Chapter 83

Katarina went to her drake lesson shaking. She was overcome at turns with an exhausted sort of relief, with a giddy hilarity, and gratitude to the Golden Lady for sparing her from the life of an instructor.

This time, her riding lesson involved sitting in a saddle, which was then mounted on a series of poles and connected to a series of levers and pulleys. She was then required to execute specific maneuvers as the saddle tipped and lurched. She came away from that lesson tired, sore, and a bit sick, and her thighs were trembling and weak from gripping the saddle.

She stopped off at the Witch Hunter training grounds, and noticed Cyrillus leading a lecture. She entered the room and stood in the back.

Cyrillus glanced up at Katarina as she leaned against the doorway to his class, but continued his lecture to the twenty or so young acolytes, Armilla and Indigo included.

"Morality Exercise!" He barked, and the acolytes stiffened as one.

"A farmer in a frontier village notices his herds and flocks are shrinking. He goes out with twenty cows, he comes back with nineteen. He posts his sons as sentries, and captures a pair of elves poaching his flock for themselves. One dies in the struggle, the other is apprehended.

The farmer tells the elf, "You will work for me in my fields at wage until the value of my missing animals are repaid." He forces the elf to work in the fields day after day. He feeds and tends the elf. It is then discovered that the elf is the victim of daily rape by the farmer’s own sons and is pregnant. He punishes his sons. In the confusion of this discovery, the elf escapes, only to return to the farm later and butcher the farmer’s sons in their sleep."

He clapped his hands together briskly, the sound boomed in the cramped room.

"Now, which of the participants in this scenario was the most moral? You have ten minutes to discuss amongst yourselves."

The class started bubbling with murmured discussion as he made his way back to the door of his class.

"I wonder what your response is, Justicar Katarina." He murmured, stressing her new title slightly and slipping his hands into the sleeves of his robe. She smiled and regarded him fondly. "You should already know, Cyrillus. the answer is clear: Elves aren’t human, so they cannot be moral creatures."

His hands slipped out of his robes for a moment, and he regarded her through his thick eyebrows.

"I would argue that since they are in fact thinking beings, they would have a moral code." He replied simply.

She snorted. "Preposterous. It can be argued that beastmen are thinking creatures. If we’re to argue that, could we then argue that they have a moral code?"

Cyrillus frowned, brows drawing together, but she forestalled him and continued. "My point does not revolve around whether or not they are thinking creatures. My point is that they are not human. Their moral code, if any, is irrelevant." She explained.

"I wonder, does your assessment come from Anglish law, or does it come from the Golden Lady, Katarina? Certainly under the law," he emphasized this distinctly, "nonhumans are not accorded any rights. Is this so under the eyes of the Kneeling Woman, however?"

She unfolded her arms and laughed lightly. "Since all of Anglish Law is dictated by the Holy Church of the Golden Lady, we can then say your question answers itself. Is not the Holy Church the imposition of the Golden Lady’s will upon this world?"

He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "You range far afield from the question, Katarina. Were you in my class, you would receive the lash for such diversion."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well then I will answer your question in the spirit that it was asked: The farmer is the most moral. He’s an idiot, but morally sound. He defended his livelihood, and demanded fair recompense for his losses; He was not unnecessarily violent. I say he’s an idiot because he should have killed them both. I have faced elves in combat Cyrillus, and they are ruthless and do not give an inch. Cut off their arms and legs and they will worm their way along the ground to bite your ankles." She broke off. "Why would an elf agree to those terms? That’s irrational." He smiled wanly and spread his hands disarmingly.

"Hmm. The elf is fucked either way. If the farmer takes the child, the farmer will eventually run into one of the clergy, and he will die, the half-human abomination will die, and the elf will die. If she returns to her people, then the elf will die along with her child." Cyrillus blinked at that. She noticed his reaction and confided, "They cannot stand us just as much as we cannot stand them. perhaps more. They do not countenance half-breeds just the same as us."

