Several doorways led to other parts of the home. He doubted they were used much. Looking about the main living room, Tathal could tell the Catholic ornamentation was newer than the home’s other memories. These two had come to their faith later in life. And they almost solely occupied this room.
Strange how becoming dust concerned no one’s soul until life’s eventual end.
Cora went to an empty rocking chair in one corner near the fireplace. Opposite her in her own rocking chair sat the mirror image of her twin.
“Good day to you, Lady Eleanor?” Tathal presumed.
“You have yet to give us your name?” Eleanor noted. While the first twin possessed downright crabbiness, the second gazed upon Tathal with an airy lightness that reminded him of the fey.
“Tathal Ennis. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Cora scoffed. Amused by her sister’s cantankerous mood, Eleanor returned her attention back to their visitor.
“Tell me of the sword you seek?” she asked.
Tathal did so. He had nothing to hide. He knew its general size and make. He knew who had carried it during the Battle of Camlann and who would carry it before the next dawn. The power Tathal possessed had confirmed the existence of the sword and that existence in South Cadbury. To say he knew more about the sword than anyone alive would have been a severe understatement.
When he had finished, Eleanor chewed her lower lip, thinking.
“We know of the sword,” she said finally.
“The past is the past,” Cora hissed with a fiery tone, age having not worn her down fully. “It should remain there, Sister.”
“Sometimes, Lady Cora, the past is the key to the future,” Tathal encouraged.
The old woman stared at him with flashing blue eyes. “The past is pain. Nothing more.” Cora rose from her seat. “My sister will see you to the door.”
Cora left, vanishing into another room. Tathal watched her go. He would hate to have to interrogate her; it was too early to begin the bloodshed. It may take him several hours yet to find the sword.
It would not do to draw too much attention to himself too soon.
“She has always been strong-willed,” Eleanor said apologetically. “Not to her husband though. That bastard did as he pleased.”
“Your sister is right. The past is pain,” Tathal said, ignoring his own dark memories. “I do not care about marriages or husbands though. As I have said, the sword is important to me. To the world.”
“How? It is a relic from a dead age. Useless, really.”
“Oh, it is quite useful, I assure you.”
Eleanor frowned, closely observing him. Tathal suddenly felt exposed, as if this woman was capable of peeling back his multifaceted layers to view the driven man the centuries had made.
Witches sometimes had that power.
“I see the look in your eye,” Eleanor said, her demeanor suddenly matching her twin’s. “I have seen that look before. In those consumed by a desire far beyond their reach. My sister’s husband was one such man. Pain followed in its wake.” She paused, considering. “If passion once put you on the path for this sword you seek, that passion has become fervor. Tathal Ennis, it is not my place to aid that kind of evil. Good day. The door is where you left it. I hope you consider my words, words from an old woman who has seen how intemperance can destroy lives.”
“You are making a grave mistake, Lady Eleanor,” Tathal growled, darkening. “I will possess the sword. And I will act by any and all means to learn its whereabouts . . . no matter the consequences to those I meet along the way.”
Eleanor stopped rocking in her chair. Up until now their conversation had been light of bearing, filled with the banter of strangers. Tathal had changed that. She sensed the threat in his words; she weighed the danger against its validity.
Fear had its uses, after all.
“It was an heirloom,” Eleanor answered, face pinched, the amusement once so alive in her eyes now gone cold before the man who would kill her if it meant gaining his prize. “And my sister sold it.”
“To whom did she sell it?” Tathal pressed.
“The sword had belonged to his family. Her bastard of a husband. He was a nasty, ill-tempered man. While my sister hated him, she loved him too. He prized the sword as an account of his family history and it sat over that fireplace. I always felt he adored it in a way that he never did my sister. Or God, for that matter. I hated that sword.”
“Then you have no ties to it.”
“No. Why is it so special to you?” Eleanor asked.
“It too is a part of my past. And more importantly, my future.”
Eleanor nodded and took a sip of her tea. The fight was gone from her. “Then who am I to get in your way? Especially when you have . . . argued . . . your case so well. Cora sold the sword you described to pay for her husband’s funeral.”
Tathal kept his disappointment in check. The sword was not here.
“Do they still have it?”
Eleanor shrugged. “Only they would know. And God, of course.”
“I am not speaking to God. But soon. Soon.”
Before she could utter anything, Tathal left the home. He sensed the twins no longer mattered; he had gained from them what the universe required. Sunshine became his companion even as he strode toward the church. He would not tarry. The universe had a way of intervening upon and undoing even the simplest and most sure plans. Now that he knew where the sword had gone, he would not be denied. Every life event led to the next. But others could see the possibilities of those events just as well as he and mold them like he could. And those powerful people were out there.
Wariness slowed him. Arrogance could kill. Irony had ever been an enemy, and his path led him to the heart of it. It was not chance that put him in direct confrontation with the disciples of his enemy.
With Saint Thomas a Becket Church.
* * * * *
Tathal waited until the moon and stars held firm the heavens.
