Kiss the Shadow
Chapter 4: Welcoming
As he had anticipated, Grissom did not rise until the day had progressed late into morning. Despite all his anxieties he had slept soundly, and was filled with robust energy once he woke. The arm that had come so close to losing function completely now seemed to move more easily than ever. Even the gruesome bruise dealt to him by his captain during his status trial had been remedied. He spent several long minutes in front of the mirror, watching the curling of his fingers, the bending of his elbow, until he no longer felt so odd. It was wearing off quickly, thank God.
Breakfast--or perhaps, more appropriately, lunch--with Albred was an anxious affair. The knight wanted to speak of nothing save the night before, with all its bizarre occurrences. Grissom dodged each question as best he could, and even faked a pain in his left shoulder so no one would question the absence of his bruise. As a storyteller at heart, Albred would be quick to notice such details. But in the end Grissom proved to be a good enough liar, and his companion departed for his duties none the wiser.
Grissom heaved a sigh of relief once he was alone. As he had just been put through the trials he was given a day's recuperation, though he could not think of a single way to enjoy his superior's generosity. He would have liked to seek out Tieger and Neesa for their counsel, but today was their scheduled examination, and they would be detained for the better part of the day. Thankfully the same was to be said about their captain. Grissom dreaded that meeting more than anything--more so, even, than facing his brother.
"Father Grissom."
He had been on his way back to his room, seeking solitude and repose, when the voice froze him in place. A chill ran all along his spine. He should have turned immediately, should have nodded acknowledgment. But the thought of facing the bearer of that voice twisted his innards; he had no explanation to give, and he grieved already for the loss of favor he held with his patient captain. Please God, give me strength, he prayed, resisting the temptation to cross himself. Slowly, he turned.
Romeo Guildenstern was watching him with calm perplexity, as if trying to ascertain the cause of his commander's sudden hesitation. He was clad in full armor that bore no signs of the rain from the night before, and his manner seemed brisk and fresh. "Good afternoon, Father," he greeted with a polite nod. "Did I startle you?"
Grissom hastened to return his captains salutations with a nod of his own. "I'm sorry, sir. I was preoccupied." His left arm began to throb, as if suddenly wary of being seen, and he turned his body just slightly to keep the limb out of Guildenstern's view. At least he wouldn't have to fake an expression of pain—his ill ease was already making his features tight. "Do you not have evauluations today?"
"Oh, they are today," he answered, smiling just slightly. He didn't seem to notice his company's distress, or if he did, made no indication of it. "But seeing as I'll be occupied all this week, I'm allowed a bit of time in the morning for myself. I was just on my way to join the commanders on the field."
"I hope you won't be too difficult with my comrades," Grissom managed to say lightly. He and his captain had, on occasion, shared a pleasant word, and to not do so now would only alert him further to an already desperate situation. If he discovers what my brother—what we've done, he will be obligated to deal with us. I do not want to put him in such a position. Dear God, if anyone is to know, I beg you, make it not be him. I worked so hard to gain even this small favor with him.
Guildenstern was still smiling, in a way that usually made Grissom feel a bit of pride; there was no arguing that the captain held respect for his young commander. But seeing him so at ease now only made Grissom cringe, knowing that trust to be misplaced. "I wouldn't worry about them too much," Guildenstern said easily, taking a step towards him. Grissom tried not to flinch, and was granted some relief when it looked as if the older man was simply moving past him to continue down the hall. "This is only a routine trial. I've no intentions of cutting back our forces."
"Yes, sir. I wish you good luck today." Grissom hid a sigh of relief as Guildenstern stepped past, relaxing somewhat.
"Thank you. Oh, and Grissom." Grissom's breath caught in his throat at the knight's next words. "How fares your arm?"
Unconsciously the commander pressed his arm close to his body as he turned to face the man once more. "It's…not as bad as it looked last night, sir," he answered, injecting strength and assurance into his unsteady voice. "I think it will be quite healed in very little time at all."
Guildenstern nodded. "That's good to hear." He paused there a moment more, watching Grissom with eyes that were too sharp, too questioning. Again Grissom was reduced to silent prayers—thankfully, Guildenstern appeared convinced. "Take care of yourself well," he advised as he continued on his way.
Once he was out of sight, Grissom released all the breath he'd been holding through a deep, very relieved sigh. He wiped his brow against a clammy palm. I won't be able to keep this up, he thought sourly, starting quickly back to his quarters. I…I have to face Duane. I have to know what's going on, and what I can do to resolve it. When he replayed the exchange in his mind he cursed. God, forgive me for lying to him so blatantly. But I'm protecting him, too.
