by T. M. Lakomy
“You are free now of your predicament, Prince Erik,” she said without looking at him. “I trust you have learned a precious lesson from our encounter here with a lesser but potent evil of the ancient world. And I trust this secret will remain between us, and you will be wise enough to learn from it.” Still studying her face and wiping the blood from her eyes she turned to face the pair. “Get up and tend to your brother’s needs,” she snapped irritably, making a shooing gesture at the manservant, who still gawked at her in macabre fascination. He finally rose to his feet and crouched near Prince Erik, who had regained some semblance of his intractable composure.
“I knew the Magdalene Sisters were holy, but what you have done . . .” Prince Erik began. “You have wrestled with a demon and overcome it. You must be a pillar of moral rectitude to have such devout strength to oppose them. I thought I would die here and burn in eternal perdition, the cries of my sins scorching within me. And it would be the just reward for my impetuous vanity, thinking to steal some power—thinking I’d be able to wield these devils to my will. I repent!” Erik crossed himself and pushed his brother away, who was trying to wrap him in a robe. Rising to his feet, he snatched the robe without so much as a gesture of thanks, and donned it hastily. Smoothing away the creases, he hobbled unsteadily on his feet, grabbing Estella by the shoulders proprietarily.
“You must forgive me, dear sister. I am made of flesh and weak. But you, you are a diamond that any king would dream of possessing—both pious and comely! I must beg you to leave your order and come with us. My father, the king of Saxony, will keep you as his most prized possession. We have need of women like you, and you are being wasted, rotting away in these cloisters.” His tone had regained its persuasive edge, and his unrepentant, greedy eyes dropped all pretense of restraint, finally safe in a world where he knew his power. Estella swayed on her feet, wincing at the renewed onslaught of nausea. She barely managed to shake her head in disapproval.
“There is no chance of that, my prince,” she rebuked him sternly. “I am no treasure for any kingly hoard, but my own person. And though I am honored by your proposal,” she added as an afterthought, “I must regretfully decline. One does not take the vow lightly. Yet I may, perhaps, escort you back into Britain,” she smiled placatingly, sensing the prince was unused to outright refusals.
Erik merely returned her smile rigidly and tightened his grip on her shoulders. Estella pushed his hand away only to find his other hand clasping her by the wrist, cautioning her.
“Anyone would understand my decision. I am a knight, after all, in the service of my kingdom, and only God knows how much we need protection against evil in these darkening times.” His deep, rough voice, while addressed to her, held a tone of finality to it.
“You were set up by the cardinal, you fool,” Estella hissed. “The devil is within the church, and you would have delivered to him a mighty weapon for his cause.” Erik relinquished his grasp on her in shock, his expression scandalized.
“Cardinal Pious is fallen, you say?” came the uneasy voice of the manservant.
“Yes, though he masquerades as the champion of God. You are better off seeking Count Mikhail, who resides in Britain, leader of the Order of the Northern Star.” She cringed as she felt her cheeks flush at the mention of Mikhail’s name.
Erik watched Estella with intent fascination. “I take your word for it, sister. I don’t doubt that for a minute, as those very gems that I wanted to take my share from resulted in my affliction. But it is hard to conceive . . .” He crossed his arms behind his back and puffed out his chest indignantly. “It is hard to conceive of Cardinal Pious being a tool for the dark side. Yet if I must consult with Count Mikhail, whose name is not lost in our kingdom, then I will do so,” he drawled. “But you must come with us,” he added imperiously. “If I must force you or bribe the convent, then so be it.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for Estella to maneuver in. She pondered how she could twist this inevitability in her favor. Feigning acquiescence, she smiled wanly.
“This is enough for one night, Prince Erik. I must gather my thoughts and reflect on what has transpired here. I’m sure you will understand,” she said softly.
“Of course. Now you are a guest of the Saxon kingdom and anything you require shall be given to you as befitting a princess.” For a man who was less than half an hour ago raving like a mad man, he seemed surprisingly unshaken.
Estella nodded quietly, excusing herself with a halfhearted curtsey. The prince and the manservant followed her with their searching gaze to the door, speaking softly in hushed tones until she closed the door behind her. But it opened as soon as she closed it, and the manservant was on her tail.
“I will escort you personally and position guards about your door to ensure nothing comes to disturb you.” His timid demeanor had vanished, and he spoke proprietarily. Walking quickly in front of him, she rolled her eyes in disgust.
After escorting her stiffly to her room, he bowed deeply and barked orders for the maids to bring her dinner. Once alone in her chamber, Estella marched towards the heavy four-poster bed and collapsed onto it. Her weariness washed over her suddenly, and she yielded to it, falling headlong into a deep slumber. She was oblivious to the maids that had come, rolling a silver trolley laden with trays of delectable looking dishes. And she didn’t fight back or grumble when they removed her clothing, replacing it with silken nightwear, pristine white and beaded with pearls.
The maids tucked her into bed and placed her habit with care upon an armchair. Then they set about feeding her a fish soup, generously spiced with brandy. Yearning to lay down to sleep, she managed to voice her disapproval of their methods of feeding her dinner. But these matronly old women merely clicked their tongues in sympathy and forcefed her like a goose. When they were done and she had eaten enough of the soup to please them, they rolled the trolley out of the room, and she was finally allowed to curl up and sleep.
