The Crimson Rose

By Daniel Genovese

Queen Felanya of Devora has never known defeat, whether on the battlefield or within diplomacy's twisting halls. Instead, her undoing comes when an accident nearly kills her youngest daughter, Etherea. Though blessed with the Lady's divine gift, Felanya's magic cannot heal the girl's shattered mind. With Etherea all but lost, the distraught queen withdraws from her kingdom, her family, and her faith. She orders the Lady's Temples closed, their radiant candles extinguished.

For six years, Felanya's enemies reign. Devora's high council rules unchecked, fattening their purses and sapping power from the throne. Meanwhile, the Patrim, missionaries of the Lord, desire more than just Felanya's gilded chair. They raise a cathedral to the Lord in the heart of Devora, its shining spires luring people away from the Lady's darkened dome.

Felanya remains oblivious until the birth of a new daughter awakens her to the possibility of hope. She rises, her faith renewed, and vows to return Devora to glory. But her enemies have tasted power for too long to allow a resurgent queen. The forbidden ritual sacrifice of a gifted child will summon the means to defeat Felanya, but what rises is something far worse. One does not kill the Lady's Chosen without consequence.

As a deadly spirit of vengeance stalks the realm and opposing swords are drawn, Etherea stirs, her sight filled with nightmare visions of murder and fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636921495

Book preview

One

Another cry echoed through the night. Tellek de Ruslan, prince consort to Queen Felanya en’Devoran, winced at the sound. He turned his attention back to the scrolls littering his desk; he swore he’d been reading the same report for hours. Each time Felanya screamed, he lost his place and started over.

By the Lady, what is taking so long? One would think this was her first child, he said to the empty room around him. He thought here in his tower suite he would find solace, a refuge from his wife’s wailing. But it seemed her voice could pierce even the thick castle walls separating them. He shook his head and looked to the map of Devora spread across a nearby table.

With a finger, he traced a path from Thornhold, north through sprawling farmlands and past the dense Nerewood. He stopped at the Ironfells, the great mountain range protecting Devora from their hostile northern neighbor, Kiir. Tellek spat a curse as he traversed westward, seeking the pass noted in the report.

Digger’s Pass, there you are. Plucking a quill from its inkpot, he made a note on the map where a Kiir raiding party had met a contingent of Devora’s regulars, much to the Kiir’s regret. Still, he frowned. Despite Felanya’s brokered truce, the Kiir continued to test the borderland, harassing the northern plains and their scattered hamlets. The Kiiran ambassador claimed these to be renegade clans, but Tellek held little trust in the man’s words. Centuries of hostility could not simply be erased by signing a flimsy piece of parchment. What has it been, nearly twenty years since the war? He brushed the quill’s long feather across his chin, thinking. We need more men patrolling up there. I will speak to Captain de Guaran in the morning.

He ground his teeth as his wife cried again. Knowing he would get nothing more done, Tellek tossed the quill away. He snatched his cloak, headed out the door and up the tower stairs to his bedchamber. Soon he found himself standing outside on a balcony overlooking the city of Thornhold and the Sea of Tears to the east.

A chill night breeze teased his hair, hair all too quickly losing its deep brown in favor of a pale gray that belied his thirty-seven years. Glancing back toward the central keep and Felanya’s own chambers, he fully expected to count more gray hairs come morning. He breathed in; the cold air filling his lungs calmed him.

He slid his hands across the stone balustrade ringing his perch, brushing away the soft film of snow that continued to settle there. Finely carven balusters, lovingly shaped into women, stared out to sea while their arms reached upward to support the railing. Amiassa en’Devoran, Devora’s long-dead third monarch, commissioned such work for all this tower’s easterly balconies as a memorial to the women who lost their loved ones in the first war with Velur. For all eternity, the stone inhabitants of the Widow’s Tower searched the horizon, waiting for husbands and sons who would never return. The image of hundreds of miniature women crying out with heartache distracted him until another agonizing moan erupted from Felanya’s bedchamber.

Is there no place in this world where I can find peace? Stalking back inside to stand before the blazing hearth, he allowed the dancing flames to lull him.

When the screams stopped, he whispered, Finally, silence.

*****

Tana rocked the bundled newborn in her arms. This little one came into the world with a vengeance, nearly killing Queen Felanya.