Grissom stood for many long minutes with his knuckles poised over his brother's door. Such cowardice he'd never thought existed in him. Already he had allowed a week to pass without action or event. The trials had ended, the new season begun. Winter's cold chill had left the land about the Great Cathedral dark and brown, shivering beneath a blanket of decaying leaves and fallen daisies. Grissom had watched these changes with a heavy heart as time slipped away from him. Every time he found himself here he pulled away, fearful of what more secrets his brother had to tell. Thankfully his companions had refrained from questioning his current state of disquietude, offering their silent support. It was not much comfort to him, but he had found himself again in this position, rallying courage.
I must save him. He took a deep breath and touched briefly the silver pendant that hung about his neck. Whatever he has done, he is still my brother.
Grissom knocked—four times, as he had always done since the time they were boys. A moment later he was met by Duane's wife, the elegant brunette Rulelia, who greeted him warmly. "I'm so glad you've come," she said, taking his arm as she led him through their modest dwelling toward her husband's private study. "You know, I've never seen you brothers quarrel before, in all those years we've known each other. I hope you'll be able to resolve this all, and quickly."
"As do I, Rulelia," Grissom replied truthfully. She had always been a great strength for both of them, very much like an older sister to the youngest Vedivier, and he was grateful for her kind words. "If you please, I'd like to be left alone with him for a while."
"Of course." She rapped lightly on Duane's door, and stepped aside once he had signaled for her entry. "God be with you both." She kissed Grissom affectionately on the check and left quietly, busying herself with the household chores.
Grissom pushed the door to Duane's study open quickly, before he was given the chance to doubt himself further. It closed firmly behind him. His brother was seated at his desk on the far end of the small room, not five paces wide, reading from one of their father's old texts. When he realized that it was not his wife standing opposite him, he closed the book abruptly and rose to his feet. "Grissom." Duane's lips parted to say more, but nothing came forth.
Grissom imagined that he must have borne a similar countenance. "Duane." He spoke sharply, startling his elder a bit, wanting his every word heard clearly. "There's something I need to ask you."
Duane nodded vaguely, having expected as much. He gestured for his brother to take a seat at the desk as he did the same. "Of course, Grissom. I…haven't seen you of late."
"Yes. I regret that, but…." Grissom took Duane's invitation, though he felt no more at ease in the soft leather. "Brother, I think you already know what I want to ask."
"Yes, I know." Duane folded his hands on the desk, his expression serious but understanding. "About that night. My powers."
Grissom's throat constricted briefly. It had been a foolish notion, but some part of him had been hoping Duane would deny it, would blame the sins on some other cause. To hear him admitting it, no matter how obvious a declaration, was shocking. "Why didn't I know about this?" Grissom demanded, placing both hands on the desk edge as if ready to spring to his feet at any moment. "Duane, do you realize what it is you are meddling with? If someone else was to know that you—"
"Grissom, calm down," Duane interrupted, far too composed for the situation. "I will explain everything, but you'll have listen carefully. It's not as simple as you think."
"I don't see how it could be more complicated than you using a devil's arts," he retorted, though each word was pain to him. "Duane, my brother, how could you do this? After all our father—"
Again Duane spoke over him, his eyes narrowing. "Our father has nothing to do with this. And I resent your accusations, Grissom. I have yet to explain myself."
"Then, by all means, continue." Grissom leaned back, watching him expectantly. It does have to do with our Father. Father was the one that gave us our faith. By God, Duane, if you have betrayed even his memory, how can I forgive you?
Duane settled, taking careful note of the bitter gleam in his brother's pointed stare. "Grissom," he started again, slowly. "Yes, I can use black magick, what the cults call 'the Dark.' It is a very precise and exacting practice, which few can wield effectively. I happen to be one of those few."
"But—but how did you know this?" Grissom pursed his lips into a thin line. For Duane to have learned these things meant he'd had a teacher, someone to learn from. How many of his order's fine soldiers were thus tainted, and how had he not see them previously? "How long has this been going on? Why didn't I know about it?"
"You didn't know because we are very careful at hiding ourselves," the elder Vedivier continued calmly. "I expected you to react this way, and I'm sure you can imagine what others would have done. Think of Albred, for God's sake! He is more pious than I, and far more fearful of these things. He would have told the entire city."
