The Shadow Crucible

by T. M. Lakomy

  12

  FLIGHT OF THE DANCER

  When the sound of music turns to dust

  And the heartbeat of existence turns to rust

  Follow the lead into the echoing dark, alone

  To witness how vast the worm has grown

  THAT NIGHT STRANGE DREAMS WERE HAD BY MANY. ESTELLA AWOKE with a smothering shroud of blankness seated on her heart. It wrapped around her, squeezing her and robbing her of breath. Mikhail’s warm arms were cradling her. He woke, too, and in the dim light of the candle on the dresser, his eyes were wild, swirling tempests of grey.

  “Something evil is afoot,” he said, gently prizing his arms from Estella. He rose from the bed and made for the window.

  Estella did not move for a long while, eyes closed and extending her thoughts around her. Then with the agility of a feline, she climbed out of the bed, seizing a silken red gown from the dresser. The count was gazing into the night, rigid like a statue carved of dark marble. His figure was immobile against the night.

  The only noises besides the wailing of the wind and the battering of trees shaken from their roots, was the sound Estella made as she rummaged through the cluttered drawers. She sighed in relief as she found what she was seeking—a velvet black pouch tied together with silver. Throwing it unceremoniously on the bed, she went back to the dresser and produced several silver candles, which she drew out with deft fingers. Counting out ten, she cast them, too, on the bed.

  She then glided to a heavy chest set in the far corner of the room. Kneeling before it, she opened the heavy lid and, after careful inspection, withdrew several bags of incense wrapped in different colored cloths. She also removed several large crystal spheres, which she handled with the utmost care, her expression unfathomable. Then she set about the task of rolling up the luxurious carpets strewn before the bed. Her hair was a tumble of dark curls upon her scarlet robe, and the satin dressing gown hugged her opulent curves.

  “It was a mercy that you sent for my belongings. I could not, at the drop of a hat, have had all this assembled for me,” Estella spoke softly, watching the count as he flexed his fingers against the windowsill. His breathing was shallow, and Estella contained her alarm as she set about creating an intricate star pattern with the silver candles. She then set the seven spheres in a pattern within it.

  “Can you hear the cry that the wind has brought?” Mikhail said, turning to face her at last, his visage grave. Estella nodded as she retrieved an incense burner from the chest and fumbled with the coal and matches.

  “Blood and death—an archdemon walks among the living,” she said fiercely, her eyes burning darkly. The count frowned in unconcealed wonder.

  “Is it touching you? The demons are speaking in the air where they fell and were bound. Their story is a fearsome tale, their whispers are a clangor throbbing in my skull and pounding it to dust.” He touched his eyelids with slender white fingers and watched Estella beneath the thickness of his lashes. “But you can commune with them, can’t you? Is that what you are doing? My eyes cannot reach that far into the evil that has just occurred, but the rumors run wild with the echo of the morning star descending into St. Alban’s Cathedral. The Twilit world is mourning.”

  Estella looked up from her exertions and her eyes were a deep, vibrant red. From where she crouched on the floor setting her works in order, she looked feral. There was a lust for blood and a deadly hatred in her eyes. The count slowly removed himself from the window and walked towards her.

  “Do not let it take you over, Estella. This is not you, you ride the storm. The storm does not ride you.” Estella blinked and the aura around her dissipated. She heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Tonight we will commune with the Twilit world and tell them everything we know,” she said. “After I open my sight and steal the moments in time these dreadful things happened, then I shall bind them in crystal and send them across the Twilit world. Let us be ready for the danger, and also . . . they have news for me.”

  The count nodded. Sitting on the side of the bed, he watched her with intense curiosity as she cast the incense into the burner and seven times circled the star pattern, chanting. She beckoned for the count to join her.

  “Bring that black pouch, too.”

