Updated 11/16/24

Chapter 11

Rebekah

Rebekah rode on, listening for the river, putting at least an hour of distance between her and the sluggish cage cart. As she moved through the grove, evaluating potential ambush spots, the air erupted with shouts, a woman’s scream, and the high-pitched cries of children.

Approaching with caution, Rebekah wrapped her left forearm in a thong, eyes keen on the unfolding scene before her. An army cart stood between a wagon surrounded by three soldiers, and the river. One soldier pulled a wailing child to the ground.

Rebekah’s heart pounded. With a low growl, she spurred her horse into a gallop, and burst from the tree line. The closest soldier dropped the child and turned toward the noise as she collided with him, knocking him off his feet. The momentum pushed her past the wagon.

She turned the mare around as a second soldier, having climbed onto the wagon, struck the driver. The third snatched an infant from his mother and bolted toward the river.

Gripping several arrows, Rebekah held them parallel to the bow, as Jonathan had taught her, and rapid fired with precision.

The soldiers wore only gambeson, made of quilted wool or hemp cloth. Her first arrow struck the fleeing soldier, almost to the river, in the back. The next toppled him, the babe still in his arms.

The soldier she’d rammed, a burly lad, regained his feet and charged toward Rebekah with an axe. Rage was plain in his eyes.

She drew and released twice more. Though one arrow missed, the big lad fell with the second.

The distraught mother ran toward her howling baby.

Rebekah drew three more arrows. The last soldier pummeled the driver to the ground, giving her a clear shot. She did not miss.

Twisting in the saddle, seeking other threats, she saw there had only been these three. None were moving, nor ever would again.

Rebekah’s hands trembled as she stared at the bodies on the ground, worrying the end of the leather thong on her wrist. She gasped, covering her eyes.

What have I done?

She wiped the sweat from her brow with her shaking hand.

I had no other choice.

She had never taken a man’s life before. Rebekah stared at the bow in her hands.

They were evil.

 Memories of Jonathan’s actions during a raid came to mind.

Two highwaymen had attacked their family years ago when David was young. Jonathan heard them sneaking up. He instructed David with a glance to blend into the weedy scrub of the plains. Rebekah had hidden in the bushes, nursing their infant daughter, Sarah, so she’d be quiet. Jonathan had kept them safe. He’d dragged the bodies deeper into the forest.

She felt cold to the bone then, even colder now.

The world had gone mad.

Tears streamed down the mother’s face as she cooed to her baby. Nearing Rebekah, she cried out, “Thank the merciful Father and thank you, sir.”

Their eldest daughter comforted her siblings as their son, Brin, climbed back in the wagon and cowered. She turned to her father when he rose, unsteady. “Da, are you well?”

Her father, who’d been driving the wagon, returned to his feet, blood trickling down his face from a deep gash over one eye. He grabbed the wagon’s side to prevent falling again and pressed his hand to the wound. “I am…whole enough.”

“We’re all well,” the children’s mother reassured, a tremble in her voice. She held her son, who was shaking and mute.

“The God of Truth kept us safe. What was our lesson this morning, Brin?”

The small boy peered up at his mother. Chewing his lip, he stood up and stammered, “H-he that dwells—in the secret place of the Most High—shall abide—under the shadow of the Almighty.”

“Very good,” his oldest sister praised.

Rebekah dismounted and tethered her horse to the wagon.

The children’s father turned to Rebekah, “Thank you, sir…you have amazing skill wi—” He froze. “You’re a—woman.”

Rebekah frowned. “I hoped no one could tell.” She hung her bow over her shoulder.

“I’ve never seen such skill.”

“My husband and I hunted often before the children came. He said the God of Truth blessed me with a propensity for the bow.” She wrung her cold hands.

“I…can see that. You saved us.” He touched his temple, eyes narrowing in pain. “My name is Vincent…Donitoro.” With a groan, he pointed to the short, thin woman, brown curls escaping her green scarf, “This…is my wife, Teress.”

“I am Rebekah Otual. Why were they attacking you?”

“Lord Macom…” Vincent lay his head down against his arm, still clinging to the wagon.

“He is—was—our lender,” Teress took over. “A man came demanding payment in full. Praise God above, we were in our wagon on the way into town. He sent these soldiers to apprehend us.” She paused. “A voice said, ‘Turn,’ so I told Vince. Without even a road, he curved toward the river, where they overtook us, and you appeared. We can never repay you.”

“There’s no need. I, too, follow J’shua. What’ll you do?” Rebekah grimaced as she yanked the last of her arrows from a body beside the cart. The soldier grunted.

Her breath caught. She forced down nausea as she realized what she must do. The man could not live.

She knelt beside him, her knife at his throat.

“Please, J’shua, forgive me and forgive them.” Her hand began to tremble. “No one is certain what to do in this world.”

He has to die. He’s a predator. Like a wolf. I have to do it or we’ll never be safe.

She looked away and cut deep, putting an animal out of its misery, stepping back as the blood poured out of him. She dropped the knife.

She gagged at the metallic tang of the pool, which stained the earth.

“We … hide,” Teress’ voice wavered, Rebekah felt a slender hand at her shoulder. “Lord Macom … stop.”

