The Inner Circle: Holy Spirit

by Cael McIntosh

  It had only been the preceding night that Seteal made it back into her body. She’d seemed tired and Seeol felt it was fitting to give her time to rest. He’d arranged rooms for all of his friends along with an invitation to join him for a private meal the following evening. He’d likewise sent out invitations to Briel and Fes, who’d been trading in the area. Far-a-mael, too, had been invited, but with the alliance having already been formalised, he’d declined, claiming to be too busy.

  ‘I’m just going to say it.’ As expected, it did not take Seteal long to cut through the silence and ruin the mood. ‘What the torrid is going on here?’ she said abrasively, her eyes moving over Ieane’s subordinate posture with contempt.

  ‘Seeol--as you call him--is the Holy Spirit, the Hand of Maker,’ Ieane said proudly.

  ‘You’re not a holy anything,’ Seteal directed at Seeol, feeling embarrassed for the Jenjen in their foolishness.

  ‘Why did you leave me?’ He locked eyes on El-i-miir. The long black hair tumbling over her shoulders, framing her exquisite features, took his breath away. She was more beautiful than he’d remembered and her betrayal hurt his heart the most. He’d expect such a thing from Seteal. She was hot-headed and did whatever she had to do to survive. He’d even have expected it from Ilgrin, as they’d never really been as close as the others. But El-i-miir was supposed to be the nice one. ‘I was scared,’ Seeol growled.

  ‘I’m sorry, Seeol.’ El-i-miir failed to hold his gaze. ‘You were becoming too dangerous.’

  ‘Nothing badness ever happened to the Jenjenjen,’ Seeol spat. ‘They love me and only friendly things ever happen. Maybe if you’d petted me more, nothing bad would ever happen. You’re mean to me.’

  ‘They’ve upset You!’ Ieane pounced to her feet. ‘Shall I arrange their execution, Holy Father?’

  ‘No!’ Seeol stared at the girl in bewilderment. ‘All I ever want is love. You all have love and can’t do anything but kill each other.’

  ‘Listen, Seeol.’ Seteal put her hands flat on the table. ‘You’re just going to have to get over this. We did what we had to do to survive. You were holding us back.’

  ‘What about my survivals?’ Seeol lowered his voice, the pain he felt becoming too much to bear. If he’d have had tear ducts, it would be very likely that he’d be crying. ‘I’d never have lefted you that way. I’d have fought to the end, because that’s what friends do.’

  ‘Seeol,’ El-i-miir said with an expression lacking empathy. ‘You have to understand. It’s different with you.’

  ‘Why?’ Seeol croaked, his heart racing.

  ‘Well . . . we can’t really be friends, can we?’ El-i-miir’s patient tone was forced. ‘You’re . . . just a bird.’

  ‘How dare you?’ Ieane stood up and slammed her hands against the table.

  ‘Oh, come on.’ El-i-miir rolled her eyes at the girl. ‘It’s not like he’s got real feelings. It’s mostly just mimicry.’

  Seeol stared at El-i-miir and then Seteal and then back again. He looked over at Fes and Briel, both of whom seemed impartial to what had taken place. He couldn’t find the words to say. He was frozen. To them, no matter what he did or said, Seeol would always be less than human.

  ‘My Lord is truly merciful to not have smote these blasphemers on the spot,’ Ieane’s voice shook with emotion, ‘but I won’t sit here and listen to such heresy.’

  ‘Little girl,’ Seteal raised her eyebrows. ‘Seeol isn’t your Holy Sprit. He’s just a whisp-mutated elf owl.’

  ‘I am the Spirit!’ Seeol shrieked furiously. Seteal had abandoned him. She’d left him for dead and now she wanted to destroy his new home, too. It wasn’t enough to shatter their friendship. She needed to see him miserable. ‘These are my people now!’

  ‘Your people?’ El-i-miir said in bewilderment. ‘What you’re doing here is just plain wrong. You’ve manipulated these people into following you. They think that you’re Maker, for Maker’s sake.’

  ‘I am Maker’s spririt!’ Seeol shouted bitterly. ‘And I does doing done prove it!’ He leapt from the table and flew across the room to land aggressively atop his bookshelf. There he grabbed the Devil’s Stone and peered into El-i-miir’s eyes, eyes filled with derision. As long as he was an owl, she would never see him as anything but.

  Darkness sprung from the stone as Seeol visualised the humans below him. He would make her see him as an equal. He would make her see him as a man.

