Kiss the Shadow
Chapter 3: To Be Stained - Part Two
Grissom cursed as he slapped the rain out of his face. His clothes were completely soaked through, his feet shivering in his boots, his eyes straining against the dark. All around him the streets were deserted and silent. Only now was he beginning to realize his folly in pursuing the cloaked stranger this far, alone and unarmed as he was. Through alleys and unlit side streets they had run, hare and hound--Duane and Albred could not possibly follow that twisted path to find their kin. And so he stood transfixed for some time, regaining his breath and bearings. Had he crossed into the southern section of city blocks? He did not recognize any of the buildings, and that made him wary.
Further down the road the figure of a man stepped into view, still wrapped in the same drenched mantle. He lingered only a moment before breaking into a run, away from the solitary knight. Cursing, Grissom resumed the chase. He had come too far to admit defeat now. The memories of Lady Wellerune's cruel death remained heavily pressed into his mind, making his closed fists ache. He would claim justice for her this night, and all others the blackheart had slain before.
The stranger hurried on, vanishing down another narrow alleyway. Grissom followed, and was startled when the short passage led them out onto the main road of South Huolen--to his right was the Holy River Queth, its waters gurgling anxiously with the unexpected raindrops. The stone rails arched over the causeway like a fort's drawbridge entrance, dotted with angelic statuettes. Grissom skidded to a halt on the slick cobblestones. His quarry had at last halted, and was standing stiffly at the bridge's inclination. There was pride in the way he held himself; strange, that it could be so easily conveyed despite the heavy cloaks surrounding his form.
As Grissom fought to control his breathing, the man at last spoke. His voice was at once loud, so as to be heard, and soft, like wind rippling through silk sheets. "May I inquire as to why you are following me, sir?"
Grissom gathered himself to his full height, staring the man down. His imagination twisted the scene into something strange: the heathen, set against a backdrop of castle-like fortitude, could turn and flee to safety at any moment. If God's work were to be done this night, it would have to be now. "I come as a servant of God," he declared, just as loudly, fueled by a sense of righteousness. "And I place you under arrest."
"Arrest?" The silk-sheet voice was now filled with scathing amusement. "Under what authority?"
"The authority of God," Grissom snapped back, taking a careful step forward. He would have to make his approach carefully, or risk the bastard fleeing again. It was obvious that the cloaked man, despite his appearance, was the faster of the two. "I saw you at the Wellerune Manor. I know you're aware of what happened there."
The stranger did not reply for some time, his posture gradually straightening. From within his cloaks appeared a hand--wearing a glove of some sort, Grissom could just make out against the rain. A smooth motion lifted the thick woolen hood, revealing a slender, pale face with deep-set eyes. He shook his head to free locks of shoulder-length, golden hair. "I am quite aware," the stranger said in that same undulating tone.
Grissom frowned at the stranger's face. There was something familiar about that lean visage, though he could not place it in his memory. These concerns were quickly forgotten, however, and he demanded, "Why? Why would you beasts do such a thing?" He moved another few steps forward, eyes narrowed and blazing. "To a defenseless, elderly--"
"Hold your tongue, Churchman," the stranger snapped at him suddenly. He did not attempt to withdraw, encouraging Grissom to step forward once more. They were now only half a dozen meters apart. "'Twas not I that scarred the woman."
Grissom snorted disdainfully. "Of course not. I'm sure you had one of your dark servants do the job." His mind spun, trying to conceive a course of action. "Couldn't have blood spilt across that pretty face of yours."
Still the blond man held his ground, fixing the knight with a sharp, increasingly annoyed glare. "You come in the name of your God," he spat, "but you are blind. I and mine had nothing to do with the death of the unfortunate nobles. If you seek vengeance, speak to the Parliament dog that feeds on their carcasses."
"I seek justice." But the man's words made him pause, remembering the intense glare shared by the Inquisitor and his captain. There may have been more to this design than he had anticipated.
Something in Grissom's mind slid into place just then, and he stared at the blonde, gradually fitting the flawless skin and marble eyes into a coherent image. "I know you," he murmured, suddenly recalling the events of that night long past. "You're one of those pagan cultists." The smell and the filth of the room of Lady Wellerune's death returned to him as well, and he shuddered with disgust. "I cannot suffer so miserable a creature to walk free."
"And I say to you," the blonde declared, spreading his arms, "you'll not find Marguerite's blood here. Go back to your church and your blind ways, knight. I have no business with you." As if these words were final he turned, starting onto the worn stones of the bridge.
