CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
High Bishop of the Faith
Fydelis found himself in an unfamiliar place, and alive— if the nausea and pain twisting through his bones was anything to go by. He was lying on a cold stone floor, surrounded by a glowing circle of a familiar blue-green light and symbols he couldn't quite make out. When he reached out, the closer he got to the edges of the circle, the brighter it glowed and the more intense the pain became. Ah, a binding circle, then.
He tried to remember the last thing he'd seen before he'd been taken from Gareth… Gareth, gods, he hoped that his Crusader was safe.
"He will come for you too late."
The voice— or voices— came from every side. It sounded like a discordant choir— many men, all saying the same words in such perfect synchronization that it became one solid sound. Fydelis rose to his haunches, looking around wildly. Beyond the edges of the glowing circle, he could just make them out. Soldiers— Crusaders, all fully armored, all gazing with empty, glassy eyes. Their faces were slack, and Fydelis couldn't tell whether they were alive or dead. Regardless, they were not in control.
It was him— the man who was now rising up behind them, floating above the floor, surrounded by his own glowing blue-green light. He was dressed in long, flowing robes, and wearing the peaked miter of a high-ranking church official on his head, although the markings were neither those of the Creator, nor the Sunderer.
The man's face seemed to cycle through many faces, that of a very old man, then briefly resembling every one of the men who surrounded Fydelis. Fydelis now understood why the light of the circle seemed familiar. It was the same light they had seen coming from the relics.
"Who— what are you?" Fydelis managed to get to his feet— or hooves, rather, battling through the sickening, crawling sensations of the magick surrounding him.
The man's many faces twisted into what might have been a smile, and an odd, hoarse laugh came from the creature itself before it again used the voices around him to form words.
"What I was: the High Bishop of the Faith; what I am: Ascended. I have outwitted the Sunderer! Beaten evil at its own game and cast him aside! Soon I shall overpower the Creator and take my place in the Empyrean!"
"But you served the Creator. Why would you want to replace Him?" It was a position that Fydelis would never want, and obviously one this human had never truly considered.
"Because He is ineffective. Battles are fought in His name, yet He never intervenes, never offers the victors a place at His side."
"Of course not! The Creator despises war! Strife, Avarice, and Scorn tempt these warriors, just as you have been tempted! Murderers will never be rewarded!"
"And what of the innocents? What of those parents who sacrifice everything to pray that He save their dying children? To save themselves?"
"The Creator does not guide man, nor intervene. Man sought autonomy and He gave it, He simply waits to receive those willing to return home to Him when their time in the mortal realm is done."
"Lies! You perpetuate the rhetoric that the Church has championed for centuries! Look what has happened to you! His own child! He let you fall and become a monster!"
Fydelis looked down at his clawed hands, curling them into fists. He could not deny that indeed, the Creator had not come to save him from the Sunderer's grasp. But part of him already understood the reasons why, and now was not the time for such examination.
"And what of you?" Fydelis sneered. "What of all of those innocent lives you took just to feed your own bloated sense of self-righteousness?"
One of the soldiers stepped forward and kicked Fydelis hard in the guts, causing him to drop to his knees, coughing up blood and bile as he gasped for air.
"You do not understand." The man's many voices deepened to a low growl. "Those people came to me willingly. They understood that their lives were meant for a greater purpose, a greater good. The Creator could not possibly appreciate their sacrifice— their souls— as much as I."
Fydelis cursed under his breath, clutching his midsection as he tried to keep the room from tilting and spinning around him. He sought to locate anything that could be a definitive way into or out of the room, to see if Gareth might find his way to him, but the glowing light cast nearly everything else into shadows.
"And now you will serve a greater purpose as well! A purpose beyond that of your beloved Creator or reviled Sunderer."
The soldiers parted as the man hovered, floating towards Fydelis. Fydelis curled his upper lip, showing his teeth like an animal. If they were going to cage him like one, then he might as well act the part.
"I'm not serving any of your purposes."
"On the contrary, tainted angel, the choice, as always, is not yours to make." The man raised his bony hand and Fydelis had a moment to notice that there were beams of that same light coming from different directions. Six beams. The relics? He had no more time to consider it, however, because his body was now surrounded, pierced by the beams that felt like blades of ice and fire skewering his flesh.
"When I learned that Father Gareth had survived, I sent Paetrik to investigate. Imagine my surprise at hearing he'd sold his soul to a demon… but not just any demon. The aspect of Regret, twisted and bastardized from Gareth's own Guardian, Fidelity. I could not have asked for a better outcome. You, creature of three worlds, are the one key that will unlock them all."
Fydelis felt his body being raised into the air, and his brain was suddenly too full of sound, most of which was his own screaming. His body was being infused with this poison light, and it felt as though it was eating him from the inside out. Everything was agony, but with his last shred of conscious hope, he prayed for the Creator to protect his Gareth, and hoped He was still willing to heed his call.