CHAPTER 79
It hadn’t even been a day since Katarina arrived that Devon had refused Katarina’s appointment to Apprentice, and had gathered Alayne, Nadette, and Cyrillus together to sway them to his decision.
There wasn’t even a decision to be made. If Katarina had been an Apprentice when her Master had died, she wasn’t even an Apprentice, she was a full-fledged Witch Hunter.
"The law is quite clear. She’s an apprentice." Nadette argued, a casual gesture at the book of law that sat between the four of them. "Lord Christensen’s Writ and Warrant, while decades out of date, were valid. No disgraces or dishonors, though there’s certainly a disgrace on our part, that he should have been forgotten." She remarked.
"He wasn’t. He was a notorious Witch Hunter, known for his tenacity. We teach about him in our history classes. He climbed the outside of the tower at Alastor and put a bullet through the heart of a notorious Witch. That’s how he got his name." Devon replied dismissively, with an irritated wave of his hand.
"But we all have to take a long hard look at the bigger picture here: We can’t in good conscience let Katarina become a Witch Hunter in truth. It’s unconscionable. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t countenance the thought of her out there in the savages of the wilds unguarded and unprotected. I say we revoke her apprenticeship and move her under Alayne’s care as an Inquisitor."
Cyrillus glanced at Devon with a bemused expression on his weathered face.
"She’s been doing a damn good job of fending for herself, Devon. Don’t think for a moment that I haven’t forgotten anything she’s done."
"What’re you talking about?" Alayne questioned with a frown. "There’s more to this girl? I’d like to hear it."
Cyrillus shook his head. "Sealed to the Book, Alayne." He remarked dismissively, as if it were no consequence. "But relevant to the conversation, I suppose." he remarked in a lower voice.
Alayne tugged out her Inquisitor’s Seal from around her neck and set it on the table in front of them, a palm-sized shield with a pair of crossed torches superimposed over the Lily.
"I think we four had better have this conversation, then." She remarked significantly, glancing at Cyrillus, Nadette, and Devon in turn.
Cyrillus sighed. "If you’re going to invoke your authority, I suppose I’ve no choice but to release the details to you." He glanced at Nadette. "She can’t-"
"She stays, Cyrillus." Alayne stated emphatically. "Stop prevaricating and talk."
Cyrillus let out a sigh. "Fine. but before you hear this sorry tale, I’ll need a vow that you won’t release this to anyone in accordance with the Invocation of Silence." Alayne flapped her hand dismissively, and Nadette nodded. Cyrillus nodded and opened his mouth, and then eyed Nadette.
"I’m also going to need, and this is really just for my peace of mind here, but i’ll also need a vow that you won’t assault Devon." Cyrillus remarked wryly. "I know I’ve wanted to."
Alayne frowned, puzzled, and Nadette’s jaw clenched. "I don’t like this. I already want to hit him, Cyrillus. I can’t make that kind of vow. As far as I’m concerned Katarina should have received her Writ and Warrant two years ago. She’s more than earned them."
Cyrillus eyed her. "Your word Nadette, or you’ll have to leave." He repeated, and she glared at him hotly.
"Fine." She snarled.
"Well." Cyrillus remarked laconically, and then straightened. "Katarina was recruited from the House of Pavlenko at the age of six." Nadette and Alayne raised eyebrows at this.
"That’s unheard of." Alayne remarked, and Cyrillus nodded. "Her twin was recognized as a mage at the same time. When Katarina was tested for the same, she instead resonated on the Lucianus Scale."
Alayne’s brows shot up. That was the scale of magical resistances. "What was her resonance?" She asked curiously, and Cyrillus’ lips quirked. "Charcoal." Alayne leaned back in her seat with shock.
"At six?" She asked incredulously, and Cyrillus nodded. "Perhaps it’s a natural consequence of sharing the womb with a mage, but that’s just conjecture and irrelevant. She was recruited to be a Witch Hunter at the age of six. Unfortunately for her, we admit trainees between the ages of ten and eleven, and so she was quartered with the School of Progeny- the orphans, the abandoned." he gestured at Devon. "She was the only girl amongst a swarm of boys. The harassment was constant, the abuse unremittingly savage." He paused. "There are none so cruel as children." He pointed at Devon. "This one reported, and this is public record, ‘boys will be boys’. Nevertheless she endured it for four years."
Alayne eyed Devon, who was fuming under Cyrillus’ gaze. Nadette looked to be carved from stone.
"That’s not how it was." Devon argued. "You describe a hell of torture and torment, as if she’d been consigned to the Void and the terrors which lurk there. That’s far from the truth."