 “He’s twisted the king’s laws … them to steal … children,” Vincent said.

Rebekah barely heard, but turned to them, her brow furrowed. Her voice caught and her cold hands, sprinkled with the blood of her victim, took refuge in the pockets of her tunic as she gazed at the three bodies. “See what they’re carrying that you can use,” she said with numb ambivalence.

Teress handed the baby to the second oldest, and pointed. “Darmy, go search that one.” She was the oldest, a girl of marriageable age.

Rebekah was breathing fast.

What else could I have done?

She shook herself back to urgent tasks at hand. “We’ll drag them to the river. Once they drift downstream it will be difficult to determine where they died.”

She ran to examine the military cart. “Use these buckets to draw water. We must dilute this blood or it will attract a swarm of flies. If pursuers find this spot, flies would be noticed.”

Rebekah stared up at the station of the sun. Her heart sank. Her chance for an ambush had slipped away.

The cage cart will pass here soon.

She heard the still, small voice. Help them.

She bit her lip, fixing her eyes on the trees beyond.

But Father, I must save Sarah.

Sarah will be safe, the voice whispered as a ray of light broke through the clouds above.

How can that be?

Anguish tore her heart as she forced herself to move. They had to leave before any more soldiers came.

They gathered three canteens, two hatchets, a fine, oiled-linen map, a spyglass, and an assortment of daggers and swords. They also took the provisions from the army cart.

While the family cleared away the bodies and signs of struggle, she drove the soldiers’ cart into the woods, hiding the bright green dragons carved on each side. After unhitching the horse that pulled it, Rebekah rode to where the wagon and cart had left the road.

She knew what trackers would look for. Bushy weeds near the road were damaged by the wheels. She cut the bent stems far below the obvious breaks and used them to brush out the stray wagon tracks.

Father, where should they go?

The sky rumbled, clouds parting enough to allow another shaft of light through that pointed toward Frei Forest. The edge of it was twenty miles from River Town, a woodland so thick no one could build there.

She returned to the Donitoros, brushing soil from her hands.

“Make your way south near Fairness Crossing. Stay this side of the river. In the Frei Forest, you can be safe, as long as you remain concealed.”

Vincent and Teress exchanged worried looks.

Faint sounds of a cart grew from the parallel road beyond the trees. The bank of the river was clear as far as she could see ahead. “Move slow, but go now. I must save my daughter. After that, we will catch up with you.”

“Our faith is with you.” Mister Donitoro smiled.

As they drove away, west toward the setting sun, Rebekah mounted her horse. She followed the cage cart, keeping far behind.

She thought of her beloved husband, Jonathan, and how wrong their plans had gone.

When he was home, it was the happiest of reunions. And soon, he could be a daikon establishing a circle. They could be settled. But today, he was not here to protect us.

Would her parents still be alive if he had been? Or if she and Sarah had been traveling with him, would they have avoided this calamity?

She groaned. The last time they discussed it, Jonathan thought Sarah was old enough. They could travel together again. She had been the one who wanted to continue living with her parents to help them and keep their grandchildren close. And it got them killed.

Other travelers appeared in the distance, and soldiers. There was a ferry and a shelter to shade people from the sun as they moved things back and forth across the river. Of course, Fairness Crossing was on the other side.

Blast. We need to get far away from here.

Chapter 12

Jonathan

Jonathan Otual waded through the icy East River at a low point he knew well. Shivering, his toes squishing in the mossy river bottom, he emerged onto the dry bank, his boots hanging from his neck. He ran a sleeve across his tanned face worn by weather and hardship, trying to dispel the chill that clung to his skin. His navy-blue knight’s cloak, soaked through, would take all day to dry.

Tossing the pack on the ground, he sat barefoot, drawing in his knees, wringing out the cloak. He tied his pale blond hair into a tail. Time was slipping away; the sun’s descent meant darkness would soon engulf him if he didn’t hurry. He re-strung his short bow, shouldering it, and fastened his sword before pressing forward, the heavy wool cloak dripped from his shoulders.

A veteran Knight of J’shua, Jonathan had embarked on countless missions into the heartlands of Mestelina and Esthlanis. Each journey led him back to his in-laws’ farm, where he found solace in their company. But this was to be his final mission; he longed to be home, aiding his wife’s family with their farmstead.

In their early years of marriage, Rebekah had traveled with him on his journeys. They ventured into Esthlanis, teaching the Writings and seeding new circles. They did not colonize; only a local follower could host a circle.

During the later years, he journeyed with Rebekah into Mestelina as well. The Mestels lived near the Freislicht border along the West River during the growing season. In the winter moons, they migrated into the deep canyons of the Shining Mountain Range in the south. There the canyon walls protected them from icy winds while they waited out the cold season.

Even when David and Sarah were born, she continued with him, until danger on the trails became more common. Then he left her on her parent’s farm where they would be safe.

Knights fought with weapons and words. Taught both, they learned to communicate with anyone, noble or lowborn. They could live off the land or dine with the king—all to further J’shua Ha Mashiach’s message.

