The Shadow Crucible

by T. M. Lakomy

  “Then Sir Ray bethought himself of the possibility of the plot being revealed. So he put a sword to the mother and made her tell her daughter that going away to live as a duchess was the fabric of dreams and the best thing that could ever happen to her. And he told her that should she ever betray the secret the knights would kill her mother and aunts and she would meet a very bitter end.” Estella paused a moment to grit her teeth, her eyes flashing angrily.

  “Of course the little girl accepted everything that was asked of her, for she was merely five and she knew only the poverty of the road and the happy moments of family life, which were now cut from her indefinitely. Her mother whispered to her promises that she would find her again one day, and told her not to worry, but to play the part of the princess like in the fairy tales. She told her to remember all the ladies of the courts they had traveled to and emulate their ways, embedding them in her heart. But deep down she must never forget that she was Tsura, the first light of dawn.”

  Estella lifted the locket up to him and he took it from her gently. He saw within the dented old locket the image of a full-faced young woman with light eyes, a ruddy complexion, and red hair braided with pearls. Her skin was dark but her features delicate, and she reminded him of the paintings of Egyptian queens, exotic and stately. She didn’t have the hardness of Estella’s eyes, but, he thought, pain and bitterness and the passage of time were better and greater parents than the ones that birthed you.

  “So the exchange was made,” Estella continued, “and I was led away to this dismal city, to my ‘father’ who barely acknowledged me. And everyone fawned on my exotic features, telling me I was like a princess of the Indus Valley or one of the Pharaoh’s daughters. Yet they knew nothing, nothing at all about the wound growing within me and festering deeper and deeper, like a hole plunging the world into darkness and opening me up to a world I didn’t fathom existed.

  “The duke couldn’t care less about me. At first I was an interesting attraction—beautiful in a way the English rose could not compete. The death of his wife did not move him, but he made an excessive display of sorrow and erected a great shrine in her memory.

  “All the court felt sorry for me, of course. At first they showered me with love and affection. Already they schemed, knowing how extensive my wealth would be upon the duke’s passing. Indeed, I should be wealthy enough even for the king’s lesser sons to cast an eye on me. The duke was much occupied with whoring around and profligacy, so I was left to the care of his sister, the good Lady Bess, and I was raised by her.

  “She always said I had the steadfast nature of a man, but the charm and feminine allure of a fatal woman, and that the two mingled within me to move men to obey me. We come from a proud race, Mikhail. Pharaohs whose wives held the throne and led their men into battle. Our gods were fierce and their cults ruled the heavens and earth. And in my blood, on my father’s side, the Devas had granted incarnation in our family for generations.

  “We were the true Twilit people, living in the dusk of the Goddess. She blessed me with sight, like that of my people, but my gift far exceeded theirs, even as a child. For I recall my mother’s womb and could describe the sounds around me and the translucent veins that nourished me. I could recall where I came from ere I incarnated into human flesh. I understood this earth was a prison for the body, and the soul was bound to it, to languish. And the spirit divine, the god spark, was the currency of the demons that sought dominion over us. I saw so far into the heavens I could glean echoes of the throne’s decrees. Then my mother wept for me, and was afraid, for she knew my destiny would try to warp my spirit and break me into a vessel for the game of the world.

  “Then the duke died, though I was not there to witness it, but rather feigning sickness here in this very manor. I could not stand the sight of him. In his dotage he started to forget the laws of father and daughter and he took a liking to me that entered into the profane. His debauched life knew no bounds and he hated life as much as he hated death. His wealth was the only thing that kept the world from seeing him for what he was. That, and his entourage of sycophants, eager to please him and eager to find ways between my legs. I think I quelled that ambition of theirs a few years ago actually,” she said, playing with a strand of reddish hair, her eyes hardening.

