The Eye of God (The Fall of Erelith)

by RJ Blain

  Frolar stammered, “O-of course.”

  Blaise struggled to pull away from Cassius, but his wobbling legs betrayed him. The ground invited him to lie down and rest, its silent and seductive call pulling at his consciousness. Someone pinched his ear, drawing a snarl out of him.

  “Sit him there,” Frolar said. “I’ll find the Archbishop.”

  The cool of a stone bench soothed his burning skin, and he let out a relieved sigh. “I told you to leave me,” Blaise repeated.

  Cassius let out a chuckle. “Orders are orders, and my orders were to bring you here.”

  Each beat of Blaise’s heart threatened to crack his head open. Closing his eyes kept the worst of the pain at bay, but did nothing to settle his churning stomach. “Please at least tell me there is no other news.”

  “I won’t tell you then,” Leopold said.

  “Unbelievable.”

  The Emperor’s brother snorted. “It’s nothing near as important as to what we’ve already told you.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” the Archbishop demanded.

  Blaise sighed and draped his arm over his eyes and winced at the pressure against the bandaged wound. Ignoring Alphege wouldn’t make him vanish. “He did try to warn me. That’s all I have to report, your Eminence,” he announced.

  “Blaise Gabriel, God has far too much patience with you,” Alphege replied. “Please forgive my rudeness. Be welcome to the cathedral, sons of God, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

  “Your Eminence,” Cassius replied. “I am Colonel Cassius, and this is Leopold.”

  “We’ve met,” Leopold and Alphege said. There was a moment of silence. Leopold chuckled.

  “Frolar, take Blaise to his chambers,” Alphege ordered.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist he join us,” Leopold interrupted. “He was in the Imperial Observatory when Catsu fled the arena.”

  “I see that I’ve missed much,” the Archbishop replied. “Can you walk, Blaise?”

  Before Blaise could think of a reply, Cassius took hold of his arm. “I’ll see to him,” Cassius replied. “My apologies, your Holiness. I insisted he push himself more than wise out of necessity.”

  Anger bolstered Blaise. With a jerk of his arm, he freed himself from Cassius’s grip and rose to his feet to glare down his nose at the Colonel. “I’m not dead yet,” he muttered, grinning at the taunt, though he didn’t quite dare to explain its nature to the victim of his sour mood. Cassius frowned as if knowing he’d been mocked. The man shrugged and remained silent.

  “My study isn’t far. Blaise, here,” the Archbishop said, thrusting something at him.

  It wasn’t until Blaise’s fingers curled around the Heart of God that he realized what he’d been handed.

  “It’s many things, but no one has ever claimed it wasn’t a staff,” Alphege whispered in his ear.

  Blaise wrinkled his nose and kept silent. Leaning on the Heart surpassed relying on a mortal for support, even if it didn’t mask his weakness. He felt his lips curl up in a grin.

  At least he wasn’t likely to find any true predators in the cathedral, not with so many suffering from fear and nerves.

  “Thank you,” Blaise muttered.

  “I don’t think this will take long. My brother asks for your official aid in this matter,” Leopold said. “I trust it won’t take much explanation for you to understand the import of your cooperation.”

  “Wait until we get to my study, Adviser Leopold, so no overeager ears listen before due time,” Alphege replied.

  The Heart of God sang in Blaise’s hand, and its joy smothered all but the worst of his aches. His healing bones resonated with Aurora’s song and strength flowed into him. The scent of roses tickled his nose and surprised a sneeze out of him.

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting sick,” Frolar groaned.

  “Sneezing doesn’t mean I’m plagued,” Blaise replied. Straightening, he tapped the Heart of God against the floor just to hear its click.

  “Enough, you two,” Alphege scolded.

  The study the Archbishop led them to wasn’t located within in the inner sanctum, but attached to the library. Blaise sank down on the first of the chairs scattered in front of the old desk that dominated the far wall. He stretched his legs out and swallowed back a groan. The others waited for the Archbishop to sit before choosing their seats.

