by Jon Monson
Yet thoughts of his lost love wouldn’t abandon his mind. He tried pushing them away. Yet they stayed, determined to stand their ground.
He remembered the first time his eyes fell upon her. Even at fourteen years old, he knew his eyes would never see anything so lovely ever again. So far, they hadn’t.
As with all great love stories, she had hated him at first. He’d spent six years wooing her, constantly ignoring her rejections until one day she finally gave in. His persistence had paid off.
She later laughed that she’d actually fallen in love with him after only two years, but she’d continued rejecting his advances purely out of principle. That was who she was – stubborn to the core. Yet so beautiful, both inside and out.
And she had been taken from him. The Divines didn’t care for the feelings of those who worshipped them. If the Divines did care, they were too weak and ineffectual to deserve worship.
His prayers to Ninazu had fallen on deaf ears that day. The Divines couldn’t - or wouldn’t - do anything to help. To get her back, Barrick had found a new god.
As Barrick had joined his father in making their new home in Maradon, his life took a new turn. A fellow passenger on their voyage shared with him a copy of Prophecies of the Return, and he learned of the great powers offered to those who serve the Great Lord. That day set him on a new path, one that he wasn’t sure he liked.
Prayers to the Undergods didn’t fall on deaf ears. The Undergods had power over death. The Undergods had the power to return him his lost love.
The man who had shared Prophecies of the Return with him couldn’t get him in contact with the Order, and finding the secretive group had proved more than difficult. They were incredibly elusive and even more selective about who they let join. It made sense, seeing as how most of the world knew little of its existence, which of course made the work much easier.
He had spent years meeting shadowy figures in seedy taverns. He had spent years working on small assignments, spying on certain lords or ladies, never understanding the purpose of his missions. Yet he knew that one day, they would bear fruit.
Whenever he felt guilty about what he’d done, he would remember that terrible, stormy day in Albona. Whenever he felt uncomfortable about the requirements placed on him by his new god, he thought of what he’d lost. He thought of those crimson lips and those bright blue eyes. He thought of the last time he’d been truly happy.
And now he finds out that his own father is the Grand Master of the Knights of the Raven - the mortal closest to the Great Lord, the man who will rule the world in his name. The thought was almost too much to believe. Yet now that he knew, it made so much sense.
He still didn’t like his father. Arathorm Fortescue was calculating and cold, the arrogant father who had all but ignored him his entire life. He would never want a close relationship with the man, but he held the keys to restoring his lost love. For now, that would have to be enough.
Walking back into his room, Barrick looked at the black cloak that had been left on his chair. The clothing looked ominous, although he reminded himself that he’d waited years to wear it. With the robes had come a simple note, which he picked up and read for what felt like the hundredth time.
You will be reborn at dawn. Prepare yourself.
A chill shot up his spine at the words. Even after all these years, the inner workings of the Order were completely unknown to him. He had no idea what it meant to be reborn and even less how to prepare for it.
So Barrick dressed in his normal clothing, unsure if he should wear the robe or not. Fully dressed and ready, he sat down in the chair, placing the robe in his lap. He sat, wondering what would happen next.
Footsteps approached his room, and a shadow crept over the light peeking through under the door. The knob rattled and the door swung open. Standing in the now open doorway was Sanborn, the very man that had led him – somewhat indirectly – to his father’s home.
He wore a robe of deep violet, the hood back and the sleeves covering his hands. The man’s smile was malicious as always, his eyes looking almost eager. Once again, the man’s face gave him the impression of a wolf cornering its prey.
“Welcome, Barrick,” he said. “I’m glad to see you are not presumptuous enough to don the sacred robes until you have been properly initiated.”
“I’m ready to be reborn,” Barrick said, hoping he was using the right words.
“As you wish,” Sanborn said, his smile growing wider. “Follow me, and you will be brought into the fold.”
