The Second Coming (20 page)

Miguel's face
crimsoned. “That hedonistic place? I'd rather stink.”

John laughed.
“Don't be ridiculous, brother. We cannot ride naked and I don't
care to ride any further with this smell. We'll find a quiet inn,
have a bath, buy some clothing and be on our way.”

Miguel said
nothing further, but his neck and ears matched the rosy glow of his
face.

After another
hour, they entered the brightly flowered city of Carnero. Etched
into the keystone of its arches was a goat’s head surrounded by
five flowers in the pattern of a pentagram. Over the horned head
was a goblet filled with grapes. John smiled. The goat's head was
symbolic of the god they worshipped, yet the city's title held
another meaning, one the obvious name of the horned head did not
infer. It held the ancient roots for the word flesh, and rightly
so, as it was known as the carnal capital of Iberia.

Towering
honeysuckle bushes surrounded the city, their scent like manna to
his nose. They grew to twice John's height, and were a match for
the tall hedges that lined the intricate mazes within the city
proper. John had heard plenty about the mazes as a young man, and
the nightly rituals of lust performed within their confines. That
lure was no longer. Not since his body had been taken and forced
into unspeakable things — things which had no forgiveness.

He sniffed at
the air, heavy with the scent of the roses intertwined between the
hedges; red, white, and plentiful. They walked along the main
street, greeted by drooping, yellow blossoms of the laburnum trees
lining the streets.

Children ran
between the trees, hiding and chasing each other. Meega paid them
no heed.

Laughter and
merry talk filled the city and the people that walked the streets
continued about their business, yet some cast the two friars a
strange look. It was not just for the smell he needed a change in
clothing. His friar's robes stood out in such a place. Yet some of
the women cast him looks of longing, eyeing his tall stature. John
felt his face flush.

The city's
Guard stood at the corners, men and women armed with only a tall,
intricately carved staff. Their scant clothing hung on hardened
bodies. A number of people muttered faint greetings, those native
to the place. They wore loose-fitting garb of vivid colors and
flashy patterns. The clothing reminded John of the bright,
billowing pants of the Baron's Guild. The visitors dressed much
more conservatively, and hung their heads at the sight of the two
friars. John stifled his laughter.

Guilt. A gift
from God, and one of the mightiest weapons of the Church. That, and
fear.

As they strode
down the cobbled road, a plethora of inns offered them what they
sought, but most had men and women hanging in the doorways wearing
only enough to cover their most private of regions. Even that was a
stretch as one woman lifted her top to show them a pierced nipple.
Miguel's face rucked.

They walked
past a small inn in which no one lurked, a quaint stucco building
called The Golden Fish. John supposed the name could have hidden
meanings, but as Miguel carved a bee-line across the road to its
yellow door, he saw what caught the brother's attention. A small
cross hung in the corner of the window. He now knew the meaning of
the name.

The fish
. The symbol used before the
cross.

Miguel stood
in front of it, grinning as if the Second Coming was just
announced. John sighed.

If only he
knew.

John rolled
his eyes and dismounted. “I guess we'll stay here then.”

He handed the
reins to a plain-faced young man in a sand-colored robe and plucked
Meega from off Mule's back. She still clung to the doll, but slid
her delicate hand in his as they followed a seemingly ecstatic
Miguel through the door of the inn.

As they entered, a tall, ample-hipped woman greeted them. She
was shy of beautiful with her slightly angled features, but she
appeared sultry with her dark hair and eyes, along with the slight
eyebrows that betrayed her mixed heritage.
Firstborn? Nymph? Sidhe?
Over her
gaping cleavage dangled a cross and John found it difficult to turn
his eyes away. 

“
Good afternoon, my name is Ingrid. How may I be of service?”
The smoky accent announced her heritage — Sidhe.

John stepped
forward, and Meega hid behind him, hugging his leg.

“
We would like food, and a room for the night. We also need to
find a change of clothing.”