Cyrillus turned to Alayne. "Ask her what happened, if you like. She might tell you. But to get back on track, things came to a head when the Nauders girl arrived. You’ll remember that."
Alayne and Nadette nodded. "I thought Katarina would find in Frederika a friend, so I postponed taking her into the Witch Hunter classes. I’d had no idea of Katarina’s difficulties. Less than a week after Frederika arrived, Devon’s star pupils tried to assault her the same as Katarina, and Katarina fought them off." He glared at Devon again. "My report differs from Devon’s. He reported an incident of horseplay that got a little out of hand. "Boys will be boys." Katarina was so savage in Frederika’s defense that three of the four had to receive emergency magical healing. One for the loss of an eye, one for a broken jaw, and one..." His mouth twisted. "She stabbed him in the jewels with a charcoal pencil."
Alayne eyed Devon. "You seriously think a response of that intensity was just the result of horseplay? Your competence is absurd."
"My vote to remove Katarina and Frederika was ignored, though I was able to have the four moved to the older boys’ classes. The following night they snuck into the dorms and again tried to assault Katarina and Frederika." he compressed his lips together, and continued. "Katarina killed all four of them, prompting an emergency meeting of the Book of the Golden Lady. In order to prevent this from becoming a political nightmare, Katarina and Frederika were moved to the Preux Academia. They share a room. I’ve been given to understand that Frederika suffers night terrors and refuses to leave Katarina’s bed." he compressed his lips together. "Katarina stole a dagger from us, and I’ve allowed her to think we didn’t notice. She sleeps with it to feel safe. Frederika sleeps with Katarina every night to feel safe." he folded his hands. "All of this, every bit of it, can wholly be laid at Devon’s feet." he spat.
"I knew of the dagger." Nadette remarked. "I went to... introduce myself to her." She remarked with what passed for a smile from Nadette. "There are not many girls that are called to the warrior elite of the Golden Lady, and because of the need for excellence I am by nature harder on the girls because they need to develop the strength and fortitude to keep up with their peers." She added. "I expected I would have to kick her out of bed, but she was no lazy girl. The moment I entered the room she was out of bed and ready for a fight."
She placed her hands flat on the table. "I will not dissemble. I like the girl. She excels at the challenges I have given her. Because of my position I have to put away any desire for favor however, and I think she’s afraid of me as a result. But there is no doubt in my mind that the girl is ready, bias or no." She turned to Devon. "And yet at every turn I find myself stymied at Devon’s obstinance that she be delayed. Every attempt to pin you on a reason is met with vague hyperboles and functionally pointless rhetorical statements. Katarina is capable."
Devon sighed. "You think me the villain, here. I’m not and I want you to see it from my perspective. Katarina has never failed to impress. I think she is a rare treasure that comes along once every few hundred years, sets precedents and establishes legacies. I never doubted Katarina could handle herself. The challenges she’s overcome have been easy hurdles. If I am guilty of a crime, the crime is this: I want to see her flourish and bloom and become the absolute best that she can be. She’s brilliant, she sings with an accomplished voice, she’s peerless on and off the combat yard. It’s for that reason I feel she should be kept close and precious. She should be cultivated. Throw her to the forests and left to fight wolves? Preposterous. Put a gun in her hand and tell her to kill mages? I say it’s a waste of her talents and potentials. I may be out of line and toeing the line of heresy when I say this, but I can’t help but feel that we may be looking at the next Celestine, or Alicia. Can I, in the face of such shining potential, consign her to wander the cold wilderness to suffer the privations and the comfort of a meaningless death in good faith?" He demanded in a fervent tone. "I think not. I refuse."
The room was silent for some time as the other three mulled over his passionate words.
"The decision is no longer yours to make." Alayne replied after some time. Devon whirled on her, naked fury painted across his face. "What? How could you say that?" He replied angrily.
"Katarina is an adult as recognized by the Church." Alayne replied calmly. "She is responsible for her own decisions, now."
Nadette nodded. "She has accepted the mantle of Apprenticeship. Our responsibility now falls to acknowledge that. Her master has passed into the embrace of the Divine Lady, and now it falls to us to see if she is ready to take the final test."
And then, only a scant handful of hours later, Devon lay dead on the floor of his own office, half his head obliterated, and Katarina herself shrieking incoherently, ears bleeding.
"We still have one last bit to get from her." Alayne remarked quietly. "Do you think- can she endure? Is she prepared?"