  *

  A book fell from the shelf and hit the ground with a thud as Seeol scratched about on top.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Seteal sighed impatiently. ‘Come back down and we’ll talk.’

  ‘No,’ Seeol snapped, his voice unusually deep.

  Having become the size of a small chicken, Seeol tumbled backward, a ball of feathers whose wings were unable to keep him aloft.

  ‘Seteal!’ Fes cried. ‘He be changin’!’ She leapt away from the table.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ Seteal gasped. ‘I stopped that.’

  Seeol screamed. The sound was a twist between that of an animal and a human. The room filled with alarmed guards who could do nothing but watch in horror as Seeol’s face rippled in agony, his facial muscles becoming increasingly able to show such an expression. His wings cracked forward and human fingers sprouted from the ends. Seteal yelped and pushed herself back against the wall as Seeol’s beak melted into lips and a nose dug its way out of his face. As his proportions increased, Seeol’s feathers re-sheathed and sank back into his body. Rich brown hair sprouted from his scalp and a moment later Seteal found herself staring at a young man curled up naked on the floor.

  ‘Seeol?’

  ‘It’s a miracle!’ Ieane clapped her hands together. ‘If you cannot see the truth now, you must be as blind to the light as the Devil himself.’

  ‘Seeol,’ Briel said quietly. ‘What’ve ye done?’

  ‘Issssh.’ Seeol rolled over, to reveal a young and unexpectedly handsome face. The only feature remaining of his previous self was the colour in his bright golden eyes. ‘Sprisssst.’ He tried to speak but couldn’t figure out how to work his lips and tongue to do so. He tried to snatch at his face with his toes whilst beating his arms against the floorboards.

  ‘Someone had better be gettin’ some clothes on him.’ Fes turned away. ‘It nah be decent.’

  ‘I’ll arrange some immediately.’ Ieane raced out of the room.

  ‘Some privacy, ladies.’ Briel inclined his head toward Seeol. Seteal and El-i-miir joined Fes in looking away until Ieane returned.

  ‘I’ll be puttin’ some clothes on ye now, son,’ Briel said, for the benefit of the guards as much as the young man. In response, Seeol howled so fearfully that Seteal felt compelled to turn around.

  Briel wrestled with Seeol’s arm in an attempt to get it into a sleeve, but the boy kept shrieking and pulling his hand away.

  ‘He doesn’t like people touching his wings,’ Seteal said, approaching slowly and kneeling beside him. ‘If you’re going to be human, you have to wear clothes. Do you understand?’ she asked, making sure to keep her eyes locked firmly on his.

  ‘Yessh.’ Seeol bobbed his head, which looked rather odd for a human.

  ‘I know it’s scary,’ Seteal soothed, ‘but you have to trust me.’ She touched Seeol’s hand, her eyes running over his soft, warm skin. He pulled weakly, but Seteal tightened her grip. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ She slid the sleeve over his arm, before proceeding with the other. ‘Briel will help you with your pants, okay? You have to let him.’

  Seeol bobbed his head, but struggled against Briel nevertheless. Seteal took his hand and averted her eyes as Briel put the pants on. ‘Shoes?’ Briel asked.

  ‘I think that’s enough for now.’ Seteal bit her lip. ‘We’ll get him used to this first.’

  Seeol twitched his head to the side and started pulling at the shirt with his teeth. He stood up, but immediately fell over without even using his hands to soften the blow, instead just flapping them out to
the side. The bird-man moaned in pain and waved his arms up and down to no avail.

  ‘Hept.’ The young man’s face showed an expression of horror.

  ‘Try to use this,’ El-i-miir said as she approached. She pointed at her tongue. ‘You have to learn to form words in a different way. Use your tongue.’

  ‘Isss sad,’ Seeol finally managed after several minutes of trying. He rose to his feet, gripping the wall for support. There Seeol stood before Seteal and the others, a broad-shouldered and decidedly handsome young man. His face was youthful, giving Seteal the impression of a boy no older than the age of seventeen.

  ‘Yoooush shee? Ish am the Holllsy Spirrit!’

  Dan-i-el 7

  7. After this I saw in the night visions, and behold, a mighty beast, dreadful and terrible, and strong exceedingly: and it had a great iron beak. It devoured, and broke into pieces, and stamped the residue with the feet of it: and it was diverse from all the beasts to exist before it, and it had two great wings.