He walked through South Cadbury, the early night as pleasant as the previous had been. Having not grown up in Britain, Tathal could appreciate the land’s beauty. It possessed magic—had since long before the days of Uther and Arthur—and that magic had created a proud people who protected its history and secrets with bravery born of cultural identity. It existed in the very foundation of its faith—a faith he now went to confront. A direct affront undoubtedly considered blasphemy by those who followed the Word and its hypocrisy.
The priests of Saint Thomas a Becket Church would do their best to maintain their secret. It would not matter. They did not understand they were blind.
And he was not.
Tathal continued his way southwest, uphill and beyond the tiny village. The Church of Saint Thomas a Becket sat against the night in the shadow of an ancient hillside fort, the remains reportedly the famous Camelot. As he grew closer to the church, he noticed flowers, bushes, and vines through the sparse trees, life that tried to beautify the harsh reality of the dead’s province where timeworn tombstones broke the graveyard like shattered teeth. It was an interesting dichotomy, life and death so intertwined.
He paid the irony no mind. Instead, he focused on the present. He could not dismiss the Word entirely. There were other forces in the world—like the demon wizard Myrddin Emrys—capable of countering his. But he would not go into tonight risking failure by being a tourist. He would tread with absolute care.
The lights of the church drew him onward, a moth to the flame. He would not be burned though. He sent his magical halfbreed senses into the night.
There were people inside the church.
Two by his estimation.
Moving over the well-maintained grounds like a wraith, Tathal stepped up to the church’s entrance and tried the door. It was not locked. He entered the small parish house of worship like he had so many other places during his long life—without sound.
He could just make out faint voices, those in earnest discussion.
The church was not large. Opposite from where Tathal stood, two men were talking in the chancel where a finely carved crucifixion formed a reredos below stained glass windows gone dark with the coming night. The older of the men had graying hair cut short and the fine clothing of a rector; the young man wore a simple suit lacking ornamentation that barely contained his strong broad shoulders.
Tathal strode past rows of pews toward the two men with confidence born of the knowledge that this was the exact place he was meant to be.
“Good evening,” Tathal greeted.
Both men turned, the rector a bit startled and his companion solid as a rock.
“And to you, sir,” the older man said. “What brings you to the Church of Saint Thomas a Becket this night?”
“I have come for answers,” Tathal said simply.
“I pray I have the answers then,” the rector said. It was clear Tathal’s sudden appearance still unnerved him. “I am Reverend John de Brug, rector of this parish. And this young man is Churchwarden Peter Fursdon.” He looked up toward the shadows. “We were just discussing some work that had been done to our ceiling. A church this old needs love more often with each passing century.” He returned his gaze back to Tathal. “Well, what brings you to us this night, son? God is filled with possibilities and it is clear you require something of Him.”
“I know possibilities and probabilities better than most,” Tathal said, looking about the church as he walked toward the two men. The sword was not prominently featured on any of the walls. That would be too easy. “There is a high probability that a phone in this very church will begin ringing soon, faint but with authority on the other end. There is a probability, lesser than the first, that sirens will approach from the village proper, growing louder even as the phone remains faint.” He returned his gaze back to the rector and stopped a dozen feet from him. “Still, an almost zero probability that you both survive this meeting. Although if you aid me, I promise at least one of you will.”
Silence permeated the church. The reverend wrung his hands before him, a nervous tick of which he was likely unaware. “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked, all warmth gone from his voice.
“I am looking for something. I have been told that it is here.”
The other man frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Remember what I said when I walked in?” Tathal questioned. “Answers. The first answer I seek is in the form of a sword.”
Reverend John de Brug and his churchwarden looked at one another, betraying their knowledge.
“Son, I do not understand what you mean,” the rector lied.
“And it is best you leave now,” Peter Fursdon said, stepping in front of the rector, his size taking up most of the aisle.
“Do not come between me and what I desire, boy,” Tathal growled, a spell already forming within his mind. “I have walked centuries for this moment, and I will not be denied by the likes of either of you.”
“Blasphemy,” Reverend John de Brug hissed, fists clenched.
“Free will is the will of the Word, right?” Tathal asked pointedly. He had already tired of the game. “And I will have the sword. Where is it?”
Before a reply could be given, the churchwarden lunged at Tathal, the man’s size belying his aggressive speed. Tathal almost did not weave the spell in time. A number of words paired with three gestures and the magic of his blood burst from within into the church to paralyze the man in the middle of his haphazard attempt. Still conscious, he went down in a mess of arms and legs, unable to use either. It took only a moment, but Tathal had neutralized the major threat.
Besides, as Tathal had felt in the universe, he still needed Churchwarden Peter Fursdon—and more importantly, his brawn.
“Now, where were we?” Tathal asked as if nothing had happened.
The rector had not moved. “The weapon you seek will not bring you peace, no matter what you want to use it for.”
“No, it won’t. Life is like a chess match, Priest,” Tathal said, unable to hide his contempt for the reverend and all he stood for. “There are pieces upon the board. A player can react to a move. Or a play can be the reason for reaction. The sword is one play in a much larger game. It is a reaction piece, leading to a greater gambit. And I will have the most important answers this universe has to offer.”