The Confessor eyed the Inquisitrix with a jaundiced eye. "You want me to make her relive-"
"Yes." Alayne replied curtly, cutting the other woman off. "Devon was executed as a Witch. We understand his powers were unique in some way we don’t yet understand. He was a manipulator of the mind, Confessor. Worse, his powers couldn’t be detected in the conventional ways. He never once resonated as a mage. Not once. How could he do that? I have to know. For the safety and security of the Empire, I have to know every single thing he did. Maybe through investigation of every single person he ever came in contact with, we may find some clue, some hint of how he came to be able to do what he did- and only then can we try and undo everything he’s done."
She sighed. She didn’t want to have to kill the Confessor. But she’d do what she must.
"All right." The Confessor replied quietly.
There it was again; a queer sense of doubling, of nausea.
"Katarina, you need to understand that these things aren’t what the church necessarily believes." Devon urged in his light, mellow voice. "The Anglish Empire covers but a small part of the world, and so what the Church knows is constrained by that limitation."
That feeling of disconnection, of unreality rippled through her again. His voice had an unusually persuasive quality to it.
"I’m not asking you to betray the Church, or the Golden Lady." He urged. "I’m not asking you to go against Her will. I’m not even trying to subvert your will." He encouraged. "All I am saying is that there are things that are unknown, even to the Great Church and I urge you to have a larger perspective. A broader view."
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Katarina snapped back to herself.
"You are a liar and an abomination." She whispered through clenched teeth. "All truth comes from the Golden Lady." She struggled to her feet, despite her weariness.
"Katarina, you’re exhausted." Devon argued, prompting another wave of tiredness to wash through her. "You’re tottering on your feet. Please, lay down and rest."
Part of her wanted to. Her arms and legs were leaden; her muscles were weak and rubbery and filled with the hot gritty sand of exhaustion and constant exertion, the kind of feeling she got after a particularly vigorous workout coupled with a long lesson in combat skills in the practice yards. Her body begged for rest, her eyes burned with fatigue and her lungs gasped for breath as she strained against the overwhelming lethargy that sapped her strength.
She forced herself to take a deep breath and struggled to concentrate on standing upright. She forced her eyes to focus on Devon and shock doused her chest with icewater. Devon was casually holding the long knife that had upset her so long ago- holding it easily and comfortably.
"You..." She gasped with effort. "That knife." She struggled with her lips, numb and heavy.
He let out a short, exasperated sigh. "It’s a tool I made." He finally admitted. "It allows me to channel my abilities better." He explained. "You weren’t too far off the mark last year, you know." he allowed, and waved the knife a little. "Swords, spears, knives, even guns." He remarked with disdain and nudged Katarina’s gun on his desk, "They’re just things. The true weapon is the mind." He touched the knifetip lightly to his temple. "Willpower. The strength of the mind is what turns things into weapons, Katarina. This knife helps turn my mind into a weapon. A real weapon." He added. "Sooner or later I’ll break through the threshold that limits my perspective and I’ll be able to craft a ring, or a button or something less conspicuous that allows me to do the same thing, but until then, this will have to do."
He gestured at the chair. "Sit, Katarina." He commanded, and she struggled to resist. Even as she fought, her body was moving against her will towards the chair.
"It takes a strong will to resist, Katarina, and my will is strongest here." He confided, and perched on the edge of his desk. "Katarina, you and I aren’t enemies." He said after a moment. "I admire you. You’ve never done anything that hasn’t impressed me." He remarked quietly. "You’re amazing in your single-minded determination." He let out a short bark of a laugh that sounded strange to her ears. "Even now you resist me with that indomitable character." He observed. "But I digress. Your strength, your beauty, your eloquence... simply breathtaking" he chuckled. "I even snuck in and saw you singing in the choir. Such amazing talent and potential." He lauded. "I want to help you. Encourage you. Help you draw out the deepest reserves of strength. Help you grow and flower into the singularly amazing person I know you can be, Kat." He urged.
"Don’t... don’t you dare call me that." She hissed at him furiously.
His eyes widened in surprise briefly, and then his head lowered. When he raised it again, it was filled with an indescribable sadness.
"I know that’s a singular privilege you’ve only offered to those you trust." He remarked listlessly. "The Nauders girl, Frederika." He added. "I’d hoped that you..." He trailed off, and then his jaw clenched.
"I’d thought that we were close enough for that, Katarina." He stated with a long suffering sigh. "I’d thought- no, hoped- that we’d moved beyond the role of instructor and student. That you perhaps felt in some way the same as I." His hand tightened on the long knife.
"Doesn’t.... Doesn’t matter, now." He decided. "Right. All that matters is will, and right now, my will is the strongest." He stated, and then smiled. "My will is the most powerful will." He declared. "You can find no purchase, no strength to resist me. Katarina, you will listen, and you will not fight me." He commanded gently.