"Albred is not your brother," Grissom reminded icily. "How long, Duane?"
Duane ground his teeth, at last betraying his still visage with a look of guilt. He scratched at his beard distastefully. "Almost five years," he said at last.
"Five years. Five years, and you couldn't say a word to your own brother?" He found himself suddenly on his feet, his fists tightening in injustice and hurt. "Duane, how could you? Five damn years of lying to me! How can you justify that?"
"It happened just after you received your cloth," Duane countered in a far more reserved tone. That voice was starting to drive Grissom mad. "How could I explain to you, when all you could speak of was your devotion and faith? Grissom, telling you would have been dangerous. You weren't ready."
Grissom exhaled sharply in exasperation and turned away. "And I suppose I'm still not ready. Damnit Duane, you should have told me." He paused suddenly, glanced over his shoulder. "Does…does Rulelia know?"
He nodded shortly. "Yes, she knows. I told her soon after it happened."
"Happened?" Grissom forced himself to return, to focus all his attention on his brother. He needed to understand it all, whatever was happening. Only then would he be able to pass judgment. "What happened?"
Duane started to speak, then caught himself and shook his head. "I…can't tell you that yet."
"Why not? I've already seen…well, I've seen what you can do. What harm could there be in telling me now?" Grissom leaned over the desk, feeling the gentle weight of his pendant against the inside of his shirt at that movement. "You are my brother. I will not condemn you, not now. I could never abandon or betray you. You know that, Duane, so please, let me trust you again."
Duane stared at him, touched by his sincerity. "I believe you," he murmured, his jaw working with restraint. "And I would tell you everything, if I could. But it isn't up to me, Grissom. It's more complicated than just us." He pushed back from his desk and at last stood, moving about the furniture that he could clap his brother's shoulders. "I trust you. And I know I've been wrong to keep this from you, but it was for your own protection. And…for others. I hope that you can forgive me."
"I…." Grissom wasn't sure how to respond. He wanted to trust his brother again, as they had always depended on each other, and was willing in that moment to be patient a while longer if it meant coming to understand the motives behind this betrayal. "I want to trust you, and I want to forgive. But…I don't know if I can. Not until I know everything."
Duane's face fell, though he nodded, accepting. "In that case," he said quietly, "there is only one thing to be done."
----
Grissom entered the Cathedral's grand hall with short, reverent strides. He had not seen the inside of this place for some time—not since before the cultist incident—and he felt guilty, under the watchful eyes of the immense stained glass windows. Their vibrant colors spilled over him, questioning his absence, and he lowered his head to avoid seeing their inquiries. His knees trembled somewhat as he started down the long red carpeting, past pews of huddled townsfolk and even a few knights with their heads bowed in prayer. Their whispers clung to him as he walked, stiffly, to where Cardinal Gravos Batistum stood at the alter, speaking comforts to a young woman. She was clad in a formal dress of pale lavender, a faire and beautiful maid. When the cardinal noticed the approach of one of his knights, however, he gave his apologies and dismissed her. Grissom nodded politely as she passed, and was returned the same courtesy. He then continued until he stood just before his lord and leader.
"You need to speak to the Cardinal, Grissom. Tell him I sent you to him. He will understand, and reveal everything to you."
Grissom gulped as he dropped to one knee before the Cardinal. Though he believed in his brother's sincerity in sending him here, he had no knowledge of what may lay in store for him. "Your eminence," he said formally, head bowed. "I am here on behalf of my brother. He has sent me to you." Please, let him know my meaning. I do not know if I could better explain.
The Cardinal regarded his servant thoughtfully a moment, making the young commander anxious. "You may rise," he said, offering his hand to be kissed. Grissom gratefully accepted, though his tension was not yet at all abated. "Come with me, Father." Without waiting for his response the Cardinal turned and headed for a door at the back of the chapel. Grissom followed, glancing about nervously at a few of the worshippers who had paused to stare. He gave no complaint, however, as he was led into his master's living chambers.
"Why don't you have a seat, Father?" Cardinal Batistum offered, indicating a red velvet sofa. He himself was moving to sit nearby, in an oak-wood chair with an intricately carved back. Everything in the room was just as splendid, made of silk and satin, displaying oil works that depicted scripture passages, antiques belonging to cardinal's past, and several different forms of their symbol, the Rood. Grissom wasn't sure if he had expected this—he had never given thought to what his master's quarters might have looked like, what degree of vanity might be expressed. He found that, despite the rich color of the drawing room, it was not at all too gaudy or excessive.
