Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial

Arc 3: Chapter 22: Dogma

They took my weapons, my cloak, and my armor. They took my satchels and herbs, all the kit I’d worn through years of wandering and blood. They took my medallion.

They took my ring.

I was beaten, and after I’d killed several of their comrades I could hardly blame them. It kept me from fighting back, which I would have the moment the golden threads came undone. They did, eventually, but by that point I was hardly conscious.

I have a dim memory of being dragged down many flights of stairs, of hard voices in the dark, of the near touch of lit torches held carelessly close to my sweat-damp hair.

They brought me into a dark room and left me there, tied and bound, for many hours. I drifted in and out of consciousness, still shivering from the infernal cold the Zosite had struck me with.

They woke me with half-frozen water. I came to tied to a sturdy chair, one I soon realized had been bolted to the floor. My hands were bound to the arms of the chair by iron clasps. I thrashed a moment, but that ended when the first iron cudgel caught me across the neck.

“Careful,” an unfamiliar voice said, cold and dispassionate. “I do not want him broken yet.”

When the pain lessoned enough for me to hear anything, I heard more movement around me, from several people. A heavy door opened and closed. By the time my eyes had focused, I only saw one person.

We were in a plain stone room with no furnishings save an empty table set with two chairs. I occupied one, and a man I’d never seen before stood behind the other.

The priest — I assumed he was a kind of priest — stood at military rest, facing me. He had a prominent nose and chin below sunken eyes framed by thick eyebrows and a bowl cut which didn’t suit him. His cheeks were gaunt, his jaw wide. His heavy chin hung below a small slash of a mouth beneath a patrician nose. The effect was of one perpetually pensive or unimpressed. He wore a black garment in a bureaucrat’s style, a long, thin robe ending at the ankle beneath an equally dark cape, the two garments nearly blending with one another save for the thin lines of vermillion thread separating them.

Vermillion too was the trident sewn just above his heart.

The man, who I took to be in his late thirties, studied me a while with eyes as coldly blue as ice chips, bright compared to his clothes and dark hair.

“You have caused me some fuss,” he said. It was the voice I’d heard before, commanding the guards not to beat me. It was devoid of all passion, quiet and slightly nasal.

When I failed to reply, the priest shifted and brought a hand down to the surface of the table between us. The wood creaked under that small pressure as he leaned forward. Without sitting, he nodded to one side. One of the veiled priorguard approached, and set an object on the table. Its weight settled with a heavy thump-clank.

It was my axe. The alloy of Hithlenic Bronze and steel gleamed as it caught light from the braziers. The bloodstains running like cancer across the weapon were stark, condemning.

The priest’s thin lips twitched as I failed to hide my reaction. “Yes, we know exactly who you are. Not only who, but what. Alken Hewer. Sometimes known as Blackbough, sometimes known as Bloody Al, formerly of the cult known as the Knights of the Alder Table. Yes...” his thin lips pursed. “I am quite familiar with the stories. I suppose some might consider this meeting an honor. Shall I call you Headsman, or is that gauche?”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” I croaked. It had been many hours since the fight in Rose Malin, by my guess, and I hadn’t been given water.

“Ah.” The black-garbed man nodded. “I am Presider Oraise, a representative of the Clericon Court and a member of the Fifth Cantos. I also serve as an aide to the King.” He dipped into a neat, perfect bow.

The King. He meant the Emperor, Markham Forger. By Urnic custom, he only used the greater title in matters related to the whole Accord. Here in his own city, he was merely King. A way to keep any emperor chosen by the Church from claiming too much authority, and becoming a tyrant over the realms.

My thoughts rambled. I’d taken several blows to the head. I tried to focus. The pain seemed oddly distant — numbness, or had they given me something?

“You’re an inquisitor,” I rasped. “The Inquisitor.”

The Presider tilted his head, the gesture not quite a nod. He slipped his shroud-like cape off then, draping it over the back of the other chair, and sat. He rested his elbows on the table, clasped black-gloved hands, and studied me in silence.

There were old blood stains on the table. They were on the chair, too — I could feel them, caked there on the sturdy wood. I wore only my undershirt and trousers. They’d even taken my boots. The room was very cold.

“I am still trying to decide,” Presider Oraise said at last, his voice almost ethereal in the dimly lit room, “what I should do with you.”

“I’m guessing it involves torture,” I said. As I managed order over my blurry thoughts, my voice sounded firmer.

“Possibly,” Oraise agreed. “But not necessarily.”

I raised an eyebrow at him through my disheveled hair. “So you bring all your guests into the room with the blood and the bolted chairs?”

“I find it best to be honest in all things,” the Presider said, not even so much as a ghost of humor in his voice. “I do not deceive, unless in doing so I serve a greater good. I do not inflict pain, unless doing so is also of service. You will not find me a sadist, Lord Hewer. When I begin to peel your skin, when I order my questioners to turn the cranks and drive steel screws into your bones… I can assure you, I will take no pleasure in it.”