She shook her head, distracted. "Again I stray far afield from the question. Perhaps I should be lashed, dear friend." She regarded the old warpriest fondly for a moment. "To continue my answer, then: The farmer is the most moral for the reasons i mentioned before, and also because he is human. If Elves have morals, they are as irrelevant to us as ours are to them, therefore he is the most moral." She finished, and smirked. "Furthermore, I move that he be canonized into sainthood. His morality is an inspiration to us all-" She broke off as he gave her a hard slap to the back of the head.

"Don’t be flippant."

She bowed contritely, and then rubbed the back of her head with a wry expression on her face.

"Tomorrow-." Cyrillus began and then halted.

"Hmm? What about tomorrow, Cyrillus?" She asked, curious.

"I understand time is a premium you can ill-afford to spend, but-" he broke off, and glanced moodily about. "I ask with all seriousness and humility, Katarina: Please teach this class of potential Witch Hunters tomorrow. I don’t care what you teach: technique, philosophy, skill, whatever. Please take a couple of hours and speak with them. Answer questions."

He looked so distraught that at first she wanted to laugh at him, but then she caught herself.

"All right, old friend. I’ll talk to them tomorrow evening, after my time at the stables."

"I have a question, old friend." Katarina offered as he turned away. He turned back, a bushy eyebrow raised interrogatively.

"What do you know about the ‘Golden Shroud’?"

He gave her a puzzled look. "...why do you ask?" he asked curiously. "I don’t think so... but perhaps I know them under a different name?" he offered.

"Hmm." Katarina replied, but added, "Robes and wimples like Acolytes of the Lily, but all black and golden silk. Black leather gloves and boots with golden metal accents. They wear a golden mask in the shape of a skull." She paused for a moment and then added, "And they carry Executioner blades."

He blinked at that. "Golden skull masks and executioner swords? Reminds me of the old Golden Sepulchre." He shook his head. "That order died out, martyred, during the Reformation." He answered after a long moment in thought. "They would be considered fanatics or extremists, by our standards. Why do you ask?"

Katarina shook her head. "Something I encountered in Montesilvano." She replied. "Either they never really died out, or someone picked up the cause." She explained.

"Where are you off to now?" he asked, as she straightened to go.

"Where else?" Katarina replied flippantly. "Trouble."

"It was said and agreed upon in my presence that the moment- the very moment she arrived in Darnell- I would be permitted to see her. Now I hear she has been here a week- a week!- and none of you had the temerity to follow your word!" A woman’s voice thick with an unfamiliar accent shouted from inside Katarina’s suite. Whomever it was, they had a voice loud enough to be heard from behind the thick doors of her apartments.

Someone had come for her? Katarina reflexively reached for her weapon, but drew her hand back. Her first instinct was to pull her gun and draw her blade and kick in the door, but instead she forced herself to take a deep breath. "That way only closes doors, Witch Hunter, not open them." She muttered, repeating the words of Araya.

Katarina took another breath, held it, and then opened the door. An unfamiliar woman with dark blonde hair was standing adjacent to Olivia, shouting at her. She was taller than Olivia, but shorter than herself, with a figure that could be termed solid. She had a body that looked as if it had spent long years on the battlefield, like Nadette, the martial combat trainer for the paladins and Witch Hunters, though she wore a gray and white silk dress.

"What is this? What’s going on?" Katarina asked with a frown, flipping her braid over her shoulder. The woman turned around with a sharp glare, and corrected her gaze as she was shorter than Katarina herself.

"Who are you and what’re you doing in my apartments?" Katarina demanded. Olivia gave Katarina a sheepish look and shrug over the woman’s shoulder.

The woman made a show of eyeing Katarina up and down ostentatiously with a jaundiced eye.

"Katarina darling, this is Katyusha of Silesia. She has been waiting a very long time in Darnell for the chance to see you." Olivia replied. "She’s also very insistent." She added and made a show of rubbing her ears.

