by Colin Taber
The Calbaro monk spoke, his voice polite and almost fragile, “Please, if I may start, Lord Liberigo?”
Pedro’s father nodded.
“The city has seen eight kidnappings since dawn, leaving many frightened, especially after the very public happenings of this afternoon. That event, as the only witnessed kidnapping attempt, also gives us almost all of the little we know of the problem. For now we need to confirm what happened with those who were part of it, and ask why they were part of it.”
Lord Liberigo shrugged. “A fair question.”
Kurgar interjected, “Fair? Fair for whom? We would like to remind everyone here that there is a long history of antagonism on behalf of the Church towards the Flets of this city, a hostility that is not deserved.”
One of the priests shot back, “Nothing untoward has happened in years, and you'd do well to leave old wounds closed. We welcomed your people more warmly than most. You should be grateful...”
“Enough!” Lord Liberigo growled.
The monk said, “Please, let us get back to the question at hand.”
I sat not knowing what to say, but they all turned to me nonetheless. Taking a deep breath, I began, “I saw a woman cradling her child in the crowd, she was in trouble and crying for help. It happened amidst the panic after the bells had tolled six. I ran to her aid. It was then that I saw a robed man...”
The Benefice bellowed, “Witch!”
My own voice died as his pronouncement rang out.
“Even now, the crowds call out your name! You have been claimed a servant of the saints, or more specifically, of a saint I’ve never heard of. You are a false prophet and a fool to think we’ll allow you to continue such a divine association!” the Benefice damned.
“I never claimed to be of Saint Santana, and had never heard of her until this afternoon.”
He scowled. “None have heard of her. We apprehended the man selling the relics and charms. He claims to be a Heletite missionary.”
Lord Liberigo asked, “You doubt him?”
The Benefice said, “It's possible he's genuine, but not likely. I'm suspicious of the timing. In a wealthy city of merchant princes beset by child stealing, now seems the ideal time to discover a saint of children and have a cartload of relics to sell. It's not just that, but also the instructions given for ritual and prayer. If the monk is a fraud, he’s abusing our faith and a heretic. It cannot be allowed.”
Kurgar asked, “How can you not know if the saint is real?”
The Benefice narrowed his eyes, daring the Flet to find fault with his answer. “The Church of Baimiopia is a growing faith that is spread across Dormetia. It dominates the eight nations of the Heletian League and has great influence elsewhere, including in Burvoy, Evora, and even Fletland. Some of the missionaries working to establish the faith in those heathen lands discover locals who work selflessly for the greater good in spreading Krienta’s message. Such people who endure hardship to the point of death can be rewarded with sainthood. Word of such elevations can take years to be confirmed and circulated throughout all the provinces of the Church. It is not unheard of in such a situation for a saint to be well known at one end of our growing holy empire, yet unknown at the other. That is why I cannot discount the possibility that Saint Santana is real.”
Pedro asked, “Benefice, what kind of prayer ritual did the Heletite ask of his converts?”
“Witnesses have told us that he instructed them to repeat prayers to Saint Santana in the evening while burning an offering of oleander leaves. The ritual is strange and unlike any of the Church’s other rituals. The monk in question is also not proving very helpful. He babbles like a fool of the wonder of Saint Santana, but seems unable to give us anything but the vaguest detail.”
I asked, “Oleander, isn't that strange, as it’s a poison?”
The Benefice looked to me as his eyes narrowed. “There are many odd ingredients in rituals of sanctity and power. Oleander may seem a queer choice, but so could many others upon close examination. Some owe their use more to symbolism or tradition than their true properties.”
Irritated at having to dwell on a saint he'd never heard of, the Benefice's face hardened. “Enough of that, let's get back to the matter of Market Square. There are witnesses who claim you attacked the man with a knife, and there are others who said your escort,” he indicated Sef, “spoke a prayer to Saint Santana that turned the cultist into shadows and wind.”
With a tremor in my voice, I said, “I merely tried to help. I made no claims of saintly affiliation. I just heard a lady cry out and went to her aid.”
The Benefice could see my fear. “It became clear years ago that there was a pattern to the kidnappings, but the city has been slow to act.” He scowled at Lord Liberigo, offering the blame.
The Lord said, “The kidnappings have haunted us for years, it’s true, but until now there’s been no clue as to their cause. In the past, we’d looked into it as best we could, but in the crowded slums of Newbank...”
“For a Heletian, it’s impossible to tell friend from foe,” finished Kurgar, a frown marking his face. He went on, “Let's not hide the truth; because it was restricted to the poorer parts of the city, coincidentally the Flet parts, it just didn't seem that important.”
Lord Liberigo’s gaze dropped to the table. “That’s a discussion for another time, but we all know it holds some truth. For now, can we please stick to the problem at hand?”
The Benefice stifled a laugh. “If you feel it necessary, but in the end we all know that there is only one group to blame for this mess; those representing the rule of this once great city.”
Lord Liberigo rolled his eyes. “Can we please move on, Benefice?”
