by T. M. Lakomy
The cardinal hobbled to the table, kissing the cross he clutched. Thanks to the power it was imbued with, no one could reach the inner chambers of his mind where he concealed his dark secrets and the gift he had stolen from a poor thief of a pregnant women. She had been destitute, caught stealing bread and then money from the church baskets. When she was hauled before him, he had her whipped till she bled and miscarried. In her torment she had offered a trade with the cardinal that he found he could not refuse—a parcel of the Twilit magic he loathed yet coveted. And she yielded the secret and welded it into his mind in exchange for her freedom. At first he had earnestly thought to free her, but once the gift settled in, his heart grew dark. He turned on her, delivering her to his boys to carve up and throw into the river alongside the other nameless city murders.
The cardinal was now near the table, and he shook at the sight of the torture—not out of pity for them, but for himself. They were an odious reminder that if he failed to obtain adequate results from the interrogation, the wrath of the important guest arriving tonight would be impossible to placate. Eyeing the wretched souls with distaste, he kept his tone steady, though deep down he feared his boys.
“So what have they spat out, these fools, or are you all truly useless?” he inquired, affecting a look of detachment.
“Nothing, sire, the same words, and the same rehearsed story. There was nothing we could do with that one,” said a swarthy man in a leather mask as he pointed to the gutted man. “Got all we could from him and more. Like we said, it would take time. But when they get so intimate with us, they begin to speak of every secret they’ve ever known. One such secret we learned is that the Blind God himself is seeking this Estella. And they aver that this woman isn’t a duchess at all but an imposter. And the queen herself is protecting her. Then here is another interesting tidbit—those brats she takes in aren’t starving orphans in need of charity, but Twilit scum! The whore keeps these God-cursed children and shields them, right beneath the church’s nose. I do think I could glean some repentance from her spirit, given the chance.”
Even behind the mask his leer was palpable, full of lust and violence. It lingered like a rancid cloud in the air already foul with the odors of human suffering. The cardinal nodded approvingly, patting the man on the back.
“God bless you, dark soldier of the right hand of God. May he reward you for undertaking this terrible service in order to purge our world from sin.”
The masked man nodded, then pointed at the other three. “I don’t think we shall have time to finish our work on them. We cannot speed up the process, since the beauty lies in the lingering,” he said, the last word rolling off his tongue with relish. The cardinal distanced himself, suddenly uncomfortable, feigning interest in his rosary.
“Those three, you see, aren’t so talkative,” the man in the mask continued, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Estella is the recurring theme, though they also claim the count is a demon. It’s really a clever story they’ve concocted to distract us. But this one,” he drove a knife into the chained man’s flayed thigh, “has been saying even funnier things. Listen to this one; he says that Count Mikhail, our holiest knight, is aware of Estella’s nature and still took her for himself. He says together they are Hermes Trismegistus’s scepter. I had to bash his skull in a few times to ensure I had got the name right. Then I burned his eyes out and he told me the scepter of Hermes is formed of two serpents intertwining over one live staff—male and female, sight and faith. And he said the scepter shall be wielded by the angels on earth as a defiance against the hand of the evil one; man of faith and woman of sight, coming together. After that, my lord, he fell silent, and nothing we did could wrest more out of them. It’s as if the body is there, but not the mind. It’s unwholesome trickery. The demons protect their progeny well.”
The cardinal leaned forward listening avidly, his fingers playing over his rosary beads. “Are you certain that is all he said? How can he switch himself off to pain? In fact, how could all three of them do it? And Hermes? Yes, that’s exactly what he wants to hear from us tonight, more fables to get us hanged before the morn!” the cardinal hissed, his mask slipping to reveal his rage. All of a sudden the heavy slamming of doors was heard somewhere in the church above. The cardinal and his torturers froze.