  He obliged with a nod, and within the candles and spheres he sat opposite her. The candles burned with bright, silvery flames, and Estella took the pouch, dropping the contents into her lap. Two smaller pouches fell out, wrapped in plain white cloth. Seizing one, she pulled open its bindings and poured the contents into her hands. Little gem stones, small as quail eggs and engraved with symbols, cascaded out, and she lifted them to her mouth and breathed over them. Then, without warning, she cast them to the floor before her. Although the gems seemed light, they fell heavily and did not roll but landed with a precise pattern between Estella and Mikhail; a half moon pattern formed by the glittering stones. Estella frowned and nodded.

  “Tonight we are passing through the eyes of the angel Asariel, guardian of the mansions of the moon. We welcome you, you who God has bound, and bless you before the throne of God.” Estella’s voice was austere, and the silvery glow of the stones was refracted in her eyes.

  “Treachery in one of the three houses of man,” she said dreamily, a slight tremor traversing her body. “The shepherd’s broken rod; the flock is in danger.” Estella lurched forwards suddenly, clutching her heart. Mikhail made to aid her, but she held up her hand. The silvery glow in her eyes was burning brightly. “The broken throne; the church is betrayed.” She closed her eyes and swayed her head gently from side to side. “The dusk shall be bathed in blood, the pieces on the chessboard move, I am in danger, a figure of authority is after me.”

  She opened her eyes, reaching for the other pouch. Removing its contents hastily, she whispered a swift blessing and cast the moonstones in twos and threes at each candle. Immediately a glow erupted within the gems. The candles guttered momentarily, threatening to die out, then blazed out renewed, suddenly tall and white-hot. Then they dwindled again briefly, only to belch forth crackling white bolts of brilliance into the air. The lightning patterns branched out from each candle, twining together until they formed a mesh net suspended in the air, shivering with a fierce, blinding intensity.

  Estella smiled wanly as images formed within the mesh; geometric patterns and human faces, shifting and transmuting into other forms and places. A soft rustling accompanied it, at first hushed and distant like the shaking of leaves on a forlorn tree, then slowly rising up. Voices, at first mingled together, began to distinguish themselves into separate entities. They talked to one another laden with the weight of their personality and the vibrancy of their thoughts. Within that mesh, Estella’s mind was present too, sharp and keen and clear. Many times the voices drowned hers out, rising like the cacophony of a disjointed symphony. Then in the tumult the numerous voices bled their anguish, woe, and fear through the mesh. It filled the room with their many presences.

  The count observed silently as women, men, and children from every corner of the kingdom and the Twilit world convened to voice their fears. One woman’s voice towered over the rest. Her wailing of grief rippled through the mesh like an overpowering fume, recounting the details of the three men tortured and murdered at Cardinal Pious’s behest. She had seen through their eyes, witnessing their torment, then out of mercy sealed their minds from their bodies.

  The mesh shook and vibrated, and it seemed that it breathed with raging thought. Estella wept in silence, and each tear was an outpouring of her soul. The voices finally shuddered and diminished. Then as whispers, thick and laden with purpose, they broke into speech. The Twilit world extended everywhere—to the nobility, chemists, magistrates, physicians, and scholars. The wisest offered their advice, while the more foolish offered threats. And their weariness oozed from the mesh into the room, and Mikhail was one with their thriving minds. Then the voices abated and addressed Estella, questioning her. Leaning forwards she touched the mesh, and her thoug
hts ran as blood through veins into it, and their questions were sated.

  Estella bent to the candles and blew them out. She blessed each fire as it died out, whispering farewells to her people. Finally in the dark, Estella and Mikhail sat in silence. The open window revealed the moon breaking through slivers of heavy cloud and shining down pale and frosty upon them.

  “They will go for the children and then for me,” Estella said gently. “I think it is time you convened with your order and presented our case before them and the church. What has transpired tonight was pure evil. We must not fight back openly, lest we be hauled to the stakes and burned, but Lucifer has entered the church and we can only hold out for so long now. Instead of the mere persecution of the church, we will have to contend with the demons they will guide to us.” She sounded weary, but as hard as nails. As she reached for his hand he took it, lifting it to his lips to kiss.