Grissom uttered a curse and strode swiftly after him. He had no way of fighting--he knew this, but he could not be still and simply watch a criminal depart so effortlessly into the night. A few long steps brought him to the cultist, and he reached out, his hand closing around a cloaked shoulder. It wasn't until he touched him that he realized how thin and frail the man beneath the fabric really was. "Halt!" he commanded as he dragged him back, ready to use stronger force if need be.
The cultist turned far more easily than Grissom had anticipated--as if it had been his intention all along. His cloak billowed despite the rain beating into it, momentarily drawing the knight's vision. A streak of harsh light split the field of storm-washed gray. With it came a swell of atmosphere, a stench not unlike the cold shadows of the Wellerune manner. The warning, however, came too late for Grissom. Even as he pulled away the light swept over him, carving a path of fire along his left arm and shoulder. The pain was so intense that he could not even cry out--or perhaps it had merely been drowned out by the cracking bellow in his ears, the hiss of rain sizzling against burned flesh.
It had all happened far too fast. The impact of the spell threw Grissom backwards, twisting, and he landed harshly on the rain-wet stones. Only then did his voice return to him, breaking free in an anguished cry as his injured side struck the ground. He could not even clutch at the burns without causing him greater agony. He rolled onto his back, gasping through clenched teeth--already his fingers were growing stiff, though the rest of him trembled.
Magick--he'd been hit by magick. Grissom tried to control himself, to block the pain searing his limb, with very little success. He could not pry his eyes open to behold what had become of his quarry. There was only the fierce white heat in his flesh, the suffocating filth of dark powers lingering about his huddled form. He only barely managed to choke out a strangled curse. "Cowardly bastard...."
"I could have killed you, just now." The voice floated to him as if on the edge of a dream, enfolded in the pounding rain that caused his arm to spasm with every droplet that fell upon it. "Perhaps you'll learn something with this."
Grissom cringed, trying to pry his eyes to open. The rain stung, and forced them shut. He trembled with outrage and pain. His arm was throbbing so intensely that he couldn't properly determine where the ache was coming from, how badly he'd been damaged. It felt as if the entire limb were on fire.
"Grissom!"
Someone was calling him. He could lift his voice in no more than a pained moan, however, to signal his position. It must have been louder than he'd thought--soon after a man knelt over him, and another moved past onto the bridge. "Grissom, it's Duane," the voice said harshly in his ear, pressing against his back in an attempt to right him. Grissom gritted his teeth and obeyed the gentle prodding. "Hold on, Brother. Calm yourself."
Grissom gradually managed to get his breathing under control, and with that came the release of his tightly closed eyelids. The scene was slow to penetrate his dulled senses: Duane rested at his side, and in front of him stood the form of captain Guildenstern, rapier pointing at the hooded cultist. The captain's posture was tall and straight--he did not risk even a glance back as he spoke. "Father Grissom. Are you all right?"
"No, sir," Grissom croaked, cradling his arm against his chest. Whatever evil the cultist had used against him, it had incinerated his entire left sleeve and much of his flesh. He shuddered as agony spread from his arm into the rest of him. "I...my arm...."
"You'd better take him to a doctor, Guildenstern," the cultist advised knowingly. "Best not waste your time with me. You know I came this night only as witness, not as executioner."
Still the captain did not so much as shift his weight. "Father Duane," he said evenly, keeping his sword tip aimed at the blonde's throat. "Take care of your brother for me."
There was something strange in his voice when he spoke those words; pained as he was, however, Grissom could not take the time to ponder its significance. He was more concerned with the fidgeting response from his brother. "Sir, his wounds are serious," he stated softly, his profile seemingly sharper against the dreary streets.
"Aye. And so I ask you to take care of him." Guildenstern took a step forward. "Leave Losstarot to me."
Losstarot? Grissom's attention snapped back to his assailant, pale with wonder. Sydney Losstarot, leader of the unholy sect of Müllenkamp. Prophet and mind reader--a warlock. He inhaled sharply, grimacing. Dear God, but you were merciful to spare my life.
Duane was still shifting uneasily, his eyes wide. After a silent moment he murmured, "As you say, sir," and turned to his brother once more. "Come, Grissom." He pulled Grissom's right arm over his shoulders and started to lift him up.
Grissom bit his lip, and managed to climb to his feet with Duane's help. He tottered only a moment--his head was spinning--before regaining his balance. "Be careful, Sir Guildenstern," he advised, concerned.
"Worry of yourself, Father," the man replied simply.
Duane took a step back, pulling his brother with him, before turning to depart from the scene. Grissom kept his eyes on the stare-locked pair as long as he could, and paid little attention to where they were headed. His feet obeyed Duane's directions without hesitation. Only after a few short minutes of travel, however, Duane muttered a curse and pulled them into the shelter of a narrow alleyway, and set his charge down among the rain-washed filth.
