by T. M. Lakomy
“I know of her but I might not recall the way,” said a child’s voice tentatively. Estella swooped down to him and pulled him forward expectantly.
“Guide them, then. I will breathe onto your face and you shall carry my memory with it. Tell her Tsura the Dancer sends you all, and with my blessing. But farther than that I cannot see.” She pulled away from him with tears in her eyes as she watched the child climb first, the rest following behind, whispering their thanks and blessings.
As they ascended, the dull echo of resounding footsteps came from the tunnel opposite them. Estella frantically began to haul the captives up the ladder. Whether it was the Blind Sage with Mikhail in hot pursuit, she could not tell, or whether something worse, she cared not. But the blinded captives hearing the sound panicked and began to throw themselves at the ladder. The demon’s brow creased.
“You are placing yourself in danger for their sakes foolishly. We must leave!” He scanned the tunnels. “Here they come, you wretched fool. They will gouge your eyes out, too!” Estella waited until the footsteps of many people in pursuit were near, ushered out the last person, and then clambered up the ladder herself.
“She’s here, I can sense her!” came Mikhail’s cry from the tunnel.
“These halls will seal her inside, she cannot escape!” came the croak of the Blind Sage.
As these words smote Estella, she missed her footing and tumbled down the ladder, cursing in pain. Mikhail soon emerged from the tunnel and, brandishing his sword towards the demon, lunged at Estella, who frantically sought to reach the ladder again. The Blind Sage fortified his incantations, striking Estella with blunt force and casting her against the wall. The soundlessly screaming faces surged from the wall, antagonized and contorted with hunger. Dozens of arms with talon-like fingers pressed out of the quivering walls rapidly, converging around Estella. With her mind reeling, she collapsed as the breath was robbed from her.
The demon watched with a hideous rictus of wrath, defeated and cheated of his prize when he had been so near his goal. He hissed, vowing vengeance, and vanished instantly. Before Estella yielded to the numbness of unconsciousness, the last thing that traversed her raging mind was bitter anger for the day she allowed Mikhail to cross her path.
9
THE CRUEL GAME
It has written letters with your blood and sung out the note
And with your screams it gathered guests for the feast over your flesh
It watched you dig with broken fingers, your life choked at your throat
Deeper into the fiendish prison, their infernal mesh
THERE WAS A HEAVY WOODEN DOOR BEFORE HER WITH NO KNOB. IT was an exquisite work, engraved with delicate carvings. In awe, she reached forward to touch it tentatively. It did not move, and then she realized it had no hinges. It was encased within a black wall that was the seamless consistency of onyx. She traced her fingers over the walls and they were smooth, hard, and unyielding. Suddenly, she noticed a fine slot in the door. It unexpectedly dawned on her what it was intended for. The black glass key. Few are they who survive this hidden path. The ancient door of apotheosis, the last gateway of the threefold death. There was no way out and no point trying to push the door in, as it was immured within its wall of onyx. The impenetrable door.
Placing her fingers dreamily upon the keyhole, her sight traversed the precipice of hell. Dreams collapsed within dreams, some beautiful, others dark. At times she was no longer Estella but another being whose name she could not grasp. Alongside others, she stood facing the vastness of a writhing darkness, self-devouring and rotted. Now she was no longer human but a particle of light at the tip of a great spear, reaching straight into the midst of the decaying gloom.
In the gloom, a battle was being fought. The Blind God, a thrashing mass of darkness, sought to blind the eyes of God and put them out. His groping fingers were relentless like a hydra with eternally renewing limbs. But the spear warded him bitterly. And the particle of light at its end grew and became a starry spike. Then the darkness shrieked. The sound echoed across space, cracking the confines of existence, and the gates of night and dawn tremored. Burning and expanding, the spike became a disc, and the darkness writhed in agony, swallowing its own light. The lights bubbled and fizzled, dying a death that rent a hole in an already torn infinity.