Jein, one of Tana’s assistants, bundled up the ruined linens, the sheets torn from the queen’s nails and bloodied from the birthing. Tana ordered them burned. In all the midwife’s fifty-five years, she never saw a more difficult labor, as if the child resisted the birth, turning its back on the world. But born it was, and the girl’s virgin lungs proclaimed her displeasure to all in earshot. The queen fell quickly into unconsciousness, panicking Tana’s younger assistant, Mina, who wailed, The queen is dead! A quick smack silenced Mina and sent her scurrying.

Queen Felanya’s long hair, the color of burnished bronze, clung to her face and forehead, while a film of sweat lent a pale sheen to her skin. Pain etched her face, creasing her brow as she slept. But when Tana dabbed her with a wet cloth, the lines of strain relaxed, and her breathing eased into a more restful sleep.

The door opened as Jein moved to leave.

Jein, Tana hissed, bring me my satchel. The maid nodded, her arms filled with sheets. Tana returned to tending Felanya, hopeful the herbs in her bag would ease her queen’s pain.

*****

Mina ran crying from the heated chamber, the bright-red imprint of Tana’s hand angry against her pale skin. The guards said nothing, but she knew they watched her retreat, their minds laughing while their faces remained impassive.

Soon, her senses returned, and she stopped before a lone mirror hanging along a gallery wall. Her hand pressed gingerly against her stinging cheek, the resulting rosiness emphasizing the black of her hair, the blue of her eyes, and the pale perfection of her skin. She moved to wipe away the tears then thought better of it. Perhaps the redness of her eyes and trails of tears would evoke the protectiveness of her lover, the man she must go to now. After one last appraisal in the mirror and a quick straightening of her dress, Mina hurried to tell the consort his daughter was born.

*****

The stillness, at first welcome, dragged on, and Tellek’s feeling of helpless ignorance increased with each passing minute. Was Felanya alive or dead? Did the child live? In his growing apprehension, his imagination ran wild, and he soon fancied that he alone lived through the night. Some foul malignancy or fellspawn crept in to slay the entire household, leaving him alone in this secluded tower room to pace endlessly, not knowing. Each time his eyes landed on the door, the temptation to find out for himself beckoned. But fear kept him in place. Ignorance left open possibilities. He waited for the servant’s call.

When the knock finally came, Tellek strode to the door, his face a stern mask. As he cracked open the door, it flung wide, and a blur of white crashed into and enfolded him in a bundle of woolen dress and fleshy woman. He stumbled but managed to get one hand on the door to push it closed.

Oh, Tellek, it was horrible! The queen—she was in such pain, and when her eyes closed that last time, I couldn’t help myself, and then that awful Tana hit me! She actually hit me! I ran and ran and—

The torrent of words stunned Tellek so that Mina’s too intimate use of his first name did not register. He held her, trying to untangle the confusion her words brought. With one hand, he caressed her cheek, his fingers continuing past and into her long thick tresses. Closing tightly, he pulled, wrenching her sobbing face away from his chest. Her babble stopped, her eyes wide.

Dearest Mina, he growled, I do not have time for your blubbering. What happened to the queen? Is she dead?

Wh-when her eyes closed, she looked— Another pull on the hair. I thought…but I don’t know…for sure. Tellek pushed her away. He looked down at his tear-sodden shirt.

This will not do. He pulled off the garment and tossed it to the girl. Bring me the blue one. She scooped up the shirt and skittered away. I must be presentable before my queen. He stood in silence, bare-chested, waiting for Mina’s return.

*****

Tellek walked through the palace halls toward the queen’s chambers. It had been many years since they shared a suite.

While not altogether pleased with his lowered status within Castle Roseheart, separation had its advantages. He could conduct more…private meetings with his subjects. His very loyal subjects. The tips of his fingers recalled the softness of Mina’s cheek and hair, and he smiled. Still, not all his trysts were of the unfaithful sort. One night of drunken abandon led to the very reason he headed toward Felanya this night. A chuckle threatened to escape his lips, but he quickly regained control.

With bowed head, and hands clasped in a proper expression of grief, Tellek failed to notice the large form before him.

Does the thought of a third child depress you so… Your Highness?

Tellek stumbled as he stopped himself from walking into the Kiiran ambassador.

The consort sputtered, Of course not. I am most pleased.

