"In the Name of the Father" by Michael Tresca

INTRODUCTION

Centered deep in the heart of Khazaria, the somber structure known as the Synagogue of Yahtweh conveyed no sense of the anger boiling within. It was a calm presence, the serenity of a long and honored history of beliefs that had protected and served the inhabitants for centuries. The smooth stones and spartan features of the Synagogue heralded its rich history, a past that was powerful in shaping the currents of Welstar and the destiny of a people who had endured countless centuries of persecution.

The flickering of torchlight transformed the sobriety of the Synagogue of Yahtweh into a brooding center of anger, confusion and fear. The Exilarch, arrayed in a white conical headpiece and golden vestments, controlled the chatter with three raps of his staff.

He was an old man, but not so old that the spirit of life had faded from his eyes. Nor was his vision so clouded that he could not see the tension that saturated all that were assembled. His fellow Amora’im and their apprentices were under assault by forces they neither understood nor wished to be a part of. The outside world had disrupted their peaceful lives even as it threatened the futures of generations to come. Despite these pressures, few were concerned with melancholy prophecies of the future and instead chose to preoccupy themselves with the present.

The concerns of the present were why the Exilarch had called for a meeting of the Great Sanhedrin. The assembled seventy-one of the Mekkubalim were all bearded, all beyond their forties. Each was well versed in the laws of the Mishnah and the general sciences, including mathematics and medicine. They were gathered together to bear witness to Merkibah’s dishonor.

Before him, further down from the dais upon which the Exilarch sat, was the focus of everyone’s attention. Merkibah, with his steely countenance and rigid appearance, was harmed most by his apprentice’s betrayal. What was an embarrassment for the others was unforgivable for Merkibah. Ziekiel was his first pupil, which made Merkibah’s dishonor all the more insufferable. The frightful implications of such an embarrassment chilled even the Exilarch.

Though the Exilarch feared for Merkibah, he feared for Ziekiel even more. The crime of heresy, khillul ha-Shem, was a serious charge, which called for execution.

Merkibah made the appropriate gestures of greeting, touching his forehead low to the dais stones before speaking. The fury within him was almost palpable, but the only indication of Merkibah’s discomfort was the twin trickles of sweat that streaked the sides of his brow. The other Mekubbalim remained respectfully silent, which only increased the tension in the room.

The Exilarch licked his dry and cracked lips. “We have finished our investigation of the charge you have brought against your student, Merkibah.”

“Indeed.” Merkibah said huskily. His hands twitched as he fought to keep from insulting the Exilarch with clenched fists. Had he done so, the Exilarch would not have taken offense. His anger was understandable, even excusable.

The Exilarch looked carefully at his fellows. Each man was a father and subsequently more sympathetic to the plight of what could have been their child. Each was wise, humble, fearful of God, and despised ill-gotten gains. Each loved truth and loved their fellows. And, the Exilarch thought morosely, each possesses the most noble and dangerous trait of all: they love the measure of a man’s reputation. Merkibah’s reputation was sullied beyond saving.

The Exilarch wearily rose to his feet. He gazed into seventy-one pairs of eyes.

“In the tradition of the Great Sanhedrins that have come before us, we will pursue tzedek as the Tanna’im judged the Khazars before us. Merkibah’s student, Ziekiel, has committed khillul ha-Shem. He has violated the first and second tenet of the Mishnah by accepting a false prophet and thus blaspheming En Sof. His heresy must be punished. Merkibah has moved for execution.”He nodded to the youngest of the Sanhedrin, a man of but forty years. They voted in order from youngest to oldest so the elders would not intimidate the young. Age in a Sanhedrin was sometimes considered a hindrance, and it was only the great respect that the Mekubbalim had for him that allowed the Exilarch to still call for such a meeting.

The first of the Mekubbalim spoke, “I have considered the evidence. I vote for execution.”

The Exilarch clutched his staff tighter. He saw the anger and fear in their eyes. Each imagined how he would have felt if he was Merkibah, if Ziekiel was their student, if such a dishonor befell them. The thought massaged their egos and shored up their own feelings of self-worth. One by one, they repeated the phrase, “I have considered the evidence. I vote for execution.”Like a series of vocal dominoes, each stood and repeated his verdict before seating himself again in the horseshoe-shaped assembly.

Merkibah was not at his seat, but he spoke his verdict with careful control, lest it seem he was attempting to influence the others. It didn’t matter; Merkibah’s vote was the seventieth.

The burden of the last vote was given to the Exilarch, oldest and wisest amongst them. To vote against Ziekiel’s execution was unthinkable. Ziekiel had committed a crime of youth, but he had committed a crime nonetheless, a crime that could threaten the entire foundation of what the Mekubbalim had worked so hard to achieve. Yet he knew the consequences of a unanimous vote for execution as well, even if the others did not. Never before had there been a unanimous vote for execution, but the Exilarch knew the laws better than any of the other Mekubbalim, and his memory was still sharp.

Like so many wise men before him, when the Exilarch spoke, it was not the words he would have chosen.

“I have considered the options. I vote for execution.”

A low roar waved through the crowd. Merkibah’s right to track down Ziekiel had been prolonged by a vote of the Great Sanhedrin. The Exilarch knew that it was out of respect for the community, and only out of respect, that Merkibah had delayed his own personal sentencing. A week after Ziekiel fled, they had finally come to a decision.

It was not the one the Sanhedrin voted for.

The Exilarch cleared his throat, waving his staff to silence the murmuring. “We have voted unanimously for the execution of Merkibah’s student, Ziekiel ben Merkibah.”Unbearable silence overtook the crowd. The Exilarch felt a trail of sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

“The wisdom of the Tanna’im is truly great. They have foreseen times when judgment is ruled by emotion instead of logic or justice. We have all been given ample time to review this case. And yet not one among us disagrees?Not one among us has a single opposing vote?The Tanna’im looked into the haze of what was to be and saw that we are ruled, even in such a difficult case, by emotion. We are men of En Sof, but we are still men.”

The Exilarch looked at Merkibah as he continued.

“And so our unanimous vote betrays us. The Mishnah dictates that we cannot condemn a man to death by unanimous vote. He must instead suffer kherem. The Tanna’im are wise. En Sof’s will be done.”

Merkibah said nothing. He stood up, fists clenched in silent protest against what had transpired.

The Exilarch’s face turned from benign tolerance to a deep frown. The Mekubbalim shifted in their seats, keenly aware that tempers could easily flare out of control.

The Exilarch continued, “No man since the dawn of our inception has ever given our secrets to another, and your apprentice is not a wicked man.”The Exilarch drove home his point by leaning forward in his seat. “No violence must ensue. Too much has been used against our people.”

The chastisement was mild to all appearances, and would never satisfy Merkibah’s need for vengeance. More than once, Merkibah had proposed using the sefirot to do harm. The scar beneath his left eye proved he knew what came of violence. And he knew En Sof’s way.

“Bring out the Aron Khodesh.” The Exilarch hoped that by allowing Merkibah to perform the banishment ritual, it would appease him.

Two young men carried the holy chest to the Exilarch’s side and opened it. He pulled forth from its depths a scroll of law. Then, the chest was carried over to Merkibah, who took the shofar, made of ram’s horn. Taking it to his lips, he blew the horn. Its sound was long, baleful, and its mournful note droned on for seemingly eternity. When the note finally stopped echoing in the synagoguge, Merkibah read from the scroll.

“This Sanhedrin pronounces Ziekiel ben Merkibah kherem! No Khazar may conduct business with Ziekiel ben Merkibah, speak with him, or stand within four paces of him.” He added, “His banishment from Khazaria will be its own punishment.”

Nodding to those seated closest to the torches, one by one all light went out in the synagogue.

A deep boom exploded caused many in attendance to shout in surprise. When the torches were hastily lit again, there was no trace of Merkibah.

Many of the other Amora’im were on their feet at his disappearance, some crying for justice and cheering his inevitable pursuit, others suitably disgusted by his rampant display of power.

Merkibah had spoken the ninth sphere of yesod, that of the world of transience and travel. By uttering those words he opened a doorway in reality and stepped through it, transporting him to some distant location. The loud thunderclap of air that rushed in to fill Merkibah’s vacant presence still echoed throughout the synagogue.

The Exilarch considered, briefly, trying to stop him. Merkibah was the most powerful amongst them and the most ineffective because his tempestuous emotions so often fueled his control of the sefirot. The Exilarch doubted that even he had the strength to duel another member of the Mekubbalim. Doing so would spell the end of them all -- no two Mekubbalim had ever crossed in such a manner. No, the Exilarch decided, now is not the time.

That the time would come, however, he was certain.

The Exilarch slumped in his seat, suddenly feeling very old. Merkibah had made it clear what he thought of the Great Sanhedrin’s ruling. To use sefirot in such a way was a disgrace to En Sof, an insult to all of the Amora’im assembled, and most of all, a sinful example of the abuse of power the Mekubbalim was so careful to avoid. It reeked of the qlippoth, of all that was wicked.

The Exilarch reached deep within himself for some solution that could end the chaos quickly, but the time for quick solutions had passed. He turned his attentions instead to the people in his care and prayed to En Sof for wisdom as he rapped his staff yet again. It was time to prepare for the long road ahead.

CHAPTER ONE

The man who entered the Dragon’s End that bristly morning was as gray as the clouds that smothered any hope of daylight in the dawning sky. He was not a truly slate gray, nor was he even a shade of gray that could be immediately identified upon glancing at him. It was the gray of heaviness, the leaden weight that slowly crushes souls. His dishwater eyes, his ashen skin, his heavy lids gave further evidence to the appropriateness of the name he used while traveling through the Keystone Empire.

Grey.

He wore a gray tabard over a cloak that flapped lazily behind him with each of his long strides. The hood of the cloak hung over his head so that only the occasional silver lock was visible. With gloves in hand, he made his way in oiled leather boots to the nearest table, nodding imperceptibly to the innkeeper’s welcome. His demeanor bespoke his requirement of solitude.

Perhaps quieted by such an abrupt entrance, or perhaps simply not wishing to know what was smoldering beneath the folds of that cloak, the other patrons tried to ignore him. Yet the occasional furtive glance assured him they felt his presence and they knew the lingering half-death known as Grey had taken solace in the otherwise cheery surroundings of the Dragon’s End Inn.

He was an unwelcome presence in one of the most popular inns in Keystone City. All along the streets, children laughed and played, ignorant of the coming rain. They were blissfully unaware of the weather that would no doubt dampen their spirits even as Grey dampened the inn’s ambiance with his appearance. When a waitress warily edged up to his table, he thought she would ask his dreadful presence to leave so that good and simple folk could enjoy themselves.

But she didn’t. She smiled, and she seemed so full of life that Grey couldn’t help but watch her. He knew what his gaze did to people, so he didn’t stare at her for long. A few muttered words and she fluttered away.

Pitiful, he thought.

They all were, really. Pitiful and temporary. He enjoyed that word very much, and applied the adjective to various objects around him. The table here, but a few decades old, the dog curled up there, shivering from the coming chill -- not more than a year left in him. The ignorance that allowed others to feel safe was a luxury Grey could not afford.

He pitied the dog.

It was time to take inventory, as a merchant inventories his stock. Grey’s gaze wandered about the room. His leaden pupils scanned each face, each body. Concealed weapons were rare amongst the patrons, but there were enough. A busy inn meant there was room for even violent people. Some few turned slightly towards him, the trained warriors kept their hands not far from their blades.

Grey surmised that there was only a handful of men of any real fighting value. Mere seconds worth of combat if it came to that. Of no concern to him.

The innkeeper was perceptive, undoubtedly because Grey was not the first dangerous character to bully the common folk with his mere entrance. The serving maid he sent to serve him was, Grey postulated, probably his wife. The furtive glances the serving maid and the innkeeper exchanged was an intimate exchange generals only dreamed of having with their soldiers. Yes, he’s dangerous, her glance said, but no, he doesn’t seem to mean anyone harm.

That was true enough. Grey took the mug offered him, engraved with the rear end of a dragon, and sipped its contents. When she did not vanish the way she came, Grey dug deeply into his pockets and allowed the silver to clatter across the serving plate she left behind. She took it with an experienced flourish and walked away.

She had approved the value of his coins in that moment, determined they were authentic, and accepted the payment even though it was an extinct kingdom’s mint. Grey shook his head free of the confines of his hood, letting his silver hair tumble about. Silver, no matter its origin, was still silver.

As he sipped a drink he barely tasted, his eyes fell upon a redheaded man dressed in a thick leather cloak. The man’s motions were nervous, his rich brown eyes filled with fear despite his attempts to appear brave. He was thin and not particularly tall. His sharp nose and thin features identified him as a Westerner far from home. Perhaps, Grey wondered, even as far as he himself had journeyed.

Grey continued to watch him. The man, completely oblivious to scrutiny, began to ask the bartender in a quiet voice the whereabouts of someone else. His drink was nearly spilled at the repeated news that no, whomever he was looking for had not arrived yet, but would undoubtedly show up soon. The bartender asked if he would like another drink?The answer was no.

Hunted men, Grey thought, rarely finish their drinks.

Grey watched him with amusement. He wondered what the man was running from and why he had fled to Keystone City, the glorious capital of the Keystone Empire. Probably to escape the trouble the man imagined himself to be in.

Grey considered him with an experienced eye. He was not a warrior, hardly a killer, and improbably a bandit. He was a well-bred man, but a simple one from his actions, and the inflections in his voice did not reveal any vocal training. He slouched, unbecoming of nobility, but didn’t eye his surroundings as many of the natives did. He was new to city life, a deadly flaw in less friendly areas of town.

The man glanced at the door occasionally and licked his cracked lips. His full eyebrows would knot together at the entrance of each patron, as if he was pondering some serious matter of terrible import. He would sometimes clutch a pendant deep within the folds of his cloak and mutter a prayer, of forgiveness or thanks Grey couldn’t discern. Grey was sure, however, that this man was in far over his head.

The man he was looking for finally stepped through the doorway. When the door opened and closed behind him, the wind blew in fiercely enough to stir the flames of the fireplace. Even the dog looked up.

The new arrival probably thought he looked fiercesome. Grey was not impressed. He was powerfully built, and his head was bare. His cloak was short and although he had a peace knot containing his blade, Grey noticed the dagger strapped beneath the inside of his glove, the one bulging slightly beneath his laced boots, and the smaller one tucked across the fold of his back. He was a mercenary, and his blade positions spoke for him. Whether it was Erenian, Khazar, or Keystone’s own, he wore whatever dagger his employers told him to wear and hid the rest when it was convenient.

His latest role required all three blades remain hidden. His guise was a Templar, a knight of God, with a red balance emblazoned upon his white tunic. His job, Grey was certain, was to usher a pilgrim into the safe hands of some church in a distant land. If Grey had believed in God, the facade would have gravely insulted him. But he didn’t.

Grey would have left that as his judgment of the man, but it was the fire in his eyes that made him reconsider. When he saw the fellow at the bar, the would-be knight’s eyes lit up. His smile transformed into a wolf’s grin as he approached his prey. Grey’s exceptional hearing gave him cause to smirk at the meaningless words of comfort and security that were exchanged.

The first man rose from his seat at the bar. The fluttering of the victim’s white robes beneath his cloak gave him the appearance of a woolly lamb. Both men left. Another sheep for the slaughter, Grey thought.

He rose, the entertaining spectacle over, and left his mug unfinished. Unlike the mercenary, Grey’s prey was not present. He prepared to retreat to some other dark corner to continue his hunt for someone far more dangerous.

Grey allowed his hood to hang slackly around his shoulders as he strode towards the exit. He let the bitter air whistle around the warm confines of the inn as he opened the door, reminding the patrons what sort of weather lay outside. Then he stepped out into it himself.

The air wasn’t that cold, but the wind drove it downward to chilling temperatures. The children had already retreated to their homes, and with them, all traces of sunlight. The clouds darkened the sky so much that it was impossible to distinguish when day ended and night started. A good time, Grey decided, for killing.

Brushing back his hair with one hand, Grey made his way down the street, shrugging first one glove and then the other onto his cold hands. He couldn’t help but think of a saying he had heard in his childhood: Cold hands, warm heart!If they only knew.

He decided to take a side alley filled with leaves and narrow in its confines, because he knew that would be the quickest way through the eastern city gates. Grey wanted to avoid the crush of bodies in the morning traffic that would seek to fritter their lives away in the vast cage of Keystone City. Keystone of the World, read the placard of every preening statue in every square. Grey didn’t think much of it himself.

When he heard a muffled cry to his right. He glanced nonchalantly down the alleyway.

The wolf-in-sheep’s clothing had revealed himself. He was joined not by one mercenary, but two, as if the frail slip of a victim they held against the wall would put up a fight. Their victim’s face was wild with terror, his hands up in a gesture of capitulation. A thin line of red already crossed his cheek, accentuating the gravity of the situation. They were playing with their prey.

Grey shrugged and moved on.

That would have been the end of it. But the mercenaries were too inexperienced, too greedy, and too wrapped up in their own moral justifications. They convinced themselves they were better than mercenaries every time cash entered their pockets for doing what the truly pious never considered. They were the tools of darker men in darker corners who killed far more with their words than their swords.

“I’m afraid,” one of the false knights growled as he stepped out of the alley to face Grey, “that you didn’t see any of this.”

Grey arched an eyebrow. He was sure they didn’t want to make a scene. He nodded and attempted to move on.

Apparently unconvinced, the mercenary was joined by another. The first knight who entered the inn clamped one hand over his victim’s mouth lest he ruin their cover.

“I’m afraid,” he said again with growing menace, “you didn’t see anything, understand?”

Afraid?They knew nothing of fear. Grey sighed wearily, irritated. It was a sign of a weak mind when one couldn’t think of a different word under such simple circumstances.

Grey repeated, slowly and carefully. “I understand.”

The first man who spoke to him situated himself directly in front of Grey. As their gazes locked,Grey recognized his mistake -- the man was looking for a sign of fear, for some kind of craven compliance that would ensure that even if they could not find him, the fear of future violence would bind his tongue. Of all the insignificant creatures that may have threatened Grey, these were small indeed.

Both mercenaries drew their swords. It was a show of steel meant to send Grey into flight, to cut him down in mid-stride. It was the tactic of a lazy killer. Grey would give them no such luxury.

As the second man made to speak, Grey silenced him with one gloved finger.

“Reconsider,” Grey said in measured tones, “or I will rip your spines from your twitching corpses.”

All three of the mercenaries allowed themselves a chuckle at that. “Oh don’t worry, you won’t have to resort to anything so drastic. We’ll let you live, we’re just going to cut out your tongue.”

Grey watched the decision in the man’s gestures. They had decided he was either a marvelous actor or a blustering fool. None of them realized that he could truly carry out his threat, not with swords aimed at his throat.

Wasting no more words, one mercenary reached for Grey’s face. No man, or woman, had ever touched Grey’s face. He was not about to let some mercenary be the first.

Grey blurred sideways out of the mercenary’s reach but too close for his sword to be effective. He grabbed the man’s hair and yanked hard. With the mercenary’s momentum completely within Grey’s control, he hurled the man effortlessly onto his gawking companion’s blade. The blade struck deep, entered through the mercenary’s stomach, severed his spinal cord, and snapped through his back in a gratuitous spurt of gore.

The other mercenary whirled about to face him. Grey noted with disgust that their blades weren’t even sharp. Had their swords an edge, the first mercenary to die would have been neatly skewered.

Grey took one lunging step forward and stepped too closely within the mercenary’s reach to effectively swing his sword. He reached deftly behind the man’s back and withdrew a formerly concealed blade.

With a lightning blur, Grey pinned the man’s own blade through his right eye, spearing the mercenary’s head to the crumbly mortar of the wall.

As Grey turned to face his final assailant, the third mercenary panicked. He shoved his victim to the side to face Grey, eyes wide.

The mercenary was gripped by the terror of a killer who suddenly tasted the fear he had so often inflicted on others. Grey hoped he appreciated his position. It was Grey’s experience that too few men died without realizing what they had to lose.

Grey faced the mercenary squarely, looking into his eyes to see if he could vicariously experience that fear. The man’s eyes darted about his face, trying to watch every part of Grey at once. Decidedly outmatched, the mercenary fell to his knees and begged for his life.

“We were hired to kill that heretic!”He wailed, pointing an accusing finger at the cowering man in the corner of the alley. “He is a tool of the Devil!He denies Sikkar and tells lies to subvert his faithful!In the name of God, kill me if you must, but don’t let him live!”

Grey paused to consider the mercenary’s words. Perhaps he was a Templar, if a fanatical one. There was one way to decide.

