Fires of Justice
Part 1: Paladin – Origins
Even though it was chilly, verging on cold, he felt nothing, save a slight stiffness in his muscles, as the chill settled into his bones.
He had walked for three days, since last seeing a town, and the woods, this far from civilization, were filled with predators. None of them came near him, though he was weak from hunger.
There were heavy clouds, that night, covering a full moon, and yet he never stumbled, or tripped over the uneven ground. He moved with a slightly wandering stride, as though he’d been drinking, though nothing had crossed his lips in two days.
As he walked along, almost shambling, he would occasionally name the trees that he passed, simply to hear his own voice.
“Oak,” he whispered. “Elm. Maple.”
Then he came to the clearing, and stopped and stared, forgetting even the maddening hunger in his veins, that writhed, and growled, and demanded to be fed.
The clearing was a vast circle, perhaps 150 paces across. The trees stopped neatly at the edge, and the grass was lower than his ankles, all around the clearing, or at least the parts he could see. A large part of his view was blocked by a magnificent building.
It was at least 90 paces square, perhaps a hundred, and stood the height of ten tall men, at least 60 feet tall. There were pillars every ten paces or so, supporting an arched roof, leaving a walkway some ten feet wide all around the building. It was made of a dove gray stone, that shone faintly, as the moon broke briefly through the clouds. Facing him were two huge doors, standing open.
His feet, without stopping to consult his mind, began to propel him backwards, away from the temple – for it obviously was a temple, to one of the nine Gods.
He overrode his feet, and stood his ground, knowing, since he had tried to back away that this was no temple to an evil god or goddess. He wanted very badly to go in, to see if it was as beautiful inside as it was out. And it was beautiful, in its simplicity. No carven walls, no tapestries adorned its exterior.
Forcing himself to walk, he began moving towards the doors. It took much longer than it should have, as he was moving very slowly, despite his best efforts. At last, he reached the doors, and, being careful to touch nothing, he entered the temple.
It was just as beautifully simple in here as it was from outside. The main chamber was perhaps 60 paces deep, and just as wide. There were benches, for a service, or a ceremony, though not many, and they were widely spaced, in front of the raised dais in front of the statue. The area from the rear bench to the door was empty, and spotlessly clean.
The dais had a podium, for a cleric to speak from, and seats for others who took part in ceremonies, and nothing else.
The statue (carved of the same dove gray stone as the temple), while it hurt his eyes to look at it, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
The woman it represented was perhaps 35 feet tall, the wings that came from her shoulder blades stretching another fifteen feet past that. She wore a simple robe, that came to just above her knees, and fastened at one shoulder. In her upraised right hand, she held a flaming sword above her head, in a horizontal position. Her left arm, down at her side, and slightly cocked, bore a shield, with a nine-rayed star emblazoned on it. Her hair was long, coming below the middle of her back, and tumbling from the gathering at the base of her neck. Her features were almost indescribably beautiful, angular and proud.
He could barely stand to look at her, for in his eyes, she burned.
“Here,” he muttered. “I will pray here, for forgiveness. And for . . . release. And then . . . then I shall go outside, and watch the sun come up.
“One last time.”
He stumbled towards the dais, not knowing where else to pray, for he hadn’t been in a temple in fifteen of his sixteen years. He knelt, to one side of the podium, down on his right knee, left leg cocked up. His left wrist rested on his left knee, his fisted right hand on the ground beside his right knee, as he had been taught, long ago.
“Lady,” he said, softly, “I know not which of the nine Gods you represent, save that you are not of the Dark ones. I know only that this place is beautiful, as are you, and that it . . . hurts a part of me that I hate, to be here. If that part hurts, then you must be a Goddess of something fair. And I can hope that you will hear my prayer, and grant me this last request.
“I would die, Lady. I would find in me the strength to go outside your temple, and watch the sun come up – and the strength to stand there, and not run for the shadows, when it burns me.
“The blood that flows in me has caused me to commit acts I would . . . would be forgiven for, if such is possible. And I would, at the least, prevent myself from ever doing such things again!