Ambassador Khnenra Luriss was a large man, hardly the image of a bureaucrat. Tellek, by no means considered small, felt awkward and childlike before Khnenra’s imposing figure. The ambassador stood some six-and-three-quarters feet tall, all lean and muscular. The golden amber of his almond-shaped eyes seemed a perfect match for the smooth bronze skin of his face. Khnenra kept his head shaved smooth in the manner of Kiiran servants. Slaves, Tellek thought. But Khnenra dressed better than any slave: a long purple robe, cinched at the waist by a golden cord. Figures of Kiiran script circled the hem in matching gold, coiling and intertwining as if some lithe dancers were frozen into the fabric at their moment of wildest abandon.

The labor did not go well, Khnenra said.

Tellek winced. The entire palace had heard.

That is no business of yours, Kiir. Shame at Felanya’s wailing turning to anger, Tellek clutched the pommel of the ornate sword at his waist.

The ambassador’s eyes followed Tellek’s hand, and for a heartbeat, the consort felt his life in danger. He tensed, but Khnenra only bowed low.

I meant no disrespect, Your Highness. I only wished to express my concern for the queen after her daughter’s taxing birth.

Tellek scowled. The queen is strong, have no question about that. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to my wife.

Khnenra held his bow as he stepped to the side. In the shifting light of the nearby sconce, Tellek could not tell if the Kiir leered or if it was just a play of shadows across the man’s face. He strode away, uneasy at showing his back to the ambassador but determined to show no fear.

As he turned the corner, a stray thought froze him in place: How did the Kiir know Felanya had a daughter?

Two

Taric peered out from behind the barrels that served as his hiding place for the last two hours. His legs and back protested, and not for the first time, he shifted his weight. The breeze wafting across the docks long ago turned frigid, and Taric felt this harbinger of a long, bitter winter in his very bones. The snow stopped falling, so he no longer feared being buried alive on the lonely dock. He drew his cloak tight and fought to keep his rebellious teeth from chattering.

Any movement?

Taric flinched. He didn’t hear Chane’s approach. Even though they had forgone their plate mail in favor of padded leathers, Taric held little doubt that Chane could surprise a deer while wearing a tinker’s arsenal of pots and pans.

A handful entered, in ones and twos, Taric whispered.

The storehouse they watched stood at the edge of the docks near the border to Thornhold’s Tanner District. The squat two-story building served as a holding area for livestock offloaded from merchant barges and awaiting delivery to the butchers and tanners. With the coming of winter, the building rarely saw use. Very little light escaped through the boarded-up windows and into the watching night.

You sure these are heretics? Taric asked.

Bishop Riel sensed something of import was to occur tonight, and the Augury narrowed the location to here. Chane gestured to the storehouse. We need to be careful. The Augury couldn’t tell what we would find. Their vision was clouded. When they pushed, a Brother was flung from the circle.

Taric, wide-eyed, looked up. Do they know what happened?

Not for sure, no. The Augury suspects a Madrean witch is blocking their sight and attacked when the Augury got too close. They are ministering to him in the infirmary.

Taric shuddered. She must be powerful.

The Augury discovered enough to lead us here.

The twelve brothers who made up the Augury were all gifted, each talented in the arts of divination and foreseeing. While they occasionally gained visions of impending dangers and crises, most often they used their talent for readings. The wealthy and privileged paid dearly for an Augur to read their newborn children. For a Paladin, readings cost nothing.

Taric smiled, thinking of the reading with which his own son was blessed.

I think the cold is getting to you, Taric. You’re grinning like an idiot. Chane nudged his friend before moving to leave. Sit tight. I’ll get Dannen. He crept away, melding into the night.

Bishop Riel sent two triads to investigate the docks. Six Paladins of the Light skulked in the darkness, each triad consisting of two Blades and one Hand, the latter charged with supporting his fellows through the use of his Lord-granted gift. Dannen served as Chane’s and Taric’s Hand. While the two Blades had some small measure of gift, Dannen’s strength far surpassed theirs.

Taric shifted his weight again, wincing as pins and needles shot through his left leg. Not willing to stand and give himself away, he settled for flexing his protesting muscles. His ankle popped.

Trying to wake the entire city? Dannen chuckled as he and Chane approached. A dull creaking forestalled Taric’s scathing reply.