“Get out of here,” the cardinal growled at them urgently, waving his rosary like a flail and hunching down as though suddenly crippled. “Out the back door, and your money will be sent in the morning through the usual arrangements.” Spittle flew from his mouth and his jowls quivered as he began to sniff uncontrollably. The men shrugged, gathered their tools, and left hastily without a word. Before disappearing through the back door, the largest man with the leather mask raised his hand in mocking salute.
The cardinal fumed at his own fear, mumbling curses as he steadied himself, sweating through his robes profusely as he plucked at his beard in agitation. At the same time, the heavy, purposeful footsteps echoing down the stone stairs into the vaults resounded ominously. The cardinal thought he saw the very light of the candles dancing in the shape of faces with forked tongues. He shook his head, cursing himself, and turned away as he realized with a creeping horror that he was incapable even of praying to God at this time.
The steps were slow, and the cardinal rushed across the room to the door leading to the stairs, no longer able to endure the suspense. Taking a deep breath and whimpering half a plaintive prayer, he pulled the door open with both hands, sweating feverishly and shaking. He was face-to-face with his dreaded guest. The figure before him was clad in a royal purple velvet cloak trimmed with white fur and chain mail emblazoned with a winged griffin, and his face was contorted into an unfriendly sneer. The crown he wore tonight was a heavy work with oval sapphires clutched in iron clasps, but they seemed lifeless and dull compared to the growing menace in the king’s eyes.
The king brushed past the cardinal with a disapproving scowl as the cardinal fretfully followed behind, his head bent and penitent. The king halted at the sight of the tortured men, taking in the minute details with a perfunctory nod, his expression unfathomable. He then looked behind him with a twisted smile at the three stoic knights he had chosen to accompany him.
“Bring me a table, wine, and some food of whatever is good here,” he said in a bored voice. The knights nodded expressionlessly and departed. The sound of their steps seemed to nauseate the cardinal with each footfall.
“A good night you seem to be having here, my friend,” said the king coldly with a crooked smile. He walked around the tables inspecting the tortured men. Then he picked up a stray iron poker, but his prodding elicited no reaction from the prisoners. Disappointed with the results, he looked around the room, his shrewd gaze taking in the details of the splattering of gore. Then rapidly losing interest, he settled his malignant scrutiny on the cardinal, who was visibly crumbling with each moment.
The knights soon returned, hauling a table and platters of food. They set the heavy oak table down, at the behest of the king, facing the mutilated captives. The platters of food followed suit, wafting odors of grilled pork, onions, and lamb with herbs. The platters were followed by a small basket of bread and a great flagon of wine. The king seated himself comfortably, beckoning for the cardinal to sit at his side on a small, three-legged stool. There he sat in full view of the king and the tormented men and watched them nervously, eyes darting to and fro, occasionally eyeing the food greedily. The king, savoring his discomfort, watched the cardinal as he tore into a pork chop.
“Chin up, old man. You act as though you have never done this before. Don’t jest with me, we all know what you do for entertainment.” His blue eyes glistened darkly with amusement. The cardinal mumbled something inaudible over the noisy chewing of the king.
“We all have dirty secrets, my friend, every single one of us,” said the king. “I personally enjoy other people’s secrets, and unfortunately for you, I happen to know yours,” he added, smiling humorlessly. “It’s
a sad predicament, really, the one you have. And you have my full sympathy.” The king barely cast him a glance as he grabbed a leg of lamb from a platter and continued. “It must be really unbearable to be a priest to begin with, God knows I could never survive a month in such deprivation. And then you don’t get to enjoy women either. So you turn to little boys, and then you discover your member won’t get aroused, and you feel even less of a man and more of a loser. So you try different things, leeches, physicians, potions . . . . Finally you discover that you can enjoy being a man, you only have to watch poor, wretched women suffering a painful death to do so.”
The cardinal gulped and crossed himself, his wizened fingers clutching the table for support.
“How many dying women does it take to turn you on, by the way? I am curious, actually.” The king watched him with the intensity of a predator choosing the propitious moment to assail its prey.
