“You’ll have one soon.” croaked the King.
“But you always say that.” said Agana. She pointed across the room to the shelves. “But all my brothers and sisters die.” She looked at King Verami, her dark eyes smoldering in the low gaslight. “Mommy’s vessels are empty and it’s all your fault!” She stomped her foot.
Verami closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, my dear.”
Loretta cast Verami a hateful stare. She exhaled her disgust as she rubbed at her breasts with one hand. “They never drink.” she said. She stood up, letting the baby fall from her lap. It hit the floor with a tiny thud, the blanket partially unraveling to reveal ribs against pale flesh. Loretta looked down at Agana. “You were the only one. The only one who would drink from mama.” She smiled at Agana for a moment and then her face melted into an angry mask.
Loretta clutched at her breasts, squeezing fiercely. “My vessels are empty!” she shrieked. “I’m empty!” Loretta’s dark eyes narrowed as she looked at Ophelia, her voice turning to a wolfish growl, “It’s my brother’s fault, isn’t it? It’s because his seed is rotten!”
Ophelia hugged Agana close to her body.
Loretta turned to Verami. Her hateful eyes flashed like the storm clouds that dogged the castle. “It’s your fault! It’s your fault!” She stepped over to him and placed her hands upon the wheelchair, leaning in to him. “It’s your fault! You’re a rotten, filthy, worm-eaten corpse! Your seed is as diseased as you!” She slapped him across the face. “Why can’t you give me a child!? Why can’t you give me a child!?” she shrieked this over and over again as she slapped at Verami.
“I’m sorry, my love,” croaked the King as Loretta tore at his robes.
Ophelia turned Agana around and hugged her face into her belly.
“Mommy’s getting scary again,” cried Agana.
Ophelia patted the back of Agana’s head softly. “It’ll be over soon, honey.” she whispered. “I’ll tell you when you can look again.”
“Look at you!” raged Loretta. Verami’s skeletal body recoiled in the wheelchair as she tore the robes from his waist. “Look at you! You’re withered and rotten!” Her hand went down and squeezed ferociously at his crotch. “Your seed is rotten! Rotten! Rotten like you! You’ll never give me a child! You’ll never give our daughter a brother!”
“I’m sorry!” wailed the King. “I’m sorry, my love!”
Loretta scowled as her dark eyes burned into Verami’s. Then she released her trembling grip from his crotch. She stood up straight and composed herself. She threw the torn robes over her brother’s body. “It’s not your fault, I suppose.” she said. She strolled across the room to a small table and mirror and began brushing her black hair. “We’ll try for another. And if your seed won’t plant I’ll just have to find a child in town, I suppose.”
“Yes, my love.” croaked Verami. “Any child you want.”
“Agana, why don’t you and Ophelia go outside and play.” said Loretta as she brushed out her hair, staring at herself in the mirror. “It’s a lovely day to take a stroll in the park.”
Ophelia bent over and whispered, “You can look now,” into Agana’s ear.
Agana came out from Ophelia’s arms and sniffled. “Mommy,” began Agana.
“Yes, darling?” replied Loretta, still brushing her hair.
“When can I get another dolly?” asked Agana, sniffling again.
“Honey,” said Verami. “I’m so sorry. We’ll get you another very soon. I promise.”
Loretta sighed and put down her brush. She turned and smiled at Agana and then walked over to her. “Here,” she said, picking up the baby from the floor. She began re-wrapping the blanket around him. “Why don’t you have Jackson. Jackson can be your new dolly.”
Agana wiped at her eyes and then took it up into her arms. “Really?”
Loretta smiled and nodded.
“You don’t want to save him in a jar with my other brothers and sisters?”
“I do,” said Loretta. “But I want you to have a brother to play with. Take Jackson with you. We can put him in a jar later.”
Agana looked at Loretta and her face brightened. “Oh thank you mommy!” she leaned in and kissed Loretta and the two embraced.
“Now you and Ophelia run along and play with Jackson.” said Loretta, standing back up.
“Thank you so much!” squeaked Agana, clutching Jackson to her chest. “I’ll take good care of him, I promise!”
Ophelia took Agana by the hand. “I don’t know about you, but I’ll bet Jackson is hungry. I remember when you were a baby, you were always hungry.”
Agana giggled. “I was?”
