Anonymous7: Heh. Thank you! We're reaallly close to the end. 10-15 more chapters, perhaps? And yes, the Knights will be shown again before the story's end; don't worry. :) Thanks for the review!
BedazzleDewdrops: No problem! XD And thanks for the review!
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Kira, for your help. Eek. That second scene needed a lot more work than I'd realized. I hope you like the changes I made!
A Priest's Confession
The cloaked Nindroid trailed unseen behind the slave trader Alerik's cart, sprinting silently in soft-soled boots along the smoothly-packed, snowy road. Overhead, a raven croaked. Its massive wingbeats drew Alerik's attention for a moment. Then, muttering, the man turned back to the road ahead.
The Nindroid could sense Alerik's agitation as much as see it: if the to-be slaves drugged and hidden under the straw in his cart were discovered, then this despicable man would without a doubt be on his way to the gallows. Something serious must have happened to drive this man out of hiding before dark.
The Nindroid waved to the raven. It let out another raucous cry and descended from the sky, gliding just above the cart.
"Damn bird," Alerik muttered, barely loud enough for his pursuer to hear him, and raised his long horsewhip to attempt to strike the raven.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the Nindroid called. Alerik paused before the swing to look at the cloaked figure.
"What's it to you?" he growled. "This bird might damage my cargo."
"Damage?" The Nindroid would have laughed if he were not so angry- human trafficking was a line no good man would dream of crossing- and Alerik had trampled that line. "Please. The only one damaging that 'cargo,' as you so uncharitably put it, is you, Alerik Laenbek." He paused. "Or was your name Hain Guirenal?"
Alerik froze in his seat.
"Jerod Ken?" The Nindroid grinned. "We know all about you. And let me tell you, Cyrus is not happy with what you're doing."
"Cyrus?" Alerik looked genuinely confused, as well as afraid. "Cyrus Borg? What's he got to do with me?"
"Everything," he replied, jogging easily with the cart. "You see, Cyrus has recently become aware of your successful business in this…trade. He's been very anxious to get his hands on you."
Alerik pulled sharply on the reins, bringing the horses to a standstill. A vein in his temple bulged as he stared at the Nindroid. "I'm a farmer," he said as his pursuer came up beside him. "There's nothing Borg could want from me."
The Nindroid chuckled dryly. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the horses; both held their ears flat against their heads and stared with shifty eyes at him.
"Sure," the Nindroid said, nodding slowly, leaning one shoulder on the cart and crossing his arms. "Listen, Alerik. I've been instructed to place you under arrest and save all those innocent people hidden under that straw. Could you find a place in that shriveled black heart of yours to come quietly? It'd save us all a lot of trouble."
Without word or warning, Alerik brandished his whip over the horses' heads. The startled beasts surged forward; the Nindroid nearly lost his balance as the cart jolted away.
Oh, please, Alerik… the Nindroid thought wearily. Are you really gonna make me do this? He shook his head in disappointment and broke into a hard sprint, his raven cawing from its perch in Alerik's straw. In only a few mechanical heartbeats he caught up to the cart and jumped, grabbing the back wall and hoisting himself carefully into its straw-filled bed: he didn't want to risk injuring the hidden passengers.
Alerik's wild eyes darted between the cloaked Nindroid and the road ahead of him.
Fight me, the Nindroid thought, snarling through the darkness of his hood. That'd give me a reason to take your life myself, you bastard.
But, of course, Alerik did not fight. Instead he spurred the horses faster- what does he hope to do? Throw me out of the cart?- spewing a plethora of curses all the while.
The Nindroid quickly tired of Alerik's antics. He inched to the front of the jostling cart- he felt the toe of his boot hit a body once- and wrapped his hand around the man's large neck. He applied pressure; not enough to seriously hurt the man, but enough to let him know that, if provoked, he would have no trouble doing so.
"Stop the cart," he murmured in Alerik's ear.
Alerik growled and thrust his elbow behind him, hitting his assailant very firmly in the stomach. The Nindroid steeled himself with a pained grunt and applied more pressure to Alerik's throat.
"Stop the cart," he repeated through gritted teeth.
A moment of hesitation. The cloaked Nindroid applied more pressure until Alerik squeaked out one last curse, but obeyed, roughly reining in his horses. The whites of their eyes were visible as they threw their heads back, hooves pounding the hard-packed snow, ears flat against their heads. Flinging their tails and whinnying, the horses finally brought the cart to a standstill.
