The Record of the Saints Caliber

by M. David White

  All around her lay bodies. Death and blood and snow and the darkness of coming night. There were many Icelanders still alive. They all kept their distance, looking at her. Staring. She saw one man. He was large and the pelt he wore was red with blood. He looked at her strangely, as if trying to gauge if she was friend or foe. He began to approach her but Nuriel’s eyes burned into him and she roared out and he backed off. They all backed off. Ahead of her she saw the fire crackling, and in its light, the empty armors of Gamalael, Arric and Tia. Their bodies had been consumed by their armor, and only the blood and gore left in the snow gave any hint to the outlines of the bodies that once inhabited them.

  Nuriel broke down and cried. Now she had really done it. If things had been bad before, they were a hundred times worse now. She had killed Saints. She had killed fellow Saints. There was no life left for her. Now she could never go back to Sanctuary and she could never go back to Duroton. She could never again see Holy Father Admael; never again see Karinael. She didn’t even have Celacia anymore. Loneliness struck her hard. She was alone, she realized. Truly alone in this world, with nowhere and no one to run to. Nuriel looked up at the skies and screamed out again in pain and agony, rage and confusion. She had nothing. She had nobody. Her mind whirled as lucidity crept back to her. The warmth of the Ev seemed so distant now. Her eyes caught the fire again and the mother’s body, half in the flames, crackled and popped. Nuriel collapsed on the snow, crying, screaming.

  She clutched at her head, her fingers scraping through her hair as tears and snot dripped from her bloody face. From her knees she looked up at the dark heavens. “Aeoria!” she screamed. “Aeoria help me!”

  But there was no answer. There would be no answer. Aeoria was the sleeping goddess and there would be no reply. Nuriel’s mind churned for a reason—a reason for her life, a reason for her to exist, a reason for anything—but just like her calls to Aeoria, there was no reply forthcoming. There was no more reason for her to be. Tarquin was right. She had wasted everything.

  Nuriel took her sword in her hand. She looked at her wrists. She could do it. She could end it all now. She placed the sword between her legs so that the ever-sharp star-metal blade faced up. Trembling, she placed her wrist to it. She pressed down slightly and felt the cold blade dig in on her soft skin. She tried to will herself to slide her arm down, but couldn’t. She turned her head up to the heavens and tried to call out to Aeoria again, but her body was a spasm of tears and sobs.

  The fire caught her eyes again. Fire. She would burn for her sins. Apollyon take her, she would burn for her sins. A part of her mind told her that maybe that was it, that fire was her one escape. She was, for all intents and purposes, a Fallen Saint. The only thing she hadn’t done was offer her soul to a demon. She thought a moment. She could do that. She had nobody else. She had nothing else. If she offered herself to a demon she could be free of everything. The demon could take the stellaglyph from her neck and she’d be free, her Sanguinastrum would no longer have sway over her. What else was there for her? Or she could wait for Celacia to find out what she did. Celacia would surely break her Sanguinastrum and she’d be recalled, consumed by the very armor she wore. Consumed alive. Nuriel shuddered at that terrible thought.

  Nuriel clutched at her head. She began panting, almost hyperventilating. Her head buzzed and spiraled. She closed her eyes and tried to reach down into her body and find any last remnants of the Ev she had taken. She desperately sought for its warmth. She lied to herself and supposed it might bring her clarity, like how it had during the battle. Then, more truthfully, she admitted to herself that at least with the Ev she could postpone all her thoughts; postpone her pain until she might be able to deal with it again.

  Nuriel struggled to her feet, wiping tears and snot and blood from her face. She tucked her hair behind her ear and stumbled over to Gamalael’s empty armor. On the ground, beside the skirt of star-metal plates that had once hung upon his hips, was a leather pouch. She knelt down and frantically undid the drawstring that kept it closed, her fingers trembling. Inside was the leather folio. She grabbed it up and opened it. Inside was the injector and two vials of Ev. She took it. She moved to Tia’s fallen armor and found her vials of Ev as well. She placed them into the leather folio with the rest and ran off into the icy night.