Would he be any good as a daikon? People begging his opinion. Expecting him to be wise all the time.  

He sighed. It was time to try.

Just north of Frei Forest, warm, earthy scents rose with every step. The sweetness of pine and sassafras, nurtured by centuries of composted leaves carpeting the floor of that ancient timberland, reminded him of home. He’d be there before nightfall.

To sleep in his own bed from now on.

His mouth watered at the thought of a home-cooked meal. He couldn’t contain his excitement, anticipating a game of chess with Sarah, already planning his opening. The little stinker wouldn’t see it coming. It would be many moons before he’d be in Esthlanis again to play a game with David. It was a game that exercised the mind. So, his children would learn to play well, even better than he. He’d learned chess from Prince Sagen as a child. It was difficult for him to find regular opponents though due to his travels.

Jonathan’s son, David, would complete his apprenticeship with Master Gorum soon, leaving the Esthlani horse farm to attend the Knights’ School as Jonathan had. He imagined with pride, walking into the school to present his son, David, to Daikon Crispus.

Most of all, his heart longed for Rebekah, his beautiful wife. Visualizing her welcoming smile and bright blue eyes, he could feel her fine golden hair and silken skin against his face. He’d never leave her again. Jonathan quickened his pace as he neared their valley.

The smell of smoke told of a warm fire waiting and perhaps a hot meal. He grinned. Readjusting his bow, he sprinted.

Upon cresting the last hill, his gut clenched. “No!”

Wispy tendrils of smoke rose into the darkening sky from the charred remains of their home. Only the chimney stood standing amongst blackened posts. The heavy oak door had fallen off its hinges.

He ran through the flowering sorghum, yelling their names, praying they were safe.

No one answered his calls, only the lonely whining of a breeze through the still-smoldering ruins. Their home was gone. Its walls collapsed.

Oh, Father, let them be well!

If this were an accident, they should be here, making a shelter. They’d need protection from the elements. Even the weakest cry would have carried to him.

The barn had burned as well.

He ran.

This was deliberate.

The wind had wrapped the sheets tight around the line.

“Rebekah!” he yelled running toward his home.

“Rojer!”

When no one answered, Jonathan groaned. He dropped his gear at the edge of the yard and bent over, his hands on his knees.

Father, I have served you faithfully. How could this happen? Are they dead?

Exhaling, Jonathan walked toward the remains of the cottage. He scanned the yard. The ground was dark in one spot. Bending a knee, he rubbed the soil between his fingers. It was wet.

A small spill would have dried. The washtub was empty. Was this drenched to expunge blood?

He shoved what was left of the door away. There, the skeletons of two adults lay tangled just inside. All the flesh burned off.

His breath caught in his throat and he turned his face aside.

Who is it?

He prayed for his wife and her parents, and Sarah. He didn’t want any of them to be dead. But he hoped neither of them was Rebekah.

She must be alive. Sarah must be alive.

He stepped over the charred bones. Mounds of ash traced the outline of the table and the big rocking chair. He placed his hand over a scorched oak post, then rubbed it, his finger came away black.  It radiated no heat, but rain had not washed away the soot.

This was recent.

He could neither imagine what had happened, nor why. Who could have done this?

Rubbing his hand across his face, he moaned. If only he had been here. If he had not lingered.

Had his family angered someone?

He could divine no reason for such destruction, such waste.

Surveying the haunting remains, he continued his inspection in the barn. It was empty, both the horse and ox missing. He collapsed in the yard.

His mind raced as he blew out his anger as it grew. He had no target to attack. No direction to take.

Staring at the sky, numb, Jonathan prayed in the spirit. In his grief, he could form no words.

A hawk swooped into view. It banked on the wind, then dove to the ground, talons outstretched. When it soared aloft, a rat twisted, helpless in its grip.

The still, small voice of J’shua Ha Mashiach said, Get up.

He rose.

Hearing a faint rattle, he spun. In the distance, his neighbor’s wagon drove off, loaded with family. “Mister Wartin, stop! Wait! Wait.” The wind prevented his cries from reaching them.

Jonathan sang a psalm while he covered the bones with rocks, then gathered his pack and left to seek other neighbors.

J’shua, what has happened?

He’d come home to death twice before. First his father, then his mother, and now this.

***

When Jonathan was six, he would finish his chores and roam through the woods near their farm, climbing trees, observing the animals. He could sit, fascinated, watching a pika devour a grasshopper. He was so quiet and still, animals ignored him. But that dreadful day, a wagonful of men from the village were leaving when he broke out of the trees.

Jonathan had flung himself through the door. “Mother?”

She stooped over a pale, limp body that lay on the table, crying, stroking a hand with a wet cloth.

“Father,” was all Jonathan said, he stood frozen in place, numb to his core, like a pika paralyzed by a threat.

She embraced Jonathan so tight; he could hardly breathe. Time stood still as a strangeness washed over him, struck by the aroma of a bubbling stew and the whiteness of the dead body. Baskets of fresh picked lavender, rosemary, and rue cluttered the floor and the bread she had baked sat on the window-ledge, cooling. He woke later in his bed unable to remember the day before.

