. “This is what you came for.”
With his free hand, he undid the first button of his long coat, and then with a black talon, he pierced the vein in his neck. Black blood poured out, and Léa’s eyes widened, and she shook, trying to get free, and put her hands on his shoulders. Jurgen laughed, and let go of her. She pulled him into an angry embrace, and her mouth found the cut on his neck, and she started sucking, eagerly, moaning.
Sixteen - Novices
They had been talking, as usual, after the candles had been blown out. Renilla sat in her bed, a finger between the pages of the prayer book she had been reading, to keep the mark, and explained once more why leaving the monastery would have been madness. Hers was the only light still on, and it cast a stark shadow, painting her face half in darkness, and giving her red hair a burning glow.
Slow Burn Page 4
