by Mark Eller
“Please,” Low interrupted. “I am a faithful servant of Omitan,” he touched a pendant hanging about his neck, displaying the tree of life, “and have never served the Dark Father. I am both shocked and alarmed at hearing a similian has done such a horrendous act. Similians are neutral beings by nature, and worship only neutral gods. Since two of those neutral gods have seemed to,” he paused a moment, a look of consternation on his face, “disappeared? Yes, I believe that is an accurate way to describe their absence. Since they have disappeared, most of us have had no choice but to join the Order of Woodsman and tend to the forests, lakes, rivers and farmlands. ”
Anithia looked at him skeptically. “Sulya successfully fooled the Order of Warriors for years, and she murdered its best slayer, my husband, Larson Morlon.”
Calto felt another pang of shame and failure stab at his heart. It was his fault Sulya had penetrated the Order as far as she had. He had allowed her to use her allure to seduce him. He had played a dangerous game of cat and mouse with her and lost.
It seemed everything was his fault.
Calto wished he were dead. It was the only just punishment for his failures.
“I am not this Sulya,” Low continued. “It was not I who caused you sorrow. My people do not deserve to be judged by the actions of one who has gone astray. If this were true, I should then judge you by the actions of your king— correct?”
Anithia stared at him, unable to find a suitable answer. Her mouth opened twice before shutting with an audible snap.
“Is this debate now over?” The queen cocked her head to one side, her mouth set in a tight smile.
Ani nodded once and crossed her arms over her chest.
Calto shook his head. It was not over. Anithia would track the poor similian down and have her say with him, maybe after putting her fist in his face just to make sure he understood.
Calto studied the tiny blond for a moment. Anithia had changed so much over the last few years, changed from a starry eyed girl full of excitement and wonder into a tough, angry woman bent on killing anything that got between her and her daughter. During the last few weeks she had rigorously honed her magic into a weapon of great destruction while searching for Missa, frequently at a cost to her health.
In short, when Anithia Morlon had a bone to pick, she would strip it clean.
Another pang of guilt washed over him. At twenty-seven, she should have been living a comfortable life with Larson, maybe raising another child instead of looking for her only child.
The one he lost.
Calto needed to be run through with a sword. Maybe put upon a pike outside the castle walls.
A little girl, no more than ten or eleven, her face streaked with dirt and dressed in tattered rags, quietly slipped inside the tent. “My ladyship…there are three strangers out here, brought to you by the one called Jolson. The two women say they look for you and his Lordship Calto.”
Half the room stood and drew swords; the other half readied their spells. The child winced, made ready to run, but Low caught her by the elbow.
“Wait little one. You have not finished. Outside of Jolson, who wishes to see us?” The similian smiled benignly at the girl.
The child looked around the tent, her eyes tearing up. “It’s— the women are named Tessla and Lady Simta Morthanhi. They have a little girl with them whose name is Missa.”
“Missa!” Ani shot from her seat, knocking her assistant, Parkat, from his bucket as she rushed through the door. Unbelieving, Calto followed. Could it truly be Tessla, Simta, and Missa? How had Tessla found the girl on her own when Calto and all his followers had failed, and what the two hells was Simta doing with them? The last he had known she was still a cat.
But as he stepped out into the coming evening, squeals and laughter rang clear in the air, a child’s voice high above it all.
Ani held Missa tightly in her arms, sobbing, while Tessla and a strangely calm Simta watched. Something had changed about Simta. Something important. Where before she had seemed little more than a socially ambitious gutter slut dressed in nobel manners, she now appeared…solid.
“My baby, my baby,” Ani whispered. “I will never let you go again. I won’t let them take you ever, ever again. I will die first.”
Calto walked over to them, afraid to join in the relief, the love. Missa was alive when he had been sure she was dead. When Anothosia did not answer his plea, when she did not save his home or his knights from the Hell horde, when after weeks of searching they had found no trace of Missa, he truly thought the child was dead, taking the parts of Anothosia she carried with her.