After that he knew only hunger and cold. His mother died during that long winter. His stomach pinched so bad; he stole bread from surrounding farms. He hid if anyone came near.

One day, a neighbor, Mister Grate, lured him with a meat pie cooling on the windowsill. Creeping closer and closer, he smelled the crispy baked crust and the rabbit meat that made saliva fill his mouth. As Jonathan reached up and touched the clay dish, Grate grabbed him by the neck and squeezed hard as he shoved him toward the woodshed. The angry crash of the door, the click of the lock, and bang when it dropped, were the last sounds he heard until several days later when Daikon Crispus, the traveling minister, came.

Relief washed over Jonathan as he looked up from the floor and took in his kind eyes and friendly smile.

“Well, boy, I am Daikon Crispus. J’shua has brought me to you. What do you think that means?”

He cowered at the sight of Mister Grate glowering down at him from behind the minister. “I’m sorry Mister Grate,” Jonathan said, looking down. “Please forgive me?”

Mister Grate growled and stomped off, muttering over his shoulder, “Make sure you take him far from here.”

Jonathan scrambled to his feet and bowed “If you are a daikon, sir, it means I shall live.”

Crispus clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, boy, you shall live.”

Then they rode to High Keep, Jonathan sitting in front.

Daikon Crispus became his guardian. He saved him that day.

Who will save me today?

Chapter 13

Owakar

Owakar and Alocrin crossed the threshold into the Density and found themselves assailed by two demons, amorphous scraps of unholy spirit, distorted into nobs and tentacles as they floated through the air, invisible to all but the angels. Owakar noticed the icy coldness and putrid smell that emanated from them. The watchers walked the perimeter of Lorness as the demons trailed behind them.

Owakar glanced back at them every few moments. “Don’t you worry they are spying on us?”

“Perhaps. I am used to being alone and they cannot read my mind, but just in case we discuss a secret—” Alocrin turned to them. “We are working. Begone!” He thrust out his hand. They moved away, almost hidden.

The luach reminded Owakar again of their origin.

[The sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose. When the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.]

Alocrin flapped a hand in their direction. “These demons are a sorry lot, nothing but remnants of the Nephilim, the offspring of the unholy union between the disobedient watchers and mortal women, an abhorrent experiment of the Serpent’s minions. Those disobedient angels were constrained in Tartarus, the prison in the Abyss. But this debris from the dead Nephilim wanders the earth seeking homes.”

Owakar puzzled on this for a moment. “Why do they remain? I thought the flood cleansed the earth.”

“It did, but the Nephilim were hybrids and upon their death, the spiritual part from their fathers did not die. A human or animal, might hold a thousand of these unclean spirits. They prefer a warm moist body to the dry air. They can flit in and out or be transmitted to a susceptible person with merely a touch or a word. And anyone with more authority can cast them out, including the host. Hence, a person with the spirit of J’shua Ha Mashiach can, and so can a more powerful demon.”

Owakar rubbed his chin. “I read in the luach that Caileagh Melazera has hundreds of demons inhabiting her and that she received these from a wizard who instilled them through years of sinister rituals done to her since she was four winters old.

“That is true,” Alocrin said.

Owakar stopped walking. “How can this be allowed?”

“Until a child commands its own authority, the parents do. Unfortunately, her mother is a witch. She gave her daughter to the wizard to use in exchange for her own desires.”

Owakar shook his head and they began walking again. “This is so messed up.”

“She is unaware of most of them. But she sees them as friends because they comforted her when she was tortured. Ruling spirits keep demons in line, commanding them to be hospitable house guests, often giving the host visions and a feeling of power. However, the power is in the hands of a ruling spirit, the prince over the region. These rebellious spirits are ancient rulers who have always desired to debase the progeny of the first man, Adam, made by the God of Truth.”

Owakar wondered. “Why doesn’t Gaelib Melazera have resident demons?”

“That is a good question. The demons in his wife visit him as the Warrior commands them. Once Melazera submits everything to him and becomes king of Freislicht,, the Warrior will rule the land through him. Already, Melazera and his wife does much evil for the Warrior.”

“We must stop him,” Owakar said in alarm.

“It is unfortunate, but only humans can stop him.” Alocrin showed him the words on his luach.

[Whoso sheds man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.]

“Since the flood, it has been the responsibility of humans to govern their kind. Not us any longer.” Alocrin placed a comforting hand on Owakar’s shoulder, “Gaelib Melazera has free will to use any means to further his ends. He is not aware of the unclean spirits that have enthralled him.”

Alocrin put his luach away in a pocket. “The Serpent is the god of this age here in the Density. Not us. We can only act if we are asked by a man or woman and only if the action does not interfere with the will of the God of Truth and does not usurp a person’s free will.”

Owakar sighed. “This is so complicated.” He set the luach on his knee to ponder these things when the awful smell of the two unclean spirits returned, evidently, commanded to complete their task by the Warrior.

“Oh, glorious Owakar,” one demon said, “we are eager to learn of your well-being since your recent failure. Those children weep, confined to a cage,” one demon with a muddy brown tint said in mock sympathy. “Their once-promising futures now turned to torment. Our master has exquisite plans for their suffering.”