“So, I pray to you, Lady, though I know not your name – ”
“A very fair speech, for a lad in commoner’s clothes,” said a woman’s voice, from behind him. “And you do know her name. Or you would, if you thought about it.”
He had spun, snarling, at the surprise of her first words, and now he stared, trying to curb the thing within him, which yammered and howled, demanding food.
She was a beautiful woman, in her 30s, somewhere, and carrying it as though she were ten years younger. Her hair was black as onyx, long, and pulled back into a tail, flowing free, and wild, below the nape of her neck. Her face was oval, her features even, the few wrinkles around her eyes adding character to her face. The eyes themselves were a dark blue, and intelligent. She was short, perhaps an inch over five feet, and slender, though well-toned. She wore a robe like the statue’s, and sandals that laced up her calves.
“You know of the nine Gods, young man,” the woman said. “Tell me their aspects – and you will see which Goddess this is, I think.”
“Lady,” he grated, head down, that she might not see his secret, “Priestess, if you be such – I beg you, leave me, now, and let me pray. And if you find my speech courtly, then thank the spirit of my mother, for she raised me to be a gentleman, in all ways that she could.”
“Your mother, then, was a wise woman, young man, and she raised you well.” The woman moved to sit on the edge of the dais, a few feet from him, and continued. “Answer me some questions, young man, and I shall leave you, as you ask. I am Jenara, High Priestess of this place. Come, tell me the aspects of the nine Gods.”
Sighing in frustration deciding that he could control himself long enough to speak with this woman, he did as she asked.
“There are nine Gods and Goddesses,” he said, remembering the words his mother had taught him. “The White, the Gray, and the Black. The Sun, the Earth, and the Moon. Justice, Knowledge, and Chaos.”
“Look at the statue of my Lady,” Jenara said, her soft voice making the command seem a request. “Look at her, my friend, and tell me which she is.”
He obeyed, without thinking, simply raising his eyes to the statue, and looking.
Sword and shield. Attack and defense.
Wings, but with her feet firmly on the ground.
Beautiful, and proud.
Comforting, and yet frightening.
He knew. For a moment he struggled, then her name came to him.
“She is Justice,” he said softly. “She is Alethanna, the Lady of Justice.”
“Yes, she is,” Jenara agreed, sounding proud, though whether her pride was in her service to Alethanna, or in him for solving the puzzle, he could not tell. “I heard your prayer, young man. And I am afraid that I do not understand. Would you tell me what it is you have done that is so terrible that you feel you must die for it?”
“I am a monster!” he shouted. “I am evil, though I’ve no wish to be such!”
“Softly, Altairen,” she said. “Softly. You are not evil, young one.”
“I am!” he shouted, ignoring her use of his name, which he had not given her, in his shame, and rage. “My father made me to be evil, and he succeeded! I am a monster, a half-alive thing! And I can barely control the part of me that comes from him, Priestess!”
“You have a soul,” the priestess said. “So you are more than half-alive.”
“I am half-alive at best!” he said, shifting to stare out into the night. His next words, despite his efforts at control, were altered by the beginnings of a sob. “And I am a . . . a k-killer! It is only Justice being served, if I . . . if I d-die!”
“You did not murder your mother, Altairen,” Jenara said. “You were but a weapon, used by your father. And you made him pay, did you not?”
“I . . . you – how do
you know that?!”
“The Lady told me,” Jenara answered. “She told me that your father was a mage, made a vampire, many years ago. That he raped your mother, after casting a spell that took years to design, a spell that made him fertile like a man.
“The Lady told me how your mother’s family, a noble family, ashamed, and thinking your mother had a lover, and was covering her trysts with a lie of rape, drove her out of her home, sent her to Kavendale, to live as a peasant.
“She told me how you were born, sixteen years ago today, and how normal you seemed, for the first years of your life, though you were never happy in full sunlight. How, at 12, your ‘allergy’ to sunlight increased, and you became a nocturnal creature. How you stopped eating vegetables, except rarely, and subsisted almost entirely on rare meat, raw, if no one was there to see you eat it so.
