Here Shines the Sun (84 page)

Still, a part of her had wanted to go with him when he asked. She wanted more than anything to see the world. Seeing the world was something she would only get to do if she went with him, or received her Call to Guard. When she eventually declined his offer, he seemed to understand, although he didn’t let her off the hook entirely. He had left her with something; with that secret she promised him she would keep. Eulalee sighed. She hoped Erygion had made it to Duroton safely, and wondered when she might see him again.

Trumpets began to blare, shaking Eulalee from her reverie. She looked outward from her perch, past the shimmering leaves of the Stellabratus trees. Holy Father and the six Bishops exited the Holy Atrium and were coming down the Grand Walk now. Holy Father was in his snowy gowns with his white-gold mitre crown shining upon his head. In his hand he held a long, golden scepter whose head was the star of Aeoria, and he used it as a cane as he came. Flanking him were the six Bishops all in red with their faceless, black masks and their swords at their sides. Eulalee shifted in her seat and watched as they made their way toward the gardens as Ecclesiastics continued playing their trumpets.

As they got closer, Eulalee saw Nuriel march a few paces from the fountain, coming to stand beneath a pair of Stellabratus trees whose boughs created a shimmering arch above her. Before her, set into the star-metal of the Grand Walk, was a golden star of Aeoria and Nuriel stood at its foot. Holy Father came up to the head of the star and the Bishops broke off in pairs, coming to stand at either side of him.

Eulalee placed her hands to her mouth as she gazed upon Holy Father. He was down there, so close but yet so far away. There was a kind and gentle countenance about him, and the way his eyes smiled with his lips when his silver eyes fell upon Nuriel was so like what she remembered as a baby. That smile was so warm and inviting. Eulalee struggled to feel his Caliber, but it was useless from this distance. Still, just seeing him in the flesh made her believe that the dream from when she was a baby was real.
It had to be.
Eulalee could hardly wait to receive her Call to Guard, for then she could meet him—she could be in his presence—and she would know with certainty.

Holy Father now began to address the crowds as he stood before Nuriel, and his voice was so rich and vibrant and full of that warmth. “The Goddess is in Her starry temple, let all within this garden be reverent before Her.” he said.

Eulalee found herself holding her breath as a moment of silence was given and heads were lowered. At last Admael looked up and said, “Today Saint Nuriel brings to us an offering of dead care. Let all who bear witness reckon its worth to Aeoria. Saint Nuriel, please step forward with your offering.”

Eulalee watched as Nuriel stepped into the center of the star. One of the Bishops came forward carrying something wrapped in a white cloth. Eulalee watched intently as the Bishop handed it to Nuriel and stepped away. Nuriel unwrapped the object and placed it at Admael’s feet, kneeling before him with her head bent low. Eulalee couldn’t be certain, but it looked to be a star-metal pauldron, like one taken from a Saint’s armor.

“I offer the armor of K—” Nuriel seemed to choke on her words and she paused. After a moment she continued again, her voice shaking, “I offer the enemies of Sanctuary. I offer unto Sanctuary the dead care of justice. Will you accept?”

Holy Father turned to the audience. “What say you?”

“Worldly care, enemy of joy, let fire have its way with thee and may the winds make merry with your dust!” chanted the audience in unison. “The desperate cry of a burden has been silenced. Let pleasure be the whole of the law.”

Nuriel remained kneeling and Eulalee watched as the six Bishops formed a circle around her and Holy Father. From their scabbards the Bishops drew forth long, black swords and held them high as they began to chant in a strange tongue that Eulalee could not understand. Holy Father held out his hands and his voice reverberated above the chanting Bishops, “Saint Nuriel, by your hand a burden of this world is slain. I commit its corpse to ash in Aeoria’s name!”

To Eulalee’s surprise, fire began to lap up around the star-metal pauldron at Admael’s feet. Her crimson eyes widened in astonishment as the pauldron began expand with cracks of fiery heat, and then all at once it settled into a pile of blackened ash.

It was impossible. Star-metal was indestructible. There was nothing—no weapon or force of nature—that could so much as scratch it. Yet she had just witnessed fire reduce it to ash like so much wood.

