Chapter 82

Katarina lay in bed, eyes closed in concentration.

The first mystery of Glory is the ray of dawn, which burns things befouled with magic. Katarina pondered, and pictured a finger-thin ray of light striking a walking skeleton.

The second mystery of Glory is to channel the Goddess’ might into your weapon. Katarina mentally nodded at this, understanding the ritual to imbue each of her bullets with the holy power of the Divine.

The third mystery of Glory is to channel a radiant blast of Her rage from the palm of your hand. Katarina nodded at this as well. She’d used that in Ardeal against the ghastly things that capered and leaped and thirsted.

The fourth mystery of Glory is to bring her wrath down upon the group. Katarina agreed with this. She’d also used the fourth mystery in Ardeal.

The fifth mystery of Glory is to bring out a great blazing sword of Her glorious might with which to strike down your foes. This was one she hadn’t used. She knew how; but hadn’t used it because she relied more on her gun than her sword.

The sixth mystery of Glory is a wave of glorious might that washes over the unrelenting tide of disbelief, leaving only ash.

If she’d known how to use that in Higgenfal, then the confrontation at the riverbank might have gone completely differently.

The seventh mystery of Glory is to bring down six rays of Her glorious dawn from the heavens to destroy the wicked and blind the faithless.

Katarina nodded at that. Only the righteous would be spared.

The eighth mystery of Glory is to take upon yourself the stuff of Glory and fashion yourself a radiant crown of Her holy power. Let all who see you tremble in Her Glory. Let all who hear you weep to hear Her voice, for true glory is overwhelming might and authority granted through Her will.

Katarina’s heart thundered in her chest as she dwelled on this. She hadn’t tried it before. She wasn’t prepared to do so. It was not something that could be brought forth for experimentation. Those who walked the Path of Glory could lose them as quickly as they earned them. Further, the powers of Glory had restrictions on their use. The last to use Glory was a paladin two hundred years ago, and it was said she was only able to use the third mystery once in her lifetime. You didn’t fuck around with those powers.

The ninth and final mystery of Glory is mmnphlrblrdrrblrr-

Katarina grimaced as the words dissolved into incomprehensible muttering.

"Fuck." She spat, and opened her eyes to see the plush canopy of her bed overhead. She turned her head; Olivia lay next to her half-curled on her side, breathing the slow, deep susurrations of easy, comfortable sleep.

Katarina touched Olivia’s face lightly with her fingertips. She said she’d forgive Olivia, and she had, but she’d done much more than that, hadn’t she? The proof was quickly and discreetly removed; the tattered and charred remnants of the drapes and tapestries of her room. Something had happened, but she couldn’t remember, and Olivia was unwilling to speak of it.

If Olivia’s intentions were as straightforward as she meant them to be, then Katarina lost nothing. If they were inherently malicious or manipulative, then she’d have to respond to that.

Katarina took a breath, held it, and let it out. Strangely, what came to mind was Ollara’s declaration at their very first meeting, which baffled Katarina at first.

"A woman?" Ollara’s voice rang with skepticism. "A woman has pride in her breasts and is not afraid to show her belly." She declared brazenly, and suited actions to words by lifting her bosom with her hands arrogantly, and then slapping her abdomen, eyes flashing challengingly, daring the Witch Hunter to do the same.

She pushed Olivia over onto her back and straddled her, waking the smaller woman to a sludgy semi consciousness.

"Katarina?" She mumbled blearily, hands coming to grip the other woman’s arms. "What is it? Morning?" She mumbled.

Katarina hesitantly leaned down and kissed the other woman tentatively, just a brushing of lips. Olivia gasped in response, though.

"What is this, Kat- Katarina?" Olivia murmured, coming awake.

Katarina clenched her jaw. "If... If you betray me, I will kill you." She stated, and Olivia nodded, her eyes never leaving Katarina’s face, an icepick of fear in her chest. Katarina’s face was stony and obdurate, but her eyes were predatory and alive, dancing with a wild light. More, Olivia could feel the muscles in Katarina’s arms thrumming like plucked strings.

"I believe you." Olivia whispered, and Katarina kissed her again, more forcefully this time. Olivia moved to reach up and embrace the other woman, but Katarina was off her in a flash, slipping out of the bed. Olivia lay in bed, stunned, her heart racing, all traces of sleep gone from her head.

