by Adam Golden
—
He found his friend pacing before the closed doors of the council hall. When Tulio spotted him he moved anxiously to his master, looking worried. “It’s Arius,” he said. “He swept in ten minutes ago. I couldn’t gather much before they closed the doors, but there was quite an uproar.”
Nicholas let out an irritated huff, he’d hoped the old man wouldn’t be present to be a rallying point for his followers, it might make some of those on the fence lean the wrong way, but his majority was assured regardless, there was nothing Arius could do about that.
‘Is there?’ the niggling voice of doubt shot up.
The Bishop squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and made to step past his manservant. Tulio’s flat palm on his chest brought him up short.
“There’s something else . . .” the usually taciturn man said, his visible unease as unsettling to Nicholas as the peels of warning bells.
—
Given the clamor as he entered, Nicholas could have forgiven anyone for thinking he’d inadvertently wandered into a riotous tavern. Nearly every delegate present was on their feet, gesticulating wildly, and everyone seemed to be speaking or screaming at once. Still, it was an improvement on earlier sessions where knots of aggressive, violent agitators had shoved, spat, and, in more than one case, broken into first fights. At least now the delegates confined themselves to screaming fits. Some semblance of order had been established, no doubt as a result of the company of the Praetorian Guard who now lined the walls like a matched set of statuary.
Obviously, Hosius had taken in his fill of the quarrelsome delegates after the earlier debacles, and applied to the Emperor for aid. Constantine was not in evidence as Nicholas made his way into the chamber, but the Guard’s presence made sure the Emperor’s hand was felt. Nicholas himself cared little for the Guard, or even for the blusterous delegates raging from their tiered benches. The Bishop of Myra tried to scan the room without seeming to look, searching out his enemy as discreetly as possible.
Another man might have started backward when the very man he sought appeared suddenly in his path, they might have betrayed some form of alarm or surprise. Nicholas simply stopped, and bowed slightly, not a hint of his feelings showed in expression or body language, which was no mean feat given the abject shock that pulsed through him.
Even forewarned by Tulio, Nicholas found the sight of the old priest stunning. Arius was a man remade. No sign of his former injuries remained. He stood straight, tall, and seemed hale. In fact, he seemed firmer, sturdier than seemed natural for a man his age. The age remained, Arius had lost none of the weathering of a man more than six decades old. Every silver hair and fine wrinkle remained, yet he seemed more . . . substantial, like a half empty waterskin finally filled to its true capacity. The droop in his face was replaced by a victorious grin as he watched Nicholas take in the changes.
“Ah, the good Bishop!” Arius sneered in a strong clear voice. “Back from important matters of state no doubt, seeing to trials and such . . .”
“I serve where my talents can best serve the Lord, as do we all,” Nicholas said in an almost absent, disinterested voice.
The tactic had the desired effect, a slight widening of Arius’ eyes and flush to his cheeks displayed barely checked anger. The man was too emotional, too easily pushed, that weakness had kept him dancing to whatever tune Nicholas played for nearly a quarter of his life, and regardless of whatever magic had been done to him, clearly the soul of the man remained the same.
“You seem in good health, my lord Presbyter, the journey seems to have done you some good,” Nicholas ventured. The echo of strong magics played about the old priest like the faint remains of yesterday’s perfume, and Nicholas could not entirely contain his curiosity. Healing injuries as serious as those Arius had sustained was no simple matter. Obviously, Nicholas had been correct when he first considered leaving Myra. Arius had indeed discovered allies of considerable power.
“Oh yes,” Arius replied, “travel is always so transformative, one learns so much, meets so many interesting people. Why, I met the most fascinating woman at a certain cabin not an hour from your city of Myra.” The comment sounded offhand, but Arius’ intense zealot eyes bored into Nicholas, hunting for reaction.
“There are a great many interesting personalities in my home region,” Nicholas said, his usual calm a bit more forced than usual.
Mother, what did you do?
“I learned a great deal from her, a great deal,” Arius mused. “I think she was lonely. She’d been tied to that place a long while, alone, forgotten. I fear it made her bitter, and perhaps a bit unhinged. She seemed desperate for company, quite insistent that I remain.”
