Blood of the Old, Blood of the New

Most people would find it strange to see a heretic in the center of a church. The King of Glausiania, as much as he loathed it, disagreed.

King Gestarin sighed and rubbed his eyes as he sat in the chapel, listening to some Harvester drone on about the Void and Aia and other nonsense. He greatly wished he could be out seeing to the needs of the people, policing the Bloodwielders, or even dealing with petty feuds of his twin daughters. However, his own status as a Bloodwielder compelled him to at least bear the semblance of religious devotion. Harvesters had granted him his coveted Bloodblade, and they could take it away just as easily if they found out his actual beliefs.

He ran his thumb over the spike on his left wrist, something he did whenever he was bored. The way the bone rose out of the skin at his slightest touch never ceased to provide him with entertainment. Even after spending years among the men chosen by the Harvesters, he still marveled at the strange workings of Bloodblades.

“My lord,” his wife whispered as she touched his arm. “I think that it would be better if you gave the Harvester your attention. It would certainly be accommodating to your reputation. Intrigue and plotting abound enough, my lord, without your heresy adding fuel to the schemers’ fires. Don’t give them more reason to slip your throne out from under you.” She grinned. “No matter how noble and steadfast you are without Aia.” Gestarin smiled, taking his hand away from his Blade and gently grabbing his wife’s hand. Devout a Diradis as Riina was, his wife understood his supposed heresy and respected it, even encouraged it. It was one of the reasons that Gestarin loved her so much.

“May the blood of Aia fill your veins,” the Harvester announced, placing his hands in a cross and gesturing over his heart. Gestarin and all the members of the congregation did the same, repeating the words in a solemn voice. With that, they stood up from their seats and began to exit the chapel.

“My lord seems out of sorts today.” Riina squeezed his hand as they marched down the steps from their box.

“It is nothing.” the king said, rubbing his eyes with his other hand and taking care not to cut himself with the hilt on his wrist.

“Anything that troubles my lord troubles me, Gestarin.” She replied softly, ignoring propriety for the sake of intimacy. He smiled. Riina always knew how to make him feel at ease.

“Save it for another time,” he replied, squeezing his wife’s hand and kissing her on the cheek. He gestured to the windows, where twinkling could be seen in the sky before it began to brighten for the evening. “The stars are here, the light is soft, and you are beautiful. Let us not ruin this.”

“You charmer,” she said mischieviously.

“I am what I am.” They exited the chapel, walking out into the cobblestone streets with the rest of the crowds. Almost immediately, a well-dressed man pushed his way over to them. He wore an emerald green doublet with matching trousers and a black velvet cape cascading down his shoulders. An ornate sword adorned with jewels hung at his hip, drawing attention away from the bone spike on his left wrist.

“Your majesty.” He said, bowing deeply.

“Lord Rindar.” Gestarin replied, nodding as he stood up straight. “What do you require of me?”

“Sir, your presence is needed at the Council of Blood.” He said, holding out a yellowed parchment scroll. Gestarin took it with distaste. The Council of Blood was his own personal advisory, but many within it spent their time fawning over him while they plotted to kill the others instead of actually advising him. “Ambition and hierarchy should never mix,” he always said.

“Tell them that I shall be with them in a moment.” Gestarin replied after reading the scroll. He rolled it back up with his hands and gave it to the messenger. “My son requires my attention first.” The Lord nodded, spun on his heel, and trotted off with his cape flapping around his calves.

Riina rubbed his shoulder as he pursed his lips and sighed. Gestarin patted her arm and they began walking down the streets of Matrikai once more.

Dust clung on every visible surface, a sad reminder of the drought that plagued the region. The gray limestone buildings looked as though they were made of chalk.  Matrikai was lucky; they were in close proximity to the Glaus River, and the state-of-the-art irrigation system gave just enough water to the citizens to live off of. The rest of the dry country, the area bordering Quasexa, was not as fortunate.