"Duane, what are you doing?" Grissom demanded. He tried to stand, and found he had no strength to do so alone. The pain in his arm was so great that he was made nauseous from it.
"Hold still." Duane crouched beside him, probing carefully over the wound: the burns were deep, blistering, and ran all the way from shoulder to elbow like the limb of a skinned animal. He cursed savagely.
Grissom squeezed his eyes shut, allowing his body to slump against the wall of alley, his mind faded and dark. His wound was serious--would he lose the limb? The thought caused a cold tremor to run through him, which only made the pain even more acute. "Brother," he gasped, trying to control his breathing. "Why...have we stopped?"
"Just hold still, damn you. And be silent." He could feel Duane shifting, his hands hovering indecisively over the length of the burns. For a long moment there was silence, save the slowing pace of the rain, the harsh exhalations of Grissom's breath. The younger brother did as he was told, too weak with strain to protest any longer. His compliance was awarded, as it seemed, by a gentle chill spreading over his enflamed flesh. It was calming and soft, like a woman's soothing hand; he sighed quietly, too relieved to question the origin of this mysterious salvation.
The calm was, no more than a few seconds later, replaced by a soft tingling, as if his arm had not been burned but was merely awakening from sleep. There was only a slight pain, and a tugging sensation. At last Grissom opened his eyes as the clouds melted from his consciousness. He had not considered what source this relief was being drawn from, and so when the scene became clear to him was thrown into shock. Duane, his brother, was holding his widespread hands over Grissom's arm, and from his fingertips a faint, iridescent green light was filtering toward the burns. The man's face was drawn in concentration; his eyes did not leave his work.
Grissom stared at him, his jaw slack and face pale. He recognized that emerald glow, of course--magick, the black arts, of the same form that had so deeply scarred him already. And his brother was working them. His brother--his very blood, a priest and a knight of the highest order, heir to the Vedivier name and legacy--was working magick upon him. He was too stunned and distraught to move. He turned his gaze to his arm, watching the shimmering lights descend upon the charred flesh and gradually knit it into smooth skin once more. The process was slow but precise, moving up toward his shoulder, healing the burns.
Several minutes later Duane released his breath and sat back. He would not meet his brother's gaze as Grissom examined his newly healed appendage. There was no blemish, not even a scar. He was speechless. He curled his fingers, testing, pressed his nail into his forearm to make sure it was no illusion he suffered from. He had been mended. Even so, his body trembled with the knowledge he now held.
Duane could command magick.
Grissom searched for his voice and found nothing. He felt no anger or revulsion--he only felt ill. He had never expected such a thing, could have never prepared to question his brother on matters such as these. Thousands of unsaid inquiries invaded upon his brain: How long had Duane known these arts? From whence had they come? Were there other magicks he could work besides healing?
Duane refused to meet the searching gaze. His jaw was held tight, though otherwise he showed no outward sign of discomfort at having just betrayed his thirty-seven years of devout faith. "I'll take you back now," he said, his voice strangely hollow and distant. Gradually, the rain slowed and halted around them, leaving the only sounds in the alley those of droplets sliding off the roof gutters. Another moment passed, and the elder Vedivier rose stiffly to his feet. He there waited.
Grissom gulped, though his mouth was dry and his throat twisting with unsaid questions. One trembling hand pressed into the alley wall to assist him in pushing to his feet. His body felt odd to him--charged, as if a bolt of lightning had passed through him, leaving him with too much energy to the simple task of moving his limbs. It was by no means an unpleasant sensation, and he moved his arms hesitantly, testing. Was this the power he had been taught to loathe, to excise? This strange flow of vibrant warmth, this thrill--
Grissom shook his head, startled and ashamed by his own thoughts. For him to be admiring the tools of his enemies--of demons--was foul madness. "Duane," he said, his voice a bit too high, too desperate as he turned on his brother for an explanation.
"I'll take you back," his brother interrupted firmly. Without waiting for a response he took several northward steps, as if content to leave their exchange as thus.
Grissom pressed his lips thin, and moved slowly to follow. He could not bring himself to speak against the silence of the night--he felt as if the heavens, darkened and overcast, were mourning with him the death of something within his heart. It spread cold agony through him, deeper than the burns that had only minutes ago scarred his very flesh. His gaze fled the form of his brother as he fell into step behind him.
Duane led the pair through the streets once more, making no sound other than the gentle splash of his boots in fresh puddles. Grissom, too, held his voice silent as he pondered the events of the long day. He'd gained some extra sleep to prepare for his testing, watched as his companions were pitted against the captain, retired to the town for a drink, discovered Lady Wellerune in the manor, chased whom he thought to be her assailant through the city, learned...that his brother....
