“Catherine, you suffer endless
torment.” Wolfram knew me as well as
anyone did. Always did he know the
state of my emotions. His head shook,
as if not understanding. “You feel too
much. You think too much. You let that serpent live rent-free in your
head. The wages of you doing this is
continuous despair.” He lifted the
cigarette up to his lips with one hand while the other brushed my bangs out of
my eyes. “I know the look in those two
green daggers of yours all too well. I
know you know what I’m talking about. I hunt to rid the world of evil, one fiend at a time. You hunt one man for one purpose.”
Many a day had I spent out on the
streets, helping those in need, the poor, the disadvantaged. As an Adjuvare, that was my calling, Wolfram
reminded more times than I can remember, not trolling the world for Lord
Bishop.
“If you want peace,” casting an eye down
at me through his bangs, “you must be willing to let go of the past. We’ve hunted him for all these many
years. And here it is 1773.” He fiddled with a black onyx button on his
coat, thinking of something, and then he looked at me. “I’ll continue to help you hunt him till the
end of time, but just think of all the emotion you waste in his pursuit.” He looked at the yellow butt between his
long white fingers as if contemplating whether he was finished with it, then
his eyes floated up to my face for a response.
I wiped at my eyes. “What’s your point?”
“What’s my point?” he sighed with a shake
of his head. “My point is that you
spend so much time thinking of the dead you forget about the living. But you must release your pain
someday--before it devours you whole.”
He bent an eye at me. “It begins
with willingness, Catherine.”
I knew the pain was beginning to destroy
me from the inside out, but I didn’t want a lecture on my reasons for doing
what I did from this living sculpture of a man. Try as I might, I couldn’t divorce myself from the desire for
vengeance. Justice for Lord Bishop’s
litany of crimes was all that I thought about these days--for his one crime
that bade me into a well of sorrow. He
was responsible for the murder of my beloved apprentice. Three hundred years had I spent hunting
Bishop to no avail.
And here was
Wolfram reminding me of my shortcomings.
He stomped the snow off his boots. “Let’s get going before we’re both
icebergs.”
We started down the boulevard again,
turning the corner onto a narrow lane that slanted down into darkness, a dark
abysses that called to me. My step
slowed. A hand rose to my chest,
feeling it heaving. Memories of my
apprentice who was more like a son flooded my heard and mind. His death lay squarely on Lord Randolph
Bishop’s shoulders; countless other murders lay stacked upon that. These thoughts made me swallow hard. It felt like a cold hand was squeezing my
heart. This deserted lane seemed
oblivious to the pain of its passing occupant.
The entire city of Paris seemed oblivious to my pain. Somewhere off in the distance a horse and
carriage rumbled through a street, the grinding of wheels on cobbles, the
hollow clop, clop, clop of hooves. As I
focused on that sound, the tears began building again, the heartache tightening
its grip on my heart.
Push it down, I told myself. Push it down deep.
No matter how much time passes, a parent
never fully recovers from the loss of a child--nor a sorcerer from her
apprentice.
A hand reached into Wolfram’s coat to
fumble for leather pouch. He loosened
the pouch strings, withdrew a small square sheet of wrinkled paper and a pinch
of dried golden-brown leaves. “You
suffer like no one on earth,” he said rolling another cigarette without
breaking stride. “Do you know why?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t even move my shoulders or head to
indicate I’d heard any part of what he’d said.
I came to a complete stop.
Wolfram shuffled to a stop beside
me. He took off his black felt hat and
handed it to me. He smoothed down the
raven strands and reached back to retie the black ribbon that secured his
ponytail.
I thrust back to him his hat while gazing
at the thousands of falling snowflakes.
With the cigarette hanging from his lips as he talked of the theater we
had attended that evening, he put his hat on off to the side dashingly.
The worn brown leather strap that kept my
tangled mass of red curls tied back had begun to loosen earlier, but it
unraveled completely as we stood there and a shock of hair tumbled into my
eyes. I pulled it back and tried to retie
it but was having trouble.
Wolfram moved
behind me and gently pulled my hair back and retied it, his breath hot on my
neck and smelling of whisky.
As he stepped
back to draw puffs, a fleeting figure moved before one of the glowing lanterns
hanging beside a door, casting a momentary shadow on the shimmering snow. We both froze.
A whisper came
clear to my ears. And someone
snickered.
I withdrew a
step. “What was that?”
“What was
what?”
“Didn’t you
hear that?”
“I didn’t hear
anything.”
“I thought I
heard someone say...sugar plumb.”
“Sugar
plumb?” Wolfram laughed softly while
glancing about.
Silence.
Wolfram
withdrew a step. “What was that?”
“What was
what?”
“Didn’t you
hear that?”
“...Hear what?”
“I heard
someone whisper.”
The voice wasn’t
the utterance of a mortal. Sounded
ethereal, like a dream voice, the trace tongue of a cherub--or a dark angel.
Again the
faintest silvery voice encircled me. “I
heard it again.”
“So did I.”
“What is
this? Trickery?” I hazarded.
Not seconds
after I put forward those words of question, someone threw the words back at me
in mockery, like a child does to another child to induce aggravation. “What is this? Trickery?”
The tension
mounted.
A voice inside
my head now said, Above and before. It was as dark as pitch. There wasn’t a torch or oil lamp
anywhere. The moon was full, but the
strange greenish-gray scudding clouds that hung low over our heads like a great
velvet tapestry masked it. Even with
sorcerer eyes, it was difficult to locate the source of the voice.
Looking around
and up to the rows of four story high houses on either side of the street, I
determined there were creatures on the rooftops and ground.