"Silesia." Katarina mused. "A mountainous nation east of Lyoness." her head tilted to the side. "It’s been said that Silesia fell?" She asked, and Katyusha snarled. "Silesia endures." She growled savagely. "The Anglish don’t send help or supplies, but the Frostback mountains and the bitter cold of the tundra and our own fortitude keeps the slavering hordes at bay."

"It’s impossible to send supplies." Katarina replied casually. "The Bay of Claws is choked with icebergs year-round. If I remember my geography correctly, the only overland route is through the Samarkand Highlands."

The woman grit her teeth and Katarina shrugged ostentatiously and cocked her hips to the side.

"None of which have anything to do with me, though." She waved dismissively. "I hate repeating myself." She advised and took a couple steps forward, deliberately forcing herself into Katyusha’s personal space. She placed her hand on the pommel of her sword. "I asked you a question. Either answer it, or get out." She added menacingly. The woman tapped an oval golden disk hanging from a chain on her throat; Katarina had one exactly the same.

"You know what this is right?" She demanded and Katarina nodded slowly.

"Good." She replied curtly. "We will have a dialogue, then." She half-turned to Olivia. "Alone."

"Before we get started, you should tell me how it is that you decided to seek me out." Katarina began, tossing herself on the small couch in her sitting room and pouring herself a goblet of wine. The woman eyed Katarina’s casual demeanor, but decided to hold her tongue.

"We were originally looking for the Wolf of Alastor, not you." Katyusha replied, seating herself carefully and taking an extra moment to arrange her skirts. "The medallions act like a beacon at the moment of death. We heard he had passed and had been entombed with honors here in Darnell. However, when we arrived, the disk was not with him. There was..." She paused, "considerable outrage." She eyed Katarina carefully for a moment.

"When we had learned that the Dread Wolf had taken himself an apprentice, we decided to seek them out. However, you had already traveled outside our ability to track. There is also a certain amount of..." She glanced to the side, "bureaucratic resistance... from the Church of Angland to reveal anything of its Witch Hunters. The other Rubin-Rytsar elected to travel to places it was expected you would end up."

"Oh? Like where?" Katarina asked curiously.

"Einsamkeit and Begierde, for two. The Dwarven tower of Corronagan. Those are the ones I can name offhand. There are a couple of other places."

"I’ve never been to Corronagan." Katarina replied, taking a generous swallow from her goblet.

Katyusha sighed and brushed a lock of dark blonde hair away from her face. "I elected to stay here in Darnell. The Church has been exceedingly tight-lipped about your whereabouts."

"Probably because I don’t tell them." She replied casually.

"Eh?" Katyusha jolted. Katarina nodded comfortably.

"Mmm. I only visit Churches to turn in bounties and collect my next assignment. I prefer..." She stopped, and smiled diplomatically. "I prefer it that way." She eyed the slender woman. "I thought I was the last of the Rubin-Rytsar." She spoke carefully. "That’s how my master explained it. I would very much like to understand why there are more of you." She finished. There was a low, guarded note to her voice, and Katyusha could see her apparent indolence was but a sham.

"I suspect it was a misinterpretation on the Dread Wolf’s part." Katyusha replied and spread her hands disarmingly. "There have been many orders whose members claimed the title of ‘Ruby Knight’ in Silesia, all of which are gone. The original Rubin-Rytsar were a confederation of anointed knights that took it upon themselves to protect the citizens of Silesia when the government could not." She advised. "We are not just a punitive force, however." She continued. "Where the powers of the government fail, it has always been the anointed that step in and restore order. We are both punitive and political. We lead when no others can. We strike when no others can."

"Be the avenging angel, the seeking valkyrie, to stand against the haunter in the dark, the nameless murder on the doorstep." Katarina quoted softly, and Katyusha jolted, but nodded.

"That is correct." She replied with a shaky nod. "Your Master taught you well." She eyed the carafe of wine, but if Katarina was unwilling to offer, she would not ask. "There have been other groups that have called themselves Ruby Knights, but they have all mercifully died out. We call ourselves the ‘ Last Rubin-Rytsar’ because we do not wish for another order to take over our holy charge." She advised. "We will be the last." She let out a breath. "Hopefully." and then added a rueful chuckle.

