Miserere: An Autumn Tale Read online

  MISERERE

  AN AUTUMN TALE

  TERESA FROHOCK

  Night Shade Books

  San Francisco

  Miserere: An Autumn Tale © 2011 by Teresa Frohock

  This edition of Miserere: An Autumn Tale © 2011 by Night Shade Books

  Cover art by Michael C. Hayes

  Cover design by Rebecca Silvers

  Interior layout and design by Amy Popovich

  Edited by Jeremy Lassen

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

  Printed in Canada

  ISBN: 978-1-59780-289-5

  eISBN: 978-1-59780-322-9

  Night Shade Books

  Please visit us on the web at

  http://www.nightshadebooks.com

  Dedicated to my husband

  and best friend

  Dick Frohock

  PART I

  Haunted by ill angels only…

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  “Dream-Land”

  CHAPTER ONE

  woerld in the sabbatical year 5873

  Night shadows deepened when Lucian extinguished the candle beside his bed. The cry from beyond his chamber ended too soon for him to determine its source. He sat on the edge of his mattress and listened for the noise to repeat itself. The hearth fire crackled. The blaze saturated the room with heat, but Catarina forbade open windows. His twin sister was always cold.

  Sweat crawled through his hair. He dared not move; he had no desire to draw attention to himself. The seconds ticked into minutes, but Lucian remained still.

  Listening.

  Sounds drifted upward from the room beneath his chamber. A man laughed too loudly with a thin note of hysteria edging his mirth. The sound gave Lucian goose bumps.

  Something—perhaps a vase or a mirror—shattered. Another peal of laughter clipped the air before indistinct voices murmured in approval.

  Reaching for his cane in the half-light, Lucian stood and limped across the room. His knee was stiff with the premature arthritis afflicting his old wound, and when he first rose, he moved more like a man of eighty than one of forty. He despised his crippling infirmity, and in his agitation, he turned the key with more violence than was necessary. It was a futile gesture; if his twin and her company wanted access to him, nothing so flimsy as a lock would stop them.

  As he went to his chamber’s sole window, he kept to the carpeted areas so the rugs would muffle the sound of his cane against the floor. Elaborate tapestries covered the marble walls with his sister’s favorite hunt scene. Firelight distorted the images woven into the cloth, elongating the faces of the hunters and hounds into freakish mutations. The stag’s eyes were almost human with their pleading, but there would be no mercy. The hunt was over. All that remained was death.

  Lucian averted his gaze from the wall hangings as he passed his desk, piled with papers full of endless calculations. Books littered every flat surface, including the ottoman that squatted between two cushioned chairs by the hearth. He had only to ask and his every request was filled, but all the gifts in Woerld couldn’t replace the life Catarina had stolen from him.

  A prison, no matter how finely furnished, was still a prison. He reviled her house and all she stood for, but he had not tried to escape again. He had learned to fear his sister after his first failed attempt to leave her.

  In spite of her edict, he went to the casement and pushed aside the heavy drapes to open the window over her sprawling gardens. The wide window-seat accommodated him comfortably, but his humor didn’t improve with the cold breeze. Years of helpless rage slow-burned through his chest to rise like bile at the back of his throat.

  On the opposite side of the city, the construction of the sprawling bastion for the Fallen Angel Mastema continued unabated. Dozens of fires illuminated the black stone turrets rising to meet the night. Girders stretched upward to the overcast sky, forming an open claw as if stone and steel could snatch the paradise the Celestial Court had denied the Fallen.

  Lucian had no doubt Mastema would win a foothold in Woerld if Catarina’s plans succeeded. Instead of searching for a site of power to hold back the Fallen, she perverted the teachings of the Citadel to calculate the appropriate longitude and latitude to find a weak Hell Gate in the city of Hadra.

