Balin looked at the Council and they all forced a small laugh of amusement. “Well, your Grace, as it turns out, that’s not quite the case, though one could make a fine argument that your brother is the cause of it.”
Dagrir wiped a hand down his face and pulled out a chair and plopped himself down in it. He shook his head in silence for a moment and then, without looking up at Balin, said, “Well? What is it?”
“You’ll recall that when your brother last sat in on the Council, he ordered reparations to be paid to the Icelanders.” said Balin.
“I do.” said Dagrir. He looked up at Balin. “As I recall, we later agreed we would not send payment just yet?”
“As it turns out, your Grace, the Council decided to send Lord Tarquin and the Saints to pay this year’s reparations.” explained Balin. “With your brother scheduled to take the throne, we felt it prudent to act, however partially, on his orders.”
“Get on with it,” said Dagrir, looking down at the table, a look of expectant displeasure on his face.
“Lord Tarquin and the Saints attempted to pay the reparations and gave Koren Arcten Baern an apology for its lateness.” explained Balin. “Unfortunately, it seems, the Koren was not in a forgiving mood. The Icelanders ambushed Lord Tarquin and brutally attacked him. Tarquin barely escaped with his life, and the Saints were not even that lucky.”
Dagrir’s face went pale and he sat with a blank expression for a moment. He pursed his lips and then looked up at Balin and Tarquin. “None of the Saints survived?”
Tarquin and Balin exchanged a quick glance and then Balin said, “Unfortunately, no.”
“We have to act.” said Gefjon loudly. He looked at Dagrir. “You cannot let this go unpunished. We have to send a full legion and a contingent of Dark Star Knights immediately. This demands no less than their eradication! This is a grave insult to us, and no less than an act of war!”
“It’s true,” immediately added Jord. “They’re testing you, your Grace. They know your father is ailing and they are testing our resolve. If you show weakness now…”
“Your Grace,” said Balin. “It is this Council’s advice, as well as Lord Tarquin’s, that you send a full legion, accompanied by a contingent of Dark Star Knights, to Iceland today. Lord Tarquin shall lead them. We cannot let this stand, your Grace.”
Dagrir sat quietly and chewed his lower lip, his dark eyes distant.
“Let me take the Knights of the Dark Stars.” said Tarquin. “I won’t even need a full legion of men. This was an insult to me and an act of war upon the Lands. Let me lead the Knights and I promise you it shall be taken care of swiftly.”
Dagrir didn’t look at them but exhaled loudly through his nose. He tapped his finger on the table for a moment. He stood up and looked at Balin and Tarquin. “The Dark Star Knights are too few as it is, and if we are to begin granting Exaltations, it’s going to be imperative that we have them on hand for the nobles. We can’t risk any of their numbers.”
“Then let me take a legion.” said Tarquin. “I shall lead them. The Icelanders shall be trampled under foot for their treachery.”
Dagrir looked into Tarquin’s eyes. “The attack on you and the Saints was completely unprovoked?”
“Yes, your Grace.” said Tarquin, unflinching. “We offered them the year’s reparations and the Koren told us that was not good enough. He demanded full payment. When I told him that was impossible, he ordered his attack.”
“That’s not like the Icelanders,” said Dagrir. He shook his head and exhaled loudly.
“Nonetheless, this is what they have done.” said Balin. “Hymnar and Gefjon shall draw up the papers for a legion. We just need your signature.”
Dagrir looked back at the Councilmen at the table and nodded. “I’ll tell my father of their treachery. Send the papers to me in his room.”
“Thank you, your Grace.” said Balin, bowing slightly.
Dagrir stood there for a moment silently, then he looked at Balin and the rest of the Council. “This is the only time I am going to say this,” said Dagrir, his voice suddenly cold and sharp like steel, his eyes becoming black beads. “I shall not be kept in the dark about another matter settled in secret by this Council and my father. I am no longer just my father’s second son. I am no longer just my brother’s adviser. I am now the Regent King of Duroton and the throne shall go to me. I was kept in the dark about the Saints Alliance. I was kept in the dark about Celacia. I was kept in the dark about the skull of the fire dragon. And now I find I was kept in the dark about sending reparations to the Icelanders.” Dagrir looked squarely at Balin now. “I shall not suffer another such insult.”
