Immolation: Volume I

The Lady

Prologue

N

o one truly knew where she had come from. She cut an elegant, if intimidating, figure – all dressed in black and adorned with trappings of gold. She was so very tall, too. She had this way of looking down on others that some might perceive as judgmental. When she spoke, her voice was of brilliant bronze. It demanded attention and admiration, a sound utterly unique in its tone and its beauty.

Yet, for each harsh look or steel-sharp edge, she hid just as much softness. If one was to listen long enough, behind the commanding bronze they might catch the softer, psalm-sweet notes of brass chimes in her voice. Her long shadow cast a welcome shade in the summer, her arms a sanctuary of warmth and light in the frozen winters.

She had stood for centuries – calm and resolute through snow and storm, through drought and famine, through peace and war. Some speculated her very heart had been built for war. That, deep down in her foundations, she was a keep of the old warriors, those knights from some several thousand years past. Others said she was only ever a cathedral: a holy place the saints had constructed atop the dust and rubble of ruins, mending the scars war had left behind.

Her architecture was indeed a love letter to those fabled days, grand and ornate and imposing. Every inch of her was guarded by loyal saints and messengers carved of stone. Her body was crafted of sooty, gray-black granite and capped with a bouquet of gilt domes and high spires that rose to pierce the heavens. Her walls, though dusty and stained with the stories of a hundred seasons’ worth of rainwater, would catch the sun at dawn and dusk in dazzling hues of peach and violet.

She was adored by the people – and so it was fitting she be named thus: Our Beloved Lady.

Here she stood, since time immemorial, surveying her dominion. From the rolling hills, blanketed with thick forests and smothered by fog, to the inky-black waters of the twin rivers that sliced like knives through her dear city, raging cold and pure at her feet.

Now, as the seasons marched onward as they are ever wont to do, she waited. Waited for two of her treasured faithful to return to her, to be safe once more within her arms. The world was, after all, quite a cruel place beyond her embrace.

1

T

he summer countryside glittered green and gold as it flew by outside the train window. Inside one of the compartments, two figures sat in comfortable silence, barely illuminated by candles flickering behind blown glass. The pair practically vanished into the dark, oily-black habits melting into the green velvet benches, save for those bits of gold trim around the hems, gilt crosses borne at the breast, and the bleached, crisp white at their throats – the lady her coif, and the gentleman his clerical collar.

The nun had a warm, hazelnut complexion; her face dusted with precious few freckles, high on her cheekbones. Her eyes were a soft brown, dotted with flecks of gold. Her features were sharp, with angular brows and steely lips. Despite her intensity, she had a gentleness about her. Her hair could not be seen beneath her veil, but her eyebrows boasted a darker lavender that betrayed the color lurking beneath her coif.

The man across from her was darker in complexion. His skin was a deep, olive bronze. Hair grew a cold brown against his skin, fading into a silvery seafoam color the longer it grew. The sides of his head were shaved down to a velvety fuzz, kept neat and tidy – much like the short, narrow beard on his chin. Only the thick hair atop his head grew long enough to be pulled back into the silk-wrapped tail between his shoulder blades. He had no handsome freckles like his companion, but had similarly angular, intense features. High cheekbones, a stiff lip, and sharp edges only softened by time – by wrinkles that had begun to appear in the corner of his eye.

The steam rail line was the most comfortable, and arguably the safest, route through the patches of dense forest, rolling hills, and steep cliffs of the countryside. But it was far from the fastest, what with her meandering path and her occasional stops. Both of the passengers knew this, but the priest hadn’t been fond of the decision. He preferred the more direct path, on horseback, as the crow flies, to save precious time. Even now, the nun couldn’t help but pity the poor man fidgeting in his seat across from her, crossing and uncrossing his ankle over the opposite knee restlessly, a small book of poetry thumbed open to occupy himself.

She will be alright for one more night. She said.

I know. He replied. I know that.

Diamond panes of heavily frosted glass only allowed vague silhouettes to be seen from inside the candlelit cabin. Rowdy, raucous youths shuffled past, freshly aboard from the recent stop. A fair few brought the stench and demeanor of excess alcohol with them, along with the common clatter of steel weapons rattling in scabbards, the jingle of ill-fitting armor, the flutter of skirts and cloaks, the thudding and inevitable trailing of dirt from well-worn shoes and boots.

