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  Gabidar shook his head. “And what if she is? Have you thought about that? What if she is out there but she’s not the sister you remember? She’d be older now. Ten years old. What if she’s changed? What if she is not a person you want to know?”

  Rook’s brow furled. He was too disgusted to look at him. “How could you even say that?”

  “Rook,” stated Marisal. “Let her go.”

  Rook turned his burning eyes to hers. “I’ll never do that. I’ll never just let her go. Would you just let one of your children go? Would you?”

  “If it was your Kierza going off on these trips would you let her go?” retorted Marisal. “Would you send—” Gabidar held up a hand to cut Marisal off before she could say anything else. She huffed and then turned and stormed away, mumbling something about a foolish waste of time.

  Gabidar looked at Rook. “Rook…”

  “Please.” said Rook. “Just one more time to Escalapius. You can get silks there. You know as well as I that they’re worth a small fortune here. My ma will even buy many of them from you to make dresses.”

  Gabidar frowned. “You said you would go yourself if you could.” He paused and looked Rook in the eyes. “You could go, you know. I’ve seen you fight. I know that alchemist, Diotus, is one of the Jinn and I know he’s been training you. Rook, you would sweep these lands like a storm and Aeoria help any who got in your way.”

  It was now Rook’s turn to frown. He sighed. “I know I can fight. Diotus has trained me well.” Rook rubbed at his neck where the slave brand was burned into his flesh. He looked at Gabidar. “But with this I would never get far. But it’s not even that.”

  “Then what is it, lad?”

  “There are too many people who count on me.” said Rook. “Without my skills in the smithy, Callad and Sierla would lose everything—and they’d be devastated if I left. But it’s not just them. What about the other people here in Bellus? Many in Ragtown count on what me and Kierza give them to buy food and medicine. If not for the money I make forging Everlight, there’d be nothing to send to the people of Jerusa. Everything rests upon my skills in the smithy.” Rook shook his head. “I wish I could stop. I wish I didn’t need to work the forge. I hate making Everlight. I hate selling weapons and armor to rich nobles. But it’s all I have. I have to work the forge. I help everywhere I can, but there’s just so much to do. I know it’s all probably for nothing, but if I don’t try to stand up for others, who will? And I… I couldn’t take Kierza with. I’ve already lost my sister and my parents. If I lost Kierza too…”

  Gabidar’s face softened and he smiled faintly at Rook. “What you do isn’t for nothing. I look back on how things used to be here in Bellus not so very long ago. People see what you do, and they all stand with you. Many of the city guard even stand with you, I think. And what you send to Jerusa makes a great difference there too. I’ve seen it. The eyes of the people light up whenever I come with one of your shipments. And there are Saints there who are thankful to you as well. Good Saints, Rook. Saints who appreciate what you do, and help me make the deliveries.”

  Rook sighed. Gabidar had told him about Saints Karinael and Hadraniel. They were known as the Saints of the Generous Hand by the people of Jerusa. Rook had never seen the good side of Saints and spent most of his childhood hating them. However, knowing that Gabidar had met a few of kind heart gave him hope that the tales of old were not all lies; that Saints like Bryant of the Horn had really existed; that maybe even the tales of the Sleeping Goddess were not all lies. It gave him hope that one day the world could change, and it reminded him that all things have a cycle and that no matter how dark things got, light would once again come to shine.

  He forced a smile and looked at Gabidar. “Maybe one day the time will be right and I won’t need to work the forge. But until then, I need you, Gabidar. You know all the lands. If anybody can find my sister, it’s you.”

  Gabidar held up the sword. It shined brilliantly in the rising, dawn sun. This was by far the grandest Everlight sword Rook had yet produced and the silvery metal had the finest wood-like grain to it. Stamped into the center of its hilt was a raven with its wings outspread, and clutched in its talons was a strange and demonic-looking hand. “This was for Lord Anubeth, you say?”

  “Yes,” said Rook. “I’ll make another for him. Take this as payment and set off today if possible.”