  Alphege stared at the Heart of God, but the man didn’t ask for it back and Blaise didn’t offer it. “I understand that a convict escaped with a slave from the Arena. Many were injured, and many more killed. I already sent some acolytes to aid, should the Emperor permit it. What else is there?”

  “That’s as good of a place to begin as any,” Leopold said, pulling out a piece of parchment from his pocket. It bore the Emperor’s seal in purple. Blaise sniffed and the acrid fume of ash, smoke, and wax teased his nose. “I would’ve been here sooner, but the Emperor wished me to bring this as thanks for your aid.”

  The parchment passed hands and Alphege cracked through the seal and read the note. The man’s brows rose to his hairline. “You’ve been busy, Blaise.”

  “It’s been a long day,” he mumbled, squirming under the Archbishop’s glare. “Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t recall asking you to renegotiate the terms of the Church’s presence in the Arena, Bishop Blaise.”

  The silence suffocated, and Blaise studied the crimson stone set in the center of the bone staff.

  “I’m pleased with the results. We’ll have to have a long talk soon, I believe.” The Archbishop stared at him until he lifted his gaze and nodded his acknowledgment.

  Blaise wondered how angry the Archbishop would be if he vanished, preferably for long enough for all who might remember him to be gone from the mortal coin, called back to God’s Garden. “As you wish, your Holiness.”

  “What’s going on?” Frolar asked.

  “The Emperor has granted the church the right to have five bishops and ten of those of lower rank within the arena during events. When called upon a Bishop will be invited into the Imperial Observatory, clad in casual Citizen’s attire,” Alphege announced.

  “Which, of course, means the best that crystal can buy. I’ll recommend an excellent seamstress for you,” Leopold said. The prince let out a hearty laugh. “Surely your God plays a great game with our lives, Archbishop. With that out of the way, there is a more pressing matter: The Hand of God has been stolen and its vessel taken as well. His Imperial Majesty requests for the Church’s aid and confirmation that the Heart of God is safe.”

  “Granted. The Heart is right there,” Alphege replied, gesturing to the staff in Blaise’s hand. “Of course the Church will offer all of the help possible to ensure that the Hand of God is returned to the Emperor.”

  Fear drowned out all other scents and Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose so he could breathe out of his mouth. That the Archbishop kept his voice so calm amazed Blaise. The worst of the stench came from old man.

  “Who is the vessel?” Alphege asked.

  “The boy Catsu stole from the Arena,” Cassius replied.

  Leopold cleared his throat and the Colonel fell silent. “I’ve been ordered to give you the commands for his collar. The Emperor asks that he be returned alive if possible.”

  “I’ll need a full description of this boy. A slave, you say?” Alphege leaned back and pressed his fingers together. The man frowned and met Blaise’s gaze. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “If it appears that the Hand will be used, the slave is to be killed.”

  “Understood. Frolar, take Blaise to his chamber and come see me when you’re done making certain he is resting comfortably. Blaise, I’ll speak with you later. After you’ve been tended to.”

  Another sigh escaped him and Blaise rose to his feet and offered the Heart of God across the desk. The Archbishop shook his head. “Knowing you as I do, Blaise, you would sneak out at the first chance and search for the Hand with
the other bishops. Not this time. Your duty is to remain in your chambers and guard the Heart until I tell you otherwise. We’ll be spread thin enough as it is.”

  Blaise pressed his lips together and swallowed back the wordless growl building in his throat. He tightened his hold on the staff fashioned out of his bone, tapping it against the floor. When he didn’t reply, Alphege smiled.

  “Cassius, go with them. It’s in the interest of the Emperor to ensure that the Heart is protected, and I think it is a suitable that both the military and the church safeguard the Heart until the Hand is found,” Leopold said.

  It took Blaise several deep breaths to contain his rage. When he smiled, the Archbishop flinched. “I’ll be in my chambers, then.” Resting the Heart of God against his shoulder, he swept out of the room, leaving Frolar and Cassius to follow in his wake.

  He prayed his confinement wouldn’t doom all of their souls to Lucin’s hunger. His frustration peaked and something snapped within him. He could no longer force himself to care if they were all devoured.