One young man who liked the sound of his own voice just a bit too much bounced his way down the corridor, pressing his flushed face up to the glass, eyes cupped with his hands in an attempt to peek inside at his fellow travelers.

His actions were rewarded with a sharp inhale from the priest, who swiftly picked up the cane rested against his leg and rapped it on the opposite side of the glass. It had the desired effect, spooking the young man back a pace and making him shuffle off quickly down the hall, giggling in embarrassment. The priest huffed and settled back in his seat, shaking his head before going back to reading. The train jostled as a few low-hanging branches were snapped off, sending twigs and acorns tumbling over the roof above them. The train jostled again.

We’re slowing down. He said.

Probably to put less stress on the bridge.

He squinted out the window at the woods. We are not so near the bridge yet.

A thump just a little too heavy to be foliage sounded on the roof above them. His brow furrowed in dismay and he looked at the woman across from him. A knowing glance was exchanged between the two. She’d heard it as well.

The priest shut his book, tossing it aside on the bench and gripping his cane as he rose to his feet. He unlatched the door and slid it open. The nun fell in step behind him, and they both strode swiftly to the rear of their car, polished boots padding quietly along the wool carpet of the corridor.

He went first, elbowing the door open and stepping out between the rattling train cars. The ground passed beneath his feet at a dizzying speed as he gripped the ladder’s cold metal and climbed up as quietly as was possible. She followed suit, nimbly scaling the ladder and shuffling up beside him.

Crouching low until the train was clear of the remaining branches, the pair crept forward, only standing when she broke from the forest cover and sped about the curve of a grassy knoll. Wind whipped through the loose, billowing folds of their pleated habits, revealing the form-fitting uniforms of the Order of the Sacred Heart’s Hunters as each of them stood – two black silhouettes staring down the three ragged figures crouched together on the next car’s rooftop.

At a passing glance, they might have looked utterly average, unimpressive, even. One stood slightly taller than the other two, and was far better dressed. The lesser two, though, had the familiar look to them. The sunken feature, the ruddy tinge in their skin, the awful, milky-blue clouds in their eyes – clouds that caught the fading sunlight in such a horrible way as they slowly turned around. Tattered shirts clung to their shoulders as the breeze threatened to tear them off. The tallest of the three, the one with clear eyes and better-fitting garments, had a suspiciously clean rapier tucked into her belt. Adventurers or simple travelers at a glance, stowaways or petty thieves, most likely, given their chosen method of arrival aboard and the condition of their clothes. But to two experienced Hunters, there was no doubt – these two knew vampires when they saw them.

Smoke churned and steam hissed as the priest took a single step forward. His boot hitting the roof of the car rang out like a warning bell. The sound made their leader turn around in a start, but it was the nun who spoke first, shouting her words above the wind and the rhythmic pitter-patter of the engine that otherwise would have drowned her out.

If you are dead men walking, go with god and peace to you. I will pray for you. Only do no harm here.

An angry shriek cut her off as it tore from the throat of one of the two dead men; so loud and so piercing, it stung the ear more than the brutally loud steam whistle as the engine thundered over a dirt crossing. The two men with dead eyes darted towards them.

They have strayed too far to hear you, Sister. The priest turned his cane over in his hand. Let us be quick about it.

Quick as they were, the woman in black was quicker still. She overtook even her comrade in arms, dashing out in front of him and sliding underneath the bony knees of their attackers as they leaped forward. A blinding flash, a burst of heat, and she summoned a gold spear. A firm swipe of the glittering stave knocked the two white-eyed monsters down. She immediately raced towards the third, who drew her own rapier.

The two vampires that had crashed hard into the roof struggled to reorient themselves. They looked up just in time to see the priest meander toward them at a much more relaxed pace than his Huntress companion. One vampire was swifter than the other, scrambling to its feet and screeching as it brought both tooth and claw to bear against him. A hard slash aimed for the man’s belly swiped through the air a hair’s breadth from his gilded sash. The momentum of the failed blow paired with a nasty kick from the man sent the creature reeling forward awkwardly – another descent face-first into the roof of the car only halted by the priest’s gloved hand gripping their silvery hair.

A sickening snap sounded as the priest pulled the vampire’s head back by the scalp, jamming his knee up into his back at the same time, spine folding back fast like wet paper. The monster yelped, flailing clawed hands in desperation. At the same time, the other vampire had finally recovered and pulled itself up, and was dashing precariously along the roof toward the man.