“And how, on your fifteenth birthday, your father came for you.”
“Stop it, Priestess,” Altairen said, sounding as though he wanted to cry. “Please, stop it!”
“I cannot, Altairen,” Jenara said. “I cannot, for you came here seeking justice – and I must show you what justice is, before I can give it to you.”
Altairen dropped his head to his knees, and tried to shut out the voice of this woman, as she told him of the worst moment of his life.
“Your father came for you on your fifteenth birthday,” Jenara continued. “He, and four of his human retainers. At first, he tried to simply order you to come with him – but, his spell, the spell that had allowed him to impregnate your mother, had worked better than he had known, and you . . . Altairen of Kavendale, you were far more human than monster. You stood before him, even after he had threatened to kill you, after he had had his men beat you, and you refused to go with him. Your mother ordered you to continue refusing him, no matter what the cost, and you honored her, loved her, and obeyed her wishes. You refused to give in to the vampiric part of your nature. So, he locked you away in the cellar of your home, for three days, with no food or water – and then he threw one of his retainers into the cellar with you.
“Knowing what you were, and that you must be mad with hunger, the man tried to kill you, and you killed him, in self-defense, Altairen.
“And you did not drink, though the hunger for his blood was there.
“And above, your mother was threatened, and tortured, and ordered repeatedly to tell you to go with your father – and she refused.”
“Lady, I beg you – ” Altairen began.
“Your father repeated this, once more, and again, you were able to resist the drinking of the blood, though again, fate forced your hand, and you had to kill the man.
“Your father was unwilling to lose more retainers. So he left you in the cellar, alone, and with no sort of sustenance, for another ten days. When his men came for you, you could barely see, barely lift your head, for your weakness. And they carried you out into the main room of your house, and your father was there. He had your mother with him, put in a trance by his magic.
“He nicked her throat, just barely, with a knife – and you smelled blood.”
“STOP IT!” Altairen roared – and for the first time, Jenara saw the fangs in his mouth, extended to their fullest, now, in his rage. And his eyes had begun to glow red.
“Not knowing what you were doing, unaware of anything but the scent of what your body told you was food, you fell upon the wound in your mother’s neck, and you fed.
“And fed.
“And fed – until she was dead, and drained of blood.”
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!” Altairen cried, his eyes turned now to the face of Alethanna’s statue. “I swear, I didn’t mean to!”
“She knows that, Altairen,” Jenara said. “And she needs you to know that, as well.
“When you recovered your wits, after your feeding, you also recovered your strength – and your father again underestimated your humanity.
“He thought that feeding you, on the blood of your mother, would make you like him. Evil. Unclean. Unholy.”
Jenara reached out, and laid
her hand on the shoulder of the weeping boy, as he stared at her Goddess.
He was completely unmindful of the pain that both stare and clerical
touch caused him, and she continued. “You
were horrified at what you had done. You were near insane with grief – and you were angry!
“Filled with a fury beyond all human control, you attacked your father, and, against all odds, you slew him.
“And that act, Altairen, that one moment of righteous fury – that moment made you a child of my Lady Justice.”
“I didn’t kill him for justice,” Altairen said, softly, voice uneven with hitching sobs. “I killed him because he made me kill my mother! I loved her, and he made me kill her!”
“And would killing him bring her back?” Jenara asked.
“No, of course not,” Altairen said. “But . . . it made him stop! He won’t ever do that again, Priestess! No one else will have to – to live with . . . .”
“To prevent others from feeling your pain, you killed a monster, Altairen.” Jenara placed her other hand on Altairen’s opposite shoulder. “It was not the most pure of seekings, but you were seeking justice, none the less.”
“I . . . Priestess, please, I cannot think!” Altairen shuddered, at her touch, partly from desire for simple human contact, partly from the pain his vampiric half felt at her touch, and partly from desire for her blood. “For a year now, I have lived on the blood of animals, Priestess, but . . . of late, I get less and less from them, though I take the same amount, or more, blood. And you are healthy, I can feel it. I . . . hunger for your blood, Priestess!