The fat man smiled, but with his point made he did. “The kidnappings carry the stink of the cults and forbidden magic, that can’t be denied. On that basis, and as guardian of the souls of this city, I've already sent a request to the most Holy Benefice Verrochio in the Sacred City of Baimiopia for assistance.”
My breath caught. The last thing I wanted to see was the Church getting more involved.
Kurgar’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of assistance?”
“The Inquisition.”
I felt the blood drain from my face as protests sounded from around the table.
Lord Liberigo demanded, “You did what?”
The Benefice ignored him, instead focussing on my paling face. “It was sent a while ago, well before this current sad chapter. We expect an Inquisitor to arrive any day, and when he does, we demand that the Church be given free access to all involved.”
Lord Liberigo raised his hands and said, “No demands can be made. We need to work together. There’s no one here who’s done any wrong or holds any guilt...”
Angry voices sounded from outside to silence him.
The main doors burst open to see a priest rush in. A couple of Lord Liberigo's men gave chase while Jericho, the Lord's assistant, appeared and bowed to his master. “My Lord, my apologies...”
Lord Liberigo waved him away and called off his men.
The priest went straight for the Benefice to whisper in his ear.
The Benefice's face hardened, he then muttered a prayer before offering a hushed reply. The priest nodded and stepped back.
We all looked to Benefice Vassini, waiting for him to share his news, but he seemed to still be digesting it. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I have several things to share. Firstly, there have been two more kidnappings.”
We winced.
“Secondly, some children have been found – dead.”
Lord Liberigo sprung to his feet with questions while others cried out.
Pedro turned to me and took my hands, his own trembling. Both our minds ran with dark memories of moments of blood and power.
The Benefice raised his voice, “I am going there now. I suggest we all go, we should all see the horror of this thing.”
Lord Liberigo nodded and we rose.
&nb
sp; Being a woman, I received several looks and even a whisper from Pedro and his father; I would be excused.
I didn't want to go, but I had to. My feelings of guilt meant that I couldn't just walk away. I needed to see it.
We walked from the council chamber to the Malnobla’s entry, Sef also with us. On the way we passed Pedro's mother who stood there with Maria. She’d also heard the news. Pedro and I both kissed our sleepy daughter, leaving her for a little while longer in her grandmother's care.
Our group was flanked by half a dozen priests and monks, and a dozen of the Lord's own men. The front doors opened to let us step out and into the cool night. The air held a strong and bitter scent, seeing me turn to Kurgar and ask, “What is it?”
With wide eyes, he said, “Oleander!”
Across the square where the Cathedral and its spires rose above the city, a small crowd prayed by candlelight. Some of them tended smouldering braziers. From those burners and others unseen in the streets about us, the city wore a shroud of swirling smoke.
Saint Santana had found her followers.
-
Our sombre procession of coaches passed through the city’s empty streets, and everywhere we went the air hung heavy with the stink of burnt oleander, but it seemed like roses compared to what greeted us. We stopped in front of a disused port warehouse. It was huge, built of faded grey timber, and run down with its doors and windows boarded up. In front of its main doors stood four priests and two patrols of militia; they’d all tied cloths over their noses and mouths.
How could such a stench only now have been noticed? How long had the locals known something was wrong within a warehouse that reeked of a corruption so rich?
The militia captain handed out face cloths, hesitating as he reached out to me. He looked with apprehension, but I took the offered cloth before he could take it back, leaving him to shake his head as he continued on in his duties.
A masked priest came up to us. “They were found only this evening, it was the stink that gave them away. It looks like most of them have been killed elsewhere and then brought here.” He began to turn away, but stopped. “There’s no shame in revulsion, only proof of your decency.”
Behind him I noticed that some of the militiamen wore stained shirts. The sour smell of vomit lay as an undercurrent to the sweet reek of decay.
A crowd had started to gather. They'd followed the coaches and suspected why we were here. We’d arrived with a handful in tow, but now scores waited. Some of them wept while most stood in silence. They were waiting, waiting for answers.
Lord Liberigo looked to each of us and then nodded that we were ready.
A priest opened the door.
Six priests led us in while burning incense and chanting the prayer for the dead. The militiamen stayed outside and were glad of it, but many of Lord Liberigo's men who’d accompanied us on the coaches now carried lanterns to light our way. We entered the dusty warehouse like a funeral march, and only to leave a rising tide of mourning behind us in the street.
Bare wooden floors met us, only marred by the remains of broken crates. Cobwebs stretched about, some reaching up to cover the thick beams above our heads. The high roof was barely visible beyond our lanterns' light while the distant walls were also lost to darkness.
Pedro walked beside me, and for the first time since we'd met I found his presence reassuring. In that moment I needed him. We needed each other. All of us in that group did.
The air grew chill, a light mist giving each lantern a soft glow. The sombre voices of the chanting priests left me feeling as though we were crossing from one world into another – perhaps into the realm of the dead. Maybe for those moments we did.
Something terrible had happened here.
The floorboards we walked upon sparkled with frost.
The priests not already chanting began to recite prayers. They knew, and somehow I did, that the cold mist and dusting of ice remained as an echo of the magic that had been worked here. As if to remind us, the carpet of white crunched underfoot with each of our steps.