The Hunter flung the convulsing vampire from him, sending their damaged body tumbling off the side of the car. He’d done so not a moment too soon, hopping nimbly out of range of the closed fist that came arching his direction. Far more controlled and collected than the other, this scrawny figure set their feet properly and kept their hands up to guard a gnarled face.

On the roof of the next car, the rapier came crashing down to meet the nun’s braced stave. The metal sent gold sparks flying and made the magicked weapon ripple like shattering glass. The Huntress swatted out against her opponent with the far end of her weapon, delivering a bone-shattering blow to the ribs that made the vampire curse into the wind. She was weak, slow – her energy and effort spent on raising the dead men. But she still had her sword arm and skill to spare.

The Huntress was forced back, boots scraping against the metal roof, by the vampire spinning around and thrusting the rapier toward her. She caught the nun in the hand, slicing open a grisly wound along her forearm as it slithered up the sleeve of her habit. The nun sucked in air through her teeth at the pain and shuffled back as blood dripped from her hand.

In the gap this created, the vampire dropped to one knee and held her shattered side. She reached into her pocket, yanking the cork from a tiny glass vial of blood with her teeth. She downed it in a hurry and smashed the bottle into the roof, growling in pain and frustration as she forced herself back to her feet. Her head twitched, and the Huntress wisely adopted a defensive stance. The vampire lunged with a newfound strength. Her wild, piercing strikes quickened. Each of them smashed out a loud, reverberating note as metal met metal. Her jaw opened wide and her mangled, overgrown teeth flashed bright in the early night as she fought for her life against the Huntress.

The train plunged from the open meadows into the trees, and gradually the sound of roaring water told all aboard they were nearing the falls. Craggy boulders appeared, greater in number and size the further she ventured, stationary between the trees like guards standing watch as they whisked by in the night.

This vampire seemed to have enough of his own mind still intact to see the priest was missing an eye. He sought to use this to his own advantage, maneuvering into the priest’s blind spot. Unfortunately, with age and injury often comes wisdom, and the priest did not allow the creature to loiter on his right side very long, matching each movement with a lazy sway of his shoulders and quick shuffles of his feet.

The nun’s steps were light and her movements swift, countering the rapier as the flurry of lunges and swipes attempted to pierce her defenses. One blow punched through, a hard kick from the enraged vampire that sent her stumbling awkwardly back, nearly slipping between the cars as the train raced through the forest. She caught her breath and moved quickly enough to hop to the next car, the vampire following close on her heels, angry and hungry, and perhaps no longer thinking straight.

The cane that the older Hunter carried had yet to strike a blow, grasped in his hand where it rested atop the other leisurely behind his back. Hooks and jabs flew from the vampire, a few kicks thrown in for good measure. But the man in the cassock was quick. He moved no more than was absolutely necessary, with an expression bordering on boredom as he twisted his shoulders and leaned his head just far enough as the pair danced further and further back. Any fighter worth their salt could tell the priest was trying to force the vampire closer, and with one tiny misstep, he got what he wanted. His knee came up to catch the fist flying for him, the hard crack of knuckles crashing into the joint making the vampire grimace. The priest kicked that leg out and sent the poor soul floundering about, finally whipping out his cane from behind his back.

The gilt handle of the cane hooked into the vampire’s mouth, blessed metal burning the skin and sending blood spluttering and steam hissing from their maw. A hard pull tore a hole through their cheek, exposing overgrown yellow teeth. Their ear hung down from the side of their head, dangling by a thin, mangled strip of flesh. A monstrous, ungodly screech erupted from their throat as they doubled over, choking on their own blood. A hard kick from the priest flung them off into the passing forest, body crashing hard and wrapping around the trunk of a birch tree, gurgling as it was swiftly left behind.

The vampire with the rapier saw the body tumble into the trees and groaned at the loss. The nun’s opening presented itself, and she took it. She plunged her spear straight through the vampire’s stomach, ripping it out to one side with a violent twist that sent blood spraying in the wind. She screamed out a pitiful wail, tottering clumsily to and fro as the Huntress spun around and landed a hard kick. The blow sent her careening off the roof, bloody body tumbling into the saplings and shrubbery beside the tracks, smearing blood over the forest floor and across a small boulder.

Her arm still bleeding and throbbing in pain, the Huntress gripped her lance firmly and leaped back across to the previous car. The train abandoned the cover of the forest once again, winding a path between craggy boulders to where the river waters tumbled over and down into a ravine. As she dashed toward her fellow Hunter, her eyes strained in the dark and noticed movement. Claws curled up over the lip of the roof as a twitching, mangled figure pulled itself up the side of the car, barreling toward the priest while his back was turned.

