David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

“Sorry to hurry you, but you need to put that on,” Jerico said. “Otherwise we might be late for Antonil’s wedding.”

Lathaar paused and raised an eyebrow.

“Care to repeat that?” he asked.

“Antonil and Annabelle are getting married,” Tarlak said. “King and Queen, uniting Mordan and Neldar in a blessed union of political convenience. As for the honeymoon, Antonil’s leading her armies across the nation to take back Veldaren. Romantic, eh?”

“Incredibly,” Lathaar said, pulling on an undershirt. “But what about the pendant?”

“Just get dressed,” Tarlak said. “Wedding now, object of doom later.”

Jerico had wasted away the hours waiting for Lathaar to recuperate by polishing and cleaning both their armor, so when they emerged from Lathaar’s room both gleamed in the light. Tarlak frowned and covered one of his eyes with a hand.

“I’m blind!” he said.

“Quit exaggerating,” Jerico said.

“You’re awake,” said the angel that had helped care for Lathaar. “Good. Follow me. I have several of my brethren ready to fly you back down to Mordeina.”

“Lead the way,” said Tarlak.

They hurried down the hallway. Lathaar walked with his mouth hanging open, mesmerized by the golden walls, the intricately crafted candelabras, and the many paintings of Dezrel. They passed by several windows, and through the glass he saw a stretch of green grass followed by nothing but sky.

“Amazing,” Lathaar said.

“You get used to it,” Tarlak said, chuckling.

They exited two giant doors made of dark stained oak. Three angels waited for them. They bowed at their arrival.

“Welcome,” one of them said. “We are pleased by your recovery, Lathaar. All our hearts have been heavy by word of your illness.”

“And you have my thanks,” Lathaar said, bowing in return and doing his best to appear far healthier than he felt.

“Take our hands,” the angels said. “And try not to panic.”

One after another grabbed the wrists of their charge and rose into the air.

When they landed just inside the city walls, Tarlak whooped and hollered and smacked both paladins on the shoulders.

“We are never doing that again,” Jerico said as he fell to his knees and clutched the grass.

“What, you guys didn’t have fun?” Tarlak asked.

The paladins glared.

“The wedding starts soon,” one of the angels said. “You must hurry. King Antonil has prepared a place of honor for you.”

“About time I started getting some reward for all our hard work,” Tarlak said.

The wedding festival spread from the castle outward throughout the city. Lathaar shook his head as they passed by colored streamers made of cloth and rows and rows of lit candles.

“You’d think there wasn’t a war going on,” he said.

“We won,” Tarlak said, grinning at the paladin. “You think it matters the enemy’s still alive and kicking? Just endure the show. We’ll be chasing after Karak’s pets soon enough.”

Antonil and Annabelle waited atop the stairs before the castle, the hill high enough that most of the city’s inhabitants could look upon them, if not from the streets then from the rooftops of their homes. In what was a switch for the city, a priest of Ashhur, not Karak, led the procession.

“Flank the sides of the stairs,” Tarlak told the paladins. The ceremony was yet to start, and the hum of conversation was strong and constant. Tarlak slipped in beside Harruq and Aurelia, winking at the two of them.

“Nice of you to dress up,” he said to Harruq. “You even wore pants.”

“Keep it up,” Harruq said. “Another crack like that and I’ll make you bald again.”

“Play nice,” Aurelia said, jabbing both with her elbows.

“Did Lathaar make it through all right?” Harruq asked.

Tarlak gestured to where Lathaar and Jerico stood opposite of each other at the foot of the stairs.

“Looks like it,” he said. “Roughed him up pretty bad, but he survived. Let’s hope the same for Antonil. The queen may be old, but I think she can give him a good run.”

“Tarlak!” Aurelia shouted as loud as she dared. Tarlak winced, fully expecting a spell to turn him into a lizard. None came.

“Once this is over,” the elf said, crossing her arms. “You are in deep trouble.”

“Yes, mother,” Tarlak said. Again he winced. No polymorph spell.

Harruq took Aurelia’s hand in his and held her closer as trumpets blared, signaling the start of the wedding.

D eep inside a well-worn mansion seven men gathered wearing gray robes. A fire burned between them in a stone pit, but it gave off no smoke. The seven finished their chant, and the leader among them spoke.

“Our time here is limited,” he said. “And our lives in danger. As we once persecuted priests and paladins of Ashhur, so now are we persecuted. So quickly Mordeina turns her back to our Lord.”

“A reminder,” said one of the seven.

“Yes,” said another. “They need a reminder.”

“Hayden was our greatest, but he will not be our last,” said their leader. “And Karak has spoken to me in dreams. This is still our world’s final moments. Our great prophet remains, spurned and angry. But Karak whispers to me of a second prophet, one we must be wary of. We must be diligent. We must be strong. Above all, we must hold faith.”

“What are we to do?” one asked.

“You said it best,” said the leader. “We give them a reminder.”

“W ith great joy I stand before these two individuals,” Bernard said, his voice carrying far in the silence that had fallen over the crowds. “King and queen of different nations, but coming together in peace and unity. No wounds are too old, no pain too great. Love heals. A simple statement, perhaps, but it is true, and it is powerful.”

Harruq squeezed Aurelia’s hand and leaned over.

“Our wedding didn’t take half this long,” he whispered.

T he seven raised their arms to the ceiling, their hearts throbbing in their chests. Desperate pleas for power poured from their lips. They called for a sign. They called for a message of truth and warning for their city. They called for a revival. The fire flared higher and higher, its strength tied to the strength of their prayers.

“A name,” one of the priests suddenly shouted. “I hear a name!”

The others heard it as well, strong in their ears. Their leader fell to his knees, and he cried out to his god.

“I am unworthy,” he shouted. “Please, pass the burden to another.”

“Take it!” the priests cried. “Take the name offered!”

The fire soared, a brilliant orange and yellow pillar in the gigantic room. Their leader bowed his head and accepted Karak’s will.

“Then let my old name be forgotten,” he said. “Melorak is now my name.”

The other priests cheered, delighted at the long-prophesied arrival of Dezrel’s conqueror. The true Melorak closed his eyes and lifted his palms to the ceiling.

“Let all of Mordan hear our anger,” he said.

T he exchange of rings done, Bernard began the final instruction of the ceremony.

“Each of you holds the love of the other in your heart. Keep it sacred, and keep it close,” he said. “Queen Annabelle, I now pronounce you of the family Copernus. King Antonil, you may…”

He stopped, his skin turning pale and his eyes widening. Whispers spread throughout the crowd.

“Bernard?” Antonil asked.

The ground shook. Wind blew down the streets, random in its swirling. The sky darkened. The rows of angels that surrounded the castle drew their swords as if for battle. Screams of fear and pain pierced the wind as people fled, trampling others too slow to move.

“What’s going on?” Harruq shouted as he clutched Aurelia’s hand and held her close.