The Lastborn's face reddened. “The Rebellion is no business of yours.” He eyed Meega. “Give me the girl.”
Meega hid behind John's robes, gripping them.
Liesel gave John a slight nod and a knowing look. A sick feel roiled in his gut.
Was this a wise choice?
He lifted Meega up, and she slid her arms around his shoulders, resting her head in the crook of his neck. It felt strangely natural. He struggled to lie and skirted the truth instead.
“I am human, and suffer human failings. I have had trysts in the past, and sometimes they come back to haunt me. Can you not see the resemblance?”
John held his breath as the man stared at the two of them. A light mist of rain sprinkled the friars.
The man spat on the ground again. “Take your bastard child and go, Churchman.”
Liesel stepped between them. “Keep hold of that little book of yours, heretic, and take good care of Meega.”
John grabbed the reins of his horse. He turned back to Liesel. “What happened to …” He paused, noticing the Lastborn watching him, “… the woman clothed in the sun and the moon?”
Pangs of white lightning stabbed the sky. The old woman stared silence at him, and a multitude of raindrops streamed down her weathered face.
“She was set free.”
Chapter 10
As they made their way through Lindhome, Paine noticed a difference in the barricade that blocked out the Westwood. It wavered at times, in which darkness would reach inwards, like eager fingers ready to strangle what life was left on the inside of the barrier. And with it came screams from the depths of the forest.
As he and Puck walked near its border, three trees broke through the barrier, their sagging branches drooping low enough to swipe at him. They scratched his face and, horrified, he watched as his blood soaked into their parched leaves. Then they withdrew.
Paine reached to his face, but found no mark, not even a scratch. He looked to Diarmuid, but sudden shouts from ahead caught all of their attention. From what Paine could gather over the chaos was that the Westwood was breaking through the north border of Lindhome. Truitt wished Lya well and ran off. His stride was like that of a stag.
The others hustled back towards the main square, unsure of what might happen. They approached the host that gathered where Alwhin advanced upon Paine and his sister.
“I think it is time for answers,” she said, snatching the two by the arm.
“But what about the Westwood?” Lya asked, jerking her arm from Alwhin’s iron grip.
The woman seized her once more. “This is not the Westwood’s time. Lindhome will hold.”
Paine looked to Diarmuid who nodded his head to him, and then turned to mingle with the others. Puck clapped his hands and followed. Paine had no choice but to let the woman take them. Her strong grasp wouldn’t have allowed any other option.
Alwhin led them along a path lined with mounds of creeping phlox and silver thyme. Its rotting sweetness sickened the air.
Quiet wavered about them, until Lya broke the silence.
“Where are you taking us?”
Alwhin’s grip hardened. “Where we can speak freely.”
Lya nodded her satisfaction and nothing further was said. Paine thought it best to remain quiet. Any further questions and her pincer-like grip might break his arm.
They came to a clearing encircled by statues similar to the ones situated along the barrier of Lindhome. Alwhin glided over to a stone tablet, and placed her hand upon its stippled surface. The eyes of the statues flashed briefly, and the sounds of Lindhome were suddenly shut out.
Lya studied the stone table, obviously impressed with its power. She could hardly hide the glee that lay in her eyes.
“Silence has been cast upon the clearing,” Alwhin said. “You have many questions and I need not be a Seer to sense that. Ask what you will.”
Lya walked around the clearing, examining both the invisible barrier and the statues.
“Who would want to know what we have to say?”
“I believe that your presence here would interest the Overlords of Valbain. The Firstborn are always watching.”
“Who?” Lya asked.
Alwhin motioned them closer. She pulled out a leather-bound book. Paine recognized it instantly.
A Bible?
“You must be joking,” he said.
“This book I have studied. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know that on the sixth day it is written that Man was created.”
Paine nearly rolled his eyes. “So?”
“Now what of the beings that came before him?”
He pursed his lips. “There were none before Man.”
“Oh?” Alwhin smiled and then raised her hands, a motion reminiscent of the Reverend Chapman. “And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.” She lowered her arms. “Do you know this passage?”
Paine nodded.
“He was supposed to be the only son of Adam and Eve after killing his brother. He was so marked that he might be killed — but by whom? Who would see him and desire to kill him if there were only three living beings.” She raised her hands once more. Lya smiled. “And Cain went out from the presence of the Lord, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden. And Cain knew his wife; and she conceived, and bore Enoch: and he built a city, and called the name of the city, after the name of his son.” Alwhin’s gaze turned hard. “Who was this wife? If Cain and his parents were the only sentient beings, where did he get a wife? Did he marry a goat? Did he have incestuous relations with some unknown sister? Is your entire race a result of inbreeding? And who builds a city for three people?” She studied him.
Paine said nothing.
“There were creatures and beasts created before Man, on the Fifth Day. And the Firstborn were just that — first.”
Paine shook his head. “But there’s nothing said of these beings from the old world. They didn’t exist before the Shift.”
“Long ago, the power of the dead and the beings of the Fifth Day once dwelt upon Earth like Man. All of your old tales tell of them, but the memory of them was treated as nothing more than fanciful tales to frighten children. Even this little book mentions them, but only a few.”
