Chapter Six, Prodigal Ties

Dawncrest 12th 1329 CE, Helcrest Hold

Starlight showered the hilltop. Cool, clear emptiness of the evening enhanced these astral fires, their halo illuminating the small coven congregating under their watch. Sprint-tide constellations chased away their Yule-tide brethren, exiling their snows. Like the mortals their waves beckoned, they smile for season of renewal’s return. The cloaked revelers were lit doubly from above & by the radiance of pyres before them. Upon balefire a trio of men, priests of Th’uul et Fel, were staked & readied for flame. With torch held high to the heavens Azarra ushers in the spirits and beckoned the heralds of the turning enjoy this sacrifice of sinful flesh. Her voice rose, replacing the winds; serenades the ritual participants:

“Io Drakkon! Io Triumph! Glory to the gods above! We hail thee and offer tribute to victory! Praise the constant eyes of fate and hand of destiny which delivers us unto new world’s shores!”

The mouth of fire, kindled by Azarra’s spellbinding cry, gapes furious light. The gagged men staked to its center wail hopeless agony. She sparks sight of seared skin, prisoners shaved bald of their clergy robes & lives. Stifled screams fail to challenge her squall commanding the skies. “We humbly offer the Dread Serpent’s ‘scales’ in shape of men! Feast on snakeskin, flames of star & stake! May these human candles flash the Divine Light and bring Fyre ov our Living Lord! We declare now, make ash the blasphemous Inquisition of Vizzari that holy rain shine!”

The condemned inquisitors couldn’t scream their broad torment through throats, so the pyre sang their terror. Charred chorus of anguish surrounds their circle with cacophonous & dissonant chords. But Azarra refused cede these passaging death-howls as sufficient. She grasps Aris’ druidic horn, his tribute, and blows harsh alarum. Siren booms over the hillside with wicked delight. As the horn resounds more pyres ignite. These carve the dusk of adjacent hilltops, splitting new screams & black trumpets to join music of sacrifice. She hides the horn, tosses torch into the pit in front of her.

Pulling out a silver athame Azarra taps glistening crimson. Shows her bloodied palm & its oath to welkin throne. “This sign of Fortune shall not go unheeded, ye gods & judges all! We pledge our flesh & blood too, this night! That the Living Light manifests of our blood to glean burning Sign in our enemy’s! Let not the servants of Dark & Crimson be unburnt by the Highest Fyre!”

Bewitching fusion of shrill whimpers from the dying & Azarra’s litany possesses her circling coven. As she bids, they cut the same pact of blood. On liberated red mist the air drinks. With palms bleeding to the sky, they howl & chant primordial harmonies. Witch-prayers & death-pacts shout song to the seats of the gods. Then ceremonial haze evaporates as steeply as it ensnared. Only echoes of death-vespers hummed then alongside the human candles. With their working complete most of its participants weave their steps back to the Hold, lit by their hilltop offering. Yet some stay to revive the chants, resurrect nocturnal cheers over dead-priest wax.

Azarra waited for most of disciples & revelers to depart before journeying back. Along her trail these flambeaus of flesh stayed lit, brazenly flashing their orange & black cinders into the evening tide swirling across the hilly terrain. Sporadic chants of witches’ shrieks sprang again, commanded by rapturous zealotry the High Mother inspired in her fanatical coven. These distant themes would be this night’s symphony. Continuing call of devotion that wolfpacks, lone cats & lurkers of the woodbine would hear & answer. All Helwreath, beasts & men, must sing for it.

Surely this toast of all the Earth & her faithful few would send her son through threshold of delirious delight. After all, to look out window of the Hold – itself coveted by banners of his image – he’d see staple of his success & ironic end for the fate of these witch-finders; to see the ashes of heath-burning inquisitors who’d preyed upon his precious Corinna. And yet Azarra did not feel this ashen warmth of spiritual victory beckon her back through the cannels of her thoughts, clogging up her inner ear. These candles could yet be snuffed by starker winds, for their storm had not yet succeeded.

Rising above the hills onto the high walls, Azarra glid by as shimmering phantom. She slipped from her sentinels, her matronly duties & polite dress. Another translucent shape & a smaller, winged one winked at her. Flittering atop ghostly forearm: a strong, beautiful & regal bird. Aris’ prized personal hawk, Helwind. The raptor skittered happily up his master’s shoulder. The druid hailed her with a slight bow, that his avian companion made to mirror. She bid him rise and Aris fell into her step, strolled by curved walls and proud parapets of Helcrest.

