Interlude: Credo

Interlude: Credo

Renuart Kross knelt beneath the statue of God, bowed his head, and for a long moment realized he did not know what to say.

He opened his mouth to begin his prayer, paused as a strange sensation came over him, and hesitated. He knelt there for several minutes, feeling his armor bite into his knees. He knelt long enough for the pain to turn to numbness, and for the pattern of moonlight shining through the stained glass window above the statue to change many times as clouds moved overhead.

He was not in Rose Malin. The chapel around him lay in a western satellite of Garihelm, a fortified township hard hit by a devastating siege the city still hadn’t fully recovered from even after most of a decade. Outside, whole neighborhoods lay as shattered husks. Ghosts of those slain in the violence haunted every buried nook and ash-smeared window.

Even years of effort by the city priests hadn’t put all of them to rest — the city was simply too large, and too old.

Forsaken, forgotten, and devoid of the teeming crowds congregating in the rest of the great city. A good place to unburden oneself.

“I have grown very used to hearing the sins of others,” Kross began, keeping his head bowed. His pale gray cape fell around him like a shroud, spreading out across the tarnished mural floor. “I admit, it has been a very long time since I have focused on my own.”

A cloud passed over the moon, briefly darkening the nave. Kross stared down at his gauntleted hand, at the smooth steel he’d clad himself in. A knightly disguise, one which had served him well in this land.

Clenching his armored hand into a fist he said, “The people of this land call me a devil. Even as I seek to bring them into Your light, they would shut their doors in my face if they saw its truth.”

Kross turned his eyes up, staring at the image of the Heir. She stood nearly fifteen feet high atop the pedestal, clad in a gown of ancient design, Her brow adorned with a horned crown woven of silver vine. Someone had scraped the silver enamel off the wood, leaving it white and bare, almost skeletal. They’d looted the golden auremark too, with the gargoyles who guarded blessed ground fled or slain in the siege.

“I have done many terrible things,” Kross said to the face of God. “I have lied, and murdered, and brought good people to ruin. I have wandered this sphere for six centuries, and in all that time I have served.”

She stared down at him, what remained of the spear in Her hand held aloft like a scepter.

“Even after you disowned us, we served.” Kross kept his tone subdued, respectful, even as he realized he recognized the odd emotion churning in him.

Resentment.

“Since its founding,” he said, his voice echoing through the church, “Orkael has honored its purpose. For twenty thousand years, we have held our vigil over the edge of Darkness, and we have remained faithful. Even when your father’s throne lay empty, when we could have taken the reigns over everything, we stayed true to the task given us. We did not seek power.”

The cloud had passed, and cold, foggy moonlight crowned the God-Queen’s stern visage. He felt a shiver in the very fabric of the world.

They are here.

His counselor whispered the words directly into his ear. Kross could feel the seraph’s breath on his skin, like the touch of a glacial wind. He could feel its half-real arms wrapped about his shoulders even through the armor, like frozen iron around his soul. Even when it made itself invisible to all others, it was always there.

His burden. His choice.

Kross stood and turned away from the dead face above him. His form shimmered, unraveling and turning briefly to a black smog not unlike chimney smoke. He began to walk until he stood in the room’s center. The clank of his armor turned into the scratching of course cloth. The hiss of his regal cape against the nave’s floor became the rustle of a rough woolen cloak. His confident steps and straight back altered rhythm into a shuffling, limping gate.

He felt the burn scars form across his skin, flesh puckering, eyelashes and eyebrows rotting away. He felt the pain, and even long accustomed to it his resentment surged.

He enjoyed being Renuart Kross. However, the Knight-Exorcist was only a mask. A story.

Vicar lifted his eyes, and saw other Hell-marked faces staring back at him, lurking in the shadows of the pillars, sitting on the pews, even crouching in the rafters above like crows. Like him, they were all dressed in rough layers of tattered cloth in shades of flint and charcoal. Like him, they all wore heavy cowls to mask burned features, complete with shrouding scarves, torn mantles, or ash-stained cloaks.

Vicar ran his gaze over his fellow crowfriars. He counted eight. Nine, including himself.