  “I lured a few into my chamber and slit their throats. And of course with the stories about how I’d rather die than be defiled, following in the footsteps of my dear aunt, I was already an eccentric saint in the eyes of the church. Well, they think I will be joining the cloister soon and giving the entirety of my fortune to them, which keeps them happy enough to ignore all my dealings. And as for my fiancé, Lord Woodcraft, well, they don’t mind me being betrothed. Many royals marry and later join the cloister,” she trailed off, then raised her eyes to Mikhail’s.

  “Tell me, Mikhail, is Samael truly after me?” she asked, swinging her legs off the bed and approaching him with a frown.

  “I am not sure, though there is a chance. Your gift is certainly precious and could be bent to his evil purposes, especially if you are truly as skilled as you claim.”

  “What led you here? I deserve to know that at least,” she responded coldly as flitting shadows gathered in the corners of the room—little demons eager to partake of the enfolding scene. Mikhail snorted in derision, watching the demons disappear beneath his imperious gaze.

  “I’ll tell you. A woman who would have brought forth a new messiah was murdered by Samael. I saw it enfold. I prayed for a vision to follow his trail, and this vision I followed. I knew not what I was looking for, or who, but it seems that everything converges around you. You have the most potent gift I have ever heard of or seen. But I must confess you fall short of my expectations, Tsura.”

  “I don’t suppose you would ask the help of a Twilit after all,” she said in a mock sober tone. “Do not dare bring my name against your lips. We are not friends. Your crusading filth have murdered enough of my kin already throughout the ages.” She watched as Mikhail’s dispassionate eyes scoured the room thoughtfully.

  “No, Tsura, it wasn’t me, nor us. The church has been at war with us for centuries, too, and our orders predate them. We merely adopted whatever granules of truth they had gleaned from their recollections of Christ—the real story. We have it and live it. They are merely an important and rich establishment that we need on our side. We welcomed your people once, and they rejected us. But this you won’t recall from the oral histories of your wandering people.”

  “Your orders have done nothing but isolate us and demonize us,” Estella retorted. “If not for our Twilit gods and the spirits that watch over us, we would be caught between your orders and the clergy, the hammer and the anvil. I have not forgotten the witch hunts and the annihilation of our ‘pagan’ cultures.” Her lips formed the last words with distaste. “What was burned at the stakes endured.”

  “Oh yes, Estella, I can see how well you kept yourself. And these petty demons that seek to defile your soul in exchange for a pittance of power? Are you so blind as to fall for their evil lies, to be so feeble as to be led by them? Is that your end? A burning existence in hell where you are eternal food for the demons to feed on, till your soul rises to the gates and begs the angels for mercy and receives none? Is that what you want?” He looked her up and down scornfully. “Sight is wasted on the likes of you, frivolous woman, when men like me go into the world and protect it from the depredation of darkness.”

  “I do not believe you, and I doubt very much anyone else would,” Estella smiled, self-satisfied. Mikhail opened his mouth to retort then closed it and sighed. To his surprise she grinned at him.

  “I have finally cracked the enigma of your obsession with me. You are an overzealous, mad, fool of a Templar, though perhaps you have the right intentions. You believe you were tasked by God himself to save the world. Then a fancy nightmare led you here thinking the hand of God was leading you. And you latched on to me because . . .” she paused considering. “Do you eve
n realize how strange the things you are telling me are? Do the other orders even believe you?” Confirming her suspicions, Mikhail’s face betrayed raw resentment.

  “So you think I am raving? Well, who would have thought that you had something in common with the cardinal?” Mikhail scowled at her pitying grin, pondering the events that had unfolded so quickly. Nothing was coincidence in this life. He recalled the sacred gnostic scriptures and the story of Mary of Magdala, also waylaid and defiled by darkness and yet a light of the age. His order was predicated on finding the sacred feminine that had been lost since the lineage of Magdalene was broken. He pondered whether Estella had the potential to be initiated into his order and give herself over to a life of saving souls. Or was she already sworn to the darkness?

  “Exercise caution in all your ways,” Mikhail urged. “I may not have the support of the orders in this, but I recognize evil when it strikes.”