Grey’s sword was a kindjal, with four inches of blade. It was handier in narrow confines than a long sword, more versatile than a knife, and ideal for Grey’s style of combat. The single edge of the short sword darted before the mercenary’s nose like a snake. Grey slit the mercenary’s dangling purse, causing its golden entrails to burst forth. He examined the coins. “Keystone gold,” Grey muttered, almost to himself, “If you were a Templar you would have no more than three coins with you. You are a liar. And a corpse.”

“Untrue!” the man sputtered, his eyes filled with tears, “I was given money to hire my two companions to bring this fiend to justice!”

Grey glanced at him sideways. “If so, tell me how many men walk on the face of these coins?” Grey’s blade flickered near the mercenary’s nose, ensuring he didn’t gaze downwards at the coins.

“Two.” he whispered.

Grey slit the man’s throat. He fell to the ground with a gurgle. Bubbles of blood bulged from his neck with unspoken words of protest.

“The Templar symbol is of two men riding one horse. You should learn to look at the gold they pay you with, mercenary.”Grey stepped over the dying man. He gave their would-be victim a second glance who paled under his gaze.

“You there. I see your garments are white beneath that cloak. You are a healer?A priest?Give him his last rights.”

The man sputtered. “The Kaddish?”

Grey gestured at the dying man with his blade, unfamiliar with the term. “Quickly now. He’ll die in a moment, you haven’t much time.”With a business-like manner, he wiped his blade clean on one of the corpse’s cloaks. Grey then returned the kindjal in the concealed sheathe on his back.

The man complied, snapping out of his shock. The mercenary was dying and whatever his intentions might have been, he could do no harm now. Grey believed even the most pitiful of souls deserved some comfort as they disappeared forever, should they have the good fortune to regret their fading lives.

Grey listened with one ear while he removed the dagger from the mercenary’s head. The man said in a loud voice, “Alav ha-Shalom.”It was an ancient tongue that even Grey couldn’t place. He then translated, “Peace be upon you.”

As the man covered each mercenary with his cloak, Grey wondered if the man was making up a ceremony so Grey wouldn’t kill him too. The doubt passed as he saw how reverently the man took off his own symbol of faith from around his neck and placed it in the dying mercenary’s palm. He whispered, “Sikkar loves you, do not be afraid.”

The man clutched the symbol tightly, gasped once more, and expired.

Grey looked down at the curious little man with a newfound interest. Any further words were broken by the sounds of someone calling for the watch. Grey cursed himself, suddenly reminded that he was in a city where corpses were noticed within a few hours and casual killing was not a luxury. He turned to leave, but instead of fleeing down the alley, he stepped out into the street. He turned to the white-robed man who followed him out and spoke to him casually.

“Here’s some change for you Father, for such a good cause.”He spoke loudly and with an air of authority as he withdrew several silver coins and plunked them down into the uncompliant man’s palm. As the watchmen drew closer with naked swords, Grey nodded to them. His accent sounded more and more like Keystonian nobility as he spoke. “You came just in time, I think they began fighting amongst themselves.”

Nodding mechanically, the members of the watch stumbled past them. Grey walked away into the windy streets, dry leaves pirouetting around his feet.

After a moment the other man caught up with him. He walked in silence, matching Grey’s stride with difficulty. “My name is Ziekiel ben Merkibah,” he said after a moment, “and I am indebted to you for saving my life.”

Grey shrugged his shoulders. “Then you are free of your debt to me.”

“Ah, but you have given me silver coins, and I cannot accept them.”

“Buy yourself a new amulet. It seems you could use it.”

“My cause requires no such material trappings.”

Grey stopped moving. He glanced critically at Ziekiel, who unflinchingly returned his gaze. He was being sincere.

More and more of a scene had gathered behind them, and people with nothing better to do in their miserable lives ventured forth from their homes to view the graphic murders. Grey and Ziekiel’s conversation went unnoticed. The slow crush of bodies that heralded the arrival and departure of another caravan began to press through the eastern gates as they approached its orifice.

“It seems your cause will need some spiritual help.” Grey said, his eyes on the guard at the eastern gate, ”They will likely conjecture that the three mercenaries hired to kill you fell to fighting amongst themselves because of a bribe. From you. You will become that much more of a villain. The Church of Sikkar can be very unforgiving.”

Ziekiel did not react, as it seemed he was marked for death by that institution already. “Such a cold visage. You care nothing of religion or God?You took no joy in your murders.”

I should kill him, Grey thought, for making the word “murder” sound so dirty.

“With good reason,” Grey said, as if chastising him, “I didn’t rip their spines out as I promised.”

Ziekiel continued to stare intently at Grey. “Then perhaps it was the will of En Sof that you intervened. Or perhaps the Church is hunting the wrong man.”

For the first time in his life, Grey broke a gaze first, finding himself surprisingly flustered by what he saw there. He had not seen such compassion in a long time.

Grey walked stiffly away with Ziekiel in tow. “It seems I have nowhere else to go.” Ziekiel said quietly. “Would you mind the company?”

Grey shrugged, his mind too busy for words, as they both stepped through the gates of Keystone City. “You place yourself in more danger by doing so.” He added hesitantly. Then he dropped thirty silver coins in the guard’s basket.

The tax was fifteen silver per full-grown man. Ziekiel hesitated only for a moment when the guard waved him on and joined Grey as they walked away from the Keystone of the World.

The streets were filled with curious onlookers flocking to see the grisly remains of what the locals were calling the “occult murders.”The Grand Master had insisted not one corpse was to be touched, not one piece of clothing to be moved. He had canceled his pilgrimage to come immediately upon hearing the news. The fastest of the Templar’s horses were run nearly to death for him to arrive. His appearance seemed awkwardly out of place.

The Grand Master Nicodemous was a man upon whom age had no hold. Even at sixty, his strength and vigor made him appear twenty years younger. His dark mane was shot through with streaks of white and his beard flowed with rivulets of equally snowy whiskers. His deep-set eyes saw everything and betrayed nothing. Nicodemous’ simple garb of white, the balance of justice displayed with glaring red ferocity on his chest, matched the power he exuded. He was the last of the Disciples to have seen Sikkar live and die in the flesh.

That blessing would die with him, for there were none left who could be as blessed as he. He had seen God made man, touched him, spoken with him, ate and drank with him. To have been so close to Sikkar was nearly to become him.

The Templar guard was forced to beat away the poor who piteously cried for the miracles that it was rumored he could grant. Nicodemous ignored them. He had more important matters to attend to.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the alleyway. His Templars stood alert, hands on their hilts, peace knots untied. But they were not standing guard over the bodies as Nicodemous ordered.

The corpses were missing.

There were also other men present, armed and displaying the emblem of the city watch. The bright red plumes that denoted members of the Emperor’s guard bobbed amongst the Templars like a flight of circling hawks. A stand off, Nicodemous realized, was long overdue.

Nicodemous pushed himself to the fore of the crowd. His sacred staff in hand, said to have been made of the wooden balance Sikkar died on, parted his followers like water.

The city watchmen were clearly intimidated by his presence, as he had hoped. It was the respect the Sikkarism had struggled for so long to achieve. They would no longer be thrown to the lions, burned at the stake, or treated like criminals. Fear. Awe. They were the new tools of the Church of Sikkar.

Nicodemous’ indignation welled up in him as he stared down the watchmen who dared meet his gaze. At over six feet tall, few could match him. All except for one man who froze Nicodemous in his tracks.

The Master of the Watch nearly bumped noses with him. “So good to see you again, Nico.”   His tones were rich, deep, powerful, and confident. The mere sound of his voice angered Nicodemous.

“Master Gilgal, surely you can understand the severity of such a situation.”   Nicodemous said in guarded tones.

If Nicodemous was a great oak, Gilgal was a mountain. He was incredibly muscled and well-aged, fifty by all accounts. His weathered and cracked face bore no indication of the fear Nicodemous expected. His leathery visage betrayed nothing but disdain.

“Yes. And I am treating it with the importance of such a severe situation.”He let the word drip with sarcasm. “Your men seem to have murdered each other over Templar gold.”His eyes wandered to Nicodemous’ staff, which was topped by the likeness of a balance carved in gold and lined with silver.

Nicodemous waved the staff in a gesture that moved it away from Gilgal’s all-consuming gaze. “Indeed, Master Gilgal, such unfortunate accidents may seem as such to the uninitiated. But things are not what they seem.”

“Indeed.” muttered Gilgal. Their men on both sides whispered to themselves in hushed voices.

Nicodemous continued, retaining his calm demeanor,“We are in pursuit of a warlock who bewitched my men with false promises and wicked lies.”He spread out one hand and closed his eyes, gesturing towards the alley where the mercenaries were slaughtered. “The evil taint is here even now, I can sense it.”

Gilgal’s tightened his lips into a grimace to prevent from snickering. “Yes, even a mundane servant of the Emperor like myself can sense that evil still lurks here.”   He narrowed his gaze on Nicodemous’ throat. “And that is why the Emperor sent me to personally investigate such a matter.”

Nicodemous swallowed hard. The Emperor’s interest was dangerous. No one knew his intentions, even with his relaxed edicts on religious practices. The wrong problems at the right times could cause yet another wave of religious hysteria. It was a matter the Templars needed to keep out of his reach.

“I of course understand why such precautions must be taken,” Nicodemous said after a moment. “But I came only to give last rights to the deceased, and to pray for their souls.”

Gilgal was about to speak when a young Templar stepped forward. “Grand Master, we found this on one of the brothers.”From his fist dangled a golden amulet.

Nicodemous smiled as he saw Gilgal’s eyes dart to one of his own men, a flash of anger at not having caught such an important piece of evidence. Nicodemous caught it from the Templar with the end of his staff and lifted it high for all to see.

“Look here!   The mark of the Devil!”

It was in the shape of the ten spheres, the sign of the sefirot. Part religious icon, part magical map, it showed the most basic workings of the interactions of existence. Each sphere represented the fundamentals of human nature and the universe. It was a composition of what constituted humanity. It was God’s mind on display.

There were collected gasps of terror and anger from the Templars. By now a crowd had gathered, and while they did not act with quite the same revulsion, they showed obvious interested. Good, thought Nicodemous.

Gilgal’s men were noticeably unimpressed. “That is the symbol of the Mekubbalim. They worship one god as you do.”

Nicodemous snapped his staff downwards, flinging the amulet with such force that it warped upon hitting the hard stone of the alley. “This,” he shouted, his voice echoing across the square, “is not the sign of Sikkar!   This is not he who died for our sins!   This is a symbol of unspeakable debauchery, for only the Devil could tempt Templars into bickering over such worthless trinkets!Our noblest men have been bewitched by a sorcerer!”He struck the symbol with his staff, scattering the golden spheres of the sefirot like so many marbles.

The crowd had grown to mob-like proportions. Some bystanders cheered. Gilgal’s men concentrated their attention on keeping them away from the two leaders. Nicodemous’s chest expanded with relief. He had won today’s battle.

Gilgal snapped his red cloak behind him, the clattering of his bronze armor an angry retort. “The next time Templars fall to bickering amongst themselves, your Temple shall pay for them in that lovely gold that you despise so.”The chatter of the crowd drowned his voice out. It was a threat meant for Nicodemous’ ears alone.

“Our business here is finished, Master Gilgal.” Nicodemous said smugly. Then he turned his back on Gilgal and continued to preach to the crowd.

Gilgal’s men looked on in frank curiosity. He knew what questions danced through their heads. What sort of religion whips men into such frenzy?He considered the punishments he would have to threaten his men with should they find themselves sudden converts to Sikkarism.

Gilgal turned his back on the excited mob and stormed his way past the crowd. A cheer went up, almost as if in celebration of his exit. Gilgal decided he liked Templar screams much better when they were at the mercy of lions.

The room that housed Merkibah for the night was sullen and unnaturally peaceful. The air itself seemed to be thick, incapable of the slightest breeze. The walls, ceilings, and floors were inscribed with the word binah, the third sphere of sefirot. It represented understanding. Merkibah intended to use it as such.

While many religions were preoccupied with what God wanted from man, sefirot was humanity’s attempt to understand En Sof’s mind, That Which Is Without Limit. Inaccessible and unknowable, En Sof revealed Himself to mankind through a series of ten emanations, the sefirot. Each sphere represented its own characteristics, including the elements, the planets, and the archangels. An initiate learned the spheres once every two years, so that a twenty-year-old initiate knew all the spheres of sefirot by the time he reached forty. It took a man of mature years and character to control such power.

Merkibah recited the words that would summon forth the image he sought. The energies of the symbols soaked through him, permeating the room. The binah sphere was rarely consulted in such a fashion, but Merkibah knew he had to act quickly. Ziekiel was on the move, seeking solace amongst his new confederates. Merkibah did not intend to let him get very far.

A strange wave of force flowed from the center of the room where the binah symbol was inscribed. It was as if the air around Merkibah was a heavy liquid lapping lazily around him. He ignored it.

Slowly, three images of an old woman appeared, each identical to the other, all seated on miniature thrones. They hovered over the symbol, all facing him expectantly.

“Aima, Ama, Khorsia,” muttered Merkibah, “Mother, Crone, and Throne. Tell me my desire.”

The crones spoke in high voices, powerful despite their diminished size. All spoke simultaneously, deep and sonorous.

“The man you seek lives southeast, in Eren.”

“Jebediah Morgensterin.”

“Leader of many, speaker of Heaven.”

An image of the man he sought appeared in the midst of the three crones. Merkibah smiled a thin-lipped smile and nodded, dismissing the three with another word. He now knew the source of the contagion that infested his student’s mind.

And he intended to cure it.

* * *

The caravan master was kind enough to allow several stragglers on, for the right amount. It was Ziekiel’s turn to provide coinage for the journey, but the caravan master refused them. With one look at Grey, he firmly explained that if they were to travel with the caravan it would be on his prize carriage. After his last betrayal, Ziekiel was suspicious of such unearned trust. As usual Grey said nothing during the entire exchange, so Ziekiel kept his suspicions to himself.

The caravan was late, so the caravan master decided they would ride through the night and break early. Ziekiel’s heart fell at this news, as he was exhausted from the day’s events. Grey, on the other hand, showed no signs of tiring.

The rhthymic clip-clop of the horses beneath him allowed Ziekiel to forgive the violent rocking of their transportation. He found himself falling into a restless nap.

Ziekiel dreamed of rocking seas and whirlpools and avalanches and all manner of natural disasters. He was sweating, despite the cool night air, when Grey woke him.

“You can sleep. I’ll take your shift at the reigns.”

Ziekiel rubbed his eyes groggily, no longer feeling as tired as before. The hard wood of the seat was particularly unforgiving. Much of the left side of his body had become numb. He muttered in a sleep-sodden voice, “A man needs his rest, I can handle it.”

Grey didn’t look at him; his eyes focused on the wagon ahead. “I don’t sleep when most people do.”

Ziekiel rubbed his hands together, trying to bring circulation back into his extremities. “I don’t know much about you. You saved my life yet you ask for nothing in return.”

Grey’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not assume I am a charitable man. Our roads will part at the end of this caravan’s journey.”

The expression on Ziekiel’s face indicated he predicted Grey’s response. “It is a long journey. At least your give me your name?”

Grey turned to look at him. “Grey.”

“Grey?”

“Just Grey.”

Ziekiel found himself surprised. “Thank you, Grey, for your kindness.”

Grey said nothing.

The wagon rocked onwards, but Ziekiel found himself curious and restless. He needed to trust Grey, even if only for a little while. Ziekiel knew he would have few friends in the coming days ahead.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

Grey’s lips tightened. “I am,” he said carefully, “a man without family, without allegiance, and without any other goal but to murder one man. I’m really rather boring.”

Ziekiel scratched the scruff on his chin. He would soon turn twenty-five, five years into his training as a Mekubbal. He allowed himself a brief moment of longing for his shtetl in Khazaria. To be so committed to murder was a direct violation of the third law of the Mishnah, murder. Ziekiel realized he was no better, for in the eyes of the Khazars, he had denied En Sof by declaring his conversion to Sikkarism.  How sad for such a purposeless man to be so passionate about the extinction of another, he thought.

“I see,” was all he could say. “I find myself in a similar position. I converted to Sikkarism from the Mekubbalim. I fled Khazaria to the Keystone Empire to seek solace with the Church of Sikkar. They promised to protect me, but I believe they wanted to make an example of me instead.”

Grey’s silvery brow furrowed deeply. Ziekiel was gratified to see his words caused a reaction. “That explains the mercenaries in Keystone City.”

Ziekiel nodded. “I was told to meet some Templar knights who would arrange for my conversion despite my previous faith, and would guide me to Eren so I could seek religious sanctuary.”He bit his lip, uncertain as to the implications of what exactly happened now that he thought about it. “I suppose that is no longer an option.”

Grey pushed a stray gray lock out of his face. “Not necessarily. Those were mercenaries. They were hired with Templar gold, but that doesn’t mean they’re all like that.”He looked up briefly at the night sky. “On the other hand, their opinions may have changed now that they saw my...work.”

Ziekiel thought fondly of the elderly deacon who influenced his decision. He had spoken of the Mandylion with such conviction at his sermon that Ziekiel found himself swept up in a fervent belief in Sikkar he had never experienced before, even when studying the first two spheres of sefirot. It was that belief that had led him to use the sefirot to seek the Mandylion as physical proof of Sikkar’s existence.

Ziekiel looked up at the constellations that flickered overhead, bathed in the moonlight of the moon Ambrosia for that month. Somewhere, out there, the same stars were shining down on his friend. Ziekiel wondered if Jebediah, the deacon whose sermon had convinced him to pursue Sikkarism, realized the impact of his words.

CHAPTER TWO

The air had a chill to it that Jebediah decided he didn’t like. He stoked the fire again, causing the crackling embers to whirl dream-like up the chimney. His weary old bones did not stand up well to age, and he felt as if the religious upheaval and turmoil that plagued the Sikkarins in recent months were all heaped high upon his shoulders. He wondered if he was stooping lower.

There was such a powerful rush of air behind him that Jebediah thought he left the door open. He was completely surprised when instead of an open door he found a tall, black-bearded demon in equally black garb staring defiantly down at him.

“Good God,” Jebediah said as he sought his cane with fumbling, clumsy hands. He found it, a miracle in itself, and waved the cane with as much menace as he was able to muster. “Back Satan!You will not have my soul!”

The intruder clenched and unclenched his fists as his icy blue gaze swept the room. There was no one to hear Jebediah’s cries for help, situated as his dwelling was on the outskirts of Eren, between Khazaria and the Keystone Empire. Jebediah lived that way by choice, however, so he could preach to the Khazars in some vain hope to save their souls. Most of his neighbors thought of Jebediah as a harmless old man.

There was no one in the house either. Jebediah lived alone, his wife long dead, his children away doing Sikkar’s will. Two of his eldest sons were Templars, the third a lay brother in Damcar. They rarely had time to visit, but Jebediah didn’t mind. His parish was his family.

“You,” the intruder said in a deep voice twisted with a rage that bordered on supernatural, “You are the one who stole my student from me.”

Jebediah adjusted his glasses, using his cane to rise to his feet. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life. I am a Sikkarin!”

The demon pointed one long crooked finger at Jebediah’s nose. “You stole the soul and mind of my student, Ziekiel, with false words. You used your lies of redemption and salvation to sway him from the path. You forced him to betray himself, his heritage, and most of all,” his lips curled back in a sneer, “you forced him to betray me.”

Jebediah felt the blood rise to his face. He knew of no one named Ziekiel, but he did know when his faith was under attack. “I am no heretic, Satan!I am a man of true faith, a servant of God. Be gone, foul demon, you have no hold over me, for I am strong in the ways of Sikkar!”

Jebediah’s answer seemed to only enrage the intruder more. For a moment, he thought the demon would strike him. “I need to know,” he said slowly and carefully through clenched teeth, “where Ziekiel has gone. You will tell me.”

Jebediah squinted at him. His eyes were weak, his hearing fading more and more each day. His voice, however, was still strong, strong from preaching to his parish. Although he knew nothing of the intruder’s intentions, Jebediah knew that if the demon found him, it would spell a terrible end for Ziekiel.

“Be gone, Satan!   You shall not harm my flock for I am strong in the faith of God!”

The intruder pointed at Jebediah’s head and muttered, “Malkah, Kallah, open his mind to me.”

His eyes opened with understanding even as he towered over Jebediah. “You,” he hissed, “are too feeble and old to even remember my student, I see that now.”   His face was covered over with icy determination. Jebediah was suddenly insignificant. “I am not an evil man, and certainly not Satan.”

Jebediah heard none of it. He yanked the sword free from his cane, a gift from his children for a time when words failed him. He had never spilled a man’s blood, but Jebediah was sure this was no man.

Jebediah swung the blade in a slow but careful arch before him. The demon easily stepped back out of the blade’s path. “Sikkar protects me,” Jebediah shouted, his body strained from the exertion, “I have nothing to fear from your evil. Flee from my home!”