“Yes, your Grace.” said Balin, bowing. “Understood.”
Dagrir turned to the rest of the Council.
“Yes, your Grace,” they said, somewhat in unison.
Dagrir looked back at Balin and nodded his head slightly. Then he began to stalk out of the room, but stopped in his tracks. Without looking back he asked, “Lord Tarquin, does Celacia know about the loss of her Saints yet?”
“She might,” said Tarquin. “I don’t know how the Sanguinastrums work. She holds them all still. I suppose she might know.”
“I would not expect her to be pleased with you, Lord Tarquin.” and that was all Dagrir said before exiting the room and slamming the door behind him.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Egret looked at Isley as they strode down the hall of the castle. “Did you really promise Celacia that you’d see her dead?”
Isley looked up at the man. “Yes.” he said. “I told her that I thought it was the will of the Goddess that I found her, and that I would follow her as long as our paths walked parallel. But, I told her that as soon as our paths crossed and I found her standing in the way of awakening the Goddess, I would see her dead.”
Egret huffed a laugh. “What did she say to that?”
“She liked my honesty and sincerity, I think.” said Isley. “In fact, she said that was an excellent idea and she agreed that as soon I stood in her way, she would see me dead as well. We’re both under mutual obligation to walk parallel, you see?”
“I suppose.” said Egret. “But you Saints are under the sway of those who hold your Sanguinastrums, are you not?”
“We are,” admitted Isley. “It is Sanctuary’s way of keeping us loyal, I suppose.”
“I suppose.” agreed Egret. He looked down at Isley. “But doesn’t Celacia now hold your Sanguinastrum? Is she not supposed to give the others’ to Lord Tarquin? Will that not force you to be loyal to her?”
“Just because one holds my Sanguinastrum does not mean I owe them loyalty.” said Isley. “True, they can threaten to have me recalled. They can break it and I will die. But I do not fear death more than I fear the failure of my duty. All men die. All Saints die, eventually. Death shall never force my hand.”
“Very admirable.” said Egret.
“And besides,” said Isley. “Celacia gave me mine and all the rest. Except for Nuriel’s.”
Egret raised an eyebrow.
“She told me to give them to Lord Tarquin.” admitted Isley.
“You didn’t?” asked Egret.
“No.” said Isley. “I knew he wouldn’t need them.”
Egret looked down at Isley curiously. “Why not?”
“Because of Nuriel.” said Isley. Isley’s hand found the small leather purse around his side. He reached in and produced five, small, crystalline orbs. One was filled with crimson blood. The others were filled with black liquid. “As you can see, they’re not much good to Lord Tarquin now anyway.”
Egret stopped and looked at Isley. “They’re dead? The black ones mean they’re dead?”
“Yes.” said Isley. “I suspect Nuriel got to them. I also suspect that’s what has gotten Lord Tarquin’s dander up.”
“You knew Nuriel would kill them, didn’t you?” asked Egret.
“I suspected it would happen eventually, yes.”
“And you didn’t mention this to Lord Tarquin?”
“He never asked my opinion on the matter.” said Isley. “And I don’t like Lord Tarquin. He is not a man of duty. He and the other Saints are all well met. The others, except for Nuriel, that is. And admittedly, I wanted better for her and wished she could stay under my tutelage. But I knew she would not suffer them long.”
“Celacia knew this would happen too?” said Egret. “That’s why she didn’t give you Nuriel’s?”
“She probably assumed as much.” said Isley. “But that’s not why she didn’t give me Nuriel’s. Celacia likes Nuriel. She would never have given Nuriel’s life to the hands of a man like Tarquin. I also suspect she has better plans for Nuriel. And Celacia hates Lord Tarquin too. That’s why she didn’t give him their Sanguinastrums outright. She probably supposed I wouldn’t hand them over either, and now it can’t be said that she broke any part of the bargain.”