  The harsh northern provinces of Golan were isolated from the lower lands. Lucian was certain that Woerld’s other religious fortresses were unaware of Mastema’s temple; otherwise, they would have sent emissaries to assess the situation. Once they were assured of Catarina’s goals, the various bastions would send their armies to stop her. Yet no word came from any of the three closest bastions: the Citadel, the Rabbinate, or the Mosque. The Hindu bastion of the Mandir, at the heart of Woerld, remained silent as well.

  Of course, they had no way to know. Catarina was careful to mask her bastion’s true intent from the general populace, and the city of Hadra, nestled deep within the Aldilan Mountains, was especially secluded from the rest of Woerld. His twin sat in the center of her intrigues like a great dark spider, spinning her web of deceit and growing her army.

  Downstairs someone shrieked; one voice rose above the others in pleasure and pain. Catarina no longer hid her perversions but reveled in them and dared him to admonish her. She ignored his efforts to guide her from her chosen path. He had failed to keep her safe. He had failed them all.

  Lucian swallowed his misery as the sky lightened with dawn. Doors slammed below him; Catarina’s guests were taking their leave to sleep through the morning. He wished he could flee with them. He had to get out of the house, even for an hour, to some place undefiled by her corruption.

  Lucian closed the window, careful to secure the latch. He had to calm himself before he went downstairs. If she sensed even the slightest resentment in his attitude, she would slam the doors shut on him. Today he feared he would go insane if he couldn’t leave.

  Rather than call his servant, who would no doubt bring the usual array of light indoor clothing, Lucian dressed himself. Although it was only autumn, Golan’s northern winds had started to blow cold, so he chose his heaviest clothing and his boots. The merchants and priests knew him too well. Should he step inside a teahouse or church for too long, the proprietors would ask him to leave rather than risk Catarina’s rage.

  At his bedside table, he opened the drawer and removed his Psalter, wrapped in a silk scarf with faded crimson flowers. Other than his father’s signet ring, the scarf and book were the only possessions he maintained from his life before Hadra. He placed the scarf and Psalter in his breast pocket close to his heart.

  With any luck, his sister would be in bed, exhausted from her night of debauchery, and he might slip out unnoticed. He opened the door to find a frightened manservant, who had been prepared to knock. The servant lowered his hand.

  Lucian tightened his grip on his cane. “What does she want?”

  Relieved, the man bowed twice before blurting, “She wants to see you. She’s in the dining room.” He hesitated, glancing up and down the hall. “If you please, sir,” he whispered.

  No, it doesn’t please me. Not at all. He wouldn’t send the trembling servant back to her with that message. She would have the old man beaten to death. Lucian gestured brusquely, and the man scurried ahead of him.

  It took him several painful minutes to navigate the wide, marble staircase, and he made no attempt to hurry. As he reached the main floor, one of the maids stepped into the corridor beside the dining room door. Tears streaked the livid bruise forming on her cheek, and she wiped her nose with her apron. In spite of her distress, she lifted her long skirts and curtsied as he passed.

  He entered the room to find his sister seated at the head of the table wearing nothing
but a loosely tied dressing gown. The deep frown that pulled her full lips downward marred her beauty. A gold filigree pendant that depicted two ravens, their beaks locked in an obscene kiss, hung between her breasts, which were partially exposed by her open robe. Without acknowledging him, she pushed aside the report she had been reading and violently rang a small golden bell.

  Three of her guards were in the room, each wearing a pendant with her raven seal, each guarding a different door. They didn’t acknowledge Lucian and he ignored them.

  Catarina’s obsidian eyes locked on him. The bruised circles beneath her dark lashes deepened her gaze. She looked like a cadaver. “What took you so long?”

  Her sharp tone reignited his anger. “I was delayed.” He twirled his cane and thumped it on the floor, indicating his leg. “Darling.” A cobra couldn’t have spat more venom into his endearment.

  “Don’t mock me today, Lucian. I’m not in the mood.”