“Please, Lady! Grant me leave to end this!”
Whether he spoke to Jenara, or Alethanna, Jenara did not know. But she knew the answer.
“Wait, Altairen.” She took her hands from his shoulders, to better allow him to think, and said, “Before I can even consider your prayer, young one, let alone offer you an answer, I must hear from you of what happened outside of the town to Two Rivers, last week.”
“I . . . Two Rivers.” Altairen sighed, and glanced away from Alethanna’s face, to look quickly at Jenara. “Your Lady tells you much.
“At Two Rivers, three men set upon me, Priestess. They meant to rob me, and perhaps to kill me. I hurt them. Even weak as I am, I am far stronger than an ordinary man. I broke their bones, and sent them running in terror, when I let them see . . . the fangs. My fangs.”
“You didn’t kill them,” Jenara said. “Why not?”
“That . . . it wasn’t necessary!” Altairen said, sounding shocked. “It wouldn’t have been fair! I didn’t know that they were evil. They might have been just hungry, or had families to feed.”
“It wasn’t fair,” Jenara repeated. “It wasn’t fair, Altairen – you are right. It wasn’t fair.
“It wasn’t just.”
Altairen stared at Jenara, with his mouth hanging open, for a long moment, before she spoke again.
“Altairen of Kavendale, my Lady has all but judged you. There is one more thing we must know, before final judgment can be reached.”
Suddenly, Jenara produced a knife from her belt – and cut her wrist, deeply enough for the blood to flow, not merely drip.
“Drink, Altairen!” Jenara commanded. “My blood is freely offered! It will not hurt you, and you need to drink!”
He was on her in a flash, kneeling beside Jenara, both hands locking around her wrist, and drawing it towards his lips.
And then he froze, his lips a half an inch from the blood.
For a long, long moment, the two were frozen in a tableau –
And then Altairen wrenched himself away, with a cry of self-loathing, and cried, “No! I can’t!
“Priestess Jenara, I – I
appreciate what you are trying to do – but I can’t!
I am a man, Priestess, not a vampire, and I would die a man!”
Jenara wrapped a hand around her wrist, and spoke a single word of magic, and the blood stopped flowing. Then, she walked to Altairen, and offered a hand to pull him up. He took it, and when he was on his feet (surprised by Jenara’s easy strength), she locked her eyes on his.
“Yes, Altairen of Kavendale, you are a man,” Jenara said. “And you will die a man, young one – hopefully someday far, far in the future.”
“Priestess?” Altairen said. “I do not understand . . . ?”
“Altairen, the Goddess Alethanna, Lady of Justice, has judged you – and found in you the seeds of a warrior!” Jenara said, smiling at him. “You are offered a chance to be a man again, Altairen – to walk under the sun, to eat as men do, to drink as men do – and to live free of the hunger that you have shown such strength in denying!”
“I – Priestess, can this be done?” Altairen sounded as though he was beginning to hope, almost against his will.
“It will be painful,” Jenara cautioned. “Very painful, Altairen. And there will be a price . . . .”
“Name it, Priestess!”
“If we, the servants of Alethanna, make you whole again, Altairen of Kavendale, then you must swear to serve her, as her Champion, for all of the days of your life.”
Altairen’s jaw dropped. He stared, for a long time.
“Lady – Priestess!” he finally stammered, “I – do you mean it, Priestess Jenara?”
“I do.”
Jenara expected hesitation, thought. There was none.
“Tell me the words, Priestess, and I will swear an oath to Alethanna, now!”
Jenara blinked, and suddenly smiled. Oh, my Lady, she thought. Oh, my Lady Alethanna, you have chosen well! I thank you for allowing me to be a part of this!
“I will tell you the words,” Jenara said. “But, we will need witnesses, eight of them to swear you into Her service. Always, there must be nine, to swear in a new acolyte, Altairen.”