Egret pursed his lips and looked Isley in his silver eyes. They never shown anything but the light of sincerity. It was something he highly respected in the man. “Will she come for you?” he asked. “Will Nuriel come for you?”
“Maybe.” said Isley. “Perhaps one day. She may come for all of us.”
“Should we be worried?” asked Egret.
“Yes.” said Isley. He slipped the orbs back into his purse but handed his own to Egret.
Egret looked at the small thing. It had the same dual-star stellaglyph etched upon it as Isley had scarred upon his neck. “Your Sanguinastrum.”
“A token of my loyalty to you.” said Isley.
Egret looked at Isley and placed it back into his hands. “Soldiers who wear collars are not loyal to the cause they fight for.”
Isley placed his Sanguinastrum back into his pack. “I thank you. And I couldn’t agree more.”
— 15 —
THE DEMON YIG
Nuriel jolted awake. She was in a tiny, lonesome clutch of pines, surrounded on all sides by a vast and endless sea of snow that shone in the abyssal blues and blacks of arctic twilight. Nuriel’s mind was staggered by sleep and the Ev she had been taking, and it flopped around as she tried to figure out if it was still yesterday or if she had slept an entire day away. She hugged herself and shivered. It was cold. Her breath smoked. She deduced that she must have slept an entire day, because the Ev she had last taken had worn off, and despite her grogginess, she felt terribly, horribly, uncomfortably lucid.
Nuriel scooted herself closer to what was left of her fire. She vaguely remembered having started it. It was nothing but cold, black embers and white ash. She poked at them with a stick, and to her surprise, beneath the ashes of wood, a few desperate embers clung to a life so delicate that the whisper of arctic wind in her little grotto threatened to snuff them out. The pathetic, lopsided pines that surrounded her offered plenty of dead branches and brown nettles. Nuriel scooped some up and placed them on the embers. She delicately blew on them until they blazed to life, then she cracked a few branches and began placing them in. Once a decent fire had begun, she leaned back against a pine, hugging herself. She sniffled and tucked her golden hair back behind her ear. She was hungry, but she had nothing to eat. She sniffled again.
Nuriel didn’t know how far she had run. She had just run north, as fast as her Caliber would allow her, and that had been a substantial distance. Saints could blaze across the land like shooting stars, eating miles in a single hour that would make the swiftest of horses jealous. She had finally stopped running late last night when her exhaustion had become more than she could bear. She had felt her Caliber strength faltering and her star-armor had begun to feel crushing upon her, as if it might consume her at any moment. She only vaguely remembered starting the fire, and was frankly surprised she had succeeded. Survivalcraft had never been one of her strong suits back at Sanctuary. Nuriel looked at the fire and frowned. Truth be told, she was surprised she had survived the night. She hadn’t expected to. She hadn’t planned to. Despite her exhaustion, she must have still had enough Caliber energy to see her through the cold. She bit her lip and blew a long stream of frosty air from her mouth.
Her stomach growled. She had never been this hungry before, never had to go without eating. She was thirsty too. Her golden eyes looked at the snow that surrounded her with something close to contempt. She grabbed a handful of it from her side and let it melt in her mouth. It was thoroughly unsatisfying.
She sniffled again and wiped at her nose. She gazed at the dancing fire, the memories of the other night dangerously close to the surface of her mind. She tried to focus on her hunger pains and the looming threat of death by starvation. She sniffled and scowled, then looked at the inky sky.
There were no clouds this night, and the branches of these few pathetic pines obscured nothing. The heavens were spread bare before her, almost completely devoid of stars. The moon hung low and near full, a blazing silver disk in the murky night, but it had nothing to keep it company. A heartbreakingly few pinpoints of white light sparkled here and there, each of them solitary, each of them alone amid a sea of unrelenting blackness. Nuriel sniffled and wiped at her eye.
“What’s the point?” she muttered to herself as she stared at a lone star. “What’s the point anymore?”