Holy Father now knelt before Nuriel and dipped his fingers into the ash. He traced a line of soot from Nuriel’s forehead to her chin, and then from cheek to cheek, leaving a four-pointed star across her face. “Behold, Nuriel is become Sanctuary’s shrine, and holy are the pillars of this house! Arise Saint Nuriel of the Scales. Let pleasure be the whole of the law.”

Nuriel stood up with Admael as the audience began clapping. Eulalee watched as Nuriel wiped some tears from her eyes and wrapped Holy Father in an embrace. As Admael’s arms folded around her back and his face rested upon her shoulder, his silver eyes looked up, right into Eulalee’s own.

Eulalee started and nearly fell backward. She looked at him again, and he was staring directly at her. He smiled warmly up at her even as he patted Nuriel on the back. Then, into Nuriel’s ear she could see him whisper the words, “I love you,” although his eyes remained locked with her own.

Eulalee’s hand went to her chest. She felt her heart pounding.
Did he say that to me or Nuriel?

Admael pulled himself from Nuriel, and she seemed to sense something and turned around. Her golden eyes looked up and found Eulalee. Nuriel’s eyes began to smolder and her face twisted into an angry mask, but then Admael took her by the arm and hugged her again. He looked up and mouthed the words, “You’re so very precious to me.”

Eulalee scrambled up to her feet. Her heart thumped fiercely in her chest. Those words were meant for her, she knew it. Holy Father was speaking to her. She suddenly found herself filled with a confusing mixture of fear and yearning. She wanted to run, yet at the same time she wanted to be down there with him; to be the one in his arms. She looked down and saw Holy Father still smiling up at her; with that face whose eyes smiled with his lips. Eulalee raised her hand and waved gently down at him. Then, without another pause, she turned and leapt down from the wall.

But Eulalee hadn’t been the only one atop that wall watching. From the shadowy corner of a tall rampart stood Saint Gabriel of the Watchtower. His ruby eyes watched as Eulalee dropped down from the wall and ran back toward the streets of Sanctuary, far below. He exhaled deeply through his nose and crossed his massive arms over his chest. He shook his head doubtfully as he said to himself, “Erygion, you chose the wrong one.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It was dark in the Holy Atrium. Only the dim point of the single, remaining star shone in the star-metal dome high above. In the silence Nuriel could hear Admael’s heartbeat through his breastplate as she stood in his arms, her head resting upon his chest.

“Nuriel of the Scales.” Holy Father’s voice was like the pleasing warmth of a campfire on a chilly, winter night in Nuriel’s ear. “You have done so well. You have made me proud and restored my faith in the Order of the Saints Caliber. You are my scales of justice. You are my very sword. You are mine for as long as you wish, and I shall be yours.”

Nuriel breathed deeply and wrapped her arms more tightly around Admael’s body. She closed her eyes and felt great, fiery wings envelope her. “I want to be with you here forever.” she whispered.

She felt his hand, as hot and comforting as fire, stroke through her hair. “There is one thing I need you to do for me.”

“Anything.” whispered Nuriel.

“You must apprentice Eulalee.” said Admael.

Nuriel’s fingers gripped tightly upon the back of his robes and she bit down painfully into her lower lip. Still, she nodded, keeping her head pressed to his chest as blood oozed off her lip.

“I want her to be like you.” whispered Admael.

“I failed with Karinael.” An unbidden tear rolled off Nuriel’s eye and soaked into Admael’s robes.

“You have never failed me, Nuriel.” said Admael, his burning finger wiping a tear from her eye. “Apprentice Eulalee for me. She is special, like you.”

“Do you want to love her like you love me?” asked Nuriel.

“I will never love another as much as I love you, Nuriel, my daughter.”

Nuriel wiped the blood from her lip and stroked her finger across Admael’s chest, leaving a trail of crimson in the white gown. “Not even the Goddess?”

“Not even the Goddess,” spoke Admael, his breath like Nuriel’s childhood memories of the hot breeze that came from Mother Brendaline’s oven when she’d open it to take out her berry tarts.

Nuriel looked up, her golden eyes locking with Admael’s. “Promise me.”