Suddenly, Jebediah felt something burst in his chest.

The world spun in a turgid confusion of spiraling darkness. Sikkar was taking him!   Jebediah knew his battle with Satan would assure him a place in Heaven.

Jebediah collapsed to the ground, his hand clutching the balance of Sikkar that hung around his neck. With a slow gurgle, Jebediah, the seventy-seven year old deacon, expired.

Merkibah cursed viciously as he stepped over Jebediah’s corpse. He scanned the shelf of codexes along one wall, found the one the sefirot had directed him to and tucked it beneath his robes. The Mekubbalim magic had saved Merkibah weeks of tracking, even if sefirot was never quite intended to be used as a tool of vengeance.

The shouts at the door caused him to invoke the power of the ninth sphere yet again, and the thunderclap and swirl of wind that Merkibah left behind would lead to stories of Jebediah’s final battle with the forces of darkness.

Jebediah had died serving his God. He would, Merkibah was certain, be one of many.

Ziekiel awoke from his fitful sleep when he realized the caravan stopped moving. Grey was missing. The horses were nervous, whinnying softly and shuffling their hooves. After peering ahead and behind, Ziekiel realized the entire caravan had stopped. Something was definitely wrong.

He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes quickly lest he miss something. It was not quite dawn. The sky had lightened enough that Ziekiel felt confident he could see any attackers, but the illumination was little comfort. All around him, unseen men moved amongst the brush. Ziekiel’s mind filled with a thousand questions.

His answer came in the form of a terrified horse, its rider hanging from the stirrups, his throat torn open. The steam from his innards left a misty trail behind him even as the horse disappeared into the night.

Ziekiel tied the reins and lowered himself carefully to the ground. He was not proficient in any sort of combat, as he had never needed such recourse. His training at the Synagogue of Yahtweh could never have prepared him for such violent situations. Ziekiel never felt so vulnerable in his life.

He whispered a prayer to Sikkar and began desperately looking for Grey. The stench of death filled his nostrils, but there were no shouts or sounds of combat. The killers were silent, effective.

Despite his best efforts at remaining alert, Ziekiel found himself completely helpless when a man sprung up beside him like a coiled snake. The assailant’s eyes reflected cat-like in the moonlight, red mirrors of hate that descended with frightening speed. The man’s mouth was open wide, his jaws larger than Ziekiel thought possible, filled with oversized canines. A thin trail of blood spun out from his mouth even as he swooped down upon his prey.

Ziekiel fell backwards, covering himself as best he could, but the attack never came. When he opened his eyes, Grey standing over him, unsheathing his kindjal from the man’s abdomen.

Grey barely acknowledged Ziekiel’s presence before he blurred into action again. The man whom Grey skewered moved with incredible agility despite the wound. He too wielded a kindjal, and although the injury was surely fatal, little blood stained the man’s front.

He was dressed in colorful garb, with a wrap about his head and several earrings in one ear. His hair was tied back in a knot and his vest was made of tough leather that matched his boots. Ziekiel recognized him as a gypsy, but he acted and moved like no gypsy he knew of.

They were sheydim, the Khazar word for vampyr. They were the physical manifestation of the qlippoth. Sheydim sought to fill up their hollow bodies with the lifeblood of the living, forever seeking to slake an unquenchable thirst that would torture them forever. They were the unblessed, the unholy, and the unburied walking corpses of men who were not given the proper last rites.

The vampyr’s dark features scowled at Grey. “You are no man!” he hissed.

Grey stood perfectly still, his own kindjal out. The polished bone grip of his sword contrasted brightly with the darkness around them. The vampyr ignored it. He was focusing on the center of Grey’s body, wary of any sudden movement.

“You,” Grey responded, “are not one to judge my humanity.”

Then they clashed again, like two steel whirlwinds of fury. They moved so quickly, Ziekiel could not follow their actions. To his mundane perceptions they were whistling blurs of combat. Their speed was supernatural, their agility incomprehensible, and yet they were matched closely enough that every strike resulted in a parry, every riposte, a dodge. The exchange didn’t last for more than a few seconds before they separated again.

Grey spat on the ground before him. Although Grey evinced no real wounds, the vampyr was likewise unharmed. Ziekiel felt a cold wave of fear crawl up his spine.

“You are a lesser.” Grey hissed in disgust. “Created. A pawn.”

The vampyr laughed, a deep guttural snarl that was anything but jovial. “I still have my clan, you filthy half-breed dog.”He spat, as if in response to Grey’s expectoration. “If this is all a dhampir can offer, then you shall serve as a wondrous feast, just as your mother served your father.”

Ziekiel took a step back. The rage that flashed across Grey’s face was frightening. His emotions switched from icy-indifference to violent anger so quickly, Ziekiel wasn’t sure he saw it. The vampyr had touched on Grey’s weakness.

Taking such an emotional display as an opportune moment to attack, the vampyr lunged forward with his heavy blade, aiming high for Grey’s head with a downward slash. Grey responded instantly. He struck with pinpoint precision, piercing his blade into the heart of the vampyr and withdrawing it just as smoothly.

This time, Grey’s blow found its mark. A great geyser of blood exploded from the chest wound. The vampyr stumbled once, clutching his chest as more and more blood pumped in great arcs from the wound. Then he collapsed face first in the dirt.

It was then that Ziekiel realized they were surrounded.

Garbed in a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors, many more gypsies had surrounded them. Some were wiping their lips with their sleeves, while others looked hungrily at the merchant carriages vacated by their attack. Ziekiel wondered what beasts that drank blood could want with their cargo.

Their leader stepped forward. Like the others, he was a swarthy-skinned man with arching black eyebrows and a wave of curly black hair that exploded behind him. His eyes were an icy crystal blue. The vampyr leader was dressed in a snug-fitting jacket that was open in the front and high on his waist. His tight-fitting black pants and jacket hugged his waist. His black leather boots were etched with red outlining that matched the scarlet red of his shirt. He stepped forward with the authority of one accustomed to being in command.

“So!”   He stomped one boot, heel to heel, to get their attention. Grey, breathing hard, watched him carefully. Ziekiel felt completely helpless as he finally rose to his feet and stood next to Grey.

The man spoke with a heavy accent that added a strange elegance to his words. “I see you have put Carlotto to rest. He was a good man, one of my best.”

Grey spat again, drawing gasps of indignation amongst the other gypsies. None dared say more.

The leader looked down slowly at where Grey spat, and then looked up at him again from beneath his dark curls. His blue gaze pierced the air. “I see you have no respect for your elders. You dishonor your clan.”

Grey’s eyes narrowed. “You know nothing of my clan.”

The leader shook his curls out of his face with a nod. “Oh but I do, Gregorio Sveltana. And,” and as he spoke a smile crept across his lips, “I knew your father, Beng.”   His enlarged canines showed the marbling of blood still on his lips and gums as he smiled. Ziekiel shivered at the sight.

Grey’s face betrayed no emotion at all. Ziekiel was uncertain as to who was telling the truth. The vampyr band numbered at least thirty and with only Grey armed, Ziekiel was sure their side was at a disadvantage.

“I,” the man said, bowing slightly, “am Nikolo, Gypsy King of the Huarez clan. And you, my friend, have been the victim of a rather cruel joke.”

With no reply forthcoming, Nikolo continued. “You see, Palnetti, that pudgy man who probably let you onto this caravan for free, knew I would be waiting for him. I swore that if he passed through here again, my clan would feast upon him. Last time I took only his goods.”

Nikolo began to pace. “As Palnetti is as good a coward as he is a judge of character, he knew you to be a dhampir and put you on his prize carriage. In fact, Palnetti himself is hiding in that carriage right now, locked up safely while you deal with this terrible ‘mess’.”The vampyrs around them resonated with deep rumbling laughter.

He shouted over to the carriage that Ziekiel and Grey had vacated. “Isn’t that right, you filthy dog of a merchant?”When the crickets were all that answered, Nikolo shrugged. “Eh, he is being shy.”

He put one arm behind his back and paced back and forth stiffly. “So you see, even while my men surround you now, we are both the losers of this incident. I have lost one of my best men, and Palnetti has lost several of his. Let us end this folly and be on our way.”

Nikolo put one hand out, palm up. When Grey did not take it, he waved at him with his extended hand. “Join me now or join me later. Eventually, you will come to see things my way.”

Some of the men shuffled their feet, obviously not agreeing with their leader’s offer. Finally, Grey spoke.

“You are no Gypsy King. Gypsies have no kings, and you dishonor us all by pretending to be one. What you are is a walking, blood-sucking corpse of a devil. I have been tracking your spore through Keystone City. I was looking for Beng. But you will do nicely.”

This brought silence, but the look Nikolo shot Grey spoke volumes.

“It is not,” Nikolo said carefully, stalking up to Ziekiel, “my policy to kill holy men. But in your case I will make an exception, because you will suffer more for it.”

In an instant, he was beside Ziekiel with a fistful of his hair. Nikolo yanked Ziekiel’s head back so hard that for a moment he thought his neck was going to crack. Ziekiel clutched at his throat, gasping for air, the whiplash so bruising that even gurgling was painful. He was dimly aware of Nikolo’s perfectly manicured hand, nails facing his throat, hovering over him.

“I could kill him slowly,” he said, “by poking four holes in his throat and letting him stumble around, bleeding to death, while my clan licks up every drop. Would you like that?”

Ziekiel became desperate. Nikolo made the mistake of assuming Grey would care, that Grey would react, that Grey would do anything other than to watch in cold, unforgiving silence. Ziekiel’s life was on the line and in the clutches of such bloodless fiends he was utterly helpless.

“Or perhaps,” Nikolo was saying to Grey, “you would like to take me on, eh?You think you have what it takes, bastard son of one of those ‘filthy blood-sucking devils’?”Ziekiel found himself roughly jerked aside like a rag doll. He stumbled into the foliage, coughing and wheezing.

Grey and Nikolo faced off as the vampyr leader removed his jacket. The vampyrs surrounded the two in a circle. “Ever fight a real vampyr, dhampir?” taunted Nikolo. “You’ll find I am faster, stronger, and more powerful than you in every respect. Twice as good, in fact.”

Some of the vampyrs laughed, ignoring Ziekiel. After all, he was a mortal man, a useless man, and a holy man that wasn’t even worth killing. Ziekiel felt anger flush his face as he realized he was so insignificant that his captors turned their backs on him. Where could he go?He couldn’t run, they could easily catch him. When they were done with Grey, they would tear into the metal carriages and feast on the men within. He felt the burden of their lives on his shoulders.

He would not die this way.

Ziekiel rose as Nikolo and Grey began circling each other. A rope tied them to each other on opposing wrists. Each wielded a knife. Already, Grey had several unnatural rents in his flesh that made him appear as if he were made of soft clay. The wounds oozed a jelly-like substance.

Ziekiel called out to them, but his cry went unheard. His feeble croak was but a minor nuisance in the background of the duel. The cacophony of cheers and shouts of the vampyrs surrounding the knife fight drowned him out. Such evil, Ziekiel swore, would never turn its back on him again.

Ziekiel called upon the power of sefirot for violence. The gevurah sphere manifested itself in many ways. Ziekiel summoned the manifestation of necessary destruction. It was the power of vengeance incarnate, symbolized by the archangel Kamael.

He chanted, “Elohim gevor, pachad, din, En Sof send you burst with the strength from within!”

Ziekiel felt the energy surge through his torso and out through his extremities. The world flickered into a bright red negative of its former self. The power of the fifth sphere was strong within him, a sphere four years beyond his training.

The vampyrs looked at Ziekiel with a mixture of surprise and anger. Ziekiel’s blood pounded in his ears. He envisioned the energy around him as the archangel Kamael and then unleashed it to wreak havoc on his foes.

And the reaping began.

CHAPTER THREE

The Cathedral of Sikkar, the pride and jewel of the powerful empire of spiritual salvation, was situated in the center of Keystone City’s west quarter where all manner of religions were allowed to wave their flags and build their idols. The Cathedral of Sikkar was taller and whiter than all of them. The beautiful marble columns vaulted upwards over the heads of the sinful to remind them of the majesty of God.

The Cathedral’s walls were covered with trophies taken from the enemy. It also housed a series of dormitories, with corridors of monkish cells furnished with a chair, a chest, and a bed with mattress, bolster, sheet, and blanket. The Cathedral had an infirmary, a marshalsy for the storage of armor and weapons, a draper’s establishment, and many kitchens. Coupled with its deep wells and vast cellars, the Cathedral had more in common with a fortress. It was a symbol of spiritual as well as military strength meant to instill confidence in the ability of the Templars and their power to keep the properties and riches in their care safe.

“Ite, Missa est.”   Nicodemous chanted to the congregation.

“Deo gratias.”   The congregation replied with one voice.

Nicodemous felt the eyes of the faithful upon him. The mass had gone well. Attendance was up. He had more and more nobles entrusting their possessions to the Templar vaults. The awe of the structure struck fear in their hearts and helped to grease their palms.

With the secular part of the mass over, it was time to attend to more mundane matters. He had assembled the faithful and the Templars for a new plan of action.

The Templars were the elite fighting force organized by the Church of Sikkar and Nicodemous to bring order to the disorganized warriors who so often fought over petty concerns. They were Sikkar’s right hand, executioners of justice that the red balance on their white tunics represented. Nicodemous prayed for the blessings of Sikkar even as the Templars stepped forward.

The foremost Templar, a natural leader, was a beautiful man. His eyes were a crystal blue, his beard and hair a rusty blonde. The shoulder plates that bedecked his frame made him only look stronger, his golden mail setting him apart from the silver accouterments of his comrades. He was Phoebus, the Seneschal of the Templars. To control Phoebus was to control the spirits of the men who followed him.

Nicodemous was in an awkward position. He didn’t really believe Ziekiel, the convert from Khazaria, had used sorcery. He knew the Mekubbalim were exceptionally strict in their use of magic and a man willing to face the political consequences of converting to Sikkarism was an undoubtedly fanatical, if not moral, person. The manhunt ensured attention was not diverted to the pettiness of mercenaries hired with Templar gold. Nevertheless, Nicodemous didn’t want to put Phoebus in harm’s way.

The political forces at work did not give him a choice. The Khazar’s alleged conversion had become so public, the imagined villain so infamous, that Phoebus was cast up as the natural protagonist against such a vile foe. Phoebus’ popularity was normally Nicodemous’ greatest tool, but at times it was a hindrance. To refuse Phoebus the right to pursue Ziekiel was a sign of weakness that Nicodemous knew the Templars could not afford.

The mission, Nicodemous hoped, would be a simple matter of bringing the convert’s head back on a shield.

Nicodemous leaned forward from his cathedra where he loomed over the congregation. “Sikkar bless you, Seneschal Phoebus.”He made the sign of Sikkar, both arms crossed in front of his chest, one elbow over the other with fists down and closed. It was the sign of the balance, with invisible weights hanging from his hands.

Phoebus bowed his head in acknowledgment and respect. “And Sikkar be with you, Grand Master Nicodemous.”

Nicodemous allowed himself an inward smile. How wonderful it sounded, to have God and his own name in the same sentence. How wondrous to be on this cathedra, before these people, in this house of holiness, he thought smugly. Nicodemous rose, powerful and virtuous and, he was certain, glowing with a halo of saintliness.

“I have called upon you, Seneschal, because we are now facing the greatest threat to our people.”   He paused for effect, glancing from the assorted Sikkarin nobles nearest him to the peasants milling about in the back. “The satanic vipers known as the Mekubbalim have arisen from the dark pits of hell to strike at the righteous!As the Khazars once slew Sikkar, so they have struck at our Templars!”   He swept his staff outward, gesturing to them all. “And where they have struck, three just men have fallen!”

Nicodemous pointed at the three closed coffins lined up behind him as he moved aside, his chasuble and cassock flapping with the violence of his gestures. His pallium and chasuble were the color of violet, appropriate hues for a burial. That there were no corpses within the coffins was irrelevant.

“We will not let their deaths be in vain!”

A wave of cheers flowed through the crowd. The peasants, Nicodemous thought with smug satisfaction, are always more excitable when it comes to matters of blood.

“Sikkar will not let such blasphemy go unavenged!”Nicodemous shouted.

The crowd cheered again. Nicodemous congratulated himself for inviting the citizens to an open ceremony.

“Seneschal Phoebus!”

Phoebus, with helmet in one hand, the other resting on the pommel of his golden sword, kneeled with head bowed throughout the whole tintinnabulation of cheers and swords on shields. He seemed to awaken from a trance when he rose, and although his eyes were clear when Phoebus looked up, Nicodemous knew the Seneschal had been praying. He felt a twinge of envy for such spiritual strength.

Nicodemous stepped down from his cathedra and touched his staff briefly on first one, then the other of Phoebus’ shoulders, shouting,“Go forth and cleanse this wicked evil from our midst!   Bring the sorcerer who has committed this heinous crime to Sikkar’s justice!”

Nicodemous had fought hard for the punishment that was his to grant. The Cardinals had argued, decades past, that no warrior could be a man of God. After all, their duty was to shed blood, the blood that Sikkar held so precious within himself. To bless such violent men was blasphemy in the eyes of the Almighty. Nicodemous argued that it was necessary, that it was excusable when slaying heathens, pagans, and other agents of evil, and that it was Sikkar’s will. A higher authority judged the slain. Death, he reasoned, was a release, lest the heathens spread their impure ideas to others. It was out of the love of Sikkar that they slew the pagans who knew no better.

Phoebus’ rich voice spoke clearly amidst the din. “I am Sikkar’s Hand, Grand Master. My sword is His. This man will answer to the highest authority.”

Nicodemous suppressed a frown. To recognize their prey as a man was dangerous. Ziekiel was no man; he was a demon in the shape of a man, and the people needed to believe Nicodemous if the hunt was to be justified. Nevertheless, it was a minor error in an otherwise perfect ceremony.

Phoebus rose and walked towards his mount at the Cathedral’s entrance, his procession of Templars following behind him with military precision. A former commander in the war against the Elkarans, he never conducted himself in anything less than military protocol. The crowd cheered again as Phoebus and his Templars mounted their horses simultaneously.

The sound of Phoebus’ visor snapping closed echoed through the chamber. Phoebus made the sign of Sikkar towards the balance hanging behind Nicodemous, reined his white stallion about, and led the twenty Templars out into the glittering sunlight.

The crowd followed the Templars, carrying the three coffins out to the cemetery to be buried. Nicodemous trailed behind them, smiling to himself.

Soon, he thought. Soon.

The other men didn’t understand what happened. It was a hard lesson that Grey learned early in his young life. The caravan members were too jaded, their emotions and senses too dulled, to truly comprehend the carnage. Or in the case of these cowards, Grey thought, heard.

Palnetti was congratulating Grey for his “heroism,” but he heard none of it. His attention was focused on the sounds of the man weeping on the hill above them.

While the merchant master droned on, Grey debated whether he should kill Palnetti too. Palnetti had knowingly led them both into danger and had chosen Grey as his unwitting guard precisely because of his reputation as a vampyr slayer. Grey had yet to kill a mature vampyr, although he had destroyed many of their lessers. He found it bitterly ironic that the man which they all ignored proved to be the most capable of snuffing out life, vampyr or otherwise.

Grey turned the events over and over in his mind. He still couldn’t help but feel a twinge of awe for such power.

A searing white light had flown from Ziekiel’s taut body into the unsuspecting Nikolo. The vampyr leader was filled with an inescapable energy that transformed him into a rigid statue of agony. The others were frozen in terror.

Nikolo was probably the luckiest of them all. He had exploded in a geyser of blood and fleshly debris with a force so powerful that several bones lodged themselves in the bodies of the other vampyrs. Blazing rays of light pierced every one of Nikolo’s kin. They burst into flame, melting, screaming, and dying again. It was enough to rattle even Grey. Grey, however, remained untouched by the destructive power of Ziekiel’s magic.

Such privileged exclusion worried him. Grey could not help but wonder what it was that leapt from Ziekiel. An angel?A devil?   Or Ziekiel himself who laid waste to the vampyrs?Grey did not know. He was afraid to ask. To do so would be to commit judgment upon himself.

He turned away while Palnetti babbled on about money, rewards, and threats removed to the Empire. Empty promises that fell on deaf ears.

Grey was searching for a different vampyr. He heard rumors of a vampyr stopping in Keystone City, tracked his spore as only a dhampir could, and followed him from bloodless corpse to bloodless corpse. Nikolo and his roving gang of “gypsies” had more in common with a pack of ravenous wolves, but they were not his objects of vengeance.

It was gypsies Grey was after. He had returned to the old travel routes of his clan to settle the score with his father. Instead, he was used and manipulated as a bodyguard for Palnetti. Once again, he had been forced to fight foes he had no interest in killing.

