Chapter21.

Dark Procession -he smell of damp earth hung heavy in the night air. The young men sat quietly on the bank of the black lake, upon which the moon shone down, quivering like liquid gold.

Cedrik sat on a rock. Derek lay at his feet, his arm bent across his eyes. He felt as though he had been beaten and wondered if they had not taken to him with a stick while he was in his stupor.

"The night's quiet," observed Cade, looking up at the stars dimmed by wisps of clouds.

"Not quiet enough," complained Derek, feeling sorry for himself. He had vomited so violently he was convinced that his last hour had come. Moaning like a man who is dying, he thumped his booted foot against the rock.

"Will you stop doing that?" said Cedrik, pushing his boot away. "Why must you always have your feet up all the time?"

Derek didn't answer but rubbed his face miserably. After a moment he said, "When strength returns to my limbs, I'm going to thrash you, Cade."

Cade laughed heartily. "Ah, they all say that the first time."

Standing quite apart from the others, Deacon stood with his shoulder leaning against one of the rocks, looking out across the still, black surface of the lake, the book clutched to his chest. Certain elusive scents drifting in the air forced upon him sentimental yearnings for the happiness of home, but he had lost the single ent.i.ty that had any semblance of such a place. Along with her, his home was lost and buried.

The thought of it hurt so terribly he could scarcely bear the ache that spread from his throat down and around his heart. Reflections of Mariwen also came undesired upon him. He thought with bitterness how devoted he had been, how willing he was to support and yield to her, desiring that she should belong to him. Now he felt only broken feelings, fragmented too utterly to give their meaning to him. With effort he banished all thoughts of her. He would not go back to her.

"It's a pity some of the girls didn't accompany us," Derek said, sobering a little in the night air.

"You're ill," Cedrik reminded him.

"I don't care."

"You would've cared when you made them cry, heaving up as you were."

Derek gave a short grunt of a laugh, then frowned, his stomach rolling with remembrance.

"I don't know what you lads would've done with them if they had come with us," said Cade. He gestured at Derek. "This one can't keep his drink down, and you, Cedrik, turn away perfectly good women who fairly throw themselves at you." Cade looked disgusted. "And this one here! He's got eyes for nothing but that accursed book!" Deacon glanced in his direction, but made no remark. "You're a disgrace, all three of you."

"And which happy lady is yours to lay claim to?" asked Cedrik. "You seemed to have several."

"Ah, no. The G.o.ds save me from it. One is more than enough trouble for what she's worth." Cade puffed out his cheeks, then said: "The lucky la.s.s wasn't there tonight, unfortunately. I'll have to borrow this again." He held out the front of Cedrik's shirt from his chest.

"You may keep it, if you like."

"Just as well; I spilt gravy on it."

Cedrik smiled, then his face became serious. "What's that place over there?" He nodded across the water at the foreboding structure obscured by cold mists and sickly trees. He had been looking at it for sometime and wondered what it was.

"I won't take you over there," said Cade, rather scornful.

"It looks like a temple of sorts," said Cedrik.

"It's dedicated to Demise."

"The G.o.ddess of death?"

"That's the one."

"It's a dark form of worship."

"It's morbid," said Cade. "A breath away from necromancy, if you ask me."

At the mention of the dark art Cedrik glanced over to Deacon, aware of his cousin's intense dislike, but Deacon looked out over the water without any sign of having heard. Nearly overcome by the emotion roused in him by the memory of his mother, Deacon turned and made his way back toward the house, leaving the others to stare after him. A morbid silence fell over them. Cedrik bit his lower lip, wondering if he shouldn't have a word with Deacon, just the two of them alone.

The air in the woods was half mist, half twilight. Nothing stirred. If there was any life here it was hushed and hidden. All the trees stood well s.p.a.ced from one another and were stately despite their mournful appearance. Within the gloom, Deacon knew a quiet grove in which he spent long hours of solitude, finding these woods to be the only place sufficiently quiet for him to escape and become entirely absorbed in his study, without fear of interruption.

Clapping shut the book, Deacon sat with fevered frustration. He had tried to divine for Luseph several times and had failed. Each time he set his mind to it, the necessary concentration would elude him. Thinking of his father, he found his mind became unclear and hot with temper. A vague memory, surcharged with horror and dread, forced itself upon him. His very soul revolted against the remembered contact of his hands. The violent images seared into his consciousness with a permanent scar. He hated his father pa.s.sionately.

The night was quickly drawing in. Deacon was heading toward the cottage, when he heard Cade's voice call, "Where have you been!" He turned and saw that they were down by the water. Hesitating a moment, not certain if he wanted company, he made his way toward them. "Where's your book?" was the first thing Cade asked, noticing that he did not carry it with him.

"I have no further use for it," said Deacon simply, coming to stand next to Cedrik, who aimlessly tossed little rocks out into the lake.

"Do you think it wise to disturb the water?" asked Deacon, after a moment.