An old mare rounded the street corner, pulling what looked to be an even older hay cart. The driver huddled inside a dark cloak, while two similarly bundled figures waited in the bed behind him. The horse nickered and snorted, preferring the warmth of her stable berth to the frigid wind. Taric sympathized.

The driver stopped in front of the storehouse door, and his two fellows hopped out. Dropping from his seat, the driver moved to the door while the other two struggled to lift a bundle from the cart bed. A few quiet knocks, and the door opened. For that brief moment when the driver turned to look over his shoulder, warm light from the storehouse’s interior washed across his face.

Baron de Melonne, Dannen whispered.

Chane nodded. The leather king himself. A little brazen for him to use his own building, don’t you think?

Taric did not disagree. It spoke of the arrogant confidence for which the baron was well-known. Baron Royce de Melonne’s importance spread beyond the simple fact of his nobility and his place on the council. His family held sway over the rich southern farm and grazing lands.

The baron’s two compatriots shouldered the long bundle and headed for the door.

Dannen squinted. What is that, carpet? Maybe he’s just storing some old rug his wife is tired of.

Chane gave Dannen a look one might give a slow child. How many people do you know that dress in dark cloaks and prowl around supposedly deserted storehouses who aren’t up to no good?

Besides us? Taric piped in.

Chane smirked, raising his hand as if he would backhand both of his partners. I don’t know how either of you made it out of the abbey.

Look, Dannen whispered. The door closed, leaving the Paladins alone on the docks.

The others are covering the rear entrance. Let’s get a look inside. Chane gauged the height to the window above the door, then, turning to the longer-legged Taric, said, Get in the cart and see if you can make the jump to that sign above the door. You should be able to reach the window from there.

Taric nodded, though he wished he could stamp about to regain full feeling in his legs.

Dannen wiggled his fingers as if he were a common street magician. Why don’t I just float him up?

"No use of the gift until we know what’s in there."

Dannen shrugged.

May the Lord protect us, Chane said as they moved in a half crouch toward the cart. The mare eyed them but seemed content to remain silent and shiver.

Though the building was two stories in height, it appeared squat because of its large footprint. Taric figured several hundred head of cattle could wait inside without much crowding. Both floors had plenty of windows for ventilation. In addition, the first floor had two large cattle doors, one in front and one in the rear. Overhanging the dockside door, a thick, heavy sign proclaimed the baron’s ownership. It appeared wide and sturdy enough to support Taric’s weight, as well as provide a jumping point to reach the window into the hayloft. Above the window jutted a beam and pulley for hoisting stores into the loft—a perfect anchor point for a rope.

Taric stretched and mouthed a silent prayer of his own. He climbed into the cart and prepared to jump.

*****

Brother Marcas ran. His mind, so focused on narrowing the bishop’s nebulous vision, never foresaw the queen’s sudden labor.

He, of all people, knew the fickleness of augury. As an initiate, he performed an augury for a wealthy family back in Patria, his order’s far-off home to the west. Instead of foretelling the potential for their newborn son, Marcas read the kitten sleeping unseen under the crib. The parents were speechless after hearing their son would be an excellent mouser and father thirty children.

For weeks afterward, his fellow initiates brought every stray cat, dog, and chicken they could lay their hands on for him to do a foretelling. Marcas took it in stride, and if truth be told, the extra practice honed his gift. However, it did not always come when asked, and when it did, it was always draining.

Of course, running from one side of Thornhold to the other could be described in much the same way. The route from the Cathedral to Roseheart was no easy jaunt; many twisting streets, as well as the city’s old northern wall, separated them. I’m still fit as an acolyte, he thought, racing past revelers stumbling from a rowdy tavern.

A vision overtook his sight, and he stumbled to his knees on the wet cobblestones.

As in the Chamber of Revelations with the rest of the gathered Augury, before him stood the low form of a building, a dark shadow against the night. He approached, but something pushed him away. From within, the building took on a ruby glow as if the wood siding was no more than a thin piece of vellum allowing light to bleed through. The glow intensified, burning away the building’s flimsy shell, and soon figures were seen moving within. They danced and writhed in the light; their shadows blurred and flowed around a darkness in the center of their circle—a darkness unaffected by the surrounding glow, repelling the growing light while feeding off the gray wisps dancing before it.