Gestarin maneuvered through the throng of people chattering and milling about after the services. Nearly all of the lords and Viceroys had been in attendance, and he could scarcely walk a single step without needing to bow to some aristocrat or government official. It was exhausting, really. Sometimes Gestarin wished that he did not have to wear the amber crown that sat on his brow.

But do you, Gestarin? A gravelly, mocking voice said within the confines of Gestarin’s mind. Gestarin flinched, looking frantically about for the mirror that he knew was somewhere near. He found it in his own wife’s hand: a little makeup mirror that she used whenever she felt like a little freshening up could be useful. He reached over deftly and closed it, but not before he caught a glimpse of a mottled, scarred face that smiled with rotten teeth. A face that looked back at him in the glass.

“You look beautiful, my love. You need nothing more.” He said as Riina shot him a questioning look. She rolled her eyes, but she allowed him to put the mirror in her jeweled satchel that she kept at her side. Her smile briefly took his mind off of the gruesome face he had seen, the face he always saw.

“What was my lord thinking about today?” Riina asked as Gestarin lifted her onto her personal mare, a stubborn animal.

“Nothing unusual.” Gestarin replied as he climbed onto his own steed. “I spent my time trying to find the logical fallacies behind the teachings, hidden points about Aia that no one can explain. A usual Harvest, I would say.”

“One day, my lord,” Riina scoffed. “You may find that the Harvesters were correct all along.”

“On that day, my love,” He laughed as they rode toward the opulent palace. “On that day I shall sever my blade and become a priest myself.”

Riina chuckled. “My lord, you know that day will never come.”

“Precisely my point.”

* * *

“Father!” Inalla and Jiriinii cried simultaneously, happily bouncing into Gestarin’s open arms. The king laughed as he enfolded them in his arms and lifted them both up in the air. He spun them around and around until they were so dizzy they could not see straight.

“Careful, Gestarin.” Riina scolded, though she wore a smile of her own as she walked into the nursery. “Little girls are not as durable as young men.”

“Yes we are!” Inalla pouted, lifting her arm and flexing. Gestarin feigned surprise and grasped her thin bicep in his large hands. No matter how old his daughters got, this childish play would never end.

“Soon you can be a Var yourself!” He said with pride that was only partly mocking. Inalla grinned and wrapped her arms around Gestarin’s neck.

“I don’t want to be a Var.” Jiriinii said in a voice filled with haughtiness. She had always been the more formal of the two, even at twelve years of age. She sat down on a nearby chair with perfect posture, smoothing her white dress with grace. “I want to be a princess and marry one of your lords, so that I may become his queen.” Inalla let out a snort, which earned her a derisive look from her sister and a stern one from her mother.

“And you may do that, my lady.” Gestarin said as he bowed deeply to his seated daughter, who, despite her obvious annoyance with her sister, smiled regally.

“You should be commended, Lord Gestarin.” Jiriinii said dramatically, tapping him on the shoulder with an imaginary sword. “Your deference is quite acceptable to my magnanimity.” Inalla barely stifled another snort; as it was, it came out as a sort of cough. Gestarin had to suppress a chuckle himself. He suspected that Jiriinii did not know what half those words meant; but, with her, anything was possible.

“Now, girls,” Riina implored. “Your father wants to see your brother. Do you know where he is?”

“He’s out on the balcony, looking at the city.” Inalla said, rolling her eyes. “You know how he is.” Gestarin nodded with a bit of melancholy in his eyes. He and his wife did indeed know. Inalla and Jiriinii may have been ignorant of their brother’s situation, but Gestarin and Riina knew all too well.

“Father,” Jiriinii said. “A man was here looking for you before. He wasn’t one of the normal lords.”

“I’m sure he was a Var or vassal sent as a messenger, dear.” Gestarin replied. “It was probably unimportant.”

“He had one of those spikes on his wrist, though.” Inalla said as she cartwheeled. “Like you have, father.” In her play, she failed to notice the widening of Gestarin’s eyes and the blood draining from his face. He opened his mouth, as if to speak.

