Graëlstorm: Cathar Grail Quest Saga, Book 2

By Stephen Chamberlain

Graëlstorm

A unique kind of woman

A cosmic feud

A secret that threatens her existence

Lena Dubois is something that should not exist...

Lena's Graël quest is over, and her nemesis defeated. But that was only the beginning. Now renegade  Graëlheem abduct her to a realm beyond Earth, where she discovers her true identity. Plunged into a clash between immortals, she must defeat cosmic forces to survive and fulfil her destiny.

Welcome to a paranormal adventure full of intrigue, tyranny, and the lust for power, shot through with the angst of star-crossed romance.

An exciting new twist on Grail myth, Graëlstorm is the sequel to Graëlfire

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781803134437

Stephen Chamberlain

Stephen Chamberlain is the author of the fantasy novels Graëlfire and Graëlstorm. He was born and raised in the West Riding of Yorkshire. A former lawyer turned banker, he swapped Wall Street for writing. He currently lives in Switzerland.

Book preview

Contents

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47

Acknowledgements

1

Graëlgarth

Citadel of Celestina

Elyzia

Bastards! Cornelia Drude burst into General Kaspar’s office, waving the proclamation. She tossed it on to the general’s desk and stabbed at it with her finger. How could they?

General Kaspar stared at it a moment. After what happened to the Grigors, has history taught you nothing?

"That was millennia ago, and involved the whole Earth Watch. We’re talking about one man! And fraternization, not reproduction!"

Kaspar’s fist slammed the desktop. Who knows how far Gideon might have gone had Angelo not intervened?

Outrage boiled in Cornelia’s heart. How dare Kaspar compare Gideon Drude to the Grigors? Gideon might have been a renegade who consorted with a human, but he hadn’t committed the ultimate sin: procreation leading to the abomination of hybrid offspring. A draught through the open window lifted a corner of the decree. She glanced down at its silver seal, embossed with the Arkheïa’s sigil. Her fingers itched to rip it off and crush it under her heel. One rogue, and they throw us all out, like dogs?

"Not all, the general corrected her. Just those descended through the genetrix line."

That’s all who bear the Drude name. Cornelia could almost hear her ancestors howling. This was an insult to her vöi – the pride in kinship that burned within all Graëlheem hearts. This was her clan’s identity they were talking about, dignity and honour that flowed down the maternal line of descent, passed on by mothers to daughters and adopted by their husbands. Eight centuries had passed since Gideon Drude had deserted – 800 years since the Arkheïa had put his clan’s Chosen on probation. Hadn’t the Drudes atoned enough for what he had done, without now being discharged from the Graëlgarth? There had to be more behind this persecution. I won’t let them do this to us.

General Kaspar’s eyes bored into her. No amount of white face paint could hide the shadows beneath them. Like every general before her, she had been recruited from the House of Kaspar, the premier clan of Elyzia’s indigenous Vorgänger race and hereditary officers of Celestine’s household. Lacking the increased longevity bestowed by the Graëlheem’s genetic enhancements, she was showing her age at seventy years old; her cropped hair no longer needed a silver tint to mark her status as a leader of the Graëlheem Chosen. Still, a steely will glittered behind her emerald eyes.

Trust me, Cornelia, I’ve tried to intercede. But the Arkheïa are resolved. You must obey, or suffer the consequences.

Cornelia’s chest tightened. Why now, after all this time?

This is no longer a case of desertion, but the integrity of your bloodline. Gideon turned on his own side – on another Chosen! That was the last straw for Angelo and Celestine. They say his attack on Proctor is proof of a corruption within your lineage… that a predisposition towards disobedience and an attraction to humans are breed abnormalities that have no place within the Graëlgarth.

And so our entire clan’s Chosen are condemned for the wrongs of one man?

The General puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. Wrongs? She shook her head. "This is not about his actions. They see his behaviour as but a symptom of flaws in his nature, which is inherited from his bloodline. That is what renders your clan unfit to serve."

Judgment by association? That is cruel justice!

Angelo and Celestine have made up their minds. The Arkheïa created Graëlheem; they are fulfilling their duty to address any defects in breeding, especially those that impact on their mission.

And Luther? Does he agree?

General Kaspar shrugged. One Arkheïa speaks for all.