Jenara clapped her hands, and there were suddenly others there, dressed similar to the High Priestess, all treating Altairen with respect, and kindness. It almost overwhelmed him.
Soon, they were gathered around him, as he knelt before Jenara, and said the words she had taught him.
"I,
Altairen of Kavendale, do this day dedicate my heart to Alethanna, She Who Burns
For Justice. I will follow the
tenets of her priesthood, expecting no reward, fearing no consequence, for all
of the days of my life. If life be
long, or death be swift, I will live and die burning with the Silver Fire of
Justice!"
The
other priests and priestesses congratulated Altairen, some solemnly, some
bubbling with delight – and then Jenara clapped her hands again, and they all
paid attention.
“Lariss,
Mikadd, prepare the altar in the clearing, for we must begin work, if we are to
complete the spell to make Altairen human again, before the noon service,
tomorrow. Altairen, come with
me.”
All
did as she bade, and Altairen followed the Priestess out of the temple, and into
the antechambers off of the main room. There,
she introduced him to Vexx, a priest in his late 30s, and told him that Vexx
would be his weapons master, when his training began.
“And
tonight,” Jenara said, “Vexx will be responsible for a vital ingredient in
the spell we shall use to make you a man again.
So, please, Altairen, cooperate with him, though he asks odd things of
you.”
Altairen
agreed, and Jenara left him in the company of Vexx.
“What
am I to do, Priest Vexx?” Altairen asked.
“Just Vexx, unless it’s a ceremony, young Guardian.” The older man said. “And right now, I have to measure you, for the markings of the Goddess.”
“Young Guardian?” Altairen said. “Markings?”
“You will be the Guardian of the Silver Star.” Vexx turned, and held a measuring tape across Altairen’s chest. “First among her Champions, young Guardian! A great honor, I tell you.
“And the markings . . . son, to drive out the evil that dwells in you – which, I understand, you have resisted mightily, earning the favor of Alethanna! – to drive that evil out, to make you human once again, you will have to be marked with the symbols of Alethanna. Permanently marked.”
“Tattoos?” Altairen asked, as Vexx turned him, and measured his back, and shoulders.
“Of a fashion, young Guardian.” Vexx measured his forearms, next, both across, on the inside, and from wrist to elbow, again inside. “But, no normal ink could bear the magics that we will be using, son. So, we will use silver.”
“Silver?” Altairen asked. “Oh. This will hurt, then. Silver . . . I touched my mother’s good silver, thinking to sell it, when I fled Kavendale. And it burned.”
“It will hurt,” Vexx agreed. He measured out a great deal of silver wire, as he spoke. “It will burn you, young Guardian. Can you stand it?”
Altairen laughed, the first real laugh he’d uttered in a year.
“Vexx, to be made human again, to earn what Alethanna offers me, I would cheerfully let you lower me into a pit of rabid rats – and smile all the while!”
“That’s the way her Guardian should speak, lad!” Vexx said, and clapped him on the back. “Come, now – they should be ready for us.”
Soon, Altairen was stretched out on an altar in the clearing, on the side that would face the rising sun, watching with some fear, and much more determination, as a Priestess of Alethanna took a specially enchanted brush, that would not burn, and dipped it in a pot of molten silver. She brought the brush toward the inside of his left forearm, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see. His arm had been strapped down, so he could not flinch away – but he didn’t want to watch.
And I won’t cry out! This is a gift, a blessing – and I will not cry out.
Then the molten silver touched his arm, even as the priest on Altairen’s other side began chanting a spell of healing, and the pain was monstrous, huge, far greater than even the hunger pains of his vampiric nature in their worst days.
He did not cry out. Not once, during the entire ceremony, which lasted hours, well past the dawn, did he cry out, or faint.
That day, his sixteenth birthday, was Altairen of Kavendale remade a man, by Alethanna’s silver fires, passing through those flames to come out the other side a man.
In a rite of blood and fire, sunlight and silver, he became Her Paladin . . . .