“Don’t make us subdue you, brother.” His twin reached over to rest her hand on Cerberus’ broad forehead.
Her guards waited on Catarina’s word. Everyone knew the eventual outcome of the tableau; it had been enacted enough times in this house. Lucian might be more powerful, but she held the tactical advantage with the demon and her guards. When he had fought them in the past, she’d called on her followers to restrain him. She wouldn’t hesitate to do so again.
They both knew it.
Lucian simply didn’t care anymore.
“You’re strong, Lucian, but you’re not invincible. Now stop your tantrum and sit down. We have more to discuss.”
In his agitation, he gripped his cane until his hand ached. He examined the woman before him and felt nothing but revulsion.
“Damn it, Lucian, I said sit down.”
For this callous bitch, he had sacrificed Rachael, only to remain locked in battle against his twin until there was nothing left inside him but ice and apathy. His heart lay quiet now, cold as sorrow, dry as hate. Lucian turned and walked away from her.
“Where are you going?”
He heard her chair scrape the floor as she stood. He jerked the door open. The maid he had passed earlier fled down the corridor.
“Lucian? Answer me!”
Cerberus spoke in the background. Lucian neither heard nor cared what the demon directed. He slammed the heavy dining room door hard enough to shake the frame.
She was still calling his name as he grabbed his mantle from the hook in the foyer. He emerged into a day as gray as his mood. Another of her guards attempted to impede his way. Lucian shoved past him and reached the wide avenue before the soldier recovered himself. A note of panic edged his twin’s voice as she called after him. Lucian didn’t stop. If she wanted to make him pay later then let her; he would lie down and take it because he had purchased his pain.
And the price had been dear.
Lucian stepped off the residential avenue catering to Hadra’s elite and followed a shortcut the servants used. Smoke from the construction fires hazed the skyline and curled around the battlements of the city’s walls. Ash coated the streets and the populace, shrouding their prosaic lives in gray. Mastema’s fortress sucked the life from Hadra and its inhabitants, turning the city into an open crypt.
At the next street, he hurried across during a gap in the traffic and stepped into a narrow alley. From the shadows, he watched a line of draft horses pull wagons filled with slabs of marble in a cumbersome procession, their hooves pounding the cobblestones in a solemn dirge.
Two of his sister’s soldiers emerged on the other side of the street. They looked over the crowds and temple traffic then apparently decided to search their side of the road first. One man jogged off to the left and the other went right. Lucian turned and waded through the alley’s muck; he’d evaded them. For now.
He soon reached the commercial district where vendors hawked their wares and customers haggled over prices beneath ragged awnings. The walkways were congested to avoid wagons. The market crowd raised a cloud of dust and noise rivaled only by the clamor of the temple construction.
A cold wind gusted into his face as he left the alley and shouldered his way into the mass of bodies. Far ahead, he glimpsed a woman with hair the hue of sunlit autumn fields, and he almost cried out Rachael’s name. The woman turned; she wasn’t Rachael, but a pale replica. A sparrow imitating a phoenix. He passed her without a second look, chiding himself for a fool.
He stepped into another alley to lose himself in the winding paths between the stone buildings. Entrapped by the city’s walls, he had explored every garret and undercroft of Hadra in hopes of finding an escape route. The days had dragged into years; his dreams of leaving faded to nightmares of captivity. His only recompense was learning to evade his twin’s guards by disappearing into the labyrinth of alleys leading deep into Hadra’s decaying heart.
The buildings became more dilapidated, the streets dirtier, and the people more furtive as he moved east toward the slums. His fine, ermine-lined mantle and sturdy clothes marked him as an outsider, but none dared to impede his journey. Lepers were greeted with more enthusiasm than Lucian Negru, because where he walked, his sister’s soldiers were soon to follow.
Lucian stopped in front of a small church nestled between two leaning tenements. He’d walked this route many times, but he couldn’t recall ever seeing the simple crosses on the doors. Now that she was Seraph, Catarina would waste no time in shutting down the various houses of worship to force them into her cult for Mastema. This lonely church would burn with the rest.
