Abomination (36 page)

Before she left on her Trial, Edgard had told her that if she did not return, it would likely be her own hubris that was the cause. That, or her damn anger, which she never had learned to properly control. Where she got that from, God himself only knew. Her father, he supposed.

They walked briskly past the colonnades of the old cathedral’s central cloister, long since converted into an outdoor training yard. King Alfred had at first balked at the suggestion that the vacant cathedral be converted into the Order’s base of operations—turning a house of God into a house of war—but Edgard had convinced him.
God or war, is one any better than the other these days?
he had argued.
Which one has claimed more lives—who can say?

Alfred had reluctantly consented, and the transformed cathedral had been a fine place when the work was completed, fit to house any fighting force in the world. Alfred, in his day, had supported the Order well, as he held himself responsible for the menace he had allowed Aethelred to unleash. He had spared no expense as Edgard built the Order into a force of, at its peak, almost a thousand men. The King, determined already to eradicate every trace of Aethelred’s scourge, had become even more so upon the news of Wulfric’s death. His closest friend, slaughtered by an abomination along with his family and neighbors as they celebrated his
homecoming
—
Alfred had felt responsible for that, too.
Whatever you need, you shall have it
, he had told Edgard when he placed him in charge of the Order.
Until the very last of them is dead
.

But that was long ago, and the cathedral was now badly in need of repair. In the years since Alfred’s death, his son and successor, Edward the Elder, had not looked so favorably upon the Order. Perhaps Edgard and his men had done their work too well; by the time of Edward’s succession to the throne, much of the scourge had been hunted down and killed. Only a few remained and those were rarely seen; already the very existence of abominations had begun to fall into the realm of myth.

And so the new King had come to view the Order as largely redundant and a drain on crown resources that were sorely needed elsewhere. For all the good work his father had done to maintain peace with the Norse, Edward had made a vow to reclaim all of England from those who had settled there and was spending to build an army fit for the task. That left precious little for the Order, which Edward saw as his father’s folly. Edgard had managed to convince the King to continue granting them a small stipend so that they might finish their work. But the fact was that the Order was a shadow of its former self: barely a hundred men, with scarcely the gold to keep them quartered and fed.

More men left by the day, tempted by better pay and conditions in Edward’s vast new army, and it had been more than a year since they had taken on a new initiate, Indra notwithstanding. Soon there would be nothing of the Order left. Edward had made known his plans to disband it and give the cathedral back to the church.

The thought of what life might hold for him after that had kept Edgard awake many a night. He could always go back to war, but he found men to be far less satisfying prey than the monsters he had grown accustomed to hunting. All he knew now was that hunt, the greatest of all games—and the glory that came with it. But the glory was all but gone, as the game itself soon would be.

Yes, times were grim. But still Edgard was buoyed as he followed the guardsman up the spiral staircase that led to the west rampart, taking the steps two at a time. His daughter might despise him, and perhaps rightly so, but she was alive. And she was speaking to him.

Venator flew from the parapet to Edgard’s forearm when he arrived. The bird had been trained well; had anyone else tried to remove the message from around its leg, they would be mourning the loss of a finger or more. Even though he was the intended recipient, Edgard made careful work of loosening the copper anklet and retrieving the scroll from within, while keeping one eye on that hooked beak, sharp as a dagger.

As Edgard unfurled the parchment and began to read, Venator hopped from his arm and perched on the wall nearby. The sun was rising now, its light creeping over the land, casting all beneath it in warm gold. It was a sight to see, though none but Venator saw it. The two guardsmen were watching Edgard as he read, and they grew uneasy as they saw their commander’s hopeful expression begin to fade. His face slackened, then he tightened his jaw and the color drained from his cheeks.

Edgard rolled the small piece of parchment up, slowly and carefully. His expression was blank, impossible to read. The guardsmen waited for some command that might indicate what had perturbed him so, but none came. Instead, Edgard whipped around to the arched doorway and made his way hastily down the stairs, cape billowing behind him. The two guardsmen exchanged a look. “My lord?” one called after him.

Edgard was already out of sight, but his voice echoed back up the spiral staircase. “See that the hawk is well fed and well rested! It goes back out in one hour.”

The part of the old cathedral where Edgard was headed was on the other side of the building from the western rampart. And though it had been a long time since he’d had cause to run for anything, he ran now, as fast as he ever had though he was far from the young man he once was. He sprinted clear across the training yard and into the cathedral’s nave, which now served as a vast storage room for rations, supplies, and equipment. It was mostly empty these days, its stores slowly dwindling as the means to replenish those that were consumed grew less month by month.

Edgard made his way down the aisle toward the altar, then down another winding staircase into the cathedral’s underground. It was cooler down here, and dank and dark. Edgard had to light a torch to find his way along the hallway, its flame casting long shadows on the old stone walls. He passed several doorways and arrived at the one at the hallway’s end. The room beyond had once functioned as the cathedral’s library and archive but, like the rest of the church, had been converted to another use when the Order had taken possession. It was still a library of sorts, only now a library of things that should never have existed.