  “We need time,” Mikhail sighed. “We cannot quell the danger. I will need the assistance of my brethren scattered throughout the kingdoms of Christendom. But like you I have methods of reaching them, and I shall do so tonight while you rest.” His tone had acquired an unfamiliar, distant edge. Estella swiftly withdrew her hand from him as he observed her pensively, measuring her with an unusual scrutiny.

  “Do not be afraid of me, of all people, Estella,” he said at length, uneasily. The words rolled off his tongue cautiously. “I must be candid with you; you are a tool for the chessboard, both good and evil, with a predilection for skimming the waters of the abyss and stealing its essence to use for your own means. They would want you, seek you out, and maybe through torment and pain transform you into a beast of their own, to wield as a cruel weapon. You have sight stretching further into the eyes of God than anyone, and yet you do not burn. Your soul is not extinguished by the everlasting darkness, but you endure.

  “You have opened doorways for the demons to enter, and they will use their arts against you. And the worm in your heart that gnaws within you that they feed on will grow. They will fight over your soul, and you will be caught between two wars. And you will have to choose one pathway and forsake the Twilit world forever.” The moonlight shone on his face and he was again that stranger behind the wall of impenetrable dogma that she loathed. She backed away from him, eyeing him with scorn.

  “Ah, I see. So now I am a pawn, am I?” she said. “Would you have me confined to your sanctuaries and be forced to fight in a battle I did not choose? Living in endless fear of where the blow will fall next as my reward? And enduring as a dancer darting between each knife thrown, undulating with the fires that seek to char my soul? Never! I shall remain what I have always been: free. I am the Dancer in the Dark. Nothing can cage the wind, nor make its whirling cease—I am so, too.” She rose haughtily and the count followed her, his expression spiteful.

  “And now you close yourself to me completely, and I cannot see you,” he said bitterly. “Will you flee me now, and hide in the night? My order must protect you and initiate you, or else you will be easy prey. The king himself has sent me his concubine to warn me of what will befall you if you are caught alone and friendless.” He advanced on her imperiously, his shadow long beneath the moonlight, the tension heavy between them.

  “I was a fool to believe you were more than a callous liar seeking to imprison me and bind me to your games,” Estella spoke harshly and Mikhail grimaced in disappointment.

  “I only want to protect you,” he said, towering over her condescendingly, “and as usual you construe everything as an assault on your freedom! You selfishly put your needs above all others when you could embrace a higher purpose. Does my love for you count for nothing now?” Mikhail raised a brow patronizingly.

  Estella laughed humorlessly. “What is the value of love when love is a cage that men use to mold women into docility? Why must we always be the ones to sacrifice and deny ourselves? I shall not place myself as your charge and relinquish my autonomy.”

  Hurt blossomed over Mikhail’s face, but before he could weave it into scolding words, a groan reached them from the open window. They broke away awkwardly, shifting their attention to the sound. The count reached the window first and froze into a predatory watchfulness, Estella warily clambering off the bed and joining him. The drowsy streets outside were deserted, but the moonlight was bright enough to descry shapes in the gloom before them. The source of the groan was easy to discover, it was the only moving thing rupturing the dormant quietness of the night. A wounded man, bound by hands and ankles, was being hauled along roughly by a rope tied around his neck by another figure, who was shuffling loudly and dressed in church clothing.

  “Elmer!” bellowed the count hoarsely. Tearing himself away from the window with a rapidity that unnerved Estella, he sprinted across the chamber. Then, grasping his sword, he bolted out into the night.

  Mikhail’s cry had rent the night air and fragmented into the darkness, and Elmer groaned again louder in pain. It was plain that he was also weeping. His tormentor paused, looking up to the open window with vacant, stygian eyes. As he stared squarely at Estella, she recognized the cardinal with shock. Before she could react, a cloud passed over the moon, and within moments the cardinal had vanished, leaving Elmer behind.