His leg was on fire from his walk, and he needed to sit. Perhaps he could warn the priest to take his congregation from the city. If he could save one of them, he might be able to justify the pain of the last sixteen years.
The street was strangely empty. Only a dirty yellow dog rooted amongst the trash three buildings down. Even the animal didn’t mark Lucian’s presence. It was as if he had died and become a ghost in his sister’s city.
He was a corpse in need of a grave.
The chapel door was unlocked and he entered the sanctuary where only eight rows of pews stood between the entrance and the pulpit. After he genuflected to the humble wooden cross at the altar, he took a seat on the back row. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, resting in the silence.
His thoughts drifted and for one mad moment, he half-expected to feel Rachael’s hair touch his cheek. If he was very still, he was sure he could summon her memory and breathe life into her shadow, making her real and whole again. She had always known where to find him when he was troubled. It was her habit to lean over his shoulder and press her lips against his ear. Come away, she would whisper. Come away with me.
Lucian was so lost in his reverie he didn’t hear anyone enter the room, so he was startled when a hand clasped his shoulder. Terrified one of Catarina’s guards had found him, he jerked upright only to see knuckles gnarled with arthritis.
The old priest’s smile faltered momentarily. “I’ve seen a dead man’s eyes that looked like yours. What makes you so weary, son?”
Lucian dropped his gaze; there weren’t enough days before them to spin his tale.
“Aren’t you Lucian Negru?”
The old man’s voice exhibited no condemnation, but Lucian didn’t want to hear the contempt that would follow his answer. “I’m sorry. I just needed to rest. I’ll leave.”
Genuine alarm passed across the man’s features. “No, no, you shall not. All are welcome in God’s house, especially those who are called prophet. You are Katharos, are you not?” The old man imbued the title of Woerld’s warrior-prophets with a reverence Lucian hadn’t heard in years.
“Was. I was once a Katharos.”
The priest patted him on the shoulder. “Did God rescind His calling and send you home to Earth?” The old man’s lively green eyes shined with compassion. “You are Katharos; that power can never be taken from you.”
“I was banned from the Citadel many years ago. I’ve lost my power.”
The priest shook his head. “Your power comes from God, not the Citadel. So long as God’s throne stands, then so does your power. You’ve just lost your way. We all get a little lost from time to time.” The priest sat sideways on the pew in front of Lucian, turning so they could talk face to face. “What troubles you that you wear your misery for Woerld to see?”
Tears burned Lucian’s eyes and he forced them down; why should he weep for a woman already lost to him? When he felt he could trust his voice, he said, “What if I told you about… an evil man who betrayed the woman he loved to save his sister’s soul?”
“Is this man truly evil or does he just think himself so?”
“Once upon a time, he was selfish and wicked.”
“And now?”
“He’s sorry for the suffering he brought to her.”
Minutes passed with the priest considering Lucian’s sincerity as if it was a jewel to
be bartered. Not since he had lived at the Citadel had he watched someone so thoroughly study his words for their truth.
The priest asked, “What if this selfish, wicked man, who is now sorry, was presented with an opportunity to amend his grievous act? Would this man take such an opportunity?”
“Please don’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking you, son. I’m asking you a question. Would you take the opportunity?”
Lucian searched the old man’s face and found only kindness. He had not been the recipient of benevolence in so long he wasn’t sure how to respond. “An opportunity?”
“Nothing more. Nothing more can be promised, just the chance to see if she’ll forgive you. Would you take that opportunity?”
He didn’t hesitate. “With both hands.” He waited for the priest to render a proverb about good intentions being the first step toward redemption.
Instead, the chapel door opened and one of the slum’s dirty waifs slid inside to scurry to the priest. “The soldiers have come, Father Matt.”
“Good boy, Jamie.” He reached inside the folds of his cassock to find a coin and tossed it to the child. “Go out the back way. Be careful not to be seen.”