Katarina had reached the limits of her ability to fight against his strangely hypnotic voice. His will battered at her like relentless waves against the rocky surf. She struggled to find some scrap of strength, some shred of will, some force that she could use to stand against him, and came up empty. Grimly, she began to recite the Petition of Hostilita, the warrior’s formal invocation of the powers of the Goddesses’ protection and plea for aid and strength. She got as far as bella premunt hostilia when suddenly she stopped. What came to her, strangely, was a memory of Aleima, from back in the forest.
"Anyone can recite the prayers the Church teaches. Do they mean anything?" She asked Katarina with a smile. "Maybe they do." She answered her own question. "But which do you think is more important? Reciting the words, or praying to her with the fullness of your heart?"
A storm of half-realized wishes and desires, urgent needs and unformed thoughts rushed through her, the overwhelming horror that she had no way at all of fighting him on her own.
"When you can’t run, you crawl." She prayed, unaware she’d spoken aloud. Devon eyed her with a confused, puzzled look. "When you can’t crawl, you find someone to carry you." She stated listlessly, and then repeated it. "Oh Goddess." She managed, but could not progress any further; her strength collapsed, and she sagged into the chair, limp and unresponsive.
Devon eyed her carefully. What was that, before she passed out? He wondered curiously. He carefully touched her cheek with a fingertip, but she didn’t respond. He nodded to himself. He didn’t have much time.
Katarina drifted in the black. She could vaguely feel Devon’s touch on her skin, could feel it as an abstract sensation as he laid her on the carpeted floor.
"You are a torchbearer, bringing the holy light of the goddess to the dark corners of the world to banish shadows with Her truths. When you have no strength left in your limbs, you speak the word. Her Word. The Light of the Goddess is a blessing to the righteous and a bane to the fallen. When you have no breath left with which to speak you spit in the eye of darkness in defiance." A voice echoed warmly in Katarina’s mind. The words were familiar, the voice was one she knew but couldn’t place. Frederika? Aleima? Alayne? Her mother?
Katarina struggled to open her eyes, and found Devon kneeling by her side.
"My will." She whispered, and his head jerked up in shock, thick beads of sweat splattering her chest.
"My will is weak." She whispered, and a nervous grin spread across his face in jerks.
"That’s right." He replied in a voice that was clotted and rough. "My will is strong." He replied, and she spat in his face.
Suddenly new power seemed to blaze up within her, flooding her limbs with renewed strength. Blazing, golden strength pumped through her veins, cramming her body with volts. She bolted upright as he recoiled from the spittle, and shoved him away from her.
"My will may be weak, but Her will is stronger!" Katarina shouted as he scrambled to his feet. She surged forward as he backpedaled away from her, raising a warding hand.
"There are other truths in the world?" She mocked furiously. "Bullshit. There’s only Her truth. The truths She reveals to us when and where She decides we are ready." She swung at him, left fist flickering like lightning and he squealed as it connected. Her followup jab was ducked as he hastened to put the desk between the two of them, hands raised placatingly.
"Katarina, please-" He pleaded, and she kicked his knife so that it skittered across the carpets and under a bookshelf.
"Speak, blasphemer. Speak, heretic." She encouraged, and gestured with her fists. "These’ll answer you just fine."
"Look, Katarina." He tried, and gestured with his hands to indicate he was unarmed. "Look, I was wrong, okay? I misspoke. Bad choice of words. Still, there’s no cause for violence, is there?" He pleaded. She gave him a condescending look and tugged at the laces on her bodice with one hand wordlessly.
"Oh come on!" He yelled, hands raised. "I grabbed your bodice when I was laying you down on the carpet. I didn’t touch you inappropriately. I would never touch you inappropriately."
They circled the desk warily.
"That power of yours is unnatural. It’s not sanctioned by the Golden Lady and is used wholly to manipulate the unwary." She tore open the desk drawer and pulled out her gun, newly bonded to her. As she did so, Devon let out a tisk of frustration and dived for his knife as she thumbed cartridges into the barrels of her gun.
Devon scrabbled for the knife- with it he could put up a barrier between them that would prevent her from shooting him. Then he’d be able to take the upper hand. Suddenly he could feel her boot in his back, shoving him down into the flooring.
"As a Witch Hunter in service-" She paused to clear her throat- "In service to the Golden Lady, I pronounce summary judgement: I name you blasphemer. I name you abomination. I name you heretic. I name you Witch, the punishment of which is death."
Katarina had never fired her gun in an enclosed room, so the gunshot was a thunderblast to her ears. She staggered back from Devon’s corpse shaking her head as a high sweet whine filled her ears. She couldn’t hear the thunder of rapidly approaching footsteps, or the clamor as people shouted, searching for the source of the shot.