The glow turned into a blaze of white, the red now only tinting the edges of Marcas’s vision. A figure stepped from the frantic circle. One arm raised high, a long wicked curve gripped in its hand. A flash of silver, bright against bright, the dagger plunged into the central blackness. A piercing scream, a woman’s voice, agony and despair so strong it threatened to deafen Marcas. So quickly the sound terminated, yet it echoed within his skull. The dagger flashed again, and the darkness flowed into it, devoured by the silver blade.

The figure reached into the shrinking dark and, with its free hand, lifted a small wriggling form: an infant impaled upon a silvery point. Marcas pushed forward, but again he met resistance; he could not intervene, merely bear witness. As he watched, tears streaming from his inward turned eyes, the child stilled. A blast of heat incinerated the building and the shadowy dancers. All that remained for Marcas were the infant’s burning bright eyes as its head lolled toward him. They flashed once, a blinding last gasp that blasted him into oblivion.

The pain of his head hitting the cobbles jarred him awake. Marcas’s eyes swirled into focus as rough hands grasped his shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. The hands’ owner released him after the Brother could stand on his own.

Everything all right, Brother? the man asked, his voice scratchy, his leathers scarred but polished and well-kept. Brown eyes met the Brother’s gaze, measuring him. When Marcas nodded, the man stepped back, his hand resting on the pommel of the sword at his hip. It’s late to be wandering the streets, Brother…?

Marcas. Brother Marcas Candell.

The man flicked a glance toward the nearby tavern, then leaned in, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed.

Marcas grinned. I haven’t been drinking if that is what you think, sir…?

Where are you headed, Brother Marcas Candell?

Straightening, Marcas replied, To Castle Roseheart, to attend the queen.

Come, I shall escort you to the castle gate. I doubt the queen would be pleased to find you lying in the gutter, mugged or worse.

Marcas prepared to argue, but the dampness of his robes—thanks to his floundering on the snowy ground—was reminder enough of how he came to be in this man’s company. After a quick nod, the man turned on his heel and led the way to Roseheart’s gatehouse. As he pivoted, the nearby streetlamp’s flickering light caught the jeweled pommel of the man’s blade. The Thornguard’s ruby glowed for a moment like a single watchful eye before the man’s cloak passed over it, extinguishing its gaze. One of the queen’s elite, Marcas noted.

As Marcas followed the silent Thornguard, his thoughts turned again to the vision that knocked him senseless. The last time a vision affected him so, he was but an initiate, his gift undisciplined. Even then, the vision didn’t eclipse all sense of the living world. This presaged something terrible. Did it have to do with the triads sent to the docks, the heretic threat discovered by Bishop Riel? Or was there some connection to the queen’s sudden labor? The infant child. He glanced up at the now looming gate, unsure.

Several Thornguard stood at attention, their red chain mail glowing like fire in the torchlight. Marcas turned to thank his escort, but the man was gone.

*****

Taric leapt to the sign. His fingers latched on to the thick strip of wood as his body swung into the wall with a thud. He winced at the sound even as he pulled one leg up, his other still dangling. Dannen and Chane ducked behind the cart as the front door creaked open.

A triangle of light spread across the ground and onto the horse. A man stepped out, his head swinging back and forth as he peered into the night. Taric prayed he wouldn’t look up. If the man so much as stretched, he would hit the Paladin’s foot. Taric strained to keep still.

Anything, Luk? A smaller man with a childlike voice stood framed in the doorway.

The first man turned to stare at the horse. She stared back and stomped her hoofs, her breath fogging the air.

Nah, Crik, it be the nag. Eager for ’er stall, I reckon. The mare snorted, tossing her head.

She’s not the only one, Crik said before they both disappeared back into the building. The door closed, taking the light with it.

With effort, Taric pulled himself fully onto the sign, before continuing to the window above. Nailed boards sealed the window; however, the sea air took its toll on the wood and poorly smithed nails.

Taric pushed at a rotted board, slipping his fingers around it and easing it forward to rest on the loft. He worked at a few more, squeezing through when he deemed the opening large enough.

He looked back and waved. Chane tossed up a rope for Taric to secure to the hoist beam sticking out above the window.

As Chane pulled himself into the window and turned to help Dannen, Taric explored the immediate area. Crates, sacks, and hay bales cluttered the loft. A layer of hay, spread across the wood planks underfoot, softened their steps.