Sanborn turned sharply on his heel and began walking without waiting to see if Barrick would follow. Scrambling to his feet, Barrick dashed out into the hall after Sanborn. The man didn’t slow or make any sign that he knew Barrick had joined him. He just kept walking.
The man stopped at a portrait of Barrick’s mother, a woman he had never met. The painting stretched from the ceiling down to just a few hands above the floor, which seemed rather excessive for the diminutive woman depicted within. Nearly half the painting was background.
The frame was ornate and gilded to the point of gaudiness. Various birds and small animals were carved into the wood and covered with gold leaf. Overall, it fit the home that housed it.
He didn’t feel any real connection to the woman in the portrait, which he realized was probably unhealthy. Her face looked stern, the image of a woman who would actually marry a man like Arathorm Fortescue. He sometimes wondered if he were better off without ever having met her.
“There are many passages to the Silent Chapel,” Sanborn whispered. “This is to be the one you are to use. Trying to enter by any other means is a severe offense, one which will result in your swift execution.”
That’s a bit harsh, Barrick thought, but he only nodded in response.
Sanborn placed his hand on the image of a bird located on the left hand side of the frame. As he pushed, what Barrick had assumed to be just another part of the frame popped out. Sanborn smiled at Barrick, no doubt hoping to see a look of shock on Barrick’s face. He tried not to give the man that satisfaction.
The bird was still connected to the frame by a thin rod, and Barrick realized it was a strange sort of doorknob. Continuing his meaningful look at Barrick, Sanborn twisted the bird and the entire painting swung inward like a door.
I guess there is a lot more to this old place than I ever imagined, Barrick thought as Sanborn stepped through the strange door.
His hands felt sweaty, and he realized he was clutching the black robe with a little too much force. In fact, his hands ached slightly, his anxiety apparently showing through more than he had realized. Loosening his grip, Barrick followed Sanborn into the dark hallway.
“The Silent Chapel is the most holy place in all of Salatia,” Sanborn whispered. “There may only be one true Chapel in each nation, a direct decree from the Raven himself.”
That’s a strange requirement, Barrick mused. Then memories of his dream brought his mind back to the present, which unfortunately meant listening to Sanborn.
“Only the Grand Master may speak within the hallowed halls,” Sanborn continued. “You may answer a direct question from him, but any other utterances will result in severe punishments.”
Barrick didn’t want to ask what those were. If entering the Silent Chapel by any other means than the portrait of his mother would result in death, he couldn’t imagine the punishment for such an offense as speaking within the Silent Chapel. The Order definitely had a thing for rules.
“Firearms are not allowed,” Sanborn said. “Any violation of that order will also be met with swift and severe punishments.”
Barrick resisted the urge to pat himself in search of the revolver he often kept at his side. He generally didn’t sleep with it, but stranger things had happened.
“There are two levels to the Chapel,” Sanborn droned on. “The upper level is for all Squires, whose ranks you will join this night. It is filled with seating and allows the lower ranking members to observe the p
roceedings down below.”
“Tonight, however, you will be joining the Knights in the lower chamber,” Sanborn said, a smile evident in his voice. “There are certain rituals that you will perform in order to be reborn as a Squire.”
“I’m assuming that asking what those are beforehand is out of the question,” Barrick drawled.
“Of course it is,” Sanborn snapped. “There is already no returning to your former life. Knowing beforehand would only give you undue concern.”
Well if I weren’t already uncomfortable, I am now, Barrick thought, holding in a sigh. He should have never opened his mouth. It was better to just let Sanborn keep talking.
Sanborn continued in his speech, explaining various pieces of trivia about the Order’s history. Barrick found it more and more difficult to pay attention as the man drifted into speaking of the Grand Master before Arathorm. His mind was more concerned over what was about to happen.
A somber drum began to beat, the vibrations slamming into his very core. The rhythm was steady and almost melodic. It sent a message, a message that filled Barrick with sorrow.
“They are ready for you,” Sanborn said as they turned a corner to see torch light.