Ingrid nodded.
“I can see to all of your needs. You smell of the east, and must
desire a bath. I will have water boiled.” She clapped her hands and
two young women came forward. Both were dressed in similar sandy
robes as the young stable hand outside. Ingrid ordered them off to
prepare baths and then turned back, eying Meega. She knelt and
touched the girl's hand. “Do not be afraid, little one. Your kind
is welcome here.”

Meega stepped
forward, an uncertain smile on the corners of her lips. She stroked
the wooden doll, yet remained silent.

Ingrid tapped
Meega's chin and smiled. “I understand. You need say nothing
more.”

Miguel looked
at the woman, his face blank. “She didn't say a word. She hasn't
spoken in days.”

Ingrid winked
at him. “Sometimes silence says all.” She glided over to a small
table, her strides as smooth as the Persian silk robe that hung
from her tall frame like violet drapes. “While you wait, sit, and
tell me what two friars and a little half-breed are doing in a city
filled with carnal pleasures. Something tells me you are not here
to fulfill your innermost desires.” Her lips coiled into a sly
smile.

Miguel blushed
as he plunked himself in a wicker chair, and words burst out of his
mouth. “We are making for Baleal.”

John inwardly
cursed the brother's loose tongue.

“
Baleal. Interesting.” Her stare lingered on Miguel for a
moment and then scanned Meega. “She is neither of
yours.”

Again Miguel
opened his mouth. “Her mother is dead.”

“
And you chose not to leave her with the Church?”

Miguel's face
reddened and he cast an angry glance towards John. “One of us made
that choice.”

She gazed at
John, fingering the cross about her neck. “You do not trust the
Church?”

What should I
tell her?

Miguel had
already given away too much, but as John faced the woman, he felt
the desire to speak only the truth to her.

A spell?

He shook it
off, and of his own volition spoke no lie. “No, I do not. Our
religion is a sham.”

Miguel's face
paled and he reached into his pocket to pull out the rosary.

Ingrid nodded
and smiled. “Indeed. It is a sham.”

The fat
friar's jaw dropped open. “But,” he stammered, “you wear the cross.
You have one in the window.”

The woman
smiled. “Yes, it draws an interesting crowd. You'd be surprised how
many people feel safe staying here because of this symbol. It's as
if it redeems their actions somehow. I would sooner give up my soul
than follow your God.”

John laughed.
“Clever. Not just the Church can capitalize on guilt, I see.”

A twinkle lit
her dark eyes. “You spoke the truth of your own accord.”

John remained
silent as Miguel wrenched his bible from his pack. “You could save
your soul.” He slid the book across the table towards her.

A smirk crept
across her face. “You would have me read your little book? Your
false religion? Why would I follow only one God when there are
many?”

He pulled back
the bible, slipping it into his pack. Anger smoldered in his round
eyes. “There is only one God.”

“
No,” John said.

If she wants
the truth, then I will give it.

The burden of
his cross lifted from his shoulders like no confessional could ever
provide. “Everything that is said outside the Church is true. There
is not one God. There are many.”

***

Straining to
see, Paine blinked. He made out the blurred edges of a figure that
loomed over him; a brown-skinned man with hair that spilled down
his back in reams of black silk. A craggy face with black orbs for
eyes smiled at him. The man was not fully human. Neither was the
deep voice that rolled off his tongue.

“
Welcome back.” The words resonated in Paine's chest. And then
so did a sudden agony. He clutched at his heart.

Lya!

She was far,
and moving south. As if by itself, his head rolled in her
direction. He knew exactly where she lay; or rode. He could sense
her moving further away from him, and fast.

The sun shone
overhead, breaching the crest of pines and maples that surrounded
him. Paine groaned, his mind and memory sifting through heavy fog.
He reached for the back of his throbbing skull, fingers caressing
the dangling threads of a makeshift bandage that was wrapped about
his head.

“
Where's Lya? And who are you?”

Paine tried to
sit up, but with a gentleness surprising for someone of his size
the burly man forced him to lay back.