Cornelia’s fingernails stung her palms. Kaspar had invoked a maxim that shut down all debate. It summed up in five words that the Arkheïa acted with one mind. Otherwise known as the ‘One Will’, the doctrine governed the Arkheïa’s conduct and the Chosen’s relationship with them. And now Kaspar had used it, Cornelia realized she was wasting her breath. The general was merely the Arkheïa’s messenger; not even she could sway incarnations of celestial beings. The Arkheïa spoke with a single voice, and their decrees, to them, were ‘infallible’. She swallowed the sour taste in her throat. Is there nothing can we do?

The general glanced at the door and lowered her voice. Do not tempt fate, Cornelia. The Drude clan has been permitted to retain its fief. Your sentence is nothing compared to the Grigors’. Stand your Chosen down, and perhaps in time—

No! Cornelia’s corona erupted. Fuelled by her anger, it radiated around her like a heat mirage and filled the room with a dazzle as bright as starlight. Knowing her bravado looked absurd, she snatched up the proclamation.

General Kaspar stiffened. Her face froze into a chalky mask. That’s enough, Colonel. You push too far!

The force of her stare made Cornelia’s heart clench. The Arkheïa were committed. This was going to happen. Realizing discussion was futile, she snuffed out her corona and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

*

Cornelia strode out of the Graëlgarth’s gatehouse, eyes narrowed to slits against the Elyzian sun, Klöten. On the far side of the Precinct, the Curia’s colonnades seemed to quiver in a shimmering heat that sucked her breath away. It wasn’t yet noon, and with an empty sky and no trees for shade, nothing moved. Even the birds were in hiding.

Chest still heaving, she tilted her head back and squinted at the Curia’s facade rising like a cliff in front of her. Constructed to the Arkheïa’s eternal scale out of semi-opaque gvärstrin rock, its walls soared upwards towards a vast dome that hovered as if it had descended among a crown of spires. It might have uplifted the spirit were it not for the kilometre-high precipice that loomed over the entire city. The Scarp was an omnipresent backdrop to the Citadel – a monolithic stone wave forever about to break. Its mass seemed to mock her. Behold your insignificance. You are nothing compared to the will of the Arkheïa. Cornelia scowled at it. Schrack you, she muttered, as she set off for the Curia.

Klöten’s glare made it difficult to hold her head up as she walked across a flatland of sun-bleached paving. The dazzle made her eyeballs ache, and she paused a few paces away from the Curia’s outer portico to take respite in its shadow. The sigil symbol above its cornice drew her eye. The sight of it made her stomach twist. Those six interlocking circles represented the Arkheïa’s dominion over the multiverse. How long had she served under it? How many Drude Chosen had shed blood in its service? The proclamation was an insult to all they had died for. How could she stand by and let her clan lose its standing while her Drude blood ran warm in her veins?

Sweating now, she ran a finger around the inside of her collar. Heat radiating from the outer walls only added to her misery. The Scarp continued to taunt her. What was she even thinking, coming here? The Arkheïa were immortal. They wielded godlike powers.

Cornelia blocked these thoughts and crossed beneath the portico’s arches. Ahead lay the Curia Ward, a vast enclosure over a thousand paces square and spacious enough to marshal the entire Chosen Host. Beyond it, to the right, a staircase led into the Great Hall where invited visitors were greeted.

She paused there a moment, regretting her outburst in the general’s office. She had lost her temper – hardly the best way to plead her cause, when her only option was to throw herself on the mercy of one who was both judge and jury. If the Lady Celestine granted her an audience, which was not guaranteed, she would not be swayed by impulsive emotion. Only reason, a level head, and perhaps a proposal of prolonged probation stood a chance. That, and fervent vows of an obedient future to drive home her submission to the Arkheïa’s will.

A clanging bell from over her shoulder interrupted her thoughts. The Graëlgarth’s clock was striking the hour. A second or two later, the deeper Curia bell tolled overhead.

She forced her feet forward across the Curia Ward and up the staircase toward the Great Hall. Her tunic was clinging to her now, damp with sweat. The Curia was the Arkheïa’s headquarters. Only Kaspar functionaries entered its Great Hall uninvited, and no one left without being dismissed. When she crossed its threshold, there would be no turning back.