"Drop the whip," the Nindroid said in Alerik's ear.
Another hesitation. Another firm tightening of his hand.
The whip clattered to the floor at Alerik's feet.
"There we go," the Nindroid smiled, releasing the pressure. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Alerik gasped and brought his hands to his throat, unable to speak as he doubled over, retching. The noise only stressed the horses more; they began to struggle against their jangling harnesses.
As much as the Nindroid wanted to throw aside the hay and make sure Alerik's prisoners were all right, he knew that the horses had to be first priority: if they bolted now, with no one holding the reins, there could be serious trouble. So he hopped from the cart and hurried to the horses.
"Hey," he crooned, coming up beside the small, shaggy gray one. Its coat was wet with sweat under his hand as he grasped the reins. "Hey, shh…"
The horse hesitated, staring at the stranger with flared nostrils. Then the other horse, a beautiful dun with dark markings, bucked, and the gray one reared, forcing the Nindroid to let go of the reins or risk losing his fingers.
"Hey… Hey, shh…" The Nindroid narrowly avoided the black's wide hooves and went to the gold-colored dun instead, grabbing the reins, gently forcing her head down. "Shh, shh…"
Breathing hard, ears still flat against her head, the mare obediently followed the man's hand.
"Good, good…" He again snatched at the gray's reins and forced its head low. After a short fight the gray, too, calmed, and he stroked its sweat-slick neck and shoulders. "Shh… You're all right, now." He spared a glance for Alerik, who was trying to catch his breath in the front of the cart.
"Good girl," the Nindroid murmured to the dun who, after watching him for a moment, let out a small whinny and pushed gently against his chest with her nose. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her neck, stroking her fondly for a moment. What a sweet creature… How did Alerik come to have such a darling in his possession?
The same way he gets all his other prey, I'm sure.
The moment sufficiently ruined, he pulled away and, giving the horses a command not to move, he let go of their reins and rushed back to the cart. Pulling ropes from his pocket, he hopped into the front of the cart and bound Alerik hand and foot.
"Who are you?" Alerik rasped, face red from both anger and lack of air. "A mercenary?"
"After a fashion, I suppose." The Nindroid pulled the last of the ropes tight and flashed a broad, sharp-toothed grin. "Do the whole world a favor and please shut up. Now, where's that key…" It took only a few seconds to find the little black iron key in one of Alerik's pockets.
At long last satisfied with his work, the Nindroid went to the bed of the cart. His raven, perched on the side, croaked softly. She ruffled her feathers and clacked her ebony beak.
"Yes, thank you, girl, you did very good showing me the way," he said to the raven, but his attention was on the lumps under the straw. Eagerly he scooped up an armful of the dried grass and looked at what lay underneath.
A small girl, no older than twelve winters, curled around herself, completely submitted to her drug-induced slumber. Her chest rose and fell slowly and shallowly; small puffs of vapor trailed from her nostrils. A quick examination of her hands revealed that she had not, thankfully, been marked yet.
By the thirteen moons. Looking down on her, thinking of what this poor girl might have been forced to become if he had not intervened, again made the Nindroid want to murder Alerik.
But he couldn't. It wasn't in his jurisdiction to do such a thing. Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath before unlocking her chains and throwing them to a far corner of the cart. Unfastening his cloak, he draped it over the girl, touching her too-pale, too-cold cheek momentarily before pouncing on another pile.
Come on, come on…
The next sleeping victim he unearthed was a woman of about twenty winters. Next, a teenage boy. Another small girl, even younger than the first. He carefully moved her so that she and the other small girl could share the cloak, and then covered them again in straw to make sure they'd stay warm. Finally, he unearthed another twenty-somethings woman with dark hair.
What- That can't be it! Throwing away the last of the chains, the man shunted mounds of straw around the cart's bed, searching for the one he knew should be here, but wasn't. His eyes, as pale gold as the mare's coat, widened in alarm.
Where is she?
He stormed to the front of the cart and reached over the wall, snatching Alerik from the seat. "Where is she?" he demanded.
"I thought you told me to shut up," Alerik smirked.
"Don't play games with me, you bastard!" The Nindroid struck Alerik across the face, so loud that the horses again grew antsy. "The girl Zak gave you! She has red hair. Eighteen winters old, though she may look younger to a half-witted git like yourself!"