“You defy God!”
“No,” Tathal said. “I defy His tyranny.”
The reverend darkened. “Son, that game will lead to your damnation.”
“I hated the last man who called me ‘son,’ you know,” Tathal mused. “Hate can be a most powerful magic if wielded by someone tempered by it.”
“Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him,” John de Burg quoted.
“Ahh yes,” Tathal said, remembering the Bible passage. “John 3:15, right? You are correct about one thing. I am a murderer. But I have been alive for far too many centuries to not wonder about eternity and my place in it.” He put his foot on the neck of the churchwarden. “I will counter with this: ‘Believe those who are seeking the Truth; doubt those who find it.’”
“I do not know what you plan,” the reverend said. “The sword is filled with a miracle, a weapon that does not show its true age. I am not a dumb man. It has been imbued in some way. And if it has been given certain properties that are outside the realm of science, it must be the Word’s doing. Since God exists, then evil exists.” John de Brug paused. “You are a part of that evil, on some quest that has rotted your heart, a search for answers that leads to your death and those you meet. I beg you. Forgo that quest.”
“A brave speech,” Tathal said, smiling. “Where is the sword?”
“Would you destroy the world to have your answers?”
Tathal looked to the Christ, pinned to his cross even as his cross was pinned to the stone wall of church.
Christ had to have wondered, while dying, what his Father was thinking.
Tathal had similar questions.
Just then a phone began to ring, from a distant small office within the church.
“To be born with such an unerring sense of right is a hardship most will never know,” Tathal said, looking back to the priest. “You believe you know what duty is. But like many of your brethren, you have been misled. I intend to discover that which has been hidden from the world.”
“This is Lucifer’s work!”
Tathal laughed. “Lucifer? Hardly. A pawn, nothing more. Lying in his pit and waiting, no doubt. No, I seek a greater prize.”
He pulled a knife from concealment and, kneeling, put it against Peter Fursdon’s neck, never once taking his eyes off of the rector.
“For the last time, Reverend. Where is the sword?”
Reverend John de Brug did not move.
“His blood will be on your soul.”
Indecision. It crashed over the reverend like a wave. The silence of death hung within the church. The old priest moved toward the chancel. Tathal watched closely. There were no ways of exit there. After fumbling out of sight behind the stone relief of Christ on his cross, the rector withdrew and returned with a long wooden box, waxed and glowing in the dim light of the church’s interior.
“This is what you seek,” Reverend John de Brug said.
Returning his knife to its shadows, Tathal gazed upon the box. A small leather belt kept it closed.
“Set it down on the pew. And back away,” he said.
The rector did so.
While reaching to undo the belt and peer at his prize, Tathal hoped his trip to South Cadbury had not been in vain.
That’s when the rector, like a cornered viper, struck.
Reverend John de Brug leaped at Tathal, roaring, trying to bowl the other over through physical force. It worked. Both men went tumbling into the pews. Fire erupted along Tathal’s side even as he lashed out with all the rage a wounded and surprised wizard could muster—the words for the first sp
ell he had learned blazing in his mind and gathering on his lips. He then saw the bloodied knife about to plunge into him again. He gripped the other’s wrists, bracing them and their blade from falling, even as he shouted a language not heard commonly for hundreds of years.
Just as the rector gained leverage, Tathal finished the final word.
And fire sprung to life on the rector’s chest.
John de Brug screeched in panic, his attack halted. It was enough. Left cold by the magic that had stolen his body heat to create flame, Tathal drove his fist into the rector’s neck. The reverend tumbled backward onto the church floor, squirming, choking, unable to breath.
Tathal regained his feet. He peered down at the beaten man.
“Brave of you,” the wizard said, breathing hard from the fight. “No one has dealt me a blow in almost a century. Still, that was a pitiful attempt at being a hero,” he added, straightening his clothing. “There are no such things, you know. Heroes. Only men with the will to see their will done.”
“A hero will be called to answer for your evil,” Reverend John de Brug croaked.
“I look forward to killing this man.”
“He is no man,” the rector gasped, rubbing at his throat even as his clothing still smoked.
Tathal did not care. Undoing the belt, he pulled the sword free of its case. The weapon was heavy but he did not look at it.
He didn’t need to.
“You will need me,” Reverend John de Brug croaked.
Tathal looked down at the churchwarden before meeting the eyes of the rector, the coming death rising inside.
“I no longer need you.”
With a rage he had befriended in his youth, Tathal brought the sword down. Repeatedly. Again and again. The old priest screamed in agony as steel punctured his abdomen in numerous spurting wounds. Blood began to pool about him.
It was a baptism the centuries-old church had likely never witnessed.
Tathal took a step back as the other man mewled and whimpered like a feverish child, bloody hands clutching at his shredded middle. He would let the reverend suffer for his affront, death too great a gift to give. The wizard looked to his own wound. Fire lanced his side. Breathing hurt. His own crimson bled out. The cut was not deep. The knife had scraped along his ribs. He had been lucky. But barely.
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