"Okay, so why have you sought me out?" Katarina asked.

"That’s the easy part. Right now your medallion is signalling to all the other knights that you are dead." She remarked with a sour face. "It’s been signalling to us for the past ten years as you’ve wandered all over Hesperia. Unfortunately, Witch Hunters are immune to scrying, otherwise we would have found you years ago. I am here for two reasons: I am here to test your mettle to see if you are worthy to carry it. If you are worthy, I will unlock it for you, and teach you its secrets. If you are not, I will confiscate it and return it to our order."

Katarina let out a sigh and rolled to a sitting position. "So are we to fight, then?" She asked wearily. "You will not find me an ideal opponent. I have just completed ten laborious hours of Drake training and handling. I am tired and sore, and I’m not sure I will be able to pull my punches."

Katyusha let out a sigh of her own. "You know our creed. Your valor is known to us." She replied simply. "There is no test I could offer that you would fail. Give me your medallion."

She held out her hand, and Katarina reluctantly took it off.

"You said it’s magical?" She asked, and Katyusha laughed. "Not precisely. Its making was granted to us by the Lady of Song, the Goddess you refer to as the Golden Lady."

"Strange that song is her aspect in Silesia." Katarina mused. Katyusha shook her head as she placed the medallions side by side on the low table that separated them.

"Not strange at all, I should think." She replied absently. "Spring is rare in the frozen wastes. Songs warm the heart the way fire warms the body. Songs can enbolden the warrior, can teach the ignorant, can soothe hurts and inspire love." She replied noncommittally. "The medallion is properly activated." She finished. "If you know the Invocation of the Doctrines, it will strengthen its effect."

Katarina nodded. The Doctrines were a sequence of exhortations to the Goddess for protection. It created a bounded field that hallowed the ground around the faithful that provided protection and healing for the faithful, weakness and vulnerability for the faithless.

The woman stood and handed Katarina the medallion back. "I understand that many Witch Hunters die alone and unremarked. Know that as long as you carry this amulet you will not be unremembered."

Katarina nodded. "My thanks. No apology for your insolence earlier?" She questioned, and Katyusha laughed quietly. "Like you, I make no apologies." Her mien sobered quickly as she saluted, fist to heart.

"Stand." She intoned formally. "Stand and be true."

This had the feeling of a formal leave-taking, so thinking quickly, Katarina stood and saluted and recited her own: "You are a torchbearer, bringing the holy light of the goddess to the dark corners of the world to banish shadows with Her truths. When you have no strength left in your limbs, you speak the word. Her Word. The Light of the Goddess is a blessing to the righteous and a bane to the fallen. When you have no breath left with which to speak you spit in the eye of darkness in defiance."

Katyusha smiled at that. "Thank you." She bowed slightly, and left.

As soon as the other woman left, Katarina stripped down quickly. "Sleep." She groaned, and crawled into bed.

Darnell, even at night, is magnificent. Ornate footbridges with balustrades connecting massive towers like lace. Buildings, round, squared, hexagonal, carved and sculpted with reliefs, etched memories of different eras. Statues of heroes divide the highways, pointing, kneeling, praying, arms raised in supplication, spread in welcome, warding the way with weapons drawn, weapons sheathed, clothed, nude, in as many poses as could be expressed. Fountains gushing clean, clear water. Every window and street lit with light crystals. The Noble Quarter is a competition in ostentatious displays of wealth. The Miskatonik University shimmers with a thousand thousand rainbows of magical lights from every parapet, balcony, window and doorway. In the Commons, the rows of houses are alight with laughter and family. Even the Docks district, swarming with hells, whores’ cribs, liars and murderers and thieves has its own gaiety and light. And over and above them all, the Grand Cathedral, a thing of stone and stained glass and light, filled with all the bright promises of hope and love and duty and devotion.