"Green eyes?" Alerik said. He still smirked, as though he found this whole situation utterly hilarious. "High, snively voice? Cries a lot?"
Well, of course she would cry in your company! the Nindroid wanted to snap. But he restrained himself. "Where is she?" he demanded, shaking Alerik hard.
Alerik only laughed.
"WHERE IS SHE?!"
Alert blinked in shock at his thundering tone. "Dead, I'm sure," he said. He jerked his head southward. "She had the plague. Got sick all over my floor. Of course, I couldn't let her live. And since my safe house got infected… Well, I destroyed them both. Put her out of her misery."
The way Alerik spoke- as though he were simply putting down a sick animal- made the Nindroid's chest grow hot. He glowered at the illegal slave trader, wishing again that he had permission to kill this man.
"Where?" the Nindroid hissed.
"You're too late, merc. She's gotta be dead by now-"
"WHERE?" His hands tightened again around Alerik's throat.
"Aaah!" Alerik wheezed. "A-about three miles south. Take a right, follow…follow the road. It shouldn't be hard to find. I can see the smoke from here."
The yellow-eyed Nindroid turned his head, searching the treetops desperately, praying that the man was lying just to goad him.
But no. He could see it, in the distance. A thin trail of black smoke, barely darker than the clouds above it. He forgot how to breathe for a second.
"Stay put," he hissed, and threw Alerik's head onto the corner of the bench so hard that the slave trader blacked out and slid onto the footboard.
The Nindroid looked to his Bird.
"Go!" he roared. "Find her! See if you can't help her! I'll catch up!"
The raven took flight immediately.
No, the Nindroid prayed, leaping from the cart, hastily tying the black's reins to a nearby tree and undoing all of the dun's gear. Please, no. He leaped onto the mare's bare back and, grabbing two fistfuls of her mane, let out a shout and dug his heels into her sides. The horse bolted southward, hooves pounding against the cold ground.
Please, don't let me be too late!
It took only a few minutes for Zane to get on the road after his altercation with Driniah in the garden. With a single saddlebag filled with the few belongings he'd brought South with him, and his falcon flying overhead, he'd taken to the road on his horse, allowing himself to feel no remorse or shame as the Southern guards opened the gate and let him out. He had not answered when one asked him when he would return. And, once outside of the Sheshin Keep, he had not looked back.
He had no intention of going back to Sheshin Keep. Not as a lord, at least. All that mattered now was going to his father.
The sky was now dark; the crescent moon shone high overhead. Zane stood before the Sheshin Temple: impressive, intimidating, and empty in the darkness.
A week. Had it really only been that long since the South's secession? It seemed like a lifetime ago when he had been standing with Driniah over Lord Kaytake's coffin. Fighting to keep that Southern Lord Rector from stealing the body. Demanding that the Priests leave the South forever.
This temple, and everything associated with it, seemed to come from another world entirely. A dream.
Throat tight with emotion, Zane tied his horse in the front of the temple and climbed the stone steps to the large, closed wooden door, engraved with a tree inset with precious metals and stones. He set a gloved hand on the door and, pausing momentarily to look around him at the long, deserted courtyard, gave the door a firm push.
The doors of the three temples had no latches, no locks. People were free to come at any time and day to pray to the First King, speak with Priests, or just sit in peaceful silence in one of the balconies surrounding the massive, round cathedral. The homeless and poor could come here for shelter, food, and clothing. There were books, too, on the history of Ninjago: its laws, its rulers, its religion. Temples were sacred places of learning, encouragement, and peace.
Now empty, cold, and dark.
Zane took a tentative step forward. Sconces in the walls around him held candles that, for the first time in known history, had been snuffed out.
On Zane's order, the Southern Temple had been plunged into twilight.
What have I done?
Zane lit a match and set it to the frozen wick of a candle. It took a few seconds for the flame to take. Finally the candle let off a sputtering, gentle glow, and Zane blew out the match, set it in the sconce, and picked up the cold candlestick. Holding his little light aloft, he crossed to the middle of the stone room. He turned in a circle, his own footsteps echoing hollowly back to him. High on the walls, windows made from colored glass depicted pictures from history: in the center, Mena's defeat of the Overlord. On the opposite wall, young Naphi's coronation. To her left, Lei and Ara's son, Rei, stared back at Zane with serene glass eyes. Other well-known Lords, Kings, and Queens throughout the centuries; some just with portraits, like Rei, and others with depictions of their achievements, like Mena and Naphi.