Nuriel looked back at the fire for a while, her mind wandering upon disparate thoughts of her life back at Sanctuary; her life as it had been in Jerusa with Isley; her life as it had been here in Duroton. Then, in the fire she saw the burning boy and the baby, and the mother who Gamalael had held into the flames. She gasped and shook her head, clearing the vision, but now it was too late to deny the memories. They had surfaced and they demanded she pay them attention. She saw fragments of yesterday night, unable to determine their order, time or place. She just knew they had happened. The blood spray as Tia’s head came off; Gamalael’s limbless body writhing and screaming upon the ground, soaking the snow red; Umbrial laying dead in the snow; Arric…
Nuriel buried her face in her hands, trying to hold back her tears. She sniffled and grabbed the leather purse at her side, hands trembling, and took out the folio. With a shaky hand she plunged the syringe into one of the glass vials and took up its liquid. Then, holding the injector in her mouth, she rolled back the leather sleeve on her left arm just enough to expose the veins in her wrist. The needle wobbled and scraped at her skin as she tried to find her mark. She took a deep breath and steeled herself, and then the needle bit into her flesh and she slowly plunged the Ev into her bloodstream.
Warmth washed over her. It was pleasing, forgiving, merciful. She was no longer hungry, and the memories of blood and death and deceit played across her mind with delightful, meaningless abandon until they vanished. She leaned against the tree, looking up at the starless sky, smiling from ear to ear. The firelight flickered and blazed before her, washing over her waves of heat and pine smoke. She exhaled, her breath becoming a long stream of mist against the black sky, and in her mind she saw it as a river of stars. She imagined being amongst them, in the heavens. She imagined being naked and unashamed before the blazing, violent, beautiful life of a star. She was just a little thing, a speck of nothing before it. But it was hers. It was her star. It was bright and beautiful and she was its guardian. The pressure waves of heat washed over her, blowing her hair like hurricane winds. She closed her eyes and took up its energy; its warmth; its life.
In her naked, fanciful musings she had breasts. Not unseen masses of flesh forever imprisoned beneath unremovable armor. She could almost remember them, as if she had once seen them. Her hand wiped across the cold, star-metal breastplate she wore, but in her mind she felt her breasts. They were warm and firm. She was a woman. She was an angel before a star. She wasn’t a warrior bound to service, enslaved by the holder of her Sanguinastrum. She laughed and kicked her feet.
Nuriel’s hands moved over and around her breastplate as she smiled with ecstasy. She was an angel of the stars. She was naked and beautiful and free. The idea was almost real to
her. She wanted to fly away and she was almost certain she could.
She could fly away and be free of it all.
Her hands caressed around her breastplate some more, and as they did they moved toward her back, feeling for her angelic wings that would certainly be there.
And it suddenly struck her. She couldn’t fly. She wasn’t an angel.
A sense of panic filled her and she sat bolt upright, her hands gripping at her chest, at the cold, unforgiving, unrelenting star-metal. She wasn’t naked, and her breasts were unseen masses of flesh, forever hidden from her. One hand moved down between her legs. Through the leather she could feel the cleft of her vagina, but she remembered that its purity was gone. Even that had been taken from her. Like her freedom and her breasts, it had been taken from her. Savagely stolen.
Her hands began moving frantically over her breastplate. She clutched at the rim around her collar and she screamed as she yanked and tugged at it. She wanted it off. She needed it off. She wanted to see her breasts and know that they were there.
But it was futile.
Star-metal was unbreakable. Impenetrable. Immutable. And it was forever sealed around her chest. She tore at it and scratched at it, her screams becoming ever more frustrated until she finally collapsed upon her knees, her tears coming in long wails and screams.
She looked up at the stars, her eyes red and her cheeks streaked with tears. “Why?!” she screamed, her voice filling the empty, arctic night with her rage and fear. “Why?!”
She collapsed onto all fours and looked up, seeing the fire before her. The little boy was there in the flames holding the skeletal baby. His mother was there too, looking upon her with a soft smile. “Why?!” she screamed again.
The boy’s hand reached for her through the fire, becoming skeletal as it exited the flames. “Come,” he said. “Come burn with us.”
“I’m sorry!” Nuriel screamed, her words being choked out by her tears. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you! I’m sorry for what I’ve done to everybody!”
The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 41