"Why, there's nothing in there, is there?" Derek said, turning to Cade as if to seek a.s.surance.

Cade shrugged and tossed a stone in anyway.

"You've been gone for hours," said Cedrik as he clutched Deacon's shoulder and gave an affectionate squeeze.

"I know," said Deacon, brushing a hand over his brow wearily, his face down-bent.

"How much longer do you suppose to stay here?"

"I don't know how long I'll remain, but you and Derek are free to leave whenever you wish it."

"We've got nothing impending to return to," said Cedrik. "I think Derek is enjoying himself, in any case."

Both looked affectionately over at the younger one as he leaned over the water as far as he could without falling in, trying to see through the darkness to the bottom. "What are you doing down here from the house?" asked Deacon.

"Hiding from the Crone," answered Cade without explanation.

"How about we go to the tavern for just a little while?" suggested Derek, bored.

"How about I hold your head underwater for just a little while?" asked Cedrik.

As the evening progressed they lapsed into a dejected silence. Derek lounged against a rock, persistently tossing little stones at his brother, opposite. "One more ..." threatened Cedrik. Derek smirked, but tossed aside all the stones. Letting out a discontented sigh, he lay his back against the cold earth and stared up at the stars. The evening mist from the lake cast mournful reflections into the minds of the young men. One in particular was deeply affected. He stood with his shoulder against the boulder, staring out across the ma.s.s of water as if forgetful of his companions. Silent in his deep absorption. Then over by the woods something caused Deacon to glance up, and at once riveted his attention. So still as he was, his slight start caused the others to look around also, and, catching their breaths, see what he saw.

Keeping to the shadows by the edge of the woods, a dark procession of priestesses pa.s.sed down toward the water, their majestic gowns trailing behind them. Each wore a fine black veil drawn down over her face, and each held a small bowl with a flame reverently between both hands. Haunting in their dark similitude, there was an element in their beauty that gave a sense of dread. As they pa.s.sed, one of them turned, without moving more than her fine neck, in the direction of the awe-inspired observers. Among her dark kind it was evident she was not one of them. Though she looked as they looked and moved as they moved, she was separate from them, isolated by her own singleness, a quality of being on her own, of not belonging to any living soul.

All four men looked at her, but it was one man, and only one, at whom she looked. And though outwardly he remained the perfect exemplar of stillness, Deacon could feel his breath quiver within his chest with every beat of his heart. He alone was the figure to draw her attention. He could not clearly see her features lost to shadow, but he saw, looking from beneath the veil, her beautiful penetrative eyes turned toward him. Unconscious of anything outside of each other, they gazed on one another with an intensity that excluded all else.

Observing the exchange, Derek turned hastily to his cousin. "Who is she?" he asked, an eagerness betokening great admiration.

Silence was his answer.

"Deacon? ...Deacon, who is she?" Derek repeated, rather breathless. "Who are they?" He turned to Cade, finding no response from the other.

Cade took a moment to answer. "Dark priestesses, servants of death." His voice was low and scornful.

"Priestesses?" Derek repeated, excitedly.

"Only in your dreams have you seen such beauty," said Cade with a peculiar mixture of admiration and abhorrence.

Derek's persistent questioning broke the spell on Deacon. Coming to a sense of himself, he cast down his eyes. After a brief time he again looked up, but she had since turned her face and did not cast a single glance backwards. Down by the water's edge the priestesses waited with a reverence so still and silent that the night itself seemed to withhold its gentle breathing. The absence of sound about them was uncanny, not quickly forgotten. They were not left to stand here long before what they waited for made its presence known. A lonely boat, gliding through the black water, came toward the sh.o.r.e with secret purpose.

As the priestesses waited, their young admirers were straining their eyes to make out the features which the veils obscured. They each possessed a cryptic, evanescent beauty and a sombre grace that was more effective than beauty itself, an unnatural stillness in their bearing. Cedrik stared as long as politeness would permit, while Derek was shamelessly obvious in his interest.

"What do you suppose they do over there?" he asked.

"Unholy things," answered Cade. "Few that I know ever go there to worship."

"I think I might go and worship," said Derek.

Cedrik almost laughed. "Since when do you pay homage?"

"I think now might be the time to start."

"I wouldn't," said Cade. "Sometimes the men who do go over, don't come back."

"Because they can't, or because they don't want to?" asked Derek. He couldn't help but notice the gowns the priestesses wore were more clinging and attractive than solemn worshippers would usually wear.

"They belong to a black form of worship," said Cade. "Some say they offer sacrifices."

"Animal sacrifices?" asked Derek, scrunching up his face in disgust.

"Human."

"Mustn't be," said Cedrik, as if correcting him. "Any living sacrificial offering is illegal."

"I'm only telling you what I've heard," said Cade. "In any case they're ill news. It's best to steer clear from them entirely."

"Why?" asked Derek, not convinced that the loveliness he saw before him could be as treacherous as proposed.