Zane stepped under the window with Mena and the Overlord. The Overlord shown here had pale, almost white hair, and white eyes. Mena's hair was a rich red color. He wore green, and carried a sword inset with a green gem. The very sword that Garmadon carried today, the same as every Blessed ancestor before him.
The Overlord's sword was black as obsidian, decorated with a stone the same blinding color as his eyes and hair.
Four colored windows on either side of Mena and the Overlord showed the other Patriarchs: Lei, with his pale yellow hair and brown eyes. Ara was right beside him. On Mena's left were the Western and Northern Patriarchs, Beun and Nen. The two brothers could not have looked more different: Nen's hair was dark, and his expression grim. Beun, with his blond hair and blue eyes, appeared to be smiling distantly at Zane, as if reminiscing old memories.
These five Patriarchs had given up everything to fight the Overlord and create this beautiful country out of the rubble of a dead age. They had been strong and decisive. Leaders of a people that had undergone great pain and suffering from wars, famines, and plagues.
And, for hundreds of years, their laws- their way of ruling- had brought peace and prosperity to the four realms.
Until my father broke the rules, Zane reflected. Everything fell apart when I, and other Third Age objects, were created. Order unraveled; laws that had kept us safe for generations were called into question by the other nobles- and even some of the common people. Many began to want change when they saw what the miraculous creations of the Third Age could do.
Creations that had destroyed the Third Age, and now threatened to bring the end of the Fourth as well.
Zane's legs seemed to turn to water: he sank to his knees under the images of the Patriarchs.
Perhaps I should never have been built, Zane thought, watching the candle's flame flicker between his pale, shaking hands. Perhaps, if I had not existed, Lord Keith would not have been bold enough to break more rules and sail to Keitorin.
Perhaps the Overlord would never have been reawakened.
Perhaps there would still be peace.
Perhaps Nya and Father would still be alive.
Zane wiped tears from his eyes and closed them tightly.
I'm a mistake, he admitted to the First King. A sin; an aberration from the laws that You created to keep Ninjago safe. I'm not fit to be alive, let alone Lord of a realm. He pulled the red- and gold-beaded ribbon from his hair, which fell in loose, wispy strands around his shoulders. The beads clicked together as he held them at arm's length.
"Take me away," he prayed, letting the ribbon fall to the stone floor; it clattered against the stones, then was silent. Candlelight wavered on the surface of the smooth beads.
"This is what's become of the great Lord Julien's son?" a quiet voice asked behind him. Zane turned his head, startled.
The Southern Lord Rector stood a few paces off, his bald head glowing in the unsteady light. A slight, self-assured smile twisted his thin lips.
"I told you to leave the South, Priest," Zane growled.
The Lord Rector's chuckle was colder than the stone walls around them. "Oh, come now," he purred. "You didn't think I was going to obey you." On silent feet the Priest came around and stood before Zane. "I listen to one voice only."
"Oh?" Zane glared up at the Priest. "And what job does Garmadon have you doing here in the South, Loiel?"
Using the Lord Rector's true name had the desired effect. The Priest's eyes narrowed, and his jaw flexed as he swallowed. Zane's gaze did not waver.
"You think you're so brave, so mighty," the Lord Rector replied, recovering quickly as he clasped his hands behind his back. "Abandoning the King to follow Borg, attempting to depose us Priests. But let me tell you a secret." He bent one knee so he was face-to-face with Zane. The candle scattered macabre shadows across his face. "I don't follow any Lord, or even the King, for that matter. There is voice alone that I follow and obey with all of my heart." He pointed upward. At the picture of Mena and the Overlord. Zane's brows furrowed.
"Mena is my King," the Priest asserted. "I follow His laws, and His alone. Anyone who disobeys the First King disobeys those that He has chosen to maintain order." His hand, decorated with a garnet ring, gestured to his own chest.
Zane left the candlestick on the floor and stood. "It's funny," he said. "I never thought of it before. Saying the First King's name is entirely acceptable. But when did it become sacrilegious to address Mena's Priests by their names? Has that law been there from the beginning?"