He said this with an utter dispassion I found almost worse than the words themselves. His expression never changed, nor did the volume of his voice. He seemed a well-dressed, well-groomed manikin spouting some pre-dictated line.

I could believe he would take me apart bone by bone, sinew by sinew, and wear that same distant expression the entire time.

“What’s our other option?” I asked him, trying to say it as blandly as possible. “And how do you know who I am, anyway? My name wasn’t ever attached to that of Headsman, not officially.”

“I’ve heard the stories,” Oraise said, and this time he did smile, though the expression was infinitesimal. “The commonfolk say many things — that you are a revenant called up from Draubard to punish the wicked among the mighty, or that you are even the elf king himself, miraculously alive.”

He leaned forward, that stillborn smile gone. “I have little patience for stories. I did my research, of course. I began shortly after the murder of Bishop Leonis, when I was selected by the College to investigate that and various other unpleasant things. I admit, I was shocked to find so many rumors of a red-cloaked man wielding golden fire across the realms, magic quite specifically attributed to members of the Alder Table. I found record of your excommunication, and you were the only active member of that order by the end of the war against the Recusants. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together.”

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“A good guess isn’t evidence,” I said.

“True,” he agreed. “But now I have the real thing. All I require is your confession.”

“And you believe I’ll give it?” I asked.

“Yes,” Oraise said frankly. “We are very good at this, Lord Alken. We have all the records from the Old Inquisition, all their techniques of interrogation, including many of our own. We have adepts with techniques more advanced than during the Plague, and we have new inventions, devices for inflicting pain. I will use them if I must.”

His eyes met mine, and he didn’t flinch at the touch of their golden light, didn’t wince. I looked into him, and I saw…

A still pond, cold as a mountain lake and devoid of… anything. Clear, calm, unmoved by the stink of sweat and filth clinging to the stone of that terrible room. I saw a man who’d cleansed himself of all doubt, all fear.

He still felt. He was still alive. I noticed the way his lip slightly curled and one nostril flared every so often in distaste. I saw the way he kept his finely sewn cuffs clear of the dirty table. He had vanity, this man, but he knew that and used it just as deliberately as he used his chilling orator’s voice.

He wasn’t a damned thing, like Vicar. There was no demon or dark spirit behind him. Oraise was human, ordinary, without even an awareness of his own aura. He had no awakened soul, no magic.

And yet…

I began to feel afraid of him.

He shuddered suddenly, leaning back. “Ah, so that’s what it feels like. I’ve heard your order could peer into a man’s soul. Tell me, Lord Hewer, what did you see in mine?”

“Nothing,” I told him honestly.

His eyes narrowed as he absorbed that, then dismissed it as easily as I imagined he would dismiss me from his thoughts once I was dead. “Over the last six years, your victims have numbered among both the Recusant and sanctioned members of the Accord. What I want to know is what faction you serve, whose interests. Famed though you Seydis knights were, I find it difficult to believe you could have such a prolific body count alone. I will know who else is involved, and where they might be found. Once done, I will bring you before the Accord, where you will be tried and sentenced, along with any co-conspirators you may possess.”

I’d known this to be a possible outcome from the moment I’d taken Leonis Chancer’s head. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“That is one future,” Oraise said, drawing my eyes back to him.

“I don’t understand.”

“Have you heard of the Knights Penitent?” The inquisitor asked, lifting a thick eyebrow.

I had. The Knights Penitent had a reputation gruesome as the Old Inquisition in the history of the land. “The Church put criminals and madmen to bloody work,” I said. “They were a conscript army of butchers. Suicide soldiers. They were disbanded after Lyda’s Plague along with your predecessors.”

“I am attempting to revive the order,” Oraise said bluntly, shrugging. “I believe you may be a good fit. The Knight-Confessor agrees.”

I blinked. “You’re insane. Why would I—”

I saw the look in the Presider’s eyes, and fell silent. Why would I, indeed? It was basically my same job.

“Why me?” I croaked, half curious and half horrified at his casual admission. Stories about the Penitent made the disastrous crusades to reclaim the continent look almost tame, by comparison, and entire kingdoms had died during those long-ago wars.

“Because you are a relic of a past our world would be better rid of,” Oraise said, his gaunt features twisting into something contemptuous. “You and your order — the Knights of the Alder Table — linger in the minds of the faithful like a thorn, dripping the poison of superstition into the bloodstream of faith. It is the same with the Sidhe, who lack the good grace to fade away like the senile relics they are. Instead, we have the work of convincing the peasants they are dangerous… not that the elves are making it difficult.”

“So you want me as a resource to help build this private army,” I said, trying to follow the thread of his monologue. “And you want to kill my legend. Two birds with one stone.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “We do not need legends of faerie-blessed crusaders. We need order. You Alder warlocks had too much autonomy, were too disconnected from the purpose of our society — to serve Her. “

He made the sign of the auremark in the air before continuing. “Heresy was allowed to take root in your ranks, even as it was neglected among the elves for so long. There is a reason our God did not trust them, a reason She installed the Archon to keep them in check.”