Katarina didn’t immediately go to the High Court after breakfast; instead she found herself in the Grand Cathedral on the first floor. The Grand Cathedral of the Golden Lady was at the heart of the Alstroemeria, which in turn was at the heart of Darnell, the capital of the Anglish Empire. More than just a place of worship, the Alstroemeria was barely shy of being a fortress unto itself, housing stables, gardens, living quarters, administrative quarters, and grounds for the training and quartering of its armed forces. The central cathedral proper was laid out in a stylized six-pointed star, the fleur-de-lys of the Golden lady, and as one walked into the main nave, there was a double row of sconces to each side, holding long, ponderous racks of thick candles and stylized sculptures of warriors with spear and shield. The candles were backed with polished metal plates so the entirety of the hall was always well-lit with a warm, mellow glow. Incense censers wafted in intoxicating fragrances from the heights.

Katarina ignored the sconces, the incense censers, and the long rows of candles. She strode stolidly along, ignoring petitioners, small groups of clustered nobles, the occasionally hurrying adepts and trainees. Ahead was the central chamber, where a massive statuary was placed for full effect. The grand and prominent Saint Celestine, chosen by the Goddess herself, surrounded by the lesser Saints of the Golden Lady, true champions, all. The Lesser Saints had not ascended to fight alongside the Golden Lady the way Celestine had, but after their deaths they had been inducted as paragons of their virtues. They surrounded a great golden bowl, a perfect half-sphere polished mirror-bright. Every time she caught a glance at it, her heart pounded and sweat stippled her brow. Not yet, she reminded herself.

Beyond and to the right was her destination, the administrative wing. She slowed as she approached the central room, and paused at the heavy statuary. She looked up at the graven image of the ascended saint, and felt uncharacteristically humbled and overwhelmed with a sense of familiarity.

She knew that, for all the bureaucratic and aristocratic blather, those in authority were simply fulfilling their roles as assigned by the Golden lady Herself, and that Katarina ought to be more forgiving, and yet when she looked in her heart, she could find no peace.

She approached the statuary that surrounded the great golden bowl and slowly knelt, adjusting the wide leather belts that hung from her hips, and removed her hat.

She lowered her head, trying to find the calm center within her, and her eyes rose to the face of the Ascended Saint. Did Celestine ever have to deal with administrative nonsense? Was she ever caught up in the cogs of the great machine, torn between the call of her duty and the exasperating drive of the Churches’ inner politics? Would she know of the turmoils Katarina held within her own breast? It was said that Celestine was once human, before ascending to stand at the right hand of the Golden Lady. Surely she knew how Katarina felt. Could she relate? Could she share stories of having to attend functions and make conversation with people she didn’t care to see?

There was a Witch out there, east of Norn, raising dead and cavorting with demons and foul beastmen, and here she was, prevented from doing her job, required to smile and listen to unrelenting tides of blather.

The one breakfast function she had been made to attend had been nightmarish, forced to sit and simper around conversing with nobility and forcing a pleasant smile. The simple breakfast she’d shared with Olivia this morning was better. She sighed and lowered her head and breathed a simple prayer to the Goddess.

As she prayed, she felt the presence of someone behind her. She didn’t raise her head, but the untrackable senses she’d learned as a hunter of other people said that the person behind her was waiting impatiently, hands probably clasped behind their back in the typical noble fashion. She had nothing to base her assumptions on, but she guessed the person was probably male.

She rose to her feet in a smooth motion, took her time adjusting her belts, and then turned. Her senses had rewarded truly, there was a middle-aged man with the look of nobility standing behind her, hands behind his back. He had a wine-red waistcoat, ornately embroidered in gold scrollwork, black trousers, and a heavy white overcoat embroidered at the seams with gold. On his chest was a heavily jeweled amulet as big as her fist, all rubies and gold. His hair was drawn at the back of his neck in a short ponytail, marking him as lower nobility, a dilettante that played in palaces and temples, looking for advantages to raise his standings.

Katarina raised an eyebrow at him, recognizing him as the noble she had seen kneeling and sweating in front of the Grand Lady a few days back. He coughed into his fist.

"Madam Hunter, a word in private, if you would." He announced, head tipping to an empty alcove. His eyes dipped to her belts and then back to her face, and his slight grin slipped a fraction.