“Yep.” said Ophelia, leading Agana from the cold chamber. “Very, very hungry.”
“But I didn’t really eat milk like other babies, right?” asked Agana.
“No,” said Ophelia. “You were a very special baby and only drank mama’s blood.”
“And that’s why I have to drink blood now?”
“I don’t know.” said Ophelia.
“Do you think Jackson would like to drink blood?”
“Maybe.” said Ophelia. “Let’s go find somebody to have a tea party with. I’ll bet we can find a nice, fat little boy just for you two.”
Agana looked up and smiled at Ophelia, and the two walked hand-in-hand from the castle.
— 12 —
Violet Fires
The acrid smell of burnt oil stirred Hadraniel from unconsciousness. He coughed and tried to raise his hands to his face, but realized they were bound behind him. His neck ached and he lifted his head. It was dark and his vision was hazy. He got a billow of black smoke in his face and coughed again. Beneath him, he heard logs thrown upon a pile. He tried moving his feet but those too seemed to be bound. He blinked a few times and then the burning flame of a moving torch caught his eyes. As he looked, the world around him slowly focused into sharp relief, though he still felt dizzy. He was upon the hilltop. He could see the trees of the forest below. The night air was cool and crisp, and the silver glow of the moon shown upon Saint Ithuriel’s Star-Armor as he carried his torch down the hill.
Hadraniel tried to move his hands again and he heard them clank behind him. His wrists were bound with star-metal cuffs and he was locked to one of Ithuriel’s tall pikes. At his feet were piles of logs. He tried to kick at them but his feet were crossed and bound at the ankles by star-metal chain to the bottom of the pike. Hadraniel groaned as full consciousness came to him. He looked to his left and saw Karinael cuffed to the pike beside him. She leaned forward, slumped with all her weight held by the cuffs behind her and the chains pulling at her ankles. There was a small blot of dried blood beneath her nose and a trickle from her mouth. He looked down and at her feet he saw more logs.
Torchlight caught his eyes again and he turned. Ithuriel came up the hill, his torch blazing in one hand and more logs beneath his other arm. Panic suddenly rose and Hadraniel felt its sting deep in his gut. He yanked hard and his cuffs clanged against the pike at his back. He growled, shining his Caliber a brilliant white around him as he tried to rip the cuffs from his hands, but it was no use. There was no chance at breaking star-metal.
“Hadraniel,” spoke Ithuriel as he came, not dignifying him with the title of ‘Saint’. “I know not what witchcraft you and Karinael wield, but I shall cleanse it from this earth.”
“Let her go!” snarled Hadraniel, violently yanking at his wrists and writhing upon the pike. “You let her go!”
Ithuriel strode up and tossed the logs beneath Karinael and then turned to Hadraniel, his face cast in the torch’s light. “Do you know why they call me Ithuriel of the Violet Fires?”
“Let her go!” Hadraniel fought against his bindings.
“A fire cannot burn the body of a Saint.” said Ithuriel. He cupped his free hand over the blazing fires of
the torch. His hand was encompassed by the soft glow of his Caliber and the fires licked at his fingers but did not burn them. “But violet fires can reduce a Saint to ashes.” As Ithuriel held his hand in the fire he seemed to transfer his Caliber energy into it. Slowly the flames went from reds and oranges to eerie purples and blues. He removed his hand quickly at that point but the fire continued to blaze unnatural, purple colors. “The violet fires are a blessing unto me so that I might work Holy Father’s will. I know of no other Saint who can produce them.”
Hadraniel growled as he banged his cuffs against the pike over and over again. “Let her go!”
“In Penatallia, during the great purging of heretics and blasphemers, I rode side-by-side with Saint Mephistasis of the Red Path. Together we committed many a profane Saint to their armor. We watched as their bodies were consumed by my violet fires. Such was it for those apostates, such shall it be for you two witches.”
“Let her go! Let her go!”
“I shall burn her first so that unconsciousness might ease her passing, and so that you might take witness of Holy Father’s justice and see the error of your ways.” said Ithuriel. He turned to Karinael who remained slumped upon her pike. The violet fires of his torch burned, casting his face in its cold, callous light. “Karinael, I charge you with the sins of blasphemy, heresy, witchcraft and acts both profane and sacrilegious. For these crimes I commit you to your armor.”
