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“Gods above,” Godfrey swore. “You’re a witch!”
The pain disfiguring Madeline’s face immediately made him regret his outburst. That was the sort of thing that could not be unsaid. That sort of pain was not quickly forgotten. If Godfrey could have jumped off a cliff or buried himself under a rock, he would have done so a thousand times over in that moment.
“I didn’t mean...” he stammered.
“What did you mean then?” Madeline shot back. “Did you mean that I’m an abomination? That I’m anathema?”
“No,” he started.
“Witches are anathema.” She rose to her feet and was about to walk away. “In Azgald, the witch is not suffered to live. They are killed when they are found. Are you afraid of me because now you know I’m different?”
What was it Godfrey was feeling? Was it fear? He had no trouble taking Fallard’s sword to slay the vampire when he thought it was magical. Swords were inanimate though. Yet when there was intelligence behind the power, that made things different. Madeline could curse him or take control of his mind or do who knew what else. Would he even know if she tried to put him under some enchantment?
Grabbing her tightly by the arm, he rose to his feet as well. He knew better than the doubts which gnawed at the back of his mind. The embarrassment made him flush and grind his teeth.
“Forgive me,” Godfrey pleaded with hot tears welling in his eyes. “I don’t know what I was saying. I’ve just never really...”
“Met someone like me before,” she finished his sentence.
Madeline brushed his arm aside and stared at him hard for a long moment. Eventually, her expression softened, and she reclaimed her seat. She gestured for him to sit beside her again, and he complied. They both stared into the dancing lights in the sky for a few moments. The sight took the edge off Godfrey’s distress, and he hoped it would do the same for Madeline.
“A witch uses her powers for evil and selfish purposes,” she said at last. “Witches have brought down entire kingdoms in the past. To call someone a witch is a very serious allegation if not just an insult.”
“What should I call you then?” He chose his words more cautiously.
“I am still Madeline.” She smirked. “And I am still a young woman. And now you know I am also a sorceress. But still call me Madeline. Most people are very afraid of things they don’t understand, and magic is something most people don’t understand. Simply telling someone I am a sorceress, and not a witch, isn’t enough proof to calm most people.”
“But your father is a duke,” Godfrey countered. “Couldn’t he protect you?”
“Father’s enemies would say I put a spell on him.” She shook her head. “They would say I have entranced him, and manipulated him, and make up all sorts of lies because they are afraid or else want to take advantage of him in some way.”
Godfrey thought back on the vampire in the swamp. She had used her powers against her father to turn him into one of her thralls. The fear of such entrapment was not unfounded.
“It sounds like what my father would say back in Bastogne.” Godfrey shook his head in understanding.
“There’s a reason you hear a lot about witches being burned, and not much about living sorceresses,” she continued. “No, it’s best that most people don’t know.”
“Can you really play with people’s minds like that?” The worry in his voice was hard to disguise.
“No,” she reassured him with a chuckle. “My powers are actually quite limited. As I said before, I am good at slipping in and out of places unseen. My magic helps with that. Father doesn’t know about that power.”
“He does know you have magic though?” Godfrey asked.
“He does,” she confirmed. “Mother knew too. They found old books, rare books or forbidden or something, when I was small, that taught me how to control my powers. They told me to keep it a secret.”
“If it’s so important to keep your magic a secret, why are you telling me?” he insisted. “What if the wrong person finds out?”
“Then my brave knight will just have to protect me.” She gave a mocking whimper. “My other talent is conjuring fire, but not just any fire. It’s the fire of the gods, a gift from Loxias. It is a fire that can heal or consume at my choosing. That power was very hard to hide when I was small. My parents knew about that one practically since I was born. You would have figured out all of this eventually, and secrets are bad for relationships.”
“When we first met at Biorkon...” Godfrey was beginning to make a few connections.
“You would have died,” she finished. “The Silver Sun physicians said you would die. Your wound was grave, but I was able to mostly close it after my first visit.”
“Why did you save me?” he asked.
His question was genuine. He had never been the recipient of such affection before. The only tenderness that came close as far as he could tell was his mother’s, and that was not fully appreciated while she was still alive. The thought pricked him, but Godfrey quickly dismissed it.
“I saw you from the tower window,” Madeline explained. “You led the charge against those Nordsman berserkers. No Azgaldian lord or knight of the Silver Suns would have done that.”
“Because they knew what those berserkers could do.” He flinched at the memory of the battle.
“You would have charged them anyway,” she countered. “Heroes shouldn’t always have to die sacrificing themselves. Azgald has enough martyrs already. I wanted to see one of those heroes live, and I was in a position to do something about it.”