The boy vanished with the same ease with which he had appeared. The priest pulled himself to his feet and patted Lucian’s hand absently.
The sound of horses in the street choked Lucian with terror. He had been a fool, and now he’d endangered everyone who had seen him here, including the kind priest. “Do you have a side entrance?” He couldn’t be sure, but he thought the old man winked at him.
“I thought you wanted an opportunity.” Without another word, the priest turned and walked toward the altar.
“I don’t think you understand.” Lucian rose and followed him as quickly as he could, trying desperately to keep the telltale thump of his cane quiet against the rough wood floor. “I only need for them to find me on the street so they don’t connect me to this church.”
“They’re going to burn it anyway, son. You have no control over them.” He went behind the altar and opened a low door, which was all but invisible against the dark paneling. “I dream, you know.”
And those that dream, prophesy. Lucian had once desired those dreams simply because they denoted power, but that talent had been denied to him. He did not dream; he did not prophesy; he could not see the truth in another’s words. Those were Rachael’s talents.
Stunned, Lucian stared at the old man. “You were Katharos?”
“Am, son. I am Katharos, just as you are Katharos. It’s not a coat you can take on and off at will. God remains on His throne so we are Katharoi. Mastema might win the battle, but that dark angel has yet to win the war.” Father Matt stooped to pass through the low doorway and disappear into the darkness. The priest’s face reappeared suddenly. “Don’t dawdle, Lucian.”
Lucian followed and found himself on a wooden stairwell where he could almost stand straight. Father Matt was waiting three steps below.
“Pull it closed and latch it.” The priest mimed pulling the door shut. When Lucian obeyed, they were plunged into suffocating blackness.
Father Matt grunted softly. “Well, isn’t that the wickedness of it? It’s the first trick they teach us and it’s the first one we forget.” The priest stopped talking abruptly as a small yellow globe formed in the palm of his hand. The ball of light strengthened until it acquired the soft luminosity of several candles revealing Father Matt’s delighted features. “There we are!” He held his soul-light before him. “You’ve thrown the bolt on the door? Good. Come on, we haven’t much time.”
Lucian followed him down the stairs into the sepulcher beneath the church. “If you are Katharos, then why are you not at the Citadel?”
“Not all of God’s warriors in Woerld fight with magic and sword. Some of us have more traditional callings. Now hush or they’ll hear us.” He led Lucian past alcoves lined with bones, skulls staring wide-eyed into the shadows. Rats scattered before Father Matt’s soul-light and then closed over the men’s wake like a rippling brown pool.
They wound their way deep into the vault until Lucian was so lost he doubted he could find his way out alone. The priest slowed, examining the floor as he kicked aside the slower rats. The beasts squealed like old women vying for vegetable scraps at the city’s waste heap.
Father Matt grunted in victory. He went to the wall, unceremoniously shoving skulls, femurs, and finger bones aside. Opening a trunk that had been hidden by the bones, the priest removed an iron bar and leather sack with a thick strap. He handed the heavy pack to Lucian before he rammed the heel of the bar into a slot in the floor. His face reddened with effort as he slid a metal panel aside to reveal a ladder descending into darkness.
He gauged Lucian’s bad leg and shook his head. “I’m sorry for you, son. You’ll have to find it in yourself to get down there.”
Lucian took one look before he stepped back from the rank odor of rust and mold flowing out of the darkness. He had no chance of escaping his sister’s guards on foot, especially through damp caverns. This was a cruel joke. “Are you mad? You expect me to crawl into that hole and go where?”
“I thought you wanted an opportunity, or are you still looking for an easier way?” The priest’s voice turned as frigid as the air flowing out of the pit. “Perhaps you would rather crawl back to your sister and throw yourself to her mercy.”
A pit of ice opened in his stomach at the thought of Catarina’s rage. Suffering upon suffering would result from his walking out on her this morning.
“I thought so.” The priest held the little ball of light up before Lucian’s fearful eyes. “The light comes from our souls, Lucian, and you know by my light that I am Katharos, because the Fallen can’t make light—”
“They only steal it,” Lucian whispered.