All the man heard was a worried Father! from his fellow before he felt the impact of the vampire, slamming into him with enough force to cast them both from the roof and out into the open air.

A metallic snap sounded as his cane extended, whipping up and catching its barbs fast into the metal of the train. His quick reflexes were enough to prevent his untimely demise, but did nothing to help with the vampire latched onto him. Spindly limbs wrapped about him, even as the blessed fabric of his cassock made the monster’s skin hiss and steam. It howled, baring a mouth full of deformed fangs and attempting to find purchase, be it with teeth or claws. The Hunter grunted as the two of them dangled precariously before summoning enough strength to pull himself up.

He braced his feet against the side of the car, kicking himself and the mangled mess out and away, before using that momentum to swing back toward the car and fling the vampire underneath. There was a split second where the poor sod’s humanity returned, and it let out a genuine, terrified squeal; a cry abruptly silenced as it was caught under the wheels and splattered into nothing over the rails.

The Huntress offered a hand and the man pulled himself up. Their chests heaved and hearts raced as they took a few moments to collect themselves. Unperturbed, the train sped north, toward the taller evergreen forests and vast, rolling hills rising in the distance.

The night sky was brilliant this far away from Windermere, natural beauty undimmed by the pollution of a hundred thousand guttering candles in streetlamps or fires burning in hearths, pouring their light out from every window. Serene and silent and forgiving of the bloodshed she’d witnessed, the evening gifted the Hunters a passing meteor as it plummeted from the heavens toward the horizon – leaving a bright trail as it etched out its last few moments in an explosive flash through the clouds.

Come morning, the good Hunters would be back in the arms of their Lady.

2

A

pair of mismatched elves were hovering over a shared newspaper. A Brother and Sister of the Order. Both were dressed in neatly pleated black robes with gold sashes worn high at the waist, heavy metal rosary beads strung through them. In addition, the two wore wool cloaks this cool morning, cut to allow free movement of the arms. Despite this thick outer layer, they still huddled near the crackling brazier for warmth. Though identical at their three-and-twenty years of age, there was a decent disparity in height between the two.

Philip, the taller of the two, wore the summer colors of a southern elf: their textbook golden skin and their thick, wavy hair. His hair was a deep, chocolate brown, combed in a part down the middle. Sharp ears pointed slightly up and out from his head. He had blue eyes dotted with gold, and a darling pair of dimples etched into his face: an ever-present symptom of his chronic smiling. He almost always wore some form of a grin. Except for at this moment, as he winced and felt at the bandage secured to his head, just above his right eyebrow.

Jael, meanwhile, was practically Philip’s opposite. She was a dusky, gray-skinned northeastern night elf with bright moonlight eyes, softer features, and a much shorter stature than her companion. She only came up to Philip’s shoulder, and her shoulders were only just as broad as his waist. Her straight dark hair and pointed ears were both concealed beneath her coif and veil. The latter she had a habit of pulling forward over her shoulder and stroking, as if finger-combing her hair instead.

For now, her fingers were occupied elsewhere. Stained and smudged black from the still-drying ink of the newspaper, which she tilted toward the flame to allow Philip to read better. Her silver eyes needed no such help, but Philip’s blue strained to make out the article she underscored with her thumb.

Stop fiddling with your bandage, she muttered. You’ll irritate the stitches. Look, says here the new captain is some sort of war hero.

Philip grumbled about his wound being itchy, but leaned in to see better, huffing sparks and smoke from the brazier out of his way. An artist’s rendition of the man in question had been printed beside a small introduction. He was touted as a veteran of battles, a champion and commander, a brilliant strategist … All in all, he seemed grossly overqualified to oversee the local guard of a sleepy city on the outskirts of the empire.

Philip’s voice trilled out somewhere between admiration and annoyance. That’s an awfully accomplished fellow to be sent to us. Probably just like the last, though. Keen to ride out a few more easy years before retiring.

Probably. I’ll bet this sketch of him makes him look thirty years younger than he is.

The pair of big, dappled gray horses harnessed to the carriage behind the two nickered. One of them pawed the ground impatiently, snorting and chewing at her bit. Woken up early, and for what? To idle away while these two youngsters babbled on, and without a bite of breakfast! Neither oat nor apple, nor even a stray tuft of grass!