A small kernel of anger began to build in Calto’s gut. The images of headless bodies, demons running off with bits and pieces of his priests and priestess, swam in his vision until it all became a red haze.
“Calto, she’s back!” Ani looked at him and frowned. “Calto?”
When he looked into Missa’s eyes, anger stirring in his heart, Calto found his goddess staring back at him.
* * * *
Calto sulked about the camp, unable to eat or sleep. Tessla, Ani, and Jolson were speaking with the queen, making plans. He had slipped away before they could ask him to stay. He had nothing to contribute. Calto felt wiped out, his spirit depleted. Everything he possessed had been drained. Nothing remained to give to the queen and her quest.
“Calto?”
Calto jumped. He turned to find Missa looking at him, or rather his goddess. The child’s eyes swirled misty blue stars.
“What?” His voice was sullen, tight.
A frown creased her features, so much like Larson, this young Missa. “The queen has need of you.” Missa opened her mouth as if she were about to say more, then shut it and shrugged. She turned and walked away.
Calto gritted his teeth. Why had his goddess said nothing to him? Did she not care that he was angry, that so many of her knights had died, that he had wandered the countryside, homeless, hungry, and afraid, fighting off evil while pretending his goddess still lived?
He watched Missa’s tiny body disappear quickly into the dark. For a moment, he hesitated. But as his anger grew so did his need to confront his goddess.
Calto stormed through the wood, needing to get to the queen’s tent quickly. He would have his say with his goddess and then leave. Leave this god forsaken country and let Hell have its way. He had nothing to live for. He was a commoner now. His lands were in ruin, his gold seized by King Vere. Once he was clear of Yernden, he could make a fresh start, a new beginning.
Calto stopped. No. He would say nothing to his goddess…the same way she had said nothing to him.
He changed direction, heading back to the camp his knights had made. He would tell them of his plans. If any wished to join him, they would be welcome to come.
He stepped into the campfire’s light…and found Missa waiting for him.
“I thought you might come here instead of confronting me directly.” The goddess’s voice whispered in his mind, floated around the open space like a half heard song while she stared at him from Missa’s eyes. Missa’s face shone pink, angry in the firelight.
“What? Am I now your dog to summon?” Calto spat the words at her like venom. “You finally decide to give a damn, and I’m just supposed to leap to attention and pant?”
Calto’s blood ran hot beneath his skin. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Calto was angry. He would not bow to his goddess. Not when she had deserted them.
A bright nimbus formed around Missa, fierce and scorching. “You will not bow to me…your goddess returned?”
Calto spat. “No. I. Will. Not. My home burned. My people died! We were slaughtered like sheep. Later, others died in search of you. We fought and bled and died. Through it all we received nothing from you. You, our goddess, abandoned us!” His voice rose cold and clear into the winter night.
Anothosia’s holy presence filled the air. About them knights stood. Many backed from the clearing. Some even hid their faces. Calto refused to t
urn away. His back straightened, prepared for the strike his goddess would deliver, welcomed it.
But the blow did not come.
Calto blinked in frustration. Why did she not smite him? Everything had fallen into gods-cursed ruin. All he had left was death.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Get it over with?” Calto’s mouth was dry. This was it. The end. Would his soul ascend or would she throw it to the dogs of Hell? A lifetime of service had come to this.
“Calto, I know you suffer, my child. You have been faithful. You have done all I asked. Know that I did not abandon you. It was you who left me. You not only abandoned me, you also lost faith in yourself.”
Calto’s breath caught in his throat. He choked. His eyes widened. His brain wrapped itself into a twist of fury.
“I-I-what?”
Missa moved to stand before him. Reaching out, she took his shaking, scarred hands in her own petite soft ones. Warmth, love, forgiveness— they flowed into him like a gentle spring breeze, smelling of jasmine. Calto fought it, tried to push it all away. He wanted his anger. He wanted his pain. He wanted Anothosia to choke on it.