She fought the tremble in her legs and stepped inside, squinting into the gloom. Thick round pillars supported a vaulted ceiling high overhead. The only natural light filtered through a gallery of windows set high up in the walls. Harried-looking officials clad in black scurried back and forth across the cavernous interior like foraging ants. It was a standing joke in the Graëlgarth that the Great Hall’s floor had to be replaced every 500 years because the Kaspars’ toing and froing wore tracks in the flagstones.

Unsure what to do, she hovered in the entrance, looking for one of the doyennes who controlled access to the Curia. Hairs on her neck prickled – an exo-sense warning from her cloaked corona.

She turned. Over to her left, an imperious-looking figure stood still as a statue. Its veiled face was aimed in her direction. Out of the three orders of doyenne serving the Arkheïa – Black, White and Grey – this one’s ceremonial black robes, with silver sigil on the breast, marked her as a Black Doyenne of the first rank.

The doyenne squared her shoulders and strutted toward Cornelia.

Cornelia’s military instincts stirred, and she responded to the challenge by straightening her spine.

As she drew closer, the doyenne flicked back her veil, revealing a painted white face, lips rouged a cherry red, and green eyes lined with black. She fixed Cornelia with an imperious stare.

I request an audience with Lady Celestine, Cornelia announced, raising her chin.

The doyenne’s eyebrows arched, and a frown formed creases in her face paint.

Cornelia felt her cheeks redden. Even to her ears, her clipped Plains dialect had sounded coarse. If you please, she added, in the Lingua Celestina, even though saying it chipped at her dignity.

The doyenne acknowledged the lapse of etiquette with a smile as tight as it was condescending. What peculiar times, when a Graëlhim enters the Curia unsummoned, to make demands. And in a vulgar brogue! Her gaze slid to the three sigil rank pips pinned to each of Cornelia’s epaulettes. Then it flicked to the clan patch sewn on her upper sleeve – an emblem of a prairie garvan bird with wings outstretched. Especially one who is no longer Chosen.

Cornelia glowered at her. The doyennes were well known for their arrogance, but such tactlessness was an affront to her vöi. That proclamation takes effect at sunset tomorrow. Until then, you will treat me as my rank demands.

The doyenne’s eyes widened. A muscle in her cheek twitched, and Cornelia tensed as the functionaries closest to them froze.

Rank has no privilege here, snapped the doyenne. And no one gains access to our Lady except through me.

The barb jabbed home like a köpu beetle’s sting, but Cornelia endured it without responding. Temper outbursts spelled eviction here, and expressing resentment would get her nowhere. She watched the doyenne’s black-painted fingernails graze the hilt of the dirk that hung from her belt. Worn for ceremonial use as a mark of rank, it was beautifully crafted, and deadly. Cornelia had no illusions about the damage it could inflict, or of the doyenne’s ability to wield it. Then I wish to make a petition, she said, softening her voice.

The doyenne flashed her a predatory smile. Indeed? Then please continue. I am a patient listener.

Cornelia suppressed the urge to curse. The doyenne was baiting her. My appeal is for Lady Celestine’s ears only.

The doyenne’s jaw tightened, and her emerald eyes blazed. Your enthusiasm blinds you to protocol, she snapped. And given the manner of your intrusion, a little courtesy would be in order.

Cornelia winced, but she stood her ground. I will speak only to Celestine.

The doyenne’s face shuttered. Not an eye twitched; not a muscle quivered. Your request is noted, Colonel. She pointed to the doorway through which Cornelia had passed, and then added, in a vindictive tone, "Now you may return to your Graëlgarth. You will receive a summons if the Lady grants it."

Those watching scattered as the doyenne turned her back and strode towards a door at the far side of the Hall. Made of gilded wood and hung on silver hinges, it was the only way to access the Arkheïa’s private world.

Dismissed and unattended, Cornelia had no choice but to retrace her steps.

2

Cornelia stared out of her office window through the afternoon haze. Ten hours had passed – a full day – and still no summons from the Curia. Low in her stomach, acid churned, threatening to rise. She hadn’t eaten all day; her nerves wouldn’t let her – the proclamation would take effect at sunset, and her clan would be Chosen no longer.