These thoughts tumbled again and again through his distraught brain, and he shook his head several times to clear them without success. It made no sense--none of it. Sydney had spoken of a Parliament dog--the Inquisitor, most likely, that he had met briefly with inside the manner. What reason would a spy and informant have to murder an old noble couple? Such accusations also offered no explanation to the stain of dark magick he'd felt in the chamber, the overpowering stench of evil. Surely, only demon spawn were capable of working such arts.
But no--his brother, the priest and knight, could perform such spells.
And what of Captain Guildenstern? He was compelled suddenly to turn back, to search for his leader whom they had abandoned in the face of a devil. Before he even slowed his pace, however, he was gripped suddenly by anxiety--surely the first thing Guildenstern would question would be the condition of his left arm, burned and blistered last he saw it. How could he explain the mysterious healing without placing his brother in jeopardy? If the captain knew of Duane's impurity, soon the cardinal would know, which would lead to the appointment of a heresy examiner, an investigation...Grissom cringed. It was too much--too much to consider all at once, and he was weak again, and very small. Helpless.
The brothers did not return to the Wellerune Manor--Grissom noticed that Duane was leading them in a path specifically avoiding the crime scene. He wondered what had become of Albred, but thought better than to question. He was too weary to protest any of his brother's actions. They made their way silently through the city streets that glistened with the freshly spent rain, toward the towering shadows of the Grand Cathedral. Despite protocols they did not file a report of the night's activities with the scribe's office. Weary steps carried the pair to their quarters at the far end of the knight's compound, where their paths separated; Grissom's room was part of the commander's complex, while Duane and his wife were granted a small tenant apartment further from the soldiers. They parted without a word. For this Grissom was grateful--he would not have known how to respond to anything his brother asked of him now.
The halls were quiet that evening; most of the soldiers of his own rank were long since asleep, nursing weary bodies and minds after the grueling trials. The lower officers were similarly subdued, preparing for when they would be put to judgment. Grissom slipped into his room in the eastern quadrant undisturbed, changing slowly into fresh nighttime attire. Though his body still felt the tingling charge of Duane's magick, his senses were dull and without motivation. With a sigh he collapsed onto the stiff mattress and cast his gaze to the ceiling.
Dear God, what happened here tonight? Grissom prayed, crossing himself. Forgive me. I should have never pursued the man. And...forgive my brother. Whatever his sins, please, forgive him--us.
Only a few minutes of thoughtful silence passed before there was a soft knock on his door. Though currently unenthusiastic in receiving visitors, Grissom called for the man to enter. He did not rise to greet him, merely cocked an eye. It was Albred, having also changed from his soaked garments, wearing an expression of severe concern. He hurried inside and closed the door behind him. "Grissom, you're back," he said with blatant relief. "I was worried. Did Duane find you? He was in a fit when you took off like that."
"I'm fine," Grissom replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. He was in no mood to put up with Albred's whining at present. More importantly, he was fearful of the questions he might ask of that evening's events. "And yes, I was a fool. No, I didn't catch the rogue. Are all your questions satisfied?"
"Hardly." Albred took it upon himself to take a seat at Grissom's desk, sitting backwards in the chair that he might see his friend as he continued. "Did you see who it was? Duane mentioned such horrible arts at work."
Grissom tried hard not to grimace. Yes, now he knew that his brother well recognized the dark arts. "Aye. 'Twas a demon in the form of a man. A cultist dog." He scrubbed at his eyes as if to remove the stain of the memories from his sight. "Now Albred, please, I am weary."
"Of course, I assumed as much. I only wanted to be assured that you made it back a'right." He stood, looking awkward and weighted by too many questions. "And...the captain? I would have liked to see him facing down a cultist--what a tale that would be for the 'Dove, wouldn't it?"
"Aye, friend, maybe. Now please." The commander turned away, wishing for solitude once more. "Ask me again in the morning."
Albred regarded him with disappointment, though he seemed to understand. "A'right. In the morning." He straightened suddenly. "Rest well, Grissom. You deserve it, after all that. Shall we meet for breakfast? Neither of us will be on duty."
"A late breakfast. I daresay I'll sleep late."
"Aye, fine. That would be fine." He nodded to himself, searching for some word of consolation for his friend. Grissom almost sighed openly in impatience--he didn't need such assurances. He only wanted to be alone. "Well then, in the morning. I'll be about, when you're ready." Albred moved to the door and hesitated a moment more before exiting at last.
I cannot tell Albred, Grissom thought sourly as he rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. He is as white and righteous as a saint. Who can I turn to, now that my brother...my own blood has turned his face from God? I must speak to him. He sighed heavily as fatigue overwhelmed him. I cannot abandon him. I will bring him back into God's favor. I can save him.
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