The Cardinal was quiet a moment, considering his company with utter seriousness. Though he was somewhat younger than most that took to his position—in his late fifties, Grissom believed—he was a shrewd man with a thin, wise face, and wide eyes that were never obtrusive, only fair. He was a man well liked and respected among the people, and even more so by those that served him. "Now, Grissom Vedivier, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. My brother, Sir Duane Vedivier, has sent me here." Grissom's mouth felt dry, though his palms were sweating. He could not bring himself to imagine how the Cardinal would react to him.
Cardinal Batistum nodded, mostly to himself. "Yes, so you say. To be honest with you, I was expecting to see you. Your brother spoke to me some time ago on the matter. I am glad to see you have come at last."
Duane…spoke to the Cardinal? About me? His chest tightened reflexively. About that night? But—but how could he reveal such things to the Cardinal? Could it be, he has already gained his redemption? "Forgive me, sir, but I'm quite confused," he admitted. "Exactly what matter are we speaking of?"
"There's no need to be so timid," the elder man said pleasantly, though his smile was somewhat grim. "I know all about your brother's abilities. About how he healed your arm."
Grissom flinched. He had tried not to speculate, but some part of him suspected as much. "Sir…I still don't understand. You…condone his actions?" Dear God, how lost have I been all this time, to not even know that my very master, our center, has turned a blind eye to such contamination of our order?
Cardinal Batistum sighed quietly, and folded his hands. "You are a smart lad, Grissom. I have watched your career with my own private interest, as you have always served me, and our Father, very well. And now I can't help but think that, were it not for your brother's intervention, you would have become lost to our cause. As a preacher of our Lord, perhaps not, but you are much more valuable to us with all your skills intact, are you not?"
"Thank you, sir." By now Grissom's head was spinning. "So, you've always known about my brother, then."
"Yes, I have always known. And yes, I do not admonish him for it. You see," he continued as he pushed to his feet, "I am the one that taught him."
The commander ground his teeth, silently thanking God that his father were not here to hear such blasphemy. However, despite the cruel truths being told to him, he was surprised to find that he was not afraid or resentful anymore. He felt tired, throughout his entire being. Weary, and accepting. "Please continue, your Lordship."
"Several years ago—just after your Ordainment, I believe—your brother was sent to me. He was afraid and confused, much as I imagine you were in coming to me. And I told him what I'm about to tell you." He moved with long strides to a locked bookshelf set against the drawing room wall, opening with a key from his robes. There was a small drawer at the bottom that required a different key, again which the Cardinal produced, revealing an old, dusty text bound with leather and whisker-vine. He returned to his seat and met Grissom's gaze again with piercing seriousness. "I gave him this. Do you know what it is?"
"No, sir." Grissom shifted closer, trying to get a better look. The cover, once a rich violet shade, was now cracked and fading. He could just make out, however, characters etched into its surface. He shuddered; they were just like those carved into the back of Margueritte Wellerune.
"I came upon this book as a young man, not long after I had entered God's service," the Cardinal explained, flipping idly through its weathered pages. "It is a book of magick, of spells and sorcery. The 'Dark,' as some are fond of calling it. It has taught me a great deal." He closed the text with a snap, ejecting a small fountain of dust into the air. "As it taught Father Duane, and many others in our order. Men and women that are well hidden, fearful of being persecuted by the common people who would fail to understand us." He paused. "Tell me, sir Grissom, what are you willing to give up for the sake of your God?"
Grissom was taken aback, allowing a look of shock to spread through his features. But with those words he knew his answer, no matter what frightening conesequences might follow. "Everything, your Lordship. All of myself, for my God."
"Good. I was hoping you'd say that." The Cardinal's smile had grown more genuine, and he held out the book for him to take.
Grissom accepted hesitantly, his fingers tingling a bit at the feel of the worn leather. The book was nearly as thick as his closed fist, and it smelled of dust and decaying leaves. He moved his palm over its cover, not yet brave enough to open it and spill the secrets it held. "Sir, may I ask…what is it we do?" He raised his gaze to his leader once more. "Is this not heresy?"
The Cardinal's calm expression did not falter. "It might seem that way. But I guarantee you, Father, that none of us who are knowledgeable in these arts have turned our backs on God. There is quite a difference between what you are going to learn, and what the cultists do."