  When are you ever? He clamped his teeth against the words. Antagonizing her was pointless. He wanted out, and he knew the game he had to play.

  A shadow slid by on his left as his sister’s demon familiar, Cerberus, entered the room. The creature disguised itself as a large hound but fooled no one. His pallid flesh sported no fur; the large bat-like ears carried no canine resemblance. His talons clicked on the tiles as he moved to Catarina’s side. He appraised Lucian with cold, silver eyes and rolled his thick tongue over multiple rows of teeth to grin lewdly. Mercifully, he did not speak.

  Now our little ménage à troìs is complete, Lucian thought desperately.

  His sister slammed the bell down and shrieked for her coffee. Lucian was gratified to see Cerberus and one of the guards recoil at her outburst. The door leading to the kitchens slammed open, and a young woman almost tripped over her skirts to get the tray to her mistress. There was only one cup alongside the urn. Lucian said nothing.

  Catarina waved the girl away and served herself. Appeased, she sipped her drink with imperious calm, then said, “Close the door, Lucian. We need to talk.”

  He pushed the door shut with his cane and took a seat at the foot of the table directly opposite her. She was beginning her assault early this morning. He had no doubt she intended to dole out his pain in slow increments today.

  Cerberus went to his mistress and tugged the sash of her robe. She pushed him away and tightened her belt. At least Lucian wouldn’t be treated to one of their displays of affection this morning.

  “Captain Speight tells me he has had some difficulty with you.” She shifted the pages and read from the report. “According to Speight, you’ve been warning priests, rabbis, and imams to move their congregations out of the city by mid-winter. You’ve also advised a bhikkhu and a brahmin to do the same.” She met his gaze evenly and tapped the report with a manicured nail. “Is this true?”

  He presented no defense; he was guilty. The cities’ religious houses usually stood immune to Woerld’s political instabilities, but Catarina’s intercourse with the Fallen brought the churches and temples into the direct line of battle. Once Mastema’s temple was complete, she would force the people of Hadra to worship the Fallen Angel and sacrifice those who refused on his altar.

  “What are you trying to do?” Catarina asked. “Commit suicide by proxy?”

  Better than dying by inches. To his left, a log popped against the hearth and sent a blaze of light up the chimney. The hissing fires were the only sound as they played their demented game to see who would break first.

  “Answer me!” Her spittle flew across the captain’s report.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Whether she was shocked at his honesty or that he wanted to die, he had no idea, but she made no retort. Instead she sipped her coffee, and her hand shook slightly as she rattled the cup back to its saucer. Shunning Golan’s nasal dialect, she spoke to him in their native Walachian so the guards wouldn’t understand her next words. “Good God, Lucian. Are you serious?”

  She must have seen the answer in his face, because she held her hand out to him, and he could have sworn the tears glittering in her eyes were heartfelt. “Why do you wound me like this? You know I don’t want you hurt. If you were dead, I would be cut in half. You tear out my heart when you talk like this.”

  The cadence of her speech resurrected his nostalgia for the days when they had loved one another and lived in harmony. In the past she had coddled him back to her graces with promises of familial love spoken in words remembered from their youth.

  This morning was different. Whether it was his bad night or his worse morning, he felt nothing for her platitudes, not even regret for the love they had lost. Sometime in the night he had died, and he wasn’t sure he would ever live again. His misery complete, he was numb to her pleas.

  “I love you,” she crooned, oblivious to his disregard for her manipulation. “I don’t want to see you hurt again. You misunderstand—”

  “There’s been no misunderstanding, Cate. You’ve made your position clear,” he replied, speaking in Golanian. “You expect obedience from me. Absolute obedience.”

  Her head rocked as if he had slapped her, and her eyes grew cold again. She leaned back in her chair. “Mastema has named me Seraph of his fortress.”

  Now Lucian felt the blow of her words settle in his stomach as icy fear. If the Fallen Angel had claimed her as the high priestess of their warrior-prophets, her political influence in Hadra was assured. The ever-present fire roared, and a rivulet of sweat tickled his collar. “When?”

