CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Darkness in the Light

Over the last several days, Fydelis had been keeping a sharp eye on Paetrik. The man had left a sour taste in his mouth since the evening that Gareth had saved him. At first, he'd wondered if it was just a ridiculous rivalry he felt between them— each one vying for the handsome priest's favor— but Paetrik's determination as of late had become more suspicious, as had his actions. While it was true that Fydelis had been spending most nights in the church cellar, it was not for the purpose of rest; it was because that was where Paetrik went nearly every night after everyone else was asleep.

Tonight was no different, and Fydelis felt that whatever he was working on would make itself known. He stayed to the shadows, several paces behind Paetrik, who seemed ready to flee at every sound.

Paetrik went down the curving stone staircase to bowels of the building, following the same route as he had since Fydelis began pursuing him. The light from his candle licked along the uneven stones, casting shadows as he descended, then he turned and went to the sealed door of what Fydelis assumed were the crypts. On previous occasions, Paetrik had come down and mostly looked around as though he were looking for something. Now he produced a key, and Fydelis wondered if that's what he'd been seeking.

Paetrik's body shuddered as the old lock popped open and the heavy wooden door groaned on its old hinges. The burst of air from inside was cool and stale, smelling of earth, rotten wood, and soapy mold. Fydelis had no idea when was the last time they'd interred a priest here— certainly nearly a decade ago, judging by the state of the door and the lack of decay emanating from the space. Paetrik slipped inside, but seemed reluctant to close the door behind him, something for which Fydelis could not blame him. He'd half-considered closing it himself and pushing the heaviest thing he could find up against it, but so far he had no proof of any misdeeds. Besides, someone might actually hear Paetrik pounding and have to come let him out. Certainly, he'd be blamed for that.

Fydelis cocked his head near the open door, and listened for an indication of where Paetrik was, and what he might be doing.

Silence.

He peeked inside, alerted by a blue glow coming from the end of the narrow room. The ceiling was high and vaulted, and the walls made of carved, gray stone. There were a few empty alcoves in the walls where coffins had fallen apart or otherwise not yet been placed. In between, a row of stone vaults jutted out along both sides, nearly to the end of the room, where there stood an altar and a nondescript statue of a priest. Paetrik's back was to Fydelis, partially blocking something that glowed in front. Fydelis slipped in, crouching behind a sarcophagus.

"Show yourself, demon, I know you're here," Paetrik said over his shoulder, his eyes gleamed in the odd light, which seemed to be rising from a small bowl.

"Demon? Truly, you are mistaken." Fydelis rose up, making his presence known.

"I think not," Paetrik said and turned, casting the blue light upon Fydelis. He realized, perhaps too late, that Paetrik might be more dangerous than he'd anticipated. The tendrils of light shot out at him, wrapping around him and causing his glamour to fall away. Fydelis growled as he was lifted, bound and kicking uselessly at the air.

Although he'd suggested it, Paetrik seemed surprised by Fydelis's demonic form, muttering something under his breath, which could have been an invocation of prayer, or just some observation. Fydelis was disinclined to care either way at this point.

"If you mean to take his soul, you're too late," Fydelis growled.

"My master cares not for his soul," Paetrik sneered, coming closer.

"Your master? Karathis?" Fydelis resisted the urge to spit in Paetrik's smug face, but he made certain to use a bit more saliva than necessary in his pronunciation of the name.

"Hardly!" Paetrik absently wiped his forehead. "That man is just a pawn, as are all of the other Crusaders… all but Gareth. My master wondered why he hadn't died, and so he sent me."

"Which is why Gareth did not recognize you from the first massacre," Fydelis mumbled under his breath. "So what does your master want? The Crusader's death? You likely could have tried for that long before now." He made it a point to stare at Paetrik's mangled hand. Paetrik cast a sour look, curling the limb closer to his body.

"He wants the Crusader as his champion, much the same way your master does. Only in the skilled hands of my master, Gareth De'Aubyn will cut a righteous path across the land."

"What?" Fydelis scoffed. The bands of light around him might have well have been chains, and the more he struggled, the tighter they became.

Paetrik curled his lip up at him. "You, I wanted to kill, but my master wants you bound and brought to him. Apparently he feels he may yet have some need of you… perhaps to draw out your own master, who seems to favor you for some reason."