She tried not to let her exasperation show; apparently it succeeded because they moved to the alcove without incident.

"I was unaware the stricture on weaponry in the temple had been lifted." He remarked casually, stroking a finger along his pencil-thin moustache and eyeing the gun and sword.

"It hasn’t." She replied just as casually. Witch Hunters and members of the Inquisition received dispensation to carry weapons anywhere, regardless of protocol.

"I… see." He finished. There was a moment of strained silence.

"What is it My Lord requires of me?" She asked patiently.

"Ah. Yes. I was hoping to engage someone of your… skills for a venture tonight."

Her mouth thinned. He had the veneer of nobility, certainly, but there was something untoward about his presence, a trifle anxious, a trifle blustering, as if he wanted her to be aware of his authority, but yet hesitant to exert it.

"Go on."

"Well… yes. I am Norry Dalakis, a man of some small import," he coughed into his fist self-deprecatingly again, "and I was hoping to engage your skills for an evening. You see, I have certain assurances that specific investments arriving within the morrow may come under disarray by forces I cannot name. If I could appropriate your services so that said investments arrived with surety and most importantly discretion, I could see that your efforts were handsomely rewarded."

She worked it over in her head. He was bringing something into the city of Darnell, and didn’t want it molested. Discrete? Something rang within her at this, and she felt a pang of aversion. She moistened her lips and composed her response in her head. As she opened her mouth, something fluttered at the corner of her vision and she turned her head. Nobody moved nearby, they were safe from prying ears and there wasn’t anything she could see that could have caught her attention so, but she felt her eyes drawn to the statue of the great Saint again. As her eyes fell on the statue, a sense of calm stole over her, and the hesitant feeling of having to deliver a flowery refusal slipped away.

For the first time since she’d arrived in Darnell she felt truly at ease and confident. She suddenly felt like she could say what she wanted, how she wanted, and the only one to judge her would be the Golden Lady.

She turned back to the noble, and her hand drifted down and rested on the hilt of her sword. Her mouth twisted briefly as she shook her head.

"I’m not certain what you’ve heard of the Witch Hunters, but we are not mercenaries for hire." He jerked at this, and opened his mouth, but she rode over him.

"I am tasked to do what I do best, Master Norry, and that is to root out witchcraft and heresy against the Golden Lady. If you have a problem with witches, then there is no issue, but guarding shipments? Protecting investments? Your need for discretion offends me the most and smacks of villainy; smuggling or the like."

His mouth worked, but nothing came out.

She concentrated, and noticed a faint aura of magic around the amulet on his neck, and something small at his waist, a knife perhaps. His hands seemed dusted with magical residue.

"Perhaps it’s necessary to summon the Inquisitors?" She postulated, resting her other hand on the butt of her heavy musket. He waved his hands frantically. "No, no, certainly not! I serve the Golden Lady, I do!"

She arched an eyebrow at this, but he reversed from the alcove, hands raised in a placating, warding gesture. He didn’t turn away until there was a sizable distance between them, and then he hurried away, nearly running.

Her mouth twisted in disgust. She felt offended to her core, and she scrubbed her hands on her breeches, as if she were soiled.

The guards standing outside of the High Court eyed her incuriously as she entered, the one on the left giving her a small nod and pulling the door closed after she’d gone through.

The four at the bench noted her arrival; Cyrillus gestured to the Petitioner’s Stand.

Suddenly, Katarina didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to hear their verdict. Likely they had decided to retire her. Somewhere, at some point, Alayne or Nadette or Cyrillus had decided that she was no longer fit for service as a Witch Hunter. Maybe even Frederika. Each of them had motivations to keep her from her career.

Alayne would want to retire her for two reasons: Katarina’s developing mental issues were problematic. It didn’t matter that Katarina had been to the baptistry and been ritualistically purified. Alayne wouldn’t likely have access to that information, as she’d retired from the Church.

The other reason would be more simple: She was the one that had agreed to have her go through the Rites of Inspection. She knew Katarina’s body had been modified by the Goddess. Alayne would have sufficient motivation on that alone. If she published those results in any fashion, Katarina would be forcibly retired, and likely given some sort of ... demi-saint status. If such a thing didn’t exist, the Church would manufacture it. She suddenly eyed Alayne with suspicion.