The other demon, with a more greenish hue, wriggled closer. “You must be in need of rest after such a profound failure.” Owakar dismissed them with a wave. “That’s enough. You have no understanding. Be gone!” he demanded, his shimmering blade humming as it emerged from under his robe. “You heard me. Leave, you gossiping flotsam!”

The demons vanished, elusive as fleeting shadows, though Owakar wished for their destruction. He gritted his teeth as he slammed the blade back in the sheathe. Their likely return nagged at him. The Warrior, the highest authority over them in Lorness, sent them to agitate.

Alocrin, nodded his head in approval. “You did well. But you must be quicker to restore your peace again.” Alocrin stopped walking.

“I must leave you now. Carry on, Owakar. I will find you tomorrow.” Then the Master Watcher vanished.

***

Owakar came to the Celestial Sea to choose a few guardian angels to help him when

a messenger yelled, “Out of the way!” He pushed his way through the crowd of attendants that waited for orders. “Make a proper queue!” he said, forcing his way through, shoving angels aside. As he flitted by, Owakar sighed in relief, thankful the dispatch was not for him. His apprehension of potential demotion ever present.

Since the great flood, watchers were under constant scrutiny because of the rebellious angels. All he could do was pray that he would not be deceived like they had been.

He tapped his chin. I think I know him. What was that messenger’s name? He’d stood in line with him many times. Baynard, Bensull, …Benordin. That was it. Benordin.

Owakar thought to call a greeting to him, but he didn’t want to appear to brag about his new position, so he let him go on.

Sliding the luach in his pocket, he pondered the events of the day, the simple faith of the little girl, and the empty-headed soldier-boy. It made him laugh. Owakar could not sense any desire from the boy. He’d only touched the aura of the girl to attract the boy’s interest. She had done the rest.

The other soldiers oozed with body language and facial expressions of their desires for comfort and pleasure and pride. Not the boy-soldier. His glances showed curiosity, yet hid any expression or hint of his thoughts.

[But J’shua said, Allow the little children to come unto me and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.]

What miraculous surprises the free will of humanity bestows. Little choices could disrupt the elaborate plans of the Serpent.

As the God of Truth’s watcher for the Province of Lorness, Owakar seldom received prayers that required direct action. This time, however, he could intervene as per the divine council’s guidance. Settling on a bench, he observed the unfolding events.

No mortal could know how long their time on earth would last. However, when they met the God of Truth, he would be just. That is when their real life would begin.

He pondered how the rules had refined in this age of grace. Owakar reminisced about the days when guardians fought alongside the Children of Israel, protecting the line of Mashiach. However, the mission shifted after J’shua’s sacrifice to showcase the law of love to all sons of God since J’shua paid the ransom. The mission now was helping humans bear witness of the glory of the God of Truth; that all the sons of God might see the law of love in practice.

[But ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you: and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judaea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth.]

***

“Time for a bite,” Owakar declared, materializing in the shadows and presenting a baden to his favorite baker. “One of your peach tarts, good sir.”

The baker handed him the tart when someone tapped his shoulder. Owakar turned, eyes wide in surprise.

“You are hard to track down, Owakar.” Benordin, the messenger from earlier, eyed him up and down, handing him a folded piece of paper.

Owakar looked at the paper, raising an eyebrow, then dropped the hand holding it to his side, “What does this mean?” All it said was James of the Wood.

Benordin shrugged. “Seems Lorness needs more watching these days. This lad and a knight pray for help. And the Book says, ‘When two or more agree in prayer, J’shua is in the midst.’ That means you must go evaluate their needs.” The messenger smiled and left with a wink. “Later.”

Owakar took a nibble of the sweet tart, craning his neck as the messenger disappeared into the air, but the luach erupted.

[But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.]

“Yes, yes. I’m going.” He frowned and lapped up the sweet peach filling that oozed from the buttery crust and stuffed the last bit into his mouth. That message held so many applications. It applied to the deceased humans that will rise again. It gave hope to those still striving in the Density, learning to walk. And it applied to himself, moment by moment.

With each chew, he reflected on the passages from the Book of Life.

Chapter 14

Caileagh

Caileagh maneuvered through the sea of guests whose hushed conversations radiated fear, fueled by the rumors she orchestrated. Nobles called in loans to pay the taxes Gaelib had imposed on behalf of the king as his steward. She’d foreseen the abductions of women and children—but such a strong response was a delightful surprise.

In the grandeur of Castle Lorness, she, the Countess of Lorness, moved with regal grace through the opulent Grand Hall, her elegant emerald silk gown trailing behind her. A jeweled coronet nestled in her auburn hair that framed her perfect heart-shaped face.  Her dark amber eyes flashed as she appraised the room with an air of command, landing on Gaelib, who stood on the other side of the hall. He was fine boned, adorned in black velvet and leather. Piercing green eyes flashed from beneath wavy black hair that framed his sculpted face. Bright jewels studded his jacket and the dagger in his belt.

Every room reinforced her prestige and status as the most powerful woman in the land. Tapestries depicting the Melazera family history warmed each room. Portraits of its rulers marched across every hall. And dozens of liveried servants bore the family’s green dragon crest.