He’ll probably come shambling in to introduce himself on a cane –

Good morning. Both Jael and Philip straightened to attention as a voice came from behind, interrupting their gossip.

Benjamin’s brown eyes were, as always, hidden behind a round pair of rosy-colored spectacles. He wore these on a gold chain that dangled from the lenses to loop about his neck. Fair skin and steely-blond hair gave him an aura of being spun from silver in the low morning light – and in any other light. While only a decade or so older than both Jael and Philip, Benjamin was adorned in the trappings of a full-fledged priest: a long, gilt sash hanging from the customary wrap at his waist, the ornate, embroidered trim decorating his otherwise plain cassock, and the raw magical power that seemed to radiate from the rosary carried at his belt.

Clean shaven and pink from the tip of his nose to his comparatively stubby human ears, only Benjamin’s hands were protected from the cold, nestled inside the warm folds of his sleeves. A blessing provided by the larger, billowy outer sleeves that his uniform touted, rather than the fitted sleeve cuffs worn by the other two.

Most importantly and in yet more contrast to the two young Hunters, Benjamin was a Cleric. A dedicated pacifist. He and his fellows dealt with the living and the dead, but never the undead.

Are we ready to depart?

Benjamin had a gentle but no-nonsense voice. Philip, for his part, adopted a more formal tone, carrying himself a bit taller: chest back, head up.

Yes, Brother.

Excellent. Then let us away.

Philip opened the door to the carriage and Benjamin picked up his robes, climbing neatly inside, but not before swiping Jael’s copy of the morning paper. One swift final check of the harnesses, and Philip climbed up beside Jael, placing his pointed hat on his head as she clicked her tongue and urged the horses on. They crept leisurely toward the gatehouse, and the pair of Hunters guarding the gate saluted their fellows before unbarring and pushing the massive creaking gates open.

Twin lanterns hanging off the front of the carriage, each carrying a little flickering tongue of an unnaturally gold and unusually stable flame, offered little visibility in the low morning light and enveloping fog. Jael’s night-attuned eyes missed little, though, and the carriage dashed nimbly across the arched cobblestone bridge. Over the stone path, between statues of long-dead clergy that lined the bridge and above the inky-black waters lurking beneath, they left the safety of Our Beloved Lady’s walls, and ventured out into the still-sleeping town she called home.

Inside the carriage, Benjamin drew his cassock about him as he unfolded the newspaper, eyes naturally drawn to the many smudged fingerprints that littered it. He whispered a small incantation under his breath, creating a tiny bubble of gold light that hovered just beside his head, illuminating the page just enough to read as they traveled.

At the same time the black carriage was leaving the church grounds, another pair of horses were making their way toward that very place. Two of a sleek, athletic breed, nothing like the burly draft horses pulling the carriage, and certainly not native to these harsh lands. They were all dressed up in neatly kept military barding and meticulously polished tack, and bore a pair of equally well-kept riders. Engraved armor trimmed with gold flashed when the lampposts caught a glimpse of it, tucked beneath the fabric of the dress uniforms both riders wore.

It was not the first time these two trod this path, but as newcomers and foreigners, both of them, they were met with wary glares. Sleepy, superstitious eyes inspected them from behind still-drawn curtains and cracks in closed shutters. Both were officers, but one clearly held higher rank. He wore an ugly, unimpressed frown as he picked out yet more details in this strange, so-called holy city.

The church seemed to … infect the very town, in his observation. Instead of street signs on the wide boulevards that made up the web of interconnected main roads, statues of venerated saints stood. The long lanes were named for whichever soul guarded it. The effigies all pointed the same way: toward the cathedral where she sat on a steep hill, the tallest within the city’s walls, and overlooked the city from the northwest.

These saints stood on corners, in squares, at the center of fountains and within pavilions. As if the city radiated out from Our Lady, and as if one would simply find their way through her boroughs and alleys by this guidance alone. As the two knights rode over the bridge toward the cathedral, yet more saints greeted them – set in a line along the banisters, only interrupted by empty, blackened stones, whose saints must have eroded or toppled centuries ago.

One such saint even guarded the modest, but well-maintained train platform. The train whistled out her arrival and steam hissed loud as she slowed to a crawl, flooding the platform with yet more fog. The sea of white swallowed up the conductor as she walked alongside the metal beast, carrying both her key and lantern. Benjamin tilted his head to make out a familiar silhouette emerging from the steam and fog over the rim of his glasses.