“Yes! You’re remembering, son. I dream and the Lord has spoken to me. I have done everything that’s been commanded. You have enough food in your pack to get you through the caverns and deep into the Wasteland if you’re frugal. In the caverns, follow the right-hand path at all times. No matter how they twist and turn, never deviate from the right-hand tunnels. You’ll find your way out.”
Father Matt took Lucian’s free hand and passed his soul-light to hover over the younger man’s palm. “They might find you if you use your own magic. Go with as much speed as you can, because once my light dies, you’ll know they’ve wrung the truth from me.”
Chilled, Lucian looked into the old man’s steady gaze where there was no fear, only cold resolve. “I don’t have your courage.”
“You lost it when your heart turned to stone.” The priest leaned forward and tapped Lucian’s chest twice. “Find the heart of flesh that still beats within you. There lies your courage.”
Another draft of air blew out of the hole. All his life, Lucian had calculated his every decision, factored every coefficient, every possible outcome, but now there was no time. Did exchanging one black hole for another really matter? At least this way, his dying was in his own hands, and there was a slim chance that he could right a terrible wrong. Before he could change his mind, Lucian lowered himself to the edge of the hole and released Father Matt’s light down into the darkness. The rusting ladder ended about twenty feet down.
“Come with me.” He threw the pack over his shoulder.
“I’m eighty-six, boy. I’ll only slow you down, and you’ll be slow enough on your own.” He blessed the younger man quickly. “God goes with you. He’s a much stronger ally.”
Lucian took a long time descending the damp ladder, but eventually found his feet on solid ground. He looked up when the priest called his name one more time.
A long slender object fell toward him, and he thought perhaps it was another cane. Unprepared for the weight of it, he almost dropped it. It was a Citadel sword; the hilt bore the Greek letter Omega embracing the Alpha, and though he didn’t draw the blade, he was sure the inscription, Ut unum sint, was etched in the steel.
/>
That they may be one.
“John Shea remains as the Citadel’s Seraph,” Matthew called down. “Take the blade to him, and you tell John Shea that Matthew Kellogg did what was right in the end.”
At the mention of John’s name, the sword felt heavier. Lucian tried to imagine facing John again after all these years. The only image he could summon was the look of John’s grief when he had discovered Lucian’s treason sixteen years ago.
Lucian shoved his anxiety aside; he would have to face them all eventually. He looked up. “I will, Matthew, I swear it.” Lucian couldn’t see the priest’s face, but the silhouette of Matthew’s head nodded before he disappeared. “I won’t forget you,” he whispered.
Lucian rubbed the rust from his palms onto his pants and took up his cane. Above him, the sound of metal screamed against stone, and then silence. His way back was sealed from him forever.
†
Judging by the growth of his new beard, he had been in the darkness for five, maybe six days when Father Matt’s light flickered. Lucian had known something was wrong with the old man hours ago when Matthew’s soul-light deepened to the color of urine. Now it went out briefly before glowing back to life only to darken again like a dying firefly.
“Oh, God, please take him quickly. Don’t let him suffer.” His whisper echoed down the branching tunnels as he stood mesmerized by the flickering soul-light before him. Automatically he touched his heart and drew comfort from the presence of his Psalter.
And please don’t let me be next, he prayed selfishly.
The priest’s light faded before it burst into a shower of sparks. When the last ember faded, Lucian was immersed in blackness.
In the eternal night of those caverns, the steady drip of water resumed, filling the quiet. From somewhere behind him, he heard the hesitant click of claws against the stone floor. The rats were returning with the darkness.
He held his palm up, but hesitated to say the prayer that would bring his own soul-light into existence. He had no idea how far he had come, and as he walked through the long hours in the dark, he often felt he was moving in a large circle. If he used a small magic, then his sister and her council might not sense his presence, but there were no guarantees.
Miserere: An Autumn Tale Page 2