“Lord Macom, it is a pleasure to see you,” she greeted him with honeyed words. “I adore your new jacket. It makes your eyes most radiant.” Her hand trailed down his arm. She noticed his enlarged pupils and increased respiration.

His smile spread, then he moistened his lips and took her hand, kissing it with a bow. “You’re most kind. You are as a second sun, granting us the gifts of warmth and light.”

Caileagh glanced down, feigning shyness, then took his offered arm. “I believe Gaelib has something that will enchant you beyond words. Let me tell him you’re here. Please wait in his private solarium.”

She gestured toward the stairs and as he left, she traversed the room, pleased by the snippets of conversation she heard that ardently pushed for an expanded army, all in response to the rumors she had planted. Delightful.

Her path led her to Gaelib, surrounded by admirers.

Like bees to the flowering foxglove.

A baron, who wore a flowing violet robe embroidered in gold, laughed and bobbed his head at Gaelib’s every word. Several wealthy merchants were panting like dogs, eager to get him alone. A dozen more men and their wives formed a cordon around him, waiting, hoping to get closer. The famous bard, Fartuche, strummed his lute in the background, adding to the ambiance. She hoped Gaelib appreciated her spies, who even now helped him expand his economic control.

Caileagh waited, feigning casual interest, until Gaelib’s eyes found her. She glided into his arms, a picture of the doting wife. His face lit up, and she savored the familiar scent of cloves and frankincense that enveloped him. Even after ten years of marriage, she relished playing the doting, obedient wife, as her mother had taught her. It was one of her favorite roles.

Then, as if conjured by her thought, her mother, Farina Melazera, Dowager Countess, made a grand entrance, expanding her arms wide in greeting as if all were waiting for her— her hazel-eyed presence commanded attention. Her black satin gown shimmered with gold threads. Many jeweled combs held her red silk scarf in place over her braided hair twisted high upon her head. Each man bowed as she passed.

Caileagh stiffened for a moment as the room fell silent.

Farina sashayed to the only group that hadn’t noticed her and settled next to a wealthy merchant, deep in conversation with other men. Upon seeing her, they bobbed their heads toward her, entranced by whatever she’d said. She placed a hand on the merchant’s arm and he led her out. Her latest conquest.

Caileagh’s thoughts momentarily flickered to the skills her mother had imparted—the art of manipulation and the sacrifices made to maintain control. She remembered when her mother seduced Gaelib’s father as she watched.

A shiver of a nightmare crossed Caileagh’s face, but she concealed it with a cheery smile. Then she kissed Gaelib on the cheek, stroked his hair, whispered into his ear, and departed.

***

An hour later, dressed as the high priestess, she commanded her escorts, “Ready my horse. We ride for the sanctuary.”

Caileagh’s heart quickened as they neared the Bloody Rocks of Lorness that jutted up out of the ground at all angles, rising thirty yards into the air, creating cliffs and caverns. Many of them, streaked with iron, seemed to bleed. The sanctuary lay within an ancient cave where the Alte Regieren, the Ancient Ones, held sway.

The numerous stories of people lost there and never seen again, rumors spread by Caileagh’s birds, were working. She rarely encountered anyone on her rides to the Sanctuary of the Alte Regieren. If she did, they died, becoming part of her mythology.

Caileagh donned the ornate silver mask shaped like a nest of serpents; its edges surrounded with featherlike points. When she entered the illuminated cave, the petitioners within bowed, forming a corridor to the high stone altar.

Her soul soared. Energized by this ancient place, her guiding spirits filled her with mastery. Inspiration flooded her mind and body with every step.

She looked up at the lofty dome made even darker by the hundreds of candles surrounding her, like walking amidst stars.

She inhaled the intoxicating fragrances rising from braziers of burning incense. Her Gods had conventions to be followed. The rituals would ensure they hear her requests. And that they would accept these new acolytes.

Her followers fell silent, leaving only a slow, melodic dripping of water somewhere deep in the cave.

She spoke the ancient words to invoke more guiding spirits, “Ahule glòir a bhith aig ar maighstir.” All glory be to our Master, who brings Order out of Chaos. Her voice reverberated like thunder through the cavern.

“Bidh an òrdugh aige coilenta agus sìorraidh,” the acolytes responded. His order will be complete and everlasting.

Their voices thrummed through her.

She spread her arms, surveying them. “Welcome to your initiation.”

One by one, each of the new acolytes marched to the stone table, drew a knife across their left forearm, letting their blood drip, drip, drip into the ornate bronze bowl. The carvings of snakes and birds inside seemed to squirm with the dark, ruby contents.

She raised the vessel to the Gods and drank, sealing their devotion. The acolytes, now bound to her and the Ancient Ones, recited their solemn oath:

“I swear upon my blood to execute my office with all my soul, mind, and strength. I will bring honor to the Order of the Black Robe as long as I shall live.” Each new acolyte received a silver brooch marking their rise in status within the sacred order.

These pawns would no longer be simple functionaries in government offices and merchant houses. They were now soul bound to the Order, to further the designs of Gaelib and Caileagh, as well as to the spirit guides she had beckoned for them.