Katarina slept. It was the old nightmare, the new nightmare. A dream of monsters past, a dream of terrors to come. A dream of the heart-wrenching loss of her Master. Little thoughts, like sparks from a campfire’s blaze, drifted around the core of her dream.
"Say the words, Apprentice. Say the words and send him screaming to the feet of the Goddess."
Squeeze the trigger. Such a simple thing to do. She’d done it countless times before in practice. But this was different, this was the real deal. She’d been raised to hunt the Witch, to kill the Witch. To bring the justice of the Lady of the Spring to the damned with the sword and her gun.
-if my Master is dead, doesn’t that mean I’m the Master, now?
-I pulled the trigger. I sealed his fate.
-The Witch had to die.
-But the only way to kill him cost me my Master’s life.
-What happens now? What comes after? What will become of me?
-What will they think of me in Darnell?
-Am I damned? Irretrievably lost?
The scene replayed in her mind endlessly. Her Master, weak and wounded. Dying. He’d seized Archibald Heartsbane from behind, locking the Witches’ arms behind his back; looping one arm across the maleificar’s neck.
"Say the words, Apprentice." At this range she couldn’t miss. At this range the bullet would kill Archibald Heartsbane. But at this range, it would also kill her Master.
In order for her to do her job, she had to kill him. Her Master.
And then, heart torn from her Trial in the untamed widerness, betrayal.
Her nightmare shifted, accommodating the new horror: He was huge, a giant mountain in the shape of a man, looming over her. She was small, an insect, a flea in comparison. His whole face was covered in an oily sheen of urgent sweat, his voice was slick and slimy with insinuation.
"You’re just like me, Kat." He suggested in that supple, insidious, cajoling voice that scratched at her thoughts and slid like nails down her soul. "You’re just like me. We belong together, you and I. We were practically made for each other."
He loomed over her, an impossible cliffside of inevitability.
"We are nothing alike!" She shouted defiantly, a rabbit’s impotent squeal against the relentless, impartial fury of the avalanche.
"We belong together, you and I. Why fight? My will is strong, Kat. Stronger than yours." His close-cropped black hair scraped against the clouds.
She struggled in his massive grip, she struggled in the grip of his voice. She had fought back. She’d won, even. How could he be here, like this?
It came to her even as she fought. She had fought. She had won.
The nightmare seemed to shift subtly under her, around her. It was the old nightmare, it was the new nightmare. Swelling, growing, Some dark, seething horror was boiling up behind her, hungry, dangerous, maddening in the thrum and boom of its power.
Horror ahead; terror behind. Tiny, insignificant, Katarina caught screaming between them.
Her heart wavered. Her defiance was a pathetic, crippled thing. What could someone as insignificant as her do, battered between both forces? Something tickled the edge of her memory, but when she turned to find it, it was gone. Instead, she was forced to look up, and up, and up at the thing that had grown behind her; the thing she’d always known was behind her, the thing that would not let her escape: the storm.
Seething with thunderous crackles of lightning, the storm rose behind her, the storm of all storms, the mother of all storms, the storm from which every storm was born from, the apotheosis of storms, the epitome of storms.
Devon was a personal horror. Some strange form of Witch, who had the power to cloud and manipulate minds to his will. He did something, tried something, tried to get her to submit to him, and he’d very nearly succeeded. How? What had he done? How had he done it?
‘How’ was less important than ‘what’, to her. ‘How’ was Witchery, plain and simple. Magic was like a sword: turned to good use, it was an effective tool. Turned to selfish purpose, turned to blasphemy against the Goddess, turned towards the terror that lived by day, the horror that flew by night; all unsanctioned mages- witches- were to be dragged, kicking and screaming, if need be, to the foot of the Goddess. There they would find their redemption.
‘What’ was simple: He’d used the strength of her own will against her. The more she resisted, the stronger he got. The more she fought, the weaker she’d become. But she had beat him. How? When?
The storm’s rage would not be denied. The clouds boiled black; lightning hammering the ground around her in scintillating sparks and shards of light.
Everything seemed to fade away to stillness. The stormclouds boiled, the edifice of Devon’s looming face and grasping hand still rode and grew, but for a moment, just a moment, she heard something beyond the thin whine in her ears. The slightest, tiniest of sighs. Just the briefest of exhalations, but for her it was enough.
Her ears rang because she’d ruptured her eardrums a week previous. She’d ruptured her ears because Devon’s office was small; the shot was at point-blank range. The thunderclap of the gunshot was a cannon’s blast, and her ears had bled. More important; Devon had died.