  — 14 —

  ISLEY’S CAUSE

  The bright, blue sky and yellow sun filled the domed glass ceiling of the Council room, though the gaslamps upon the walls were still lit and flickered needlessly. Isley stood at Egret’s side, just to the left of the table’s head. Like Egret, he wore a black shroud over his Star-Armor, a custom of the Dark Star Knights that Egret said he would also like Isley to observe. The seven Councilmen sat at their usual places along the table’s length, though admittedly Isley still struggled to remember their names and titles. Neither Dagrir nor the King were present. Isley had observed that when it was just the Council, they tended to discuss things in more detail, on smaller scales. When the King or his son were present, things were painted with much broader strokes. Politics were new to Isley. He still didn’t grasp what all these endless talks and discussions would ever amount to. All he could do was bide his time. As the Councilmen all made small talk and settled in their seats, Isley mentally went down the line, naming each of them.

  Balin Yagdril was Council of Nobles. He was the finely dressed man with the sharp beard and smile who always liked to take center stage and have the last word at any given meeting. Unless Dagrir or the King himself were present, he always sat at the table’s head. To his right sat Jord Sigrund, Council of Collections and Taxes. Jord was easy to remember because he was the fattest of the bunch and always wore the gaudy silver coif and copper shirt and tunic. At Balin’s left was Gefjon Jolori, Council of Jurisprudence. Gefjon was a large, bearded fellow, not quite as rotund as Jord. Baldir Bjort was the most plainly dressed of the bunch and also the most plainly spoken. He was Council of Agriculture. Then there was Aldur Ilmarinen, Council of Foreign Affairs and Hymnar Ragnir, Council of Domestic Affairs…or was it the other way around? Isley silently cursed himself and vowed to remember exactly who was who next time. Finally, at the opposite end of the table sat Coinmaster Parvailes. Rankin Parvailes was the old man who always wore the red robe and surrounded himself with ledgers and abacuses at all the meetings. He was also Council of Records, if Isley remembered correctly.

  Isley breathed out his nose, satisfied that he was finally starting to remember all their names and respective titles. Life in Duroton these last eight days was worlds different than his previous life in Jerusa. Under Gatima’s command he never sat in on any meetings with the King or his council. No Saint ever did. Isley had once been assigned to King Erol in Penatallia and there it was the same: the King’s business was the King’s business and the Saints were just soldiers. As far as Isley knew, it was the same in all the kingdoms. The life of a Saint was out in the field, out in the cities and towns, or out in the wilds looking for enemies of the church or kingdom. A Saint’s duties were purely physical: fighting, killing, quelling dissent, pressing law and order. Here in Duroton, however, things were much different for him.

  Isley puffed and looked down at the table. All the Councilmen had books and papers before them. Unlike the southern kingdoms, it seemed that here in Duroton everybody could read and write and use numbers. Egret had told him that almost all of the country’s citizens could read and write as well. Isley still didn’t really understand the need for it. Growing up in Sanctuary he had always been taught that written words could carry the messages of Apollyon; that they could be used to cast the evil magic of the Jinn; that they were the runes used to summon demons and devils and unbind the specters of Hell. People like Kings and nobles and the clergy and priests spent years and years of their lives learning to read and write, learning how to gain knowledge from words rather than fall to the evil of Apollyon like so many people had in the past. A past, Isley mused, that had led to Aeoria’s fall.

  E
verything Isley had ever learned was from the mouth of teachers. Through spoken word one could gauge the truth in a man’s voice, the edge of a lie. But in writing, things could be hidden; lies and evils passed. Evil operated in darkness and silence, just like words. Good operated in the light of day, out in the open for all to see, or in the case of speech, to be heard by all. Not even the names of their stars needed the written word, for words were of low creation and the stars were represented by their stellaglyphs instead. Unpronounceable, unable to be marred by the voice or words of Apollyon, and therefore always pure.