Raising her arms, she said, “From this moment onward, you are acolytes of the Order of the Black Robe.”

The silver mask reflected the torchlight, giving the engraved serpents an illusion of movement as she emphasized the secrecy of their duties. “I will assign you as we have opportunity and need. You will perform every task required of you fervently, without question, without deviation. Any complaints shall be investigated most—intensively.”

Caileagh continued, “You will continue to love your masters, enchanting them to gain their confidence. Go slow. There is no need to rush. In this way, we will saturate the kingdom, creating the new dominion.”

Chapter 15

Gaelib

Deep in Lorness Castle in the flickering candlelight, Gaelib traced his fingers over the detailed relief map, carved to scale from thick blocks of walnut. He could smell the linseed oil worked into the intricate design of the stained wood. The sharp edges of the borders of Mestelina, Esthlanis, Tarinland, and the Sea of Glass constrained his prize. He bent down to view the detailed drawing of High Keep, the capital of Freislicht, where he would soon rule. He repositioned some of the carved tokens representing his political assets, punctuating the landscape as he contemplated their use across the country. In his mind’s eye, he saw the ebb and flow of power—spiritual, political, and physical—visualizing the hidden influence he wielded over the kingdom.

While King Edal ruled Freislicht, his dukes, earls, and lesser nobles had independent control of their own domains. Royal law was the basis of all legal practice, but each noble managed its application. He would put an end to that.

With a finger, Gaelib flicked the king’s piece off the raised capital.

I will rule.

***

All day, Black Robe acolytes, sworn to him, arrived to provide him with the latest intelligence on his constituents. Gaelib’s shrewd understanding of noble finances allowed him to manipulate the system, anticipating the failure points and reaping the rewards.

The grand hall of Lorness Castle buzzed with activity as nobles and dignitaries gathered for the lunar celebration. Gaelib stood near a window, the glow of the setting sun shining on his face, his eyes scanning the room with calculated interest. His undersecretary, George Rosewud, scampered up with a goblet of wine.

“My lord,” Rosewud said, offering the drink. “Another successful gathering, I’d say.”

Gaelib took the goblet, his lips curling into a smirk. “Indeed, George. The pawns dance to our songs.”

Rosewud lowered his voice. “Speaking of harmonies, the latest tax increase has caused quite the stir among the nobles. Many are calling in loans from the peasants.”

“Excellent,” Gaelib purred. “And how fares our little land ownership experiment?”

“As predicted, my lord. The commoners flee in droves, leaving prime lands abandoned.”

Gaelib’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Ah, the sweet smell of opportunity. To think the king believed just anyone could become a landowner. Phah!”

“Your foresight in selling half your lands was brilliant, sir,” Rosewud remarked. “You stand to profit twice over.”

“Indeed. The beauty of patience, George. We plant the seeds of chaos and reap the rewards.” Gaelib took a sip of wine. “And our debt collections?”

Rosewud produced a small ledger from his coat. “Proceeding as planned. We’ve strategically targeted key locations. The fear spreads, and the baden flows.”

“Excellent. Cold, hard baden is the lifeblood of true power, George. Remember that.”

“Of course, my lord. But—might I ask, what of the king? Won’t he notice the consequences of his failed policy?”

Gaelib chuckled darkly. “Oh, dear Edal notices little beyond the walls of High Keep these days. Rumor has it that if you attempt to bring a grievance before the king, you will be thrown in the dungeon. Besides, as his loyal steward, I implement his grand visions.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless, of course, those visions require–adjustment.”

Rosewud nodded, understanding the implied meaning. “And the western frontier lands?”

“Patience, George. Those lands will be ripe for our taking soon enough. For now, we watch, we wait, and we let the chaos do our work for us.”

“A masterful plan, as always, my lord.”

Gaelib’s gaze swept over the gathered nobles once more. “Indeed. Now, let’s mingle, shall we? There are whispers to plant and fears to nurture. The night is young, and there’s so much more—”He gestured across the growing throng with his hand. “—orchestrating to be done.”

With that, Gaelib stepped into the crowd, his undersecretary close behind, sowing seeds of their next machination under the guise of celebration.

***

Gaelib leaned forward on the balcony, his eyes narrowing as Duke Robbet Fredruck strode into Lorness Castle’s grand hall. The duke’s modest attire and armed escort stood in stark contrast to the opulent revelers around him.

“Well, well,” Gaelib murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. “What brings our valiant duke to my humble abode?”

He gestured to a nearby servant. “Escort our esteemed guest to the east alcove so he has a good view. And do take your time.”

As the servant left, Gaelib turned to his undersecretary. “George, it seems we have an unexpected player in our game tonight.”

George Rosewud raised an eyebrow. “Shall I prepare the usual hospitalities, my lord?”

Gaelib chuckled, his hand caressing the ornate dagger at his hip. “Oh no, let’s make the duke sweat a little. After all, he chose to grace us with his presence on a celebration night. It would be rude not to show him the full spectacle.”