Yellow-headed seascraws screeched as they flew past to their offshore feeding grounds, and for one crazy moment she imagined them laughing at her. She lowered her eyes to where waves lapped the sea wall protecting the Citadel’s ramparts. A straggle of copper-haired Vorgänger scurried out through a gate onto its embankment in their rush to beat the evening curfew. It was a daily ritual; between dawn and sunset, the only mortals permitted within the Citadel were Graëlheem and the face-painted functionaries of the House of Kaspar.

Elyzia’s native Vorgänger were the rootstock on which Graëlheem had been grafted to breed a new strain of Elyzian. Lives had been made longer, willpower stronger, and coronas genetically engineered to become capable of extrasensory perception. Not to mention telepathy, and a soul that could be emanated from the body in the form of a semblant. All so that Graëlheem could harness Graëlfire and do the Arkheïa’s bidding. Cornelia let out a breath, trying to expel her resentment. What use would the Arkheïa’s genetic enhancements be to her once the Drudes were expelled from the Graëlheem Chosen – once the purpose she had been bred for was taken away?

She put a hand over her eyes and waited for her adjutant to join her. A departing ship had just cleared the haven in the Sound of Celestina, its solar sails burnished by Klöten’s afternoon descent. She watched it turn on a bearing for the Archipelago, carving a V-shaped wake through the Inland Sea. Born and raised on the flat vastness of the Elyzian Plains, the sea’s boundless horizon and limitless sky always reminded her of home – a place where a gaze would carry a very long way. Today, however, even that couldn’t soothe her.

Up to this point she had clung to the hope that some miracle might spare her clan from the Arkheïa’s decree; that the shadow hanging over them would vanish. Now, all she could think was that her hand was being forced. The Arkheïa had left her no choice but to take the next step, one that would make the Drudes outcasts, their name likened forever to the fallen Grigors.

She slammed her hand on the windowsill and turned to her desk. How could this be happening? The answer, she knew, was staring up in her face: the proclamation that bore the sigil seal. Clenching her jaw, she swept the parchment to the floor with one swift jerk.

One rogue Graëlhim, and the Arkheïa close the book!

Bitterness made her blood boil.

A knock brought her head up. Oriël Drude, her adjutant, stood in the doorway. The brigade has mustered, ma’am.

Dragged from her brooding, Cornelia saw stark determination in her aide’s eyes. How many Graëlstones do we have?

Less than a score. A handful of others are being used on patrols.

Cornelia blinked back a swell of frustration. Not enough. Not nearly enough to defend ourselves.

Oriël must have seen her disappointment, because she added, I had hoped for more, but the Graëlhouse has been in lockdown all day.

Cornelia reached into her drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. Her adjutant knew the gravity of what they were about to do, and what their fate would be if the gamble failed. Drawing strength from Oriël’s resolve, she handed her the note. Here are the coordinates for the evacuation.

Oriël scanned the vectors. She frowned. But these would take us into the heart of—

That’s right, Cornelia said. She stooped to grab the proclamation and straightened her back. Let’s get to it.

*

Cornelia strode towards the drill ground with Oriël in tow. In the shadow of the Curia’s walls, the Drude Chosen stood at attention in their black and grey fatigues – line upon line, rank upon rank of them, all massed on the dusty earth.

She halted in front of them. At ease, she snapped, and hundreds of pairs of legs relaxed. Cornelia did not need to shout, or even open her mouth. It was enough to project her thoughts, and the Graëlheem would hear her words in their minds.

Overhead, thunder rumbled. Cornelia glanced up. The afternoon air had grown muggy now that the breeze had dropped, and dark clouds had gathered above the Scarp. The coolness of a downpour would bring relief for all.

She unrolled the parchment that held Celestine’s proclamation and, forming its words in her mind, she conveyed to her Graëlheem the Arkheïa’s decree: I, Celestine, dismiss all Graëlheem born of the Drude genetrix line from the Host of the Chosen. Such Graëlheem will surrender their sigils by sunset and vacate the Graëlgarth. She paused for breath, and ran her gaze over lines of downcast faces. Certain the message had sunk in, she rolled up the parchment and held it aloft. Switching to the Plains dialect, she said, Today, we have learned a lesson – that Graëlheem can be condemned for an outrage they did not commit. Celestine has put Gideon Drude’s mark on us all. But I say the House of Drude is too great to be severed from the Graëlgarth, and so I ask you this question. Who here wishes to accept this dishonour to our vöi?