“With all my heart.” he said, and Nuriel closed her eyes and inhaled her pleasure as those molten wings tightened around her frame. She felt her body buzzing with the warmth of his Caliber, and her hand crawled up his chest and smoothed over his soft cheek. “I want you to show her all you were shown when you were apprenticed.” spoke Admael into her ear. “I want you to make her in your image.”

Nuriel looked up into those silver eyes of his, and they seemed to shine with blazing energy. Her hand reached to his cheek and her fingers slid across his lips. “But not tonight.”

“Not tonight.” repeated Holy Father. “Tonight is for me and you.”

Nuriel felt his hand caress up her body, passing through her very breastplate. Fingers as hot as embers clasped upon her breasts. Nuriel purred and slid down his body. “You are my shrine, and holy are the pillars of this house.”

— 40 —

Realign

Rook lay with his eyes closed upon an uncomfortable, wooden bench. Where this lonesome, dungeon cell was he couldn’t guess, but it was surprisingly warm and dry for a stone cell. It was a lightless place though, with no windows or even torches burning. He knew it was late, or perhaps early in the morning, for it had been late when he was taken, and he had been here at least five-hours. Rook thought that getting some sleep and having a fresh mind was probably the best thing for him, but that would be impossible. His mind wandered as he recounted his final moments within the church. He had caught a glimpse of poor Ralf laying in the stairwell, clutching at his bloody throat. A shadow moved. He drew Starbreaker, but before he could even ignite the weapon, that frigid grip of the iron-shrouded being caught his shoulder and he was dragged through a dark gateway. The world spun and his body buzzed as he was pulled through it. He thought he had heard whispers and seen shadowy figures moving in the spiraling blackness. Before he could even get his wits about him, he had been thrown into this cell and the being had vanished.

Rook puffed out a breath in the darkness. He thought about calling out again for somebody—anybody—but his throat was already raw from yelling. He wondered if Kierza was all right. He wondered if she and the rest of his family knew he was gone yet. They would be worried about him for sure. Rook’s lips set into a grim line. He didn’t want his argument with Kierza to be the last thing she remembered of him.

As he thought about Kierza and his family back home, the Golothic in his pocket began to throb hot and steady, as if it were mocking him. “Bulifer,” said Rook in the darkness. “This is your doing, isn’t it? You brought me here.” Rook now pondered where ‘here’ might be. Was he still in Free Narbereth, or had that being’s portal taken him some place far away? Jerusa, maybe? It would be perfectly taunting for the demon to bring him back to where everything started.

Rook sighed. The demon always won; always got its way. It got its way when it tricked him into making the bargain. It got its way when it made him kill Karver. It got its way when he took its hand and killed Ovid, murdering Marisal and leaving one of her sons crippled and all of them hating and fearing him. Was everything he did the will of the demon? Perhaps it was even Bulifer’s design that he met Kierza, just for her to be taken away. Perhaps it was even Bulifer’s design that he led the people of Bellus up against the King and his daughters. Rook wondered now if this was the final leg of the demon’s journey with him; if this was the place their covenant was to be fulfilled. The demon would ask him to forge a weapon, and he would have to abide. The demon, after all, always won.

No, not always. The demon
didn’t
always win. The demon had wanted him to be taken by Grandon Faust when he was a child, but Rook had changed the course. He had seen to it that he went home with Callad and Sierla that day. He did have a choice. The demon’s design could be thwarted. And if he really was here by Bulifer’s hand, he could choose not to make whatever weapon it was that the demon wanted. Diotus’s words now drifted through his mind,
He can only take what you feed him. But what you feed him, he shall devour.

Bars rattled and Rook sat up with a start. His eyes immediately fixed on the torchlight outside his cell, and his chest tightened with fear as a trio of lizardine beings swung the door to his cell open. In the unsteady light of the fire they carried, their orange scales gleamed. Their feet and hands were like the claws of a dragon, and crimson capes draped over their finned shoulders. Rook’s eyes scanned up to see fangs curled, but rather than the throats of serpents, he saw the faces of men.

“Lord Tarquin wishes an audience with you now.”

