The Motive for Massacre (The Kinless Trilogy Book 2) Page 4

  Umaryn looked at him, irritated. "Do you think that was an effective rallying speech Marcus? All you've managed to do is make me nervous. Well done knight."

  Marcus laughed quietly, embarrassed. "I'm sorry Umaryn. I just want you to do well."

  She sat the fine brush down and looked at the knight. He looked incredibly handsome with his shoulder length black hair that had pinprick streaks of white running through it. He wasn't even that old; it was the life of the warrior that had aged him.

  "I know Marcus. I just guess I wanted more peace and quiet."

  "I understand. We should've met you there. Chelsea and I can leave." Marcus stood and returned towards the door. Umaryn wanted to say something to stop him, but her tongue refused to cooperate with her brain. The confused body parts untangled when she saw Chelsea standing oddly close to her brother. There was… something in her brother's eye that told her far more than he wanted to share.

  She stood, smiling, "Yes, we'll meet you there. In an hour?"

  Marcus turned in agreement, "Yes an hour." Mal undid the bolt again, and the two freshly arrived guests let themselves out. Umaryn noted the way Chelsea looked at her brother on the way out. She returned to the table and began her finishing touches angrily.

  Mal sat down next to her and waited for her to say something. She didn't. "I think that was one of the most awkward moments I've ever seen you have dear sister."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Mal chuckled, "You and Marcus. There's some chemistry there."

  "I really don't know what you're talking about. And you know what? What's going on with you and that Chelsea girl? She was standing awfully close to you a minute ago. Care to explain what's going on there?"

  "Nothing yet. Though she is frightfully pretty in her dress uniform."

  "Mal, I don't even want to hear it. You're talking about me making too many waves, and you're thinking of courting our closest ally's squire."

  "Are you serious? You're giving me shit for that and all the while you've got hearts in your eyes over Marcus? The aforementioned closest ally? Come on sister, get real," Mal's tone was steadily getting more angry.

  Umaryn snapped the hand held mirror down on the square wooden table, nearly breaking the glass. "We shouldn’t argue like this. Not today."

  Mal grudgingly agreed with her, "Yeah you're right. You know Marcus said it right, right?"

  "What'd he say?" Umaryn asked.

  "We just want you to do well."

  The aging female Bishop rode on horseback with her Minister assistant through the city of Daris. Their mounts were fine creatures, bred for calm, and comfort, and they walked with a stately grace over the city's dirt and stone streets. It was nearly high noon, and the sun blazed pregnant above. The heat poured down on her shoulders, and even through her fine robes, she could feel her shoulders burning. She'd need to mend her own flesh later if the burns got too severe.

  "It is important that the Church of Souls send a representative to these kinds of things James. I know you find them distasteful," she said absently. Sometimes talking for no reason soothed her. Her words always felt so wise.

  James urged his horse on, and matched her pace, "I understand Bishop. It's important that the two Churches work together to maintain peace and harmony.

  "One Church James. There is a Church, and there is a Guild. Calling what they do a religion offends me," the Bishop said. She wiped a fly out of the air near her face as they passed a handful of vagrants, huddled near a lamp post. They knew better than to beg as the Bishop passed.

  "But doesn't the Church officially recognize the Guild as a religion? There are tens of thousands of worshippers who attend their services. They can also wield the Way through faith, as we do." James seemed lost on the matter.

  The Bishop changed that, "James the Guild is a bunch of artsy lunatics who've managed to tap into a lesser form of the Way. Just because there are ten thousand fools all lining up at their doors doesn't mean they are even remotely the same as us. When the Great Plague came, three centuries ago and ruined Elmoryn, it was the Apostles of the Church of Souls who navigated civilization through that storm. Not the Artificers. Respect them for what they are."

  James ventured into dangerous territory, "And what are they, exactly?"

  "Allies. Cohorts. A useful tool to keep the masses safe and content. They make and maintain the locomotives that ride the rails that allow our world to remain connected. They fix broken things. That is all."

  "And why is it so important for you to attend this induction ceremony? In your opinion?" James was very interested to hear what she had to say about that.

  "Appearances James. So much of what we do is simply for the appearance of it."

  "Like that little box you protect so?"

  The Bishop turned in her saddle and bored a hole into James with her eyes, "No James. That box is all substance. All meaning. All duty. And most of all, all sacrifice." When she turned to face forward, James thought he could hear sadness in her voice.

  But he had to be imagining it.

  Malwynn lost interest in the induction ceremony ten minutes in. It was held in a round room that Umaryn had described to him from when she brought her armor in for assessment.

  Umaryn was led to the center of the room by a wizened female Artificer where a podium had been placed for her to stand at. Arranged in a half moon around the podium were a series of elevated seats where gray robed Bibliosophs sat, pressing his sister for answer after answer to simple and esoteric questions. Mal only knew they were Bibliosophs because Umaryn told him that was their title.

  Mal didn't like titles.