“Grand tidings to you, most beauteous Mother of the Divine. I hope the ceremony succeeded in singing you to good spirits.” The pale strands dividing his mane appeared evermore visible against the white starlight & morbid beacons. “Does it not please you to hold the seat of power from which the Vizzari inquisition leeched the blood of the land as your own, as sign of eminent warpath?”

Helwind fluttered his wings and squawked at Azarra, courting her attention. She & this bold bird became acquainted quickly & fairly since their first meet. She offered soft petting of its chin and back feathers. Once the majestic avian messenger purred satisfaction with the affection Aris whispered secret missive. Something in their bonded language – that which could only be spoken and understood by a pet and its owner, falcon & falconer, and an intelligent animal knowledgeable of the service required of it. Then the noble hawk, shook his large silver toned wings and bounded up, swiftly ascending from the Druid’s gauntlet for the skies around the castle. Fluid motion of wings swam through substance of a dream.

So sly had Aris’ subtle sleight of hand been accomplished that the perceptive woman did not notice the small scroll that expeditiously, deftly, attached to his hawks’ (strikingly sharpened & reflective) talons. “Night shall not slow him! Starlight guides! Fly, Helwind!”

“Aye, at least one of the Fates smiles on us with favor. That we hath taken this infernal hold proves the righteousness of the path we carve.” Azarra offered her walking companion a smile, shaking herself from introverted daze which descended post-ceremony. “Drakkon’s might proves eternally majestic in scope, and I am proud to proclaim my faith in our eventual triumph over those who were once your kin.”

A wispy halo of smoke protruded from Aris’ cowl, puffing away on his signature pipe. After exhaling spiraling smokescreen, he extended a genuine grin. “Dear seer, you still do not account yourself enough credit for the success of your course. For, to speak frankly and without rebuke, the real orbit of power -and the beating heart of this ‘Drakoni’ unification, this rebellion made considerable in clout- emanates from you as much as your son. Your insight & intelligence steered the sails to victory as much, if not more, than any hidden hand of divine intervention. Do you fear to admit this? You are too humble, at times, to not embrace it. But alas my respect & admiration of you grows with every step. I never envisioned such meteoric progress against the degenerate Vizzar. Tis you whose presence I bathe in. From whom I feel true inspiration and ecstatic flow of possibility. I am proud to know you.”

Azarra, taken aback, blushed slight & swiftly her hue. “A bit wordy there but I appreciate your dear appreciation,” she returned his flash with hers, “tis good to be in good company. To know myself welcome. Acknowledged, even. Truth be told my mind is a bit cumbersome, for I know this to be far from final victory and assured security with so much of the darkened path ahead left to tread. Your wise words are always welcome these nights though, Aris.”

“Perhaps if you are free for a time might we discuss matters more privately? Matters to combine both business & pleasure? I’ll happily lift the weight from your shoulders with any I might offer you.” Aris offered up his pipe to Azarra as the smoke, billow out from the piece. “That is if you are willing to have me?”

Azarra downed her feathered cowl to show her face. Playfully pulled down the druid’s that neither could hide. Soft, pale fingers ran through her hair, which looked white in the clear ambience of augury. “Well… I do not know how much time I may avail you. Delphine hath been rather out of sorts since the Temple and the serpent shore aids this little. She needs my company in these long nights in land of unknown... But maybe she can forgive me this indulgence for an eve. I must admit I could use a distraction or else catharsis. So yes, I extend invitation to you, Aris, that we may share in some libation & conversation soon.”

She pressed the pipe to her lips. Sucked the charcoal essence. Repressed a cough as herbal smoke careened through her lungs. The duo made their way into Helcrest proper. The mist of their passing weaved through the battlements and below to side streets where the bustle of the townsfolk’ evening work kept. Where once towering banners of crimson & gold boasted, and the serpentine insignia draped over every major building’s side, now all was left unadorned or underwent painting of white. That clashing of pale & bleak stone brought sense of claustrophobia. Below the walls to Helcrest’s striking keep chimneys smoldered & flagons were filled as the townsfolk went about their business. Toasting to their lives and the toils still theirs.

One last look to the fields beyond before Azarra entered the western tower. The brush deadened by winter’s laden cape peeled off, but spring was yet to bloom fresh flowers. Witch-shades danced by the distant flambeaus of men, but their sounds of celebration died behind the tower door. The chamber was menacingly dark at first, sealed off from flickering of dwindling lanterns, until Aris lit in the array of candles on the center table.