The Priest straightened slowly, firelight flickering in his dark eyes.
"The King sent me here with the command not to approach or harm you," he said, voice a low, drawn-out hiss. "But…I don't follow Garmadon's rules, do I?"
A moment of tense quiet in which Zane wondered if he was expected to answer.
"No," the Lord Rector said. "No, I follow Mena. And His law clear states, as you well know, that all who stray from His path must be put to death." A long, bony finger traced Zane's cheekbone. "Have you strayed from His path, Lord Zane Julien?"
Zane jerked back, reaching for his Blade.
The Lord Rector merely looked amused. He drew his own sword and examined its edge for a moment.
"I could have killed you before you even knew I was here," he said. "But I prefer to let the blasphemers know why they are dying before I send them to Mena for ultimate judgement. Do you know why I am going to kill you, Julien?"
"I can think of a few reasons why you'd be tempted to try," Zane answered evenly.
The Lord Rector laughed: loud, harsh, long. A chill spread through Zane's skin.
"If you kill me," Zane added, "Driniah and Misako will make a martyr of me. It would only drive the South further away from the King."
The Lord Rector's laugh cut off abruptly. "So you're not a complete imbecile, then," he murmured, suddenly calm. "I don't want to make a martyr of you." He ran his thumb along the edge of his sword, chuckling. "It's quite fortunate that Kaytake died the way he did, isn't it? If he had, say, been obviously murdered, the South would be much in a different place than it is now."
His words surged through Zane like a river's cold current. The pieces fell into place, and the Northern Lord's eyes widened.
The Priest winked. He kicked the candlestick; it toppled over and snuffed out. The only light now came from the moon filtering through the windows, painting the floor in a faint wash of many colors, like watercolor spread too thin.
But Zane hardly cared: his attention was on the Priest's confession.
Kaytake had been a strong, skilled Lord. He had been so dedicated to the South that he had been willing to give up his relationship with his own son to keep his realm's reputation with the North-Middle healthy. Granted, it had been a foolish thing to do, but it showed his tenacity.
Then, Kaytake had gone up against the King- in public, for all the Middle to see- just to rescue General Malian. The Southern Lord was no fool; he wouldn't have done such a thing without thinking through all his options, and he'd certainly had plans for how to help the South survive Garmadon's wrath in the days to come.
At the time of his death, the South had never needed him more. There was no doubt in Zane's mind now that Kaytake had been aware of that. And, even in the face of Nya and Malian's deaths and the growing social unrest, he wouldn't have given up. Not without a fight, tooth and nail.
Not to mention, he was expecting a child! Zane hadn't been willing to believe, when he'd first heard the news of Kaytake's death, that he had been willing to abandon Driniah at such a time.
How had they been so easily deceived?
The exit wound is in his chest, Duskweaver had told Zane then. Killed by his own sword…
A man falling backwards on his own sword was certainly not impossible- just wedge the blade between two boulders- but why would anyone go through that trouble? Perhaps…perhaps Kaytake hadn't the courage to stab himself with his own hands?
Loiel continued to smile broadly as he stepped toward Zane. "The Southern Lord had sided with Borg and had helped General Malian poison the King. I couldn't do nothing, could I? Mena had sent the plague to punish Malian, but what of the Southern Lord? I couldn't just let him walk free."
"Garmadon…he told you to assassinate Kaytake," Zane said at last.
"No!" The Priest spat to the side. "I do not kill for mortal kings, Julien. I kill for God. I wage a holy war against all heathens, whether they proclaim loyalty to Borg, Garmadon, or even things like yourself." He raised his sword.
"Garmadon does not know what truly happened to Kaytake. And he will not know what happened to you, either. Nobody will."
"Kaytake was a good man," Zane said. "He deserved a more honorable death. You destroyed his legacy!"
"What legacy?" the Priest scoffed. "He deserved his death."
With a shout of rage Zane drew his Blade and charged at the Priest.
No! Duskweaver blurted. No, put me away! Don't you see? In order to make it look like suicide, the Priest has to use me! But he can't draw me himself: he's provoking you so that he can take me and kill you!
Zane ignored the Blade's warning and swung his sword at his opponent.
The Lord Rector easily blocked the first blow. And the second one.
"Do you realize what you've done?" Zane roared, taking a step back to circle the Priest with his Blade in a defensive position. "Driniah thinks it's her fault he died! Kai will never be able to reconcile with his father. You completely destabilized the South! Thousands will die because of your actions!"