“Calto Morlon. I chose your family long ago as bearer’s of my wisdom and light. All through the years I have blessed your home with prosperity and good fortune.” Pausing, she cocked her head to the side, a look of knowing on her too young face. “Tell me, why do you think I chose your family?”
Confused, fighting to retain his anger, Calto shook his head. “I don’t know. Why should I care? We just did what you asked of us.”
Missa smiled indulgently at him, as if he were a small child. “You should care. I did not ask your family’s service blindly. Your line was among the strongest ones of those who held the blood magic.”
Calto felt surprise. “Blood magic? What are you talking about?”
“You and your ancestor’s fates were decided a long time ago. Trelsar and I knew Zorce would grow unhappy with his reign in our created Hell. For thousands of years the dark god formed his plan, amassed his army believing we did not know, but loyalty is a hard thing to come by in Hell. Our agents delivered word regularly. This amassing is why a few of the other gods began planting their seeds in mortal wombs while I, being female, sought out volunteers in whom I could plant my eggs. Lord Morlon, dear Calto, your bloodline has carried my lineage for the last thousand years. With your and Larson’s birth, the connection between your family and me became tighter than ever before.
Calto’s breath seemed to stick in his chest, refusing to be exhaled. What did she mean her lineage? What in the name of the Seven and Two was he? What exactly was Missa? His parents? All of them?
“What does this mean? Am I like…I mean…are Missa and I…like you?”
The goddess nodded. “In a lesser way. I came to your father in his dreams. He thought I was your mother. Then I planted my egg in your mother’s womb. You, Larson, Missa, your father…all the Morlon’s are my children. Your family’s mates were other blood chosen…ones who carried the ability for magic…for the birthright forced on us by Zorce. I anointed your family as my High Priests because your blood alone can channel my power like no other. You have inside of you the gifts of healing and protection, among many other things.”
Calto felt strangely numb, not from the cold, but from the truth.
Missa…No, Anothosia, gently squeezed his hands. “Why do you think you were able to use my book of truth with such ease?”
Calto shook his head, but he did understand her question. It was true. None of the other priests could read the book. Just he and Larson and their father before them had held the ability. But what always puzzled him was that he could only read sections of the book, not the entire thing. He often wondered why he could not decipher those other parts. “But I taught the spells to the other priests and priestess’s and they could use them. How?”
“I call to my order those who have the blood magic. Your followers were not manipulated over time. They were just fated with the ability. Dr. Zorchester’s grandmother designed her nano plague to work most well with her genetic line. You might have noticed many of us who use magic possess grey or green eyes.”
“I am not related to that—”
She squeezed his hands once more and sighed. “It happened long ago. Zorchester and his grandmother, Dr. Wise, came from a different world than the Earth from which our kind originated, but in a strange way, many of the virtuous gods are second or third cousins to Dr. Wise’s line. But none of this matters now, Calto. What matters is getting past your doubts of me. Look into your heart. The truth is there. Remember the battle at the manor? When you called for me, what were you really thinking?”
A warm pulse traveled up his arm and spread throughout his body from her tiny hands. The tangled memories of the battle came to him, clear, alive, and now sorting themselves out. He relived each swing of the sword and every drop of fallen blood. The voices of the dying became background noise to his thoughts. He heard his labored breathing, felt the fear in his belly, and heard his own thoughts of betrayal.
The realization struck him across his chest like a sledge hammer to his heart. It pounded loud in his ears. Calto’s legs gave beneath him, and he fell to his knees, still holding the goddess’s hands.
“What were you thinking Calto?” Anothosia brushed a dirty strand of hair from his forehead and placed her fingertips there. “Tell me Calto. What did you do? What have you done ever since?”
Calto shuddered when Anothosia entered his mind and pried loose the barriers in his subconscious. Bowing his head, he tried to shake her hand from him.