As they settled into this secretive meet of theirs Azarra shined a bottle of alchemical concoction. A brewing of various alcohol kept for occasions when she found herself needing a little indulgence to space her worries. After sly swig she offered it to her guest, tucked away in this tower. “I do worry dearly for dear Delphine,” She sputtered, the burn from the stiff potion chafing her throat, “how awfully her dreams are troubled, how she cries out for me in midnight hour of woe reawakened. I give to her what I can spare, of myself as well. I give her what comforts I might hold but she is ever wrought in wrack & ruination of spirit when left alone. She takes fright at what invasions might creep upon her, from others in our courts and fiends of dusk. Tis taking a toll on my own thoughts to have to shepherd hers! I even ponder curbing this duty of friendship by sending her back to Ligeia. Yet I understand that looming horror of returning to where the trident-braided beast once haunted.”

Aris sniffed the bottle’s edge before taking a cautious sip. He suppressed a cough of his own after tasting the potency of her elixir. “Tis sign of your soul to worry, Azarra. You yield not the flag of friendship. Perhaps ‘twould be in her own interests to alleviate her dependency on you. Ween her tendency & curb it as to build will to overcome what haunts her. I presume you know what it takes to overcome grim misfortune. And though your souls are bonded by care, until she recovers her lost wits, she will only drain your own.”

“The path that led us all here hath been one rife with strife & trial. But through that suffering we find understanding & a force to seize the reins of our lives’ standing. We are in the fray of it now, staring down history’s long tyranny of Vizzari’s Magistrate. We mustn’t stumble now by sinking into the slough of softness and doubt.”

As the bottle made its way back to her hands Azarra sighed. She paced around where Aris, holding up an illuminating candelabra. “Yes, yes how close we are to the precipice. I fear this bridge is not near halfway crossed but now the stones crumble beneath & before us. Leave us to blindly leap from one to the next, never truly knowing how far the gap.” A steep swallow from the unholy potion unleashed the tie about her tongue & binding her hair. Gold waters splashed her shoulders in glow of candlelight. “But I know not if it is weakness to strive to protect another heart so close to mine from suffering. And from a kind I hath known all too closely. How hollow a victory to win but be bereft of friends or feeling. How empty the world we fight for should then be!”

“Emptiness is as a mirror. In that blank space one projects their need, their nightmares, to shape that reflection.” Aris philosophized from corner of smoldering pipe. “Alas, I misspoke. Allow me some forgiveness, elegant Azarra, & grant me with the grace to re-word my meaning. Your love for your friend is as true as the Light takes form in your son. So, I trust you to know how much she can endure of the darkness to come. Your light is not in vacuum.”

“This is a more depressing discussion than I would wish to be held by!” She sobbed another swig. Her eyes fixated on candleflame, floating as silver sliver of moonlight in a black sea. “Yet you too know of despair & abandonment. How it is to be forced to walk the lonelier road, forsook of tribe. Given your paternal issues & the plight you spot of your people, you should know not all can climb up from the depths unaided. You should hold sympathy for Delphine’s scars, as mine and your own. I wonder how this scholarly row is relevant to our standing. I thought you had words to share with me of strategy?”

Aris gave a dry chuckle and snuffed out embers. “Paternal issues, you say? Ah ha. Well, that is related to what I wish to share, something concerning my father and my scars. Just as you rose from apostasy to return to as Mother of the Divine, I must venture to my wayward home. Must march to where I am exiled, to return both as Druid and willing herald for Drakkon. My father, you see, Cassius, is a head of the Serpent, the triad, which stands to devour us should we stray a slip from the way.”

He graciously accepted the bottle from her once more, this time chugging without care for the warm flood. He tried to laugh away this tension suffused in him but there came no wryness or chicanery in inebriation. Only made the air of reflection muskier. “House Abraxas – that of my blood but not my soul – is the most formidable adversary on the map. But first let me ask you: save your wits & your son’s, why is it your siege of Helcrest, a stronghold for their Inquisition, succeeded so effortlessly?”

“Effortlessly? Many men paid ultimate sacrifice for victory here. Some good souls shed their hosts; others maimed. Including our prized bard, who suffered a fall to bed him for a day. While I have not yet visited him, I pray it was not his face that was marred, for that would demark his influence over his audience. I could hardly count it as effortless. But why not enlighten me with your lips, dear guest?”

“Know I share secrets to the ruin of my former House. Allow me to really illustrate to you how that façade of despotic accord is corrupted within the Magistrate. When Magister Ba’aal of the Serpent’s Head was slain and your crusade launched, the hole left by cleaved head tore the fabric of Vizzari hierarchy further. All those ambitious courtiers, nobles, warriors & priests frothed at the mouth to sit upon power’s, emptied, seat. Their Lord of Fury led a front impressive only in its pretense & prestige. ‘Twas an expedition sent more for covering how the serpent’s tail molts away from blind expenditure more than cleansing the world of upstart cult. Ineptitude curses them more than any heresy.”