He gestured toward me. “Even you, raised within the Faith and knighted, became lost among their many blasphemies. Is it true you had an affair with a holy scribe, one of the Cenocaste?”

I remained silent. That I did not want to speak of.

Oraise’s cold eyes narrowed. “Do you know where the rest of them are? Your old comrades?”

I thought of Maxim, then buried it deep. Oraise might not be an adept, but it didn’t mean he didn’t have a thought-reader in his employ. “Most died in Seydis,” I told him honestly. “The rest went astray. Into the Wend, probably.”

“The Wend,” Oraise scoffed. “More legend. But I digress. Let me lay your options out plainly, Lord Hewer.”

He splayed his gloved fingers out over the table, showing me two empty palms. “I will spend several months putting the question to you until my investigation is complete, and by that time I will have the full backing of the College when I drag you before the all the lords and priests of the north. I will make an example of you, or what’s left of you. Or…”

He closed one fist. “You will offer all your secrets to me freely, and we may work together. Upon your death — and you will die in my service — I will have your excommunication lifted. You will be given a proper, hallowed burial, and you will… why are you laughing?”

His voice snapped out like the crack of a barbed whip. I hadn’t realized I’d started to laugh, but I had — a low, throaty cackle, hoarse, so stunted it barely sounded like laughter.

But it was. I took a moment to get myself under control, though I still felt the giggles bubbling up in me. “It’s just…” I clenched my teeth against another wave of manic humor. “That’s what they promised me.”

Oraise’s frown deepened. “Who?”

“Our gods,” I said. “Her angels.” I signed the auremark with my left hand, though I couldn’t make it properly with my wrist bound to the chair.

The Presider’s expression became remote. “Please tell me you aren’t mad. That would be an exceedingly dull end to my efforts, I assure you.”

I managed to get my mirth under control, and felt an odd calm. The Presider had nothing besides my body. He didn’t have Emma, or Maxim, or Lias. He’d guessed who I truly was, outed the Headsman as a renegade knight and not some boogeyman of legend, and that was a sort of victory in his eyes, I felt sure he’d do as I’d done to Rhan Harrower that night I’d cut his head off in front of an audience, and unmake my story.

But he wouldn’t have the people I cared about.

“Do you know your Knight Confessor is a devil?” I asked him. “Or that there’s a demon in the city? I know who’s behind the Carmine Killings.”

Oraise studied me a long while. I watched him come to a decision, and felt that calm in me harden into resignation.

“I will have all of it from you,” the Presider said. “There is still time. You will be kept here, in these dungeons. It will take me some weeks to compile my findings, and more before the next synod. There will be questions.”

He slammed another object down next to my axe. My medallion, burnt and warped, bearing the Silvering Sun around the golden tree.

“By the end of this,” he told me with glacial calm, “your former liege will answer for her part, and not even the Emperor will be able to protect her.”

I blinked, feeling the world drop out from under me. I realized then, that all this had been a pretense — Oraise didn’t care about me at all.

He wanted Rosanna.

“She’s had no part in this,” I said hastily, even as I willed myself to shut up. The words spilled out before I could stop them. “I haven’t spoken to her in most of a decade.”

“We will see,” Oraise said. “Ser Renuart?”

I heard the sound of a long cape sliding across the stone, and the quiet clank of steel plate. Kross had been in the room the whole time, standing against the wall at my back and silent as a shadow.

“He will need time to heal from his current injuries,” the Presider said. “We will give it to him. You still believe he has accomplices in the city?”

Kross replied in a respectful tone, all business. “Last time I encountered him, he had a young woman in his company. A renegade noble, a disciple of sorts. I doubt she will be far, Presider.”

Oraise nodded. “Continue the search. I am placing you personally in charge of the hunt, Ser Renuart. See to it there are no loose ends. If you can find evidence he had any aid from his old comrades, be it from Her Grace or her pet magus, bring it to me directly.”

“Of course, Lord Presider.” I heard Kross’s armor shift as he bowed. It brought his face very close to my left ear, and I could almost hear his crooked smile form.

Priorguard entered and lifted me from the chair. Kross watched me the whole time, not trusting me a wit. They brought Lisette in, who I recognized despite the veil and robes by her build and fidgeting fingers. She stood by, ready to bind me if I tried anything.

I was almost too stunned to notice. Rosanna. This whole thing was a conspiracy to bring her down. Why? What conflict did the Inquisition have with her?

What hadn’t Lias told me?

Out of the corner of my vision, I saw Presider Oraise inspecting my medallion. The image engraved there in gold and silver caught the light from the braziers, making the metal briefly blaze.

Then they took me out of the room, and it was a long time before I saw anything so bright again.

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