Chapter XXXIV

It was hard to believe, sometimes, that the sparkling lights in the night sky, those infinite stars that stretched out from horizon to horizon, were such a threat. To think that God had created the Firmament to block out those beautiful lights. Occasionally, one of those lights would fall, crashing to Erets in a ball of fire. Only through demon-conjuring could they come through alive.

If every star in the night sky was, in fact, a demon, then it was true what the priests said, the demons out-numbered the angels. Made sense, really, at times it seemed even amongst humans that the wicked outnumbered the good. Certainly in this war it was true.

As Aryn looked up at the night sky, though, she couldn't help but admire how beautiful those stars looked, and wonder just how great it would be to be able to swim through that ocean above.

“Couldn't sleep?” asked Tamas, finding Aryn on one of the balconies of the castle.

“No. You either?”

“I normally can't sleep until I've come out, enjoyed the night air, and stared up at the sky.”

“Gazing into the Void makes you feel safer at night?” Aryn asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Tamas laughed. “And yes, in a way. I look at the night sky to remind myself...well, God has managed to keep out those legions you see above us. He may not be all powerful, but if he was powerful enough to do that then all our problems seem so small by comparison, don't they? That's how I remind myself that...no matter how scary things seem, everything will turn out fine in the end.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Aryn said.

“You don't believe God is watching over you? You? The daughter of two renowned paladins?”

“I believe God is watching over us, of course, but I know better than to expect a happy ending no matter what. My father...” Aryn had gotten so used to referring to Hadar as her father over the years that it was going to take some real getting used to calling him anything else now that she knew he wasn't really her father. “I mean the Martyr King, didn't get a happy ending.”

“Didn't he?” Tamas asked. “He died, yes, but that just means that he became one of the angels in the army of Heaven. He watches over us all now, and spends all his days in paradise.”

“True...” Aryn considered a moment. “But then there's all the suffering his death caused. My mother was heartbroken. Milo...my father too. Grigori took it hardest of all...” Just as she said that something struck Aryn that she hadn't realized before. Sarahi had told her that Hadar was a lover of men, and now that Aryn thought about it it made sense that the reason why Grigori took Hadar's death harder than anyone else was because he and Hadar were lovers. Aryn had never seen Grigori with a woman. Granted, she'd never seen him with a man either, but if Grigori truly loved Hadar then that would make sense, he couldn't handle the heart-break so he never pursued anyone else romantically ever again.

“I suppose you're right,” Tamas said. “Happy endings are only assured if you see Heaven as the ending.”

“And Heaven's just a beginning. Your soul spends far more time there than it does here, but even Heaven is under threat, Tamas. If the demons ever get their way it will be destroyed. No, there are no guarantees. We keep our faith, and we try the best we can, but there's nothing promising everything turns out alright in the end.”

Tamas cleared his throat. “I heard the geomancers got back a few hours ago. Leveling the castle of Migdal was a success?”

“That's right,” Aryn said with a sigh. “The Arch-Bishop's plan...well, I wasn't happy about it, but I think she might be right, it might do the trick. Many of the rebellious nobles will have died in that attack, and those who didn't die would be reminded of the advantage magic gives us. Perhaps this will even remind them that God is against them in this conflict.”

“It's possible that Mahla died in the castle's collapse too,” Tamas pointed out. “I'd like nothing more than to see her pay for killing Paolo!”

At times Aryn wondered, whenever she or Tamas would say that, how much of that desire came from a longing for justice and how much was just outright vengeance.

A breeze picked up, soothing and calm.

“A beautiful summer night,” Tamas said as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze.

“It's still a few more weeks until summer,” Aryn said.

“That's what the calendar says, but the air says it's summer now.” Tamas spread his arms wide as the breeze continued. “Feel that! Just feel it! The wind is like a soft sheet, gliding across your skin!”

Aryn spread her arms wide and found herself enjoying it just as he was. The feeling of that breeze against her face and sneaking in through her sleeves to caress her bare skin underneath. She was at the center of a civil war, a target for thousands of people, and for a moment she didn't care, all she could do was enjoy the soothing summer night air.

To her surprise, as she stood with her arms wide, enjoying the breeze, Tamas came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her close to him. For a moment she wanted to tell him to know his place and let go of her, but she soon found that his embrace was as comforting as the wind. With the cool wind caressing the front of her body and Tamas' warmth at her back she felt truly at peace, more than she'd felt in a very long time. Tamas slowly rocked her back and forth, as if the two of them danced to some silent music. Something about all of this just felt so right to Aryn, in spite of all of the reasons she could think of to protest it. It was strange for her to think that not long ago Tamas had been a complete stranger, and yet now she felt so secure in his arms. Nothing was said between these two, nothing needed to be said, and had any words been spoken they would have likely just ruined that perfect moment.