Were we
surrounded?
Whoever and
wherever they were, they were using magic to throw disorienting voices, to
confuse.
Still looking
up, in the periphery of my vision, I caught glimpse of a head, a white face,
two burning orbs, and a cameo of scorn.
Then it drew back into the liquid darkness, having realized it was seen.
A figure
slipped across our path again. Both our
heads turned as it crunched off to the left.
But then nothing. Silence. No sooner had we begun to move, I became
aware we were being followed. Whoever
or whatever it was stepped as we stepped.
They crunched snow as we crunched snow.
They paused when we paused.
Perfectly in time with our step.
We both spun
around to find no one there.
There was a
rustle of garments and a scrape of boots landing on tiles as a lone figure rose
to the roof.
“ Wolfram von
Goethe, the Nequam filth,” came a voice,
The words rode
the frosty air, sweeping down upon the night from some unseen stratum of the
sky.
“Catherine
Brutticelli, the Adjuvare--,” began another.
I didn’t allow the insult to be
uttered. I ran up a wall, with Wolfram
fast on my heels. We both landed with a
slide on the roof to find three young men dressed in white from head to toe
standing before us, as if spawn of the very substance on which they stood. The wind carried on its wings the smell of
cologne, the scent of aristocrats. Two
of the three were twins. One of the
twins, grinning with obvious amusement, looked straight at me with a shaft of
derision and said, “Don’t you know us, sugar plumb?” I felt my forehead wrinkle.
His words “sugar plumb” rang with odium. In his eyes was more hate, more virulence than I thought possible
in any creature. Something about this
person revolted me, but why? They
scattered in opposite directions before I could separate the entanglement his
question.
Wolfram pushed ahead in pursuit, his
black cape flowing after him.
As he bolted left and I right, I sensed
immediately that the one I was after was less sinister than the other two. He was one of the twins. He jumped from one roof to another, with me
in pursuit. He leapt down to the
street. I was surprised by his
abilities--such agility. Few could
maneuver as he. He gestured in my
direction and shouted, “Accendere!”
A fireball the size of a pumpkin shot in my direction, as if the earth
had belched its molten blood. Whoosh! I dodged the fire by running up the
entranceway arch of an abandoned hotel.
The rush of hot air brushed past my face as it shot up into the sky like
a rocket gone astray. The one I was
engaged was nowhere to be seen. From my
vantage point, Wolfram’s tall form could be seen jumping from roof to roof,
roof to ground, ground to roof, the scissoring of his long legs, dodging the
smoking chimneys in pursuit. Moonlight
and snow dueled to paint the rooftops platinum, and it was difficult at times
to see the creatures. I got the
impression watching the white-clad figures’ quickened tread that they were just
toying with Wolfram and me. That they
could have moved much faster. Only
their capes seemed animate, like white sheets having escaped a clothesline to
dance in the wind. They had no trouble
negotiating the chimneys and hairpin curves of the streets and roofs. I spotted the one I was after. I jumped and was born aloft, landing down on
the street before him. He slid to a
stop some twenty feet distant. He
hesitated. He made to turn and run but
twisted around and threw out a hand and shouted, “Accendere!” A fireball hurled towards me. I jumped out of the way as the fireball
struck the front doors of the hotel.
The doors blew out in a tangle of smoke and shattered boards. What remained hung in splinters, the latches
glowing orange and falling with a sizzle into the snow. As I began in his direction, something hit
me in the head that stayed my tread.
Then a knife sliced painfully across my neck and a curtain of blood began
down my chest. Desperately I looked
around but saw not a person. In my
solar plexus, I did sense the tingling presence of another immortal. Then I heard a rustle of clothing as a fist
smacked my face, sending me stumbling into a blazing lantern post, cracking the
glass panels. I gathered all my power
and lunged forward, taking hold the neck of this fast moving creature, and
threw my full weight against him so that we both fell into the street. I rolled over and over with him in the
snow. Mustering all my strength, I
punched at his face with my naked fists.
It was the weaker one, the one I’d been chasing, the twin. A sudden gust of wind caught my cape and
threw it over my head to cast us both into darkness. “Who are you?” I pressed.
His lips quivered attempting to form words but couldn’t. I released his neck so he could speak. I threw back my cape. “How do you know me?”
As he began to speak, I was grabbed from
behind and thrown to the ground. The
one I’d grabbed jumped to his feet. I
lay on my back stunned for a second.
Both stood over me scowling, backlit by the greenish glow of the sky,
the wind snapping their capes about them.
When I
rose--and I rose quickly--they were gone.
They vanished as swiftly as lizards vanishing into cracks of walls.
I was now
alone; could feel they had gone. And my
heart pounded in my ears like a caveat drum.
Wolfram came running up. He’d lost track of the one he’d been
chasing. His white face was smeared
with soot, coat missing buttons and torn at the sleeve. “Never seen sorcerers move like that. So fast they were nothing more than
blurs. Are you all right?” His chest heaved, his stare level, pirouetting
round on the ball of a foot scanning the area.
“Yes,” I coughed,
stroking my throat, feeling the wound healing by the minute.
“What’s going
on?” I lobbed the question into the
wind, not just to Wolfram. “Who were
they?”
Feeling half-past exhaustion, we returned
to our hotel, with an agreement that we’d search for the three in white next
evening.
I
repaired to my chamber without another thought. Entering,
I withdrew my dagger from my boot, clunking the heavy dagger down on a bedside
table. I kicked off my boots,
unbuttoned my collar, shed my coat, and threw myself on the mahogany
four-poster bed with a moan, not bothering changing out of shirt, waistcoat,
and breaches.