Then there came the word, and the darkness shook, oozing foul decay. And as the dark shuddered, the gates of night swung open and it was swallowed entirely. Then with a clang, the mighty spiral gates shut tight and silence fell. But then the pleas started. The lost lights, ripped from the eyelid of God, called for him, their maker, and his heart bled, and he smote the darkness and raised his right hand. For they were trapped in the material world and the only way back to him was through death.
Out of nothingness a chessboard emerged, shimmering in jet and white marble. Calling forth the creation of blindness, God summoned Samael, the fallen one, his arrogant bastard son that the Sophia had created without his permission. Wresting open the gates of night, he hauled him out of the darkness. Then bound in iron wrought by God’s will, he seated Samael chained before the chessboard. Then twilight came, an endless dusk, for neither light nor dark could prevail.
From afar Lucifer turned from his lofty station to watch as God and Samael battled for dominion. And he saw how Samael gathered human souls like crops, as fuel to kindle his inner fires, thus beginning the lucrative trade in human souls. Lucifer walked away and thought himself mighty to have gazed so long into the foul eyes of darkness and yet dwell in the light. And he realized that he, too, could rule. Then he descended upon earth like a blazing shower of burning stars riding the wings of the dreadful Ophanim that guarded the sacred throne of God.
So Estella dreamed and remembered. Her mind was long departed from earthly bonds, and the womb of the world held her tight and nursed her soul.
MIKHAIL WAS SITTING near the window watching Estella. She had been asleep for the past two months. And while his physical wounds had been tended to, his mind was still reeling. He was unpleasantly shaken by his experience in the Blind Sage’s safe haven. After the events of that night, they had taken care to cover up the sage’s indiscretions, keeping it a meticulous secret from all but their inner circle. The sage, taking advantage of the confusion that had ensued, had vanished entirely. Mikhail couldn’t risk spreading knowledge of the sage’s treachery among his order, lest they expose themselves to ridicule for having failed so miserably to neutralize him. So until he could be located, the sage’s disgrace was being kept secret.
In the meantime, the queen had taken it upon herself to quell any rumor in the court surrounding Estella and Woodcraft. The earl, who Mikhail had threatened, was keeping himself hidden. The fool thought his plot had somehow been uncovered by the count, but suspected little else. His fear of being discovered by the church consumed his thoughts.
The king, moreover, was infuriated. His suspicions soon turned to Estella, for he couldn’t fathom how gangrene could develop overnight—unless, of course, witchcraft were to blame and the rumors about her were true. The only thing that kept his inquisitors at bay were his wife’s remonstrations. But the notion that the chief of the Order of the Northern Star was keeping Estella made the king uneasy. She was out of his reach for now. His many spies within the church gave him detailed reports, and based on this information he slowly began to conceive a callous plan of his own.
Oswald, who was accustomed to the dirty side of warfare and the uglier aspects of dealing with the otherworld, went about his duties warily. He gathered all the information he could pertaining to unusual activity in the region, bent on connecting all the strange occurrences from the last two months to Estella’s mystifying slumber.
Men and women had begun to die suddenly. Others gave themselves over to forbidden blood rituals in their madness, embracing the profane. An infectious disquiet rippled through the orders. Mikhail was slowly beginning to despair of Estella ever waking from her spell of slumber. The Templar
s had been unable rouse her. She remained unchanged, and did not waste away from hunger, but unnaturally retained her golden glow.
Mikhail had convened with the other members of his order to relay the situation to them. Many were in favor of putting Estella to death for the safety of everyone. Some observed that she could be utilized as a vessel to trap evil forces. Others were wiser, and sought the path of mercy and wanted the count to care for her and earn her trust. Then she might open her mind to them, and they would be able to see all that she saw and felt.