“That was very well of you to tell us, girls.” Riina cut in, and Gestarin quickly shut his mouth, biting back the words he was about to say. “But, now, why don’t you go see Preceptor Tixier? You need to continue in your studies.” Both of the girls sighed, but they stood up and walked gracefully out the door, closing it behind them.

The moment they were gone, Gestarin sank into a chair, his face significantly more pale than before.

“I’m sure it was nothing.” Riina said softly, sitting down next to him and gently putting her hand on his back. “Inalla was almost certainly seeing things.” Even with her gentle words, Gestarin knew that Riina believed no such thing.

“We both know that isn’t true.” Gestarin whispered, looking at Riina with worry in his eyes. “I am extremely uncomfortable with Bloodwielders. Even a simple lord gives me chills. But a Bloodwielder slinking around my personal halls, violating the most personal and fundamental rights of a man? What if it was a Viceroy? Or a Harvester Lord?” Gestarin shuddered. “It troubles me to think of those hungry, silver-tongued men around my little girls.” He gestured shakily with the spike on his left wrist. “I keep my Blade so that no other may have it and use it wrongfully, but I know not about the other lords. Bloodwielders’ pasts… There’s a reason the Church is the only entity allowed to create them now. Animal blood is safe, but too many people have died to create the old ones.”

“They are evil, my lord, I am sure of it.” Riina said, putting her hand on his cheek. “But the guards would alert us if it had been one of them.” She smiled, a warm gesture that lightened Gestarin’s heart. “All is well, my lord.”

Yes, listen to your pitiful wife, Gestarin. The Voice cackled, and Gestarin whirled around. There, in the little hand mirror that Jiriinii was always watching herself in. The mottled green face, the evil smile with the yellow teeth. Gestarin stood up quickly and turned the mirror over, silencing the Voice for the moment.

“My lord?” Riina said, mildly alarmed. “Is everything well?”

“Of course, my love.” Gestarin said, breathing heavily and avoiding the question. “Shall we go see our son?” Riina nodded and slipped her hand through Gestarin’s outstretched arm. Together, they walked through the doors to the balcony.

A long stream of quiet babbling began to fill their ears as they walked towards the chair of Kiinrin, the Crown Prince of Gluasiania. A robust youth nearing twenty years old, he sat on the balcony, marveling at the setting sun of the morning with a blank expression on his face and an endless stream of mutterings coming from his lips.

“Kiinrin,” Gestarin said quietly, putting his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Father!” Kiinrin responded loudly and haltingly, his eyes flying to Gestarin’s face and a childlike smile gleaming on his face. “I saw a bird today!” He gestured with a rubbery hand at the Glausianian skyline. “It was bright blue and purple and flew around really really fast. It made me happy.” His speech was slurred and high pitched, and he frequently took pauses between words and even syllables.

Gestarin did not mention the fact that no such bird lived in Matrikai, or Glausiania, or anywhere in the world. He simply stood, rubbing Kiinrin’s shoulders and smiling, betraying nothing of the intense sadness that he always felt at the sight of his crippled son.

“Kiinrin,” Riina said, kneeling down in front of the chair and gently grasping her son’s hand. “Are you feeling any better? You looked sick yesterday.”

“Oh yes.” Kiinrin replied, putting his fingers sloppily onto his mother’s lips. “The bird made me feel ever so much better.”

Gestarin could not hear any more. He turned away from his son as tears began to well up in his eyes. He looked out over the city, leaning onto the balcony for support.

The grey buildings dominated the skyline, a few close to a hundred feet tall. Gestarin had always loved how magnificent the buildings looked as the sun hit them, and today was no exception. As the sun rose, heralding forth the night, it seemed to glance off the side of the polished limestone, giving the entire city a gold sheen. No other sight had ever given Gestarin as much pride as the landscape of his city glowing in the light of the evening.

“My lord,” Riina said from behind him. “I believe the Council of Blood awaits your presence.”

“You are quite right, my love.” Gestarin sighed, turning to face her. He rubbed his eyes. “The meeting will likely go through the night, so it’s probably I won’t see you until breakfast.”