It is difficult
to say how long I lay there before the voice.
“Catherine.”
For a brief
moment, I thought it was Wolfram standing beside my bed. “Yes,” I mumbled drowsily.
“Catherine,
look at me.” One eye cracked open. I pitched my head up, glimpsed the figure
and rolled out of bed and onto my feet.
I grabbed him by the throat and took him down to the floor. It was one of the three in white.
“What are you doing here?” I
screamed. My eyes darted about to
insure I wasn’t surrounded. One hand
pushed him down. The other reached
clumsily for my dagger, nearly upsetting the small table as it balanced on two
legs. I drew the leather sheath off
with my teeth. “What are you doing
here?”
“I mean you no
harm,” his limp arms held out before him.
“I mean you no harm.”
Wolfram burst
through my chamber door. He took the
door off its hinges as he did. He stood
dagger in hand ready for battle. Realizing
there was an intruder, he charged. “Get
back, you!” Wolfram rumbled in a low key of command as he gained the room. He grabbed him by the arms and thrust his
dagger into his stomach.
“Pray listen to
me. I mean you no harm. Will you at least listen?” fled his lips as
he was tossed about like a rag doll.
Blood was
soaking his white coat.
Not responding,
I picked him up by the ruffles of his shirt and slammed him against the wall,
leaving a smeared trail of blood on the magnolia-painted wall and the chestnut
parquet. A painting fell as he elbowed
the wall in a failed attempt to stand up.
I stooped over him holding my dagger to his neck with one hand and
rummaged his pockets with the other. I
don’t know what I was looking for, perhaps some reason for his being there, or
who he was. All his pockets yielded
were lint and a crumpled theater ticket.
He was rattling
off: “I mean you no harm. Please allow
me to explain,” when I looked into his eyes, into his dark orbs--into his
soul. What I saw sent me stumbling
away, only to hastened back.
My Adjuvare
vows rose in my head now, the vows I took when I promised my master that I
would uphold the sacred covenant of my religion. It is my sacred duty to always be of service to all souls in
need when anyone, anywhere reaches out for help.
I helped take
off the young man’s coat and shirt. I
fetched a towel from the privy and dipped it in the pitcher on a side
table. The Elixir had already begun to
heal the wound when I returned with the towel.
The wound came together and closed.
We’d drunk the Elixir that same day, as all sorcerers do on every full
moon to render us immortal, a product of sorcerer alchemy, and so the wound
healed quickly. As long as we drink it
on every full moon, we will remain perfectly preserved, as when the nectar of
the sorcerer first passes our lips. I
rubbed the blood away where the wound had been, revealing his unscathed, smooth
white belly.
My companion’s
mouth had dropped open, as if thinking, What in the hell are you doing? Confusion was stamped on his face.
“Look into his
eyes. Look into his eyes.”
Wolfram did
what was suggested, taking a step back.
“What’s your name?”
“Ethan. Ethan Bishop.”
I gasped. Words of shock rested on my lips half formed
as Ethan’s words fell with disbelief upon my ears. Stunned, my eyes passed from the intruder’s white face to
Wolfram’s.
“My God,” I
managed.
Mein Gott,” Wolfram
chorused in the language of his birth, his eyes dilating with astonishment.
In Ethan’s
eyes, carefully hidden behind the hard eyes he had to show his father and
brother, lay an honest soul, a good soul unhardened by the way of deceit, the
way of Sanius. A hurting soul did I
see, a soul in need. I saw this. Taking his arm, I helped him to his
feet. His crushed hat had lain under
him. Picking up the hat with my free
hand, I conducted him to my bed.
Other than Ethan muttering he no longer
subscribed to the ways of his father--the way of Sanius--he was silent. He knew reason for our near faint. He knew at mere mention the name Bishop we’d
recoil, for he was the son of Lord Randolph Bishop. The most insidious sorcerer I’d ever known was again in our
midst, his namesake was anyway.
Ethan was Lord Bishop’s child, meaning he
had his father’s blood coursing through his veins, powerful blood, powerful
lineage.
Drawing near, I
could see his father’s features in his face, as if he’d been cast from same
mold, only Ethan’s features were smooth, not fully developed, boyish.
Wolfram turned
to me. “I just don’t know what to think
about this. It’s so...”
“Bizarre,” I
breathed, completing his ellipsis that contained the shock of the years we’d
searched for his father.
Wolfram dropped
a nod of agreement, his bangs falling into his eyes.
I laid a hand
on Ethan’s shoulder. “So why did you
come here? What do you hope to gain by
telling us this?”
“I want to join
you. I want to learn your ways. ...The way of Adjuvare.”
Did I hear that right? Could this be true? The son of my enemy seeks my counsel? Something about this was very wrong. A trick, it had to be a trick. Yet it couldn’t be.
An opium haze had engulfed us, or so it
seemed. “Lord, this is like a
dream.” I gestured at Ethan. “Here in our suite is the son of the very
man we hunt.”
“And he wants
to join us,” Wolfram added with a chuckle.
“How do we know this is not a ruse.”
“Do you not
feel my intentions?” Ethan’s brow
rose. He turned from Wolfram’s face to
mine. “Do you not discern that I am no
threat to you? Do you think I have
designs to bring you harm?”
We didn’t respond.
A shadow of
contrition crossed Ethan’s face now. “I
don’t blame you for not trusting me. I
probably wouldn’t trust me either, considering my family’s constitution ...all
the terrible things they’ve done. All
the terrible things I’ve done.”
“How did you
know where we’re staying?” I wanted to
know this more than anything.”