The look in her eyes told him something he could not find the words for. His heart was racing and he knew hers was too. He closed his eyes and began to lean in for a kiss. Gods above, he hoped he would not make a fool of himself. His hand began to shake violently, but it stopped the instant her hand found his. Their lips locked, and the two embraced for a long time after.
***
Following Madeline through the temple’s entrance, the first thing Godfrey noticed was the gilded white stone decorating the building’s interior. The craftsmanship was as ornate as it was ancient. No expense had been spared in the construction of this sacred site. The atmosphere was reverent as it was in most holy places. Each of their steps echoed through the chamber.
Walaric was waiting for them just beyond the temple entrance. His arms were crossed, and he lazily slouched against a tall pillar. His expression changed from boredom to mild annoyance as he saw the two approaching.
“How was it?” Walaric sardonically raised an eyebrow.
Madeline blushed, and Godfrey looked to his feet.
“The northern lights are something else,” Godfrey managed after a moment.
“The what?” Walaric seemed unsure if there was a euphemism he was missing. “Never mind. Come see this.”
Following Walaric’s lead, Godfrey gawked at the two massive statues standing between the altar in the center of the main sanctum. Wafting smoke rose between the statues’ large outstretched angelic wings from the altar as priests burned the evening sacrifice. The two statues were cast in silver. Though the lighting was poor, it was obvious the statues shared all the similarities of a brother and sister. The angelic statues wore tall plumed helmets, scale mail, and each held a spear in one hand while holding a large, round shield in the other. The style was ancient, and the detail put into the statues was beyond the ability of any living sculptor, as far as Godfrey was concerned.
“Tzuk and Lihi.” Madeline indicated the male and female statue in turn. “They are the twins that guard the gates to Spes.”
“I know,” Godfrey reverently whispered.
So many frustrations filled his mind. Conrad, Phillip, Tancred; these men were only seeking their own ends. Godfrey wanted what was best for the crusade. His motives were pure. However, glancing at Madeline, he realized he probably wanted something for himself out of this too. Praying to the gods could bring him peace and guidance though. It had in the past.
“I’ll offer sacrifices and prayers,” he resolved.
Madeline and Walaric nodded in approval.
As he stepped forward, the spangenhelm slipped from Godfrey’s hand and hit the polished stone floor with a clatter. Madeline and Walaric turned, but Godfrey had already collapsed on the floor. Panicking, Walaric and Madeline knelt over him. Godfrey’s vision blurred to blackness. His breathing was shallow, and his senses dulled. He was only vaguely aware of Madeline and Walaric attempting to rouse him. The last thing Godfrey heard was the priests stepping away from their sacrificial rituals at the altar, chastising these rowdy young pilgrims who had come in so late.
***
Godfrey found himself atop a high mountain. It was disorienting. He vaguely remembered being somewhere else. There were people he was with whom he had cared about, but he could no longer recall their names or faces. They must not have been important.
Godfrey did not recognize where he stood or the surrounding peaks. The Sun radiated high above him. For all of the Sun’s warmth, he was still standing knee-deep in the snow. Already the cold was beginning to bite at his toes through his boots. He was starting to hate winter and Azgald and Azgald in winter.
He had to get back to the crusade. That much was important. But which way should he go? No direction seemed right. At last, he decided going somewhere was better than going nowhere. Perhaps a path would reveal itself.
Drawing his cloak around him, Godfrey wandered aimlessly. The silence was absolute. Hours passed without purpose. It became mind-numbing well before he began to lose the feeling in his fingers and toes. Still, no direction seemed right.
Eventually, he came across a path leading down the mountain, and he began to descend the steep slope. Down off the mountain appeared to be as good a choice as any. Why not?
His foot slipped out from under him more than once, despite how carefully he tried to keep his balance. Each near-fall caused Godfrey’s heart to pound. One wrong move could be his death.
Then he fell.
Slipping down the side of the mountain, he tried desperately to grab hold of something. All there was to grab was snow- and ice-covered rocks. He stopped momentarily as he caught a rock just long enough for it to cut through his glove. Searing pain forced him to release the rock as it tore across the palm of his hand. With warm blood gushing out of the wound, Godfrey’s descent picked up speed again. He knew it. He knew it since before the vampire’s castle back in the swamp. He was going to die falling. It was the one thought that filled his mind.
Godfrey approached a sheer cliff with alarming speed. He tried to grab another rock with his uninjured hand, but he could not get a grip on any surface. He was tumbling now. Pleading to the gods for a quick death, he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as he flew over the cliff. The impact on the ground below never came.