"Yes, they will die!" the Priest snapped. "But it is for the best, don't you see? Mena is cleansing the land with war and sickness, destroying the wicked, but protecting those who believe in Him!"
"The King's own son was killed by this plague," Zane said, gripping his Blade more tightly. Emotion threatened to cloud his eyes and judgement; he breathed deeply, fighting to clear his head. "Mena didn't send this plague, don't you understand? It was the Overlord!"
"What proof do you have?" the Priest demanded.
Zane remained silent, gritting his teeth. Truthfully, he had no proof that the Overlord was the reason this plague had come to Ninjago. But it seemed to make sense; after all, Besai had been the first known carrier of the disease, hardly eighteen hours after their return from the Dark Island. Zane had always wondered if the Overlord had done something to her before their escape on the Black Bounty.
"That's what I thought," the Lord Rector said smugly. "All those who died of the plague deserved to die, Julien. Accept it."
Lloyd didn't deserve to die, Zane thought. And Nya…
"The First King is tired of His people's lukewarm faith," Loiel said. "He is weeding out the heretics with His plague." He spun his sword skillfully in his hand. "But He is gracious enough to allow His most devout followers to do some of the work for him as well."
"Nya was not a heretic," Zane said through gritted teeth.
The Priest tsked, shaking his head. "There is no sin worse than loving sin itself, Julien. If Lady Nya had loved you back…perhaps that's why Mena killed her."
Don't, Duskweaver pleaded. Please, don't do what he wants.
Zane did not care anymore. He roared, charging the Lord Rector again.
But the Lord Rector did not move. He simply stood, expression calm, sword lax at his side.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Loiel ducked. The Northern Lord's sword sliced empty air. Zane recovered quickly, straightening, ready to charge the Priest a second time, and-
A pain unlike anything Zane had felt before- like fire, like lightning, sharp sleet blown about by strong wind- tore through his chest, ripping skin, splitting wires, ripping through metal plates.
He gasped, dropping his sword, gripping a shaft of wood embedded in his left breast.
Another Priest of lesser rank, wearing dark robes, had been hiding in the shadows a ways behind the Lord Rector- he must have snuck into the cathedral after Loiel snuffed out the candle. He stood tall, holding a long wooden bow in his left hand, face as hard and expressionless as granite as he met Zane's shocked, pain-filled gaze.
Zane sank to his knees and, with great effort, pulled the arrow from his body. This only did more damage: his hands began to spasm uncontrollably; he dropped the arrow and sank to the floor, shaking as if from seizures. Pain surged through his body, and Duskweaver let out a panicked cry.
The Lord Rector knelt beside Zane, set his sword on the floor, and picked up Duskweaver. The Blade thrummed with alarm, only adding to the pandemonium in Zane's head. The Priest spun the Blade in his hand, examining its edge. "It's a beautiful weapon," he said. "It really is a shame that I'll have to leave it behind…"
"N-no," Zane stammered. Hot sparks flew from the fissure in his chest as he got his arms beneath himself and tried to rise from the floor. He couldn't give up- he couldn't let himself fall like Kaytake. "No."
The pain was too great, his spasms too strong. Zane's arms collapsed; he writhed on the floor, gasping for air, for some thread of clarity in the madness of his broken body. You- you were right, Duskweaver.
Hosts, you were right. I'm sorry.
It's okay, Duskweaver lied. It's okay. You're okay. We'll get out of this. Stay calm; breathe.
They could survive this. They could. Zane clung determinately to that hope as the Lord Rector bent over him.
"No?" The Priest calmly took Zane's shoulder, rolling him onto his back, pressing the sword to his chest. "No, what?"
…But, then again, did Zane really want to get out of this?
Hadn't this been his prayer only moments before? For an end to his sinful existence?
For death?
Zane opened his eyes, looking past his Blade, poised to cut his breast. Past the Lord Rector's amused expression, past the other Priest, still holding his bow, still watching him impassively.
Mena and Overlord met his gaze from their large, lofty window. On either side, the Patriarchs also watched: impassive, unmoving.
The Lord Rector is wrong, Zane thought, doing his best to keep breathing through the pain. All those people he has killed in the name of justice, they didn't deserve to die. But me… His eyes flicked back to the sword. To the greedy, murderous eyes of the Priest.