Gently, the voices in my head rose in a mournful chorus.
We were close now. It lay just ahead.
The men who carried the lead lanterns of our macabre march were the first to reach the victims. The sounds of their gasps and moans warned us, yet nothing could see us prepared.
The light spread with our arrival to show off the entire scene. The priests continued their chant, only faltering for a moment.
The floorboards rose up as though something huge had crawled into the warehouse to unload its gory cargo. Piled about that gaping hole, arranged in three towers, stood the bloodied remains of scores of children. Most had been dead for a good while, looming as mounds of discoloured flesh and bone. The iced and splintered floorboards surrounding the hole and ghastly monoliths lay covered in forbidden symbols, all of them painted in blood.
A chorus of gasps and moans arose from us. It was too much. The sounds of sobbing and the raw cry of retching filled the air. The chanting of the priests weakened, yet somehow continued – they never stopped.
My vision swam to take on the clarity that came with touching the celestial. With that I could see everything in all its horror and taste the terror of innocent death. And all about us a million celestial sparks danced in the colours of black, violet, and crimson as they glittered along blood-painted symbols. Some of them swirled through the air to be sucked up high and through a matching hole in the roof.
This place was damned!
The Benefice stood in defiance while the rest of us fell back. He bellowed in a voice that drowned out his priests and carried to the crowd in the street, “Behold the work of the dark powers that strive to ruin our city!”
I wiped at my tears and turned to Pedro, who just stood there pale and stunned. I looked to see what had caught his eye; it was the bloody outline of a diamond painted on the frosted floorboards around the closest tower of bodies. It was the same symbol they'd painted on his back when we’d first met.
I took his hand and squeezed it. For long moments he didn't seem to notice until he turned and said, “We have to stop them, they could have taken Maria!”
Kurgar stood in silence beside us.
Lord Liberigo, normally a stern man with a quick mind, just stood staring at the pit. Finally, he said, “I don't know how to fight this, I don’t even understand what it is.”
The pit yawned open, the lantern light unable to penetrate its depths. It came up from the city's sewers. My celestial vision showed a constant stream of sparks drifting up on a nonexistent wind like the smoke of a smouldering fire’s steady breath. It seemed to be a residue, a celestial residue. Whatever had happened here was finished.
Benefice Vassini said, “Lord Liberigo, this is a site of powerful magic, ritual magic – a most serious crime. I must insist that we cordon off this building and leave it for the Inquisition to examine upon their arrival.”
Lord Liberigo, still stunned at the carnage, could only agree.
When one of us turned to go, the rest were quick to follow. Some of the priests stayed behind to make notes. In all we left one hundred and one bodies behind in three towers, each with a bloody monolith centred on a different symbol and ringed by more markings.
Together we stumbled out of the building to find a crowd waiting for us in the street. Their eyes and ears wanted answers, but their hearts demanded hope. Our pale faces offered neither.
At that moment, all I wanted from the cruel world was to hold Maria and to know that she was safe. I could see the same thought in Pedro's eyes. He took my hand and squeezed it. The action stirred my heart. And us? What of us? Despite all that had happened, had we begun to build something new, something crafted of love amidst all this death?
-
We returned home via the Malnobla to collect Maria. My part in the afternoon's dramas was not forgotten, but dwarfed by the evening's events. Once home, Sef left Pedro and I downstairs as he carried our sleeping daught
er up to my room and put her to bed. I knew he'd wait with her.
Pedro leaned against the wall and watched Sef go before turning to me. “It's late and been a full day, as will tomorrow.”
I nodded. “They're yet to question me...” my words trailed off.
“Are you worried?”
I looked to him hoping that he'd understand. “I've done nothing wrong. I saved a child, yet I fear the Church and what it will think of me.” I shook my head.
He stepped forward and put his hands on my shoulders, his touch gentle and warm. “You've nothing to fear. Like you said, you've done nothing wrong. You're no cultist, you worked no magic, and you've never claimed to have anything to do with this new saint.” He stepped closer and slid his arms around me. His embrace was reassuring.
We stood for a while savouring each other’s company – like husband and wife. Finally, he stepped back and let go. Smiling, he said, “Time for bed.” Then he turned and left me.
I wondered if he planned on going to my room or his own. We'd kept separate beds since our marriage and never shared, but tonight I could not only tolerate his touch, after seeing what I'd seen in the warehouse I wanted the comfort it would give.
Our maid watched from the shadows with her mouth open wide. She'd never seen the two of us show any affection for each other. In a flurry she turned and ducked away.
Pedro had already climbed the stairs. Not wanting to be alone, I followed.
I found him standing at his door. He was looking back at me as I got to the top of the landing. He offered a smile, one that was genuine if rosed by blush.
I matched it.
He looked down at his hand on the door before whispering, “Not yet, my wife.” And then he opened his door and passed through to close it behind him. For a while I stood there, but eventually I moved on to my own room.
Sef greeted me. “Are you alright?”
I nodded as I walked past to sit on the bed I shared with Maria. She lay under the covers, her face placid in sleep.
“Are you sure?” Concern filled his eyes.
With a weak voice, I said, “Did you see him?”