Nadette was no different. Nadette was a woman of unwavering pragmatism. No matter how the older woman felt about her charges, if they were fit to serve a particular role, Nadette would see to it that they would fit that role, even if she had to pound them into the necessary shape to do it. Nadette would see the need for a dedicated Witch Hunter instructor, and would unhesitatingly nominate katarina for the position.

Nadette had also seen Katarina’s developing issues. Katarina had started faltering as a warrior, the seamless wall of resolve seeded with cracks. Despite Katarina’s baptismal, she might see Katarina’s retirement as essential to the healing process.

Suddenly Nadette’s half-smile seemed calculatingly cruel.

As far as she could tell, Cyrillus held no particular motivation to her retirement. In fact, he’d been the one to warn her that her elevation to Justicar could result in her forcible reassignment to instructor. The two of them had even decided that the only feasible way she could escape that fate would be retiring from the Church... which meant she would be forced to turn in her gun and abandon her duty. They had also learned that Katarina couldn’t simply "quit" or "retire". Alayne was proof enough of that.

She paused. Cyrillus had been the one to point out Katarina’s instability to Nadette. Adrenaline slithered along Katarina’s veins, turning her heart to ice. He was just as likely to recommend her for an Instructor’s position. His assessing gaze seemed to hold an element of apologetic pity.

Her gaze slid to Frederika. Surely her only friend, beloved sister wouldn’t subject her to such a thing. Katarina’s lip trembled. Of course she would. Frederika was a woman of infinite temperance, compassion, and diligence. By now, Frederika had reviewed all of the relevant information about Katarina and her ten year campaign against the heretical and blasphemous threats against the Anglish Empire. Frederika’s responsibility was to review all of Katarina’s dealings with the Church, and she would see the long list of pastors’ complaints. From missionary to Bishop, Katarina had a long list of people who strenuously and vigorously complained about her overbearing, dismissive, and outright contemptuous disregard for the Arm of the Lily, the administrative branch of the Church of Angland.

Frederika was a woman that existed within boundaries. She belonged to the Church of Angland. She belonged to Nauders. There was no doubt of that. When Katarina had tried to kiss her, Frederika had, lightning-quick, inserted her hand between Katarina’s lips and her own. Her lovely violet eyes had shone with apologetic regret, but she gently and firmly refused Katarina’s advances, something Katarina was sure she wouldn’t have done ten years ago, as students.

She would see Katarina’s consistent defiance of the Church, she would see Katarina’s problems, She would see the Churches’ need for an Instructor, and with infinite and unfailing compassion and kindness, she would consign Katarina to an Instructor’s position in the hopes that it would bring the tempestuous Katarina a modicum of peace.

Katarina’s heart burned with the realization. Her eyes welled up with tears. The weight of everything was staggering, crushing. There was nothing she could do. For all of her resourcefulness, for all of her ability to dodge, duck, and avoid the consequences of her actions, the price always came due.

Oh Goddess, please don’t let it be so. She prayed silently. Please let me continue fighting in your Holy Name! She begged.

"Katarina of the House of Pavlenko, It’s the decision of this panel to..." Cyrillus began, and cleared his throat. Katarina bit her lip, feeling her heart squeeze in her chest painfully. The world wavered in her vision.

"... the title of Justicar Witch Hunter." He continued. "Your allotment has been increased by a factor befitting your new rank. You will be able to draw directly from the Witch Hunter coffers as necessary, within justifiable reasons." That was a formality from a millenia ago, when Witch Hunters were wholly independent from the Church. The coffers of the Witch Hunters were now the coffers of the Holy Church of Angland. "Further, you will be able to assemble a coterie of subordinates of no less than one but no greater than ten. You agree to finance the aforementioned coterie with all the requisite equipment, tools, and materials necessary to assist you in your responsibility."

The import of what he was saying filtered through Katarina’s agony. She looked up at him, and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod. "You’ll receive a new Writ and Warrant reflecting your change in status." He added. He glanced at the other three members of the panel.

"Do you have any questions about your new rank at this time, Katarina?" He asked, and Katarina shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. He nodded. "Then congratulations, and may the Goddess of the Dawn shine upon you always."

Katarina meant to push herself from the petitioner’s stand, but discovered to her horror that her hands had convulsively locked around the railing. She pried her hands free, noting her fingers had sunk into the wood, warping it. She left the High Court, desperately trying not to stumble, to show weakness.