It was precisely because of such behavior that led many to believe all gypsies were like them –- violent, arrogant, and reckless. Vampyrs were common, but not unique to the gypsies clans that roamed from the Palim Mountains west of Khazaria to the Aticoffian coasts of Damcar. Grey considered vampirism to be a disease that infested the corpses of the dead. Such a virulent plague, coupled with the absolute refusal of gypsies to bury or even touch a corpse, led Grey to theorize that this was why vampirism was so common amongst them.

When they wished to pretend they were men, the vampyrs walked the streets like a rowdy gang of drunks. When they were beyond the confines of the city, nothing and no one could prevent them from taking what they wanted.

Palnetti explained in fumbling terms that he had indeed lured Grey to this route, had hoped to settle a vendetta with himself and Nikolo, and prayed to God or En Sof, depending on who was listening, that Grey himself would show up to kill Beng.

But it was not Beng. Palnetti shrugged. After all, one vampyr was just like another.  “Right?” Palnetti asked, his pudgy face anxiously focused on Grey’s. Right?

Everyone knew, Palnetti rambled on, that all dhampir hated vampyrs. The sons hated their fathers. If there was anyone who could destroy a vampyr, it was their very kin.

In his heart, Grey knew the truth. He had never known another dhampir, but their powers were well known amongst the common populace. Dhampir could sense vampyrs, track them, and, it was rumored, defeat them in melee combat. Nikolo proved without a doubt that Grey was not ready to face a true vampyr. Had it not been for Ziekiel, his duel with Nikolo would have certainly ended in Grey’s death.

 Grey reluctantly decided to let Palnetti live, if only so Grey could use him as Palnetti had used Grey. The vampyr encounter gave Grey valuable knowledge. Without that knowledge he would have eventually entered into a losing battle with Beng. Next time, he would not be lured into a prolonged fight. Next time, Grey would not make the mistake of posturing before his foe.

Palnetti offered up more information in his attempts to placate Grey. He knew of Beng enough to use him in some clever name-dropping. They would be traveling in parts where Palnetti had heard the rumors of Beng’s whereabouts. It would, Palnetti hinted, be prudent for Grey and Ziekiel to see the journey through to its final destination.

Yes, Grey thought, he would be useful. Most men had a use. Palnetti never knew how close he came to death that day. He finally noticed Grey looking at Ziekiel’s sobbing form.

“What does a man of God have to weep for?”Palnetti asked in his oddly lilting voice.

“He weeps,” Grey said quietly, “because he is a man of God.”

* * *

The Royal Palace was a lavish affair. Each new Emperor saturated it with fine tapestries, gold linings, and artistic debris. It brimmed with statues of griffins, the royal line of the house of Tybaltos. The part-eagle, part-leonine beasts spat water through their hooked beaks from every drain, were rampant on the wrought iron gates, guarded the wooden doors, and were splayed majestically on the royal rugs.

The Palace dominated the center of Keystone City. If Keystone City was the Crown of the Empire, the Royal Palace was its most expensive and ostentatious jewel.

The air was thick with rumor. Whispers echoed of more problems with the Sikkarins, of a jihad, of vampyrs hunting the trade routes. Emperor Hadrian Tybaltos heard them all. Much to the surprise, no doubt, of the whisperers themselves.

He was a proud man with a proud chin, his bright green eyes adding their own regality to his otherwise pale and somewhat frail frame. He was young for an Emperor at twenty-nine, but he was a force to be dealt with nevertheless. His robes trailed behind him along the floor, making it appear as if he had sprouted out of the palace grounds itself, a magical guardian sent to defend the realm.

More likely, Hadrian thought, I look like death itself.

Hadrian knew what he looked like that morning. His Royal Eyes were Royally Tired. He had much on his mind that day.

The Templars were in an uproar over the deaths of three of their men. They brutally murdered each other, it seemed, at the behest of Mekubbalim magic. Or so said the Sikkarins.

Hadrian brushed back his mop of black curly hair. He wasn’t very fond of the Sikkarins. They continually moaned about the afterlife and how they would all become wealthy and powerful there. Sikkar had little to offer an Emperor. Hadrian didn’t feel the draw of their faith.

Sikkarism did cause many other problems. Because they had no fear of death and even welcomed it, Hadrian’s power over them was limited. He had dealt with other religious zealots before. Most understood pain. Most would at least put on the pretense of kowtowing to his Royal Eminence. Most knew when to shut up to save their own hides.

Sikkarins didn’t. Sikkarins were particularly fond of dying for their cause. Martyrs, they called them. Hadrian’s grandfather, Gyrdant Tybaltos, had several ways of dealing with such nuisances. When he publicly burned Sikkarins, they shouted that their souls would be saved, and that they suffered as Sikkar suffered. When he gagged them and burned them, others took up the shout in the crowds instead.

Tybaltos tried torture too. Torture, however, was more suffering. By suffering, Sikkarins were guaranteed a place in Heaven. It seemed to be a requirement to get in. So the Emperor was doing them a favor there too.

Hadrian sighed as he wearily placed himself on the Royal Throne. It wasn’t very comfortable.

He longed for the days when his grandfather would have put them to the torch. It was an admittedly more violent time, but it was a lot more entertaining.

His grandfather had ordered Sikkar’s death. Crucified, he died on the gigantic wooden balance like any other criminal. His grandfather feared, and justly so, that if Sikkar started a new religious uprising there would be riots in the streets. Had Sikkar continued his preaching and continued to provoke the Mekubbalim, who called him a heretic and a false prophet, all manner of disasters could have befallen Keystone City.

Hadrian wondered if the Sikkarism would have sprouted up as quickly if Sikkar had been locked up and left to rot, forgotten. His grandfather was not fond of slow punishments. He had a penchant for publicity and he needed to make an example of Sikkar for the Empire’s citizenry. Of course, it had the opposite effect.

Another martyr, Hadrian thought in disgust.

Sikkar’s public execution was nothing new. Prophets were crucified before. But only Sikkar, the Sikkarins claimed, rose from the dead. That was the real thorn in Hadrian’s side.

The tomb they had lain him in, which was sealed by a large boulder, was blown open. Some titanic force had thrown the lid on the coffin wide open. The guards posted to watch over the tomb from overzealous Sikkarins fled in terror. They did not live long enough to regret that error in judgment.

There was even an image, seemingly burnt by some bright light, which copied Sikkar’s countenance onto his shroud. That was one mistake his grandfather hadn’t made. He wisely hid it away in the palace vault lest the Sikkarins wave it as a flag for their cause. Hadrian had not destroyed it after all this time because it would be, he was convinced, a powerful relic he could use against the Sikkarins in the future. Now and then Hadrian would visit the Mandylion, as the shroud was called, and stare into the eye marks in wonder.

Hadrian knew of diseases that made men appear dead. They would rise up later, much to the consternation of their relatives. But Sikkar’s resurrection was different. No normal man could have moved such a boulder. The Sikkarins called it the Resurrection, but Hadrian was not convinced.

There were many people preaching sorcery. The low magic was everywhere. Even the citizens practiced it on occasion. Hadrian had several diviners and sorcerers, masters of high magic, working for him. All claimed they could have done the same with the right spells. But who would have bothered?

Gyrdant held the future Khazar mystics, known even then as the Mekubbalim, responsible. After all, those were the same people who spawned the Sikkarins, so it was entirely possible one of the ancient mystics had converted. He tortured several of them, but no confessions were elicited. They all vehemently denied responsibility for Sikkar’s miraculous ascension, even under torture. It was such persecution that led them to found their own mystic-ruled realm, Khazaria, in a small kingdom to the west.

Hadrian wasn’t very fond of magic, but he made it a point to have his court mages cast protective hexes over him. Just in case.

Hadrian considered himself a practical man. It was why he was Emperor and his father was dead. By tolerating the Sikkarins, he found there was more peace. Sikkarins were much less harmful when they were alive. It was the dead ones he had to avoid, resurrected or otherwise.

Thus it caused Hadrian considerable consternation when the Captain of the Guard approached him with a report of three Templars besieged by Mekubbal sorcery. They turned upon each other in a bloody battle. Hadrian found himself wishing he could have been present at such a fight. Hadrian thought it must have been marvelous.

Having voiced his report, Gilgal kept his head bowed. After awhile, Hadrian noticed him still at his feet. He instructed him to rise, return to his post, and await further orders.

Hadrian found it ironic that the most powerful military force of the Sikkarins identified itself as separate from the Khazar faith and the Mekubbalim. Thinking of his son Constance, he had to admit that every generation probably thought the prior generation made a terrible mess of things.

The Sikkarins were proving useful nonetheless. Their fanatical devotion to their cause generated trust amongst pagans and Sikkarins alike. They accumulated, very quickly, an ingenious form of monetary reciprocation, an investment system wherein they kept money safe in their holy coffers and taxed a small measure of it. Since the Templars were supposedly very scrupulous, many of the wealthier nobles left their funds in Templar care. It was the first banking system ever developed. Hadrian wished he had thought of it first.

The heavy tax he levied on the Templars made accepting their good fortune a little easier. They were, he was forced to admit, becoming more and more of a concern. When their attentions weren’t centered on creating new converts they tended to clash with other religions. Sikkarins were simply not content to leave the rest of the world be.

“You,” he pointed at his closest aide, the one whose name he could never remember, “don’t I have a nephew in the ranks of the Templars?”

“Indeed, your eminence, you do.” responded the man who was non-descript enough to guarantee Hadrian would forget his name again tomorrow.

“And that is?”

“Phoebus, your most gracious.”

Hadrian suddenly remembered the other reason he allowed the Templars to flourish.

“And is he a good Templar?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Oh yes my liege. One of the most prominent and well-loved.”

Hadrian steepled his fingers, leaning further into his devilishly uncomfortable throne. The Templars, he decided, would have to step very carefully in the future. It didn’t take sorcery to make him consider the possibilities of what he could do with their gold.

The Palace Treasury was deathly quiet. It contained things that were never meant to be viewed by anyone but royalty, partially because they were of such value that the mere sight of any one bauble could drive a man to theft. It also created an ambiance of mystery and privilege. The Treasury gave the Emperors a sense precious secrecy they could rarely lay claim to amidst rumors and gossips. Whatever was in the chamber, even if it were a mere scrap of cloth, was solely for their viewing pleasure.

One such scrap of cloth hung like a banner in the center of the room. It was surrounded by an iron gate, adding to its mystery. Upon its surface was the ghostly countenance of Sikkar himself.

The image was unmistakable. His eyes were closed, his face slender, pinched from his ordeal. Two coins of the Empire, two generations old, were on his eyes as was tradition. The image was so detailed that even the bust of Hadrian’s grandfather was visible on the coins. The details were astounding, down to the wisps of Sikkar’s beard. It was far more than a relic of great religious and spiritual value. It was the most exquisite work of art throughout all the Keystone Empire. With God as its purported artist, its beauty was unmatchable.

And so the Mandylion hung in the darkness with dust, moths, and the occasional mouse as its only companions.

There was a violent swirl of wind that caused the shroud to billow up like a wave. Merkibah had arrived.

Merkibah timed his arrival for the middle of the night, when most would be fast asleep. The air was thick with the age of things unseen, cloaked in darkness for so long. He invoked tipheret, the sixth sphere whose elementia was fire, and the torches in the room sparked to life. He did not have the time nor the patience to stumble about in the darkness.

The binah sphere had shown him the interior of Jebediah’s mind. The sermon that had inspired Ziekiel’s conversion centered on a bolt of cloth, the swaddling that wrapped the corpse of Sikkar. Merkibah was not convinced that words alone could sway his star pupil. In many ways he and Ziekiel were alike. Merkibah needed far more physical evidence before he would commit himself.

Upon reading the book in Jebediah’s study, it led him to the Palace treasury. Rumors spoke of the Mandylion as proof of Sikkar’s resurrection that would enable the faithful to look upon Him as if He were alive. It was a simple matter for Merkibah to ask the spheres the whereabouts of the Mandylion.

The room was filled with all manner of glittering treasures that beckoned to Merkibah in the torchlight. He barely spared them a glance.

Merkibah stalked up to the Mandylion itself and stopped to scrutinize it. It was as if Sikkar stood before him, a full-scale replica. Had Merkibah been a Sikkarin, he would have been struck by a sense of awe.

It only served to anger him. Merkibah had arrived to prove Ziekiel wrong. He invoked the ninth sphere, yesod. The shimmering vision of an exceptionally beautiful and well-muscled man appeared before him.

“Treasure House of Images, tell me if Ziekiel stepped foot in this place.”

The ghostly image nodded once, confirming what Merkibah suspected. Indeed, Ziekiel had come here, had inspected the Mandylion, and had assured himself of its authenticity. The figure answered all of Merkibah’s questions with a nod of its head.

Merkibah felt anger rise in his throat. No wonder the boy was duped, he thought. Ziekiel thought he was staring into the Face of God, the face of En Sof. That was reserved for the most powerful Mekubbalim, the last sphere known as kether. Merkibah decided this was why Sikkarism had such appeal, because it offered their god like a prostitute for all to see.

Even sequestered in the Palace Treasury, the Mandylion was not safe. Merkibah would be sure that its soulful eyes, its docile, sleeping image of death, would not poison any more minds. He raised his hands to invoke the fiery sphere of tipheret once again, to do more than light torches.

He stopped. One question still bothered him. Merkibah turned to the glowing luminescent figure he had summoned and pointed at the shroud.

“Is that man still alive?”

The image shimmered softly for a moment. Then it spoke.

“Yes.”

Merkibah gasped. His face flushed with anger, rage, confusion, and most of all, fear.

“A spell!” Merkibah shouted, “It must be a spell!”But he knew in his heart that the spheres never lied.

Merkibah invoked the sphere of travel again. The torches and the ghostly sage both winked out of existence at his departure, leaving the Mandylion to flap a lazy farewell in the breeze that followed his exit.

CHAPTER FOUR

As the caravan trudged eastward a festive mood overtook the guards and the passengers. Palnetti was splurging, a celebration in their heroes’ honor. Most of the guards were drunk. Nikolo’s roving band had long since eradicated any competition, so the fear of bandits was inconsequential. For the final leg of their journey to the city of Damcar, there was nothing to fear. Except Grey.

Ziekiel spent much of the journey resting. An illness had overtaken him, suffusing his body with chills and fevers, sweats and aches that were a sign of his own internal struggle. He rarely received a full night’s rest. When he did sleep, it was filled with nightmares of his past.

The most vivid of all his dreams was actually a memory. Ziekiel was in Merkibah’s dwelling, a simple structure, as all Mekubbal lived simply. Ziekiel only remembered the candle and the egg in his dream. The lone candle illuminated his master’s face even as the waning sunlight disappeared outside. The air was moist; the chill wind barely kept at bay by the flap of cloth at the door. Clouds rumbled in the distance.

“Ziekiel,” his Amora’im said, looming over him, “define the qlippoth for me.” Ziekiel tried very hard to not stare at the egg out of curiosity. Eggs were not something Merkibah spoke about every day.

He found himself at a loss. Ziekiel had heard the word mentioned once before. It was a dim memory, something his father said when he was very young, but it was spoken with such vehemence that the word remained fresh in his mind. He admitted to Merkibah that he did not know its definition.

Merkibah nodded, stroking his beard, not nearly as long then. “Qlippoth means shell.”He spoke the word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. Merkibah raised the egg up in front of Ziekiel to observe it. “It conceals the sefirot and En Sof from us.”

Merkibah held the egg in front of the candle. Ziekiel thought he could see, or imagined he could see, the yolk inside.

Ziekiel nodded. Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating his master, white replacing black. The sefirot was part of the lightning flash, a zigzag pattern that led from the most basic sphere to the most noble, the Face of En Sof, kether. If each sphere was a beacon of light, an illumination of the truth, then a shell around them was an aberration, a terrible thing. Qlippoth were the bindings of the flesh, trapping the spiritual sefirots.

“But,” Merkibah continued, “what is most dangerous about the qlippoth is not what they are, but what they are not.”   He was pacing, hands behind his back, his usual routine when he lectured his apprentice. “Many believe the qlippoth is simply a shell that obscures the sefirot from view, an obstacle that can be brushed aside with enough spiritual devotion and willpower, and most importantly, faith.”   He turned again to Ziekiel. “Do not be fooled, my apprentice. For there comes a point when there are so many layers to the shell that the sefirot is snuffed out. Qlippoth is not simply a covering, it is a darkness which can engulf the light of sefirot, it is a python which can squeeze the life out of the soul.”

He lifted the egg up in the palm of his hand. Merkibah closed his fist on the egg. “Until the qlippoth so surrounds the sefirot within,” he crushed the egg within his fist, “that there is nothing left inside.”

He turned his hand, palm down, over the table. Only bits and pieces of eggshell hit the table. Merkibah had dramatically made his point clear.

“We must avoid the qlippoth in using sefirot. For each sefirot there is a qlippoth, and to use the spheres in the wrong way is to surround oneself with one more shell.”Merkibah listed them. He had Ziekiel repeat the titles of the qlippoth several times. Merkibah would later have Ziekiel recite the qlippoth as part of his morning prayers so that he would never forget the dangers and pitfalls of the magic he wielded.

Stasis, zombieism, rigidity, habit, hollowness, bureaucracy, ideology, fatalism, arbitrariness, and futility. The images danced around in Ziekiel’s mind every time he summoned the words, sometimes of people whom he thought represented those sins, sometimes of demonic beings he most feared, and sometimes of himself.

Ziekiel felt he had been arbitrary after his confrontation with the sheydim. He had flagrantly abused the sefirot for violent purposes. Ziekiel had become angry because he felt his life was in danger, and he had used his powers at a whim to strike at his enemies. He felt himself cringing beneath the unseen sting of his master’ s belt. Merkibah’s wrath was terrible indeed.

Some of Ziekiel’s nightmares were of other lessons. One particular nightmare haunted him repeatedly. Ziekiel questioned, only once, why all prospective Mekubbalim had to wait until they reached the age of forty before being allowed to practice the full powers of sefirot. Merkibah’s reply brooked no argument.

“Because without the discipline of such training, you will fritter away your soul until you are nothing but qlippoth.”

Part of Ziekiel questioned this tradition. Was it not the qlippoth that embodied rigidity?Was it not the qlippoth that took shape in bureaucracy?What real reason was there to prevent a capable student of attaining the title of Mekubbalim faster than those before him?Ziekiel ventured such nagging questions occasionally. After several, Merkibah gave him an answer.

He had brought Ziekiel to the pillory in the town square. Ziekiel never paid much attention to the structure because he had never seen anyone in it before. As a youth, he would pretend the holes were a hiding place for the face of some giant with a large space between his eyes. The wood of the stockade was so pitted and weathered, Ziekiel doubted it could hold anyone.

“Here,” Merkibah had pointed, “is where someone who dared to use the sefirot before he was ready was imprisoned. He sat here for days, starving, to the shame of all, before he was finally released. There was nothing left of his soul because he had trifled with powers he did not understand. Even this forced fast, this humiliation, could not save him. He was left a shattered, broken shell of a man.”

Ziekiel looked at the spot intently. He imagined a wicked man, an angry man. A man whose eyes blazed like fire, raging at his fate from the confines of the stocks. A fearsome, dangerous man who needed to be locked up. Locked away in the stocks of rigidity.

Even as other questions passed through Ziekiel’s mind, Merkibah made him swear he would never think of such questions again. Every two years he would be approved for another sefirot. When he turned forty he would be able to use them all, and begin the journey of comprehending the Face of God, En Sof. But not until then.

Ziekiel remembered mutely nodding and then swearing in zombie-like fashion as Merkibah dictated the oath.

He had always viewed Merkibah as his father. He had known him ever since he was thirteen. Prior to that time, the elders of the local shtetl raised him as an orphan. Upon reaching the age of twenty, he was initiated into the Synagogue of Yahtweh. It was a mitzvah that proved he was capable of channeling the sefirot. He was the only one amongst his peers to do so. Ziekiel was chosen because of his intelligence, his keen wit, and his thirst for knowledge.

Perhaps due to these characteristics, Ziekiel dared to use the chokmah sphere after his first year of practice. He wanted to know if this man who had abused the sefirot was truly evil. Ziekiel could not understand how a magical system which was based on understanding the fundamentals of Creation, which was bent on discovering the truth about the universe which En Sof created, should be under so many restrictions. Boundless truth was at the Mekubbalim’s fingertips and yet they chose to never ask the questions that needed to be asked.

The power had flowed through him easily, smoothly, as Ziekiel somehow knew it would. Something in the back of Ziekiel’s head told him that he too was brushing qlippoth, that he was shaming himself by abusing the powers he was not yet ready to use. The chokmah sphere would not be his to control for another seventeen years. But he had been obsessed with the need to divine the truth.

When a bearded man had appeared before him, Ziekiel nearly fled in terror. It was a ghostly, flickering image, as if an unseen candle barely kept him in Ziekiel’s presence. His expression conveyed only peace and tranquillity.