Ethan didn’t
immediately answer. He scratched his
abdomen, eyes glassy, reflecting. “We
saw you at the opera. And we followed
you after the performance. After we had
that run-in with you, I told my brother I wanted to walk alone, to think. I saw you walking down the boulevard toward
your hotel. And I followed you.”
Knowing they
had seen us and we hadn’t seen them was uncomfortable. But knowing Ethan had followed at such a
close distance was disturbing.
The idea that
he had stared up at my silhouette framed in my chamber window as he debated
whether to enter added to the consternation.
“My father
knows whenever you both get close.”
This statement left his mouth with such suddenness it caught me off
guard. “I see by the surprise on your
faces you didn’t know that. That’s why
you have never been able to get him.
And he told my brother and me all about you. Where to find you. How
you practice. We spotted both of you as
you arrived in port. We would see the
red and black hair all over town.” He
gestured at me and then at Wolfram.
“That’s how we know you. Not
many Adjuvare sorcerers associate with Nequam sorcerers.”
Ethan was right
about that. Most Adjuvare live pure,
peaceful, honest lives to the glory of the Creator, helping the poor and the
disadvantaged whenever and however possible--the commission of the Adjuvare. But I was not most Adjuvare. Nequam are irrepressible rogues with a
singleness of purpose--hunt the creatures of the night. It’s something about the hard look in the
unblinking eyes of the Nequam that distinguishes: fierce protector of the
innocent and brutal slayer of the wicked.
All religions
of the sorcerer have a text of magic that incorporate similar spells and incantations. Although the Nequam and the Adjuvare have
different beliefs, the objective is the same: the use of white magic to help
humankind.
Those who
practice the way of Sanius--Lord Bishop’s religion--care not for anyone but
themselves. They help and heal no
one. They take what they want and kill
any and all who attempt to stop them.
All immortal
sorcerers memorize their chosen religions’ spells and incantations. And we all take the Aeternitas Elixir
(Elixir of Life) on the full moon to render us immortal. But it’s what we do with our knowledge of
the magical arts that defines us as good or evil.
Wolfram
withdrew a sheet of cigarette paper and a pinch of tobacco from the pouch,
laying the pinch in the center and rolling.
Immersed in thought, he eased the cigarette up to his lips. “Ardesco.” He filled his lungs and let the smoke out
slowly. Running fingers along the
stitching of the black leather pouch, he asked, “And what will your father
think when he discovers that you have betrayed him,” his head cutting through
the soft curl of smoke to display a raised black eyebrow of curiosity. “Betrayed his beliefs.”
“I have not and
will not betray my father; I love him.
I just don’t accept his interpretation of the ways of the sorcerer. That’s all.”
Wolfram laughed
soundlessly and blew smoke. “It’s not
nearly that simple.”
My bed was
covered with Ethan’s blood which was black and sticky on the gray
coverlet. Ethan collected his shirt and
coat and our gathering moved from my chamber to the salon, to a walnut
settee. Wolfram lit a single candle,
casting a feeble radiance on the table like a spilled jar of yellow watercolor,
the rest of the salon draped in shadow.
The candlelight carved out his prominent cheekbones, his features
luminous like a figure in ivory.
I got dressed
and Wolfram got dressed. Ethan ‘s
clothes were covered in blood, so Wolfram lent a change to our houseguest,
black from head to knee. The white
blood-spattered boots gleamed against the black breeches. Looked very much the Nequam from knees up he
did.
“I apologize
for your stomach,” Wolfram said to Ethan as we took seat. There was no longer any noticeable mark on
his body, owing to the Elixir’s healing power, but he felt it necessary to
apologize.
Ethan turned to
me. “And I apologize for Julian taking
hold of your neck last evening.”
“Julian?” I
questioned.
Ethan threw
back a tuft of brown hair fallen in his eyes.
“Julian’s my twin brother. And
Bjorn is the blond one.” Ethan cleared
his throat. “Bjorn and my brother are
more alike than my brother and I. They
are both vicious and ruthless. More so
than my father. My father...he calls us
Darklings.”
“Darklings?”
Wolfram questioned with wrinkled brow.
Ethan
nodded. “A gang of powerful sorcerers
that make the night their realm like the Nequam.”
I shook my
head. “A gang of white-clad sorcerers
bent on death and destruction, you mean.
“It is what it
is. But do not misunderstand. I make no excuse for them.” He looked off into the room and then back at
me. “Because of the way they are, I am
here. And because you are an Adjuvare,
I am here.”
Wolfram crossed
his legs, amazingly at ease. “So you’re
here because you want to change your ways?”
“I’m determined
to change my ways.”
I noticed a
small shiny silver pin attached to the lapel of his coat crumpled at his feet. I took hold the coat, lifting to my
lap. Plucking the pin from
the coat, I rotated the pin in the light.
Inscribed on a round face were the words Nec
Aspera Terrent, Latin for Fear Not the Use of Brutality. I pointed to the pin. “What’s this supposed to be?”
“That’s the
Darklings’ motto. My father’s idea.”
I nodded with
understanding. “Figures.”
“It’s supposed
to counter the Nequams’ motto of ‘whatever you do to the least of my brethren,
you do it to me.’ ”
Wolfram didn’t
respond. He merely shook his head with
a frown.
With a
cigarette between two fingers, Wolfram gestured at Ethan’s clothing. “Tell us about your father’s reason for
dressing you in white,” a sprinkling of ashes falling at Wolfram’s bare
feet. He must have been caught in the
middle of undressing when he’d heard my screams rent the air. His wrinkled black shirt hung out over his
black breaches. “The Nequam wear the
color of night to blend into the night.
