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Authors: Patrick Siana
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sense it,” said Padraic. “Even if it were a foot away you
wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on it, or even detect its aura. But, then, you
knew that. Thus the charade.”
Slade stepped back and Padraic felt the rage and madness
pour off him. “Die a fool then. It matters not. Your son will want vengeance
for you and his woman. That, and the thought that his sister may yet live will
ensure he comes for me. I’ll keep her alive for bait but, oh, how I will make her
sing. Yes, your son will come, and he will bring the Dashin to me.”
“He brings only your destruction.”
Slade raised his scimitar. “Any last words?”
Padraic found himself glad that the banter had come to an
end, for he had grown weary. He looked past Slade as a twinkle caught his eyes
in the distance. At the edge of the Lurkwood stood an ethereal woman clad in
gossamer.
His wife looked like she did on their wedding day: resplendent
in ivory, wearing a garland of wytchwood, dark hair springing capriciously
about her throat and face. Padraic blinked away a tear to discover a host of
figures had joined her, wreathed in alabaster, blue, green, and rose spirit
fire. Many of the shades he knew in life, while others remained unknown to him,
yet they seemed somehow familiar.
Edora beckoned to him. Slade swung his scimitar, but the Marshal
did not see it or feel its sting. Padraic Duana died with the name of his wife
on his lips.
Chapter 5
Bishops, Queens, and Pawns
Sarad Mirengi offered an exaggerated nod to the man
kneeling at his feet, his countenance a well-practiced mask of concern.
The supplicant before him, a philandering noble with a taste
for young flesh, looked up at him expectantly with wet eyes. Sarad favored him
with an indulgent smile and sat back in his satin lined chair, which resembled
nothing so much as a throne.
“My son, there is no question that your carnal appetites are
an affront to God,” Sarad said, savoring the moment as Duke Vachel Ogressa’s
face turned ashen. “Be that as it may, none may say that they are perfect in
the eyes of the One God. Through your urges, he tests you, preparing you for
his divine light. Your suffering shall purify your soul, my child. If you give unto
him, he shall give unto you and cured of your base afflictions shall you be.”
The color returned to Vachel’s face. “Thank-you Prelate,
your words have not fallen on deaf ears.” He wiped at tears with a sleeve, and
produced a coin purse from his tunic. He held it up in both hands as if
offering a relic. Sarad indicated his tea-table with a nod, as if above the
profanity of material wealth.
“You are pardoned, my child. May His light illuminate the
dark corners of your soul.” Sarad held out a hand and spoke in the tongue of
the ancient prophets of Aradur, his words charged and resonant, as if they
emanated from a vast distance, echoing from outside the constraints of this
world. A golden aureole of light encircled his hand and fanned outward.
Vachel closed his eyes against the vivid glow, and a smile
spread across his face as he basked in the warmth of Sarad’s blessing. A sense
of contentment washed over the kneeling Duke. The clerics of the One God had
been pardoning sinners for decades, but he had never heard tell of anything
like this. Rumor had it that Mirengi was favored by God, but Vachel never
guessed that the prelate was gifted with such miraculous power.
Suffused with renewed energy, Vachel sprung to his feet, the
heady sensation of the preternatural ritual coursing through his veins with all
the fire and potency of a strong Galacian whiskey.
“Go now, my child. It would please me to see you again,
Vachel. Next time you are at court do stop by for a visit.”
“You may count on it, your Holiness.” The Duke genuflected
and then swept out of the room.
As Sarad watched him go a crooked grin crept across his
face. He could use a man like Vachel. Having leverage on a man who was both a
Duke and High Lord of House Ogressa
wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on it, or even detect its aura. But, then, you
knew that. Thus the charade.”
Slade stepped back and Padraic felt the rage and madness
pour off him. “Die a fool then. It matters not. Your son will want vengeance
for you and his woman. That, and the thought that his sister may yet live will
ensure he comes for me. I’ll keep her alive for bait but, oh, how I will make her
sing. Yes, your son will come, and he will bring the Dashin to me.”
“He brings only your destruction.”
Slade raised his scimitar. “Any last words?”
Padraic found himself glad that the banter had come to an
end, for he had grown weary. He looked past Slade as a twinkle caught his eyes
in the distance. At the edge of the Lurkwood stood an ethereal woman clad in
gossamer.
His wife looked like she did on their wedding day: resplendent
in ivory, wearing a garland of wytchwood, dark hair springing capriciously
about her throat and face. Padraic blinked away a tear to discover a host of
figures had joined her, wreathed in alabaster, blue, green, and rose spirit
fire. Many of the shades he knew in life, while others remained unknown to him,
yet they seemed somehow familiar.
Edora beckoned to him. Slade swung his scimitar, but the Marshal
did not see it or feel its sting. Padraic Duana died with the name of his wife
on his lips.
Chapter 5
Bishops, Queens, and Pawns
Sarad Mirengi offered an exaggerated nod to the man
kneeling at his feet, his countenance a well-practiced mask of concern.
The supplicant before him, a philandering noble with a taste
for young flesh, looked up at him expectantly with wet eyes. Sarad favored him
with an indulgent smile and sat back in his satin lined chair, which resembled
nothing so much as a throne.
“My son, there is no question that your carnal appetites are
an affront to God,” Sarad said, savoring the moment as Duke Vachel Ogressa’s
face turned ashen. “Be that as it may, none may say that they are perfect in
the eyes of the One God. Through your urges, he tests you, preparing you for
his divine light. Your suffering shall purify your soul, my child. If you give unto
him, he shall give unto you and cured of your base afflictions shall you be.”
The color returned to Vachel’s face. “Thank-you Prelate,
your words have not fallen on deaf ears.” He wiped at tears with a sleeve, and
produced a coin purse from his tunic. He held it up in both hands as if
offering a relic. Sarad indicated his tea-table with a nod, as if above the
profanity of material wealth.
“You are pardoned, my child. May His light illuminate the
dark corners of your soul.” Sarad held out a hand and spoke in the tongue of
the ancient prophets of Aradur, his words charged and resonant, as if they
emanated from a vast distance, echoing from outside the constraints of this
world. A golden aureole of light encircled his hand and fanned outward.
Vachel closed his eyes against the vivid glow, and a smile
spread across his face as he basked in the warmth of Sarad’s blessing. A sense
of contentment washed over the kneeling Duke. The clerics of the One God had
been pardoning sinners for decades, but he had never heard tell of anything
like this. Rumor had it that Mirengi was favored by God, but Vachel never
guessed that the prelate was gifted with such miraculous power.
Suffused with renewed energy, Vachel sprung to his feet, the
heady sensation of the preternatural ritual coursing through his veins with all
the fire and potency of a strong Galacian whiskey.
“Go now, my child. It would please me to see you again,
Vachel. Next time you are at court do stop by for a visit.”
“You may count on it, your Holiness.” The Duke genuflected
and then swept out of the room.
As Sarad watched him go a crooked grin crept across his
face. He could use a man like Vachel. Having leverage on a man who was both a
Duke and High Lord of House Ogressa
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