  Gabidar looked at Rook. A smile curled his lips. “Have I ever told you how awful your mark is? These nobles are fine with you stamping all their swords and armor with this wretched crow and hand?”

  “It’s a raven.” said Rook with a wry smile. “And they have no choice but to like it. That is my mark, and I will put it on everything I make, whether they like it or not.” He wiped his fingers across his slave brand. “As I must live with their mark, so too must they live with mine.”

  Gabidar sighed and held the sword down at his side. He looked at Rook. “Last time to Escalapius. I mean it.”

  Rook smiled and wrapped Gabidar in a big hug. “Thank you. Thank you, my friend.”

  — 2 —

  The Desolation

  of Nuriel

  It was dark when Nuriel sat up in her bed, awoken by the sound of knocking on her door. She was nude but for the star-metal breastplate—a shell of cold, glassy blackness—that permanently encased her chest and back. Her head spun momentarily from the Evanescence she had taken before bed and she rubbed at her right arm, knocking off the injector that was still stuck in her flesh. Dried trails of blood ran down her forearm and they crumbled away like scabs as she stroked her skin. The knock came again, this time more forcefully, and Nuriel staggered to her feet, holding the thin white sheet around her waist. Outside her room she could hear frantic voices echoing through the marble halls of the Holy Palace of Sanctuary. There was a stained glass window of Holy Father on her eastern wall and through its glowing facets she could hear distant shouts of awe and dread coming from the courtyard far below.

  The stained glass window was a replica of another, larger one within the Holy Palace. It was her favorite picture, and she had commissioned it from one of the Ecclesiastics. It depicted Holy Father Admael as a youthful Saint holding the fallen Goddess in his arms as he knelt. The Goddess was in a flowing, white gown and her amethyst hair draped down to the ground. She looked peaceful and content in his arms, as if she could stay there forever. Nuriel understood that look. She often wished she could be the Goddess in that picture, held by Admael with such love. The world could burn around her and it wouldn’t matter. She could lay in his arms, peering up into his silver eyes, taking in his Caliber for eternity. Nuriel stroked a hand over the smooth surface of her breastplate as she stared at the stained glass.

  “Saint Nuriel,” spoke a voice beyond her door. She knew by its metallic reverberation that it was the Oracle of the Holy Few. “Saint Nuriel, are you awake?”

  Nuriel shook the reverie from her head. “I… I’ll be there in a moment,” she groaned. She tripped over her Star-Armor that lay scattered by her bed and fumbled on the cold, marble wall until she found the brass button to light her room. After a couple clicks and pops a number of gaslamps came to life, filling the large, lavish chamber with their yellow-green glow.

  Nuriel wiped at her face and rubbed her eyes. Her dresser was nearby and above it was a large mirror in which she caught her own, tired reflection. Her golden hair was thin and straight and it poured its way over her brow and framed her narrow cheeks. There were dark circles beneath her eyes that seemed to tarnish their golden, metallic brilliance. She hadn’t been sleeping well these last couple weeks. Usually she would meet with Holy Father on a daily basis but he had fallen into a depression over something and had cast everybody from his life, including her. Nuriel was worried that she had done something to displease him. Each day without him she felt the numbness within her grow, and the Ev that she took was a poor replacement for the warmth
of his Caliber. His embrace was like a pair of great, fiery wings wrapping her. Those wings burned away all her cares, filling her with fervid emotions she didn’t understand, nor which she wanted to understand. That embrace protected her from everything. It made her feel like a child wrapped in a blanket and held by a loving parent. Nothing could harm her, not even the memories of her past. In his arms nothing mattered, and she longed to be held by him again; longed to be like the Goddess in his arms. She wondered how much longer it would be until she could stand with him again in the solitude of the Holy Atrium, just the two of them.

  “Saint Nuriel?” came the voice again. “The Bishops request your presence at once.”