After several false starts, Ziekiel said, “I wish to know what became of the man that was locked in the pillory.”

The wizened old man looked at him carefully and then finally spoke in an echoing voice that was firm despite his apparent age. “He was the best and brightest of the Mekubbalim. He mastered all but the final sphere. He used the kether sphere when Khazars were being persecuted for Sikkar’s resurrection. The Emperor tortured them in order to discover who removed Sikkar’s body from the tomb. His answer went unheard.”

Ziekiel found himself beginning to tremble in fear and excitement as he sensed that some of his questions would be finally answered. “What happened to him?”

“Many have attempted to use the sefirot before they were chosen to do so. But he was the only one to ever be actually punished. He was publicly flogged, humiliated, and starved in an effort to purify his soul. He was forced to renounce his position as a Mekubbal, and as a final punishment, he was forced to give up his only child to the Mekubbalim.”

The man’s eyes seemed greatly saddened as Ziekiel put forth the final question. “Who was this man?”

His image flickered. “I cannot say. His name was stricken from all records, and all memories, except for the Mekubbalim themselves. His child grew up as an orphan, raised as a Mekubbal to make amends for his father’s actions. He will take his father’s place in the Khazar hierarchy, he-”

“Enough!” Ziekiel had cried in terror. This was too much to take in, too much to comprehend. The weight of those words overwhelmed him. His curiosity had opened a box full of spites. There was no going back to his ignorance, unless he chose, as the Mekubbalim did, to use sefirot to strike what had transpired from all memory.

Ziekiel had sworn to himself that he would never venture another question, never let his mind wander from the path of light, and never again practice magic that would fill his head with more questions. He had dismissed the old man with another word.

“Very well,” he said softly, “my son.”

Ziekiel spent four years pretending to forget what was said, pretending that the old man who had spoken was merely using “my son” as a term of endearment. He had spent four years researching the manifestations of the sefirot.

The sefirot did not have personalities. They were manifestations of En Sof’s world, made conceivable to the humanity. They were tools, images to convey thoughts far too complex for the human mind to absorb. They were merely illusions, front-ends to the otherwise incomprehensible universe.

Nowhere in any of the books did the Sephyric manifestations use colloquialisms.

* * *

The shadows of the waning day surrounded the Templars even as they came upon the scene of murderous destruction. Body parts lay in odd postures, corpses were ruptured and shredded. The remains of Nikolo’s clan and those of their victims mingled together to create a horrific scene of carnage. The Templars surmised what transpired.

“The sorcerer,” Phoebus said in his velvety smooth voice, “has taken more innocent lives.”   He poked amongst the remains with his sword. “It looks as if he caused their hearts to explode from their chests.”   He pointed with his viscera-stained blade at one of the corpses. Everywhere, the foliage was painted in a strange russet color -- the color of dried blood. The battlefield took on the appearance of a rusted graveyard of discarded metal.

The blood was old, but the trail wasn’t. They were trailing Palnetti’s caravan by four days ride. The problem, however, was that eastwards lay Damcar, the city on the coast. Phoebus needed to reach them sooner. To do so would require a break-neck pace. Horses would be sacrificed.

The Templars were undaunted. Each was trained to fight the forces of darkness and sin. Their swords were for those occasions when such forces took the shape of men.

Phoebus mounted his proud white stallion in one smooth motion. “We’re close,” he said to his second,“Very close.”

Raising his sword high, he wheeled his stallion about to face the others. “Prepare your souls, my brothers. We will soon face the forces of Evil. I do not expect all of us to live through that climactic battle. Solemnly swear that should any of us fall, we shall reclaim his body so that his soul will reach Sikkar.”

The men shouted in unison. “We swear it!” and drew their swords to add credence to their words.

Phoebus nodded and resheathed his sword. He snapped his visor down over his helmet, yanked his stallion back eastwards, and kicked his mount into a gallop. The rest of the Templars charged behind him.

CHAPTER FIVE

The glimmering city of Damcar was sequestered on the other side of the Aticoff Mountains, out of reach of the Keystone Empire. Where Keystone glittered like a golden crown, Damcar was a sprawling ocean tribute of bronze. Partially dictated by its nearby resources, partially to stave off the ever-present decay of saltwater air, bronze statues and spires speckled the city’s rooftops.

A traveler daring the difficult journey from one city to the other would notice that the Keystonians spoke of Damcar with savage vehemence. The reasons became readily apparent upon arrival. Although Damcar was not unsightly or corroded by the ocean salt, it was a den of iniquity.

In Damcar, glaring inequities in wealth were accepted as the natural order of things. In Damcar, women were regarded more as possessions than as human beings and infanticide of female children was commonplace. In Damcar, three hundred and sixty shrines, each to its own god, were scattered throughout its quarters. Outcasts, brigands, and pirates of all kinds found solace within its walls. A man could disappear in Damcar.

There was a noticeable murmuring of relief and thanks as Damcar came into view of the caravan. It was a grueling travel, despite the victory over Nikolo’s band. With the frost of winter an ever present threat, Damcar was a welcome sight.

Grey stepped beside the master merchant who flashed a wide grin at him beneath his handlebar mustache. “Well, it seems we’ve made it, my friend!” He slapped Grey’s back in celebration. “And I am sorry to say, it is here we part ways. I’ll be returning up the Aticoffian coast with the remainder of my cargo.”

Grey nodded as Ziekiel fell into step beside them. The wind had picked up, whipping their robes and hair about. Palnetti lifted one stubby finger.

“But I have a gift for you, my friend!”He gestured to one of his men, obviously prepared for this moment. Palnetti’s henchman stepped forward with an object wrapped in expensive black velvet. Palnetti took the package from his lackey and carefully unwrapped it with great ceremony in front of Grey. Grey’s eyes failed to display any interest.

What Palnetti revealed was enough to make even Ziekiel start in surprise. It was a pale white lacquered bow made of a strange, rubbery wood that showed only a hint of grain. Palnetti brandished it in front of Grey like a blazing torch just so the other men around him could see his trophy.

“I oversaw the creation of this bow myself. It is carved from a very ancient ash tree that is unknown in these parts.”He pointed eastwards towards the ocean, beyond the city itself. “This rare wood was retrieved from that island, before it was drowned in the wrath of the sea. Never before has such a bow been crafted, and such a bow will never be crafted again!”

The boast did not have the effect Palnetti hoped, attested by the blank stares that met his expectant gestures. He covered his embarassment by thrusting the bow into Grey’s hands along with a quiver of black arrows.

“Wooden arrows, a lacquered bow, blessed by the Grand Master Nicodemous himself.”   He bowed slightly in an act of reverential genuflection, whether to the bow or Grey was unclear. “It is yours. The vampyrs are dead. I have no need of it now.”

Grey took the bow with little emotion as Ziekiel looked on curiously. When Palnetti’s gaze searched Grey’s face for some form of thanks and saw none forthcoming, he nodded to himself several times. “We must be going. Thank you my friend!   If you’re up north, look me up!   You’ve a friend in Palnetti!   It’s a household name you know!”

The caravan continued past them with a renewed vigor that came from the promise of a warm hearth. Ziekiel watched the men and carriages amble by in silence. Grey failed to move or even speak.

When he did move, it was a blur. For a split second Ziekiel saw Grey’s face framed by the white bow and the knocked black arrow. He looked like a pagan deity of pestilence, about to fire his angry bolts into the unsuspecting city below.

Grey had a far more specific target. The arrow whistled home. Palnetti’s scream rewarded Grey’s accuracy. One hundred paces away, Palnetti clutched his hand. Several horses rose up in terror, causing the caravan guards to scramble for their weapons. Palnetti kept screaming.

“Remember,” Grey’s voice boomed and echoed throughout the mountainside, “that cocks who hunt with hawks often end up being the hunted.”

Many of the caravan guards reached for the crossbows strapped to their waists. Palnetti called them off with a shake of his head, gritting his teeth. Palnetti knew all too well that by the time any of his men managed to wind and cock their crossbows, their corpses would litter the mountainside. With their horses vulnerable, the cargo could be dashed along the mountains’ slopes. Grey’s vengeance, Palnetti knew, had been a small price to pay for his life.

Ziekiel looked at Grey in shock even as the caravan resumed its pace and Palnetti began wrapping his hand, further down the mountain.

“Why?” Ziekiel asked.

“Because he deserved it.”

Ziekiel said more firmly, enough to make Grey look at him squarely. “Why did you do that?How will you find your father now?”

Grey closed his eyes for a moment. “Palnetti played on my weaknesses. He used my hatred of my father as a tool to save his own life. I am no man’s tool.”Grey began making his own way down the steep path, separate from the caravan itself.

“You speak from experience.” Ziekiel stated, following somewhat behind him.

Grey nodded. “Have you ever heard of the Viper?”

Ziekiel admitted he did not.

“You have not because I have killed anyone who has ever called me by that name.”   Grey paused as they reached a small bluff, staring down upon the city with his cold stare.

Ziekiel took up a position beside him, staring at Damcar and holding himself close as the salty wind blew through his garments. “You were a warrior?”

“A murderer.”

Grey answered Ziekiel’s unspoken question.

“I worked for the Arch Prelate of Hypatia.”

“But the Hypatian Prelate died...you?”

Grey nodded. “He was the last. I was told there was a rival prince vying for his position. They did not tell me that it was a ten-year-old boy whom I was poisoning. When I realized he was to drink the poison and not his keeper, I faltered and dropped a fraction of the vial into his beverage.”

The wind picked up, tossing Grey’s hair behind him. “It was enough. He died a convulsing, choking death that took hours. The Prelate wanted to make an example of him.”

“So you made an example of the Prelate,” Ziekiel whispered.

“Yes. I bound him to his throne, wrapped his crown to his head, and poured an entire vial of the poison down his throat.”

Ziekiel shook his head. “Such anger.”

Grey slung the bow over his back and began tying the quiver to his belt. “The boy was but ten. He didn’t know right from wrong. He was a casualty. A victim. He did not deserve that death.”

Ziekiel sighed heavily. “The Hypatian kingdom collapsed after that. The Arch Prelate was a violent but effective ruler. The estates dissolved into feuding factions. Because of those squabbles, the Keystone Empire has managed to gain a foothold in the Western kingdoms. Many people died in the ensuing battles. Wars,” he added, “that you caused.”

Grey was unmoved. “Does your God not know vengeance?You are -– were —- a Mekubbal. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a wound for a wound.”

Ziekiel frowned. “You would do well not to judge men by what you see on the outside. Hatred such as this,” and he gestured at Grey’s bow, “only breeds more. Palnetti will not forget what you’ve done.”

“Exactly.” Grey replied, “On cold nights when his old wound aches, Palnetti will remember how he used me. When he finds he cannot handle his money gingerly, he will remember the price he paid for his life.” He finished strapping the quiver to his thigh and nodded towards Damcar. “Go on ahead.”

Ziekiel looked at him uncertainly, afraid for the first time of being left on his own. It almost caused Grey to smile.

“I will know how to find you wherever you go.”

It sounded like a threat. Ziekiel took a deep breath and began making the long journey downwards. The breathtaking view masked the actual distance. The path would take several hours to walk, and nightfall was near. Ziekiel hurried his steps.

When Ziekiel was out of sight, Grey sat cross-legged and lifted a flute to his lips. The flute always hung from his neck, deep within the folds of his cloak. It had only four holes. Grey’s cloak and hair danced behind him in a macabre rhthym as he began to play.

He played the small flute with delicate precision. Grey played for the young prince of his past, for the unborn children of the future, and for boys who were never given the chance to be boys. Each note rose above the chorus of wind, each sound a sorrowful testament to its former owners, fingers but four years younger than he.

Where Keystone City was an ordered machine, Damcar was a colorful nest of activity. The sound of the ocean waves was soothing, the salty taste to the air almost comforting. A mild fog had rolled in from the coast covering the city like a warm blanket. The fog and the dim flickering lamplight transformed the streets into rivers of mist. The occasional passerby seemed to glide through the darkness.

Ziekiel paid the guard at the gate and inquired where he could find lodging. With some hesitation, he also inquired about the nearest Church of Sikkar. The guard seemed amused, but nevertheless gave him the directions.

The church was a study of contrasts. Where the Cathedral at Keystone City was an awesome structure that seemed to challenge the very heavens, the small church was practical and spartan. Lost admist a dozen other temples, it was singularly unassuming.

Within, the benches were made of wood instead of carved stone. A tattered cloth that could have been a beggar’s wrap covered the altar. Sputtering tallows lit the altar.

Most importantly, it was deserted. No priest came forward to greet Ziekiel, which he appreciated. This, he decided, was the biggest difference between Keystone City’s church and Damcar’s. To leave the gilded relics open to thieves late at night invited robbery, but this church had no material temptations to offer. It could not afford to do so.

The prayer bench groaned beneath his weight as he kneeled upon it. The wind still managed to filter through the wooden door even when it was closed. Ziekiel could feel the hair on his forehead move to the same airy music the candles danced to. The large wooden balance that hung on the wall seemed to beckon him.

Ziekiel prayed. He spoke the Oratia Dominica in Latin rather than his own ancient Aramaic. It seemed appropriate.

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.

To know En Sof’s name was to know the very fabric of the universe. The sefirot was an insight into En Sof’s name, the Tetragrammaton, the very foundation of existence. It was said the Mishnah, from front to back, was En Sof’s full name. Ziekiel was never sure, but the results of Mekubbal magic proved that they did have an insight into a divine ability to create. And destroy.

They Kingdom come, thy will be done, on Welstar as it is in Heaven.

God’s will was a mysterious thing. Ziekiel often longed to have known Sikkar. In some ways he wondered if that would have made it easier. To know Sikkar as a person would make his struggle so much more real, so much more attainable, so much more of a belief and less a religion structured around sustaining one’s faith.

Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses

Ziekiel thought of his Amora’im. He wondered what Merkibah thought of him. He wondered what the Khazars thought of him. He knew what most of the Sikkarins thought: Ziekiel was a murderous, devil-worshipping sorcerer. In Sikkarin eyes he was using magicks they did not understand. In Khazar eyes he was declaring a false messiah as the Savior. Ziekiel never expected to be able to return home.

As we forgive those who have trespassed against us.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. No matter which religion he chose, he was going to burn in hell.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Ziekiel paused. The prayer seemed to end on a hollow note. It needed something more. He decided on three of the spheres of sefirot: malkuth, which meant kingdom, gevurah, which meant power, and hod, which meant glory.

“For the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory are yours. Now and forever more.”

“Amen.” boomed a deep voice behind him.

Ziekiel nearly jumped to his feet. He had no idea what he was going to do, but Ziekiel’s balled fists indicated his willingness to fight. Even in a church.

When he lifted his visor, Ziekiel could see the man was strikingly handsome. He stood tall and proud. Ziekiel was unable to appreciate his appearance, for his eyes were fixated on the red balance emblazoned on his white tunic. A Templar.

“You were praying out loud,” he said, taking a step closer. “But forgive me. My name is Phoebus. My fellow Templars and I have come here for rest and solace. Do you know where the priest is?”

Ziekiel found himself standing mutely transfixed. There were several Templars at the doorway, some filtering into the back of the church to pray. He was torn between running or begging for his life.

Phoebus continued to speak, interpreting Ziekiel’s reaction as ambivalence. “We are searching,” he said after genuflecting to the wooden balance that hung over the altar, “for a sorcerer who slew three of our men and a band of gypsies. We tracked his trail of death to here.”

Ziekiel felt his stomach twist into a tight, cold knot.

Phoebus noticed the expression on his face. “Do not be afraid, pilgrim. You are obviously a man of Sikkar. I envy your devotion. In a pagan city filled with so many temptations, you are triply blessed. Much as I would like to spend time meditating on the glory of Sikkar, I am too often wetting my blade.”He blushed slightly as Ziekiel’s eyes darted to his sword. “You probably think badly of a man who sheds blood for the Almighty.”   He tightened the peace knot on the hilt of his sword. The church was so silent Ziekiel could hear the leather-binding creak as he did so. “I would like to be a humble man. But we,” he gestured to the men behind him, who nodded in response, “work better as God’s hands than his heart.”

Ziekiel swallowed hard. “The most difficult path to Sikkar is in finding the path set for us.”

Phoebus smiled a dazzling smile at him. “Truer words were never spoken.”   He looked up at the wooden balance again, reminded of his duties. “Your accent is strange. We are not familiar with the local tongue, as we have traveled far from our home in Keystone City.”

Ziekiel began to sweat. What should he say?He knew nothing about Damcar to keep up the ruse, and they already knew he wasn’t from Keystone. Ziekiel turned these and other thoughts over in his mind in a fraction of a second. He was tired of running. Ziekiel felt in his heart that Phoebus was a reasonable man.

“I know”, he said slowly, “where the sorcerer you are seeking is.”

This brought all eyes upon him. Some men uttered prayers at the mention of such a heinous villain. As Phoebus stepped forward, intensely interested, another voice interrupted from the doorway.

“Come, Ziekiel.”   It was Grey’s voice. Ziekiel found little comfort in it.

The Templars whirled about, hands on their sword hilts. Grey watched them all coolly. He was standing just outside the doorway.

Phoebus spoke first. “Is it him?” he pointed an accusing finger, staring backwards at Ziekiel for an answer. “Is it this man who causes you such fear?”

Ziekiel tried to speak but found himself transfixed in horror as he began to visualize what would be the final outcome of the confrontation. The Templars answered for him.

Phoebus and the other Templars spread out. “So,” Phoebus said with a snarl, “the devil himself holds pilgrims’ tongues hostage to keep himself safe. We will make short work of you, stand aside.”

Grey leaned on the door as Phoebus approached him. “No,” he said simply. “I have no desire to obliquely stand aside while you prepare to slaughter me. If you have a quarrel with me, we’ll settle it here.”

Phoebus gripped his hilt tightly, but did not move to untie the peace-knot. “We are men of Sikkar. We will not spill blood on sacred ground, or draw a weapon in the Lord’s house.”

Grey looked at Ziekiel, an accusing gaze. He turned back to Phoebus. “But you would rather kill me in front of His house. How far away will make it acceptable?So we can’t see the church anymore?Or if you kill me on a mountain bluff in clear sight of this sacred place, will that be too far removed--”

“You dare to mock me!”Phoebus grit his teeth. The other Templars were tensed. It seemed as if they would jump on Grey at any moment. “I do not expect a demon like you to understand our ways. Nevertheless, I will not let you tempt this man into sin!”He charged Grey’s still figure with a mighty roar, the other Templars barreling behind him. Ziekiel turned away, tears streaming from his tightly closed lids.

Grey disappeared into the misty darkness, causing Phoebus to stumble in the place where Grey stood seconds before. Then two cold hands yanked Phoebus from sight. The other men had no choice but to move single file through the doorway.

Although he couldn’t see them, Ziekiel could place them by their screams. One after another they died, unable to compete with Grey’s superior night vision. When the screaming finally stopped, Ziekiel found himself drawn to the doorway.

The mist had cleared, but there was no sign of murder or death, as if nothing had happened. Grey stood in the moonlight, a shadowy judge, his grim features the only testament to what transpired there.

“Not again!” Ziekiel screamed. “Everywhere you go is death! You kill everyone who has passion about anything!”

Grey’s features flickered with emotion. Anger. Betrayal. “You forget,” he said in a tightly controlled voice, “who they came to kill.”

Ziekiel wiped his eyes. “They were protecting me from you!”

“And would they have taken you in?Would they have forgiven you for your sins and welcomed you back with open arms?I just saved your life.”Grey paused. “Again.”

“You act like an angry child.” Ziekiel retorted. “What has the world ever done to you to make you such a bitter man?”

Grey closed his eyes, the light of his reflected gaze disappearing in the darkness. “I was born.”

“You ensured a petty mercenary had a proper burial,” Ziekiel screamed, “yet you slaughtered seven men of God!”

Grey’s owl-like eyes opened again to focus on Ziekiel. “I buried those men in clear sight of this,” he said in a tone dripping with disgust, “church. I respect that right because there can never be such spiritual redemption for me. I am the half-child of a vampyr and a human woman. My father raped my mother. She died in childbirth.”

Ziekiel said nothing.

“As a dhampir,” Grey continued, “I can track vampyrs, but the mixture of living and unliving has its price. I age four times faster. You said I was a child.”Grey’s eyes saddened for a moment. “I am but fourteen. When I finally reach my natural death...” he trailed off, unable to continue.

The emotion was gone from his voice when he spoke again. “So you see, I have no time for fanatics wishing to add to their prestige. I must finish what my father started. It seems we have changed places. My murders have been mistaken for yours, and your murders mistaken for mine. I would say a balance has been struck.”