Something large gripped Godfrey around the waist tighter than any human could. Opening his eyes, he almost vomited at the sight of the mountains rushing past him below. A pair of white-feathered talons held him suspended in the air. The talons belonged to a griffin with the complexion of a snowy owl.
“Loxias’ chariot,” Godfrey gasped.
The griffin glided to the top of another mountain. It delicately set Godfrey down on his side and sat next to him on all four legs. Choking on bile that had escaped into his mouth, Godfrey sucked in several gasps of frigid air. After a moment, he slowly rose to his feet.
“My thanks, noble griffin,” he coughed.
The griffin cocked its head, indicating some point farther down the slope. Godfrey took a few steps to get a better view. Nestled in the crook of a pass below, a black dragon lay curled with steam rising from its nostrils. It began to stir. The griffin screeched, stretching its wings in challenge to the dragon as the monster uncurled. A plume of smoke billowed from the dragon’s snout, and it stared greedily up at Godfrey and the griffin. Looking to Godfrey, the griffin cried again. As he stared into the griffin’s amber eyes, everything became clear to him.
“I know.” Godfrey drew his sword as he mounted the griffin.
A blinding light forced him to shield his eyes. Everything moved slowly as he felt something pulling at him from the back of his mind. What was happening? It was unfair. He had to kill the dragon. The crusade depended on it.
***
“The crusade is for naught if the dragon now is slain not,” Godfrey blurted out, lying on the polished temple floor.
His sword was drawn but lying inches from his hand. His other hand was no longer cut. It was only then that Godfrey realized he had never left the temple. Madeline and Walaric were kneeling over him with confused expressions. A group of intrigued priests hovered just a step or two behind Madeline and Walaric.
“What did you say, boy?” one of the priests asked, stepping closer.
“What did I say?” Godfrey repeated blearily.
“You just made a prophecy.” Madeline shivered.
“You said it in dactylic hexameter.” Walaric was clearly impressed.
Madeline and Godfrey stared back at Walaric, not comprehending what he just said.
“It’s the epic meter,” Walaric explained in a flustered tone. “Oracles use it. Prophecies are written down in it... Never mind.”
“How long was I out?” Godfrey tried to stand.
“Just for a moment,” Madeline reassured him, helping him to his feet.
“The gods took you,” Walaric said in astonishment as he arose. “What did they say? What did they show you?”
“I think you need to come with us,” one of the priests interrupted.
The second and third priest flanked him and took Godfrey from Madeline’s grip before he was fully aware of what was happening. The first priest began leading him to the back of the sanctum, and the other priests practically dragged him along.
“Wait.” Walaric stretched out his hand. “I can vouch for him. I’m an acolyte.”
“He’s a crusader.” Madeline tugged at Godfrey’s cloak. “Don’t take him.”
A pair of menacing spear-armed temple guards emerged from the shadows to block Madeline and Walaric from following Godfrey. It was only as Madeline and Walaric’s protests reached a crescendo that Godfrey shook himself out of his daze. The priests gripped his arms tightly on either side of him as they walked, preventing him from going any direction but to the stairs at the back of the sanctum. The lead priest descended the stairs, and with a shove, Godfrey followed.
“What is going on?” He looked to his captors for an explanation. “I don’t understand any of this. Where are we going?”
The priests did not answer him as they forced him down the stairs. His strength had returned, and his wits were fully about him now. Should he resist? He had never been on the wrong side of the Church before. He was not even sure why he was being taken, much less where.
At the bottom of the stairs was a cold, damp chamber. The few torches in this area cast eerie shadows against the slick stone walls. While the sanctum filled Godfrey with awe, this place filled him with dread. The iron bars forming cell doors along one of the walls told him this area’s purpose.
“Why would a temple need a dungeon?” Godfrey made no effort to hide his confusion.
The first priest unlocked one of the cell doors with a heavy brass key, and the other two clerics shoved Godfrey inside. Shutting the door behind him, the first priest examined him with a look of cold aversion. Godfrey’s hand began to tremble at the sight.
“Sit,” the first priest commanded, indicating the only chair in the cell.
Godfrey obeyed, but the other two priests immediately shackled him to the chair with iron chains. Then; with a chill running down his spine, he realized this was an interrogation.
“I’m not an apostate,” he pleaded. “I’ve committed no heresy.”
“We’ll see,” the first priest answered ominously.
Godfrey quickly ran the events since entering the temple through his mind. He had done nothing wrong. He was granted a vision from the gods. Why were these priests treating him as if he had desecrated the altar?
“To which gods do you pray?” asked the second priest as he moved in front of Godfrey.
“Loxias,” he began. “I venerate the nature gods too when their blessings are needed.”