"Lord Zane had only a few hours left to raise the white flag or go to war," the Lord Rector said. "He learned of his father's untimely death and, being the coward that he is, fled the Sheshin Keep, and stopped at the Southern Temple. Because…well, what better place to pray, and right his wrongs?" The Lord Rector applied slight pressure to the Blade; the tip dug uncomfortably into Zane's skin. He tried without success to still his spasms. "Lord Zane then realizes that perhaps Lord Kaytake had the right idea. He takes the South's ribbon from his hair, kneels on the floor, and plunges his Blade through his own mechanical heart."
Zane cried out as Duskweaver pushed through his chest, widening the hole made by the arrow. He grasped at the weapon, trying to pull it out. The Blade cut his hands, but that pain was nothing compared to the surging, screaming agony in his chest.
The Priest continued his story in a slow, quiet voice.
"But it was not enough to kill him. So he pulled the Blade from his body…" Zane screamed as Loiel did so- "And, with hands shaking from fear and pain, raised the weapon to his throat."
The Priest knelt beside Zane and, with a careful hand, smoothed his hair away from his sweat-slicked forehead. The Blade's tip hovered under Zane's jaw.
Zane tried to resist, but found his arms unresponsive.
He tried to shout, to curse, to call out for help, but eventually realized that no sound was coming out: the mechanism supplying power to his voice must have been cut.
And, most terrifying of all, Zane could feel his Blade's presence receding from his mind, even as its tip pressed into his skin. Don't go, he pleaded. Don't go, don't leave me, Duskweaver, I'm sorry…
But Duskweaver could not- or perhaps would not- respond.
"And, in those final moments of life, Lord Julien reflected all that he had done in his false life…" The Lord Rector continued stroking Zane's forehead with his free hand, much like a father comforting his child. Zane wished with all of his being to swat that hand away- to escape, to fight back. But he could hardly breathe, let alone resist the Priest's touch.
"Those he had loved…" The Lord Rector brought his face close, speaking in a low whisper. "Those he had hurt… And Lord Julien closed his eyes, reveling in the thought that he would not be able to hurt them anymore, once he was-"
A resounding crack! ripped through the air like thunder, shuddering through the floor and walls.
The Priest's hand released the Blade; it clattered to the floor. A dark substance- blood, Zane realized- trickled down his neck, underneath his collar.
The Priest's eyes dimmed; he coughed once, bringing up blood that splattered Zane's face.
Lord Rector Loiel collapsed, silent, under the mural of his God.
There was a shout from the Priest wielding the bow. Another thunderous sound resonated, and the man's cry abruptly cut short. Zane tried to turn his head, but the only limbs that seemed willing to respond to his command were his lower legs. He lay still, breathing in short spasms, sparks spouting at random from his chest. The pain seemed to worsen with each passing second.
What had made the Priests fall like that? It surely wasn't a bow and arrow, or a sword, or any other weapon Zane knew of.
…Would it happen a third time and fell him, too?
"Zane!" a voice called out. "Oh, no…" Footsteps pounded toward him, and moments later, a slender, cloaked figure entered his field of vision.
Josi, Zane wanted to say, but only managed a small, grating cough.
Josi cursed, dropping to her knees next to him. "Driniah came to me in a panic, saying that you were running away, so I followed you, but my Bird said that you'd stopped here, so I…" Her words came out in a rush that Zane could hardly follow. He closed his eyes, overcome by exhaustion and relief.
Why save me? he prayed. Why would you allow your Lord Rector to be killed in my place? By another abomination, no less!
There was, of course, no answer.
He realized that Josi had quieted, and reopened his eyes.
"Oh, Zane…" Josi groaned as she began examining his wound. "If I hadn't gotten here in time…" She left it unsaid. "How stupid can you get? Running away hours before the treaty's deadline! Why would you do something like that?"
Zane wished he had an answer, but every excuse he could come up with seemed feeble when he considered it under Josi's stern gaze.
And it wasn't like he could defend himself, anyways, in his current state.
Josi ran a hand through her hair, sighing. "I'll do some quick repairs here. Then we're going home. You have a lot of explaining to do."
I don't think I have time to do my usual long A/N today. So I'll just say thanks in advance for your lovely reviews, and I hope you all have a great weekend! :D