Ziekiel made to speak again, but he couldn’t find the words. Grey had already disappeared into the mists.

“I will leave you alone, Ziekiel.” Grey’s voice trailed through the night air. “I leave you in the hands of your God.”

Ziekiel wondered if En Sof would take better care of him than Grey did.

CHAPTER SIX

The Grand Master’s quarters was a lavish affair with grandiose rugs, tapestries, and bed spreads bearing the white and red symbol of Sikkar’s balance. The wood that constituted Nicodemous’ desk was of an exceptionally rare grain, harvested at great risk to the woodsmen in the southern forests of Laneutia. The goblet that he drank from was chased with gold, silver, and seven sacred gems of great religious significance. Nicodemous rarely remembered what all seven of the stones represented.

Nicodemous himself had created such lavish surroundings for himself because he could afford to.  They were the fruits of God’s labors. And yet, he knew few could be allowed to see such chambers lest the unfaithful think the Grand Master’s motives were less than noble. Only the must trustworthy amongst his minions was allowed in. Thus, when the Commander of Keystone arrived with a pigeon in his hands, he took the expression on the man’s face very seriously.

Nicodemous forced the lump down in his throat. He replaced his writing feather in its inkwell and folded his hands.

“I have grave news.” The brother said hesitantly.

What happened to the others meant nothing. Only one man’s fate could cause sweat to drip down Nicodemous’ brow. “Phoebus?”

“Dead, Grand Master. Slain in battle.”

Nicodemous closed his eyes and sank back into his chair. “This is indeed grave news Commander. Our Seneschal, slain.”His mind began racing. Phoebus was the Templars’ insurance against the intervention of the Emperor. The Sikkarin religion had ascended to its privileged status amongst the others because Nicodemous had carefully manipulated the Templars into Phoebus’ good graces.

Phoebus soon became a fervent member of their Order as Nicodemous had planned. He had plotted and schemed for an influential recruit for years. With Phoebus’ death, it had all vanished in an instant.

Unless.

“That pigeon reached you first?No messenger has arrived?”

The brother shook his head solemnly. “No, Grand Master. This pigeon arrived by way of the priest who saw the attack. With the mountains besieged by gypsies, he thought it prudent to send the message through alternate means. He has also sent a Rural Brother to deliver the message to Phoebus’ family.”

Nicodemous caught his breath. The next caravan would not be along for a several weeks. The Rural Brother would deliver the message and find that the man’s family was none other than the Emperor himself. With Phoebus as their guardian the Templars were safe from the Emperor’s money-grubbing minions. Without him, the Templars were a fat purse waiting to be slit open. Nicodemous estimated a week, at most, before the Emperor’s soldiers issued an edict claiming all Templar funds as property of the Keystone Empire. He explained the grave scenario to the Commander. The Commander frowned deeply.

Nicodemous stood quickly. “We need time. That messenger must not set foot in Keystone City. Kneel.” He drew the Commander’s sword and lightly cuffed its owner on the cheek with the flat of the blade. “With God as my witness, I promote you to Seneschal. Gather your seven best Templars with you and do Sikkar’s bidding.”

“My will is Sikkar’s.” the former Commander muttered and rose as he made the sign of Sikkar over himself. Nicodemous was already grabbing his staff of office as the Seneschal turned to leave. He paused.

“And where will you be, Grand Master?”

Nicodemous shrugged on a great sweeping cloak of gray, conspicuously devoid of the noble trappings his chambers afforded him. “Fixing a problem. Tell the Commander of Houses to prepare the Cathedral for siege.”

As Nicodemous strode out of the room, the Seneschal said to the ceiling, “Sikkar, have mercy on your faithful.”

Nicodemous repeated, out of the Seneschal’s earshot, “Sikkar have mercy on us all.”

* * *

The winds that repeatedly whipped the sides of the Aticoffian Mountains were indifferent to the plight of the young man who picked his way through the rocks in the darkness. With every step he took, every rock he circumvented, Mikael turned the events of the past over and over in his mind.

Mikael was behind the rectory when the first pilgrim entered. He decided to stay hidden when the Templar soldiers had arrived. Shy by nature, he was but a Rural Brother, not a warrior such as they, and he had never spilled blood. That the gray man was a devil was surely fact. His failure to enter the church grounds was evidence of his evil origins.

Although he hated to admit it, part of him feared the Templars who outranked him. It was not a rational fear, he knew, but it was precisely because of Mikael’s healthy distrust of swords that the Father chose him to deliver the grim news to Keystone City personally. He prayed frequently to Sikkar that he be up to the challenge.

It was his instinctive sense of knowing when to run and hide that allowed him to avoid infrequent travelers. He had expected at least one gypsy clan, but saw none. The cold, Mikael thought, is bitter enough to even keep the gypsies at bay.

The coming winter chilled the higher roads enough that three cloaks still didn’t stave off the cold. They served for more than just keeping him warm. Each cloak was a different color of stone, and Mikael switched cloaks to match the terrain.

He wore a marbleized cloak of gray and white as he ascended higher, reflecting the streaks of snow that clung to the rocky barrens around him. With the full hood of his cloak up, Mikael virtually disappeared into the scenery, a necessity if he wished to survive. Beyond the standard knife assigned to all Templars, Mikael was woefully unarmed. He had never used his knife for more than cutting the flesh of cows.

He came to a pass at the bottom of two steep slopes, a perfect site for an ambush. Since Mikael was also careful to avoid rocks and debris that could give evidence of his passage, he heard the men at the pass before they heard, or saw, him.

One man’s voice was louder than his companions. “You men stay here, I’ll take two of you with me further on. He’ll pass through here one way or another. There’s no other way around the Aticoffian Mountains.”

Mikael felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with the bitter frost of the air. A highwayman could have waylaid Mikael at any time. It seemed fitting that the heroic Templars he held in awe were out hunting down villains.

He took purchase at a position over the men. From Mikael’s vantagepoint he could identify the welcome red balance that labeled them as fellow Templars. None of them noticed him.

“Remember, he may be dressed like a Templar,“ the leader said, “and he’ll certainly act like one. The information he carries is dangerous enough that he must be slain on the spot, lest his lies persuade any of us to spare him. This is not an easy task, men. But it is a necessary one.”

Mikael’s greeting died in his throat. Something was wrong.

The men spread out, clearly uncomfortable with their accouterments in the cold night air. Their eyes were steely, the gazes of men who had resigned themselves to a grim task. Mikael thought only briefly about the pitiful uselessness of his knife.

They had yet to see him. Mikael didn’t move, but it occurred to him that in time his worst enemy would be dawn. The Templars split into two groups. The leader’s group began to make camp as the other Templars departed.

Mikael huddled his cloak closer around him. Their campfire was too far away to provide any comfort. He had kept himself warm by moving, but he no longer had such recourse. Mikael began to shiver uncontrollably. Eventually, the men went to sleep.

Gravity, however, did not give Mikael a reprieve. He had almost fallen into a trance, his muscles partially bracing him, eyes closed. It wasn’t until he heard the small cascade of pebbles trickling down below him that Mikael realized he was sliding.

He panicked. The stiffness in his limbs was such that as he tried to correct his descent, he exacerbated it. Mikael scrabbled frantically for purchase, but his fingers were numb. He tumbled right into the Templar camp.

The men were already rising to their feet, stumbling for their swords. One of the more alert Templars was upon him before he had the opportunity to stand. He yanked Mikael up by the hood of his cloak.

“What do we have here?” The younger Templar asked in amusement.

Mikael was speechless as the leader approached them. He recognized the lead Templar as the Commander of Keystone who was present at the mass initiation of young Rural brothers into the Order.

“Commander?” Mikael stuttered. The Commander did not recognize him.

“That’s Seneschal to you.” The Seneschal snapped at the Templar holding Mikael, “Tear off his cloak.”

The younger Templar pulled a knife from his belt and thrust it into Mikael’s cloak. Mikael gasped and bit his lip to keep from screaming. The Templar cut through the three layers of Mikael’s cloak with ease.

His faded white tunic was laid bare, with the red symbol of the Templars displayed proudly upon it. Mikael felt as if his heart had been torn open, and for the first time, he felt ashamed of his symbol of allegiance.

The Seneschal’s eye’s darkened. All the Templars were standing around them in a grim circle of executioners, their faces silhouetted in the moonlight. Their breath wafted upwards from their mouths like fire-breathing dragons.

“It’s him.”   The Seneschal said simply. “Kill him.”

The younger man pulled his knife away from Mikael. “But sir, he’s just a boy.”

The Seneschal glowered at the protesting Templar. “I said,” he repeated, “kill him.”

The Templar who found Mikael looked around at his compatriots, their expressions ranging from suspicion to surprise. When no one moved to do his bidding, the Seneschal drew his sword and shoved the younger Templar out of the way.

“Fine, if none of you are willing to mete out Sikkar’s justice, then I will!”He forced Mikael to his knees with a rough shove. “Make peace with whatever god it is you worship, heathen.”

Mikael began to pray fervently in the language of the Templars. “Libera me, Domine Sikkare, ab omnibus iniquitatis meis et universis malis--”

Another Templar muttered, “What heathen knows such things?”A murmur of agreement spread amongst the other Templars. Outraged, the Seneschal took hold of Mikael’s hair and yanked it back, choking off the prayer. He placed the flat of his blade to Mikael’s neck.

There was a high pitched whistling sound. The Seneschal suddenly screamed as he fell on top of Mikael. The other Templars scrambled for their weapons.

Mikael felt something warm and wet press against him as he wormed his way out from beneath the Seneschal. A crossbow bolt protruded from the man’s back, the center of a slowly expanding spot of dark redness that marred the white of the Seneschal’s tunic. Mikael tried to run, but his foot was stuck.

Or so he thought. As he looked down in horror, the Seneschal tightened his grip on Mikael’s ankle. The blood he spat up darkened the Seneschal’s teeth, and his eyes bulged with the effort of clinging to life. His other hand yanked a knife from his belt.

Mikael screamed and started to climb the side of the mountain again, but the Seneschal yanked hard. Mikael stumbled backwards into his grip. Combat exploded around them as Templars engaged a contingent of scarlet plumed warriors.

Mikael’s mind raced as the Seneschal dragged himself to his feet. All his eyes could fixate on was the knife in the man’s hand.

The knife!With speed fueled by fear, Mikael grabbed his food knife from its place at his belt and thrust it upwards and outwards, shielding his face with his other hand.

Someone screamed, but in the confusion Mikael could not distinguish his own screams from those around him. He felt the hot, tangy taste of blood in his mouth.  There was another scream, and the Seneschal’s body fell limp upon him.

Someone lifted the weight off of him. From Mikael’s position, Gilgal looked as large as the mountaintops that loomed behind him. He yanked Mikael to his feet.

“Well,” he said in a booming voice rich with admiration, “it seems you didn’t need us after all.”

The other men laughed. Some Templars lay dead, others had surrendered. It was a short battle.

Mikael felt all eyes upon him. He sought to keep from shivering. Gilgal gestured at him, “You’re very lucky, boy. That was a blind shot that struck him. I could have just as easily struck you.”

Mikael looked down. His knife protruded from the Seneschal’s left eye. The Templar’s mouth hung open in a silent scream. Mikael fought to keep the bile down in his throat. He forced himself to look back at Gilgal.

“W-what do you want?”

Gilgal laughed again. Despite the blood on his armor, the Captain of the Guard laughed as if he had just heard a marvelous joke. “Perhaps we should ask what you want!We saw the Templars making their way here and we were sent by the Emperor to follow them just in case they were up to any mischief. It seems they were very eager to kill you.”

Mikael wiped his eyes. He carefully kept from looking at his blood-soaked hands, which began to feel sticky. “I am delivering a message to a Templar’s family.”

Gilgal arched an eyebrow. The other men look at each other in confusion. After a moment, Gilgal said.

“Well boy, come out with it, what’s the message?”

Mikael took a deep shuddering breath, “I cannot say.”

Gilgal leaned down and looked him in the eyes. “You mean to tell me that after we’ve just killed your assailants, when you’re alone and freezing out here, with nowhere to go, and you’re not going to tell a fully armed group of men your message?”

Mikael thrust his chin out, nostrils flaring. “No.”He said defiantly.

Gilgal stepped back and put his hands on his hips. The other men were silent. He stared critically at the boy. Mikael did his best to be brave despite his shivering.

“You are a fine messenger indeed!”Gilgal laughed again, and the other men broke out into laughter as well. “If I had ten men as brave as this boy, I’d be Emperor of Keystone by now!Fear not, we’ll make sure you deliver your message personally.”   They began to lead him away from the scene of carnage. “Now, what can we do for you?”

Mikael swallowed hard. He felt the Seneschal’s blood trickle down his throat. The sensation made him want to retch. “I’d like a drink.”

This caused another fit of laughter amongst the men. Several patted him on the back while one of them thrust a flagon in his face. He drank from it in long gulps, but it wasn’t enough. The bitter taste of blood was still on his tongue. He thought he could feel the Seneschal’s blood coagulating in his stomach.

As they led him away, Mikael tripped on something heavy and unmoving. He looked down to meet the unblinking gaze of the younger Templar who had tried to defend him.

Then he took another drink.

* * *

Dark flashes of memory sliced through the murky dreams of Grey’s past. They were relentless, interrupting his happiest fantasies and forever reminding him of the darkness from which he was spawned and to which he would eventually return.

The chovihani who raised him, known only as the Wise Mother, told him a tale of terror and woe. His mother was raped by a vampyr in the middle of the night. He had come to her under the cloak of darkness, but Grey’s mother only remembered him later as a lingering nightmare. Her worst fears were confirmed when she realized she was pregnant.

She died in childbirth, the Wise Mother said. Died while giving birth to an abomination.

Grey was stillborn. The gypsies assumed he was dead upon his birth and were about to bury him when Grey suddenly gasped to life. Although his dull, rubbery skin gave the appearance of death, he was nevertheless alive.

A dhampir was born.

Overcome with superstitious fear, the gypsies, including the Wise Mother who would eventually raise him, fled the scene. They unhitched the wagon where the birth happened, leaving both mother and child to rot in the open road.

Months later, the gypsy caravan retraced its steps, only to find several rats laying about the abandoned wagon, drained of all blood. The gypsies had hoped Grey would have died of exposure, or failing that, frozen to death.

Despite the cold wintry nights, he had survived. The rats had come seeking an easy meal, and in turn served as Grey’s sustenance. By the time the gypsies returned, he was crawling around, fearful of leaving the wagon but quite capable of fending for himself.

The Wise Mother took this to be a prophecy. If they did not take him in, she said, he would grow up with vengeance in his heart to destroy them all. Better to keep him close, under a watchful eye and a friend to the gypsies, than to have him plot revenge years later.

The Wise Mother raised him. It became quickly apparent that Grey aged at a supernatural rate, far faster than a normal child. Grey had no fangs to speak of, but he was able to drink blood as men drank wine. His stomach, the gypsies learned, had a high tolerance for all manner of garbage. They were fond of throwing him scraps.

His life was not what the Wise Mother had originally envisioned. Grey was her slave, a servant whom only she was allowed to approach. The gypsies reviled the stench of death, feared it, and hated it with a passion born of ignorance. Grey, they said, had the stench of death all around him. Yet he was alive. When a gypsy died, only Grey considered filthy enough to bury him.

One day, Grey found a tunic hanging from a branch nearby. The bright red color fascinated him. He found himself drawn to it, and in his naive curiosity, picked it up without thinking. It was a very fine shirt indeed, made of expensive material Grey had never encountered before.

Someone screamed. It took a moment for Grey to realize he was the cause of those screams.

“You idiot!”   The gypsy woman screamed, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You are dhampir!   You are to touch nothing of the living!Now my husband’s best shirt must be burned!”

The Wise Mother’s beating was far less kind. He was never, ever, to touch anything of any gypsy’s again. Grey learned the difference between himself and others that day.

Grey had only one friend. Karlos was also adopted by the gypsy clan, an outcast because his Sikkarin parents were slaughtered. By whom, no one would admit.

Because Karlos was not one of the gypsies, he was also excluded from their activities, including song and dance. But unlike Grey, Karlos had other uses beyond janitorial service. A Sikkarin by birth, Karlos was often used as a foil against angry Sikkarins who were tricked by the gypsies. How could they bring harm to a clan that raised such a beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed young boy?

Despite being an orphan, Karlos was still more important than Grey. Karlos could steal scraps the others left behind and still eat them. He was a living boy and as such he was given more rights over a walking corpse.

Karlos was not so young that he forgot his own parentage. He fell ill with a thick, ropy cough in his lungs on one particularly chilly night. His condition worsened day after day. Grey took on the few chores that he could without letting the other gypsies know.

“Wise Mother,” Grey asked, “Can’t we help him?”

The Wise Mother’s dark bird-like eyes focused on him. She stared at him for a long moment. “Karlos is in the hands of his God now.”

Karlos had grown pale and his breathing came in long, shuddering sighs. Only Grey and the Wise Mother ever entered his wagon at all. It was furnished with only a bed and some tallows, as the Wise Mother had moved herself out of the wagon and into a new one. Grey did not understand the significance of her actions at the time.

Karlos’ grip was surprisingly strong in Grey’s hand. “Grey,” he whispered, “I need a priest.”

Grey nearly sobbed. He knew his friend was dying. But he could not let him die in despair. “Sleep,” Grey said softly, “and I will send for a priest.”

He knew, however, that no priest would come near a gypsy camp. The Wise Mother would never have allowed it.

That night, Karlos expired in his sleep.

The next day, the gypsies declared everything the boy had touched to be unclean. No one would come near Karlos’ wagon. Grey found it bitterly ironic, for he had contaminated their clothing and possessions by taking on Karlos’ chores. It was Grey’s first taste of revenge, and he found it to be exceptionally sweet.

The Wise Mother said the corpse could spread disease. They left a symbol of Sikkar over the doorway to his wagon. Sikkarin pilgrims, they said, would eventually bury him.

Grey was unconvinced. His own survival taught him that an abandoned wagon could be left unmolested for months, even years. It was up to Grey to set things right.

That night as the caravan moved on, Grey crept into his old friend’s abandoned wagon. Although he was armed with only oils and a torch, Grey had no need of illumination. He was quite capable of seeing in moonlight alone, better than any man. The torch was his tool to put his friend to rest. Grey felt Karlos deserved that much.

Upon entering the wagon, Grey immediately knew something was wrong. Karlos was missing. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end. Karlos was present, but not in his bed. He turned...

In the midst of his confusing thoughts, his maelstrom of dreams, Grey became dimly aware of another presence in the room with him. Grey’s sixth sense had saved him many times; a talent handsomely paid for by paranoid Prelates. But the intruder had not entered the room. Grey was sure he would have heard the door open. It was if he had appeared out of thin air.

Because it was high noon, Grey had the shutters tightly closed. Nevertheless, pencil-thin rays of sunlight illuminated the darkly cloaked figure that had gained entrance. Grey was instantly on his feet, the kindjal beneath his pillow at the ready.

“Fear not,” the intruder whispered, “I am here to help.”

“I am here,” he repeated, hands open in a gesture of peace, “to tell you about your mother.”

* * *

The light of day had just begun to shimmer over the ocean surf. Seagulls and other waterfowl answered its call with their own lazy cries, alerting the slowly waking citizens of Damcar to the dawn of another day. A different call was interspersed amongst the cries that morning.

“He lives!” One man shouted at the top of his lungs. “Sikkar has returned!   Prepare for the Second Coming!   He has returned to bring us peace, to end all wars. He has come to judge!”

Many citizens stumbled out of their homes, others were crying for the city watch. Still others looked on in awe. They knew who this man was. Nicodemous the prophet.

Nicodemous swung his staff in a wide arc before him, encompassing all assembled with that one gesture. “Sikkar lives again!He has returned, and he is here!”   He slammed the butt of his staff down upon the brick street where he stood.

Even as the Damcar guards tried to make their way towards Nicodemous, more people flocked to him, magnetized by his presence. Cries of “When?” and “How will we know?” rang out.

“Come with me, children of God, and I will lead you in prayer for his Coming!”

After five minutes of attempting to push their way through the crowd, eventually the Damcar guards gave up and began to listen. They were curious about the words of a man they had heard only rumors about.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When Ziekiel found himself straying near the Sikkarin church that morning, armed guards had surrounded it. It seemed the Lord of Damcar was not pleased with the string of murders in his city and took appropriate steps to ensure there were no repeats of Grey’s massacre. It would, Ziekiel knew, do them no good.

Ziekiel was lost. He had followed Grey out of a selfish need to survive. Without him, Ziekiel was in dangerous peril. He was slowly begining to understand the threat he posed to thousands of people.