But the color you wear...” motioning at Ethan.
“The white is
supposed to be the antithesis of the Nequam.
And my father doesn’t want the Darkling to blend in with the night like
the Nequam. He wants us to stand out.”
“Brazenly stand
out, you mean,” I added.
He nodded.
Wolfram’s lips
parted exposing teeth. Whatever
momentary humor he felt hardened at once with solemnity. “What does he hope to accomplish by organizing
sorcerers such as your brother and Bjorn?”
“What does he
hope to accomplish by organizing a gang?”
I sat forward, giving Wolfram a sidelong glance.
Ethan received
the question with sadness in his eyes.
Lines of anguish creased his face now like a map of where he’d been,
completely changing his appearance.
Suddenly he looked older. “I
told you I would not betray my father.
I will not do anything that harms him.”
Wolfram heaved
a loud sigh; the candle extinguished.
Candle smoke wafted. It was
pitch until the oil lamps on the street slowly seeped into the room. “You come to us for help, but you won’t give
even the tiniest information in return.”
The inner
turmoil was palpable. “You telling us
what he’s planning won’t get him hurt.”
Ethan blinked
at me.
“If anything, it will help keep us from
taking him out for good.”
I picked up a long matchstick off a side
table, struck it on the floorboard, the sharp crackle of the flame bursting to
life (To this day, I love the sound of a match strike), and re-lit the
candle. The redolence of sulfur
thickened the air.
I drew near to Ethan and touched his bare
chest. He drew back slightly in
response to my cold fingers. “What I
mean is, if we find out down the road that your father is doing something that
is hurting people, we won’t hesitate taking him out. But if you tell us in advance, we can prevent him even starting,
and thus save his life.”
Ethan gazed
down at the street five stories below through the ironwork baluster on the
balcony. “He’s assembling...”
A pregnant
pause lingered in the air.
He stood up,
turning with folded arms to the frosted window. “He’s assembling sorcerers that recognize the way of
Sanius to go to America. Has a large
financial interest in America tied to the British government maintaining
control of the colony. He fears
tensions could escalate and affect his business interests. Affect his profit. And he’s going to stop the colonists from rebelling.” Then as if to punctuate importance, he said
us, “At any cost.”
Realizing the
gravity of Ethan’s words, Wolfram’s and my eyes brushed past each other’s
faces, exchanging shared concern, shared urgency.
Redirecting his
attention from the window to me, Ethan said, “He’s gathering sorcerers and
training them to be warriors--like the Nequam--to fight with the British. The British won’t know they’re
sorcerers. They’ll just think they’re
volunteers. Sorcerers that will fight
the Americans and crush any talk of American freedom. And, if need be, kill those responsible.”
Everything was
grist that came to Lord Bishop’s mill. Nothing was sacred to him. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to
win. I knew what we had to do. We had to work in tandem to prevent him from
aiding the British. France was the
nursery where he grew these beasts--these demons in white--and we were resolved
to put an end to it, here and now.
Ethan went on
to say that his father had a château in Orléans.
Wolfram and I had our swords, having retrieved them from our
suite. Ethan had but a dagger. I always felt more in control when in
company of arms. I’d learned how to
defend myself utilizing magic, but there’s just something comforting about
having a long, shiny blade at my side.
Ethan knew Wolfram’s and my desire to right his father’s wrongs. He implored us not to hurt his father or his
brother, saying they were all he had.
His words tugged on my heart, for I am an Adjuvare--and the defining
principle of the Adjuvare sorcerer is compassion. Yet, we knew what had to be done.
From where we were, hidden behind the evergreen trees that stretched
out to make a perfect concealing screen, a singe road winded, twisted up a
steep hill to the portal his château, over looking the Loire River, which
slices through the center of Orléans.
His château was actually a church, an abandoned Romanesque church, with
an enormously high square bell tower that seemed to rise like a sinister spike
into the clouds, as though to impugn the sanctity of the heavens with the evil
of the Sanius. A great wall encircled
the property, punctuated by an enormous heavy-forged iron gate. Rough-hewn stones stained with age made up
the ancient façade of the church and the wall.
Mortal guards walked the grounds, as did Darklings, their gleaming white
garb. The guards, the Darklings, Lord
Bishop, my desire, need, to kill him consumed me! All this was bane congruity!
“To defeat me you must first become me,” echoed in my head.
A gasp escaped my lips.
Wolfram turned to me.
“He knows we’re here,” I breathed.
Silence.
Wolfram remained speechless as he looked at me fixedly with wide-open
eyes.
Ethan turned and gazed off towards the compound.
Wolfram remained speechless.
I shook my head with astonishment.
Then Ethan, “He always knows...everything.”
With singleness of thought, and without saying a word, we three sprang
into the air, landing within the compound, the austere courtyard. The moment we touched the ground, we were
met by a sortie of sword-drawn fiends.
Volley after volley of metal striking metal rang out like music, a
symphony of clangs and clatters. A
half-dozen Darklings were taking us on.
I recognized Bjorn as the one fighting Wolfram. Receiving my wrath was a nameless face. Ethan was fighting his brother and a
nameless. Julian was issuing obscenities
between breaths, “Zounds you
idiot! You worthless pile of shit! You miserable coward!” We each fought two or three guards as
well. I was hit in the face hard. The impact launched me like a projectile
onto the stone-topped lauze roof. I landed
on my tailbone. I lay dazed seeing blue
circles float across my closed eyelids.