Fydelis offered a lecherous sneer. "Ah, is that what this is about? You're neither strong enough nor pretty enough to be more than a messenger. That must sting."

"Demon scum— you are merely a whore, and my master will bring me up to his right hand. I will have both of you whenever I wish— I'll certainly have your Crusader long before you will."

"And how do you intend to transport us? Binding a demon is one thing— forcing Gareth to follow you is something else entirely."

"I'll just have to convince him. He seems to have a special weakness towards children…"

"I do, and you'll not touch them." Gareth's voice, coming suddenly loud and clear, caused Paetrik to jump.

Fydelis strained to turn his head as Gareth entered the chamber, shield and sword in hand. Foolishly, his heart swelled, and he made an embarrassing comparison between himself and a fabled damsel in distress. Gareth leveled the sword.

The point hovered a few inches from Paetrik's throat; his features twisted into a mask of confusion and terror. "But— you should be safely locked in your room! I placed a ward…"

"I never made it to my room. I came to be certain that everyone had enough blankets. It will be colder tonight." Gareth looked at Fydelis briefly, then returned his attention to Paetrik. "But instinct told me to gather weapons before venturing down here. I now understand why. Release him."

Paetrik's eyes bugged and his breath started coming in rapid bursts. "F-Father Gareth, I… my master, he… It is imperative that you meet with him!"

"Imperative enough to threaten children, apparently," Fydelis hissed. As much as he hated to admit it, being around these people had made him more tolerant; he probably even liked some of them.

"Release him," Gareth repeated. His eyes narrowed and Fydelis saw the warrior he'd fallen in love with. Despite his predicament, his heart fluttered behind his ribs and he sighed.

Paetrik's eyes darted to him, then back to Gareth. Slowly, he raised his trembling, mangled hand to cover the bowl he held, breaking the beams of the ribbons of light.

Fydelis dropped heavily to the floor and Gareth took a step back, holding his shield in front of Fydelis as if to protect him. As heartening as it was, Fydelis realized they had other things to worry about.

"No— not me. Kill him before—"

Too late. Paetrik threw the bowl at the wall where it shattered and left behind a glowing portal, hanging just in front of the stone. He ran towards it with Gareth hot on his heels, just slightly more than a swords-length between them. Paetrik made a final lunge towards the light, hurling himself hard enough that should he miss, he'd most certainly knock himself out on the wall. That would have been fine with Fydelis, but as it appeared, he was going to make it through, and Gareth would be right there behind him.

"No!" Fydelis shouted at Gareth. Who knew where he'd end up and what he'd face when he got through? The man was still in his bedclothes, despite having his sword and shield. Aside from that, Fydelis understood that this portal was closed to him. It had been cast from holy magick, the kind cast by practitioners of the Faith. He'd not make it through. He leapt and tackled Gareth just as Paetrik's body hit the light and he vanished. They tumbled to the floor, Fydelis covering Gareth's body with his own, and the portal slammed closed with a force that was powerful enough to rattle the dead in their caskets. Fydelis waited for the debris to settle around them before he raised his head and started to climb off of Gareth.

"Are you all right?"

Gareth groaned and rolled over onto his back. "A little bruised, but fine. Are you?"

Fydelis dusted himself off and frowned at the sooty black stain on the wall where the portal had been. "Fine. That bastard. I'm sorry, I couldn't let you go through without me." He offered a hand to Gareth who looked at it for a moment before taking it and letting Fydelis help him to his feet.

"I thank you. I was obviously not thinking rationally." Gareth's shoulders slumped and he sighed. "I owe you an apology, Fydelis. You tried to warn me that something was amiss, yet I doubted you."

Fydelis bit his cheek as the irony struck him painfully. "Seems we're even then," he said softly and turned away, regaining his human form. "Let’s make sure everyone is all right, then get some rest."

He did not tell Gareth about the magick they had encountered tonight. It seemed sensible enough to use light magick against the darkness of a demon, but it was not Paetrik who'd cast it; he was merely using the tools given to him by someone else. And the magick was not purely white— it was oddly corrupted— twisted and imbued with something… else. What that was remained to be seen. Perhaps it was Karathis, despite what Paetrik had claimed, and his own corruption had bled into the pool of white magick he'd learned as a Crusader. In time, Fydelis was certain, they would learn the answer.