But suddenly, there is a great Silence in the night. A hush that snuffs the light and shrouds the grand capital in darkness and fear. No one can speak. The Silence crawls between the lips, quelling questions, shouts, commands, requests, whispers. The silence is thick and presses on the lungs. It hurts to breathe.

All eyes turn to the Grand Cathedral. After all, wasn’t it the Goddess of the Dawn that saved them from the perilous Long Night and the terror of the Void of Oblivion?

Sound without a sound; a breath, a concussion of air; a screaming, tinkling sound of a million million tinkling shards of glass as every window in the Grand Cathedral explaodes outward on a wave of fire so brilliant that everyone is instantly blinded. Silence vanishes in the space between heartbeats.

And then comes the fire. It’s a fire unlike any ever witnessed before. It burns stone, wood, steel, cloth, flesh with equal intensity. It’s greedy, slithering this way and that, chasing those who flee, catching everything that runs or hides. It cannot be doused or quenched or smothered. While the great capital burns, molten gold rains from the skies, and the screaming begins.

Above the capital, a clarion blast, a shivering call to war cuts through the screams like a crystal-pure tone that is so sweet it lifts the soul, so cold bones shiver and freeze in terror. A war trumpet, heralding the arrival of the end.

As the city crumbles to ash and ruin, the Goddess’ own Angels race outward from the trumpet’s blast, their single directive burning as brightly as the fire that summoned them: Death. Death for the survivors. Death for the false. Death for the traitors, the empty, the token pretenders who had turned from the Goddess, losing faith, desiring greed and personal gain over devotion.

No longer would the Goddess tolerate such false and faithless lip service. She would have their devotion or she would reap their souls in furious retributive judgement. The Empire would be riven stone from stone, until nothing remained but ash and blood.

She was in a small anteroom just off the central stage. The classroom was so cramped because of the amount of people that had come to see the veteran witch hunter that they had to move to one of the auditoriums, which filled up just as quickly, because in the intervening time word had spread. Katarina was a legend of a sort among the Witch Hunters. She was selected to become a Witch Hunter at the age of six, began her service at sixteen, and had survived for ten years in the field, outliving all of her classmates by five years. Her notoriety was widespread and she had gained several nicknames over the years that she had, up until she’d met Indigo, completely unaware of: Katarina the Relentless, Katarina Magebane, Katarina the Bloodhound, and bizarrely, Katarina the Veiled, which apparently alluded to her long white hair. As the neophytes filed in and took their seats, she could hear the nicknames whispered among them, and she decided that this was probably a bad idea.

She stood, intending to leave when Cyrillus appeared from around the corner. Had he seen the halo? It was hard to keep it snuffed; she wasn’t even aware it was active most of the time. It took a concious effort to keep the thing subdued. Too many burdens, too many secrets.

Ten bloody years of murder in the name of the Golden Lady, The Goddess of the Dawn. The prophetic vision of fiery doom that came with increasing intensity. The searing fire of Glory that burned in her breast and constantly demanded with painful insistence and urgency to be released immediately. The Blessing of Sanctification. The burden of duty. The burden of responsibility. But she’d chosen this.

Had she? She blinked at the thought. There were holes in her memory. Simurgh was gone, but the Celestial of the Storm was capricious and fickle.

She’d seen the sea of fire before; she’d brought it herself to a city that had been rudely hacked from the ground, animated with foul sorceries, and sent towards Darnell. That city still burned, crumpled and crushed in the Blackwall mountains.

She’d chosen, or had been chosen to carry the Blaze of Glory to the Grand Cathedral. It was her responsibility to kindle that fire in the golden brazier. She held back, though. Once Glory filled the brazier in the Grand Cathedral, everything would change, irrevocably.

She wanted- needed- to delay it. Just a few more days. Just a little longer. Just a little.

"Katarina, they’re waiting for you." Cyrillus announced gently.

Why not show them Glory? a voice murmured in her head wickedly. She knew that cheerful voice, prankish and teasing.

She turned to leave, but Cyrillus shook his head and smiled encouragingly.