“So what happened to them? Where were they for thousands of years?”
“When the Earth shifted on its axis, not only did the power of the dead return, but so did the beings of the Fifth Day; back from another realm — one where man was but a myth. It was as much a surprise for the other races when they found themselves shifted back to a world that was a part of their legends. And it was a world in which humans ruled, not the Firstborn.”
Alwhin motioned them towards the stone tablet. A jagged script was etched onto its surface, and Paine studied the writing. It was identical to the note that Lya possessed; not the side with the spell, but the other — the side with the foreign script. He looked at Lya, but she did not return his gaze. Paine focused on the words in front of him, trying to make them come together in his mind. He grabbed the translation amulet, but it was futile. It wasn’t working.
There was something odd about the script, in how its deep lines scored the surface of the stone. It was as if the words whispered in his ear, a deep and terrible voice trapped within the slab of stone before him. He leaned forward, studying. Each line and curve rearranged themselves in his mind’s eye, creating a new language, a new script. The forms realigned themselves. They were almost converging, revealing their secret. Paine concentrated harder, to the point it felt like his eyes were being forced from their sockets. He stretched his mind, straining to force the words together.
Liquid burst from his nose, and he gripped the tablet, leaning in closer.
“Paine!”
He jerked his head back, as if released from a vice. The images in his head disintegrated.
Alwhin pulled out a kerchief and wiped his nose. “You are bleeding.”<
br />
Paine took it, wiping the streams that stained his face and tunic.
“Are you unwell?” she asked.
His head felt light. “I’m not sure.” He plopped to the ground and put his head between his knees. “What happened?”
Lya didn’t look pleased.
Alwhin offered her hand.
Paine took it and she pulled him up with ease.
The bleeding had reduced to a faint trickle, yet he continued to dab at his nose.
“I think I’ll be all right.” He turned back to the tablet, tracing his fingers along the script. “What is this writing?”
Alwhin hesitated before speaking. “It is an old language. Only a select few are able to read it. This altar has been in the possession of the Rebellion for centuries. I cannot read the writing. None here can.”
She pointed to the dirtied kerchief. “Perhaps we’ve had enough for today.”
With that, the sounds of the rest of Lindhome flooded in. Paine continued dabbing at his nose. He followed Alwhin and Lya down the path, wondering if the Seer knew more than she let on.
***
Paine checked his nose. It bled at intervals throughout the day and he wondered if he shouldn’t be wearing a smock to protect his new tunic. His nose didn’t just drip, it gushed. He looked to his fingers, trying not to draw attention to the fact he was being obsessive. They were dry.
He sat in front of a simple fire, listening to the stories and songs told by the people of Lindhome. He could not help but stare at the Revenants; the ugly ones at least. Their contrast in appearance to the others was more than remarkable. And so was the distance they shared.
They gathered in clusters, those that were beautiful beyond compare and the hideous freaks. The former had taken to calling themselves Nymphs. The latter didn’t seem to care what they were called. There was a third clustering, those that were as beautiful as the Nymphs, but taller and stronger. They also had a tendency towards a cruel look. They called themselves the Lastborn, and they seemed to hold the Revenants in high regard, encouraging them to flirt and cavort with one another. Paine shuddered at the thought.
There was an awkward silence in the clearing. And the tales were filled with tragedy and despair. Paine didn’t care for more sadness. Puck left after the first few tales — the theme focused on the slaughter of entire races by an ancient vengeful god, some human and some not.
Paine’s mind wandered for most of the evening, unable to focus on much else after their conversation with Alwhin. They never had the chance to ask about Lya’s supposed heritage, which of course called into question his own lineage.
Who was he? For that matter, what was he?
And he wondered if he was actually a twin with Lya after all.
Diarmuid gulped down a blue concoction, his fourth. The pepper-haired man swayed where he sat, half perched upon a sculpted stone, and leaned on Paine’s shoulder.
Paine laughed, yanked from his slump by Diarmuid’s charming smile.
Diarmuid grinned. “What are you laughing at?”
“You're drunk.”
“Almost. I need a few more. You want some?”
Paine shook his head. Too much ran amok through his head. He needed clarity of thought at the moment. Besides, too many of those and he might make a fool of himself.
He took another swig and then gave Paine a drawn look.
“You know there's something I ―”
“Oy!”
He was interrupted by an elderly man with white hair and a matching beard that drooped in layers to his waist. The Loremaster was Nymph and wore a robe of sunset orange. His sleeves skirted down his arms as he raised his hands.
“I have not told this tale in many years, but I suppose it's a good time for it. It's a tale of glory, an old tale to be sure, and one so old that many have forgotten. I am sure it has been enhanced over the generations. Still, it is one worth telling.”
A chorus of cheers and encouragement filled the night air.
The Loremaster raised his voice above the din. “As you know, the Firstborn have told many stories over the years about how they fought the Fallen One and his minions long ago, and how, over the centuries, it was their might that kept him at bay. But there is one story they do not tell, for it is the true reason we enjoy our freedom.”