They approached the loft’s edge. The upper floor ran the perimeter of the room. Heavy timbers resting on thick wood columns spaced along the loft’s edge supported the flat roof, creating a large central area for the herding of livestock and plenty of stalls under the loft.

Four torches burned at the corners of a long wooden table, around which thirteen people stood. Each wore a dark robe, hoods pulled low to hide their features. At the head of the dark and pitted table, one man stood with his hood down, his face revealed: Baron Royce de Melonne.

In the flickering light, the baron’s hawklike nose appeared even more hooked and his dark eyes set deeper under thick brows. With his disheveled black hair, he resembled a harried raven awaiting prey.

From his belt, the baron drew a small, straight dagger. The silver blade caught the torchlight and glowed. Cradling the dagger as one might a child, he raised it to his lips and kissed it, then just as lovingly, he placed it upon the table.

Bring the boy.

Luk and Crik carried the rolled carpet over. The hooded Madreans parted, letting the two men through to unroll it on the table. Within, a boy no older than eight struggled against his bonds and bit into the dirty rag stuffed in his mouth. His eyes were wide, his clothes torn and ragged. A street urchin. One robed figure placed a single rose near the boy’s head, then returned to the circle.

De Melonne raised his hands high, the sleeves of his robes slipping to his elbows. The pale skin of his arms stood out, contrasting with his dark robes.

My friends. His eyes took in each of the gathered. Believers in the one true faith, followers of the Mother of All, giver of life and death. He bowed his head, his arms still raised to the heavens while the others bowed their heads in turn. The Lady, Sheraiel, birthed us from Her womb and breathed life into our frail forms. We serve Her in this world until such time as She blesses us with Her kiss, calling us back into Her arms for all eternity. The baron’s deep voice reverberated through the building. He lowered his arms and stepped into the circle, his eyes lingering for a moment on the struggling boy.

In the time of Kerusann, first queen of Devora, Sheraiel came to us three times. As Maiden, She gave us the innocence of youth and the passion of love. He picked up the rose, brought it to his lips, and kissed the moist red petals. Then he brushed the petals across the child’s bare chest. The boy shivered, surprised at the soft caress.

Maiden, kiss us, murmured the hooded circle.

As Mother, She gave us Her gift of creation, that we might live on through Her grace. He crushed the rose bloom in his palm, sprinkling the flower’s remains onto the boy’s chest. Again the child shivered, his eyes wide, his body no longer struggling.

Mother, bless us, the Madreans replied.

As venerable Wizen, She shared Her wisdom that we might know of Her and of ourselves as we walk this world, waiting to be recalled to Her side. He paused. We take comfort in the knowledge that we are welcomed into Her embrace in our final, lasting repose.

Wizen, protect us.

The baron lifted the now flowerless rose above his head. Without warning, he whipped the thorn-studded stem across his captive’s chest. The boy screamed against the gag as a long welt punctuated by a row of bloody pinpricks blossomed above his heart.

In the loft, Taric flinched, but a hand on his shoulder kept the young Paladin in place. Chane shook his head.

Taric’s eyes widened. He’s going to kill the boy!

Yes, but not yet. Look.

The baron placed the stem on the table, treating it more gently than he had the boy. The others raised their eyes to meet the baron’s gaze.

Our queen is weak. His voice lower now, he seethed with rage. "She allowed the Patrim to steal into our city, creep into our very lives. Like vermin. Like thieves. They seduced the queen with the lies of the Betrayer, their so-called Lord.

The city once regaled in the Lady’s festivals. Now Her temple is closed, the high priestess banished, and Her loyal followers reduced to lurking around an old storehouse on the first day of Winter’s Eve for fear of persecution by the patriarch’s thugs. Paladins. Holy warriors. He spit out that last like a curse. They divide our city, our homeland, against itself. He paused, his gaze touching each of his followers in turn. From the west they come, sailing across the Whispering Sea. Missionaries promising what? Peace? Deliverance from our beloved goddess? He shook his head. They seek more than our souls.

A bitter laugh escaped his throat. One would think that more than enough. No. Soul, heart, and home—nothing less will satisfy their exalted patriarch and his pet bishop. But what can we do? We are but simple farmers, craftsmen, and traders—people of simple lives and simple faith. With a flourish, the baron stepped away from the table to pace around the circle.