The cardinal opened his mouth in protest and stammered, “All falsehood, my king, all falsehood. I am a man of the cloth, I would not rend my soul to the devil for the pleasures of the flesh.”
The king narrowed his eyes in anger and without warning flung the weighty lamb bone with intense velocity at the cardinal, smiting him with a slapping thud squarely in the face. The cardinal released a choked scream, flinching but not daring to move.
“Don’t lie or you will join these wretched souls and sing along with them, too,” the king said, his cool voice pure menace, and the cardinal nodded meekly, staring at the floor.
“They spoke finally, these men we caught. My king, if it so pleases you to hear what I gleaned from their penance . . .” The cardinal sounded piteous and broken, but there was an unmistakable underscore of bitterness tingeing his words.
The king nodded inscrutably as he ripped off several pieces of bread. “Talk, and don’t waste my time. By the time I have finished eating, I want to have heard everything I wanted to know. Then I will decide whether to let you live.” He pointed nonchalantly at the table with the tortured captives.
The cardinal resignedly wet his lips with his tongue and steadied himself. Then he proceeded to recount in detail what his boys had learned from the prisoners. The king neither seemed pleased nor displeased. He busied himself drinking wine and picking his teeth, and only grunted a few times at the mention of Estella and the scepter. When the last vestiges of food remaining on the platters were gone, he tapped the table with his fingertips impatiently.
“Very good, all very good, but now come closer. I want to gaze upon the face of the man who serves me so well.”
The cardinal sat there transfixed in terror until the king’s fierce glare shook him from his stupor. Trembling, he rose from his stool and shuffled towards the king, who was still dawdling with a fragment of bone on his plate. Like a chastised child he stood there waiting, pale and sweating. With a repugnant snort, the king seized the heavy silver platter he was eating from with both hands, and hurled it with all his might at the cardinal’s face. Choking out a cry of pain, the cardinal fell to his knees, begging and groveling for mercy. The king replied with a kick to his face. The cardinal fell backwards, his nose broken, and blood streaming across his face. He sobbed, imploring the king for mercy.
“Belt up or more will follow,” the king threatened coldly.
The cardinal nodded piteously, a crumpled, quivering mess. The king rose from his chair and moved towards the cardinal with undisguised pleasure, watching him flinch as he readied himself for further blows.
“Well, it was good enough to spare you the torturers . . . you gave me valuable information, after all. But not enough for me to be pleased with you,” he continued, nudging the cardinal viciously with his foot.
As the cardinal wailed words of gratitude, the king turned away in disgust. He began to walk towards the door, his knights following after him, but then suddenly he paused. The cardinal yelped in fear, thinking for an agonizing moment that he was returning to finish him off.
“Have your spies keep a close eye on Count Mikhail and report to me the relevant details,” ordered the king. “I have no time for pointless audiences. And ensure that you don’t cross paths with the queen, or I will roast you alive.” Then he was gone, and the cardinal was left alone on the floor in the dying light of the candles, shaking silently with relief—and unbridled rage.
The cardinal struggled to his feet, sniveling loudly, and for the first time conscious of the blood oozing from his broken nose. He wiped his face slowly, inspecting the blood with dispassion. Then he wiped his hands on his robes and hobbled painfully towards a tall mirror located in a shadowy corner of the room. He coughed hoarsely and a tooth flew out of his mouth, bouncing off the mirror.
He seethed with indignation as he confronted his reflection. Rasping with rage and flexing his fingers impotently, he took in his bruised and broken face. This mirror was the only vanity he was allowed, and now it only offered him the stark knowledge of his ugliness and weakness. Livid, he smote the mirror with his fist. It shattered as he let out an incensed cry, the fragments flying across the floor, glittering sharply in the dimming lights. He looked down at the collage of broken glass and paused, numb with anger.