“The Inquisitions’ funds ran sparse with the Magister of Finance, my bloodborne father, acting as the callous miser he is. He and Fel, head of Faith, never agreed on their eyeline so Cassius hoarded the largest portion of wantful treasury. Our assault on Helcrest was waged on a hold drained of its resource, already given to rot. Their agents plundered the Icarian coastline and seized the property of their victims to enrich their pockets while they made the land ‘pure’. But peasants, hermits and other poor victims do not fill their coffers well enough. And you denied them Elderath’s quarries.”

“A longtime contact reports me from within the inner circles. My father’s rival, in Fel, rounds up affluent and influential councilmen as ‘witches’ and ‘warlocks’ that he might reap their households, plundered by shame. Each lord incurs another’s ire.” Aris traded the letter & the lantern for the bottle. “With the Magister of Fury & High Consul erased from the pecking order the snakes have no captain to call on proper reserves. They cannot martial enough from conscription. The red court tears at its throats, hydra heads biting at political ascension, licking at glory from the grave of B’aal.”

Azarra dressed him with her full attention as he pressed point. “Magister of Faith and his hound of Th’uul, could hath intervened had they rallied a worthy host to repel your son’s invasion. Instead, the Dread Knights were bid guard their craven head at Crestfall. The rest of the Vizzar’s force: divvied up and bought as mercenaries for greedy & fearful players aiming to influence the flow of succession or halt it from their hearths. The thorny branches of hierarchy can swiftly lash, bloody & merciless struggle against the trunk, when every councilor aims a dagger at another.”

“So, you say they are disorganized, shambling beneath their fat avarice? Hmm, easier then to strike out against with assured aim? I still do not see why this merits such a secretive meeting or intensive digging?” Azarra interrupted, drunk on impatience. “Could this not be relayed by missive to allow me a well-deserved warm bath in the keep? Nor is it clear to me why you insist you must travel back to your House when we are ready to pounce?”

Aris guzzled a final shot of the strange liquor before surrendering his explanation. “My father is ever a private matter. My informant serves House Abraxas under him and his madness. As Magister of Finance and self-proposed Consul to the Vizzar he wields immense clout. With wealth he deserves not, he can leash legions to his whim. Already he’s bought the best guard. Even the elite order of Dread Knights adorned in drapes of religious devotion to the Serpent’s cult come flocking to the chime of clanging coin. Money, it would seem, is more potent inspiration for most men than faith.”

“But Cassius is sick. & knowing that man’s nature all too well, I believe he is more dangerous on death’s door. Caring not for who he drags with him through it, only how many he can. This upheaval is a pendulum and depending on what force is applied it may swing in our favor or else pummel us. I aim to be that well-placed push. To spin our fate to Fortune by paying a visit before his illness may afflict others or aid their treasures.”

Aris brought the parchment to her candle, let the tip turn it to cinder. He stamped out the ash, brushed it away. Then sated Azarra’s curiosity on a scroll with seal of his House. “No villainous rabble of snakes or even bandits damming the roads of distant fields would dare evoke a druid’s curse. Your clans & their courts respect this to the day. Though perhaps Cassius might dare it. But as wayward son I still have means to regain & lay claim to my inheritance. I’ve allies in his household, through whom I might swing open the gate that blocks us. To take my ancestral wealth as a bargaining chip for pawns or else split the political rift further asunder, and campaign against my House to depose the one fiend capable of bargaining for our deaths.”

“I see now why this had to be shared with me in private. Forgive me for my prior misgivings, friend.” Azarra capped the bottle after one more taste. She yawned, showing desire to retire to her private place, from him. But this was snare to test him. She wove her way over to him and pressed her palms over his hands, beaming at him with intent. “You do not wish for your past to be known to others; I get that. The reasons for your disappearing from our camp shall remain obscured, a pact between ourselves alone. ‘Tis brave, I must say, to venture headfirst into this forlorn shadow of a home where threat lies in the base of your very blood. I respect this, Aris.”

“’Tis only that I place so much faith in you, Azarra, that I strain you with this secret of mine. Should my heritage, which scorns & scathes me despite my never having choice in it, be known in Drakoni camp it would cast deathly clouds of suspicion of your cause. That cannot be risked. Yet I must do this.” Their hands caressed the other’s softly, testing their touch. Patted feel enkindling warmth which needed not any candle.