“You obviously managed to decline the invitation,” Nicholas said, thinking furiously.
How had Fulvia come to be involved, what had been revealed, and if his mother had truly been insistent, how had the priest escaped? None knew better than her son how singularly convincing Fulvia could be.
“By the sheerest luck I happened upon some like-minded travelers,” Arius said in the same light conversational tone, completely at odds with the intense antagonism of his expression. “They’re hunters really, seekers after singularly unusual game. I fear my female companion was a bit put out. It was a messy parting.” Arius delivered that last line with a regretful sigh before he stepped in close so the small group of adherents behind wouldn’t overhear.
“Can whatever monster you turned that woman into actually die?” Arius hissed. “It looked like death. The screaming made it seem quite . . . torturous. It went on for quite a long time. You know, by the end, the begging and sniveling was rather unintelligible, but I think she may even have wailed your name.”
Nicholas felt choked by the priest’s hot breath on his face, by the smug satisfaction that rolled off the words, and the pure malevolent joy of the old man’s smirking face. One second Nicholas stood, outwardly calm and collected, the next Arius was on his back, mouth bleeding, and Nicholas was going for his throat. All his confusion, hatred, grief and guilt, all of the complex emotions tangled between the Bishop, Fulvia, and Arius boiled over, and the famously reserved, elegant Nicholas roared like an animal as he fell on the older man.
The clamor in the council chamber reached a fever pitch, and the tenuous hold on order burst like a frayed rope. Supporters of both factions flung themselves at each other, the Praetorians insinuated themselves using the hafts of their spears to make barriers and, in a few cases, bludgeons to separate fighters. Nicholas saw none of it, his attention was filled by the throat being squeezed between his quivering hands.
“Go on,” Arius gasped, “show them all the monster.” The Presbyter actually flashed a bloody grin as Nicholas’ grip grew inexorably tighter. “I . . . brought . . . my friends,” he wheezed, his feet starting to drum on the floor as his body fought to pull in air.
Nicholas barely heard, some part of his mind struggled to reassert rational control, but the largest part of him simply wanted to end this man, tear him to shreds and be done with it. Not to protect his plans, not to advance his power, not even to avenge his mother, just for the pleasure of watching his life bleed away, knowing it was done.
The black haft of a Praetorian’s spear slipped over Nicholas’ head and pressed at his throat, the strong arms of a professional soldier hauled him backward off his intended victim and held him upright and immobile, while a second guardsman hauled the gasping, coughing elder to his feet.
“Enough!” Bishop Hosius roared from his throne inside the President’s box. “Bishop Nicholas, I am shocked by such a lack of decorum from such an imminent member of this council. All of you, be seated!”
Nicholas was released and escorted to his bench in the top tier. As he took his seat, he found that Arius had, by some lark of fate, been placed in the lowest tier directly across from him. The old man sat staring up at him, grinning triumphantly. Someone was speaking, but Nicholas wasn’t listening. That display, that rage, that was no
t like him. What had come over him?
I brought my friends.
A cold chill shot up Nicholas’ spine. He’d dismissed the words in his rage. Anger had made him reckless, sloppy. What if Arius’ strange allies were here, now, in this chamber? What if that outburst actually wasn’t him? Nicholas threw up a strong barrier spell and immediately set about muttering a Seeing. The incantation, a Greek thing older than the Empire itself, let its user see that which was hidden. An incredibly valuable spell, quick and easy to cast but tricky to interpret. See that which is hidden was not the same as see all that is hidden, so the spell didn’t always work the way the invoker wanted. For that reason, Nicholas rarely used it. Incomplete information was often more dangerous than the simply unknown. Often, but not always. He pressed the entire strength of his will into the casting, and felt its power pulse outward.
To Nicholas’ eyes, the room became awash in grey, as though suddenly made of cloud. The forms of the delegates and their Guards were indistinct, blurry, like statues carved of smoke. Nicholas’ astral eye could no more have missed it than he could a raging bonfire in the night.