“I love you.” She whispered, grasping his hand and squeezing it fondly. Gestarin nodded and released her hand, stepping towards the balcony door.

“Bye bye, daddy.” Kiinrin gurgled from his chair.

It took all that Gestarin had not to begin weeping at that very moment. His son, crippled on the day he should have began learning how to rule. Learning at his father’s knee. His twentieth birthday had been planned by Gestarin since his birth, but put aside once his ailment began to surface. Through the years, however, Gestarin somehow managed to hold out hope that somehow his son would recover.

But now, looking at him at the end of this horrid day, Gestarin felt he had to face the fact that Kiinrin never would.

* * *

The sun rose on Oaiao, and so began the night.

The Void sat unremittingly silent at the center of the world, its obsidian depths endless and unrelenting. Wind broke before the black walls, rustling the grass around it but bending as it faced the ancient entity. It was a dark contrast to the bright night sky. Though none of the light from the sun reached the grassy plain, the Void seemed to swallow light into its depths, with only pure blackness showing itself on the surface of the darkness.

Now, it was not so.

Had there been any onlookers, they would have seen a murkiness begin to swirl in the depths of the Void, the only sully on the pure ebony face. It whirled and raged as if surfacing from the depths of the sea, growing larger and more detailed with every moment. It spun in a small pattern, with three tendrils swirling around a single point. All at once, the tendrils shot like a bird in flight out of the Void, becoming thick, black smoke as they entered the real world. The smoke billowed and spread, and from the center of it three shapes began to form. They began as only silhouettes in the darkness, light from a phantom moon illuminating them slightly. Features began to slowly form, as if a painter were drawing their faces on canvas one stroke at a time. Black eyes began to swivel, observing surroundings and capturing information while smoke cavities formed around them. Faces finally appeared, heaving their breaths from unformed lungs. Torsos sprouted, followed swiftly by arms and legs. After several minutes or so, three men stood silently on the Glausianian plain.

Flens would walk Oaiao this night.

They stood with bare arms, leather vests covering their muscular chests. Two sharp stakes protruded from their skin on both arms, one on each wrist and the others just below each shoulder. The vests they wore concealed yet another impaled in their sternums, directly over their heart. They wore no swords or weapons of any kind and only had simple black cotton trousers with dark boots up to mid-calf.

They would need nothing else.

“Aia is kind to us.” One said in a heavy voice filled with sarcasm. “Two harvests in one cycle. What fortunate souls are we.” He laughed, along with another. The third said not a word, but stood and observed his body, scouring every inch of it with his gaze.

Though his body betrayed nothing, he felt as awkward as a snake looking at himself and seeing a dog.

Something is not right here. Efstany thought to himself as he caressed one of the Bloodblade hilts on his bicep. The sharp hilt of bone scraped at his hand as it rose slightly out of his skin in response to his touch, a hint of the deadly nature of the weapon. It was said that no man could cope with more than one; but here Efstany stood with five bonds, one for each of the Blades. Truly he was different. So why did it feel so wrong?

“Shall we go on, then?” One of his companions said, cracking his knuckles with a quick motion. “There is no wisdom in causing more strife with Aia than there already is.” He rolled his eyes. “Come. A murderer named Radiran Yrinsson awaits our services.” The other nodded, closing his eyes and massaging his neck. The two were enamored with their bodies, grateful for the chance to be in flesh once more; Efstany, however, was unsettled. And yet, he listened and eventually sighed, ending his bodily consideration and looking at his companions.

“And so we shall.” He said. Regardless of the wrongness he felt, they did have a charge from Aia himself, part of their penance from the lives they had lived. It could not wait. They stood in a triangle, bowed to one another, and held out their hands.

“Blood is our brotherhood.” They said in unison, grasping each other’s forearms. “Our word is fulfilled by the life we shall take. May the Void swallow our sin in its mystery.”

With those words, they became the twirling smoke once more and flew off into the night.

The Void stood watchful over the plain, never moving and never ceasing.