  Nuriel sniffled and then tucked her golden hair behind her ear. She made her way to the door and opened it. Outside her room was an opulent, marble hall lit by golden chandeliers which filled everything with the soft glow of gaslight. A red carpet ran the hall’s length and tall statues of the Saints of Aeoria’s Guard loomed between great, stained glass windows. Waiting for her there were the Holy Few. The four Sin Eaters were in red robes and black, beaked masks; their Oracle in red robes staring at her through a polished, silver mirror-mask. The Sin Eaters were like a flock of otherworldly raptors, hunched behind the Oracle, peering at her through green-lensed goggles.

  “A star has fallen.” spoke the Oracle calmly. Down the hall Nuriel could hear boots running and people talking in excited whispers. “Duty calls. The Bishops request that you lead their Convocation.”

  Nuriel nodded. “Of course.” Nuriel moved back into her room, allowing the Oracle and Sin Eaters to file in. Nuriel let the sheet fall from her waist as the last Sin Eater shut the door. “Where at?” asked Nuriel.

  “Not far.” said the Oracle as the Sin Eaters flocked around her dresser, pulling out a clean bodysuit for her. “Just across the border, in Penatallia.”

  Nuriel held her arms out as the Sin Eaters came up to her. With a cold hand gloved in black leather, one of them began wiping the last of the dried blood from the crook of her arm while another began smoothing some powder upon her. The powder was only worn for Convocations and it was scented with strange botanicals. It had a calm, pleasing smell, like one of the incenses Holy Father often burned in his chamber. The Sin Eater caressed it over her arms and belly; over the small of her back and then down each leg. Another two Sin Eaters took the top half of her white, leather bodysuit and got it over her head. They rolled the sleeves down each of her arms, then quickly and deftly they tucked it beneath the collar of her breastplate, affixing it to the small hooks just beneath. Then they took the bottom half and Nuriel slipped her legs into it. The Sin Eaters rolled it up her legs, waist and belly, and like the top half, tucked it beneath the bottom of her breastplate where it was secured by unseen hooks.

  As the Sin Eaters gathered her Star-Armor from the side of her bed, Nuriel stared at the wall where a picture of her and Karinael was hung. It was an old thing, painted by Karinael when they were both young and dreamed of making it to the Saints Caliber. In the picture they stood upon a rocky, mountainous cliff overlooking a vast wilderness, both of them wearing their Star-Armor; both of them Saints Caliber. They stared far off into the horizon at Mount Empyrean, sad but excited to be leaving their home behind. Nuriel could remember all the days and nights they had spent together looking at that picture, wondering what their lives as Saints Calibers might be like. Those were days of joy and laughter; days full of color.

  But there was a line of demarcation that separated those days from the present, and it was set the day she left Karinael behind to apprentice with Saint Isley in Jerusa as one of the Saints Caliber. At that division in her memory bright colors gave way to bleak grays and whites, like the icefields of Duroton, sprinkled with the jarring contrast of crimson blood and the molten heat of demons and dragon skulls. The world of the Saints Caliber was one of pain, fear and blood. It was the real world, and it was nothing like the dreams she and Karinael had shared. Nuriel had become a part of the real world. Karinael had remained a part of childhood joy; a world Nuriel could look back upon with fondness.

  But even that had changed. That line of demarcation blurred when Nuriel was called upon to apprentice Karinael. Unlike the painting, they never stood together as close friends looking back at their home, excited for what the future might hold. Nuriel knew what the future held for Karinael, and Nuriel helped bring her into it. It had destroyed their friendship. And now there was no longer a world of joy and laughter to return to. Bitter, hateful memories ate away at the old and Nuriel scarcely remembered if she and Karinael had ever truly been friends. Nuriel wished that Karinael could have remained part of the old world where she could return in her mind to colors and fond memories. But Karinael was one of the Saints Caliber now, and there was nowhere to return to. That painting on the wall was all Nuriel had left of that old world, and it was more of an abstract dream now than a past reality.

  As Nuriel’s Ev-muddled mind struggled to recall the sound of Karinael’s laugh, the Sin Eaters strapped her star-metal bracers and leggings on. Then they affixed the pauldrons to her shoulders, and at last Nuriel slipped her feet into her star-metal boots. They chimed like iron bells upon the hard, marble floor as she strode to the wall and put her hand upon the brass button. She took one more glance at the painting of her and Karinael and then pressed the button. The light of the gaslamps faded and darkness overtook the picture.

