The Record of the Saints Caliber (63 page)

“I’ve heard the same thing.” said Hadraniel. “Always the same story. Oracles and Sin Eaters swarm the place, kill everybody, and take something away.”

“What do you think they take?” asked Nuriel.

“Some say its Star-Armor.” said Adonael. “Some say it’s the star itself. Truth is, nobody knows.”

“And don’t go looking either.” said Hadraniel. “Like Adonael said, they even think you saw something and you’ll disappear. I heard that’s what happened to Saint Leliel twenty years ago. Dumb luck put her right where a star fell and she went poking around before the Oracles arrived. They say she was hauled off by the Sin Eaters and was never heard from again.”

Nuriel shivered. Being hauled off by a flock of Sin Eaters didn’t sound very appealing.

“Best not to even think about it.” said Adonael, slapping Nuriel on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up. You look like you’ve been through Hell and back.” His eyes raked over her again. “I supposed that’s even somewhat true.”

Nuriel bit her lip and looked down.

“Come on,” said Hadraniel. “I’ll show you where Father Erinys keeps the Ev for us. And, Aeoria bless this place, the best thing is we’ve got beds and baths with hot, running water upstairs. You don’t find that too often in this stars-forsaken country.”

Adonael looked over at the naked women who were all huddled around the fireplace. He bent over and picked up a hunk of meat from the floor. “Now ladies, I believe we were going to see which one of you wants to earn this here meat.”

— 17 —

A VISITATION

The church had become something of a new home to Rook and his baby sister Ursula over the last few days. Mister Brumal and his son Estival had found Rook and Ursula hiding in the rubble of their old home and taken them both to the church, which had been converted to a makeshift base for the old and young willing to take up arms. By now most of the old city had been abandoned and the people moved into the outlying houses of the church. Despite living five or six families to a house, the people were living quite comfortably. For the first time in their lives the people had running water, gaslight and heat.

Mister Brumal himself had become the leader of the rebellion, voted into the position by the rest of the town. It was a title he didn’t take lightly or without much apprehension, but Rook figured there was no better man for the job and he had thus far been extremely successful. Already they controlled ninety-percent of the city, with only a small handful of Clerical Guard and town officials holed up at the eastern end of the city. The rest of the clergy, their guard and town officials had been killed in battle or hung, their bodies adorning the city wall. The few that remained posed little threat, considering the people now had hundreds of bolt-throwers amongst them, swords and other weapons. Not only that, but they had plenty of food too. The church’s larder was full of wine, cheese, bread and other sundries. They also had all the livestock from it and the surrounding homes. Fresh meat and milk were in no short supply and the people were making the most of it, trying desperately to get their strength back. Mister Brumal wanted more control of rationing the provisions, but it was the one thing he was constantly being overruled on. Most of the people of the city had never known a proper meal in their lives and the desire to fill their bellies was more than they could resist. For the first time Rook could remember, the people of their small little city didn’t all look like pale skeletons. There were smiling faces; children laughing; people talking, and not just in whispers.

It was early afternoon and a warm Spring sun filtered through the stained glass windows of the church, throwing colorful shafts of light upon the pews. There were a few people resting or praying to Aeoria in them, and a handful of men with bolt-throwers standing guard near the windows and doors. Rook breathed contentedly from his shadowy, out-of-the-way corner. There he had made something of a nest out of blankets upon the floor between a pair of stone pillars. The fireplace was upon the opposite side of the wall, and its radiant heat warmed the walls and floor, making this area Rook’s favorite, cozy place for getting Ursula to nap.

He held his baby sister in his lap as she sucked warm milk from a bottle. Rook looked down at her and smiled. Her big eyes opened, showing off their incredibly dark-blue color. She stopped sucking and smiled, flailing her arms and chirping out something of a laugh. It was infectious and Rook couldn’t help but laugh too. He had never seen her so happy, so healthy. Rook sighed and leaned his head back upon the warm wall and closed his eyes.

When next he opened them an hour or two had passed. Ursula was sleeping soundly in his arms. Rook gently laid her down upon the blankets and wrapped her up. He stood and stretched, yawning. Without thinking about it, his hand went to his pocket and began rubbing the Golothic. He loved its sandy texture and pleasing warmth. During the cold nights and mornings he would take it out and bundle it between himself and Ursula. The Golothic and the magically light dagger had become his secret possessions. He kept the dagger rolled up and tucked in the waist of his pants. It worked out well since the pants were too long and rolling the dagger up in the waist seemed to take up just the right amount of slack.

Rook breathed uneasily as he thought about the Golothic and the words the demon Bulifer had spoken to him. There were whispers amongst the people that King Gatima was sending Saints. He had heard Mister Brumal talking about it too, and how to fortify the city and defend it if they came. Rook felt completely confused by everything. He had grown up listening to the stories from Father Tarask about the Saints and their heroics. His whole life he had dreamed of meeting one of the Saints Caliber. But now that Father Tarask was gone—strung up and burned upon a stake with the Sin Eaters and Oracle—people were openly sharing stories of terrible things. Stories of Saints killing and burning people, and even worse. The clergy and Father Tarask had been charged with crimes by Mister Brumal and the rest of the townsfolk, all of them burned or hanged or shot in the head with a bolt-thrower.

Everything Rook had come to know and believe was unraveling. What was good and what was evil? Rook stroked the Golothic in his pocket, remembering Bulifer and those burning eyes of his. The words he spoke echoed in his mind:
“One day very soon you shall meet some Saints. After you meet them I shall come to you, and I shall ask you one question, and you must answer me yes or no with honesty. I shall ask you if you still believe the Saints are good and are here to protect the people of the world.”