Too few. “Where is Sister Krile?” He demanded.

Cloth rustled nervously. Another shadow passed over the greater moon.

“In the south,” a gruff voice said. One of the Orkaelin missionaries stepped into the isle.

He didn’t dress like a monk, like the rest of them, but looked more like some ancient hill shepherd. His garments were the right color, but made all of rough hide draped over his shoulders in layers, piled to conceal his entire upper body including the arms. The hides and furs fell past his waist in strips, leaving his bare, hairy legs visible. He was a dark lion of a man, squat and thickly built, with receding hair grown long around his bare skull and on his face in a wild black cloud.

His eyes were black too, save for the gleam of hellfire in them.

The devil monk’s wide lips split into a ghastly grin. He had burns too, though not nearly so grievous as Vicar’s. His teeth were made of iron.

“Last I spoke with her, Krile said she’d found a mighty prize in Duranike. I doubt we’ll be hearing from her again until she’s gotten a contract.”

Vicar quelled his surge of annoyance. He had ordered all the missionaries in the subcontinent to gather here in this city, to prepare for the next step. What came next had far more importance than any single mark.

He felt the array of eyes in the church fix on him, looking for signs of his frustration, of weakness. Any one of them would gladly see him fall and claim his place. They were wolves, or more accurately jackals — he would not do them the honor of comparing them to wolves — and none of them truly understood the importance of their work.

“I am surprised to see you here, Brother Myrddin.” Vicar let his own burning eyes fall on the man in the mantle of hides. “I did not know if word would reach you in your seclusion.”

The bearded crowfriar’s grin didn’t waver so much as a fraction. “Aye, well, I didn’t want to miss your big show, Vicar. Dangerous game though, having us all gather here during an inquisition.”

That last word went through the room like an arrow, striking its mark with deft precision. The tension, already at a simmer, moved near to a boil.

“Hm.” Vicar let his own small smile touch his blistered lips. “That is precisely why we gather. My efforts with the Priory have born fruit.”

“Oh?” One of the others said, this one dressed more like a traveling merchant, complete with a mushroom-shaped hat and multi-layered sleeves striped in shades of charcoal-gray and sulfur-yellow. “Do tell.”

“I am very close to convincing the Grand Prior to sign the Credo Ferrum.” Vicar let his words hang a long time once they’d left his burnt lips.

“The leader of the Aureate Inquisition?” One of the other infernal monks said into that silence, this one a tall cadaver with a corpse pale face and sunken, yellowed eyes. “A Faust?”

Vicar only bowed his head, his peaceful expression unchanged. “It would cement us in this land,” he said. “Undo centuries of fracture caused by the Riven Order.”

Myrddin folded his hairy arms, scowling. Even still, Vicar saw the calculation in his dark eyes. He understood the implications.

“There is more,” Vicar said quietly. Eight sets of flame-marked eyes fixed on him. He listened to the whispering of the cold angel on his shoulder and said, “We have been ordered to conduct the Rite of Transposition.”

Again, silence. It was broken by a crude, hacking laugh, which echoed in a fell chorus off the old church’s walls.

“When it comes to my own realm, yes.” Vicar smiled, revealing his rotted teeth. “We have work to do. You make certain your friends of old do not trouble us — that includes both Alken Hewer and Rosanna Silvering. Do you understand?”

“You know I’m technically banished from this kingdom,” Lias said. Then, with a sigh he added, “I will do what I can. And the demon?”

“It is but a hound.” Vicar waved a hand dismissively. “Oraise will find whoever holds its leash, and then the matter will be done. If you are so concerned, then keep Hewer’s attention on that. Chasing shadows is what he’s good at.”

“He may as well be a shadow,” Lias said bitterly. “I barely recognize him anymore.” After a moment’s silence, his mismatched eyes shot to the crowfriar. “Remember what you swore to me, Vicar. This coup against the Choir isn’t some hostile takeover. I believe your realm is the more stable choice to govern this land. If you lead me to believe otherwise, I will have you answer for it.”