To the Sikkarins, Ziekiel was an injection of paganism, a reversion of an old faith they wanted to leave behind, a step backwards, as if the Khazars were barbarians. Sikkarism had battled for decades to seperate itself from its Khazar roots, and Ziekiel’s conversion from such an esteemed religious order implied that the two were somehow compatible. Ziekiel was a festering boil of possibilities that the Sikkarins would rather not deal with.

To the Mekubbalim he was the beginning of an avalanche of faith, a traitor. His conversion meant the slow degradation of the purity of their ways. What if he was to marry?   What if he were to teach his children or students only some, not all, of the Mekubbalim practices?   Change, the most fearsome terror imaginable.

Ziekiel did not want to bring about a holy war, nor did he desire to convert anyone else to his way of thinking. He just wanted to live his life the best he could, to take the best elements of both religions and incorporate them into his own faith. He had naively assumed his conversion affected none but himself. An error, Ziekiel realized, he might not live to regret.

He passed by a crowd gathered around a tall, weathered man, who towered over his impromptu congregation like a hawk over her eggs. Ziekiel recognized him as none other than Nicodemous, Grand Master of the Templar Order. His red balance, which was occasionally visible from beneath the folds of his cloak, spoke volumes about him. Despite Nicodemous’ booming, it was all Ziekiel could fixate on.

His first urge was to run, but Ziekiel realized he was safe within the confines of his cloak. Even Templars could not recognize a man’s faith from his face alone.

Although Nicodemous’ words were strong, the content meant little to Ziekiel. One phrase stood out amongst the rest of his proselytizing:“Sikkar is here!”

Cries of “Here?”, “Now?”, and “The Second Coming?” responded to Nicodemous’ claim. Ziekiel chastised himself for even considering the truth of a man’s words who had surely written his death warrant. And yet Ziekiel knew that Sikkar was alive, that he was actually resurrected. He discovered all of this through the power of sefirot. The sefirot never lied.

But it could be misinterpreted.

Ziekiel wandered away from the crowd. He scanned the alleys of Damcar for some place private where he could perform a ceremony. Perhaps, Ziekiel thought, Sikkar was not just resurrected, but physically present!Suddenly, actually seeing Sikkar in person became of vital importance. That single hope overshadowed the pains of the past and all hopes of the future. If he could speak to Sikkar, if he could tell the Almighty his woes, surely He would protect Ziekiel. Surely, Sikkar knew the truth in all men’s hearts.

* * *

The funeral procession was a long, grim parade through the bronze streets of Damcar. People trailed behind it in mourning veils. Hired wailers cried and beat their breasts appropriately. Four coffin bearers carried the casket. To Gray, it seemed the funeral had more in common with a circus.

The mysterious intruder had spoken of Grey’s mother. When Grey asked where, the man had directed him to the main street of Damcar. When Grey asked what he was looking for, the man only said “It will be very clear when you get there.”

Grey felt a knot in his stomach. It was quite clear to him who lay in the coffin. He did not even bother to hope that she might have been leading the procession. Before Grey was able to interrogate the man further about why he was suddenly helping, he vanished into thin air.

Grey trailed behind the procession with other passersby, following them to the gravesite. As the sun reached its apex in the sky, Grey felt himself tiring. Although he did not explode into flame at the merest touch of sunlight as vampyrs did, Grey became very drowsy at midday.

He forced himself to stay awake to investigate his mother’s sudden reappearance. Whoever he was, Grey was certain his mysterious ally was no vampyr. He had unshakable faith in his inborn ability to detect hemophages.

The procession made its way to the gravesite. Grey’s nostrils flared as he distinguished the salty scent of the ocean from a thousand other smells. A handsome gentleman made his way to the front of the coffin.

“My friends,” he said solemnly, “Thank you for coming on the day of my darkest hour. It is with great sorrow that I must lay to rest the one and only light of my life.”

Grey froze as he caught another scent, tangled in the web of other smells that surrounded him. There!One word echoed through his mind.

Vampyr.

Grey tensed. Although his senses indicated a vampyr was present, he was unable to pinpoint his location. If Grey found it hard to stay awake, a vampyr should have burst into a fiery inferno in broad daylight. He shifted slightly to feel the reassuring presence of his kindjal along the small of his back. With hundreds of people present, the vampyr could be any one of them.

It still didn’t make sense. Grey turned the possibilities over and over in his head as a Templar of high rank made his way over to the Lord of Damcar. There was nowhere to hide from the sun. How could a vampyr possibly withstand it?

The Lord was still speaking. “Despite the fact that she was a gypsy, you accepted her. And I thank you for it. Although she was unable to bear me any heirs, she more than fulfilled her duties at my side.”

Grey gasped in surprise, causing the person sitting next to him to glance over. If Grey’s mother was indeed the Lord of Damcar’s wife, the gypsies had lied. Why shouldn’t they have, he realized. If Grey knew she was alive he would have looked for her, robbing the gypsies of their convenient slave.

The possibility of his mother being alive had ignited a meager flicker of hope in him. With proof of her death before him, any hope of their happy reunion was crushed. Grey would never be able to ask her why she abandoned him.

A much darker and sinister thought crept into Grey’s thoughts. Perhaps she was not dead at all. The coffin was the only place shaded from the sun, the only place where a vampyr could hide. The coffin, he noted, was closed.

After the Templar said his blessings over the grave, the men began tossing dirt upon it. The funeral finished, people began to trickle away from the site. Grey watched the Lord and his contingent parade back to the manor. He took up a position behind one of the gravestones and crouched like some forgotten gargoyle. Grey had practice sitting still for hours, sometimes even an entire day, before committing a murder. Compared to his previous assignments, sitting behind a gravestone on soft grass was a luxury.

When dusk began, Grey rose from his hiding place. He winced as a dull throbbing permeated his bones. After spending a few minutes trying to shake off the sensation, he realized it was the ache of weariness. Old age had finally begun to set in. He was running out of time.

The gravediggers had a locked shack near the edge of the graveyard that proved to be a minor hindrance. Grey walked out with a shovel and quickly went to work.

He wasn’t sure which he hoped for more: to free his mother and find her still half-alive, or to rest easy knowing she had not become the abomination that his father was. She was buried deep in the ground, but the earth was still damp. The task took hours.

When he reached the coffin he immediately knew she was not a vampyr, if she had ever been one. He continued to cling to the hope that there was some life in her even as he ripped the coffin open. When he laid eyes upon her, her death was confirmed.

She was a beautiful woman, with olive skin and luxurious black hair that spread out behind her like the wings of some bird of death. Her hands were folded over her breast. She looked blissfully unaware of the cruel world around her. Her sharp features and the delicate curve of her lips spoke volumes about her life as a pampered noblewoman. And yet, she looked so intimately familiar. Grey knew she was his mother.

He touched her face. Her corpse showed no signs of decomposition. For that moment in time, he didn’t care.

She was arrayed in a gown of white, her wedding gown. Her earrings and necklace marked her as a woman who hadconverted to Sikkarism. Her appearance shattered any illusions that she was forced into the lifestyle of nobility. It was clear to Grey that she had chosen to be the Lady of Damcar.

Before he could entertain any further thoughts of his mother’s past life, he noticed something disturbing. Someone had tried to cover it up with makeup, but Grey’s keen vision made out the two small puncture holes that went deep into her throat. The word dripped blood in Grey’s mind.

Vampyr!

He felt bile rise in his throat. Whoever had covered up the marks intended to turn Grey’s mother into the same abomination that his father was.

Grey had no image of his father in his mind, so he made one up. Beng had done this to her, perhaps because he knew the ruse was up, perhaps because he knew Grey was coming for him. Perhaps because he was simply a wicked man.

It didn’t matter. Grey took his tinderbox out from one of the many folds of his cloak, struck it, and lit his mother’s corpse.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air in a great cloud of smoke. It was a familiar smell with familiar memories…

He had felt Karlos’ presence before he saw him. It was the tingling sensation along the back of his arms and spine that warned him a vampyr was nearby. It was a feeling Grey would never forget.

As he exited the wagon he found the Wise Mother sprawled out on the ground with Karlos crouched over her head. The flickering of Grey’s torchlight caused macabre shadows to dance behind the victim and her assailant. The Wise Mother had been dragged back to Karlos’ wagon. He had returned from the dead to avenge his improper burial. In vengeance, Karlos struck at the one person he felt could have helped him.

Grey could not find the strength to scream. The moonlight glistened off of Karlos’ extended canines, a crazed look in his sunken eyes. Even as a vampyr he coughed and wheezed. He ripped the Wise Mother’s throat asunder, sucked the viscera and blood from within her, and gulped it down like an animal. Gore and blood streamed down his chest.

Then he came for Grey.

Karlos dove at him with inhuman speed, tumbling them both backward into the wagon. Grey’s torch brushed a curtain, and instantly ignited it. The flames danced in a spiral about the wagon, encompassing it in flames.

Grey somehow managed to kick Karlos off of him. He dove for the doorway, leaping through a ring of flames that set his clothes ablaze. He tumbled over and over even as he heard the inhuman screams of Karlos screeching within the burning wagon. The sounds of death.

Grey knew he would be blamed for the Wise Mother’s death, and to kill another gypsy, much less a chovihani, was to invite disaster. The gypsies would never believe him, and he knew that without the protection of the Wise Mother they would never accept him again. It was not much of a life, but it was the only one he knew. He would have to leave and never return.

Grey watched the wagon burn for hours after the screams died down. He wept for a short while. Then he turned around and never looked back.

Standing over his mother’s grave, Grey wept for the second time in his life.

At the young age of seven, with the appearance of a thirty-year-old, Grey had become an accomplished killer. He murdered several influential targets and then finally decided the easiest way to get rich was to find employment with the Arch Prelate himself. Grey achieved his goal by making his way into the Prelate’s chambers and convincing that worthy to hire him as protection, lest others do the same.

Grey was fearless of death because he welcomed it. His rabid ferocity coupled with a complete lack of concern for personal safety created a dangerous and effective killer. His daring actions brought him infamy, made him rich, and even brought him women he had no interest in.

He was kept busy for a few years. The Prelate was not well liked, and there were many desperate, bold, and foolish men who tried to re-enact what only Grey could achieve. They all died quickly.

It was those same skills Grey intended to use in his final confrontation with his father. He knew the answers to his questions were hidden within the manor. That knowledge drove him onward despite the throbbing pain. He easily scaled the gates and walls built to defend the manor against mundane threats.

Grey had packed only Palnetti’s bow, and a single arrow. He had learned early that encumbrance of any sort was life threatening. With the bow in one hand and the arrow in the other, he crept up to the balcony.

Grey knew he would only need one arrow. If he missed, he would not be given a second chance. He moved silently, deftly avoiding guards and torchlight. When he reached the balcony itself, he immediately recognized two voices as the Lord of Damcar and the Templar who had presided over his mother’s funeral.

“Nicodemous, I do not know what you want, but there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“Oh,” Nicodemous said, “but you can. You see, your role in the plan is not over. Even now, there are people awaiting your return.”

“What return?   You promised to leave me alone, to let me raise a family--”

“This,” Nicodemous hissed, “is about something greater than your petty concerns. This is about shaping history. You represent the hopes and dreams of hundreds of thousands of people. You have no choice in the matter. The events that God has chosen for us have unfolded as He saw fit.”

“I am not one of your gullible fools, Nicodemous. I know what you’ve done, and I know why you did it. You won’t force me into this. I won’t let you.”

“You will,” Nicodemous replied. “Because you value your life. Because I made you. And because you have nothing left now. With her gone, you have no family to speak of. Embrace the role I have created for you. You will be a saint, revered as a hero.”

The other man’s voice was weary, close to cracking. “I am no hero. I am just a man. Just a man.”

Nicodemous growled at him. “You are a vampyr, you will always be a vampyr, and soon your wife will be a vampyr. I let you think you could raise a family, lead a normal life, because I wanted you to think that. Never forget who you are!”

Grey’s nostrils flared as he quietly sniffed the air. It had to be Beng, his father.

Cries began to echo in the distance beyond the manor walls. A crowd was gathering, demanding to be let in. The small contingent of guards at the gate was nearly overwhelmed.

It was then that Grey noticed something was wrong. His whole body began to shiver uncontrollably. Grey lifted his left hand, staring at it in horror as he fought to control his convulsions. He was dying of old age.

 Grey’s body had finally reached its limit, finally given up. He was too old to live any longer. A pain in his chest and left arm decided his next action for him. It was now or never.

Grey whirled himself from his hiding spot against the side of the archway, knocked the arrow, and fired. It exploded from the Lord of Damcar’s chest instantly.

Nicodemous froze in shock, his unbelieving gaze switching back and forth between Grey and the dying man.

“My God!” the Lord of Damcar shouted as he collapsed.

Nicodemous roared a charge and grabbed Grey by his chest, tossing him like a rag doll across the room. Grey flew through the air and slammed into the wall with a crash, upending shields and weapons that were previously displayed there.

Ziekiel appeared in a thunderclap of air. His hands were spread wide, as if he were expecting a fight. He was breathing hard.

Grey stumbled to his feet, and then fell back down again, writhing in pain.

Ziekiel looked at each face as he attempted to surmise what happened. “What have you done!” he screamed, running over to the corpse of Beng. “What have you done?”

Nicodemous turned away. “He just killed Sikkar.”He said grimly. “Again.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ziekiel tried to piece together the events that had led to his sudden appearance. His world had literally been pulled out from under him.

He had used the sphere of tipheret. The images of a king, a child, and a sacrificed god appeared to him, one at a time.

“Show me,” he whispered, “the Son of God.”

The face of Sikkar was not unknown to him. He had seen His face before, on the Mandylion. When previously asked if Sikkar lived, the answer the sefirot gave him was simply “Yes.”He believed, because he needed to believe, that this meant Sikkar had risen into Heaven. It was the answer his father had discovered years before Ziekiel, but it was an answer to which no one was willing to listen.

Sikkar was alive, the sefirot told him. He had risen from the dead, but not as the faithful would have liked to believe.

Before he could finish questioning the sphere he was teleported against his will to Grey. He was in one place and then in another in an instant. Ziekiel had arrived in time to see Grey kill off Sikkar.

Grey was dying. He convulsed again, clutching his chest. Nicodemous watched impassively.

Ziekiel turned to the Grand Master. “Can’t you do something?”He wasn’t sure whom he was asking for help. Beng -– Sikkar –- was already dead. A slowly spreading pool of red radiated from beneath his corpse.

Nicodemous stroked his beard thoughtfully, watching Grey gasp and wheeze with slitted eyes. “No.” he said finally. “But he is dying only to be reborn. Isn’t that right?”   He walked over to Grey and nudged him with his foot. “You’ve spent all this time trying to kill your father, and in the process you managed to murder an entire religion.”He shook his head mournfully. “Watch over him.”

There were sounds of people, many people, outside the balcony. Nicodemous walked out to greet them.

The air moved again, and this time Ziekiel was ready. Merkibah, Ziekiel’s Amora’im, stood before him.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Ziekiel held Grey’s head up, trying to keep him from swallowing his tongue.

“Do you see now,” Merkibah growled, his brows furrowed, “the error you have made Ziekiel?   Do you see the false prophet you have chosen to follow?There is your Son of God!”He kicked the corpse of Sikkar hard enough that the body rolled over on its side. The glazed eyes seemed to bore into Ziekiel’s soul.

“A corpse!” Merkibah screamed. “A dead puppet!You betrayed me, you betrayed the Mekubbalim, you betrayed your family, for this!”He dipped his hand in Sikkar’s blood and flicked it in Ziekiel’s face. “Taste it!Smell it!   This is the sin of man!The belief in a false prophet!The rejection of the old ways!”

Ziekiel stood up, slowly, licking lips that had suddenly gone dry. “So you are Khazaria’s executioner.”

Merkibah clenched his fists, spittle flecking his beard. “No, their judgement was kherem, but I tracked you, from Jebediah to the Mandylion, to here. You dishonored my reputation beyond all repair, Ziekiel. I will not wither away as your father did, a useless old man while people whisper behind my back. And to think,” he sneered, “I thought I could forge you into a better man than your father was.”

Ziekiel crossed his arms. “So you mean to kill me?So be it.”

Merkibah’s face split into a crooked grin, his eyes wide. “Oh no, it is not that simple. I know the truth. You are not fit to practice sefirot!You broke laws and customs in your endless quest for a lie. I brought Grey here, I brought you here, so you could both participate in the total destruction of Sikkarism. Your kind must be scourged before you propagate, but killing you is not enough. I will not martyr you. No,” he sneered, “I must kill your faith instead.”

Ziekiel suddenly understood what his master planned. Merkibah’s knowledge of the events that transpired, that Sikkar was a vampyr known as Beng, meant he could blaspheme all of Sikkarism, effectively killing the religion. With Sikkar’s corpse and the Mandylion, people would have no choice but to believe him. And thus, the populace would return to the Old Ways. Or so Merkibah planned.

As Merkibah began to intone the word of yesod, to transport himself, Ziekiel intoned another sphere. The sphere of binah. The sphere of constraint, enclosure, and containment.

Merkibah screamed in frustration when he had not moved from his location as planned.

“You will not leave here, Amora’im.”   Ziekiel growled in angry tones, “I cannot let you.”

Merkibah laughed. “You will not let me tell the truth?The truth you sought in your own life?Then die with your religion!”

He intoned the sphere of chesed, the sphere of annihilation. The shimmering blue image of a mighty king loomed before him, a wand of authority and destruction in his hands. If it touched Ziekiel, he knew he would be disintegrated.

Ziekiel shouted, “Ancient of Days, Macroprosopus, Conceal of the Concealed, Existence of Existences, Protect me in my hour of need!”

And for the first time, sefirot was used against sefirot. Never before in the history of the Mekubbalim had such an event happened.

There was a blinding flash!The people outside cheered; their numbers had swelled into a mob that no guard could control. They chanted over and over, “Sikkar!Sikkar!Sikkar!”    Nicodemous, oblivious to the battle behind him, whipped them further into a frenzy.

Ziekiel fell to the ground, exhausted. Merkibah, accustomed to such magical strain, loomed over him. He was breathing hard.

“Even in your darkest hour, you used the first sphere,” Merkibah whispered through gritted teeth, “Even now, my student, you have proven yourself unworthy of everything I have ever taught you. You were never fit to use any sphere, any more than your father was.”

Merkibah spat the last words at Ziekiel, but they did not have their intended effect. Ziekiel stared defiantly up at him.

“That’s right,” Ziekiel replied, “and that’s a truth I will tell all my future students – the law was a myth, anyone of any age can use the sefirot. You kept the power to yourselves because you feared what young and inquisitive minds might do with it. You feared what my father did with it.”

Merkibah put one foot on Ziekiel’s chest. “And now look what you’ve done.”   His tone was almost tender. “But you are right. Now I must kill you.”

Ziekiel coughed up blood and looked away. He didn’t care anymore. “The qlippoth has gotten to both of us, Amora’im. You have taught your student well.”   Merkibah raised his hands to speak the next word of destruction, to end Ziekiel’s life.

He never spoke them. Grey struck like a coiled snake. A half-finished scream managed to bubble its way out of Merkibah’s mouth as his body collapsed to the ground, his neck bent in half.

Ziekiel staggered to his feet, elated.

“You’re ali…” His voice trailed off as Grey hunched down over Merkibah and bit deeply into his neck, greedily gulping the corpse’s innards. He didn’t spare Ziekiel a second glance as he consumed his grisly feast.

Ziekiel backed up until he bumped into Nicodemous, who had returned from his preaching to the assembled crowd.

“That’s right,” he said in patronly tones, “Grey has been resurrected!As was Sikkar.”He grinned, baring his fangs. “As have I.”

“You should be flattered,” Nicodemous said, patting Grey’s blood-spattered head, “he chose to kill your master instead of you. In the state he’s in now, it could have been either of you.”

“But,” Ziekiel said in disbelief, “you walk in the sunlight?I thought—-“

Nicodemous chuckled, a deep throated sound of amusement. “You thought what we wanted you to think. As we grow older, our resistance increases. It’s the newly resurrected vampyrs that have to watch themselves.”He patted Grey again.

“Sikkar was my masterpiece. Through rumor, suspicion, and whispering in the right ear at the right time, I have single-handedly managed to create one of the most magnificent political machines to grace the face of Welstar.”

Ziekiel bit his lip until it bled. “You have misled thousands, lied, stolen, tried to have me killed—-“

“Because you were a threat. As you can clearly see,” Nicodemous gestured to Merkibah’s corpse, “I was right in my assessment of how the Mekubbalim viewed your conversion. I wasn’t ready for a holy war, wasn’t ready for the attention that your conversion would bring to my own plans. But now,” he lifted his arms up so the folds of his robes fell back, “plans have changed!”

“The Emperor’s corrupt regime must be toppled!The people must stop his paganistic, hedonistic rule. And one man, one God, will lead us!The Son of Sikkar!”He pointed with mock emphasis at Grey, whose lips still dripped gore.

