40

Brother Aurochs raised his monstrous hand and let his palm rest on the surface of the great doors, setting the patina aflame with ghostly light. Filling each shape after the next, that light spread across the thousands of runes that were carved on the doors, and then continued spreading to the etchings the covered the walls and floor, too. It was like the Halls Of The Cor Ancestors themselves came alive around them, a living, breathing being that rearranged and transformed its geometry and, in a way, its very essence. Hunter felt it, too; a ripple in the fabric of things, a wave that went straight through him. It made his head swim and it filled his senses with the oddly familiar scent of something like ozone and camphor. Then the moment passed, and everything came back to normal. Brother Aurochs let a deep, resounding sigh and pushed the great double doors open. They swung on their hinges as if they weighed nothing; sickly light poured out from beyond them along with the powerful stench of low-dwellers, stinging both Hunter’s eyes and nostrils.

More importantly, all of his body, mind, and soul were suddenly filled by a voiceless whisper–or was it a chant? Dozens of voices were mumbling as one, coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, filling the air with unintelligible words in bone-chilling languages. Acting on pure survival instinct, Hunter tried to plug his ears – and so did Fawkes and Sister Peregrine, too. It didn’t matter. If sound was a mechanical wave that used air as a medium to travel through, as he’d been taught back in high school, this dreadful whispering was definitely more. It was a disturbance that rippled through reality, propagating itself unimpeded through matter, aether, and who knows what other kind of cosmic medium.

Point was, there was no stopping it. Once the heavily enchanted door of the Inner Sanctum was opened, the whispering permeated everything.

The chamber that lay beyond the doors reminded Hunter of a chapel. Braziers lined the walls, shedding otherworldly illumination and creating an atmosphere of reverence that somehow bordered on the profane. There were tapestries on the walls and lush carpets on the floor, and rows and rows of stone benches in front of which hunched and broken forms were kneeling in prayer. All of them were facing towards a great dais near the far end of the long, rectangular hall. The dais itself was covered in a canopy and layers upon layers of heavy and ornate curtains, obscuring whoever or whatever stood there in thick gloom. Just in front of it there was a great cauldron made of some dark lustrous material, easily big enough for a fully grown man to sit inside. Around it, much like an honor guard, there were a handful of low-ogres, each one as big and horrifying as the one Hunter, Fawkes and the Brethren had faced earlier. They were wielding enormous spears, Hunter noticed with a pang of dread, and from each spear hung a malformed human corpse.

“Welcome, children” said a woman’s voice that echoed throughout the chamber. It was friendly and melodic, but Hunter still caught himself shudder. “We have been expecting you. Come closer, so I may better see your faces.”

Hunter and Fawkes exchanged worried glances and turned to Sister Peregrine, who stood there silent and still, as if stunned. It was Brother Aurochs who moved first, letting out another deep sigh rumble through his hulking chest and taking a ponderous step towards the canopy-covered dais. The others followed, weapons clutches in hand in case the praying faithful all around them got any cute ideas. Not that it would make much of a difference. There were dozens of them, more than enough to put a swift and definite end to any kind of resistance Hunter and his companions could muster in case a fight broke out. Some of them looked like ragged, desiccated humans; others had a definitely low-dwellerish look to them. For the moment, all they did was face the dais with nothing short of the purest form of divine-inspired prostration. It was them the eerie whispering came from, Hunter realized, always in perfect sync with the Halls’ deep, powerful heartbeat.

Walking towards that dais felt like treading water. The rich carpet at their feet felt more and more like quicksand, ready to swallow them whole. Still, none of the Sanctum’s occupants so much as moved a muscle. The form under the canopy waited patiently for them to approach. The scores of the faithful simply ignored them, and so did the low-ogres of that brutish honor guard. Brother Aurochs led the way. Sister Peregrine followed in his shadow. Fawkes and Hunter brought back the rear, with Fyodor at their side. Biggs and Wedge had landed, too, and they were following on foot with dignity and gravitas that befitted a formal procession. Hunter would normally find that hilarious. Now he found it disconcerting bordering on distressing.

“Come, come, have no fear,” the voice said, sweet and welcoming. “Do not worry about dispatching the guardians outside. More will be made, more will be unmade, and still more will be made again. Such is the purpose of the Misbegotten. Come, come, there is much to be discussed.”