A robed figure dropped to his knees wailing, Save us, Lady! De Melonne placed his hands on the weeping man’s shoulders.

Fear not, my friends, for tonight we take back our city and our faith. Madrea walked the righteous path, and in her writings, we find the way to salvation. They call us by her name as if it is a sullied thing, an insult, but I say it is not. We are her proud warriors, and in Madrea’s name, we fight for the Lady. He moved to the table, picking up the dagger and twisting it slowly. The Madreans stepped away and knelt, their faces touching the floor.

That is when Taric noticed the dogs.

Below the table lay two dogs. They were so emaciated Taric thought them dead, but one lifted its sharp snout to sniff the air, a dark tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. Claws, long and black, worked at the packed earth floor, scarring deep grooves into the ground. Their skin, pulled tight over their bones, appeared almost translucent. Even from his position in the loft, Taric could make out each individual rib under the pale brown skin. He fancied he could see the beating of each beast’s heart. Black eyes bulged as if the surrounding skin pushed them from their sockets. Something about the dogs teased at Taric’s memory, but he could not focus the thought into any clarity.

"With the sacrifice of this symbol of our enemy, a boy rich with the stench of Lordsgift, we ask the goddess to send us a champion to rout the Patrim from our borders!"

I’ve heard enough, Taric growled. We stop them now, before innocent blood is spilled.

Chane started as if waking from a trance. He turned to Dannen. Think you can lock the front door from here?

I’ll have to work my way around to get a good view. Dannen wiggled the fingers of his right hand. Soon as I see it, it’s as good as locked.

Once their escape is blocked, Taric and I will jump down. Dannen, follow us when you can. Hurry. Chane stared after Dannen then looked to Taric. Quietly, they drew their swords.

*****

Dannen Moriss stepped around crates and various tools. He paid little attention to the baron’s droning voice. There was no longer a need to hear the madman’s words; the baron already condemned himself.

Moving around one last crate gave him a clear view of the front entrance. The large cattle door was barred, but the small inset door remained unlocked. Luk and his partner stood to either side, their eyes on the ceremony.

The Paladin focused on the small iron lock in the door. Raising one hand, he reached out toward the lock as if it were within reach. His breathing slowed as he looked inward, seeking and finding the wellspring of his gift. Dannen’s body shivered with the first breath of rapture that always accompanied the touching of the source of all that was good, the power of change, the Lord, Aurus. The warmth of a noonday sun flowed through him, strengthening him, giving him focus. Though his eyes were now closed, he saw the lock clearly in his mind. It was a simple mechanism. Dannen could feel the tumblers in his hand, his fingers exploring every notch and groove. He smiled. No challenge at all.

He moved to lock the door but met resistance and lost contact.

What?

His eyes opened. Only a moment had passed; the players in this little drama were still in their places. Nothing had changed. He closed his eyes again and probed the lock. There was something there, not the lock itself, but something blocked him. Could it be what attacked the Augury? With a grimace, Dannen poured the full force of his strength into the calling. He felt the resistance push back, but he came at it again and again like a relentless battering ram. The wall flew apart, an unraveling tapestry of power, and there was the lock clear before him. He spun the tumbler, locking the warehouse door.

Leaning against a nearby crate, Dannen felt his strength fade.

*****

The dogs perked up, swiveling to stare at Dannen’s hiding place. Taric froze. His theology lessons rushed from whatever depths of his brain they were stored, long forgotten in favor of more practical martial teachings.

"Fellhounds!"

A favored creature of the Kiir, a fellhound was an abomination created from Ladysgift. A dog was starved, while teased with fresh, bloodied meat. When it finally succumbed to hunger, it died crazed. Then a woman strong in the gift raised it, imbuing it with power. The risen hounds sensed the use of Lordsgift, and once the hound caught the scent, it would stop at nothing to destroy the source—such was its hatred for the reminder of life that was the power of Aurus.

The presence of fellhounds meant this cabal was more than mere nobles playing at demon worship, for they required a woman of sufficient ability to control the beasts.

A kneeling Madrean looked up, the hood falling back to reveal a young girl’s pale, unblemished face. Her eyes held him; he could not look away. Her long black hair accentuated her pallor, dark