They had reached the Silent Chapel.
Sanborn led Barrick into the large rectangular chamber. High ceilings drew his gaze upward, although there was very little to see. There was only the sandstone, unadorned.
Above, he could see the upper level Sanborn had spoken of. Set up almost like a stadium, Barrick could see dozens of black robes sitting on the benches. Each figure maintained his hood blocking what Barrick expected to be familiar visages. He wondered how many men up there knew him, living seemingly normal lives while secretly attending meetings such as these.
He brought his gaze back down to the chamber that surrounded him. Wooden pews filled with violet robed figures took up the back portion of the room. A large aisle cut down the middle of the pews to the far end of the chamber.
Past the pews, a round stone altar took up a large section of the chamber. Engraved upon it was the Holy Sigil – three ravens encircling the sun. It was the only thing he knew to expect, and that knowledge had already filled him with fear.
Upon a raised dais past the altar sat a solitary figure with golden trim around his violet robe. Although the man’s hood was drawn, Barrick knew exactly who occupied the robes.
He almost found it strange that a man as powerful as his father would be content with nothing more than gold trim on a robe to set him apart from his underlings. However, sometimes it was the small differences that made the largest impact. He was sure the power he had over the men occupying this chamber more than made up for the lack of prestigious clothing.
Arathorm rose to his feet, raising his hand. The drums stopped, the echo of their last note hanging in the air. The silence grew almost deafening in the Chapel.
“This is a most auspicious day,” Arathorm croaked. “For today, we accept into our ranks a man who has sought to serve the Great Lord for many years.”
Barrick found it strange that his father would alter his voice. It sounded lower than usual, as if he had a cold. He wondered how many men within this Chapel knew the real identity of the Grand Master, and if the voice were part of his disguise.
“Brother, please step forward,” his father continued, raising his hand and beckoning Barrick to come forward.
All eyes were focused on him as he took that first step towards the Grand Master. His footsteps had seemed soft in his bedroom, but here in this silent chamber, they echoed and reverberated on the walls. His heart pounded in his chest, and luckily that wasn’t loud enough to join his footsteps.
“In order to be part of the brotherhood, this man must forsake his past and join us in blood,” Arathorm shouted, his voice growing hoarse.
He snapped his fingers and four black-robed figures entered the room. On their shoulders, they carried a copper tub, which they placed just in front of the altar. Barrick’s stomach fell as he realized what it meant to be reborn in blood.
Chapter 30
So what we have here is definitive proof that the Order is not a myth,” Byanca said, flipping through Prophecies of the Return.
Her words broke the silence as Aydiin and Seb sifted through the letters stolen from Count Visconti’s study while Joon stared into the darkness. The men had said nothing in the hour since they had stopped for the night. She knew they were eager to discover anything about the Order’s plans.
The day had been filled with riding and very little conversation. She had hoped that a warm fire and dinner would change that. So far, she’d been wrong.
“I’ve always known it wasn’t a myth,” Seb finally grunted, placing a letter on his knee. “Those damned fools will sacrifice anything to get what they want.”
“May the Divines have mercy on us,” Aydiin muttered, still reading a letter by the light of the fire. “With everything else that’s happened in the past few weeks, it would make sense that a mythological secret society would be trying to kill me. I knew it couldn’t just be Stone thieves.”
“It looks like your old friend Barrick Fortescue is mixed up with some very sadistic people,” Seb grunted to Aydiin before turning to Byanca. “Are you sure he’s the one who betrayed our prince?”
“It’s the best explanation we have,” Byanca said. “He’s the only person who knew about what Aydiin found before the attack in the bazaar.”
“I’m still not so sure,” Aydiin said. “He’s a good friend – I want to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“So what are they planning?” Byanca asked, trying to avoid the same conversation that had already played out too many times over the past few days. “You’ve been reading their top secret correspondence for almost an hour.”