Rook shivered and took his hand off the Golothic. He closed his eyes and tried to steel himself and all his beliefs.
The Saints had to be good.
He told himself this over and over again. If the Saints were a lie—an evil fake like Father Tarask—that would mean that Aeoria too, must be a lie. It would have to mean that
everything
was a lie. It would mean that there was nothing good in this world; nothing left for him to believe in. Rook looked over to the stained glass windows that depicted the Saints of yore. There was his favorite, Saint Bryant of the Horn who brought food and bounty and gifts wherever he went. Saint Bryant fought and slew the Cerberus. Rook bit his lip. Saint Bryant was real. His legend was real. His kindness and love were real.
They had to be.

Rook wiped an unbidden tear from his eye and walked around to the front of the church where the altar sat—a glass coffin filled with roses—and upon it, a podium where an ancient, hefty tome lay. Rook looked around but the church was empty but for a few guards dozing about or looking out the windows. He climbed up the altar and quickly took down the book. It weighed a ton and he nearly dropped it. Quietly, he took the giant thing around the corner to where Ursula was sleeping and sat down beside her with the book on his lap. It was bound in brown leather, a golden Star of Aeoria embellishing the cover.

He flipped through the pages, taking in their pleasant scent. He had never smelled a book before. There was something comforting about the musty, old scent of it and it was mingled with years of incense smoke. On every page there were scrawled strange letters and words, some of them embellished with gold and silver inks, some of them more picturesque. They meant nothing to him. They were just squiggles and flourishes of ink. Rook bit his lip. There must be thousands of pages and millions of words, he thought. He wondered how anybody could ever manage to read it; how one would even begin to go about learning how to read all the countless words. He flipped and flipped. He had no idea what he was looking for. A picture? A word? Anything at all that might stand out and give meaning and truth to the things he had been told all his life. But there was nothing. Just endless, countless, millions of meaningless scribbles. Rook exhaled, frustration gripping him. He closed the book hard and kicked it away from him.

Rook wiped another tear from his cheek. And then another. Was anything he was told true? It didn’t seem like it. He was told of food shortages, yet here in the church and the surrounding homes there was plenty. He was told Saints were heroes, yet all the people were preparing for battle with them. He was told that demons were evil, yet the one he met happened to save him and Ursula. Rook sniffed and buried his head in his hands. “The Saints have to be good,” he sobbed to himself. “They have to be.”

“Not all things in this world are as they seem,” came a kindly voice that startled Rook. “Sometimes that is a good thing, and other times it is a bad thing.”

Rook looked up to find an old man standing over him, smiling softly. He held a gnarly cane that looked more like a fallen branch, but had sprigs of green buds on it. His skin was pale white, albino even, but in somehow such a manner that it was not displeasing or shocking. He had long white hair—as white and pure as the driven snows—and it draped over his shoulders, and his beard and mustache dropped down to his chest. He wore a white gown that was shiny, smooth and silky, as if it were wet, but he had no shoes and his boney feet were bare upon the stone floor. He smiled, his large blue eyes sparkling in the gaslight of the dimly lit church. There was something about him that was comforting and warm. Something about his presence that was wholesome, and Rook had the sudden urge to get up and hug him.

Rook stood up, but then he noticed the red stains upon the man’s gown. He gasped.

The man looked down upon his own chest and frowned slightly, then placed the cane before his breast and hunched over, concealing the bloody wound with his hands and white beard.

“Are…are you hurt?” asked Rook, looking around. There were just a few people in the church, but none of them seemed to have taken any notice of him or the old man.

“Just a little,” said the man. “But I am fine. This wound cannot kill.” His voice was ancient, yet deep and rich and full of life. He smiled at Rook. Then he looked down at the bible Rook had kicked. He knelt over, propping one hand atop his budding cane and picking the book up with his other. He held the book in his hand for a moment, feeling its weight. “This book once told people about the love of Aeoria.” He nodded at it, as if in quiet contemplation. Then he looked back at Rook with his large, blue, crystalline eyes. “Do you know that all things have a cycle? Night follows day; Death follows life; Destruction follows creation.” He handed the book to Rook. “But,” continued the man. “No matter how dark the night gets, a new dawn will always come. No matter how much death is visited upon this world, new life will be born. No matter how much destruction, something new is always just around the corner. And most importantly, no matter how evil times become, good will once again reign.”

Rook looked at the heavy tome and then at the man. “But…doesn’t that mean that no matter what happens, evil will rule again?”

The old man smiled solemnly as he nodded. “Yes, it does. Such is the way of this universe. Such is the way of cycles.” He looked softly upon the sleeping Ursula, and then returned his large, blue eyes to Rook. “But you must not despair. Evil must work in secret to take hold. It must work in shadows and whittle good away little by little. It cannot make itself known, for once known, people begin to stand up. You see, the thing is, all it takes for Good to take hold is for one person to stand up.” He paused and looked about the church and then smiled back at Rook. “Look what has happened here in this city, all because one man in church stood up. Imagine what might happen if one day you stand up? If one day, everybody stands up with you?”

Rook looked at the man curiously as he chewed the words over in his young mind. He could feel the warmth of the Golothic in his pocket and he thought about the covenant he had made with the demon. “Can it ever be too late for somebody? Too late to do good?”