  The mortals might have very well deserved it.

  It wasn’t Blaise’s problem if the humans learned first hand that the hell of blood and flame they believed in didn’t exist, and only oblivion awaited those devoured by the Hand of God and the prisoner contained within it.

  Chapter 6

  Terin sat among the shards of broken vases and piled the pieces together. Blood smeared the glazed surfaces and gleamed in the light. He bit back a yawn and considered the quickest way to clean away the evidence of Zurach’s attempts to kill him.

  He wasn’t sure what the two men wanted with him or why he was wanted at all. He didn’t recognize either one of them as an enemy of his master. He frowned.

  If he hadn’t resisted, hadn’t dodged, and hadn’t fought back, he could’ve escaped slavery in the most permanent way possible. He reached up and touched the collar. Through it all, it hadn’t warmed, it had done nothing, because he obeyed Zurach’s will. It remained inert, as if trusting his aching throat to keep him quiet and obedient.

  It worked, and he hated himself.

  Terin snatched a stray shard and dropped it on top of the pile. The whole thing collapsed, scattering the pieces across the floor. Scooping up the ceramics, he shoved them back to their proper place and winced as the sharp edges sliced his fingers.

  Even if he wanted to escape, he doubted his quivering muscles would carry him as far as the bath, let alone to the sewers, assuming he could figure out how to open the door.

  The burn at his throat he expected didn’t come, and the cool of the collar mocked him, knowing his thoughts of freedom were futile and pointless.

  “Only through destruction may there be renewal, so Spoke God,” he whispered, waving his hand over the fragments in front of him. The remains of the ceramics crumbled away to dust. With a sweep of his hand, he scattered the powder. The scripture to clean away the dust stuck in his throat.

  The strength flowed out of him and his eyes watered. Brushing away the tears, he forced himself to take several deep breaths. His throat tightened and he struggled to keep calm. Crying wouldn’t help anything, it never did, and it never would, and if they caught him, he’d be punished for his weakness.

  With his eyes burning, he crawled to the damaged divan. Every breath emerged as a pant and he struggled to concentrate on the words for renewal. A buzz filled his ears and head. Unable to sit without trembling, he leaned against the armrest, the tips of his fingers brushing against the plush upholstery.

  The words he Spoke came out mumbled, but the wood creaked and shifted beneath him. The damaged cushion unraveled before retaking its original shape. A pale light surrounded his hand and enveloped the room. Colors long since faded due to the steady passage of time brightened beneath the glow.

  Terin slumped and struggled to slow his gasps. Sweat stung his eyes and trailed down his face. Once again, his frustration boiled within him and manifested as tears he couldn’t force back just by wiping at his eyes and pretending everything was as it should be.

  If he disobeyed Zurach and Emeric, he would be punished. If he returned to his master, he’d be punished. Then he’d be killed for his failures. If Terin were truly unfortunate, his master would strive to make him suffer as much as possible before letting him die.

  His breath left him in a sigh. The collar remained cold and inert. That it didn’t force him to return to his master confirmed the truth: Returning to his master was death, and his death was forbidden.

  So long as Zurach met the collar’s order to preserve his life, he couldn’t escape. Terin balled his hand in a fist and punched the cushion. All he could do was throw himself at the only orders he could follow: Cleaning.

  He could do that much.

  ~*~

  Terin awoke to a finger jabbed between his ribs. He lay still in the hopes that he wouldn’t wake at all. The pressure intensified until he cried out and wiggled to escape from the pain.

  “Get up,” Emeric demanded.

  At the command in the man’s voice, he jumped to his feet and swayed. He almost succumbed to sleep again, and he shook his head in the effort to wake himself up. Clenching his teeth to keep from yawning, he saluted before the memory of where he was and how he got there slammed him to full awareness.

  Before either man could rebuke him, Terin bowed his head and focused on the floor, blinking to clear his blurred vision.

  “Now, now, brother, at least acknowledge the boy did his job properly,” Zurach said before laughing. “I’m not so proud I can’t admit he’s done a better job than I could.”