Despite his best efforts, Cyril was easy to find in a crowd, if one knew what to look for. He stood a head or so taller than the average man, especially if one counted the pointed hat the Hunters wore, that sat naturally angled high on the back of his head and low in the front. Said hat only slightly obscured the seafoam hair he wore long and tied back. Thanks to the dreary weather, he had donned his long cloak, the smoky fur collar helping him retain some precious amount of anonymity by covering up that recognizable color.

He carried two modest leather suitcases, his cleaned cane tucked between the handles of one of them, over toward his black-robed fellow and stooped slightly to set them down. The bespectacled Brother wrinkled his nose in disgust, slipping his fingers under the hem of his inner sleeve and retrieving a folded, lightly perfumed cotton kerchief.

Ugh, you reek of vampire blood. What, were you having it by the glass all night?

Hilarious. Cyril took the proffered handkerchief and attempted to wipe the remains of dried blood from his neck and jaw. Though he and his companion had both changed into fresh clothes, that vile magic loved to linger on the skin. It would require a proper bath and blessings to be completely rid of it.

Benjamin gestured, and Brother Philip rushed to fetch the suitcases. Out of consideration for the Archbishop’s well-known desire not to draw attention to himself, Philip forsook the traditional greeting of kneeling and kissing his hand, instead bowing his head as he addressed him, trying and failing to contain his excitement beneath a more professional formality.

Welcome back, Father.

He moved immediately to fetching the suitcases, only pausing to give the Father a moment to pull his cane from between the handles, and to return the greeting with a much more subtle, but still gracious, bow of his head.

Thank you, Brother.

As Philip set about securing the two suitcases to the rear of the carriage, he couldn’t help but smile. A rosy blush spread from his tawny cheeks to the tips of his pointed ears.

Jael elbowed him sharply. Spend less time giggling and more time paying attention! These are not secure at all. You won’t be grinning if Father’s suitcase falls off on the road.

Philip chuckled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his head as she properly knotted the ropes about the luggage. Benjamin leaned over once more to look behind Cyril, expecting to see his traveling companion, but only seeing the string of civilian passengers disembarking. The Archbishop flicked his head off to a small crowd, where the Sister in question stood, surrounded by passengers and even the conductor, all thanking her profusely and praising her for her bravery and initiative.

The conductor, named Constance, was a slender, charming woman. Ruby-red lips and a neat pinstripe suit cut quite the figure, especially now as she fluttered her eyelashes and rather unabashedly flirted with the Sister.

Sister Sybil, such a pleasure to finally meet you – what good fortune you happened to be aboard! I had no idea you were returning to Windermere so soon.

Poor Sybil was far too humble to accept such praise, bowing her head and doing her utmost to retain a demure, pleasant expression as both her hands were clasped by the conductor. Please, there is no need to thank me.

To her relief, Benjamin strolled over and interjected that it was time to depart. He masterfully slipped his hand between Sybil’s and Constance’s, giving the conductor a smile and distracting her enough to allow the Sister to retract her own hand. As they strolled toward the carriage, Sybil thanked him under her breath, letting her forced smile unwind and flexing her cramping cheeks.

Cyril, for his part, was hiding on the far side of the carriage. Head bowed and obfuscated by his hat, lest he be subject to the same sort of reception. He offered his downturned hand, and Sybil rested hers atop it to step up into the carriage, with Benjamin following just behind her in the same fashion. Before climbing up into the carriage himself, Cyril spoke to Philip. The young elf straightened up twice the amount he had for Benjamin, eager to hear the Archbishop’s instructions.

Before we go, extend my apologies to the conductor. Please tell her that I will arrange to pay for the damage to the car.

Philip nodded, though an inquisitive tilt of his head conveyed his confusion. Cyril didn’t answer his curiosity, and the younger Brother was left to simply stare at the train itself, only noticing now the damaged metal and cracked windows on one of the cars, and the muddy brown splatter that he realized must have been dried blood.

On the far side of the train platform, an observant young man had noticed Cyril’s presence immediately. His face was obscured, partially by the high collar of a black silk shirt, partially by a wide-brimmed leather hat common among working-class gentlemen, and partially by the paper-wrapped bundle of foliage he carried. The smell of herbs, heavy and medicinal, masked the sickly stench of his relatively weak, but still cursed, blood to even the most observant or sensitive. Constance saw him, though. She gave him an intense scowl through her narrow spectacles that made him heft his bundle and quickly stride off down a slip road.