Hadraniel snarled and spit as he violently shook and jerked his body upon the pike. “Let her go! Let her go!”
“Holy Father of Sanctuary, hallowed is your name. Forgive this soul her trespasses as you forgive me of mine. Lead her soul from this world of sin and deliver her from its evil, for yours is the will of Heaven and all power and glory is thine.”
“No! No! Leave her alone!”
Ithuriel bent down and placed the torch to the logs. The violet fires lapped at the wood for a moment, tendrils of eerie flames washing over them like water. They crackled and popped as the violet fires began to take. He stood and went before Hadraniel.
Hadraniel spat and snarled. “You fuck! You fuck! I’m going to kill you! I’m going to fucking kill you!”
“Hadraniel, I charge you with the sins of blasphemy, heresy, witch—”
“Saint Ithuriel, it would be an honor to kill you.” said a deep, menacing voice in the night.
Ithuriel turned as Hadraniel spat and cursed and fought violently against his bonds. Saint Ovid walked up the path, his black, star-metal sword in his hand. Beside Hadraniel, the violet fires crept up the logs, their fingers licking at Karinael’s star-metal boots.
“Saint Ovid of the Nine Days.” said Ithuriel. He jammed his burning torch into the ground at his side and drew his sword from its scabbard. “Does Apollyon’s will run so deep that it infects even you?”
“They have something of mine,” said Ovid, still striding up the path, making a show with his sword. “And therefore I cannot let you kill them.”
“You were a good Saint, Ovid of the Nine Days.” said Ithuriel, flourishing his own blade. “You once fought alongside Saint Mephistasis. I witnessed you put many a heretic to the sword. Your loyalty to the Red Path earned you your honorific. Tell me not that such a Saint as you can fall. Tell me that it was these two’s witchcraft in the sky that has blinded you, and I may yet be able to open your eyes.”
“My will is my own. Whether my hand works the will of Apollyon or Holy Father, I care not.” Ovid came in at Ithuriel, his sword a whir of blackness in the night. Ithuriel leaped forward, his own sword tracing an arc through the air. And then the thunderous clash of star-metal upon star-metal filled the night.
Hadraniel growled and shook upon the pike, his Caliber shining brightly around him. “Karin! Karin!” The spooky fires that Ithuriel had set began to travel up all the logs, circling Karinael. They lapped at her boots, and the logs began to glow with veins of deep blues and purples. Violet embers, like glitter, drifted upon the wind. Hadraniel shook and shook, but star-metal was unbreakable and immutable and neither the pike nor his binds gave even an inch. “Karin!” Hadraniel’s mind was a whirling vortex of raw emotion as he snarled and spat and fought. His eyes saw nothing but purple flames and his imagination began to add Karinael’s charred bones and the sickening odor of burnt flesh. “Karin!”
In the near distance Ovid held steady against Saint Ithuriel. Both moved and shifted on their feet, their sword strikes a violent dance whose symphony was a storm that filled the night with thunder. Hadraniel’s fists clenched tightly, his breaths coming quick and sharp. Logs popped. He caught a whiff of Karinael’s leather bodysuit starting to smolder. Panic and rage took him as he watched the fires rise up past Karinael’s star-metal boots. She stirred slightly as the flames licked at the exposed bodysuit just above them.
Hadraniel tensed against the pike. Tears streamed down his reddening face. He felt the star-metal cuffs biting into the flesh at his wrists. He twisted his fists and felt warm blood trickle through his fingers. He let loose a roar that drowned out the clash of swords and felt his hands slowly peeling through the handcuffs, and then he fell forward, his feet still bound by star-metal chain to the pike.
His bloody, skinless hands burned as he crawled to his knees and twisted around. He grabbed at the pike stuck into the ground and tried to lift it from the earth to free his legs, but his hands just slid up the pike, leaving wet trails of blood. He screamed as he dug his hands into the earth, covering them with dirt. Then he reached for the pike again, and with another howl of pain, ripped it from the ground.
Hadraniel scrambled as best he could toward Karinael, though his ankles were still bound by chain and he tripped even as he limped. Encompassed by his own Caliber’s light, he fell into the burning logs beneath Karinael and flailed his arms, knocking them away as quickly as he could. Despite his Caliber, he felt the fires searing his flesh. His cheek burned and his skinned hands bubbled and popped as he continued kicking and throwing the logs away. And then, with a final, draining effort, he grabbed onto her pike, stumbled up to his feet, and with an agonized roar, tore it down and slid her off of it.