Shouts and grumblings of Firstborn propaganda passed through the host.
Again, the Loremaster lifted his voice above the crowd.
“This one is told even rarely here, where we remember the truth. It is a dark tale. It is the Lay of the Nephilim, and for our human friends, I will do my best to recite it in the Common Tongue.”
Smiles shone in Diarmuid's direction and calls for him to rise and sing filled the air. He waved them off, blushing, which only caused more hoots and hollers. It was some time before they settled, but when all was quiet, and the Loremaster held the attention of the entire congregation, he began.
It was sung in a deep baritone — a story of nine champions. They were sent out to destroy the Fallen One. In the end, their only choice was to transport those of the Fifth Day and the powers of the dead to another realm. Their gods were taken as well. But before they could finish their spell, the Nephilim were betrayed. They never saw the new world they created.
There was silence when the Loremaster finished. The crowd raised their goblets to toast the Nephilim. Paine’s head drooped. He jerked awake when Fang nuzzled him. He stroked her behind the ears and yawned.
Paine’s soul ached. Lya was distant, clearly on the other side of Lindhome according to the pain in his heart. He’d seen little of her since their encounter with Alwhin. She was probably dancing, with or without Truitt. And likely naked either way.
Eventually, more songs followed the Loremaster's tale, somber in tone, but Paine felt so tired he hardly noticed. At Diarmuid’s suggestion they retire for the evening, they bid the host good night.
As Paine walked he heard a low chuckle from beyond the boundaries of Lindhome, something from within the Westwood. Diarmuid failed to notice as he stumbled along. He bid Paine goodnight with an awkward and potentially suggestive handshake, but too much weighed on Paine to try to take advantage of the inebriated man.
It wasn’t worth the risk.
He needed Diarmuid to get him safely out of Lindhome and he needed to be sure about Diarmuid’s intentions. Or at the very least, he needed to be able to cast a spell to coerce him and have the man forget the entire encounter. Otherwise he’d jeopardize things.
Paine returned the gesture and trudged to his own quarters.
Then he slept.
Chapter 11
Friar John walked the streets of Barcelona.
How would he find this child among the Confederation? And for that matter, did he really want to?
He looked at Meega.
Could he bring himself to kill this child?
The little girl’s shrill laughter jerked him back to reality. He strode along a pitted, dirt road on the east side of the Temple of the Sacred Family. Heavy rain doused the decrepit buildings and peals of thunder shook their thin walls. Meega, perched upon John's horse, reached up to the sky allowing the heavens to anoint her. Her tiny mouth opened wide as she licked at the drops of rain. Despite his annoyance at the weather and his misgivings about finding the Beast, John smiled at her innocence.
Beside him, Miguel huddled beneath a cloak that was too small for his rotund frame, eyeing the roadside with a shifting gaze. John walked with his head held high, his shaggy mane whipped about by the wind. Though he had little idea where Meega directed them, he walked with purpose. The east side of Barcelona was filled with a seedy lot, the buildings as unkempt as the people that lurked in their doorways. Shutters hung off window frames, flapping in the bitter winds that swept through the street. Weeds stretched out of holes in the stucco walls, as if desperate to catch some small ray of sunshine. The smell of rotting fruit and urine hung thick on the air, and Miguel pinched his bulbous nose.
&n
bsp; John asked Meega to take them to her mother so he could see her safely returned before he and Miguel departed for Portugal. He was now glad they accompanied her, as the looks on some of the men on the street made his skin crawl. He heard that the poor and the dispossessed went missing at times, never to be seen again. John remembered when hundreds had disappeared, cleaned from the streets. He knew those hundreds, each one of their faces forever burned into his mind.
He glanced towards Miguel. He had said little since leaving Liesel. The fat friar thought his heresy was centered around the Book of Revelation. John failed to correct him.
Perhaps he should tell him everything.
It was becoming a burden.
Meega giggled once more, clapping her tiny hands. She pointed to a door with chipped blue paint, one of ten that lined a large stone building. The slate roof was in desperate need of repair.
“Is this your home, little one?” John could not help calling her that. It slid off his tongue like warm butter.
“Yes!” She clapped once more, and raised her hands to the downpour of rain. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed much later by rolling thunder.
They approached the building, and found no place to tie the horses. Miguel said nothing, but took the reins of both as John lifted an excited Meega out of the saddle. She held his face in her hands and stared into his eyes. Then she smiled and it felt as if time had stopped and there was nothing in the world except John and this little girl. She giggled, her smile stretching across her face with the most innocence John had ever witnessed. It pierced his heart and he found himself smiling back.
Meega wiggled in his arms and John put her down, following her through a blue door that creaked as it opened. The wind slammed it shut behind him.
“Hello,” John called.
Meega ran down a dark corridor and disappeared into a room near the end.
He strode forward, side-stepping the wooden blocks and stones that littered the dirt floor. The walls were as chipped as the paint on the front door, and pocked with holes through which mice and small beetles scurried from his approach. He looked into the first room. A wood table stood awkwardly on three legs. Next to it sat a small cupboard with only one door.
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