IT WAS NOON before she finally awoke. She startled into wakefulness, her heart pounding anxiously as if someone had summoned her by name. Then she opened her eyes and looked confusedly around her surroundings. As the events of the previous night came flooding back to her, she sighed in relief, then groaned. As she scrambled out of bed and dressed, she debated whether to sneak out of the manor, pack her bags, and just disappear. But as she mused with longing over Mikhail, she decided against it. With a flutter in her belly, she quickly bathed in the tub that had been filled for her, then descended the steps and entered the large dining hall.
The sunlight filtered gently through the stained glass windows, fracturing into a myriad of colors and shapes that cast vibrant hues across the tables and walls. The white marble of the dinner hall kept the rooms cool and pleasant, and the high, vaulted ceiling was gilded in gold and woven with intricate paintings of gold leaf and moonstone mosaics. The heavy draperies depicted glorious Viking ships defeated beneath the sword of the Frankish warriors, and portraits of early kings and queens stared with satisfied smiles across the hall.
Estella felt the weight of her choices choking her, but she disguised it by pretending to admire the grand tapestries that depicted the genealogical tree of the great Frankish lines. Yet she felt a tremor in her bones and an ache in her heart that neither the regal tables flanked by ferocious griffins, nor the opulent marble, could distract her from. It was an ancient fear that she knew and was intimate with, something she had kept deep within her since her early years. It chafed at her and dogged her like a hound.
When the prince finally joined her in the hall, his pompous manners and condescending gaze sweeping over his surroundings, something within her broke. Something dormant within her screamed in outrage, awakening from the slumber of depression, and now reared its ugly head like a serpent, indignant and wild. The strength that she was robbed of when she left Britain returned in violent surges. Wrath mingled with loathing, roaring up within her—hatred for the prince and his despicable ways, disgust at the days she had spent in ser
vitude to a simple town of bumbling fools, and rage at having to flee a home that still taunted her with memories of what she had lost.
Whispers tingled at her ears, first gentle, then beseeching, and her vision grew bright. Before the prince could even greet her, she had ripped off her nun’s habit and cast it at his feet with a hysterical laugh. Then before he could issue any orders, she had flitted out of the hall. The prince’s cries to stop her were drowned by the whispers in her head as they intensified and raged.
The door to the manor was held shut by guards, who watched her uneasily, unwilling to disrespect a nun and yet even more unwilling to disobey their master. Halting before the doors, she stopped abruptly. Then she seized her temples gently with her fingertips and the whispers around her turned into a single dialogue, asking to be granted entry into her mind.
“I will let you out of this place and town, just allow me to help you. You and I are old friends, and by God I am no demon.” The pressing voice carried with it the ethereal feel of the lost echoes of the forests, reverberating with a broken melody of tender voices long bled by the frost of time.
“No, I must do this my way,” she whispered.
The guards watched her closely as the prince was heard stomping up behind her, frothing in rage. His malevolent eyes were thunderous, and he bellowed commands and threats to his retinue. They looked on in alarm and crossed themselves in perplexed outrage.
“I said seize her! She’s in the custody of the king of Saxony now, and to accompany me to Britain by my orders. Sister or no sister, my will is to be enforced, goddamn all of you!”
Estella was still standing before the barred gates, oblivious to him. She paid no heed until one of the guards, egged on by the prince, came forwards to seize her, his expression apologetic but determined.
Then the drowning whispers became more urgent. “Let me in! Will you be hauled in chains by this callous prince to be another trinket for his hoard—or worse be given over to the cardinal? I can give you back your freedom! I am sincere, with God as my witness. Will you not believe me? Now is your chance, Tsura!”
“And I’ll be damned if Mikhail sees me captured, and as a nun!” Estella enunciated. “The irony of it, my pride would never recover!”
And as the guard made to grab her, she allowed the whispers entry into her mind. A cold and heavy presence swiftly filled her. It was laden with purpose and sharp intent, and it snarled through her defiantly. She saw herself retreat away from her consciousness and become an observer within her own body. It was like watching through a glass window into a scene unfolding before her, detached and disinterested, and the glass window ever so distant and withdrawn and small. Estella fell backwards into herself, passing the various halls and rooms of her mind. And like one in a dream, she glided through mists of thought and desire. Then she was gone, taking the flowing paths of dreams gleaming like a ribbon into the Twilit world.
Where she went, she could never tell, for she was lost in the remote corners of dreams and thought, in the realm of the Twilit gods. Here dwelled the angels that refused to choose sides between God and Lucifer, the inhabitants of the older world, beautiful and forlorn, and the elves of the high world, the spirits of the great choir of creation that descended onto earth. And she pined for the eerie flute the Elder Folk played, the notes falling like silver bells and limpid rain. It echoed through her, rending her heart with desire. For the music would stop each time she caught a glimpse of them, with their glittering bright eyes and shrewd smiles, as they danced around the blazing fire. The warmth of their gaze would engulf her and set her thoughts on fire, and then she would join them in the dance. The golden goblets they served her were filled with wine that tasted of honey, and when she woke, she could recall nothing but a crown and mighty horns adorned with white gems upon a golden head, and a name she knew but her lips could never form.