  “I almost believed you when you told me Samael was after me,” Estella announced, repressing her smirk. “But then I realized, had it any credence, your entire order would be at my door baying like bloodhounds.”

  When she lifted her eyes, she found Mikhail looking down on her and blushed. Subtly winding his way into her mind, he found a tumult of conflicting emotions; attraction and admiration and centuries-long distrust of the orders. She also had a disdain for men, and their desire to dominate women disgusted her.

  He knew she stirred within him fierce emotions. He was fascinated by her, almost as though she were a strange, wild feline emerging from the depths of the African desert. Her roots might be humble, but she carried herself regally and knew what she wanted. He admired that in a woman. But she was betrothed, he recalled frowning.

  “Three months from tomorrow is the ball of Saint Angela,” Estella remarked. “The entire court will congregate in the halls of the palace and parade their parures and idiocy. But it’s also an idyllic place for men to entertain business and meet others without seeming too conspicuous.” She withheld the sarcasm from her voice but did not meet his eyes. “It would be an opportunity for you to meet Lord Woodcraft. I’m sure you will take a liking to him.”

  Estella observed Mikhail quietly. He looked cold again, and impassive; their brief closeness vanishing in seconds.

  “Well, remember that I will be observing you from afar as I go about my own business,” said Mikhail. “I will approach you only if I feel you might be in danger, but also come to me if you feel threatened. You can find me at The Stag and Hare.” He turned briskly, nodding towards her. “What time is the ball?” he added haughtily, his jaw squarely determined.

  “Eight, but I doubt I will remain long.” Estella was before her armoire now, tumbling out endless silken garments. Picking out a deep royal blue nightdress, she turned to face him. “I think you can find your way out now. From today for seven days to come I shall be mourning, so don’t expect me to delight in your company for that time.”

  “Why are you mourning those artisans? Who was that woman to you?” Mikhail stood by the door. His raised eyebrow was all she could descry in the dimming candle light. Estella stiffened.

  “The woman was my aunt, and the one true solace for my pain. My mother died a few years ago, here in this very home from red fever. I couldn’t heal her, for some spell was also upon her. Though I kept my aunt hidden, the church found out one day. They threatened to excommunicate me if I continued to fraternize with the Twilit. Those were the last vestiges of my family you saw tonight, cut down in one go, like insignificant cattle. In our culture we dress in red and black for mourning. Black for the reaper who steals the lives of the beloved, and red for the blood of life that we believe is eternal.”

  Mikhail suddenly remembered the red jasper bracelet in his pocket, feeling its weight through his cloak. He fished it out and laid it on the bedside dresser.

  “I bought something from the artisans’ quarter. The old man needed the money, and I don’t wear jewels, so you may donate it to the children in your care,” he said as he left, closing the door behind him.

  Estella, seeing the dull red sheen of the jasper, smiled wistfully. She took it in her hands and sighed as the memories of the stone spilled forth—the old man’s labors and woes, a sick wife he had laid to rest, and numerous children and grandchildren, destitute. Then hope in the sight of the jasper, hope for a monetary reward, and fleeting moments of cynical pleasure upon coming across the count. Mikhail had been thinking of her. And what held them together now was a talisman of dreams woven by broken hopes and aspirations, and the naivety of old men hoping for happy endings. She blew out the candles, laying the bracelet beside her bed, then sought out sleep.

  7

  A DEADLY END TO THE MASQUERADE

  It was quenching fire with a lantern of oil that joined the pyre

  Of gilded echoes laid to rest in their cenotaph of rotted desire

  It was like caging of the heavens the wayward bound errant cloud

  To mask reality’s austere face with a dismal deathly shroud

  SAINT AUGUSTA’S FEAST PRECEDED THE BALL OF SAINT ANGELA. Though it was a lesser ball, it was of greater significance. Unlike Saint Angela, there were no great displays by musicians or artists from all corners of the kingdom. It was mostly a gathering of the blue-blooded royals celebrating their power by donating silver coins with King Wulfric’s mint all over London. In exchange the inhabitants would sing “God Save the King” and erect banners in his honor. At this time, nobles would bring to the king the “tribute” gems they obtained on trades that weren’t part of the tithing. These included precious icons that were pillaged from faraway lands or anything valuable that would add to the king’s extensive hoard and bring more favor to the noblemen.