  “Of course he did a better job cleaning. You are a Citizen and he is a slave. It’s beneath you,” Emeric snapped.

  “That may be so,” Zurach agreed. “What has he done wrong?”

  “He didn’t bathe,” the Citizen grumbled.

  “Brother, if he bathed to your standards, he’d die. Normal people require their skin to survive.”

  Terin struggled against the need to yawn and stared down at the tiles. The marble gleamed in the glow of a orb of light that hovered in front of the two Citizens, and its radiance that of the sun, warm and comforting.

  “No matter. I’ve work for you, boy,” Zurach said.

  Without looking up, Terin bowed as deep as he could and shivered at the feel of the noble’s eyes on him. “What would you have me do, Citizen?” Terin asked, unable to speak any louder than a whisper.

  “Hold this. Don’t let it out of your possession. If you must put it down, don’t lose sight of it. Only Emeric or I are permitted to take it from you. Don’t open it unless either one of us tells you to. Am I understood?”

  Zurach thrust a box crafted of dark red wood into his hands.

  A silver lock held the lid closed. Terin’s fingers closed over it and he bowed his head in a nod. “I understand.”

  At a few inches wide and not much deeper, it didn’t weigh much despite being as long as his forearm. It made no sound when Terin stuffed it under his arm to pin it against his side. Zurach dangled a silver key in front of his face.

  “If you are given this, you’re to open the box and take out what is inside,” Zurach ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” Terin replied.

  “I’m still not sure this is wise,” Emeric said.

  Zurach chuckled. “It’ll be worth the risk. So long as he’s collared, I don’t believe we’ll have any problems with him.” The man paused and the key was tucked away in a pocket. “We can ask ‘what if’ all day long without ever knowing if we’ve made the right choice. If you’re right, his master doesn’t tolerate stupidity among Citizens, let alone among his slaves.”

  “He is who I say he is, and they’ll want him back,” Emeric warned. “Alive, too.”

  Terin sucked in a breath and stiffened. If either man noticed his reaction, neither man spoke. If his master wanted him alive, he could escape.

  He had to escape. He had to hurry back to where he belonged. The collar remained cool around h
is throat and he trembled.

  “Nonsense. He’s an escaped slave now. The Emperor makes no exceptions when it comes to foreign-born slaves,” Zurach grumbled.

  “He isn’t one to show mercy on Zorsan filth, that’s true,” Emeric said, his tone softening. “Interesting.”

  Zurach huffed. “His ilk wasn’t lenient to Worsoran-born filth, either.”

  “I’m aware,” Emeric snapped. “You don’t need to remind me.”

  Terin shifted his weight from foot to foot, adjusted his grip on the box, and tried not to think of what lay within. With both men ignoring him, he struggled to commit their words to memory.

  If Emeric spoke the truth and Terin’s master did want him back alive, the knowledge of what the two men talked about might save him from the worst of his master’s punishments. He glanced up at the men.

  Emeric wore a yellow doublet with matching buttons decorated by twisting vines of black roses embroidered along the trim. The man next to him wasn’t Zurach, wasn’t the person regaled as the Hero of the Arena, for all his voice was the same. While still graceful, the man was taller and slimmer, a little less muscular, and as perfect as one of the Emperor’s prized statues.

  Terin’s mouth dropped open. With a grin, the man stepped forward and stooped to look him in the eyes.

  “Finally noticed, did you?” the man asked in Zurach’s voice. A gloved hand reached out and took hold of Terin’s chin and pulled him closer. He shuddered at the warm breath blown in his ear. “You could tell them, if you tried to escape me, but no one will believe you. Your master will torture the words out of you, you know, then he’ll kill you for lying to him. With me, you’ll be safe. I won’t send you to the arena. I won’t betray you, so long as you do as you’re told,” Zurach whispered to him.

  “If you’re going to seduce him, could you at least wait until I’m out of the room? He’s a little young for my tastes.”

  Terin flinched. The grip on his chin tightened. He wanted to run or pull away, but his muscles froze and he couldn’t even force his fingers to twitch.