To say that Hunter wasn’t too keen on the idea would be the understatement of the century. He’d read, played, and watched more than enough works of fantasy and fiction to know this was going nowhere pleasant. The darkness under the canopy quivered for a second, reminding him how the air above a highway’s tarmac shimmers on particularly hot days. Then the woman sitting on the dais finally revealed herself, illuminated by soft light that seemed to radiate from nowhere and everywhere around her.

Judging from her looks, she probably shared blood and ancestry with the folken. She had the same almond-shaped face, the same high cheekbones, the same rich, dark, straight hair–but that’s where the similarities ended. Unlike the folken and their humble hide and linen and wool clothing, she wore a lavish dress of dark silk, accented with ornate clasps and gilded pins. Jewelry gleamed all over her body, beautiful armlets wrapped her arms in elaborate gold filigrees, and elegant chains and shining gemstones hung around her slender neck, some of them long enough to get lost in the rich curvature of her bosom. Her head was covered by a headdress, as much a queen’s crown as a ceremonial toque. Two large crescent-shaped horns rose from it above her flowing dark hair, covered with intricate gold leaf designs and accented with charms and gemstones that hung from delicate chains. By far her most striking feature, however, was her gaze; ever-vigilant, ever-watching, ever-shining like emerald-speckled fire.

Hunter found himself unable to take his eyes off the woman. She cut quite the regal form, he thought. Regal enough for someone–not himself, of course, but definitely someone–to throw themselves at her queenly feet with awe and adoration. Still, despite all of her magnificence, Hunter couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something off about her. Way, way off. She was sitting on a small mountain of embroidered pillows, and her body from the waist down was covered in luxurious shawls and beautiful wraps. Still, Hunter’s Low Light Vision painted him a very different picture. For starters, it shouldn’t be working at all; there was more than enough illumination for him to see the woman clearly with his normal vision, and yet he could still see the lines and edges of her outline superimposed on her form. Second, those lines and edges wove a jumbled, alien shape that didn’t match the majestic-looking beauty that was sitting on that dais beckoning at him and his companions. In fact, they didn’t match anything Hunter could wrap his mind around.

Brother Aurochs stopped a few feet away from the dais, his humongous werebeast form somehow humbled before the aura of sheer splendor the woman radiated. Hunter, Fawkes, and the menagerie that was the direwolf and the ravens stopped too. Only Sister Peregrine too a few steps further, either much more or much less captivated.

“Sister Finch”, she addressed the woman on the dais, her usually clarion-clear voice uncharacteristically muffled.

“Lera,” she responded with a magnanimous smile. “All is right. You do not have to address me by that pretentious name any longer. Speak the word I know your heart has long ached to speak.”

Sister Finch said nothing. In fact, not a single hair on her moved.

“Speak it, child.”

“…”

“Speak it. All is right now.”

“…Mother.”

“Daughter”, the woman said. “More now than ever, you are a sight for sore eyes. I’ve been expecting you…” She paused to give each of the others the once-over, her emerald gaze scrutinizing them from head to toe. “…though a mother would hope her daughter would keep better company.”

“You are hardly one to talk”, Sister Peregrine said, but her voice was weak, uncertain. “What is the meaning of all this… mother?”

The woman’s expression became puzzled, as if she was caught off guard by the question.

“Why, enlightenment, of course! Our eyes have been shut for ages, daughter, but finally I see beyond the lies and deceptions that were the teaching of the Brethren.”

“I don’t understand. How could you have done all of this? You of all people?”

Sister Finch–or rather, the woman that used to be Sister Finch–scowled for just a moment. For Hunter, it was a moment too long. He felt chills run down his spine. Fyodor took a step behind, too, and let out a soft whimper. Then her features softened again, and when she spoke, her voice was sweet and soothing.

“Do not fret, daughter. You now have your mother to properly guide you, as she should have done years ago. We have all the time in the world, you and me, now that you have come to take your rightful place by my side.”

That final sentence must have shaken Sister Peregrine free of her initial bewilderment. She raised her head to study her mother’s face, her knuckles turning white as her grip on her spear tightened. When she spoke, her voice had almost gained its usual impassive, commanding tone back. Almost.

“I am here to do nothing of the sort, Sister Finch. I am here to do my duty and put an end to your madness.”