"Because they are evil," said Cade. "They aim to destroy you for the sheer pleasure of it. Take my word for it, those women will rip your heart clean out of your chest, then leave you to bleed to death like a whimpering little wretch. Why do you think no one goes into those d.a.m.ned woods!"

"Except you and your trouble-making friends," Cedrik said.

Cade laughed. "Well, can't hide behind our mother's skirts forever, can we?"

Cade had cast such a cloak of mystery about the priestesses that Derek craved to uncover it. His curiosity tortured him to such a degree that he could scarcely resist going and speaking to one of them. Nevertheless, he restrained himself. "They're a little frightening," he said, quietly.

"Isn't that what I have just been telling you, d.a.m.n it!" said Cade, frustrated.

"I have no doubt they're a great deal superior to you lot," said Derek, wanting to go over.

"That fact alone hardly proves them saints," said Cade. "They have robbed men I thought impervious, of their senses. I had a friend who I once respected a good deal. It was pitiable to see the state he was reduced to when he became infatuated with one of those creatures. She played with his mind and tortured the poor beggar till he was senseless, out of his mind."

"Where is your friend now?" asked Cedrik.

"He left several years ago. He sort of went mad. I haven't heard from him since. Take my word for it, it always ends badly. In any case, they're forbidden to the likes of us. Their order has taken the path of chast.i.ty. They're bound to certain peculiar vows. Not that it matters to me. I would sooner bed the mage." He said this with shuddering disgust, looking over at Deacon, but he seemed little conscious of anything outside of her.

On its arrival the priestesses boarded the boat. Night-mist obscured the hems of their dark gowns which trailed behind them with haunting smoothness. Deacon stood tensely, watching with evident interest.

"I'm glad to see their witchery holds no power over you," said Cade, his voice becoming dry and sarcastic. "And after everything I've just told you."

Deacon turned his eyes slowly upon him and said in a tone of remonstrance, "I prefer to form my own opinion, based on my own observations."

"What observations!" exclaimed Cade. "That was a rare thing you just beheld. They never come out of that torture fortress, and they're as likely to poison you as they are to speak to you!"

As if not hearing what he had said, Deacon fixed his attention on the lonely boat, bearing the priestess toward the isle.

"It always ends badly." Cade shook his head. "Love her from a distance if you must, but don't touch."

Chapter22.

Temple -hat night in his bed Deacon lay awake, his mind charged with thoughts of the dark priestess. It seemed the whole world was asleep but him, but far across the black water, within that terrible structure, the priestess who consumed all his thoughts was awake in her own bed.

Lying motionless, black hair unbound, Magenta gazed upward through the darkness. In her vast loneliness she was repressed and unreachable. Her entire being quivered with anguish. She was like a flower cast in darkness for too long, wilting for want of light and love of the sun. All her days were spent in concealment, forced to preserve a faith she abhorred. Like a blossom trying to bloom in deep shadow, she struggled against the life-denying principles by which they lived. Her imposed faith was a cruel form of martyrdom, devoid of truth and validity.

There was a deficiency of light in the chamber, as in all the chambers of the temple. Always she bolted her door. Strange inhuman things walked the corridors by night when all was still and lurked in the shadows by day. Sometimes she would hear them scratching and brushing against the door, applying pressure as if they sought entry. Not even within her own chamber did she feel safe; the trapped night groaned with life, the darkness seeming a thing unto itself, alive and breathing. She could feel it pressing against her as though conscious, with its own awareness-possessive, malevolent, purposeful in its intent to get inside her.

"It is a frightful thing to permit a girl to grow up without knowledge of the G.o.ddess and the sacred principles which should be infixed in her conscience, if happiness is to be secured beyond death." Those were the words uttered by the high priestess the day Magenta's father placed her in the maternal hands of the detestable woman. In giving her life, Magenta's mother had lost her own. The high priestess was the only semblance of a mother she had ever known, which was an unfortunate thing.

The woman was base and cruel, concealing her black nature behind righteousness and cold-hearted charity. This life was all about endurance and suffering. Then, when she had proved herself worthy, she would be taken into the dark comforting bosom of death.

There was a strange sanctification in death. The afterlife, the high priestess felt, would belong to her. She would be a G.o.ddess, and in bringing others with her, dark glories would be hers. This was her belief, fortifying her faith immovably with immutable ritual, preserving it, hardening it against every corrosive threat, extinguishing the light of free-thinking among her priestesses and the flame of individuality as one might smother a fire.

Although they were to devote themselves to reflection and study, it was to be within the confines of the dark-orders methods, an imitation of individual thought. Their studies were intended not for enlightenment, but for solid immovable instruction. They were not to be free, but wholly under the high priestess's dominion.

The existence of a dark priestess was cruel and utterly subservient. Yet they were told not to be afraid; fear is faithlessness.

"Sorrow and affliction afford us an opportunity for growth," she would say with careful certainty, before inflicting some inhuman method to ensure obedience and submission to her authority and thus deepen the impression she was supreme.