  Near the entrance to the round room the Guild had assembled five rows of ten chairs each, arranged with an aisle down the center. The aisle led to Umaryn and her podium. Sitting in the chairs were various Guild officials who wanted to attend a particularly interesting induction ceremony, as well as notable city crafters, and several representatives from the Church of Souls. Mal barely dared to turn around to see who they were, for fear they'd see who he was. Marcus sat in the chair nearest the aisle, then Chelsea beside Mal, and finally the leatherworker Harold. Harold was the man Mal blamed for all of this nonsense. It was at his urging that his sister came here in the first place. Off to the side was Umaryn's magnificent blood red armor. It stood as overwhelming evidence of her competence.

  The questioning started simply. Where are you from? How long have you been able to wield the Way? What are the Guild's Six Principles?

  And more. They drilled her repeatedly, covering detail after detail of the Artificer Church's internal workings. They asked what the ranks meant, and how you achieved them. They asked her rote and procedure on minor things that only Artificers could possibly care about.

  It was beyond inane, and that was just the beginning.

  An hour into it the show took on a more entertaining bent. One of the Artificers, a man claiming to be one of the 'foremost experts' on using the Way, came down off of his raised seat and brought with him a carved walking stick. After explaining the exercise to Umaryn, the man abruptly snapped the stick over his knee, and then laid it upon the top of the podium in front of Umaryn.

  Umaryn took up the bent, broken cane, and gently whispered to its spirit. Slowly, the Way came to fruition, and the cane reformed. The gathered audience gave his sister a polite round of applause when she handed the cane back to the man.

  A simple item, with a simple problem, fixed efficiently.

  The Artificer returned to his desk and sat the cane down. He then picked up a small clock. The brass contraption was the size of a sturdy tome, and was clearly heavy by the amount of effort it took for the Guildsman to lift it. He explained to her that she would need to repair the clock, and then without warning, let it fall to the hard stone floor. Those present all jerked back as the metal clock crashed into the floor. The sound of the gears and mechanisms collapsing was hard to listen to. Mal looked at the faces of the Bibliosophs and saw that t
hey had tremendous disdain for this part of the test. He already knew what Umaryn felt.

  Motivation.

  She came around the podium and knelt on the floor, looking over the machine carefully, running her fingertips along the ruined contraption. Mal couldn't imagine how much the thing was worth. Intricate gearing was difficult to make, and no Artificer would use any form of mass manufacturing techniques to make it easier. Umaryn took the clock into her hands and cradled it to her chest like a school child might hold their most favorite textbook. She paced around the center of the round room with her eyes closed, her mouth whispering to the spirit inside the clock, beckoning to it, and sharing their connection to the Way with it. She clutched at the ruined clock for several minutes, circling both her stand, as well as the Artificer that had done the intentional damage. After several long minutes she stopped moving, and simply extended the heavy clock out to the Guildsman. The heavy weight of the metal machine was nothing for his sister. Years in the forge had honed far more than her skill.

  The Artificer took the clock from her, and once it was free of her breast, the gasps came. All the damage in the clock was gone. The Artificer's eyes widened in amazement as a smile spread across his face. His approval was unbridled, and clearly spontaneous.

  Umaryn had done well.

  Several other Artificers came forth the same as he over the course of the next hour. Each one presented Umaryn with a different task, a different problem, and a more complicated challenge. It seemed to be less of an induction, and more of an assessment of advanced skill. Malwynn was bored, but he was also thrilled at his sister's continual success at everything they threw her way. When the last Artificer seemed pleased, they passed around a thick book, one at a time, each reading something, and then writing a notation before passing it along.

  The book's journey around the half moon ended in the hands of the first Artificer that greeted Umaryn, the elderly woman. She took a quill into her hand, and without consulting whatever writing the others had seen fit to look at, she scrawled something onto the page happily. She had already made her decision.

  "We have been brought here today to induct a wonderful aspirant into the Guild. As you all have been witness to, Umaryn has shown tremendous skill not only in the Way, but in our Church's practices as well. She has shown dedication and skill beyond her tender years. As many of the gathered know, Umaryn has ascended to the pinnacle of her craft, and has brought an artifact into this world," the old woman pointed proudly to the dark crimson armor that stood on a mannequin at the edge of the room.

  "That alone merits unending praise. But as you have seen, she has shown expertise in the Way befitting someone of far higher stature than a mere Neophyte."

  The room was silent. This wise woman's voice and presence was entrancing. Even Malwynn hung on her every word.

  "I am pleased to announce to the audience, to the world, and to all the spirits that it contains that on this day we welcome Umaryn Everwalk into the folds of the Church of the Artificer with the title of Fabricator!"

  Everyone gathered stood and applauded raucously. This was an auspicious moment. For someone to join the Church as a red trimmed Artificer Neophyte was one thing, but for a candidate to skip so many ranks and ascend directly to fabricator… this was momentous.

  A low ranking Guildsman came out of a side hall carrying the vaunted red trimmed robe that his sister coveted. He carefully handed it to the old lady, and she approached Umaryn.

  "It is time for you to wear this my dear," she said, her voice bursting with pride.

  Umaryn undid the top button of the gray candidate's robe and let it fall to the floor at her feet, as the ceremony dictated. She took a symbolic first step out of the ring of cloth, and spun to face the audience gathered. Deftly, the old Bibliosoph billowed the cloak around Umaryn's shoulders, and fastened the top button. She turned the new Artificer to face her with loving hands.