The count was unshakable in his dedication. Night after night he was by Estella’s side. He reached into her mind, knowing that he could not wrest her from her abode, but seeing all she saw, and feeling all she felt. He was deeply astonished by the boundless wisdom she was bathing in, but aggrieved at being unable to console her in her loneliness. Though at times he had believed her cold and uncaring, now he could reach her wounded soul. He found it intact and pure, and he longed for it. And he longed to own her gift, to keep her for himself. He knew this dark love he had conceived violated his Templar vows, but he was unable to fight it.
Secretly he wrought plans to ensnare her, to keep her within his meshes, safe from the persecution of the primitive church—and safe also from the attention of other men. His own battle between his mixed blood led him to doubt his allegiances, and the demonic blood that enticed his mother bubbled within him and sought dominion. Despite this, he prevailed over it, for he understood Estella’s pain. Wondering at her frailty, he yearned even more to be close to her. But her mind being so far gone, his hopes were running thin, and reluctantly he began to give up hope, believing that death was the door of doom that captivated her wandering spirit.
IT WAS NIGHTFALL, after many more fruitless days spent at Estella’s side, and Mikhail decided he needed something to remedy his weariness. Leaving her behind, he sought out a tavern in which to quiet his tumultuous thoughts. There was a slight drizzle outside, which refreshed him despite its coldness, and he welcomed it with a soft sigh. As he absorbed the cool air, his blue and silver cloak billowed behind him and he opened his grey eyes to the laden skies. He let his feet lead him where they would, walking along the cobbled lanes of the alley near where he lived and passing businessmen, traders, and noblemen in full array.
Swerving right onto the main road, Mikhail espied a tavern with vibrant yellow shades and the emblem of a dancing stag overhead. Deciding it was near enough to his abode and far enough to chase his thoughts, he entered. Immediately the usual cacophony abated. The patrons observed him with open suspicion. The innkeeper, polishing a cup behind the bar, eyed him with beady dark eyes while the revelers stiffened with distrust. They knew of him, or had heard of him, and what they knew sufficed to establish a broad distance between them. Mikhail chose a remote spot near the far end of the tavern to sit, ordering the tavern’s best wine and roast in a bored tone. Slowly the patrons resumed drinking and gambling, cautiously directing their attention elsewhere.
Mikhail sat observing the rabble with some amusement. Their thoughts were petty—feebleminded hopes, women, sex, and liquor. He leaned back moodily while the innkeeper brought the wine, laying down the roast goose before him gingerly. Absorbed completely in his own dark thoughts, he hunched over, irritably thrusting back his unbound hair as it tumbled across his face. In that moment, a pretty, blond damsel confidently approached him and seated herself coquettishly on the vacant chair opposite him with a self-satisfied smile. The count observed her for a brief moment with polite disinterest, completely neglecting to greet her. The lady watched him beneath thick lashes, exuding a cold aura of malevolence. Then she smiled.
“I do not believe you have heard of me, but I happen to have heard of you,” she said. Despite her smile, her blue eyes retained a hard malice. “I am Vanessa Depardeur and I am the king’s . . . favorite.” Her tone was falsely innocuous and layered with seductive notes. The count’s face darkened knowingly, but his composure remained unmoved.
“You see,” she continued, “we have been closely following your movements. And naturally we have many questions. The king feels affronted by this Estella Delcour. And he wonders if she might be one of the filth the church wants purged from the city. Well, now that the king has launched an inquiry, and what with the queen speaking for Estella . . . the king has decided it would be better for her to be dead.” Vanessa smiled unnaturally.
“You see, the king loves pretty things—especially women. And he got it into his head that he would break Estella, who often plays with men’s hearts. Well my own poor heart broke,” she said, pouting. “I thought for a moment she would take my place, leaving me cast aside in the dark. But the king is also battling with two thoughts—to keep her alive and have her as he will, or to have her killed and be done with his bruised honor. He knows well enough that she charmed his foot publicly to scorn him.” Vanessa shook her head, tutting.