Once finally inside the carriage and out of the public’s immediate line of sight, Cyril sighed a deep breath and relaxed back against the seat. Sybil and Benjamin sat opposite him, facing forward toward the horses, while he rode in reverse.

Benjamin had already spied Sybil favoring her wounded arm, though she attempted to play it off as nothing until the Archbishop intervened.

Sister’s left arm, Brother. I stemmed the bleeding as much as I could, but I believe it needs more attention.

Sybil shot Cyril a petty glare, but allowed Benjamin to roll up her sleeve and inspect the wound as the carriage lurched forward. Slashed skin was stitched neatly together with wispy white threads. Barely there, like spider silk caught in sunlight. The magic served to keep the wound closed and halt bleeding, but was unable to do much else.

I see. It is not severe, but we will need to disinfect and bind it properly at once.

Sybil sat back and let out an annoyed sigh.

It won’t take long, Benjamin reassured her. I’ll have you in and out of the infirmary before breakfast.

You won’t make me take any of your nasty tonics, will you?

Mention them again and I just might.

No, please. You’ll put me off my long-awaited breakfast, she moaned. Do you know how long I’ve been looking forward to Miriam’s cooking?

Cyril chuckled quietly as they continued bickering, glancing out the window as the carriage made its way up the gently sloping cobblestone roads. He could see his Hunters patrolling the roads and rooftops – a few of the particularly observant recognized the carriage and saluted, even from considerable distance. A few houses – too many, for his liking – had those familiar upside-down, multi-tiered crosses typically used to mark illness, death, or worse. Some were proper metal casts, provided and sold by the church. Some were homemade, of wood or painted cloth stretched over twigs. Some were painted right on the door. Marks of pleas, of fear, of desperation.

Frustration furrowed the brow of the Archbishop. I am counting more crosses than I would like. Have the Hunters grown docile in my absence?

Benjamin folded his arms into his habit sleeves and shrugged. As a Cleric, he was a dedicated pacifist, and so preferred not to dwell on the more gruesome occupation of his fellows.

I am not informed on the matter. Speak to Brother Maddoc about that.

A few younger boys crossing the road on their way to school noticed Cyril in the carriage and called out to him, waving. As the carriage picked up pace, a group of five or so of the schoolchildren raced along beside it, waving and hopping up, hoping to glimpse the Archbishop.

Father’s back, Father’s back!

Cyril gave a small wave of his own to the boys, who had to stop when the carriage traveled too fast for them, to prevent themselves from deviating too far from their path to school. A few of the older folk bowed their heads and kissed their hands in respect, now that the identity of the passenger had been thus revealed.

3

O

ur Beloved Lady was a city unto herself. Even before one reached her walls, her influence was deeply felt. The worn stones of the road grew smoother where they were better maintained, in that borough closest to the church. Across one of the taller bridges, where river water rushed ice-cold as it diverged from the main body, only to rejoin it later, began the realm of the church’s layfolk. The oldest part of the city, indeed considered by many to be the original city itself. Living so close to the Lady, and in such charming accommodations, was a privilege reserved for few families.

The sloping hills leading up to the cathedral’s own walls had been chiseled into neatly kept tiers reinforced with stone. These slopes bore all manner of gardens and orchards, which were already buzzing with activity as tenant farmers saw to their care. Inside her walls was a scene much the same, as the many lay people emerged from their apartments, or trekked up on foot from their homes in the surrounding district, and began the myriad of daily tasks necessary to keep such a massive complex in operation. Skilled craftsmen and women of every inclination were eagerly making use of daylight. From stonemasons to coopers, from tinkers to beekeepers, every task was seen to under the ever-watchful eye of the clergy.

By circling to the southwest, the carriage could be spared the publicity, noise, and relative chaos of the public grounds. They crossed back over the bridge they had departed via, and were welcomed back into the restricted grounds where the clergy’s private stables resided. This both spared the passengers the hassle of being subject to a throng of people, as well as enabled them a far more leisurely, pleasant path into the church proper. Upon departing the stables, one could wind through any one of many paths. Through one of the several orchards, the flower gardens, or even keeping to the paved cloisters, with their protective arches and glittering, ever-burning lanterns.

The distant, fragrant aroma of wood fires, smoked meat, and citrus taunted the Sister’s appetite, and Sybil attempted to quietly divert her path from that of her two fellows. Benjamin noticed the shift in her steps and reached out, taking hold of her by the arm in the same way a parent would a wiggling child.