The shards of the mirror glittered and vibrated, reflecting numerous eyes. Then they slowly began to levitate, all the tiny fragments splintered across the room gathering together and reforming. Swiftly they became whole again, and the mirror floated in the air eerily toward the cardinal. Within the reflection he no longer saw himself, but another being gazing back at him. Lost for breath, he gaped in bewilderment, unable to form words.
The being had the fairest of all faces. Beautiful, with an aura of inexorable grace, it had resplendent, shimmering wings—pair upon pair of them in varied iridescent hues. The countenance observed him with a soft smile, measuring him with his intoxicating, lucent blue eyes.
“Do you know who I am, old man?” the mirror asked him blithely. The cardinal was immediately enraptured, but could feel the cross burning on his neck. “Take it off and it will not sear your skin,” the angel remarked mildly, his limpid blue eyes gazing lovingly upon the cardinal.
The cardinal, like a man too deeply drunken to think, brought his hand to his neck and ripped the cross thoughtlessly off and cast it away.
“That is better now, isn’t it? Always bearing the cross. Well, he carried his cross and now he wants the whole world to carry it with him . . . how truly selfish.” The voice, though laced with reproach, was heartrendingly sweet and full of understanding and promise. It rang like silver bells.
The cardinal’s mouth hung open indecorously, and he found himself nodding his head in agreement with the angel’s words as his fear began to dissipate.
“I do not want you to carry this cross, this heavy burden of debt,” the angel continued. “This false salvation you were peddled is a lie. I, on the contrary, want you to be free, liberated from your thralldom. The earth is your inheritance to rule over as a god, like you were promised. And yet they have deprived you of your freedom. My heart grieves for you,” the angel sympathized, his voice laden with unquenchable sorrow.
As the angel spoke, the mirror began to ripple like molten silver, and he emerged from it, as though pushing through a translucent shroud. Robed in white flowing garments, he grasped a long spear in his left hand pointing it downwards, the bitter tip glistening coldly. Standing before the cardinal revealed in his full glory, he smiled fully—but the warmth never reached his detached, frosted gaze.
“I want to liberate you from your thralldom,” he said. “I have watched over you all, my tender flock. I am Lucifer, the morning star, the first to greet you with my love into this life, and the last to claim you on my dark stallion of death. I have come to free you.” His persuasive voice was soothing and nurturing, like a gentle river rippling mildly over soft bedrock.
The cardinal found himself in a daze of awe, and within him woke his longing for power and lust for dominion.
“Come to me, let me free you, and w
e shall destroy the Twilit world that has robbed you of the gifts that you so deserved.” The fatherly voice of the angel was indignant yet gentle, and he beamed at the cardinal who nodded back eagerly. “Let me into your heart, then. Lead me into your house, in this false edifice erected in the name of God, and let us together find the lost sheep in the house of God. I am his true son, after all, prince of the world.”
He glided towards the cardinal, his numerous nacre wings extending into the chamber. They shed their own pearly light, and it seemed he floated like a silver vision. The angel knelt beside the cardinal, gazing into his watery eyes. “Let me into his house.” The voice was slightly more pressing now.
The cardinal, dazed, nodded in agreement. With a satisfied smile, the angel touched the cardinal’s chest with a slender finger, right at his heart, and breathed over him. The cardinal groaned, falling instantly asleep.
The angel then shifted like a blurring image, colors melting and running, twisting like molten glass into a murky mess of shadow and dirt-colored fumes. The gleaming wings fell to the ground, losing their feathers and rotting instantly. Now instead of the radiant angel, there stood a hooded and cloaked figure, emanating death. Like a black hole, it sucked in all the light around him, exerting a fearsome pull. The light from the candles swirled and were drawn into him, as though he were a gasping sinkhole.
The lights that weren’t drowned out flared in his presence, then guttered as he walked towards the discarded cross lying dully on the ground. With his foot he trampled it into the ground. Then the lights went out and laughter resounded. It echoed through the cathedral walls, shaking it to its foundations until all the lights within went out, and all the icons fell to the ground, dashed down by something far more sinister than the raging gale outside.