  Isley found himself severely torn. On the one hand, he was slowly coming to enjoy Duroton. His duties as Egret’s lieutenant were not as severe as they had been in Jerusa under Gatima’s command, or even in Penatallia under King Erol’s command. Truth be told, he had never felt as good as he did now. Killing and bloodshed were the unfortunate but necessary duties of a Saint in the southern kingdoms. Here in Duroton, however, his duties seemed far more political. And it was in this way that he was torn. He found that he actually enjoyed not having to be out in the field, but on the other hand he found that playing the game of politics was far more complicated than he wanted anything to do with. He was beginning to understand why Kings and nobles and clergy had to spend years learning to read and write and deal with all the complexities that simple books, ledgers, scrolls and documents brought. These men poured over their documents constantly, mulled incessantly over numbers. In these documents were penned the futures of entire cities, and these pens inked away at the fate of the country. Isley had observed many times how these documents were left to interpretations. Gefjon Jolori, the Councilman of Jurisprudence, was especially good at interpreting documents in ways favorable to him and the Council. Isley wondered many times if they were interpreting things for good or evil, and mused that the spoken word of a man left little to be interpreted, especially with him standing right before you.

  Isley looked again at all the open papers on the table and made a little scowl. He had been made to feel very uncomfortable by Egret over his complete lack of understanding of the written word. Despite that, part of him felt even more uncomfortable with the notion of having to learn it. In fact, Isley found that he dreaded the thought of having to learn it. Egret had already scheduled him time with some of the castle’s scholars, and learning all the letters of the alphabet seemed a task more daunting than being sent out to face down one of Apollyon’s Unbound.

  Isley’s silver eyes glanced over to Egret who stood like a black specter beside Balin’s chair. Egret seemed a fair and just commander. More fair and more just than any King or Exalted he had ever had to work for. Despite that, Isley found himself torn about the man. Egret, like everybody he had met in Duroton, seemed to hold a loyalty to the country that surpassed any loyalty to the Goddess, Aeoria. They made vows and pacts and swore oaths to the name of Duroton, yet never did he hear a single prayer to the Goddess. Egret had assured him that the people of Duroton knew of Her and held great love for the Goddess, and that there were churches to Her throughout the country. Even still, everybody seemed to worship the country of Duroton, to hold it in greater esteem and respect than the very Goddess.

  Isley wondered if it had anything to do with their ability to read and write and calculate numbers. Perhaps in their books was hidden the sway of Apollyon, and over the ages it had slowly led them all astray from the Goddess. Isley found himself very curious to visit one of their churches, to see if their teachings were the same; to see if the people of Duroton held as great a love and respect for Aeoria as those of the southern kingdoms.

  Isley chewed his lip in quiet contemplation. He wondered if Egret’s desire to have him learn to read and write was a secret ploy to get him to fall from Aeoria’s graces and to the will of Apollyon. As long as Isley could remember, he had always been told that the lands of Duroton were evil and forbidden. It was their people, after all, who betrayed the Goddess and caused her to fall to her eternal slumber. Thus far, Isley did not immediately see anything that made him believe that the people of Duroton were all servants of Apollyon, but then again, he had only been here eight days.

  Isley breathed deep and focused on his original intention. He reminded himself that whether Duroton was a place of good or evil was irrelevant. He was here because he believed in Celacia’s promise to him, that in Duroton lied the key to awakening the Goddess. Even if that chance were remote; even if that chance turned out to be false, he had to try. He had to be here in Duroton and follow his fate. To stay in the southern kingdoms—to do as Sanctuary had done for ages—would reap the same fate as all other Saints before him, and that was a Goddess who remained sleeping. As a Saint, Isley truly believed it was his duty to awaken the sleeping Goddess, and here in Duroton he perhaps had that chance. Once again Isley felt his worries and doubts washing away as he found his resolve. He would stay the course here in Duroton. He would stay the course with Celacia. And if that meant aligning himself with Egret and his King and this Council, then so be it. He breathed deep and exhaled. Even if it meant having to learn words and letters.

  “So, Saint Isley,” said Balin over the dying smalltalk of the Councilmen. He straightened a stack of documents and then leaned back in his chair and looked up at Isley. “I hear Lord Egret has employed our scholars to your service?”