Aris’ hand flirtatiously guides hers, pulls free his cloak. Azarra, blanketed with his shirt, nestles into his embrace. Absorbs sweet syrup he speaks. “In your shine I find force of life renewed. Beating through this heart again with fire & purpose.” Her fingers fondle the hairs lining his chest. Firm grasp draws her nearer as his breath kisses her ear. “Let me be your servant. Forget the chains of family ties. Damn the Druidic code. Trace salve over our scars, that we may fly upon wings of beauteous dream! For you I’d risk blood & body. You who are blessed beyond any birthright.”

Visitation

Two days following, Helcrest Hold

Baron hobbled through the halls of the cyclopean citadel. His sprained leg dragging alongside his cane. His walking stick was peculiar & well garnished in design, formerly belonging to a since deceased inquisitor. It gave stiff echo as it knocked on the floor. A ‘gift’ among many rewards for his assistance in liberating Helcrest and serving it in song, spoken and runic word after. He’d thrown in a proper performance as a skald. Playing the warrior-poet as he fought to repel the wave behind their makeshift fortifications. Almost taken an arrow for fighting feverishly, as if he aimed to meet his Valkyrie. He suffered small blow for his part, but, retaining his voice & thereby true purpose he’d endured longer still in the spreading of jeer among their camp, despite feeling none in himself.

Drakkon practically drowned him in a flood of gracious gold, jewelry & opal baubles of opulence which he needed not, nor found his liking in. Though he chivalrously accepted these tributes of conquest. Despite these rewards and the lavish banners & threads decorating the great hall Baron could not shake this grubbing doubt nor the remorse weighing down his brow. So much blood had been shed in single season’s tide and yet the current hastened to reap still more, to sweep ruthlessly. They’d defeated a chapter of the serpent’s court, beat back their demoniac lords. Yet fulfillment or mythic apotheosis for taking part in such assault never found him from this ‘feat’. Instead, he felt soured to have shed so much sweat, frayed by friction of fighting for a cause that set to burn those they’d ousted. He feared they’d made martyrs of evil. More so that their effigies were auguries of their own ability, appetite, for it.

Baron brought with him missive, compelling him to attend to his Lord. Who Lives & waits just past the hall on the veranda overlooking the hold’s grand courtyard. The contents of this scroll stung at him with persistent disturbance, stirring disillusionment. Scrawled reports relaying troublesome tidings: abridged details of Mordaunt’s recent ventures and the results of his retribution against those remotely chained to those who’d shackled him. What suffering had found him those weeks of incarceration made him gleefully justified, to himself, in razing of whole settlements. Gave motive for his indiscriminate culling of Vizzari; from their lowly citizens to their serpentine knights who oft refused to fight in their stead. These massacres hinted at a dangerous vulnerability in the man, thought the bard-turned battle christened adept.

His trepidation over the heavy hand of steep militarization wasn’t quelled by the lines of sentinels patrolling the rounds. Soldiers’ spears stomped around perimeter of bustling tables of peasants and gabs of merchants, all carefully cooperating with their own pursuits and vocational inquiries. The coercion of the people could be readily witnessed through a mix of intimidation, bribery, and shady trades beneath cluttered tables. Many workers hunched their shoulders and dragged heads in shame. Others sharpened suspicions. For they’d suffered a spiritual defeat with the humiliation of holy citadel here, to be then constricted by the reach of every Drakoni pike looming over their shoulders; ubiquitously encroaching on every inch of privacy with the shadow of their Lord.

Baron glanced back at the hectic mob, swore half-prayer for them, then crawled over threshold to where Drakkon ordained their meeting. Well-honed pikes blocked the way out through to the balcony where he could see the figure of the Lord, proud in his stance, above the courtyard. Past more throngs & guards, with countenances of stone chiseled into likeness of men. Couriers wound up the way, forming a final blockade. Two in threads of Temple acolytes, argued & begged with futility to be allowed passage.

The sentinels recognized Baron. With quick call to their master behind they announced him, their pikes lowered for him. But as he lumbered past the pair the bard chanced a glance at the two messengers insisting on audience with their Lord so eagerly. When he met the eyes of one of them, even from beneath her hood, her enigmatic beauty struck him. One look signed invisible pact. “Please master bard,” the acolyte addressed him as he halted by her, “we hath travelled cross far and treacherous turf & tides to bring word of the Temple to our Living Lord. Yet alas we are caught in the mire of drudgery in our waiting. We are yet to rest, bathe, or eat a proper meal for we wish to dither not in our aim. But these good & loyal men here are not inclined to believe our matter earns urgency, so I ask you to allow us to join you? If only to let our words be heard? We hold a message from the Lady Corinna which may be of interest to our Lord.”