Edgard threw open the door to the chamber and swept inside, not bothering to knock. Though the hour was still early, his arcane advisor would already be up and working. The man barely slept at all.

And there he was, at his desk at the far end of his dimly lit study, head down, so absorbed in his work that he had not even noticed Edgard’s strident entrance. It was only as Edgard marched toward him that Cuthbert saw the shadows cast on the wall by the torch he carried and looked up to see the knight approaching. He leapt to his feet, as rank and respect demanded, but his attention was more on the flame of the torch than the man who carried it.

“My lord,” said Cuthbert. “Please, no firelight in here.” His desk was littered with densely written parchments that he began to
shuffle together and draw toward him protectively. The two men were surrounded by books and papers, on every table and surface, even piled on the floor; the room’s long black shadows suggested even more hidden in the darkness.

On the shelves behind Cuthbert was the heart of it all: the Bestiary. A project he had begun on a sheaf of paper fifteen years ago, in the years since, it had grown in size to a dozen thick leather-bound volumes cataloguing every species of abomination ever encountered by the Order, complete with detailed drawings of which Cuthbert was particularly proud. In each case, the beast’s description, behavioral traits, habits, mode of attack, and—most crucially—vulnerabilities, were recorded in painstaking detail. A zoology of hell. Priceless knowledge that could easily be destroyed by an errant spark from an open flame.

Edgard sighed—
This man and his obsessive habits
—and blew out the torch, casting the room into near total darkness, save for a strange green light that was glowing dimly inside a glass reading lamp on Cuthbert’s desk. Cuthbert turned a knob on the lamp’s brass base and the green flame within flared brighter, though it did not flicker or dance in the manner of any fire known to science. It was brighter and more steady, and cast the room in an ethereal, viridescent glow. Only now did Cuthbert notice the grave look on his master’s face. He made to ask him the cause, but Edgard beat him to it:

“Indra is alive.”

“Blessed be!” said Cuthbert, smiling wide. His relief at the news was palpable, and so he wondered why Edgard did not appear to share it. “Has she returned?”

“No, but she sent a message.” Edgard handed him the scroll. “Read it.”

Cuthbert unrolled the parchment, his eyes darting swiftly over it. It took little more than a moment for his jaw to fall open. He looked up at Edgard in astonishment.

“Loath as I am to admit it,” said Edgard, “it would appear that you may have been right.”

You knew I was, from the first day I told you
, Cuthbert thought but did not say.
You just chose to ignore me
.

“What do you propose to do?” he asked aloud.

“I propose to do as she asks,” said Edgard. “We ride out to meet her as soon as my men have made ready.”

Edgard sensed Cuthbert’s hesitation. It had been a long time since the scrawny little priest had been in the field, and he had never been much suited for it in the first place. Though one had to admit the man had toughened up considerably in the years since Wulfric had first introduced them. A career spent hunting abominations would do that to you, after all.

Cuthbert had not aged well during those years, though Edgard had to concede that neither had he. A career spent hunting abominations would do that, too. But something in those pale, sunken eyes of his suggested Cuthbert had got the worst of it. Perhaps it was not the abominations themselves but the close and prolonged exposure to Aethelred’s magick that had done it.

Recognizing that Cuthbert had perhaps missed his true calling when he entered the priesthood, Edgard had made him a permanent civilian member of the Order upon its founding and set him to the task of furthering the arcane work that Aethelred had begun in hopes of finding new, more constructive uses for it. He had found many such uses, though most were little more than curious novelties. The unburning lamp on his desk was one of the better ones.

Though Cuthbert was indeed hesitant, Edgard was mistaken as to its cause: “I mean, what do you propose to do once we get out there?” the priest said. “Indra is asking for your help.”

Edgard smirked as he took back the note and studied it again. “I’ve been trying to help that girl her entire life. Never once has she accepted it. There’s irony in it, that this should be why she finally asks, don’t you think?”

“From my reading of that note,” said Cuthbert, “she is not asking for herself, but for him.”

Edgard’s smirk faded. He tucked the note away. “Be ready in one hour.” And with that he turned and made for the door.

On his way out, his eye was caught by one of Cuthbert’s many workbenches, upon which papers and other instruments of his trade were laid out. This one was an artificing table, cluttered with specialist tools, precious metals, gemstones, and other raw materials—the stuff of a jewelcrafter. Edgard stopped and picked up what appeared to be one of several examples of the finished product, a tiny emerald set within a gold enclosure. It was fine precision work, the intricately cut gem little more than the size of an apple seed. He held it up to the light, examining it closely and with interest. To the layman it might appear a mere ornament, but Cuthbert had told Edgard its true purpose, and it occurred to him that such a thing might be useful now. Indra was his daughter and he loved her, but he did not trust her entirely, and he suspected that she did not trust him at all.

He turned to Cuthbert, holding up the small jeweled object. “Does this actually work?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Cuthbert, always happy to talk about one of his projects. “My test results have been extremely encouraging. In fact, that one you’re holding has been the most accurate so far.”

Edgard nodded, considering for a moment, then pocketed the golden trinket before continuing on his way out.