She cast her eyes again over the Chosen’s unswerving lines, and waited. When nobody answered, she nodded. Her Chosen stood together; she had expected no less.

She clasped her hands behind her back and projected more thoughts. It is my intention to seek asylum on Asfödel, under Lord Luther’s protection. He voiced sympathy for us in the past by advocating probation rather than expulsion from the Graëlgarth. But have no doubt. Celestine will see our exodus as resistance to her will, and even if Luther grants us asylum, we would be fools to pretend there will be no reprisals. Celestine will not tolerate our disobedience. If anyone does not wish to follow me, step forward now. Cornelia waited. More thunder rumbled, and her heart swelled to see the lines hold firm. Clasping her hands behind her back, she said, No one should think I am proud of what we do. But we must resist this indignity.

Her eyes swept the ranks again. Questions?

A few Chosen shifted, shuffling their feet, but there were no thoughts directed her way.

Cornelia drew breath. Very well. We evacuate at dusk. Oriël will give platoon leaders the rendezvous vectors. Once there, we will run relays through the Labyrinth in groups of twenty. She reached into her tunic and pulled out a pendant on a chain: six intersecting circles within a larger ring, which she held aloft. And don’t forget to hand in your sigils on your way out of the Graëlgarth. We still obey some orders, whether we like them or not.

Several fat raindrops slapped the dust.

This was it. Zero hour. How would history judge her: rebel or hero? If only there was a gene that brought good fortune.

Dismissed, she said, saluting her brigade.

3

Raphaël tramped through the silent Graëlgarth, shaking sleep from his eyes. The nerve centre of Chosen operations normally buzzed with activity, but at one o’clock in the morning, the only sound came from his boot heels striking the flagstones of the high-walled compound.

Breathing in storm-freshened air, he wound his way through its maze of archways and dark alleys on his way to the briefing room. The general’s summons had been as cryptic as it was abrupt, but rumours were running like wildfire through these cloistered spaces. The Drude Chosen had left their quarters. They had not stood down, but had absconded from Elyzia. The gossip was absurd. It had to be! No Graëlhim would rebel against an Arkheïa’s decree. But then, why had the general summoned the Chosen’s brigade commanders in the middle of the night?

Foreboding swelled in his gut as he rounded a corner into the Graëlgarth’s cloistered Main Quad. To his right, the Graëlhouse stood in darkness. To his left, the windows of the infirmary spilled just enough Graël light that he could make out the two other brigade commanders huddled outside the Command Centre on the opposite side. Long before he reached them, Raphaël heard their muttering reverberating along the quad’s colonnades.

Two silvered heads turned at the sound of his approach. Anticipation shone in the commanders’ amber eyes. They exchanged greetings when he joined the huddle; there was nervous speculation. Morten Kemp believed the rumours; Armin Reeve did not.

The CO appeared moments later, sweating through her face paint. The three Graëlheem snapped to attention.

Without a word, General Kaspar led them into the Command Centre and waved them through to the Briefing Room. She motioned them to sit. The fact that she remained standing only added to the tension.

Raphaël’s senses went onto high alert, especially his corona. While keeping it cloaked, he probed the room for nuances invisible to his physical faculties.

The general gave them a nod. Good morning, she said, in her usual brusque manner.

Raphaël’s corona detected her elevated heartbeat as he watched her eyes scan the room. Then he noticed the raised vein at her temple. She was stressed. This was bad. Really bad!

He peered at the envelopes gripped in her hand – three in total. Each bore the silver sigil seal, which meant orders from the Arkheïa.

General Kaspar cleared her throat. Without any preamble, she got to the point. The Drudes have mutinied and fled Elyzia. At this stage, their whereabouts are unknown.

She stared at them a moment, letting the words sink in.

Raphaël’s stomach clenched, and he stole a glance at Morten Kemp and Armin Reeve. Morten’s grimace did nothing to soften his tough, lined face. It had disgust and outrage painted all over it. Armin’s round features remained composed. It was rare for him to show what he was feeling.

The general took a step forward. Questions?

Her voice echoed hollow and unanswered in the night-time hush.