  "Umaryn Everwalk, you should be proud to know that you are the highest ranking Artificer to ever have come from New Picknell."

  A guttural noise came from the back of the room. Mal spun quickly and watched as an older Apostle, finely garbed in a floor length robe the color of cream filled coffee rushed to leave. She seemed ill. Mal's memory fired, and his heart lurched as he watched a younger Apostle follow her out, clearly concerned.

  He'd only seen the woman for half a moment, and even then only in profile as she ran out of the room. As the Bibliosoph continued her ceremony, Mal was stuck looking out the exit of the room as she walked away, faster and faster. As she walked, his feelings contorted, and twisted him up on the inside.

  A hand slipped into his, and gave it a squeeze, breaking his fixation. He turned and looked back at Chelsea. She had seen his turmoil.

  "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

  Mal stammered, "That… that woman who just left."

  "The Bishop? What about her?" Chelsea looked up at Mal with incredibly pretty, and strong eyes. They were blue like his and his sister's.

  "She looked like my mother."

  "How? How?! How?!" The Bishop scathed as they practically ran from the Guildhall. Her finely made robe flowed around her like the waves roiled by an angry storm.

  James was legitimately frightened.

  "There were no loose ends. I was assured."

  "Bishop? What's wrong?"

  She stopped and got in his face, "What's wrong James? You want to understand the inner workings of a nightmare? I swear the ancestors have conspired to ruin everything. All of Elmoryn could fall because of this James. Death on an untold scale." Her breath was hot and fetid on his face. He could smell her rage.

  "Bishop. I can't help you if you won't share what's happening with me."

  The Bishop started walking again, her rage evolving into purpose. James watched as her eyes searched the world while her mind assembled a plan.

  "Bishop?"

  She spoke, her voice hushed, "James there have been wheels put into motion for decades that I had thought were at rest. A treachery that I dedicated my entire adult life to undoing. A treachery most foul, most cold, and most damaging."

  "This is part and parcel with your box, yes?"

  She nodded emphatically, "Yes, my precious little box. I should bury it in the middle of the Plague Dunes, where only the dead and sick roam so it can never be found again. And yet… I feel it is safer under my eye."

  "What is in the box Bishop?"

  She stopped again, debating whether or not the truth would be damaging, "A key." She started walking again.

  "A key to what?" James asked, huffing and puffing as they descended the stairs exiting the building. They adjusted course towards the stables where their mounts were.

  "A door James. Don't ask silly questions."

  James was starting to become irritated, "Bishop, are you insinuating that the woman is a threat to Daris? A threat to the Church and our congregation?"

  "I say that and more. She and her bastard brother are well aware of this treachery. They are the fruits of treason those two. The very enemy, still alive, still working to destroy everything our Church has accomplished the past three centuries James. They scare me, and they must be stopped."

  "Then alert the authorities. We can ride straight to Parliament and inform them of the story. They'll be in shackles and marched to the guillotine within hours if what you say is true."

  The two had entered the stables, and were among the stable hands now. The Bishop lowered her voice, and pulled James close as they approached their horses.

  "What I say is true james, but I am speaking of a crime that is over two decades old. A moral crime, not a legal crime. An assault against our faith is not something the courts would have an interest in prosecuting. No, no James. This is something the Church must handle. Something we must handle. For the sake of all life on Elmoryn we must see to it that those two are brought to justice for the treason they've been a part of."

  "You said they were the fruits of treason? What does that r
iddle mean?" James asked as he took his horses' lead rope and guided her out into the street.

  The Bishop put her foot in the stirrup and got up into the saddle before answering. She took a deep breath, "They are the children of two people who stole something very important from the Church a long time ago James. The key. They know all about it, and what it represents."

  "Whatever is behind that door is bad then? For the world?"

  "Bad enough that my sister and her husband had to die to keep it closed James."

  The two rode back towards the Cathedral of Kincaid in silence.

  The Bishop plotted what to do next. No, not what to do next. She knew what had to be done.

  She had to murder her sister's children.

  - Chapter Four -

  BLOOD FOR BLOOD

  Against his sister's wishes, and certainly against the sense of it, Malwynn was becoming more and more attracted to Chelsea, Marcus' sergeant and squire. So attracted he found himself sitting in a parade grounds on a sunny day at the barracks where she was assisting in the coordination of several drills of the regiment Marcus was the commander of. These were the men and women of the Darisian 2nd Infantry.

  Chelsea was on foot, commanding a platoon of men as they practiced parade drills. Useless maneuvering around an open space where the soldiers wore their dress uniforms for no good reason. Mal believed these practices existed only to torture the rank and file of the military, to test their patience. The other night Chelsea had said casually the drills were intended to ensure the soldiers could work together without thinking about it, and to build camaraderie through unpleasant trials. The military felt that if simple things became completely second nature, facing up to the difficult things, like war, and killing rampaging undead would be easier for the soldiers. It sounded believable enough, but holding the commanding officer's line was her job now. Mal wondered if she'd had a different opinion about the drills in her earlier years, at lower ranks.