  8. I considered the wings, and behold, they disappeared, becoming little wings. And behold, the beast became a little beast with golden eyes and a beak that spoke blasphemous things.

  9. I considered the blasphemous things, and behold there was a man of exquisite beauty beholding the Sa’Tanic eyes of his soul.

  Scriptures of the Holy Tome

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SA’TANIST

  Ilgrin flared his wings and swooped low through the trees decorating the mountains in the southernmost parts of Kilk. The sun would soon be rising and he couldn’t risk being seen. If that hadn’t been reason enough, he was also exhausted. Ilgrin had long since lost count of the days since his departure from El-i-miir in the woods.

  Leaving the women alone had been a dangerous choice. He felt bad for that, but hadn’t exactly been thinking clearly at the time. Besides, he’d witnessed Seteal single-handedly kill upward of six silts without lifting a finger. Along with El-i-miir’s powers of affiliation, Ilgrin was certain they’d be able to take care of themselves. Flaring his wings and thrusting forward his feet, Ilgrin slowed to land on a solid branch. It was difficult sleeping so exposed in broad daylight, but he really didn’t have much of a choice. Anyway, he doubted people would find him this far up in the mountains.

  As the sun began to rise and Ilgrin felt his eyelids growing heavy, he was struck by a sense of awe as he gazed out toward the south. There, in the distant sky, radiated a darkness that no amount of daylight could cure. The mountaintops plunged into pitch-black clouds that stretched endlessly into the distant horizon. The clouds were unlike any Ilgrin had seen in New World. They squirmed about each other as though a violent wind pushed each on a private path its own. Occasionally, purple streaks of lightning hit the earth or filled the clouds, but instead of vanishing a moment later, they lingered, squirming and whipping about before disappearing.

  Ilgrin realised he was glimpsing the skies of Old World and that the darkness above was not due to bad weather. Rather, as far as the eye could see, the entire sky was blotted out by whisp pollution.

  ‘What have we done?’ Ilgrin whispered, alarmed by the deathly brooding power hovering above the world. The damage one whisp could do was unthinkable. Should these ones all decide to fall at once, there was no telling what they might be capable of. While Ilgrin stood in respectful fear of that which stood before him, he also found himself becoming increasingly excited. Soon he would discover why Gez-reil had thought his return to Old World so important. And he would learn the truth about his kind.

  ‘You’ve destroyed the world,’ an elderly voice replied to the question Ilgrin had voiced aloud to nobody.

  Ilgrin’s attention snapped toward the ground where an old man stood, an arrow pointed up at him. He pulled back on the bow string. Ilgrin gaped and flared his wings, blood pumping in his ears and his heart thumping in his chest. He tensed his knees. An explosion echoed. The arrow flew wide and the old man hit the earth, a bloody wound blooming from his chest.

  ‘Maker!’ Ilgrin gasped, leaping from the tree to lean over the man. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘You . . .’ he wheezed. ‘You will never replace your father.’

  ‘My father?’ Ilgrin repeated in confusion.

  ‘Father!’ a second voice cried. Ilgrin glanced up to see a slender young man with curly blond hair racing toward them, a pistol in hand. ‘It’s okay, Father.’ He pushed Ilgrin aside and leaned over the man, kissing his forehead softly as his eyes began to close. ‘It’s over now.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the man sobbed. ‘My own son . . . why, Jakob?’

  ‘It’s better this way.’ Jakob smiled and moved a hand through his father’s hair. ‘It had to be done.’

  ‘Traitor.’ The old man gurgled his final word before his head fell back into the mud.

  ‘Quickly.’ Jakob leapt to his feet. ‘He’s alerted the others. They’ll be coming.’

  ‘You killed your own father,’ Ilgrin said in horror.

  ‘He was a bastard anyway.’ Jakob shrugged. ‘Come on.’ He began to hurry through the woods only to stop when Ilgrin didn’t follow. ‘Come on,’ he repeated, pointing at the sky.

  A glance through the canopy revealed several silts swooping about in search for him. ‘Torrid,’ Ilgrin growled in frustration as he hurried after the strange man.

  Jakob became an occasional glimpse or flash of movement as shrubs and small trees were pushed this way and that up ahead. The man was very fast and made good use of feet designed to run rather than perch.

  ‘Quickly,’ he urged yet again, nervously glancing up at the sky.