The general sucked in a breath. Good. Then here are your orders. She handed each of them an envelope. "The Chosen will muster at dawn and collect their Graëlstones from the Graëlhouse. Kemp, your brigade will round up any civilian Drudes here in Celestina. You are to intern them in the Drude section of the Graëlgarth. The operation should be straightforward, but any resistance should be met with necessary force.

Reeve, you will patrol the Labyrinth and station detachments on all home planets of races with karisma. I doubt the Drude rebels would be so foolish as to seek refuge on any of them, but we must be vigilant until they are all located.

Her gaze switched to Raphaël. Proctor, stand your brigade ready to deploy the minute we get news of the Drudes’ whereabouts. When we do, you will be summoned to the Curia.

She looked at each colonel in turn. Are your orders clear?

Stony-faced, Armin Reeve muttered, Yes, ma’am!

Morten Kemp nodded, beaming his approval. He seemed to glow with satisfaction.

Raphaël opened his mouth, but Armin spoke before he could.

What if we encounter Drude Chosen, and they run?

Prevent them! Use lethal force if necessary. They have a few Graëlstones, so take no chances.

Raphaël’s pulse skipped faster. Graëlheem obeyed orders without question. But to order one Chosen to kill another…

I need hardly tell you the risk the rebels pose, the general said.

Rebels, Raphaël thought. The word again! It hung in the air, ominous and unwanted. What will become of them? he asked.

Morten and Armin turned to stare at him.

Kaspar hesitated a moment. Then, in a quiet voice, she said, That is out of our hands. But if any of you have any reservations about your orders regarding the Drudes, I suggest you reflect on the fate of the Grigors.

Raphaël gaped at her, too stunned to speak. Every Chosen knew the history of the fifth Graëlheem clan. And how the Arkheïa had ceded their fief to the Vorgänger House of Kaspar.

You have your orders, the general barked. Dismissed!

She marched from the room without waiting for comments.

The three Graëlheem didn’t move. The minute they heard the general’s footsteps fade in the quadrangle outside, the tension broke like a fever. Morten was the first to speak. About time, he said, smirking. This mutiny must be crushed, and quickly. His lips drew back into a malicious gloat, and he rubbed his hands together. What’s the matter with you two? he said, looking first at Raphaël, and then at Armin. You look like you’ve swallowed vinegar.

*

The summons came the next morning. Worn out from lack of sleep, Raphaël followed in the White Doyenne’s footsteps. The interior of the Curia was an endless warren; he would have been lost in minutes without her. She led him left and right through countless corridors and hallways. And everywhere, endless doors! He could not begin to guess how many there were, or where any of them led. If rumours were believed, some opened to places no mortal could go.

At last, the doyenne stopped in front of a door inlaid with a silvered sigil.

The audience room, she announced through the veil that covered the lower half of her face. Stand here until they summon you.

She turned, leaving Raphaël alone with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

After an eternity of waiting, the door opened and another veiled White Doyenne beckoned to him. She withdrew as soon as he stepped over the threshold, and closed the door behind her.

Raphaël stood to attention. Shafts of Klöten’s sunlight slanted through stained-glass windows to cast multicoloured patterns across polished stone flags. The only window glazed with a transparent pane was high up, and ocular. It directed a beam of sunshine onto the only furniture in the room: three high-backed thrones carved from gvärstrin rock, contoured to resemble spinal columns, with ribbed sides and pelvis-shaped seats. Two were occupied; the third stood vacant.

Seated on the middle throne, Celestine studied him impassively. Her appearance always cast a spell on him: the shower of platinum hair and the blanched complexion, drained of pigment, too anaemic to seem real. Drawn over delicate bones, her skin glowed like porcelain held up to the light. Then there were the black, unblinking raptor eyes. She might have been mistaken for an angel, were it not for those. She raised her finger and beckoned him forward into the ring of sunlight.

Raphaël crossed the room in a few quick strides. Careful to respect a distance, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head. My Lady.

Lifting his eyes, he glanced at the throne to Celestine’s right. Lord Angelo. He bowed his head again, and then stood to attention.

Celestine leaned forward. Thank you for coming at this early hour, Colonel Proctor. These are treacherous times. Her voice was so cold it could have frozen water.

Angelo scowled down his hawkish nose. Lips drawn