Rook slowly stood from his bench, taking in their dragon-like armor and the swords at their sides. The man who had just spoken to him had flames painted up the arms of his armor, and in the pommel of his sword twinkled a red crystal. Rook’s eyes flicked to the next soldier. His arms were painted in lightning bolts and his sword bore a yellow crystal. The third of the lot’s arms were painted to look like fractured stone, and his sword held a brown, tourmaline crystal.

Rook had seen a suit of armor painted in such a way as these back home, in Diotus’s basement. His own sword, Starbreaker, possessed a crystal much like the ones carried by these men. The leather armor he wore had one of the crystals secretly embedded in his arm to produce the electric shield. That shield was the only weapon he had right now, but he couldn’t use it to escape. Not yet. That would be foolish.

Rook’s heart thumped in his chest as he met their gaze. “Where am I?”

“You are in Duroton.” spoke one of the men. “Beneath the very jaws of the Dragon Forge.”

“Duroton?” Rook’s head spun at the notion. The being that had grabbed him and dragged him into the portal, it had taken him all the way to Duroton? His eyes inspected the knights more keenly now. “You… You’re Dark Star Knights?”

The man regarded Rook for a moment. “Yes, though our title ascends that of the Dark Star Knights. We are Guardians of the Dragon Forge, and Lord Tarquin is our Commander.” The man stepped into the cell. “Will you come willingly to meet with him?”

Rook’s mind was still reeling at the fact that he was in Duroton, before actual Dark Star Knights, though he did his best to collect himself. “But, how?” He looked at the knights. “Why? What does your commander want with me?”

“To work the Forge.” stated the man.

Rook’s gaze took on more caution now.
To work the forge.
There was no doubt left that he was here by Bulifer’s hand. He owed the demon a weapon, and the demon had brought him to a forge in Duroton. It seemed his debt was now due, though Rook found some solace in the fact that he had been brought to a country he had always wanted to see. There were certainly worse places to end up, though he questioned how pleasant his stay here might be. He couldn’t help but smirk. “So, I’m to be a slave, then?”

“That depends on how well Tarquin receives you.” replied the knight.

Rook hadn’t realized he spoke his question aloud. He had meant the question for the demon. He supposed the demon could have willed him to speak it aloud so that he could hear the answer plainly, though the answer wasn’t surprising. It meant he was indeed going to be a slave. The treatment he’d receive was going to be based on how willing he was to do whatever he was brought here to do. It was a fitting reply from a demon, Rook supposed.

The real surprise to Rook, however, was the fact that he wasn’t feeling terribly angry at the situation. He should be furious. They had killed Ralf to get to him; they had taken him away from Kierza and his family and the people of Free Narbereth who needed him now more than ever. But it wasn’t anger he was feeling. It was guilt as he realized that a bigger part of him wanted to be here, even if it was by the demon’s doing. Duroton intrigued him immensely. He had already been brought here by some magical means, perhaps even by a Jinn—a Jinn more powerful than Diotus. He was in the presence of actual Dark Star Knights and would soon be meeting their commander. All the years he had known Diotus he had spent dreaming of what it would be like in Duroton. All those dreams about becoming a Dark Star Knight himself, but being denied by Diotus. Diotus had told him that he could not mark him as a Dark Star Knight because the demon had already laid claim to him. But Diotus had told him to pay his debt and free himself. Perhaps, Rook thought, being here was a good thing. Perhaps it was time to settle up with the demon. Perhaps his dream of becoming a Dark Star Knight was finally in his grasp.

“Will you come peacefully?” asked the knight.

Rook looked at him and nodded.

Outside of the dungeon block it was easy for Rook to determine he was within a mountain. The halls were all rough, bare stone and bore the marks of chisels and pick-axes. They were lit by gaslight and he could hear the hiss of gas through the pipes that connected each lamp. Eventually he was escorted up a steep flight of winding stairs and through a number of halls more refined than the crude tunnels near the dungeon. Here, the rhythmic sound of heavy machinery echoed off the stone. Rook could hear the sound of hammers too large for men to hold pounding down upon steel. He heard the rush of steam being expelled; of gears clanking away; the rattle of heavy chains. The knights opened a set of thick, steel doors and the sounds intensified into a deafening cacophony as a fiery light, heralded by a sweltering breeze tinged with sulfur, washed over him.