. . .

Tassos' eyes slowly came into focus, and he could see that he was in a dark room, with just a little light coming in from a tiny window. The window was short, barred, and up high, which told him that most of this room was underground. The air was cold, and in the distance he could hear screams.

“Second time you've come back from the dead,” came a woman's voice from within the room. Tassos couldn't see her yet, she was hidden by the shadows. Her voice was cold, emotionless, and distant. “But first time you've regained consciousness. Interesting...”

Tassos tried to move, and then discovered that he was strapped to the wall, standing upright, with his feet apart and his hands spread wide. He could also feel that his skin was bare against the cold, stone wall. Again someone had taken his clothes.

“Where am I?” he croaked out.

“In the dungeons of the Inquisition, in Kolob,” said the female voice.

“And who are you?”

“Sister Ishik,” the female voice responded. “Now, I have a few questions, and it's best if you answer them as honestly as you can.” Tassos knew in an instant that he needed to cooperate. The Inquisition had a reputation for employing some of the most brutal torture methods in the world if you didn't cooperate with them, and given that he would keep coming back to life this inquisitor would soon find little reason to hold back. There would truly be no escape for him. “When the witch-hunters first found you they stabbed you in the side with a spear. They missed your heart, but still incurred enough blood loss that you died before they could get you back here. By the time you got here, though, your heart was beating again, and you were breathing, though unconscious. Then you caught an infection in that same wound. We gave you medicine to try to fight it off, but in time you succumbed to it and died again. The others wanted to bury your body, but I had a hunch you'd be coming back from the dead yet again, and so I brought you here. The obvious question, then, is this; how are you coming back from the dead?”

“I have a covenant...with the Father...” Tassos wheezed.

“The Father?”

“A god worshiped in the West. He's the god of justice, destruction, and death. My covenant with him allows me to come back from the dead.”

“Interesting. How exactly does that work?”

“I kill wicked people, people squandering the Mother's gift of life, and for each evil person I kill the Father brings me back one more time.”

“I see...and how many 'evil' people have you killed?”

“Thousands.”

“And how many more times will the Father resurrect you?”

The last thing he wanted to tell her was that the Father still owed him over one-hundred more resurrections yet. If she knew that then she might feel inclined to experiment. “I lost my last two times when you people brought me here,” Tassos said.

“So you've died thousands of times?”

“Yes,” at least that much was true. “I live a dangerous life, killing evil people tends to get one killed a lot.”

“How many others are there who worship this...'Father?'”

“I don't know,” Tassos said. “We're scattered all over the West.”

“Do you have any holy books, or is it just oral tradition?”

“We have holy books.”

“I see. I see. Well, as you may know, blasphemy is the one crime we cannot tolerate in the Inquisition. Anyone can be redeemed of their sins, no matter how terrible those sins are, but blasphemers? They drag other people into the Void with them, they endanger other souls. I'm sorry. Hope you understand.”

Tassos felt something sharp shoved between his ribs, plunged into his heart. He could feel his own blood leak out, and even the faint light from the small window faded to black. Next thing he knew he was awake again, but in the exact same place.

“I thought you were lying to me,” said Sister Ishik. “Seems I was right. Now, how many more times will the Father bring you back?”

“Thousands,” Tassos said. He hoped, this time, that telling her the opposite of what he'd told her last time might make her think that killing him was futile. It was a desperate hope, but he had to try.

“Thousands? Well, then. One wonders what all the Father can bring you back from, then. As it is, you came back to life in the exact same place.” Tassos heard a match strike and soon saw the flame, held up close to his bare chest. For the first time he saw his captor, an attractive young woman with black hair, cut boyishly short, in a black cassock. “The scar from my blade is still there, which means you aren't fully healed each time, just brought back to life. Is every scar on your body a time that you were killed?”

“No. Not every scar.”

“I wonder...if your body was burned would the Father still be able to bring you back? He resurrected you in the same place you died, restored life to your body, what if your ashes were scattered?”

The truth was Tassos wasn't sure if he'd come back from the dead if he was burned and his ashes scattered, and he certainly wasn't sure what sort of condition he'd be in or where he'd be if such a thing was done. “The Father is the almighty god of death and destruction. He can restore me to life no matter what you do!” Surely they wouldn't burn him if they knew they couldn't even kill him that way.

“Let's have a little experiment, then,” said Sister Ishik. “I'll speak to the other inquisitors, we'll burn you at the stake and collect your ashes into an urn. The urn will be locked closed and kept in one of our dungeons. After three days' time if we have not seen you come back we'll open the urn to make sure your ashes are still inside. After a week's time, if you have not come back we'll bury the urn. I'm hoping you do come back, though. It would be fascinating to see how this false god of yours restores you to life when your body is nothing but ashes.”