“I told you to call me mother, child. I see now that your confusion still holds. We shall dispel it together as mother and daughter, and it will only strengthen the bond we share. And you lot,” she said, turning to Brother Aurochs, Fawkes, and Hunter. “This is no place for strangers. What is your business here?”

Fawkes remained silent. She had opted to follow her own “say nothing, hear everything” rule, Hunter thought, and this time around he actually agreed. Neither of them said anything, letting Sister Peregrine navigate the situation instead. Brother Aurochs, on the other hand, let out a low rumbling groan and took a couple of heavy steps closer to the dais. For a second there, Hunter was worried he’d simply lift his huge axe and cleave the woman in two. Or maybe he hoped he would. Instead, the were-buffalo only stared at the woman and panted, each labored breath coming out as a sigh.

“Is that you, Rhaast?” the woman asked, examining Brother Aurochs with an expression halfway between pity and distaste. “My, my, what pain you’ve put yourself in. And for what? The lies of the Cor?”

If he had any sort of an answer to that, he never expressed it. Hell, it wasn’t even clear whether he understood what the woman said, thought Hunter. What anyone said.

“Such a good young man,” she went on, reaching out with her hand as if to caress his chest. “Such a loyal young man. It would be a shame if that very loyalty became your undoing, wouldn’t it? Lera? Shall I free him from his pain?”

“No, mother, wait–”

The woman paid not heed to her daughter’s cries. She gestured with a long, painted fingernail, and some unseen hand picked up the were-buffalo as easily as she could have picked a rag doll. The great werebeast thrashed and fought and bellowed, but it was all in vain; whatever was holding him in midair didn’t seem to be affected by his struggling at all. Sister Peregrine screamed. Hunter clutched his glaive and prepare to rush to Brother Aurochs’s assistance, unsure of what he could do, if anything, but also unable to simply sit there and stare. Fawkes, ever faster, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back.

“Don’t”, she let out a harsh whisper, and it was all she had to say.

Apparently unaffected by all the screaming and thrashing and bellowing, the woman followed Brother Auroch’s with her emerald-colored eyes as the unseen thing that had taken ahold of him shoved him inside the great cauldron that sat before the dais. With a flick of her wrist, its obsidian-looking surface started to rapidly heat until it was white hot. Hunter could feel it burn impossibly hot even from two dozen feet away, like a small indoor sun. The bellows of the werebeast gave their place to loud sizzling and gurgling noises, and the already pungent air was filled with smoke, vapors, and the stench of molten flesh.

Sister Peregrine, still screaming and pleading, dropped her spear and bow and ran towards the burning cauldron, only to be snatched and lifted in the air by another invisible hand.

“Oh, do not be like that” the woman said with a sigh. “He’ll be fine. If anything, you should thank me for finally ridding him of that animalistic curse he brought upon himself, the poor fool.”

With another indolent wave of her hand, the woman made the cauldron cool down as rapidly as she’d made it burn. An invisible hand pulled Brother Aurochs out and dumped him on the floor before her feet, stark naked, unconscious, and covered in some kind of slimy proto-matter, but alive and back to his human form. The woman waved at the other invisible hand too, the one holding Sister Peregrine suspended in midair, and had it gently put her daughter down next to the unconscious man.

“See? Made whole again, better and stronger than he’d ever been. A token of my goodwill, if you may. Others that dared to stand against me”, she gestured towards the broken bodies that hung from her low-ogre servants’ spears, “were not as fortunate.”

One look at the corpses was enough to make Hunter’s stomach lurch. These people had not simply been murdered, but stripped of their humanity and desecrated too. They were there to be displayed as trophies and reminders of… what? This woman’s cruelty? Was she really the poor, twisted and broken Sister Finch the Brethren had told them about – the poor soul they were here to mercy-kill? Was she really Sister Peregrine’s mother? Who was she? What was she, even?

And then Hunter saw it.

He’d just began to take his eyes off the woman’s monstrous honor guard and the grisly standards they held in the air when one of the broken bodies grabbed his attention; to his utter horror, despite the damage and decay, he realized he recognized it.

It once belonged to a man in his thirties, hair like straw, yay tall, clad in leathers full of pockets and straps and buckles, and from its belt hung the empty scabbards of twin blades.