Ziekiel felt the blood rush to his cheeks. “I should-—“

“What?”   Nicodemous said, a confident smirk on his face. “Tell what really happened?Ruin the faith of an entire religion?Destroy what you risked your life for?You should be grateful, I’m about to clear you of all your crimes.”

Nicodemous lifted up Merkibah’s corpse, stepped out to the balcony, and tossed the dead body to the roaring crowds. “I give you the Mekubbal fiend that has plagued our people!Sikkar has destroyed him!”

The crowd reached a fever pitch. Nicodemous took his cloak off, and stepped back. “And now,” he shouted, “I bring you Sikkar himself!”

The adulation outside was so loud that conversation became impossible. Nicodemous put the cloak over Grey’s hunched form and began to shepherd him towards the balcony.

Ziekiel and Grey’s eyes met. For that split second, for that eternity, something passed between them that Ziekiel would later explain as a rapture of understanding.

Grey nodded. He shrugged the cloak off of his shoulders and tore his shirt from his chest as he stepped out onto the balcony. He was completely exposed to the sun. For a fragile moment in time, he smiled beatifically up at the sunlight beaming down upon him, arms outstretched.

It was not Grey, but Nicodemous, who screamed as Grey’s fragile new vampyr form exploded into a great gout of flames. It was over in seconds. The fire billowed up into a gray smoke that spiraled upwards into eternity.

“The ascension!” screamed the crowd. Nicodemous stood at the edge of the balcony, his fingers digging deeply into the wood, appearing as an eyewitness to the crowd, but for once, helpless to control the machinations of his own creation. Some probably thought he appeared reverent.

Ziekiel knew it was pure terror.

Neither of them saw Gilgal and his men enter the room. The minions of the Emperor had infiltrated the manor during the commotion, unnoticed by guards who were now a part of the cheering confusion that was sprawled before the manor itself. Nicodemous turned and stumbled into the temporary sanctuary of the manor, one hand over his eyes as if he had been blinded by the catastrophic turn of events. Gilgal’s naked blade forced him to stop short.

Somehow, the Emperor’s guard had managed to make their way through the Damcar sentries. Ziekiel realized that many of them were cheering along with the rest of the crowd. The Captain’s men jostled Ziekiel to the front of the balcony.

Gilgal whispered from the darkness. “We’re taking Nicodemous. You keep them busy. If there’s a riot, we’ll kill every one of them, I swear we will. If you want to save your people, here’s your chance.”

His people. Ziekiel stood paralyzed in front of thousands of eyes. They all looked to him for with ecstatic joy, with hope, with faith. Faith had meant something to Ziekiel once.

He lifted his arms in the same manner that Nicodemous had. The crowd fell quickly and eerily silent.

“I am Ziekiel, a member of the Mekubbalim!I bear witness for my people to the Coming of Sikkar!We have witnessed a miracle!”

The crowd cheered again. Ziekiel felt rising panic lump in his throat as the contingent of Gilgal’s soldiers walked slowly behind the throngs of people. Nicodemous was gagged and struggling in their midst.

Ziekiel had to do something, he had to rivet their attention, or the battalion of red plumes he saw further down the road would descend upon the Sikkarins like a swarm of hornets, murdering them to the last.

“Let us all bow our heads in a moment of prayer.”

To his amazement, every one of them did so. Not a single head was raised. It was then, as the Grand Master of the Templar Order was dragged bound and gagged behind the Sikkarins, that Ziekiel realized the power of miracles.

* * *

The kangaroo court arrayed before Hadrian was, he knew, just that. He didn’t care. In fact, he was conducting the trial more for the history books and his beloved scribes, who scribbled the truth even as Hadrian helped create it. Hadrian thought scribes were marvelous things indeed.

The herald shouted for the group to come to some form of protocol that resembled law and order. Hadrian wasn’t really paying attention. He was much more interested in polishing his nails.

The herald announced the subject at hand. “We are gathered here today to bring the accused before the Emperor’s court. Seventy seven Templars have abandoned God their maker and sacrificed to demons and not to God. They lack wisdom and prudence, and have become insane folk given over to the worship of idols. They deny Sikkar, spat on the balance, ritually kissed the back and navel of their brothers, and promised to commit sodomy with each other. They are charged with apostasy and blasphemy. Fourteen confessions have been made by members of the Order of the Temple. Bailiff, please bring them out.”

Hadrian smiled. He had converted to Sikkarism because it was the wise thing to do. He claimed that his guard told him of the miracles of Sikkar, and Hardian was so overwhelmed by the news that he converted on the spot. The truth was that it was an decisively important political move. Hadrian’s influence was formidable, but he couldn’t fight a miracle, real or imagined. Far better to become a Sikkarin and make it the official law of the land. Especially since this meant that the Templar gold was deposited into his royal coffers.

All Templars wore beards, a privilege normally excluded to a religious order. That privilege was stripped from them by Hadrian’s torturers, their beards and hair shaven off. The first of the Templars hobbled up to defend himself, a cripple. The other Templars filed in behind him, missing teeth and eyes.

“I wish to admit to my crimes as a Templar of the Order,“ he said in a voice raw from screaming, “I am here to give my account.”

Hadrian’s prosecutor was the best he could find. It wasn’t necessary, he knew, but for the nobles sitting in on his court, it was still important to put on a good show.

The broken and battered man rattled off an increasingly wicked series of crimes. They fornicated with each other. They rejected the name of Sikkar. They spat on the balance. They tortured women and children, sacrificed animals and ate babies. Hadrian’s torturers managed to turn the Sikkarin Templars into a monstrosity of their own making.

The Sikkarin priest who was present was so disgusted, at one point he stopped the confessions to put a cloak over the new image of Sikkar, a burning effigy of a man with his arms outstretched. With the new conversion came what Hadrian considered to be rather ghastly new ornaments. He considered images of a near-naked man bursting into flame to be perfectly dreadful.

Things became interesting when the fourteenth Templar arrived. He was Nicodemous, the arrogant Grand Master of the Templars. Hadrian leaned forward in his seat, eager to watch the haughty man’s complete debasement.

Nicodemous looked drawn and haggard. And yet, he had no marks of torture upon him. Hadrian reminded himself to commend the torturers for their excellent judgment. By leaving Nicodemous unmarked, it made him appear less oppressed. Which made his performance all the more cloying.

“I am innocent of all crimes charged, as are all Templars!” Nicodemous bellowed, “These are men of God, not Satan worshippers!These confessions were brought about by torture!This trial is a travesty of justice and a mockery before God!”

Hadrian waved Nicodemous off with a gesture. Guards immediately seized the former Grand Master and began to drag him out.

“He’s the last one, isn’t he?” Hadrian whispered over to an advisor in irritation.

“No my liege, there is the Mekubbal. The representative of the people.”

“Did you tell him the wrong time of the meeting as I instructed?”

“Yes, my liege.”

Hadrian nodded and smiled. Then he rose to his feet.

“After hearing the testimony and the atrocities these men committed, I have no other choice but to convict these men of the crime of heresy. With God as my witness, I hereby condemn all Templars assembled to death by burning. The Order shall be dissolved. So it has been decreed, so it shall be done. Take them away.”

Nicodemous glared at him, but the other men didn’t even react. Their spirits were broken. Hadrian was doing them a favor.

As the last of them shuffled out of the room, Ziekiel entered. He looked backwards over his shoulder with dismay at the disappearing line of former Templars. He had memorized a speech, prepared in defense of the Templar Order, which castigated the court for flagrant acts of injustice. He would never be given the opportunity to recite it.

Hadrian began speaking before Ziekiel could even open his mouth. “Just in time!”He rose to his feet, and all members of the court did likewise.

“For your honorable deeds, for your witness to Sikkar’s ascension, and for your wisdom and justice, I hereby pronounce you the Grand Master of a new order, the Hospitallers. Congratulations!”

The court clapped politely as the bailiff handed Ziekiel a staff of office. It was the same staff Nicodemous once held. Dumbfounded, Ziekiel stared at it.

Hadrian spoke again. “That’s the last order of business for today. Thank you all for attending.”

The court members filed out past Ziekiel’s unmoving form. He stood there for a long time, alone in the Emperor’s courtroom, until a guard finally ushered him out.

* * *

The wind was a soft whisper that held the hint of an early summer. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky and the sun shone gaily down upon the grim event that was about to transpire.

It was Ziekiel’s duty to bless the men’s souls before they were sent to their deaths. Instead of a mass blessing, he went to each man individually.

Some spat on him. Others thanked him politely for the effort. Others said nothing, their eyes showing naught but the shattered souls of men.

He stopped at Nicodemous.

Naked and tied with his wrists over his head to the post, Nicodemous looked terribly frail and helpless. People cheered all around them from behind a wall of guards. The fanatical hatred that was whipped up against a man who led them to salvation weeks before was as terrible as it was frightening. The mob mentality was a dangerous, untamable force that even Nicodemous had failed to control.

“Why didn’t you escape?”Ziekiel asked in hushed tones. “Surely, they could not hold someone like you.”

Nicodemous closed his eyes for a moment. “They have destroyed all that I live for.”   His eyes scanned the crowd once more, the eyes of a father betrayed by his children. He looked down at Ziekiel with pity. “Today, they kill the only god they’ve ever had.”

Ziekiel fingered the image of Sikkar bursting into flames that hung from around his neck. He took it off of his neck and draped it around Nicodemous’. “This belongs to you.”

“Take care of them.”Nicodemous said softly.

Ziekiel nodded, made the sign of the balance over him, and walked away.

CHAPTER NINE

The room where Hadrian held his meeting with Ziekiel displayed little of the pomposity and royal fanfare that was so common in the rest of the palace. It was sparsely furnished, with a single picture of Gyrdant Tybaltos. The painting of the Emperor bore witness to the secret meetings that were often held there. Hadrian sat at one end of a wooden table and Ziekiel at the other. The guards were ordered to wait outside.

“I have asked you to come here, Ziekiel, because I need to know the full potential of the Mekubbalim.”

Ziekiel felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. He expected this moment, had prepared himself for it, but he still could not help but fear the glittering look the Emperor had in his eyes. It was the gaze of a man who was always thinking. The gaze of a dangerous man.

“The full potential, sire?” Ziekiel responded, frantically trying to comprehend Hadrian’s true intentions.

“Yes. What are their magical capabilities?What are they capable of, morally, politically, and,” he added, “in matters of sorcery?”Hadrian steepled his fingers and stared at Ziekiel expectantly.

Ziekiel hesitated for a moment and then leaned forward. He spoke with precision, emphasizing every word. “The Mekubbalim have the power to teleport into this very room at any time, if they so desired. They can know a man’s mind merely by concentrating. They can kill at a glance.”

Hadrian visibly paled at this statement, but before he could speak Ziekiel continued. “However, they are governed by the Mishnah, a set of laws that binds all Mekubbalim in the use of sefirot. The penalty for using sefirot to kill another is death. Even in war, it is only used as a last resort.” Yes, Hadrian, he thought, they are dangerous enough to make a war unprofitable.

Some of the tension drained out of the Emperor. He nodded. “I see. And what are you capable of?”

Ziekiel folded his hands to keep the Emperor from seeing them tremble. “My Amora’im, Merkibah, stripped me of most of my powers. I can create a few protective wards, but nothing more sophisticated than that.”

Ziekiel understood the implications of what Merkibah did to him mere weeks after the battle, when he tried to use the sefirot to divulge Hadrian’s plans. He had lost his ability to control the sefirot completely. Even the wards he spoke of were beyond his power, but there was no reason to let the Emperor know that. Ziekiel was uncomfortably aware of the precariousness of his position.

Hadrian tilted his head as he watched Ziekiel’s face intently. “Indeed.”   After a long moment of uneasy silence, he spoke again with an air of royal command. “Well, then, you shall weave those wards around the palace for me tomorrow. We don’t want any,” he searched for a polite word, “intruders making an attempt at eliminating the Emperor of Sikkar. Do we?”His gaze turned the statement into a threat.

“You will also announce to my court tomorrow,” he continued, “the official blessing of the Hospitallers upon me. As we both know, God does not work by men’s clocks. The people need to know that there will be spiritual leadership until Sikkar returns.”

Ziekiel was the perfect pawn, a shtadlanim, if an unwilling one. He was the “bridge between two peoples” as the Emperor was fond of referring to him. He was a symbol of peace and unity.

He was a means of controlling the two religions at once.

Due to the Second Coming of Sikkar and his own conversion to Sikkarism, Hadrian had managed to convince the majority of the Keystone Empire that it was he, not Sikkar, who would lead them into a new Golden Age of prosperity and peace. He revealed the shroud of Sikkar as a crowning touch, sealing his claim to Divine Right. He proclaimed that an angel bequeathed it to him on the eve of Sikkar’s ascension. With the arrival of such a hallowed relic, the religious frenzy reached its peak. Rumors began to fly that merely kissing the Emperor’s hand could heal. If there was ever any doubt in the minds of skeptics, they were not willing to voice their public disapproval. Ziekiel knew this feint at heightened spiritual awareness could never last.

Hadrian continued. “The Khazars have sent a delegation. They wish to ensure peace between the Empire and Khazaria. They have publicly denounced Merkibah as a rogue, and appointed you his executioner. You will go there and speak to them. You will ensure them that we have no hostile intentions.”

Ziekiel could almost hear the two words that Hadrian left unspoken. For now.

Ziekiel worried about Khazaria’s future. Should Khazaria ever pose a problem, the larger Keystone Empire might soon channel the fanatical support of the Sikkarin populace into a holy war. And what then?

“I cannot.” Ziekiel said in a quiet voice, looking down at his hands. “My conversion to Sikkarism caused the Mekubbalim to banish me. No Khazar will talk to me or even stand in my presence.”

Hadrian snorted. With disgust or amusement, Ziekiel couldn’t tell. “Even after you defeated the man who used sefirot against you, they still will not repeal your punishment?”He shrugged it off. “Very well, send your Seneschal then. With the Second Coming, their judgment day shall come soon enough.”

Ziekiel was careful to mask his disbelief. I wonder, he thought, if the Emperor has begun to believe his own lies.

Although Ziekiel knew that Sikkar’s first death was at the hands of the Keystone Empire, history changed to fit the Emperor’s needs. It was the Khazars, the Emperor explained, who put Sikkar upon the balance. It was the Mekubbalim who had cursed the Sikkarins with the Birkat hamminim, banishing the early Sikkarins from Khazaria forever. And it was a Khazar rogue who attempted to kill Sikkar a second time. Because the Emperor spoke the truth, the last two statements were undeniable, and then people believed the first.

“Is that all?” Ziekiel asked wearily.

Hadrian raised one finger. “One last order of business. I have a gift for you.”He reached beneath the table and handed Ziekiel a package wrapped in silk.

Ziekiel unwrapped it with some trepidation. It was a Templar’s knife, an unmistakable badge of office. It was a beautiful, expensive piece, inlaid with golden filigree. It was one of the few items containing gold that the Emperor had not taken for his own bulging coffers.

“Congratulations on a job well done. That belonged to Nicodemous”, the Emperor said grimly. “He no longer has a need for it. You may leave now.”He dismissed Ziekiel with a wave of his hand.

Ziekiel quickly wrapped the blade, bowed just enough to avoid insulting the Emperor, but not enough to convey submission, and left.

* * *

Ziekiel’s knees began to cramp at the foot of the altar of the Hospitaller Order. He fell back in exhaustion.

The Cathedral appeared deserted, despite its new occupancy. It still functioned as a center for worship, with record attendance at masses. It was eerily silent in the dead of night, vacant except for the guards who stood outside the great double doors.

A single unlit candle sat on the altar, dwarfed by the gigantic image of Sikkar’s burning effigy that hung on the wall above it. Ziekiel sat up, clasped his hands once again and concentrated. Sweat began to stream down the sides of his face. He strained to invoke the sphere of tipheret, to light the smallest spark in the candle’s tallow.

With a gasp, he opened his eyes and looked up at the wick. It remained stubbornly dark.

Ziekiel fell back again, sobbing. The toll of concentrating on sefirot for over four hours began to strain his mind and body. He was being punished, Ziekiel was convinced, by a judge far more powerful than the Emperor. It was as if En Sof himself rejected Ziekiel for his role in the revolting facade. Defeated, he finally rose and lit the candle himself by more mundane means.

 He reclined in a pew, and stared intently at Nicodemous’ knife. Ziekiel’s reflection, grotesquely warped by the curve of the blade and the flickering candlelight, stared back with an accusing gaze.

The official story of what happened varied from place to place, but the core events remained the same: The Lord of Damcar, by the name of Muhammod, cried out to Sikkar in his time of need as the Khazar assassin murdered him. Sikkar arrived, in fleshly form, to rescue the Lord. Sikkar then slew the murderer, Merkibah. The god then appointed the lowliest of people, a Khazar, as a keeper of peace and the prophet of a new future. Ziekiel had the unenviable position of a saint in his own time. His saintliness was made all the more holy because of the wicked past of his people.

Ziekiel came to a realization. He understood exactly how important he was in guiding the events that shaped both religions. He concluded that the only means to stop the Emperor was to remove the pawn from Hadrian’s macabre political chess game. If he removed himself, the game would be restored to a stalemate.

Over the past weeks, Ziekiel considered the implications of his death carefully. He lay awake nights considering how he would go about killing himself. A letter, stating in no uncertain terms the truths of all that happened, would dispel the Emperor’s claims of Divine Right. Ziekiel felt he deserved and needed the guilt that was shrugged off on Merkibah instead. He hoped that such a disastrous letter would tear a violent and bloody rend in the Emperor’s plans. Perhaps it would provoke a revolution, a war, or regicide.

It would, at long last, reveal the ruse to the people.

With no sefirot, no family, no friends left to speak of, Ziekiel found himself surrounded by well-meaning but ineffective assistants and aides. His Seneschal was a young boy; his Hospitallers were the untrained riffraff found to be unfit for the Emperor’s guards. The only thing they did share was their unwavering faith in Sikkar.

Ziekiel’s position was assured. He knew Sikkar. He was the only living man to have known him, and this gave him qualifications over every other person who could hope to join the Sikkarin religion. He believed because he saw Sikkar’s miracle with his own eyes. Blessed was he who believed and did not bear witness.

He turned the knife over and over in his hands. Ziekiel took to sharpening it in his spare time, until it had such a keen edge that merely handling the blade was dangerous. It was transformed from a political symbol of power to a weapon that could kill.

It would also leave little doubt that Ziekiel killed himself. He would die al kiddish ha-Shem, to glorify God’s name. He wanted no conspiracy theories, or worse, repercussions against the Mekubbalim or other innocent peoples.

Hadrian dared not have him removed. Very likely, someone like Grey would come after the Emperor for taking such an action. To the Emperor, Ziekiel was more of a threat as a martyr.

Ziekiel had told Mikael to meet him in the Church. He was the only one Ziekiel could trust amongst the new Hospitaller Order. His letter had to remain in trusted hands, for the Emperor’s guards might find it and deliver it to Hadrian. The Emperor would probably destroy the evidence and have the guards who read it killed for good measure.

His letter instructed Mikael to read the note aloud at the next mass. Then the truth, the ghastly, horrible truth, would finally be exposed. Like a festering boil, the popped wound would bleed for awhile, but Ziekiel was confident it would mend enough so that the mistakes that fostered this false religion could be curtailed.

Ziekiel touched the small flute that hung around his neck. It was the only possession of Grey’s left to him. His fumbling attempts at playing it, in those rare moments when he was alone, brought forth only unpleasant sounds. It would take months of practice to play it effectively.

How strange, Ziekiel thought, that a man with such a short lifespan took the time to learn the flute. It was a testament to the spark that burned in Grey, and it was that same spark that turned into a burning conflagration at Grey’s death. Ziekiel wondered if, in Grey’s last moments, he had chosen to die because life was too frightening.

To live. It was such a terrifying proposition. His life was what the Mekubbalim feared. His ideas would live on, spread to his children and students, and his children’s children. Simply by staying alive, Ziekiel threatened the establishment of a religion a thousand times older than he.

Grey achieved in death what he could never have in life: Compassion, self-sacrifice, and even love for a people he owed nothing, but whom owed him everything. Or, perhaps, he died for Ziekiel alone.

Ziekiel stared at the knife for what seemed like an eternity.

His reverie was broken by Mikael arrival. He entered the Cathedral hesitantly, his footfalls echoing around them.

“You told me to meet you at this hour, sir?”he whispered, hushed by their awe-inspiring surroundings.

Ziekiel stood up slowly, tucking the knife into the folds of his cloak. It rested there, in the same pocket where he kept the letter.

“Do you know how to play the flute?”

Mikael admitted he did not.

“Good,” Ziekiel said as he handed the flute to him. “I’ve a few things to teach you.”