Moirai

Date unknown
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

Within the inner ward are several small, stout buildings surrounding a great hall made of timber and canvas. The contingent strode directly through the gate toward a peaked pavilion connected to the east entrance of the great hall. Edwin’s bier rested on a stand of crossed logs.

Now the four white-robed priests have formed a semicircle around the boy. They are kneeling, their heads are bowed. Loche watches their lips move. If it were quiet, he would hear the hiss of their whispering prayers. Instead, the enclosure is filled with the sound of a raucous celebration just through the entrance to the larger structure.

Loche stands beside his son and chances a long look. The boy is covered in white fur—a blanket made of rabbit pelts. His face is pale and his breathing is low. Without thinking, Loche reaches his hand out and touches his boy’s forehead. There is no fever.

“I pray thee,” one of the hooded priests says, “remove thy hand.”

Loche pulls away, reluctantly.

“So we are all celestial,” The monk says (Loche wonders if the man’s language is a form of Greek—he is still astonished he can understand the words—and astonished his words can be understood). Rising and standing beside him the monk says, “but It, the One—most ancient, most radiant—how could we not desire the touch of Its presence here—here within Its greatest of creations? And here before us is Thi—Thi as a young master. A young boy. What perfection. What beauty.” He offers Loche a kindly smile, “You are forgiven. I am Erinyes.” There is a feminine quality in the voice. “Ah,” he says with an empathetic sigh while appraising Loche’s face, “what fear you have! And that is beautiful, too.” The priest looks back down at the sleeping boy. “Do not be afraid. Thi sleeps. Only sleeps. Herbs the Fates hath given will keep him sleeping until middle night.” The robed figure gestures to the three priests still deep in prayer.

“What herbs?” Loche asks.

“Roots and leaves from the Lakewoman,” Erinyes says with an airy, circular hand-wave westward. “She hath given them to us to place our Lord Thi to sleep. To sleep while our people prepare to do Thi’s bidding.”

The monk’s shadowed eyes drift from Edwin back to Loche. “Do not be afraid. Do you not see the thread that connects him to all things?” Erinyes points a finger and waves it over Edwin’s chest as one might through a candle flame. “These strings of silk shining in the light of mighty Thi Itself. And the Fates,” Erinyes’s finger now points to the three kneeling monks, “they decide which threads to let dangle, and those to cut. Even the mighty Thi is subject to their will. But you know this already, do you not?”

The monk looks up at Loche. For the first time, Loche discerns features in the deep of the hood, but he is still unclear if he is conversing with a man or a woman.

“This day,” Erinyes says, “I am but a mouthpiece to the three whose scales weigh the destiny of All.”

Loche stares at his son. He flinches when the reveling company next-door lets out a collective cheer.

“Ah,” the monk says. “She comes.”

Loche raises his face to the hall. He sees a reddish glow of torchlight and moving shadows. The smell of roasted meat, lamp oil and sweat wafts from the opening.

“Come, shall we listen to our Summoner? She that has rallied stars to this forsaken wasteland?” says the monk to Loche and the other escorts. He slaps Loche’s shoulder, “So far from our homes? So far…”

The monk takes Loche by the elbow and gently leads him a few steps away from Edwin into the great hall. Loche positions himself so he can still see his son. Turning his attention inside, the great hall is filled with armed soldiers, priests, and others that Loche cannot classify. In the reddish glow it is difficult to see faces, but after a few moments he can distinguish that the overall mood of the room is celebratory. The heady fume of wine fills the air. Mouths full of meat, wine and bread are laughing and spitting out stories of war and conquest—drums and lutes and pipes accompany the chatter and shouting of voices. Large dogs gnaw bones beneath low tables. A quarrel breaks out between three men in a far corner. One is stabbed and cries out. Just a few feet from the dying man, several shapes writhe together in silhouetted copulation. Near the west doors, a group has begun to dance in whirling circles. In the center of the hall, two high peaked fires illuminate a raised staging area. It is enclosed with waist-high timber railings.

Despite the chaos, and the thudding pain at his ear, a steadying calm settles over Loche. He turns and takes another look at his sleeping son. The praying monks still hold vigil. The exit to the adjacent pavilion is a mere fifteen steps. Ten at a dead run. He scans for any sign of Julia.

A high-pitched whine pulls Loche’s attention back to the stage where a man carries what looks to be a kind of bagpipe. The riotous clamor lessens and slowly quiets. The piper then blasts a melody bringing voices to a halt. Its intensity rivets every eye to the stage. Loche wonders if the song is an anthem of sorts. He, himself, feels the haunting pull of it.

When the last notes die only the breathing torches fluttering in the gloom and the crackling fires are heard. The piper turns and steps down. Several soldiers, all wearing varied regal attire, surround the stage and face outward. Etheldred is among them, still garbed in his orange coat and glinting mail, but now wearing a high helm with plumes of white feathers. Slumped down beside Etheldred, Loche recognizes the drunk and muddied priest from the gate. He recalls the pikemen saying the cloaked man was perfect. Perfect for what? he wonders. The man is hunched down leaning against the timber stage supports at Etheldred’s boots. His face still shadowed within his hood.

Then from the darkness between the two bright fires, a woman appears. Her gold and silver robe is like a stab of sunlight. She is slender, tall and moves with a commanding confidence. Her leg breaches the gown as she strides to the center of the stage. There Loche can see that she is wearing plate armor greaves. A long sword, swathed in a scabbard of leather and white fur, rests on her thigh.

“All hail!” a foreboding command resounds. “Our Summoner, Cynthia, goddess and deliverer of the Lord God, Almighty Thi.”

The silence explodes into a fury of battle cries.

Loche sees the woman’s eyes swirl like green glitter in a jar. A familiar chill scrapes along his spine. Erinyes, beside him, says, “Serpent.”

Loche sees the Devil.