“It’s tough to tell,” Seb muttered, lifting a paper back in front of his face. “Everything is in a blasted code. But I’m afraid they’re thinking it’s time to usher in the Return.”
“The Return?” Joon muttered, joining in the conversation. “Do they really think the Undergods will come back?”
“That’s what Edona said would happen,” Aydiin said, referring to the High Priestess of Katala. “When I found the Stone of Alarun, it set all of this into motion. The Undergods’ prison is weakening now that I have the Stone.”
“Right,” Joon replied, rubbing his head. “I guess what I meant was, do they really want them to come back? It’s hard to think that anyone would be that crazy.”
“Prophecies of the Return preaches that the Return is inevitable, and all those loyal to the Raven will be rewarded,” Seb replied, still staring at his letter. “They’re certainly a selfish bunch. They’ll see the world burn and the rest of humanity destroyed if it means they get to live forever.”
“Seb, how do you know so much about the Order?” Byanca asked, pulling the collar of her coat up around her neck. She found herself being very grateful that Aydiin had taken so much of Mateo’s money. Stopping in town to purchase new clothing for her had been rather important.
“Well, let’s just say I was once part of an organization that’s the complete opposite of the Order,” Seb sighed.
“Isn’t pretty much every religion the opposite of the Order?” Byanca asked.
“Well, while the Order is different from the rest of the world by worshiping the Undergods, we’re different by worshiping Alarun,” Seb said.
“So you’re a group of heretics,” Byanca smiled. “If the priests in Palmas knew you worshipped the Betrayer, you’d be run out of the city.”
“That’s why it’s such a small and secretive group,” Seb said. “But that was all a long time ago. I haven’t had contact with any other Disciples in years.”
“But you still chose to rescue Aydiin,” Byanca started slowly. “You somehow knew he had the Stone, didn’t you?”
“When I saw his face light up with Markings, I had a very strong suspicion,” Seb replied. “I still take my oaths seriously – I coul
dn’t just let something like that pass me by.”
You’re a most intriguing man, Byanca thought. She would need more time to converse with the aging soldier. There was still so much he wasn’t saying.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Aydiin said. “But I think I’ve found something you’ll want to read.”
“Can you just tell me?” Byanca asked. She wasn’t in the mood to read at this exact moment.
“This report discusses the rebellion in the south, and goes on to talk about the rest of the Order’s plan,” Aydiin said.
“So they are behind this,” Byanca said.
“What do you mean by ‘rest of the plan’?” Seb asked.
“I’m not quite sure,” Aydiin said. “It’s not like I found a paper entitled ‘The Order’s Plan to Overthrow the Republic of Genodra’. I have fill in a lot of blanks and read through their code.”
“So if you were an evil organization looking to overthrow the government, what would you do?” Seb asked, his gaze directed at Byanca.
“Well, an army headed by the most loved and respected military leader in the country is a good start,” she said, stroking her chin. “But Palmas is a massive city surrounded by a ring of forts. A few thousand men could defend it for weeks, and any assault would be costly.”
“So the Order needs to weaken Palmas enough that it won’t resist the rebel army,” Aydiin piped in.
“I have no idea what could happen to just make the city give up,” Byanca said. “The Genodran people are proud of the Republic, and they won’t see it collapse without a fight.”
“Hunger,” Joon said, his gaze boring into the fire. “It makes people desperate. They forget any sort of ideals they may have once had – they’ll turn on each other like animals.”
The man’s face grew cold as he spoke the words. Byanca knew he spoke from experience and held back a shudder at the thought.
“Joon’s right,” Sebastian said. “Attacking an enemy’s resources is a smart move.”
“Winter is coming,” Byanca said. “The city’s merchants buy food from the countryside and store it in dozens of warehouses spread throughout the city. If someone were somehow able to destroy all of them in a single blow, it would make for a very tough winter. Some food could be brought in from other cities or on merchant ships, but costs would skyrocket.”