  Yet the queen was the one they truly feared. Queen Mary the Adorer hardly attended any court matters, but her representatives were everywhere. They scoured the kingdom, seeking signs of revolt against the king. She hid herself behind a veneer of piety, having taken the veil many years ago, and was a staunch worshipper of the Virgin Mary. All the little churches, however far removed, that were dedicated to the Mother of God she took under her wing and had reconsecrated. For that the nuns adored her.

  But the Twilit people and Estella knew the morbid fascination that she held for those places because of their pagan origins. Estella couldn’t help but wonder what the likes of Saint Augustine and Pope Gregory I would think of the paradox the royalty had fallen into. When Saint Augustine evangelized Britain, the pagan population was very taken with their deity worship. He knew he couldn’t shift their beliefs easily, so he requested the advice of Pope Gregory, who had the ingenious idea of swapping the idol temples with churches and replacing pagan altars with all the saints they could dream of. And it worked perfectly. Nothing changed but the name and the style of dress, and the worship continued. That was effectively how many pagan practices became immovable from the rites of the church, and were utterly absorbed into it.

  Shrines and temples dedicated to the female deities were given over solely to the Virgin Mary. This raised her popularity, and the Holy Virgin became the most important patron of women, which suited the church. Her meek and humble nature was precisely what they required of women. But beneath that facade, in some secluded churches, the cults of the old goddesses thrived as ever.

  Saint Angela was a merry gathering and women of all stations prepared for it in their own fashion—buying new dresses, acquiring new jewels, and seeking potential mates. The poorer and less connected nobles held little balls of their own, celebrating with plentiful wine as fireworks blossomed in the night sky. This year Earl Woodcraft was back in town, having returned from journeys in his father’s lands in Saxony. He was delighted to be back in his favorite city—the elegant court with its refined ways, the endless supply of gentlemen, well-shaped, with soft skin and ever more enticing lips. And of course there was Estella, his supposed salvation and devoted friend, who claimed to be so eager to protect his secret.

  Woodcraft
was currently in a carriage laden with gifts for Estella, mulling over his thoughts darkly. In two months they were supposed to wed. So far she seemed outwardly to be keeping her side of the bargain, but an inordinate sense of horror radiated from her presence at moments, and his natural inclination for suspicion became an obsessive paranoia that gradually degenerated into fears of betrayal. His unease engendered a compelling need to be rid of her, and since he feared and knew her spiteful nature towards men that exerted pressure on her, he preferred to end their deal in an unfortunate yet beneficial way.

  Stopping the carriage outside Goldmark’s jewelry atelier, Woodcraft marched in with the ease that only an earl could muster. A group of pretty, coquettish girls smiled at him as he entered, admiring his golden hair and clear blue eyes. He flashed them his most charming smile, winking amiably, then headed straight to the goldsmith.

  “Steady now, ladies, you wouldn’t want Duchess Estella to have your eyes pickled for dinner,” warned the goldsmith.

  “Oh, I’m sure Estella wouldn’t mind us admiring a piece of art. Surely man was made in God’s image and here is the proof,” smiled a thin blond girl with elaborate gold hairpins and teasing eyes. Detaching herself from the group, she approached the earl. “I am Lady Gwyneth of Montrose,” she said, putting her hand out for him to kiss. “I don’t think we’ve ever met officially.” He obliged reluctantly with a strained smile, then let go of her hand quickly. He had seen Lady Gwyneth at balls before, but managed to avoid her until now.