16
AN AUDIENCE WITH THE HIDDEN GUARDIAN
To the falcon of the skies, scion of the fire that bathes the heavenly throne
The claws of thy raptors are the marshalled hosts of arrowed truth
They assail the slumbering minds that through their nightmares groan
For your bannered scheming victories are forever devoid of truth
THE SUN ABATED THE FIERY LASHES IT HAD RAINED DOWN ON THE bruised earth. A gentle breeze wafted through the trees, impregnated with the scent of evening flowers and the fragrances of the earth, and a light rain fell softly upon Estella’s face, the green grass beneath her dripping tenderly. Her mind began to return to her begrudgingly, like a blind man groping the walls to feel his way back to a familiar place. Estella did not move, but her freshly awoken mind swarmed with thoughts like agitated wasps, and she remembered where she had been.
Bracing herself for whatever might await her, she inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. A cloudy, overcast sky was above her, soft grey and with a clear rain that drizzled down and washed her face. She became aware of a presence near her, that immovable presence, insistent and strong.
Estella sat up swiftly and found him watching her. There was a glinting fire in his merry eyes, which were blue and deep as a summer sky. He was reclining with his legs crossed, and around him haphazardly plucked daisies with missing petals and snapped twigs were strewn—the hapless victims of his impatient boredom and nervousness. The darkness had lifted from Antariel, but the malice he had gained from his sojourn on earth remained there. Yet now it was wholesome and devoid of taint. The crafty smile upon his lips was less strained, bereft of bitterness, and there lingered within it an eagerness to speak.
“My mortal heart can only accept so many blows before it ends up crumbling. What trickery is this now?” Estella asked bewildered, unsure of whether or not the enemy before her was baiting her, toying with her under a false pretense of goodness, and hoping to ensnare her once again.
He beamed at her apologetically, tipping his head back to laugh softly. It rang like gently shaken bells, rich and full. He dusted his hands, picking off the stray plucked petals as the long curtain of his hair fell across his face.
“It would ill befit you to be anything but rude to old friends. I thought you could do with the company. You fare pretty poorly on your own, I must say,” Antariel smiled, watching her blithely. His voice was deep and melodious, as though accustomed to song. It brought to mind harps and lyres and the fabric of songs wrought of aspiration and glory. Estella gawked at him nonplussed, halfway between fright and relief, then backed away from him disconcertedly.
His appearance and his two eyes watching her were whole and devoid of blemish. She gaped incredulously, blushing crimson. Rising to her feet, she approached him tentatively. He rose gracefully and smiled as Estella touched his face with amazement. Trailing her fingers over his eyelids, brow, and chin, she sought spells of trickery and deception. But within his eyes there was light, a mirrored light that reflected something far holier than the angels. It was just a pale reflection, of someone that had come close to the lofty throne where the divine countenance sat. The malice was still there, woven into the fabric of his personality and the strands of his soul, but now it was his own, and not a product of his fall.
“It is you!” cried Estella. “And you are no longer ugly. But then it isn’t really the you I knew.” She withdrew her hand quickly, scrutinizing him as she bit her lip in confusion. “Why are you here, Antariel? And how come your maker did not fragment you across the cosmos and sever your eternal fire to burn beneath his gaze? You were gone, I saw Lucifer murder you. And you were cruel to me. But now you have changed. Tell me everything, or I shall know to flee from you!” Her hushed voice was anxious but curious.
Antariel looked down upon her keenly, a mischievous smoldering blue fire kindled in his eyes. His dark hair, sleek and wet, clung to his shoulders and waist. He grinned innocuously, but then a shadow passed over his face. Shuddering, his face convulsed and he groaned. Estella blanched.
“Antariel, are you alright? Is there something wrong wit
h you?” she asked, stepping backwards, wide-eyed with apprehension.
Antariel groaned angrily, his eyes taking on a reddened hue. Then he lunged at her, clawing at her with his fingers. Estella screamed, turning around and bolting as fast as she could towards the forest. But she did not get far before she tripped on a log and fell face-first into the grass. Scrambling around gulping for breath, she saw Antariel doubled over with laughter, clutching his face and pointing at her. Feeling her face turn red, she lifted herself to her feet. Dusting herself perfunctorily with injured pride, she stomping back to Antariel whose angelic eyes were weeping with laughter and began smacking him as hard as she could on the sides of the head while Antariel deflected her strikes, grinning madly.
“You should have seen your face! Priceless! Finally, after all these years of arrogance, I have never seen you so horrified in all my life.” He pinched her cheek as she swatted him away. Then lifting his hands placatingly, he pulled her towards him into an awkward embrace. “I am redeemed, Tsura. I am not the fallen, wretched creature you once knew. You have no need to fear me.”
“Let me go, you obnoxious, uncouth vagabond dropped out of the sky!” she spat at him insolently, trying futilely to push out of his arms.