“I-I-” His throat seized.
The goddess’s voice softened, lowered to a whisper. “I never promised this would be easy. Will you let your arrogance carry us all down to Hell? Will you really walk away from all who need you; from Elise, from Missa, from me? If this is what you would choose, what you truly wish…I will not stop you.”
Calto tried to keep his tears from falling, but they streamed down his face anyway. He was unworthy to be touched by this goddess, unworthy of the title of High Priest. His shame engulfed him. He knew speaking these thoughts aloud to his goddess would be admitting he had lost faith in not just himself, but in everything he had preached throughout the years. He had lost faith in everything his family had believed in, had died for. It was his fault the power did not come to him when needed. His despair had slain those knights at the manor. During the battle he had not uttered one true word, one single, faith filled word to his goddess.
Nor had he since that time.
“Forgive me.” He said in a broken whisper. The words came from the hole in his heart and the rip in his soul.
During the battle and after, he believed his goddess to be dead. He lost his faith not only in her, but also in himself and those who served with him. In doing so, Calto lost touch with the part of him that channeled his power. The sword and the staff had held little power of their own. They had only served to focus his will. When his will faltered, they went away. Worse yet, many of his knights and priests were bled in the desecrated temple for the same reason, his lack of faith. He was the head of Anothosia’s church, the source of its strength and as he failed, as his power failed…so did everything else.
Missa wrapped her arms around Calto and held him as he cried. “It’s okay Uncle Calto, I love you. I believe in you. I know you can beat Zorce. You just have to get up and try really hard. Have faith.” Soft, and quiet, Missa’s voice, her own tiny child’s voice, was like a balm to his raw, aching soul.
Calto looked into Missa’s face and saw his niece looking back at him. Radiant with a child’s blind love and kindness, Missa smiled. He hugged her, grateful she was alive. Unbelieving she had been found. As long as he lived, he would never let her be hungry, homeless, or afraid again. He would be the father to her that Larson would have been. If they somehow managed to live through the nightmare Zorce was unleashing, he would be her guardian knight until the day he died. If he had any say
in the matter, Missa Morlon would want for nothing.
Missa’s radiance dimmed to a white nimbus around her body. She stepped back from Calto. Her eyes shimmered—
—and the goddess returned. “Calto, my beautiful knight, we are together once more. Only death shall ever part us again.” As if he was watching the sunrise after walking in eternal night, he felt the blinding, warm relief only she could offer, the warmth only she possessed. “It’s time though, My Priest. It’s time for the next step. I need my book back. Do you still have it?”
Calto wiped at his eyes, nodded, and stood. He walked over to his sleeping mat and picked up his satchel, feeling shamed because the wrapping holding Anothosia’s most holy book was covered in dried blood and other body fluids. The satchel had been through hell. Twice he had nearly lost it during battle. It almost seemed as if the hellborn could smell it on him, knew what he carried was important. But despite everything, despite the fighting and blood and his doubts, he had held onto the holy book, once nearly losing his arm when a devil tried to rip it from his grasp. Picking it up, Calto carried the satchel to Missa and knelt before her. He cut the string tying it shut and pulled out the large, heavy tomb.
“Except for the brief period when I trusted its care to the Evertrues, I have guarded this book night and day for the last eleven years. I am glad to give it back to you.”
And he was glad. Calto had taken it everywhere with him, almost never letting it get far from his reach. At first it had been his holy duty, then as he read the information within, he realized it was the weapon he needed to fight Athos and Zorce’s hellborn. For one brief year he had sought to set the burden aside by placing it within the Evertrue Manson, but he had taken up the burden again after Simta’s attempted theft. But guarding it had cost him dearly these last years. Cost him in lost nights of restless slumber. Cost him in unending suspicion of anyone close to him, and cost him in a soul deep weariness which he was ready to give back to his goddess.