“
I am called Great Bear. Diarmuid left you in our care while
he goes after your sister. She was taken by the Witch
Hunters.”

Paine propped
himself up again, his head throbbing harder. He rubbed his chest.
His heart ached. “I have to find her.”

“
Easy.” Again, the gnarled hands eased him down.

Paine
struggled. “You don't understand.”

Great Bear's
black eyes widened. “You have the courage of a badger, little one,
but there is nothing you can do for her. Orenda is with Diarmuid
and she can track your sister's falcon. Do not fear. They will
bring her back.”

Something
moved at Paine’s feet. He yanked them back, startled.

A wolf’s head
appeared and he exhaled.

“
Fang.” Her presence gave him relief; even the pain in his
chest subsided. The wolf sniffed him, turned her head at his soiled
pants, and then wet his face with her leathery tongue.

Paine wiped
the drool from his cheek and heard a voice from over Great Bear's
shoulder.

“
He’s awake!”

Puck ran
around from behind Great Bear. “You … awake.” He crawled beside
Paine and patted his leg. “You okay … Paine.”

Paine returned
his awkward grin. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Puck nodded.
He appeared fine with the exception of a red mark on his face.

“
Have you been near Hella again?”

The young man
lowered his head. His nod was slight this time.

Truitt
approached them, his stride slow, but steady. His angled features
were solemn. Puck cowered at his approach.

Truitt turned
Paine around to examine the back of his head. The man was nowhere
close to Great Bear’s size, but his manhandling was far less
gentle. Paine tried not to wince.

“
You look better than when we found you,” Truitt commented. “I
suppose you know what happened to Lya.” Truitt released him, like
from a vice. Paine leaned back.

“
Not really,” he said.

“
From what we can gather from your simple-minded friend here,
the Witch Hunters struck you from behind. They took Lya. The Witch
Hunter that attacked you is clasped in silver.”

Puck panted
next to him. “They let her … live,” he muttered.

Paine had a
sudden thought. One he hoped was wrong. He attempted to stand.

“
I want to see her.”

Great Bear
held him down. “Not yet, little badger. You will get nothing out of
her. She is being taken to Haven to be freed of the herb that binds
her. We must learn what she knows. There is much at stake.”

He gritted his
teeth. “What does she look like?”

He had to
know.

Puck cleared
his throat. “Same one … t-t-take me.”

***

Smoke sifted
from the corner of Ingrid's lips, its scent pungent and thick, and
rose to drift along the rafters of the small inn. John's tongue
bonded to the roof of his mouth at the smell.

Wick.

She exhaled,
and the herbal concoction tantalized a long-lost craving in him.
She recognized it, and the half-breed smiled.

“
Would you like one? Most humans can't handle it.”

In her fingers
she deftly twirled a thin, coarsely wrapped wick and offered it to
him. He took it and lit it from the tip of hers. John inhaled, and
the mixed flavors of tobacco, hemp, and Wormwood wafted down his
throat. He closed his eyes to savor the taste. It had been years
since he had last smoked the leaf of the Wormwood, a forbidden,
soul-binding substance. In small doses, its addiction was
mind-numbing, but when taken pure, the craving was lethal.

John had
finally turned to a life in the Church to get himself off it.

And to
escape.

Ingrid studied
him for a moment, her eyes shifting over his frame and face.

“
Your fat friend left for his bath in a hurry. He didn't like
what you had to say about your God.”

He thought of
the passage he had read to Miguel.

And Elohim said, 'Let us make man in
our
image.’

“
He cannot accept that
Elohim
is a plural term; that there might be more than
one god is unfathomable.”

She laughed.
“But it’s written many times in your little book.”

“
It’s not my book,” he said.

Not
anymore.

“
Does he know the rest? About who his God truly
is?”

There were
many passages spelling it out, but one in particular was etched
into his memory; the genocide, one of many, ordered by one of the
ancient gods that could not stand to share his glory.