  “Last night. And what is my first order of business as Seraph?” She clenched the pages of Speight’s report and threw them in Lucian’s direction. “My recalcitrant brother.” The paper wafted to the center of the table as ineffectual against him as her rage. “Let me be clear, Lucian. The only reason you’re still alive is because of me. If you continue your flagrant disobedience, even I won’t be able to plead your usefulness to our cause.”

  “Are we finished, Cate?”

  Cerberus pushed his head under Catarina’s hand, and she shoved him away. “Have I dismissed you?”

  Lucian didn’t answer, but neither did he leave.

  Another servant brought a tray laden with breakfast for his sister. The odor of the food nauseated Lucian.

  “I’ve appointed Malachi Grusow as my Inquisitor. He assures me that our Katharoi will be prepared to march on the Citadel in the spring.”

  Lucian looked down and picked an imaginary piece of lint from his pants so she would not see his scowl. Katharoi. She and Grusow demeaned the honorable title of the bastions’ warrior-priests by bestowing it on their ragtag army of mercenaries and cut-throats. A true Katharoi spent years training in martial and spiritual arts while the men in Catarina’s army were little more than ruffians who owned armor and sword.

  “Grusow believes our spies within the Citadel are close to creating a schism within their ranks.” Catarina raked the tines of her fork across the slab of meat, and when blood rose to the surface, she smiled. “And Rachael is dying.”

  A terrible pain filled Lucian’s chest, and his numbness fled before the familiar guilt that destroyed his nights. He’d betrayed Rachael with an act that could never be undone, but surely she wasn’t dying. The Citadel had other exorcists just as skilled as Lucian, and Rachael would have submitted herself to an exorcism; she had no choice. As the Seraph’s last heir, Rachael was all that stood between anarchy and unity within the Christian bastion’s ranks.

  Catarina’s smile broadened. “When she’s gone, there will be none to stand against you, and the Citadel will be defenseless against Mastema’s legions.”

  She lies, he warned himself. Half-truths and lies.

  Catarina buttered her bread. “Rachael never allowed anyone to cast out the Wyrm, and the demon has started to take her mind. She is lost in her prophecies. They say she dreams awake.” Her glare held him until he lowered his eyes in shame.

  “You’re lying.” He called her bluff, surprised at his even tone. �
��The Wyrm should have been adjured years ago.”

  “She allows no one to heal her, no one to touch her.” Catarina picked through her food. “Someone she loved must have abused her trust.”

  Horror settled over his body, stealing his breath. Rachael could be stubborn and she would believe herself able to handle such a minor demon, but she was not an exorcist. If she had fought the creature for this long, it was entirely possible she had grown weary, and the Wyrm was most dangerous to those who dreamed. Lucian bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb to stop his tears. Not now, not here.

  “Oh, please, Lucian, don’t tell me you’re still pining for your little whore. Your benevolent God left her in Hell to become a one-eyed, drooling monster lost in her dreams. The least you could do for yourself is bed someone who will recognize you in the morning.”

  “I left her there, not God.”

  “And you were right to do so.” She slipped a bloody piece of meat to Cerberus. “She was in the way, an obstacle.”

  You were jealous of her. “I left her there in exchange for your freedom.”

  She shrugged, dismissing his sacrifices for her with that one banal movement.

  “I left her there because of your lies!” The strength of his baritone rattled one of the guards. The man stepped forward.

  Startled, Catarina almost dropped the sliver of flesh in her hand. “Never raise your voice to me.”

  Lucian rose so fast that he unbalanced his chair. The air around him darkened and crackled. He was rewarded by the fear in his sister’s eyes.

  Cerberus’ muzzle snapped as he jerked his head in Lucian’s direction. “Have a care, Lucian,” the demon said, his silver eyes narrowing.