Arius remained in his seat, his details more crisp and clear than ever, still glaring up at Nicholas. He couldn’t help but gasp at what his spirit sight showed him. A half dozen thick tendrils of inky black converged on the old priest like the spokes of a wheel, feeding him a strength and vitality that pulsed off the man like an aura. On the opposite end of each ‘rope’ was a figure robed and hooded in black.
Nicholas could see nothing of them save their power. None was more than middling strength, but there were six. The Bishop swallowed nervously. He was strong, but could he face the combined power of so many? He’d seen the strength of the old man’s spirit without magic . . . combined with so much borrowed power . . .
The choice was taken from him as a hammer of will slammed against his barrier and shattered the Seeing. Nicholas’ shield held easily, but even he couldn’t maintain a spell as power-intensive as a Seeing and hold off a concerted attack. The blows against his defense came hard and fast. Below he could see Arius clutching the arms of his seat, staring upward, his face a mask of rage and concentration. He hadn’t expected Nicholas to be ready.
The old man’s attacks were powerful yet brutish. He wielded the raw power like a club, without any finesse, or even understanding. He wasn’t a practitioner, he hadn’t spent the long years learning the incantations, spells, and gestures that formed the raw will into its various possible forms and uses. He wasn’t even an amateur, he was an illiterate using a precious tome as a hammer. Of course, their current location and audience limited the ways Nicholas could respond, anything too overt would draw attention, and that could be disastrous. Even striking too obviously at Arius could alert the others in the room that something unnatural was afoot.
‘But Arius is not the real problem, is he?’ The thought struck Nicholas, and felt himself grin. Arius might be the one directing the hammer, but he wasn’t the muscle behind the blows. Perhaps it was time to show the priest the difference between a tourist and a master. Nicholas focused on his barrier spell, subtly altering its construction without compromising its strength.
No one, not even Nicholas, saw the first of the black-robed figures crumple to the floor. The Bishop doubted Arius saw it either, but the jerk that rocked the old man said he felt the loss of power sharply.
Nicholas grinned down at the priest and braced for the next barrage. His defense had more in common with a mirror than it did a shield now. He might not be able to split his focus without weakening his barrier, but he could use that barrier to redirect Arius’ attacks without any risk to himself. The issue now was recalling precisely where the remaining five robed figures were standing, and not hitting anything else.
The next attacks from Arius forced Nicholas back into his chair. He was strong! Nicholas absorbed three hard blows and deflected the fourth to his immediate left.
Arius shuddered.
Success! Two down four to go. Sweat stung at his eyes; the folklore never told you how exhausting, how achingly physical, and sustained magic use could be. There was a good reason the six robed practitioners where standing stock still. With the power they were expending, both in feeding Arius and in hiding their presence, Nicholas would have been shocked if any of them could manage as much as a twitch.
Arius shot to his feet suddenly and Nicholas braced. It took him a long second to realize that the old man was reacting to something other than their private duel. Nicholas had shut the distractions of the room away, obviously Arius had been paying more attention.
“. . . judged to be heretical under canon law,” Hosius was saying, “it’s author, Arius of Alexandria, is hereby convicted of heresy and excommunicated from the community of mother church.”
The room exploded into cheers of victory and cries of anguish. Men rushed from their benches. All sense of order was utterly destroyed. Arius was on his knees, wide eyes glued to the floor before him, stunned.
Nicholas wasted no time. The Seeing slammed back into place with a few muttered words and he struck out at the remaining enemies before they could regain their equilibrium. He was out of his chair and halfway to the exit before his last target had even fallen. His strength was depleted, none of the attacks he could muster would keep them down long. It was time to retreat.
Tulio and the hidden figure of Prancer were waiting outside the doors. Nicholas’ old friend looked winded, but he produced what he’d been sent for, and Nicholas felt some of his tension bleed off as he took the knife in hand.
“What is it?” Tulio asked, seeing the strain and stress on his old friend.
“I’ve just grown tired of sitting,” Nicholas said with a quick, forced smile. “How about a spontaneous tour of the countryside?”