“What do you know of Yoan?” the third priest demanded.
“What?” Godfrey’s head began to spin. “Nothing I guess.”
The questions continued to bombard him one after the other with little time for him to answer.
“Yoan,” the first priest cut in. “The dark goddess of war and cunning is not your mistress?”
“I’ve never heard that name before.” Godfrey turned his head to answer, but the third priest was breathing down his neck again.
“Have you been consorting with witches?” the third priest asked.
“I...” Godfrey stammered.
“Where did you meet the witches?” The first priest’s face was mere inches in front of Godfrey’s. “Did they summon demons or put you under a spell?”
“How many witches were there?” the second priest interrupted before Godfrey could answer. “What did they promise you?”
Madeline had convinced Godfrey that she was not a witch, but she still had magical powers. These priests were relentless in their questioning, and Godfrey doubted they were the understanding sort. He still did not fathom how the priests could be so hostile towards him. He had rarely had anything but positive experiences with the clergy before. These men were certainly a far cry from the likes of Bishop Clovis. The only thing Godfrey was certain of at this moment was that betraying Madeline’s secret would spell her doom and maybe his.
“I didn’t meet any witches.” He shook his head. “None.”
“It’s written on your face, boy,” the first priest spat.
“Lying won’t help you,” the third priest chided, crossing his arms as he took a step back.
“I don’t know what any of this is about.” Godfrey’s exasperation came out like a wave. “Why am I here? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You uttered a prophecy,” the first priest muttered, stabbing a finger at Godfrey’s chest. “We must be sure it was not made under the influence of one of the dark gods as a means of deceiving us.”
The third priest grabbed a barbed metal hook off a corner table Godfrey only now noticed for the first time. An assortment of other sharp metal objects with short handles lay scattered across the table. Such tools only had one purpose.
The priest with the hook approached. Godfrey rocked back and forth in his chair as hard as he could, hoping to loosen his bonds. The other priests held him down so he could not knock his chair over. Was there anything else he could try to escape? Desperation made sweat prickle on his brow.
Not a moment too soon, the priests froze in place at the sound of heavy footfalls coming down the stairs. Clearing his throat, Turpin peered through the cell door. He was holding Godfrey’s sword. Dark circles hung under Turpin’s eyes, but his face was set. The priests looked from Godfrey to Turpin, unsure how to respond. Without a word, Turpin let himself in through the creaking cell door. Holding the sword aloft, Turpin showed Godfrey and the priests the flat of the blade. A new inscription ran across the blade in an elegant script: Uriel.
“What does it mean?” Turpin asked Godfrey. “This inscription was not here before.”
“I named it that.” Godfrey began to shake as he recognized the word etched across the flat of the blade. “At Fuetoile Keep, I called the blade that in my mind the morning I was knighted.”
“It means light of the gods,” the first priest answered reverently.
The priest who had spoken reached out for the blade. Turpin obliged the priest with a grimace. Conferring among themselves, the priests examined Godfrey’s sword. Their voices were hushed and indistinct to Godfrey’s ears. Turpin gazed sternly at the clergymen as if preparing for the worst response possible. His hand rested on the hilt of his own sword. Having killed his share of both men and monsters, Godfrey was not averse to fighting, but before now he had never once thought he might need to fight the clergy in order to save himself. Godfrey silently prayed it would not come to what Turpin was preparing for.
“It is the work of the gods,” the second priest announced after they had finished deliberating. “The prophecy shall be recorded. Release the prisoner.”
Turpin stood at ease as the first and third priest unshackled Godfrey. The second priest gave the sword back to Turpin, who handed it to Godfrey. Rubbing his wrists, Godfrey ached as he stood. The priests had not tried to make Godfrey comfortable during the questioning. He doubted he was about to get an apology either.
Looking the blade over, Godfrey examined the inscription more closely. The lettering was filled in pure gold. The blade itself seemed to shine more brilliantly than before. Was this what a magic weapon looked like?
“Your sword has been blessed by the gods,” the second priest answered Godfrey’s unspoken question.
“Then that means the gods have chosen me as their instrument above all the other crusaders?” Godfrey pressed.
Hesitantly, the priests nodded in agreement.
“You have to understand...” The first priest’s tone had grown contrite. “There are heretics, spies; agents of the dark gods constantly seek to overthrow us through subterfuge. We had to be sure.”
“Then I think supplying my men from the temple’s food stores will serve as an adequate apology for locking me up here like this,” Godfrey censured the priests.
The priests looked at each other with reservation.
“Or do you want to be remembered as the insolent priests who almost tortured the gods’ chosen vassal?” Godfrey’s agitation was barely held in check.