"What I…?" Grissom gulped, absently tracing the symbols that made up the book's title. "I am going to learn this art?"
"Why, of course. That is why your brother sent you to me, is it not?"
"I wouldn't know." He licked his lips, weighed down by too many surprises. So, my brother wants me to learn magick. Father, Mother, could you forgive me? My Lord, could you? "But please, tell me more."
Cardinal Batistum nodded, and did go on, his voice like that of a patient father. "The cults use a very raw form of the 'Dark,' using wizardry and sorcery to call on power they believe lies within the earth itself. They resurrect demons and earthly beasts to do their bidding. Theirs is an evil, violent power, drawn from sorrow and hatred, employed to control God's children through fear. But we, Father, are prelates of our God." He spread his arms wide, welcoming, and Grissom couldn't help but be drawn in by his words. "We utilize power of a different kind, drawn from the infinite spirit of man-the spirit God gifted us to use. Is it not true that any weapon in the hands of a rogue will cause destruction? Power is not necessarily evil; those who wield it decide its fate. As when your brother healed you, ours is a holy magick, a tool for us to use in defense of demons."
"A holy power," the commander echoed, the fatigue in his body seeping away. "A tool." He straightened, replying those words over in his mind. The power to heal instead of destroy, to use the good graces of God rather than to steal it from devils…was this the skill his brother wielded? Had he been wrong to fear and resent him for it? He shifted, filled with possibility and promise. Perhaps they had not betrayed anyone after all. They fought with sword and stave; could they not fight also with their very soul? "If I had mastery of that power not a week ago," he murmured, "might I have been able to save the Lady Wellerune?"
The Cardinal frowned thoughtfully. "From what Father Duane told me, her wounds were serious, and coupled with a cultist curse. It would be difficult to remedy such an injury. However," he continued, "a strong enough sorcerer is capable of undoing even greater damage than that."
Grissom nodded, continuing to stare at the heavy text in his hands. Contained in those pages were skills beyond his comprehension. Not for long. He could learn this art, and learn it well. Had he not sworn his total loyalty to his church, his cause? In the past he had spoken strong words of unwavering faith to his brother and comrades; how foolish he must have sounded them, having never undergone this test. Yes, it was a test, and a challenge he was willing to meet. The Cardinal's reassurances were more than enough to convince him of the righteousness in his undertaking, and he nodded deftly, sealing his determination. "Thank you, your Eminence. I have been well educated by you, and I shall strive to repay you with my actions in your name."
The Cardinal's lips broke in a grin. "I knew you would. That book I will allow you to keep for three days, no more, and you must learn from it all you can in that time. I'm sure your brother will help you. However—" his tone became unwaveringly stern once more "—you must be very careful not to let any other see you with it. We live in uncertain times, Father, and I cannot afford to put any of my valued followers at risk. The world is not yet ready for what you are about to undertake; you will be scorned and feared if you allow yourself to be known. If you are found out, I will not be able to protect you from popular opinion. This step maybe necessary for our survival against tyrants, but until our people understand that, you must protect them by remaining silent. I cannot overstate the importance of this matter."
"Yes, I understand." Grissom was beginning to realize why his brother had felt the need to hide from him so; he was also beginning to forgive. It was better this way, that he and his brethren be allowed to protect their lambs from quiet shadows. Still, he was also wondering how many of his comrades had been forced to bear this secret, and how he might approach them. "Sir, what if I find someone who I believe would understand this?"
"Then you shall bring them to my attention, and I will have it dealt with," he replied instantly. "You are not to approach anyone on your own, understand? It must be this way, so that I am aware of everyone that begins to learn."
"Yes, sir. I will be careful."
"Yes, I know you shall." The Cardinal pushed to his feet once more, retrieving a silk scarf to wrap the text in. "To distract attention," he explained, making sure it was sufficiently covered. He set his hand on Grissom's shoulder. "Good luck to you, Father Grissom. I will continue to watch your performance. I expect that you will make good use of what I have entrusted you with."
Grissom nodded, all his earlier insecurities having faded completely from his mind. He thought briefly of his brother, eager to hear the circumstances of his coming to learn of this power. And with those thoughts raised other curiosities, of how many others shared this secret with them. Though it would be foolhardy to seek them out, to question even the closest of allies, from then on he vowed to be vigilant. "Thank you, your Lordship." His hands tightened around the leather-bound spine. "I will."
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