My eyes opened and I tried to climb backwards up the roof, my slipping
feet sending tiles shooting off the roof into the snow. I jumped down and returned the blow, sending
my opponent hurtling into the side of an apse.
A sword swung at my hand by a new opponent, sending my sword somersaulting
away. When I reached for it, he kicked
it away. He drew near to finish me
off. I dug into the snow, to the hard
crusty earth. I threw a handful of
rocks and dirt in his face, and kicked him away, allowing me to retrieve my
sword.
This lasted for several minutes until the mortal guards were slain and
lay in ghastly piles of tissue, blood, bone, fabric, as well as two
Darklings. We were surely gaining the
upper hand.
Then, amidst the bedlam, the words “tempestas nix!” filled my
ears. It was a hard as steel voice I
recognized as Lord Bishop’s. Instantly,
a blast of bitterly cold wind and snow swept through the courtyard. We stood our ground until the force became
too powerful, and were carried away into the abyss.
When I opened my eyes, we were in what appeared to have been a wine
seller at one time. It was now a
sorcerer’s studio, presumably Bishop’s, nestled deeply in the earth, presumably
beneath the church, the cellar more ancient than the above church. I sat up, eyes half open, and took a look
about the room, at the intercourse of light, stone and shadow. I was hunting, in my dazed state, for a
breach in this impenetrable prison. We
were each seated in chairs carved from solid oak, Wolfram and I, padded with
carmine velvet cushions. Drops of water
seeping out of the stone walls hemming us in like a dungeon looked like beads
of gold above the wrought-iron candelabrums.
The room contained a table supporting our swords and empty bookcases. A fire burned in a deep fireplace carved
crudely into a stone wall. Open crates
and chests were scattered throughout, presumably for the voyage across the
Atlantic.
There were two backs to us warming to the fire’s heat, one immensely
tall and wide figure with dark bushy hair dressed in puce contrasting the brown
haired tall and lean figure in white.
Years seemed to pass imprisoned in those chairs.
I realized that I hadn’t tried to move. I attempted to stand up.
I wanted to stand up. All but my
head was as immovable as stone. Wolfram
was on my left in a trance of some sort, what I must have been in before I
snapped out of it. “Wolfram!” I
whispered. His eyes cracked open. His head tossed back and then forward as
though drunk.
The two figures turned to us.
“We have awaken,” said the larger of the two.
The smaller one grinned despicably.
“Where’s Ethan? What have you
done with him?” As I spoke it seemed
the walls breathed and moved, delirium threatening, the ground shifting beneath
my feet. The room was a wave of flowing
stones. I closed my eyes. We were under the influence of a spell. “What have you done with Ethan?” I repeated,
opening my eyes.
Just as I began to ask the question for the third time, the door
opened. Ethan entered carrying a tray
of glasses and a wine bottle. He set
the tray on the table.
“Ethan?” I fumbled with the
word like it was cold to the touch.
“Yes,” Lord Bishop smiled, “the prodigal son has returned.”
I couldn’t believe it. Had he
deceived us? God, no, he couldn’t
have. I felt the sinking feeling of
having been violated. Then the thought
that I am too much like elder Adjuvare coursed through my head--giving people
the benefit of the doubt, believing there is good in the worst of people, that
all people no matter their transgressions are reachable.
Ethan filled a glass with wine and handed it to his father. I remember focusing on the dark fluid in the
glass and thinking it looked like tar.
I wanted to reach out and touch the glass, feel the smooth, rounded
shape, dip a finger into it to see if it was thick and sticky like tar. Bishop took a drink and his eyes fell upon
me. He put the glass down. Ethan laid a hand on his father’s back and
leaned over as if to speak to him, but was waved away. Ethan placed the bottle and the glass on the
table and left the room with the tray tucked under an arm. As he was leaving the room, he took a last
mournful glance, or at least I thought it was mournful, at Wolfram and me
before he vanished into the narrow stone stairwell. I closed my eyes. The
image of his dark orbs was vividly burned on my brain like coal afire. Pity was his glance, what one gives the
condemned before put to death.
I opened my eyes.
When Lord Bishop spoke, no matter the number of voices near, it seemed
there was no one else speaking. There
was something about his voice that forced you listen, commanded you take
head. It was effrontery, the earth
trembling in his presence. His enormous
size and his powerful voice were intimidating.
And he knew it. He knew how to
use it to his advantage. His very
presence always sent revulsion coursing through my veins like lava, hot anger,
a feeling of intense anger.
Bishop leaned over me now, a great beast towering over its prey before
it gobbles it up. “Did you really think
my son would revolt against his father?”
He straightened up, then, with his hands loosely clasped behind him,
moved about the room, thinking out of loud.
“Did you really think you could use him to get to me? Did you really think you could defeat
me? I see by the look in your eyes that
you did. You delude yourself.” His words thrown into sharp relief, I turned
my head from him genuinely hurt. I’d
placed a margin of trust in Ethan. A
margin of trust is a lot for me. I’d
believed him, his desire to change, his ardent plea to help him change his ways. And it was all a lie.
A hard pain began in my stomach, inching up to my heart, traveling all
the way to my larynx and eyes. I felt
the tears building again. Have to push
them down, I told myself. Push them
down deep. But it was no use. Tears began down my face, and I sniffed back
more. It wasn’t a full on cry, but it
was enough for Lord Bishop to take notice.
His thick wooly eyebrows rose.
Laughter the song of heartless demons passed his lips.
I tried to reach up to wipe my face, but my arms wouldn’t budge. They were frozen to the armrests. I did my best to reach out and strike
Bishop. In my periphery, I saw that
Wolfram also struggled against the unseen restraints. He was a flame in the corner of my eye, a flickering black tongue
of fire.