He crumpled beside her and she began to stir. He stroked a trembling hand down her cheek, leaving a trail of blood and crisp flakes of flesh, though he could not feel anything. “Karin,” his voice quavered. “Karin…” He could smell his own burnt flesh now. He tried to shine his Caliber to hasten his healing, but he was exhausted and only a dim glow of golden light encompassed him. “Karin…”
She groaned and her eyes split open. In the light of the moon that shown high overhead he could see their amber beauty. He smiled softly, but he could feel the skin of his face stretching taught and painfully. Then a shadow loomed over him. He heard the patter of falling blood. He rolled his head back and looked up. Ithuriel’s sapphire eyes were staring down at him.
“So, it was you two who created that little display in the sky,” said Ovid. He tossed Ithuriel’s head into what remained of the burning logs. “I don’t know what you did, but count yourselves lucky. It got Hydra’s dander up quite a bit and she slunk off on her own.”
Ovid knelt down beside Hadraniel. He grabbed his wrist and inspected the shaking, mutilated hand. He chuckled. “That’s never gonna heal right.” He looked at Karinael, who was starting to sit up, and put his sword to her throat. “Now, about my Sanguinastrum.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The great halls of the Holy Palace at Sanctuary were dark this night as Nuriel strode down them with purpose. Only what moonlight filtered through the stained glass windows and cast puddles of soft, colored light upon the floors lit the way. Usually the gaslamps upon the walls would be lit, but something strange had just happened in the sky and the entire palace had an uneasy feel to it. Nuriel had been summoned to meet with Holy Father by the six Bishops, and they flanked her on either side as she went. Their rigid forms were draped in cri
mson gowns and they wore tall mitre hats baring the golden star of Aeoria.
A long, narrow hall lined by arched, stained glass windows led up to a great set of star-metal doors. Very few Saints other than Aeoria’s Guard were allowed to set foot upon these halls, but Nuriel was a rare exception. She was Holy Father’s Saint. She was his champion. She had not been given to an Exalted or made to serve within any specific kingdom. She was Holy Father’s personal Saint, and she had walked these halls hand-in-hand with him many times. But this was the first time in weeks that she would see him. He had been in a depression and refused to see anybody. But now fate was forcing his hand, she knew. Everybody had seen the serpent constellation appear in the sky. It had happened only an hour ago and was already the talk of everybody at Sanctuary. Nuriel knew that it had something to do with him calling upon her tonight. She was desperate to see him, and she hoped she hadn’t done anything to cause his depression. With equal parts of desire and trepidation, she pushed the doors open and entered into the darkness of the Holy Atrium, followed by her silent escorts.
The Holy Atrium was a very exclusive part of the Holy Palace. If few Saints were ever allowed within the halls of the palace, fewer still ever saw the Holy Atrium. In fact, only Saints who received their Call to Guard and were to be made Saints Caliber ever saw this massive chamber. Within this room was held the ceremony that bound a Saint to their Star-Armor. It was the place Nuriel herself had been bound to her Star-Armor some eleven years ago, when the Oracles and Sin Eaters chanted over her as they cut the steel breastplate from her body and bound her to the unremoveable star-metal breastplate she wore now. It could never be removed. It could never be unbound from her. She would wear it the rest of her life. She would die in it and be consumed by it, just as all the Saints who had worn it before her.
The Holy Atrium was a chamber that reminded Nuriel of the Stellarium when she had been forced to follow her old mentor, Saint Isley, to the forbidden lands of Duroton. Though smaller than the Stellarium, it was still massive in its own right. It was some fifty-yards in circumference with an amazing dome of star-metal panels that rose at least one-hundred feet above. Upon those glassy-black panels a likeness of the moon cast its silvery light throughout the chamber, and the last remaining star gleamed alone. They were not the real star or real moon. Nuriel knew that much. But whether they were projections upon the domed ceiling or magical replicas within the very star-metal Nuriel did not know. At the center of the room was a concentric flight of circular, star-metal steps that rose some fifty-feet to the top where a platform stood. Upon this platform was a star-metal sarcophagus, and within it slept the Goddess, Aeoria. This was the most holy place in the entire world.
Here Shines the Sun Page 28