Swayed by enigmatic magnetism of this woman, who despite dress of modest rags of a religious neophyte radiated charm of a goddess, he humored her request. Baron flashed her a wink & smirk before laying his hand casually onto one of the guard’s leather shoulder guards. “Will you allow this couple alongside me? Tis only to make both our roles all the less hefty & time consuming, should we fill out these tasks at once.” The stern sentinel made to lift his stony façade to fling rebuke (as signaled by flickering brow) until the sudden jangle of coin swooshed & a small pouch found its way into the man’s satchel. This, followed by a nod and signal to proceed.

“My friend, you are wounded!” that woman brushed Baron with earnest sympathy, worry carried under breath. “Is the front here so dire that the legendary bard himself must bear the scars of the battles he writes of, sings for?”

“’Tis nothing to inspire woe over, my lady,” Baron blushed at her concern as they pushed onto patio. There was something endearingly familiar, yet exotic about this Temple runner. Though her features & form hid under magus cowl, his instinct & intuition, when it came to women, warmed him a warning of hungering desire; an unnamable, irritational trust inspired by her company. “I thank thee for thy worry, sweet sprite. Tis the mark of a man working to write history actively. That rather than decay in stifling archives, mulling over dusty words, I sing with sword. Danger is my vocation, as adventure is my call! A quill to fight for the Light!” Baron bowed as best as he could.

The Lord faced them. His expression showered a calm radiance. He released them from their bows, bid join him on the ledge. Though the winter storms had been unforgiving and nigh apocalyptic to the garden plants before, below him they now bloomed endurance of turning season. Petals stretched their hues across the lawn, of carmine, emerald, platinum, violet & gild.

“I planned on offering that same consolation, in a manner, friend!” Drakkon welcomed his guests with a smile, “See now the vast horizon and know that it is ours to sculpt. Every day our history written over the make of the land. What you endured is doubly a mark of pride, Baron, for to endure mortal agony and remain steadfast in spirit & sword alike is no trifling feat. You hath served the people and this dream enough to bleed through the pain. Proud that you use it as ink for your quill, good friend, to etch the linings of our legend.” Long finger pointed to the hills, to bale-pyres still alight where the charred piles of Helcrest’s former masters were as tinder. Made to burn into another day by his whim. He hoped all would see this as he did, as a sign of illumination over these harsh lands.

“On that note, my Lord, I wish to press that we be careful & attentive with what melodies we ring to the world. We must take care what notes we play, what chapters we fulfill in this historic performance. In a way that is what brings me to you now,” Baron unrolled the scroll and presented it, leaning over the balustrade. “It concerns your Champion war herald, Mordaunt. His means of bringing the citizens of Vizzari to supplication and dealing with its agents are troublesome to me. For his gauntlet is of iron malice and is indiscriminate in punishment.”

“You feel his methods barbarous?” Arid chuckle escaped before Drakkon’s tone rang with authority. “Mordaunt serves his role as my Champion by wielding the fiery sword of my Justice. Executing Wrath as needed. We may hold the seat of their slithering inquisition but the wyrms spread about the realm still. Thus, they must be splayed & slain. They must know Fear of us first in their hearts before they are to fall to us.”

“What of tactical theatre Mordaunt applies? He rides with our cavalry, faces painted up as ghouls. They terrorize not just the Vizzar but the common folk too. Who cower in despair at these daemonic invaders. Their ghastly appearance: signet of slaughter.” Baron interjected, passion overpowering his precautionary politeness & manner of politic. “Forgive my ignorance, I mean no insolence in this, but I am unable to see how crucifying innocents for the guilty few to tremble low is a triumph of justice? We must spread your holy fire to the hearts of the people, not sets their bodies ablaze in its name.”

Drakkon’s expression darkened a touch at the bard’s open criticism. “You wish me a more compassionate lord? I am not unmerciful. I forgive you your lack of higher Insight. Hark, you may be able to process what you suffer through goodwill and artistic expression, but Mordaunt knows only the art of war. His catharsis, the hammer of vengeance.” He looked over the two messengers and waived Baron. “But come let us save the heat of this discussion for when we are not attended to. In the meanwhile, I must inquire as to your entourage here?”

The lead acolyte bowed her head but kept her hood. She addressed him with a serene lilt that did not dither in his presence as so many might. “We are but sisters of Ty-Drasil and disciples of Sight. We braved the seas & roads to deliver word from lady Corinna, unto you, O Lord. Please forgive us any intrusion and for our disheveled haste in seeking your eminent ears.” With this the mute sister behind her withdrew a weathered container and from its seal a battered scroll, which she granted her host with humble demeanor. “She asked of us to reveal it only to you.”