And for the first time Rook found himself hesitant to follow the knights any further. He was looking out upon an immense chamber where countless men—shirtless, greasy and sweaty—tended to monstrous creatures of steel and steam. Mine carts rattled like snakes, slithering in and out of tunnels both high and low. Men shouted instructions over the tumult that engulfed them as crane arms swooped hazardously nearby, scooping up scrap iron or grabbing at ore. But the centerpiece was something too big for Rook’s mind to wrap around. It was the skull of some sort of beast, and he wanted to believe that it was too large to have ever really existed. It sat like a fallen god, shrouded by the hazy exhaust of all the machinery. Beyond its colossal fangs burned the very inferno of Hell, though its dead eyes stared out with contempt at the people who plagued it like insects.

Rook knew there was something more about that skull than the machinery around it. He knew without doubt that it was not a construct of the hand of man. And there was something more about it than even the mountain which housed it; something about the skull that told Rook that it was here long before the earth, and would be here long after its end. That skull had a life. It had a purpose to which the insignificant fools who toiled at its feet were mocking. They danced upon the toes of a volcano, testing its patience.

“Behold, the Skull of the Fire Dragon.”

“Fire Dragon?” Rook mouthed the words more than he said them. A crane squealed and dumped a massive load of debris into the thing’s jaws. Magma sprayed. Fire billowed. And the waste was reduced to nothingness.

The knight turned to face Rook. “The skull of Felvurn of the Flames, the ancient Dragon King of Fire. In death he now serves the Lands of Duroton.”

Rook had heard the legend of the Dragon Kings. They were the creation of the Great Mother and Father. They were the ancient wardens of the earth—the primal forces of the elements—and they walked the land long before even the Goddess, Aeoria. Rook had learned as much from Diotus. To Rook, the knight’s words were arrogant. This skull was no trophy to be paraded. This thing was no more theirs than collecting air in a bottle made the winds theirs. Rook turned his eyes to the knight, “What is this place?”

“The Dragon Forge. Come.” said the knight, and with some hesitation Rook followed him across the chamber toward the skull.

Rook was brought to the top of the skull and before a crude, iron throne set within the deep recess between the eyes. For all its plainness, there was something sinister about the throne. It was pitted and pocked and had a strange, red cast to it. Sitting upon it was a man in dragon armor, much like the knights who had brought him here. His, however, was enameled in reds, oranges and yellows, giving him a fiery look. A black cape draped over his shoulders, but Rook managed to catch that his arms were painted with gray spirals, and he thought there was something different about his left arm.

Rook’s eyes flicked to the man’s side and saw his sword in its scabbard. The sword held a gray crystal, the powers of which he couldn’t guess. Diotus had never told him of gray power crystals. The man himself sat in arrogant recline upon the throne, with a demeanor as cold as it. To Rook, his eyes seemed darker than they should for a man with tarnished-blonde hair. There was something wrong with the man’s face as well. The entire left side had sickly, gray blotches and scabs that looked like red rust.

Behind Rook, the three knights bowed. One of them placed a hand on his shoulder and he felt the knight push down on him. He bent down to his knee.

“Commander, this is Rook Gatimarian, as you requested.” spoke one of the knights.

Rook’s eyes turned upward to meet Tarquin’s own. The Commander stroked at the two long, tight braids of his beard with his left hand, appraising him. As he did, Rook heard the soft whine of gears from the man’s arm, and he suddenly realized why it had seemed different from his right. His left arm was mechanical. But then in the shadows behind Tarquin’s throne Rook caught sight of two more men. They stood like rigid statues, their faces concealed behind masks of slag. They were like the one who had taken him from the church, only these two had something different painted upon their masks. The one on the right had a skull and crossbones, the other had flames. Whether they were painted in red ink or in blood Rook could not be certain.

Tarquin stood from the throne and Rook returned his eyes to him. “Rise.” said the Commander with a whirring wave of his left hand.

Rook stood to his feet as Commander Tarquin approached him. Tarquin stood about as tall as himself, and Rook thought the man carried a strange odor—damp metal and rust—just like the being who had stolen him away at the church.