Of Finding and Seeking
“How could you lose them?” the former priest screamed, his anguish temporarily armoring him from the instinctive dread of the ring of eerie, silent black-robed figures that stood around him. Arius was red-faced, wild-eyed, and his hands clenched into impotent firsts, still reeling with the shock.
Heretic.
Excommunicated.
The list of things that Nicholas could take from him seemed to have no end! His sister, his youth, his purity, his body, and now his vocation and good name! Worst of all the man had denied him victory, once again.
“He is on the run, with no supplies and no support,” the old man raged. “How difficult a target can he be for a cabal of fearsome witch hunters?”
“Take care, Arius. Do not let your anger and humiliation take you down paths you’d rather not tread,” the tattooed monk, still known to Arius only as The Abbott, warned.
There was no threat in the words, no emotion whatsoever, but the very bland neutrality of the voice issuing from that gaunt and startlingly inked visage was unsettling. Everything about the Saulite Brotherhood was unsettling. The old man’s gaze drifted around the circle of ebon cloaked figures, and he barely suppressed a shudder.
They might as well have been carved from the same chunk of polished onyx, a dozen identically anonymous forms, silent as death and so utterly still that not even a fold of their voluminous draperies was stirred by the periodic breezes. In his weeks among the strange order, Arius had yet to see one of them, save for The Abbot, remove his hood, or lie down to sleep, or relieve themselves. They ate only small bits of bread which they produced in seemingly unending supply from the depths of their robes, and drank from strange black leather waterskins, which appeared from those same depths. The eerie silence was perhaps the most alien aspect of them, however. Many orders adopted silence as penance or as means of promoting meditation, but it was never as total as it was among the Saulites. They made not a sound, they said nothing, moved like ghosts, and in weeks Arius hadn’t heard so much as a clink of metal or a rustle of cloth from the lot of them. It was something that, once noticed, couldn’t be ignored, and underlined the unequivocally unnatural nature of these
men.
If men they were.
Arius winced as he considered the one concerted noise he had ever heard from the brothers of the order. The chant. The discredited clergyman hawked, spat, gagged, and spat again as the memory pressed itself on him against his will.
His whole body twisted and writhed as the twin Dryads forced themselves down his throat. He clawed at his mouth and neck, trying desperately to get ahold of the creatures, but their slick wriggling tactility turned to smoke under his grasping hands. Every involuntary gasp for air pulled the heavy slithering ooze deeper into him, until he could feel them spreading like molasses into his lungs, his stomach, into every crevice and space within him. He was drowning. Invaded, violated by demons and, through it all, Fulvia watched. Her painfully plain, severe face was alight, as thin grey lips spread in a wide smile of the purest delight as she studied his death throes.
Arius focused on the heavy wet slithering, the disgusting sensation of the creatures oozing through him. He catalogued it, studied it by forcing his mind to consider every pulse and movement until his body shook with revulsion. If only he could spew it up. His battered, traumatized shell simply couldn’t fight hard enough. The sounds he heard himself make were half gurgle, half whimper, and even he wasn’t sure if they were pleading, prayer, or curse. He couldn’t even kick anymore. Above him he could see Fulvia speaking, but the words were muffled, as though he were underwater. He was dying, but at least he wouldn’t have to listen to that monster’s last gloating diatribe.
The air rippled and hummed; time seemed to slow, and Arius watched Fulvia’s beatific joy sour and shift through irritation, to confusion, and then to alarm. In the space between one blink and the next she was simply gone, blown backward out of Arius’ field of vision by some unseen force. The shriek that broke from the monsters inside him shattered the old priest’s consciousness into jagged splinters. The violent force as they fought to free themselves from his carcass to aide their mistress lifted him clear off the ground. He struck the dirt in a limp heap and a violent series of starved gasps filled his battered lungs again and again. When he could finally control his weak, quivering body enough to raise his head, they were there. A dozen cloaked and hooded man forms, seemingly made of midnight, moved in a slow lockstep toward Fulvia’s prone form.