Bishop reached up dragging a hand across his lantern-jawed chin,
features so strong they seemed chiseled out of stone. “I didn’t realize...” he began with a lengthening grin,” that I
could move with my speeches. Perhaps I
should run for elected office.” He
laughed again at the mere suggestion.
A hand of realization caught me by the throat, stopping the tears. “You’re responsible for the murder of my
apprentice,” I burst out in a fevered state.
“You’re responsible for the murder of children, you bastard! Innocent children!” The words
jumped out of the very depths of my being, the ascent like some red-hot force
that tore from my lips. “God knows how many other innocent people you hurt or
killed.”
“A tragic monologue,” Lord Bishop sighed.
I fought the unseen restraints.
Straining to stand up.
Groaning. Enraged. “Why don’t you let me up and fight me like a
man. You coward!”
Julian scurried over to me.
“Easy, kitten,” he grinned patting my arm. His smile twisted into a frown as he forcefully pulled my head
back by the hair and put the cold blade of his dagger up to my bare
throat. “Shall I do it now,
Father?” His eyes flashed. His throat, full of excitement, told of
sweltering hate and ridicule.
“No...Ethan will do it.”
At this moment there came a knock at the door that sounded like the
knuckles of a large fist thrown up against thick oak boards. Julian dropped my head to answer the door,
my hair loosening out of the tie and bouncing forward into my face. I shook my hair out of my face. A guard came in and asked Bishop a question
about estate business. Bishop grunted,
“No, no, I’ll take care of it.” With a
gesture, he bade his son follow. They
all left the room, but first Julian locked the door. I remember hearing the grinding of key in lock and the thumb of
the bolt.
We struggled against the force that restrained us, but it was no
use. The spell had us securely moored
to the chairs. I felt the resignation
creeping in, delivered into the hands of my immortal enemy.
What happen next was fluid and fast.
Just as I began to give myself over wholly to doom, I heard someone try
the locked door, the jiggle of the handle.
Then Ethan crashed through the door, sending splintered wood flying in
every direction. This had a jolting
effect, a snapping awake.
He wasted no time. He hurried
up to us and said, “Up!” as if his power enough would release us.
Nothing happened.
He backed up and moved frantically about the room, overturning crates,
rummaging through chests. He was
searching for the Sanius spell book.
I spotted it. “The far chest,”
gesturing to the right with my head.
He picked up the huge leather-bound text. He unfastened the straps, threw open the cover, and began
thumbing madly through the pages.
Flustered, “Where is it, where is it?”
Then, “Here it is.” Upon
examining the page, he began reciting the words. Instantly, it felt as though a pile of stones had been lifted off
my chest and shoulders. Wolfram and I
sat up and tried to stand up, but we both fell to the flagstone, weak.
That
was when they returned.
In a
force equivalent to a hurricane, Lord Bishop, Julian, Bjorn and two others, as
well as three mortal guards, stormed into the room. Each drew his sword. They
made a triangle around us. Ethan drew
his sword, striking down two of the guards.
One would punch Ethan right as another punched him left. One would slug him left as another slugged
him right. Ethan made a last swing, and
then Julian and Lord Bishop grabbed an arm and slammed him against a wall.
I sprang to my feet, grabbed my sword
from the table.
Bjorn
spoke dark poisonous words, his hands weaving a spell in the air, sending me
hurling into the stone wall. He lunged
at me ready to strike. But Wolfram
caught him in the arm with his blade before he could make it to me. Bjorn raised his sword, thrust to the left,
slicing Wolfram across the leg. Bjorn
swung again. He severally injured
Wolfram in the stomach, then backed up with a glow of triumph.
Wolfram
staggered, fell to his knees, then collapsed into a wall.
Ethan,
quite unexpectedly, broke free of his captors.
I thought Wolfram was done for, but Ethan felled Bjorn’s blade with his
own, to the start of Bjorn.
The
world waited in breathless suspension for a response from Lord Bishop. For a moment, father and son’s eyes were
locked in mutual, yet polar disbelief, Ethan, shock at what he was doing, Lord
Bishop, shock at what his son was doing.
I
had taken Julian on, but when Ethan broke free, Julian focused his attention on
his twin, and I Bjorn.
He
punched me in the face. I drew breath
and kicked him in the chest, sending him into the fireplace, his coat taking
the fire. Overcome with smoke, he
stumbled into an empty bookcase, the dry wood pilfering flames, spreading up to
the timber beams. He started smacking
the flames out on his sleeves. When
extinguished, he set his sights on me, sword at the ready.
Julian
and Ethan were engaged in a bloody battle.
Both had severe cuts to their torsos and limbs.
I
turned to engage Bjorn. Just as I did,
Bishop threw some kind of blinding powder at me. I began swinging my sword wildly, madly. A thrust cut into my arm. I released a cry of pain. I was able to wipe enough of the powder out
of my eyes to restore partial sight.
Blood pumped through my exterminates, adrenaline surging as Bjorn swung
a fist at my face. I lost grip of my
sword. I drew my dagger and sliced into
his jugular.
At
the exact moment Bjorn slumped to the floor, Julian cut into Ethan with a force
that almost took off his head.
“No!”
I screamed. I felt the wind leave my
chest, that terrible spike in the gut.
Julian
paused taking in what he’d done, then crossed the room to me.
Bishop
moaned deep in his throat like an injured animal and flung himself at his now
lifeless son’s side. His hair loosened
out of the tie and fell into his face.