  Isley looked down at Balin and nodded his head softly. “He has.”

  “Tell me,” said Balin. “How are your studies coming along?”

  Isley tried but failed to contain his frown. He breathed deeply and said, “There are more letters than I can remember. I see no point in reading words that men can clearly speak.”

  Balin smirked and craned his neck over to Egret. “Lord Egret, you don’t feel you’re wasting valuable castle resources on such an old student? Most begin their studies before their sixth winter.”

  Part of Isley hoped that Balin’s words might push a change of heart in his commander, but Egret stood motionless and said, “All men beneath my command should be learned.”

  “Truth be told, I’m not so certain any warrior should be learned.” said Balin, sitting upright in his chair. “I think a soldier’s talent should be in his ability to swing a sword at the opponent his commander tells him, and not in his ability to recite the philosophies of Argostle or the poems of Chaldain.”

  “I believe my soldiers should know the Oaths of Old and the Rights of the Sons and Daughters of Duroton just as well as they know their swords.” said Egret.

  Balin exhaled loudly out his nose. “Be that as it may, we can’t afford to teach every Saint in the Saints Alliance how to read and write. If all goes as Celacia says it will, we’ll need an army of teachers.”

  “The Saints Alliance is under the command of Lord Tarquin.” said Egret. “Whether or not he wishes them to learn is his concern. All those beneath my command must be learned.”

  “I suppose it is your right as Commander of the Durotonian Guard.” said Balin with a dismissive tone. Then more loudly he said, “Let us come to order.” The murmurs throughout the table died down and Balin said, “Let us come to order beneath the Duroton sky.” Balin adjusted his stack of papers as he casually spoke, “The King’s Council is now convened. If any would not speak beneath the Duroton sky, let him be excused so that the Lands take no heed.” He craned his neck around and looked expectantly at Isley.

  Isley’s chrome hair shone brilliantly in the sun as he returned a stern gaze but said nothing. Inwardly, however, he couldn’t help but think they were Aeoria’s skies, not Duroton’s. These men all thought it was their beloved lands they owed their allegiance and loyalty to. He found it very insular of them to speak more devoutly of their skies than of the very Goddess who created them.

  “Very well,” said Balin, turning back around. He stood up and pushed his seat in. “I, Balin Yagdril, Council of Nobles, shall act as Standing Speaker.” Balin went down the line addressing the rest of the Council by name and title and Isley inwardly praised himself f
or having gotten them all right, including Aldur and Hymnar. Finally Balin concluded by saying, “We have with us Lord Egret and Saint Isley as Standing Guests of this Council. Now, let us come to order for the Lands of Duroton.”

  “For the Lands of Duroton.” spoke the entire Council, including Egret and Isley, more or less as one voice.

  “Let’s get right down to business, shall we?” said Balin, sounding rather perfunctory with the entire matter of the Council. He didn’t bother to divert his attention from his own stack of papers even as he addressed Egret. “Lord Egret, it has been five days since the failed Rising ceremony. Our King is looking for an update on the status of a new phoenix egg, and as Captain of the Durotonian Guard, the responsibility of its procurement ultimately rests upon your shoulders.”

  “I have the Land’s best huntsmen all out in force, Lord Balin.” said Egret. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Time that our dear King does not have, and time that our nobles cannot spare.” said Balin, still hunched over his stacks of papers as he stood. He set them down and turned to Egret. “We need that egg, quick as can be. It is the will of King Garidrir and this Council that a Rising ceremony be held for Dagrir immediately. We expect a new egg to be found within the next day or two. We have all the nobles on hold here at the castle, but many cannot stay away from their own cities much longer.”

  “It’s also a financial strain.” added Jord, and Rankin Parvailes nodded silently from his seat as he scribbled in a ledger.

  Egret bowed his head slightly. “Understood.”

  Balin looked Egret in his blue eyes and exhaled loudly, as if frustrated. “I certainly hope so.” He stood and chewed his lip for a moment and then said, “Celacia shall be arriving with the skull shortly. How is its home coming along?”