Mikhail did not respond, schooling his demeanor into one of indifference, and busying himself with the roasted goose and wine. Vanessa snatched the goblet from his hand inelegantly, taking a long sip, then set it down firmly. The count eyed the cup with blatant distaste, his lips a thin line of displeasure, then resumed eating with a shrug.
“Now the king wants one of two things; either she comes to him and offers herself as a concubine for his pleasure, or she must disappear from court entirely, being stripped of her title and name. If she does not comply, she forfeits her life,” she concluded, her tone sickly sweet. The count lifted his eyes and pushed his plate away roughly. Vanessa paused, disconcerted.
“Let me ask you something, dame. Who shall be the one to carry out the murder?” Mikhail smiled, baring his teeth. Vanessa straightened her back and lifted her chin haughtily.
“No shortage of men willing to carry out the king’s orders,” she retorted.
“How generous of them!” The words rolled off Mikhail’s tongue like acid. He leaned over the table, bringing his face close to hers. “Then bear them my greetings, to every single one who thinks himself mighty enough to push past me. I look forward to escorting them to the afterlife!” The mad rage swirling in his unnatural, icy eyes made her blanch.
“She will not leave this city,” he continued, “and that is because she is mine to dispose of under the authority of the Templars of the Northern Star. The Church of Rome will not appreciate lascivious kings meddling in their holy affairs without sanction.” His grey eyes looked her up and down with unadulterated revulsion.
“At least he wants a night with her to assuage his lust, or else I lose my position . . .” she floundered, lips quivering.
The count thrust his dining knife deep into the wood of the table between them, then grasped her hand tightly, yanking her towards him roughly. Her cries of outrage met with deaf ears and meticulously averted eyes all around. In the dim light of the tavern, the sigils on Mikhail’s rings shone dimly. Her eyes rounded with understanding and her lips moved soundlessly.
“She is mine,” he said, punctuating each word with a tightening of his grip. “I have taken her for my ends, and for my order’s. Must I brand her for you to understand further? Your kind only understands ownership and being owned and used by those who wield power and wealth.”
Vanessa flinched and Mikhail let go of her wrist.
She lifted herself from the table, visibly shaken, and stammered, “I’ll tell him she’s your betrothed, but save my station at the king’s side for mercy’s sake. I had no choice but to relay his desires. You cannot stop him from pursuing what he wants. He never relents and nothing shakes him—I would know,” she whispered, her face pale.
“Do not worry, just mind keeping your jealousy to yourself,” the count nodded, dismissing her.
She nodded hastily, envy etched into her fine features, then departed in a flurry. The tavern door opened again moments later, and Elmer emerged, disheveled and alarmed. The count, rising from his table to greet him, could sense his fear and worry. Estella floated at the foref
ront of his mind.
“What has happened, Elmer?” the count questioned urgently.
“I came to see you at the manor . . . and when I entered, she was there, the duchess. She was awake, but . . . different, and she wasn’t alone. She was as though possessed by some evil spirit and ran wild, chanting and drawing symbols on the walls with her fingers dipped in blood. And I saw them, my lord, I saw the demons!” Elmer shivered and swayed on his feet, and the count motioned to him to sit down, concern etched in his face.
“She’s been asleep for months, Elmer. How can this be? Are you sure of what you saw?” asked the count with mild disbelief in his tone.
“The demons were there,” Elmer grimaced, “male and female, and some whose gender was blurred. And they taunted her and she laughed and ripped her clothes off. The maids restrained her from departing, and the house warden brought her back to bed, but the demons lingered and they went for her room . . .”
The count’s body froze in anger and his fists clenched. “She has been asleep for so long and I have been watching over her every day. The moment I leave for fresh air this happens, as if . . .” he trailed off, realization striking him. Then with a growl of anger he stormed off with Elmer tailing after him.
“They woke her, my lord, and she fought them off. From what I understood they sought to defile her. She went into a frenzy. I came to warn you.” The count stopped in his tracks and turned to Elmer, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly.