Curiosity bid their host delve into the parchment with import. Mouthing the words as he read aloud parts to Baron beside him. “From my love, ‘upon receiving news of your taking Helcrest I decide to take my heart’s command to course. Ever since we parted ways I feel this growing need, of yearning for your closeness… I feared being a burden through my shivering curse, but Elder Ligeia is as sweet & welcoming as she is wise & talented. She brewed a remedy for me that quells those blasted spells. Her blessed potion keeps the tremors from possessing me as often. ‘Tis a miraculous thing to keep attuned to the spirits without being stolen away at the mercy of those terrible fits. My materia rejuvenated past spoke of sightless sea, I am renewed to re-unite.’”

“’I give you my word to be before you soon, following this missive of mine. I am sorry I did not fly with you across the Ruun. Yet with nightmarish visions baying no longer in fever do I come. Trust in my return, great sun of my soul’s soil. My way cannot be swayed by worried compassion, for I require no concern over my ability to make the journey there. Our destiny is interwoven in the stars and thus no circumstance nor obstacle shall threaten this blossoming love of ours.’”

His smile stretched strangely. “Ah Corinna, there is no doubt she means what she says, I know her will is a wonder of its own. But she tells me to share any of my worry & thoughts of her and that dangerous journey here? I love the woman but, damn. Damn, if she should expect this of me and bid me be stoic?”

A cloud coveted Drakkon’s face but relented when he gave voice to his thoughts. “Truly, my nights drag on longer & lonelier without her. Still despite my joy at her coming, it troubles me that she would be so brash as to not consult me before. How to heed a forked heart, split by paths of love & reason?”

Baron scratched his stubble. Shifting his weight from the crutch to the balcony lining, while Drakkon shared thoughts of Corinna. Thinking along, he pulled out some hannabis leaf from his satchel; a quick mist, acquired of a druid, to subdue the creeping ache of his leg and smooth his mind. “Should we not trust the good lady’s will, my Lord? There is sincerity in her meaning & a force behind her words. From what little I know of her – I hath no intention to be intrusive, Lord – and of yourself would not the power of your Divine affection bless her path with grace? Should we not kindle those coals of faith?”

Drakkon felt phantom cords assail his heart, their hooks rend, wrangling hope to belligerence. “Of course, I am as steel in my faith. Our bond is deeper than the seas she crosses as we speak. Tis nothing so mundane as enemies nor beasts of this land which draws me to worry. Tis for that very bond and its radiance that I am fearful of my very passion. That I be distracted by the glow of her so near to both me and the fields of battle we must wage without tire! Mother warns me of this. Tis for that very reason that she conquers this heart of mine as our holy aim must conquer the lair of the Serpent! Do ye know not the binds of love?”

The speaker of the mystic sisters stepped to Drakkon with confident assay. “Our Lady draws nearer with every moment. Ever second another step towards your paths – your stars – joining on the ever-unfolding mortal plane we share.”

The orator lunged an elegant pose, windlassing her hood revealing herself to the Lord in full. Drakkon, blinded as though gazing directly at the sun, gaped at recognition of Corinna. Baron too admired her from the side, taking in the surprising sight of this woman, shaped in fairness & image, carnal yet pure. He understood just then how his lord and friend could be so bewitched by her. Astonished at her, by the side, more than how her manifestation shifted her Lord’s whole being & stance. She beamed at him, pushing through any nervousness.

At first, he froze there as immovable marble, but white cheeks then fired blush. Waves of emotion rushed as tide of awe. Drakkon enfolded her in embrace. “My love! Forgive me my doubts espoused but moments ago. That haze of mine is lifted now and hold faith in my hands as they hold to you. I am assured now that our love will only boom from standing together as we tread the trail to liberation & salvation of this land and of our spirits adjoined!”

He sweetly kissed her forehead and next her lips. Held her chin up that their eyes locked in reciprocal nakedness. Their pupils distending, widening straight of communication - transcendent over verbal expression. Corinna returned his kiss with hers. Rolling stare & cheek brimming with wellsprings of romance & excitement. “Forgive me, my brightest star of heaven & earth, for mine own recklessness, and this pretense. Alas faith held true, and my journey here was swift & steady, with nary a patrol on the roads nor any foul storms over the waters to catch us. I had my Sister in Sight, Lavinia, for fair companion.”