The shadows seamed to congeal around the magi. At his hip, he tapped his long fingers against an ornate implement — a pipe of lacquered wood and filigreed silver. His power was a near tangible presence in the room, far beyond any normal mortal aura.

Wizards altered their very essence in order to wield their abilities. Lias was no more human than Vicar, in many ways. The dark-haired man’s ruby eye seemed to burn with an inner light.

“We do not forget oaths,” Vicar said gravely.

When the wizard had gone, vanished back into the darkness like a wraith, Vicar remained in the church a while, lost in thought. Powers both mortal and immortal swirled around Garihelm. He felt like one among a great congregation of predatory fish.

Was he the shark, or the piranha?

It didn’t matter. When done, he’d have a leviathan at his back.

You should not trust the wizard.

You should not underestimate the paladin.

The counselor’s voice again.

“Lias is very firmly in our debt,” Vicar muttered. “And Hewer is a fool. He was a lesser name among an order of faded legends, and he let a lesser minion of the Traitor Magi compromise him. He is a thug, and he knows nothing.”

And Vicar still half believed the Headsman of Seydis was in the city to assassinate the Presider on behalf of the Choir. The Presider, the Grand Prior, or even him.

I should have killed him, he thought.

The Zosite spoke again, its melodic voice painfully beautiful and full of a deep, cruel humor.

Had I not been there, he would have beaten you in the cathedral.

Vicar quelled the surge of annoyance he felt.

Too slow. The seraph saw it, and was amused.

The Knights of Seydis have power. They were made in the image of the First Realm’s own champions. Do not allow pride to hobble you, or you shall fail.

Vicar heard the criticism, and accepted it. “I will be cautious,” he said, meaning it.

The Zosite wasn’t done.

The Tutor of Malice is no lesser demon.

Vicar had turned toward the doors to leave. He considered that statement, and recalled his memory of the prisoner he’d interviewed when last he’d been in Orkael. So many of the Iron Pits were occupied by terrible things, mad and raving, or dangerous in such insidious ways they could not even be spoken to safely.

The wounded creature in that gaol hadn’t seemed a mighty darkness. She had seemed crestfallen, even disconsolate.

He adjusted his cloak, and in that movement was Renuart Kross again. His armored steps echoed off the old church’s walls. In the far distance, thunder rumbled as another storm approached over the bay.

Kross slipped a hand beneath his gray cape and pulled out an ornate medallion. Blackened and warped by heat, he could still make out a silver sun bounding a golden tree on its face. Oraise had wanted it as evidence, but Kross had pilfered it in a moment of pique.

She fought very hard to keep this, he thought.

Her kind are malevolent, and very good at deception. She might have wanted me to think so.

He did not need an Angel of Hell to tell him that. Even still...

He tossed the medallion into the air once, let it spin, and caught it. Couldn’t be, he thought, and squeezed. The thin metal shell of the knight’s mark bent, then split along its seam.

Urnic knights always kept some sort of favor inside their emblems, usually a herb or flower, often specially preserved to maintain a nostalgic scent. The medallion in his hand, which had belonged to the First Sword of Karles, smelled of a bittersweet rose he was unfamiliar with.

He opened it, and found no rose inside. He did find small marks along the inner curve. Scratch marks, and a bit of dried blood which was neither human nor wholly material.

“Damn,” he said aloud. He’d been played, and well. He felt a smile of appreciation, even respect, tug at the corner of his mouth.

And he felt a moment of pity for Alken Hewer.

His eyes were drawn back to the face of the Heir of Heaven.

“I am no god or angel,” Kross said to Her. “I was born mortal. I cannot fathom the passage of countless eons. I have only been part of this war for little more than half a single millennium. I cannot grasp the rage that must compel you.”

He brought his hand back to his chest, and said the next words with every dreg of emotion his dead heart could muster.

“I do all of this for you. I will not ask your blessing, or your forgiveness. These people think themselves your chosen... but I know they were just the ones you had at hand. They do not grasp the enormity of the war that is their inheritance.”

He turned toward the doors in a sweep of his gray cape. “If they need a devil to help them understand, then let it be the one they know.”