“No! Please, don't!” Tassos begged, flailing against the straps on the wall.

“We cannot suffer blasphemers to live,” Sister Ishik said, her voice still calm and cold.

“I'll convert!” Tassos cried out.

“Pardon?”

“My loyalty to the Father is...a matter of convenience. I'll convert to your faith! I'll hear everything you have to say, listen to all of your teachings, swear my allegiance to Sandalphon! I'll even become a witch-hunter, I'll kill your enemies for you!”

“You look far too sickly for that. Our witch-hunters are top-notch killers.”

“I'm not as strong as them, but I can come back from the dead, remember! I'm not useless!”

“You'd retain that power even after converting to our faith?”

“Yes!” Tassos said. “The covenant I swore to the Father...the wording of it...he said he would bring me back to life one time for every wicked person I killed. We never said anything about my loyalty to him, just that I serve justice!” That much was true. Under other circumstances Tassos might have worried how else the Father might punish him for his betrayal, but at the moment this inquisitor was far more intimidating than any distant god.

“It's a risky business...using heathen magic to serve good,” Sister Ishik said. “I'll speak with Father Lamech, the Grand Inquisitor. He'll make the decision. If he likes the idea you'll be taught the True Way, and in time you'll be one of us. If he refuses...then we'll have to figure out some way to deal with you.”

. . .

With the arrival of each of the lords' armies at the castle of Migdal the unearthing of survivors of the castle's collapse became far easier. They soon dug up Jachai, still alive, but with one leg seriously injured. Count Okran was not so fortunate, as he was found with his body completely crushed.

“Damn it!” Jachai screamed as he beat his fists on the ground. “Damn that harlot of a queen! Demons take her and her black heart!”

“Excellency, you need your rest in order to recover,” said one of the surviving servants.

“The Void with that! I want to make that slut pay! Did Grigori survive the collapse?”

“What...yes, your Excellency.”

“Bring him to me! NOW!”

The servants scurried away to where Grigori was held. As it turned out the dungeon, underground as they were, was the safest place for Grigori to be. He, along with the other prisoners, had remained unharmed during the castle's collapse. The surviving servants and castle guards dragged Grigori over to Jachai, pulling him by the chains around his neck and wrists.

“You don't have to pull so hard. I'll cooperate,” Grigori said. “Your Excellency! When last we spoke about this war you seemed pretty confident that you would win because of your superior numbers. You realize that it was probably just a handful of geomancers who did this, right? Still confident about your odds of winning?”

“I'll kill everyone that harlot queen loves! Her peasant father, her traitor mother, everyone!”

“Listen to yourself!” Grigori shouted. “You've gone off the deep end! What would slaughtering everyone the Queen loves accomplish? This war can still be stopped, there can still be peace! I beg you to reconsider your actions! Maybe Aryn will allow you and the other nobles to break away, form your own nation. This doesn't have to end-”

Grigori was suddenly cut off as Jachai's knife slashed his throat. Everyone watching the scene gasped, a few people even screamed as they saw Jachai slit Grigori's throat. Grigori grasped at the cut across his throat, instinctively trying to hold in the blood that was spilling out, but it poured over his hands and between his fingers. For a fleeting moment Grigori could swear he saw a man with soft blonde hair standing behind Jachai, but then he blinked and the young man was gone.

“Shut up! Shut your lying mouth! Shut up! Shut up! Adulterous, lying, treacherous, murderous bastard!” Jachai screamed at him. Grigori's body fell limp on the ground and Jachai repeatedly kicked him in the head while he was down. “This is for Liat! This is for Okran! This is for all those who died in Migdal! Messenger! Messenger!”

Only one of Jachai's messengers was brave enough to step forward in that moment, “Yes, Excellency?”

“Go to the capital. Tell Queen Aryn that I have killed Grigori, and that she will be flayed alive for what she's done!”

“Aye...” the messenger hesitated, wondering if she could really expect to deliver such a message to the Queen herself.

“Commanders! Gather all the soldiers you can. We have to plan out our invasion of the capital. Scouts have told me the bridges are out, so we'll conscript some peasants, get them to fix the bridges for us! The false queen will not escape justice!”

Once Jachai had stormed off, grumbling and muttering to himself as he cleaned his bloodied knife, some of the servants came to collect Grigori's body. They pulled Grigori out of the pool of his own blood, and to their horror they found that, in spite of his throat having been slashed, Grigori wore a smile on his face. Whatever he'd thought of in his last moments, or whatever he saw as his life flashed before his eyes, apparently had filled the former inquisitor's heart with joy.