Ah, ah. Infirmary, now.

Drat.

Cyril chuckled at them yet again, shaking his head and glancing about the gardens as they continued on their way toward the main buildings. Sunlight was filtering through the fog, slicing lines through the foliage of the apple orchard. His steps slowed as he thought he noticed a familiar shape poking out from behind the trunk of a tree.

Oh, and Father, I believe you have guests this morning … Benjamin’s words trailed off as he realized Cyril had stopped to stare off into the orchard, and clearly was not listening.

Hm? Oh … yes. I will see to it. Thank you, Brother. Please, go on ahead, you two.

Benjamin and Sybil carried on in the direction of the infirmary as Cyril changed course. He descended the stone steps from the cloister that let out onto the garden’s dirt paths, heading toward the apple orchard. He ducked his head under a branch to get a better look at the pair of feet sticking out ostentatiously from between fallen leaves and twisted roots.

Though swiftly approaching her twenty-fourth year, Brontë was still technically a novice. That being the case, her black dress and habit were slightly shorter in length than the fuller attire of the Sisters her age. The hem of her dress only approached her calves. This meant her legs – or, more accurately, her stockings – were subject to all the trials and tribulations she put them through by trouncing about the gardens without her shoes on. Already muddled with dirt, at least two fresh holes had been torn in them from snagging on wayward branches or splintering fence beams. Her novice veil, and the small amount of ebony hair that poked out from underneath it at her brow and temples, fared little better.

Brontë was relatively petite in build, short, and pleasingly plump. Everything about her was soft. The relatively sharp, angular bone structure of her face was tempered by fuller cheeks and a soft jawline. She had deep, chocolate-brown eyes that flickered with equal parts sincerity and mischief … when they were open. The white marble statues scattered about the grounds rivaled her complexion. Her cheeks, though, were blotchy and flushed pink, either a symptom of the cold, or perhaps a symptom of whatever she had been reading, and perhaps was dreaming about as a result.

Her book was still open, now sprawled out page-down on her belly, with one hand resting atop it as she dozed. Cyril had to tilt his head to read what he could of the title through her fingers … some romance novel. He sighed and cleared his throat in an attempt to wake her. When this achieved nothing, he took his cane and softly swatted at her foot.

Her toes curled and her eyelids fluttered open, half expecting to find a brave, overly curious squirrel or perhaps a bird pecking at her. The bleary, burly silhouette of Cyril looming over her – all dressed in black and with a fluffy fur pelt over his shoulders, breath puffing like dragon smoke in the cold morning – made for a startling surprise indeed. Brontë’s cheeks went bright red and she leaped to her feet, frantically flinging her book behind the tree and brushing dirt from her skirts, as if that would somehow help her predicament.

Father!

Cyril’s one eye followed the poor book as it fluttered off into the dirt, before coming back to rest on the mortified young lady. Stammered syllables of excuses were halfway out of her mouth when she remembered her manners, dropping to her knees and reaching for his hand to kiss it. He disentangled his hand after she’d done so, gesturing with two fingers for her to stand.

After an embarrassing few seconds of attempting to collect herself, she stood still with her stockinged feet together, hands clasped in front of her, head up smartly. Well, smartly save for the desperate puff she made out of one side of her mouth to try and coax a flyaway hair out of her face. Of all people to find her like this! She would have preferred Mother Superior found fault with her and twisted her ear right off.

Welcome home! You’ve returned early? Is everything alright? Was there trouble? Are you well –?

Cyril put a finger up before his lips to silence her.

Good morning. Is this how you’ve been spending all of them, in my absence? Enjoying three months of idleness and storybooks? His good eye blinked slowly as he surveyed her from head to toe and back up again, before fishing for his pocket watch and squinting at it. Don’t you have something useful you should be doing?

She furrowed her brow and smiled awkwardly, rubbing her foot against the back of her opposite leg. His words stung, and so did her eyes as she fought back the bite of embarrassment.

She murmured in shame, I don’t join –

Speak up, girl. None of your mumbling.

I don’t join Brother Hugo in the bakery until six –!

The loud chimes of the bells ringing out the hour silenced her. Cyril clicked his watch shut, stowing it in the folds of his sash. Brontë’s already pink cheeks went progressively redder with each reverberation and she pursed her lips. Six o’clock.

Exactly. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Come