She gestured to the de-cowled sibling of her coven. A lady of oddly similar aspect in respect to Corinna; looking half her actual sister from features stretched between them. Though this Lavinia’s part was a dampened mimicry of her Lady’s & the weariness of envy elongated the edges of face past her real age. Perhaps their kinship of look, though not equal in aesthetic, was the result of that alchemy which comes of accompanying another so long, in trial, rite & adventure. Her second’s hair, though in fact a muddy brown, had been subject to blackening root extract & careful layers of oil to darken it, shadowing Corinna. But despite those flaws which Lavinia’s sidelong glance always gouged deeper, the love of the Living Lord was always more appealing to passing eye, even in her bizarre & witchy flare.

“Forgive me, sweet sire, for not announcing myself. My whims bend may bend but are ever constant for you in ardor. Fickle curiosity compelled me to mend my absence. The need to fulfill a vision in my mind’s eye of your face, now so delightfully beaming before me. Would that the worst should befall you while I was tucked away at the Temple, still an apostate to most there in all but name. Forgive these fears? I would be lost should you be lost, and yet you are eternal. To be with you whatever the morrow brings shall be of dream, no matter the day’s shade.”

Baron averted his gaze from their display of grateful reunion. Eventually made motion to excuse himself, as to be away from an awkward perch of spectating. It was an oozy feeling of abrupt voyeurism and even a slight prickle of envy, never having such a near supernatural magnetism this couple. For him Corinna’s charm countered that of all the maidens whom he’d yet entertained with seduction. But he soon shook this spell as he bowed out the basilica, sulking away to a corner of the hold. The silent sister of Corinna followed his request for dismissal. With her the sentinels too were sent out for a beat.

Once reasonably alone, the couple drifted into mesmerizing hypnosis of one another. Though the immediate attendants departed there came rustling about the far side of the courtyard flowerbeds. Their private ritual interrupted to by an eavesdropping Azarra. Strolling amid their affair, she halted for a split, shining bitterness at Corinna’s figure atop the balcony by her son. Absently her gloves dug roots of persistent poisonous plant, Helfyre Wreath. Yet through protective leathers her fingers craved their nature. With her circle tending the gardens none would flare concern at her clearing these pernicious weeds. While her nose beneath beaked mask mulled wicked purpose from petals.

Vacuous to his mother’s lurking, Drakkon entwined fingers to her hair & gentle whispers to her ear. “Perhaps we should elope from this court and hold a special reunion, with proper privacy? We shall seize Crestfall by Summer-tide. Azarra sees our success arranged in the stars, our fortune by runes & prowess. But that is a bloody business I do not wish to sour our time with such martial matters. There may yet be shades we may rest in sooner. Let us share some joy. Away for a while all but our whims and words for another, my love.”

Corinna wrapped her hand about the back of his head, weaving innocently enough yet tinging his thoughts with sensuality. She whispered back as they pivoted to walk together. “I must admit I feel that the High Mother dislikes me so. My gut when around her stings of her distaste for me. Though it saddens me she feels this way. Another reason best to make our own way, I must say.”

“Ah, my spring blossom, fear not her feeling. When I make you mine, before eyes of fawning world, you will be to my mother as her own daughter. She shall yet learn to love you.”

They went from the public hall and up winding way to Drakkon’s tower, hands bound to another’s. Formerly the head inquisitor’s suite now vastly redecorated to its conqueror’s preference. Once out of earshot of the roaming hordes of servants & sentinels and bird-masked herbalists keen on snooping, Corinna spoke her mind’s trouble aloud. “While it is still fresh, my Light, may I be so bold as to ask: Would you consider listening to Baron on the matter of your ‘champion’? Even though I arrived under guise of disciple, I hear much discussion in the halls and taverns of Mordaunt’s march. It maims the hopes of this land’s lowest caste. The herd of Vizzari might yearn for their old shepherd from fear of slaughter by this hand. Tis becoming of a merciful Lord to extend repentance before holy reckoning. Should we change enough hearts through a kind, yet firm, rule the banners will change their colors with ease, sworn by Light, not steel.”

Entering the chamber, arranged in fashion suitable for a king of kings with sums of gold-leaf trophies & priceless paintings from the treasury, Drakkon brushed Corinna’s worries away. “My love, you hath the virtue & compassion to rival a thousand shamans. For your own sake I shall mull it over before deciding. But all of this is troublesome talk this moment. I want nothing else but to bask in your own grace for now. Let not the fears of nor for our foes creep through these walls. That we may share our selves without being pried by idle eyes.”

He sauntered over to the cabinet. Chose vibrant red bottle of wine which winked while passing through cork into pristine glass. He sat, patting the padded bed, waving the shimmering veil of velvet canopying the bedpost. He offered the wine & his hand. “You know I rarely partake in this mortal indulgence, but this eve is a special occasion. You hath made it so. You light again my days and burn through the nights. Let us know only the truth of each other’s love tonight.”