  Mikhail had wrenched the gates of the manor open and was cursing into the night, cradling Elmer’s head. Estella covered her mouth with her hands and backed away from the window, slinking into the shadows of the room. There she found another familiar shadow, waiting for the propitious moment to reach her.

  Soon a commotion was heard in the awakened manor, and the count returned inside bearing his dying friend. Laying him down on the banquet table, he bellowed orders to summon a physician and send word to Oswald. Then he rushed up the staircase to his bedchamber to find Estella—but she was gone. A flitting shadow in the night, unseen and unheard, a handful of clothing and jewels taken in a hurry. Mikhail stood there, smiting the door where he stood and roaring his rage. She had fled him, untrusting, and leaving no farewell note or goodbye kiss. The only remnants of her presence were the fading smells of incense, her musk perfume, and the shadow of the brooding thoughts she concealed.

  MONTHS WENT BY and as each one passed, London plunged deeper into a dark frenzy of persecution. The once fair squares that were set up for the delight of the merchants and nobles had turned overnight into a cruel spectacle where many were hanged. The Twilit people that were unable to elude the evil clutch of the shadow filling the church with its poison were persecuted by the inquisition of the cardinal. But the network that Estella had created had alerted most of them in time, so that they were able to seal their worlds away and disappear without a trace, withdrawing into daylight where the eyes of darkness could not see them.

  The count learned that the night Estella had vanished, she had returned to her manor and alerted the children in her charge. Through the intricate pathways beneath the manor, she sent them forth to be absorbed into the Twilit network she had set up for contingencies. The children in her care vanished beneath the clothing of rich merchants and nobles, becoming new cousins and distant relations suddenly arriving to settle in town. Others joined the traders’ ranks and faded into the countryside. Luckily the education Estella had provided for the children had taught them to adapt to all walks of life, and given them the tools to blend in to any station of society. The count never saw them again, except for brief glimpses here and there—a mischievous twinkle in unusually bright eyes, or a sudden wink with a knowing smile from a hasty passerby.

  Dolly brushed past him one day in the Silver Quarter, holding the hand of a woman Mikhail recognized as a lady of the nobility named Rosalind Constance. As she passed, she dropped the red jasper bracelet he had purchased for Estella into his pocket. She had not so much as turned her blond head as she filed by gracefully, deftly exchanging her full hand for an empty one without word or glance.

  The count yearned for Estella, but soon gave up on finding her. In her empty manor, ransacked by the cardinal�
�s minions, he came often and sat pondering. He knew she had returned to her manor and his own abode to take her most precious items before fleeing, but he had not seen her once.

  The walls of her manor were silent, and the magic that lingered within had repelled foragers and so remained with a modicum of sacrosanctity. And it cherished its dark secrets. They weighed deep and hard like old trees burdened with age, threatening to rupture. And there he waited and sought her, but yet she eluded him. However he found some consolation in her ability to remain completely hidden, for it meant she would be safe from harm.

  The silent, cruel game that he and the cardinal played was ruthless, and while they did not oppose each other publicly, they fought in the dark and dealt each other heavy blows. And when one is playing a game with the prince of darkness, winning is no easy feat. The king himself had become a fierce advocate for the destruction of the Twilit people, and he personally rallied his forces to find and destroy them, and as a result many innocents perished. For though the demiurges that had gifted the Twilit people concealed those sworn to them, rumors and petty grievances arose amid the conflict, and many were sent to the gallows that might have been saved.

  The queen had openly left the lofty castle she shared with her king and elected to retire to the countryside. There, she and her council of the various orders, led by Count Mikhail, measured each action and countermovement against the cardinal and the king. But the haunting voice of Elmer would not leave Mikhail, for by some cruel trickery conjured by the cardinal, Elmer’s soul was tied down to earth and bound, and he wandered the dark alleys of his pain. Unable to escape his bounds and tormented by devils, he reached out to the count. But Mikhail was unable to break his bondage, though he waged ruthlessly against Samael’s minions and Lucifer’s pawns.