Ethan lay sprawled out, a macabre figure, swathed in his own blood, his
hair matted, stuck to his face. The
anguish his father felt spilled out of his eyes. He held Ethan’s head up and brushed the hair out of his face.
“He
loved you!” I cried to Julian. “You
heartless monster!” He was blind to
what he’d done and ignorant of his father’s agony. This energized me. I
kicked at him then swung at his face, cutting into his pathetic visage. As he collapsed beside his brother, I stood
panting as his eyes rolled over to me.
He tried to raise his hand but it fell hard like lead. I hovered over him ready to strike. His head lifted, his chest heaving, his
mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then he fell motionless.
I stood over him still, lest he rise out of the shadows like Lazarus.
Only
then did I stop to catch my breath. I
was expecting Bishop to fly at me enraged.
Yet, he had positioned himself between his two sons. His Head bowed; a hand rested on each
chest. He released the most
heartrending supplications I’d ever heard.
I
was taken back by Lord Bishop’s mourning as Ethan and Julian’s stream of
crimson life widened about their bodies.
I
knew this the perfect opportunity to take him out in his moment of weakness as
he knelt there as if positioned for the guillotine. I approached. I lifted my
blade. I swung up and...froze, blade suspended
in the air. Something within me
hesitated. A voice inside my head now
said, Show him the compassion he didn’t show you. Give him his Life. Have
mercy upon him. Help him. I lifted the blade again, ready to end it
once and for all and...froze. Lord
Randolph Bishop wailed gutturally, with no thought or care of me. I stumbled backwards and into a chair. I knew those tears. I knew the sickness that plagued his
heart. “God, I hate this,” I muttered,
raking fingers through my damp mane.
“Why does it always have to come to this? Why do we have to kill each other? Is this victory? Is this
how it always has to end?”
At
this moment I understood Bishop’s words “to defeat me, you must first become
me.” To defeat him, I must become
filled with mindless rage, and act on that rage. I couldn’t do it. I
wouldn’t do it. I threw my sword down.
All
around us lay bodies. All around us lay
death.
The
studio was rapidly filling with fire.
Smoke was billowing along the ceiling.
My clothes were blackened and singed.
“We
have to get out of here,” Wolfram choked, struggling to rise, groaning to fall
on his face.
Coughing
and coughing, a hand up to my face, eyes narrowing against the smoke, feeling
the moisture building in them, burning in them. Again I motioned to Bishop with my sword. The searing heat was an
animal nearing to devour not only me but everyone in the room. I wanted to strike him down--yet I felt
sorry for him. I slid my sword into its
scabbard. “We have to get out of here,”
I yelled at the grieving Bishop. He was
sobbing, immersed in grief. He didn’t
even look up, sobbing. I dropped and
crawled over to Wolfram. He was too
weak to get to his feet. And I was too
prostrated with exhaustion to pick him up.
All I could do was drag him by the arms.
Choking,
I ascended the smoky stairwell with Wolfram, stumbling and falling on a stone
step. A warm rivulet of blood ran down
my leg. The door wouldn’t open. Mustering all my strength, I kicked open the
door. A sucking draft drew the flames
to us, the prickly heat at our backs.
Once
out of the château, I lay Wolfram beside a tree. I started to go back to get Bishop when the roof caved in. Flaming fragments of the church and sparks
like so many demons escaping hell shot up into the sky. I could hear the faint hissing of those demons
falling back into the snow.
That
was it. No sorcerer could have survived
that.
Wolfram came to and we limped down the hill. We found a spot to our liking and lay in the snow to watch the
blaze consume the church, a great body of purification.
If I said I was stunned that a son of Lord Bishop would come to us at
our suite and plead help, then later race into his father’s cellar to rescue
us, it wouldn’t even come close to what I felt. My lips parted to speak, to frame words, but nothing came out. Wolfram shook his head in private
reflection, his hair falling down into his face to make a veil.
I can’t say how long we lay watching the place burn.
Streaks of crimson and violet were breaking over the horizon when we
finally picked ourselves up and left for our hotel, where Wolfram and I
collapsed into deep slumber.
We returned the following evening.
We had to see that broken, burned wine cellar, that collapsed bell
tower. The church/château was now
nothing but a pile of ash, partially burned wood, and scorched stone. A few crumbling walls remained
standing. A few skeletal beams jabbed
at the sky like spikes. Three mortal
guards still gripped staves. Their
mouths were open wide in frozen screams, screams of pain. They looked like they
belonged in one of Francis Bacon’s ghastly paintings. Several bodies I believed were Darklings still clutched
hilts. All were charred beyond
recognition. Frozen with death, they
looked like hideous mannequins. I lifted
blackened beams searching for more, but there were none.
“He’s dead.” Wolfram came up
behind me, laying a hand of friendship on my shoulder--my companion, my eternal companion. “No one could have survived that
inferno unless they’d limped out with us.
Even sorcerers as old as they were.”
I knew he was right, yet I was still plagued by confusion. I’d been searching for this man for so long;
I didn’t know how to live a normal life.
What is normal anyway, especially to one who will live forever?
It seemed impossible that the long search had ended--so
impossible. But it was true. My roots grasped a new soil. I finally could let go of the past. I had that elusive peace.
The End
© 2004 by William Henry. I
live in Irving, TX, with Mojo, my black Labrador retriever. I've authored several short stories and a
novel. I write about five hours a day, working
mostly on my second novel. My first is
entitled The Ways of the Sorcerer and is due out
at the end of May or the beginning of June with Treble Heart Books http://www.trebleheartbooks.com. The Darkling is a novelette that I'm expanding
into the second novel with many of the same characters from the first book.