  “Come, Nuriel.” said the Oracle, a black silhouette against her open door. “The Bishops await.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  The first light of dawn had the eastern skies awash in drowsy shades of blue as Nuriel stepped from a shimmering gateway and out onto the open fields of Penatallia. Her body tingled for a moment, pins and needles in all her limbs. The Celestial Gateway in Sanctuary allowed for instantaneous travel anywhere in the kingdoms, but it was a strange experience. Holy Father only opened it for Convocations, when time was of the utmost essence.

  Nuriel got her bearings and realized she was on a flagstone road that led toward a walled city some two-hundred yards off. She scanned the grassy fields that surrounded her but didn’t see any danger. She stuck her hand back through the gateway and waved.

  From it now strode the six Bishops, the portal rippling like a puddle of water as each came forth. They were unnaturally tall and rigid, made taller still by their high mitre hats. They were dressed in their flowing, crimson gowns trimmed in gold, and despite their black boots they seemed to float rather than walk. Their black, expressionless masks had no discernible holes for their eyes or mouths; black gloves on their hands gave no hint at their humanity. At their sides hung black-handled swords in polished, black scabbards. In their silence they seemed more like specters than men and it made Nuriel’s star-metal boots upon the flagstone road echo lonesomely as she took the lead and strode toward the city.

  Behind them a flock of four-hundred Sin Eaters and ten Oracles now came through the portal. These were not the Holy Few dressed in red, nor were they the usual stock and store draped in black. These Oracles and Sin Eaters were all in white and they also carried black swords at their sides. This was an elite faction from Sanctuary only called upon for the Convocations and their entire lot smelled of the same incense as Nuriel.

  The city was surrounded by a high wall and through the ramparts Nuriel could see knights peeking out, their burnished armor reflecting in the dawn’s early sun. Fear paled their faces as they gazed out upon the procession Nuriel led. Very few outside of Sanctuary ever saw the Bishops, and fewer still ever saw the white-clad Sin Eaters of the Convocation. The city’s portcullis was already open, and waiting there was an Oracle and his flock of Sin Eaters all in black. A captain of the city’s knights was there too, and he seemed to be arguing with the Oracle, his face red and his hand gestures quite animated. They were surrounded by a battalion of some one-hundred Clerical Guard.

  The Clerical Gu
ard were soldiers in black, leather bodysuits and polished, red armor with grilled visors. They were not officially part of Sanctuary, just human soldiers under the employ of the church rather than the city. They were a rare form of protection, and in Nuriel’s eight years of leading Convocations for Holy Father she had only dealt with them a handful of times. Clerical Guard were more common in small, isolated towns where a kingdom’s own knights and soldiers were in limited supply. However, here in Penatallia, the church was often looked to by King Erol to mete out justice against heretics and sinners. The Clerical Guard served as security for the Priest and his clergy who doubled as Erol’s inquisitors.

  On Convocations Nuriel didn’t like dealing with Clerical Guard. They were just more bodies to get rid of. However, in a city this big, she was actually glad to see them. They all had bolt-throwers and would speed up the process.

  As Nuriel and her entourage approached, the knight’s captain turned from the Oracle. Surprise betrayed his face for only a moment, but pride and stupidity got the better of him and he strode up to Nuriel and the Bishops. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Your Oracle is trying to tell me that me and all my men have to surrender our arms and take refuge at the church!”

  “Correct.” stated Nuriel, not slowing her pace as she approached the city’s Oracle and its Sin Eaters and Clerical Guard.

  The captain fell into a stride beside Nuriel. “This is unacceptable! We are sworn to King Erol! This is Erol’s city! Sanctuary can’t just come in here and demand we all give up our arms! I want to know what’s going on here!”

  “Saint Nuriel, it’s a pleasure to see you.” spoke the Oracle. It gave a slight bow as Nuriel came up to it.