  Ilgrin bashed through the thick foliage before, quite without warning, spilling into a small clearing in which a quaint little cottage sat with soft smoke bubbling from its chimney. Jakob waved Ilgrin over, barged through the front door, and disappeared inside. Having been freed from the dense forest, Ilgrin beat his wings several times and landed at the door a moment later. Before entering, he caught a glimpse of the sky. A uniformed silt locked eyes on him and shouted something, but a moment later Ilgrin was stumbling through a dark and musty home. A trumpet blew outside. Ilgrin could only assume it was meant to draw attention to that spot.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Jakob urged from somewhere within the dark recesses of the cottage. ‘They’ll be coming. One of them has seen you. They know you’re here.’

  ‘Who are you!?’ Ilgrin shouted as he hurried through the dark front room. The home was scarcely decorated. There was a dusty old lounge against one wall, and the bedrooms he passed had naught but blankets on the floor to serve as bedding.

  When Ilgrin reached the back room, he found Jakob rushing about with a large tin can he was using to splash a pungent smelling liquid across the walls and floor.

  ‘Move that bookshelf,’ the strange man ordered.

  ‘Which one?’ Ilgrin glanced about the room.

  ‘The only one in here,’ Jakob barked. ‘Are you slow or something?’

  ‘Um . . . okay.’ Ilgrin moved over to the bookshelf and picked it up, moving it cautiously so as not to drop any of its contents.

  ‘Oh, for Maker’s sake.’ Jakob slapped a hand over the back of the shelf and pushed it over to reveal a dark brickwork tunnel. ‘Here.’ He passed a torch to Ilgrin before lighting another for himself and heading into the tunnel.

  ‘This ought to keep them busy,’ Jakob muttered before he tossed a glass jar across the room so that it shattered in the fireplace. Ilgrin’s skin burned as it ignited and flames rushed about the room. ‘This way,’ Jakob urged, already racing along the passageway.

  The tunnel came to completion some distance away, Ilgrin guessed on the opposite side of the small hill that the cottage had been backed up against. Despite having lost their tail, Jakob continued relentlessly at the same pace as before through the dense forest. Tiny silt shadows swooped this way and that, but for now they were getting by unnoticed. Ilgrin took the opportunity to get some answers. He clamped a hand over Jakob’s shoulder and
forced him up against a tree.

  ‘Who are you?’ Ilgrin barked. ‘Why should I trust you?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you?’ Jakob glared angrily. ‘My father was going to kill you and so are they.’ He pointed wildly at the sky. ‘I’m the only one not sticking a weapon in your face.

  ‘I can’t trust you anyway!’ Ilgrin cried. ‘You killed your own father. What kind of monster are you?’

  ‘Watch it,’ Jakob hissed and Ilgrin felt a cold blade touch his throat. ‘Ever heard of what silver does to flesh.’

  ‘No.’ Ilgrin yanked back his head.

  ‘Not even you can heal damage done by silver.’ Jakob eased away the blade, but maintained a threatening disposition.

  ‘Fine,’ Ilgrin muttered, allowing the man to stand freely. He put a hand against his neck and pulled it away to find a smear of dark blue blood. As he did so, a horn sounded from somewhere close by.

  ‘You idiot!’ Jakob spat. ‘They’ve found us again. Maybe they were right in wanting to kill you off.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Quickly. This way.’

  Ilgrin hurried after the man, his heart racing at the thought of being caught. He’d been a prisoner before and wouldn’t stand to go through it again.

  Long shadows and the sound of beating wings told Ilgrin the silt soldiers were closing in. The air gushed. Steel talons clamped around Jakob’s arm, but before he could be lifted more than a stride into the air, the man thrust his knife into the silt’s leg. The soldier cried out in pain and was forced to dive back into the sky to avoid an upcoming row of trees.

  A second pursuer hit Ilgrin and the two tumbled head over heels through the foliage.

  ‘What do you want from me!?’ Ilgrin shouted as the soldier swung his scythe.

  The silt ignored him and continued to flail his weapon. Ilgrin instinctively raised his arms. The silt’s eyes rolled back and he fell forward in death. Jakob stood behind him, his silver knife painted blue with blood.

  ‘Do you trust me yet?’ Jakob asked sarcastically.

  Instead of wasting his energy in replying, Ilgrin chose to focus on escaping.

  ‘In here,’ Jakob hissed after a short period of running. Ilgrin followed the man behind a mass of boulders and into the dark interior of a musty cave. The space was lit by lanterns, but Jakob handed Ilgrin a fresh torch nevertheless.