Cardinal Priestess Frederika eyed Cyrillus angrily. "I thought you had seen the value of compassion, Cleric Cyrillus." She admonished, her voice dry and sharp. "Katarina has given the Church ten years of her life. She deserves a woman’s peace, a chance at a woman’s happiness. I had thought we had agreed-"

Cyrillus shook his head. "I said I agreed with your way of thinking." He argued, looking at the scattered papers in front of him. Already his mind was casting forward to his class an hour from now. "There is nothing wrong with your reasoning, and I do fundamentally agree with you: Katarina deserves to pursue happiness." He paused, "But I don’t feel that we have the right to decide that happiness for her."

Frederika gave him a vexed look. "You call it ‘giving her the right to choose her own happiness’, but let’s not bandy words: Katarina will choose to continue to hunt Witches until she dies."

Cyrillus nodded. "That’s likely." He allowed.

"And..?" Frederika urged, lowering her voice. "Did you look into it, as I asked?"

He frowned at the younger woman. "Katarina’s Rites of Inspection."

Frederika nodded. "She mentioned she’d been through the Rites."

Cyrillus nodded. "She said the same to me. I looked, as you asked." He allowed, and glanced at Alayne, who was involved in meticulously arranging the documents in separate folders. Her attention to detail hadn’t flagged since her retirement.

"The reports were sealed." He replied to Frederika. "Sealed to the Book." he stressed. Alayne made a choked, strangled noise in her throat, drawing the attention of Cyrillus.

"Alayne?" He asked, and Alayne blinked, and tugged on the high and tight collar of her dress.

"Sorry." She grumped, and affected a cough. "Been damn near half a century since I wore one of these things." She complained.

It was obvious Alayne was throwing smoke. It didn’t particularly surprise him that Alayne would dissemble with him, but he’d hoped that she’d be forthcoming with him insofar as Katarina was concerned.

"Do you have any insights?" He asked, and she grimaced at him.

"I have two:" She began with a sneer. "The first is simple: I’m going to make the next two years a living hell for anyone that so much as blinks at me." She growled savagely.

He nodded. Alayne had resigned in protest to prevent Katarina from being wrongfully charged with heresy. Or she’d been forced to retire as a result of rescinding the charges against the Witch Hunter. Either way, the result was the same: Alayne had been removed as the head of the Inquisition.

What she hadn’t counted on was the Grand Cardinal using an old provision, where the Church could, in times of "war and necessity" reactivate the commision of anyone who had retired from the Church. The minimum term of a reactivated resource was two years.

He only knew of such a thing existing because of Katarina’s inquiry. If she were to be forced into an Instructor’s position, Katarina had settled on retiring from the Church in countermove, until Cyrillus had pointed out they’d likely just reactivate her commission and stick her in the Instructor’s role anyway, since the Anglish Empire hadn't left a state of declared war in at least three centuries.

"And the second?" He asked. Frederika eyed the older woman speculatively.

"Just as simple as the first:" Alayne replied, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "If it’s sealed to the Book, then you should pay it no more mind." She finished.

"You could, as High Lady Inquisitor, you could-" Frederika began, and Alayne eyed the young priestess.

"You're right, I could." She agreed, interrupting the young woman. "There is nothing sealed to me. If I wanted to, I could march into the Grand Cardinal’s quarters unmolested and count her dirty stockings."

"Then-" Frederika began, but Alayne shook her head.

"Let’s say I do look into that woman’s Inspection report." She postulated, and picked up the folders of papers from the bench. "What justification or motivation could I find to release the contents to you?"

Frederika frowned at the older woman angrily.

"Don’t look at me like that, Cardinal Priestess. If one of the Lady Cardinals on the Book of the Golden Lady decides to step down, or suffers an illness or injury, you could be eligible to replace them, and then you could find out for yourself the contents of that report." Alayne soothed, a hint of mockery in her voice.

Frederika grimaced and turned away, heading for the stairs. As she did so, Cyrillus admonished Alayne. "You didn’t need to do that."

"Frederika isn’t suited for Darnell. A girl that sweet, here? They’d chew her up and spit her out." Alayne replied dismissively. "She should stick to what she’s good at: Healing. She’ll do far more good to the Anglish Empire through her healing than she would in politics." She declared. "Spare my conscience and I’ll spare yours." She urged.