With calculated nonchalance, Gaelib descended the stairs into the main hall. He wove through the crowd, stopping to engage in animated conversations with nobles and sycophants alike. All the while, he kept Fredruck in his peripheral vision, noting the duke’s growing impatience and his disdain for the lascivious acts of Gaelib’s entertainers and guests.

“My dear, Lady,” Gaelib exclaimed, kissing the hand of a bejeweled woman. “You must tell me more about your new vineyards. I hear the grapes this season are succulent.”

As the lady launched into a detailed description, Gaelib caught Fredruck’s eye across the room. He raised his goblet in a mock salute, relishing the flash of irritation that crossed the duke’s face.

An hour later, Gaelib moseyed toward the alcove. He paused at the door, running his fingers through his raven-black hair and composing his features into a mask of polite surprise. Gaelib spread his arms wide in an expansive gesture of greeting. “Welcome, Your Grace. I am so sorry for the long wait,” Gaelib apologized with a deep bow. “As the king’s steward, I’ve so many duties. Nobles seek me incessantly.”

Fredruck rose, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Enough games, Gaelib. We need to discuss the recent—disturbances on our shared border.”

Gaelib's eyes glittered as he circled the room. “Disturbances? My dear duke, I'm but a humble servant of the crown, implementing His Majesty's grand visions. Surely, you're not here to question the king's wisdom?”

He poured two goblets of wine, offering one to Fredruck with a predatory smile. “Come now, let's talk like civilized men. After all, we're neighbors. And neighbors should always strive to–understand one another. Don't you agree?”

As Fredruck relented and took the goblet, Gaelib's mind raced with possibilities. The night was young, and the game had only just begun. One way or another, he would bring this troublesome duke to heel.

Come, sit. Let’s clear up the misunderstanding on our border.”

Duke Fredruck glowered. “Yes, Earl of Lorness, I am sure we can come to a resolution,” he said as he sat. “Forbid your soldiers to trespass onto my lands. Then they’ll not encounter my people nor try to arrest any.”

“Please, I must entertain you before we discuss such arrangements.” Gaelib raised a hand, and many maidens dressed in layers of almost transparent silk, entered, surrounding the duke. The first took his goblet of wine and offered him another, the next a plate of sliced fruit.

“This is quite unnecessary,” Fredruck said, as he motioned the women away.

But instead of departing, they began to remove their embroidered bodices and lifted their silky shifts. Four came closer and curtseyed low. The metallic scraping of drawn swords caused them to freeze as the duke’s three armed escorts stepped in.

“Earl Melazera,” Fredruck stood and growled, “this is beyond inappropriate. I shall take my complaint to the king. I’ll also require my commoners to bear arms and aid my troops in order to dissuade your soldiers from foolishness. We shall arrest any of yours that set foot on my land and impose the full penalties of the law. Good day.” He turned and left.

Gaelib shrugged, dismissing all but one young maid to resume other duties. He placed the goblet of wine intended for the duke to her lips and said, “Drink this.”

She complied.

Rosewud, stepped out of the alcove arch and pulled the sash that held back red velvet curtains, leaving she and the earl alone, in the dark.

Gaelib finished his wine.

***

All his essential tasks done, Gaelib retired to his solarium, where he found Lord Macom enjoying the pleasures of the room.

It was lit from windows high in the domed ceiling made of a thousand tiny panes of glass. To control the temperature, dozens of curtains of the sheerest silk were hung and drawn across the light to diffuse the room with color and give a little shade.

Macom startled from his reverie. “Lord Melazera!”

“Don’t get up Macom, I shall join you.”

Several slaves removed his clothing, for the room was warm like the royal baths. Another brought grapes as Gaelib lay back on a black velvet couch.

Macom waved a hand toward the marvelous light as several girls rubbed oil on his skin. “My lord, your solarium is like the southern isles complete with the hospitality.”

Gaelib smiled. “I’m so happy you approve. Dear friend, the only difference between a servant and a slave is whether they are free to leave. The king does not condone slavery, but what he doesn’t know, he can’t stop.”

Macom nodded. He was in no position to disagree and as of yet, had no reason to want to.

“Lord Macom, I’d like you to make a covert delivery to our neighbor, Duke Fredruck. I’ll send my man to you tomorrow.”

***

The lunar celebration waned, revelers who were invited to stay took servants to their private chambers, as the castle’s halls echoed with the consummation of new covenants. After Caileagh departed to conjure in her sanctuary and the guests had all driven away or retired for the night, Gaelib returned to his map table.

In the shadowy chamber, Gaelib’s insidious smile grew as he imagined the demise of King Edal and the ascension of the prince. The Warrior had confirmed Caileagh’s vision, foretelling Gaelib’s role as the closest and only friend to the new king. With a calculated gaze, he adjusted the placement of each asset according to the new intelligence he’d received today.

First, he removed all the pieces no longer in play. Then, he pulled tiny, carved sparrows from a small chest. These he placed in the towns and villages as Caileagh had related it to him. Next, the eagles—his fingers ran across their intricate feathers as he perched each of them on a castle. Last, the ravens—he had installed many new ravens tonight. They would ingratiate themselves into every noble family.

As he plotting the continued expansion of his financial footholds, the next moves lay open before him.