Mercy.
The demon had pled for it in the last moments of its foul existence on Yrth and, though he concealed his thoughts behind the usual veneer of sardonic amusement he showed to the world, the sheer audacity of the plea still infuriated Gabriel. Mercy? He had little left. And for a demon? There was none at all.
Seated in his usual place upon the prow of the Gleaming Endeavour, he silently continued to study his father’s sword for any hint of damage that might need attention. The blade gleamed in the moonlight and he bit back another scowl. This was the only mercy he had left – a quick, clean death. It would have to be enough for the tyrant that ruled over this bitter existence.
The bells of the cathedral began tolling, the sound so horribly familiar that the memory was almost a physical blow.
Fifteen Years Ago
“Mercy must always be our goal,” the abbot pronounced from where he stood before the assembled monks and Gabriel felt the truth in those words. He knew it was not the case but it sincerely felt as though the white-haired old man was speaking directly to him. Had this monastery not given him shelter and succor when he needed them the most? Had they not accepted him into their ranks without question, without once asking from what he ran? When he fled from Lady Licia’s house with her false denunciation of rape still ringing in the air, the whole of Craine had seemed to be on his heels and the Church gave him sanctuary without hesitation…
“Let us pray,” Abbot Publius intoned before leading the entire assembly in their devotions. Gabriel’s voice was strong and he felt as though this was where he was meant to be. God had set his feet on this path and at long last, he had found peace. Outside, the sun had begun to slide behind the hills and darkness stretched out to encompass the land. Winter was fast approaching and, from the taste of the air already, it looked to be a fierce one. And yet, for the first time in a long time, Gabriel did not look at the night and think of how best to use the shadows.
“Brother Gabriel,” the abbot called out once the service was concluded and the monks were filing from the chapel, intent on their nightly ablutions before they retired. “A moment, if you please,” the white-haired man said with his kindly smile. Gabriel said nothing – he was but a mere lay brother, after all, and speaking was not necessary – instead bowing his head slightly and waiting until they were alone. “Close the door,” Publius instructed. “I have a task for you, my son,” he said once Gabriel had done so. “You are aware of our nightly patrols?”
“I am, your grace,” Gabriel replied. He did not quite understand the purpose behind it – six monks, garbed and hooded in white, would walk the streets of Craine every night. They sang no hymns, sought no donations, offered no prayers or blessings, and simply … walked, torches held aloft, as if to ward off the night. According to the other brothers, it was an ancient tradition, but none of them could explain the reasoning.
“Good.” The abbot smiled. “I would have you accompany them tonight. Your skills may be needed.”
The words caused Gabriel’s blood to run cold. His skills? Did the abbot know who he was, know what he had trained for years to do? No, that was not possible. His father had been the only one who interfaced with the Houses. He had given no family name when he entered the monastery and his father’s sword was hidden away where no one would find it. There was no way the abbot could know.
“You might need this,” Abbot Publius said as he reached behind the altar and drew out a familiar item.
Father’s rapier.
“Do not let any but the patrol see this instrument,” the abbot instructed as he offered the sheathed weapon. “We are men of God, after all, and they must not think we stray from the path of righteousness.” He waited, the rapier held out.
Gabriel … hesitated.
Since before he could walk, he had wanted to be that blade’s master but in the years since his father passed, it had seemed a heavy burden. Now, he feared that would be too heavy. His concern and confusion clearly showed on his face as the abbot offered another warm smile.
“Consider this a test, my son,” he said. “The path you have chosen is not an easy one and we must know if you have the fortitude to see it through.” Relief thundered through Gabriel then – a test! He understood. The abbot wanted to ensure he would not fall back upon old habits when facing a challenge, that Gabriel’s faith in God was absolute.
He took the rapier.
Avoiding notice as he made his way through the cramped dining hall that led outside was easy enough for him, even though he was so out of practice at clinging to the shadows. Brothers Donalt and Greigor were arguing again, which was enough of a distraction for many of the other monks that they barely even noticed his discreet exit. The sullen one, Zabko or Zerba or something, glanced briefly in his direction, but Gabriel had exchanged fewer than ten worlds with the man in the last year so he was unsurprised when the brother went back to his stew.
“You’re late,” a gruff voice stated when he slid through the door. There were five monks waiting, hooded and garbed in white as he was, but Gabriel did not immediately recognize them. One was tall enough to be Markus, but the Northlander who’d found God had been sitting next to Donalt. Gabriel had no opportunity to reply as a lit torch was thrust into his hand and the others set off. Irritated, he shifted the rapier down from he’d strapped it on his back before quickly darting into the night to catch up with the other monks.
An uneasy silence seemed to accompany them as they wound their way through Craine. To Gabriel’s surprise, they avoided main thoroughfares, opting for crooked alleys and rough-hewn side streets. The few city guards they saw hurried along, ducking their heads or saluting awkwardly before scurrying away, and a ball of ice formed in Gabriel’s stomach. Automatically, long dormant instincts and reflexes stirred, forcing him to fall into Cat Crosses the Courtyard. It looked to be an arrogant saunter, though in truth, his entire body was poised and ready. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
“Here,” the man who was not Markus said as they drew up outside the main cathedral. He turned to Gabriel. “Find the bishop. Kill him. And plant this device near his body.”
Gabriel blinked.
He was very aware of the eyes of the other five men, as well as the tension in their bodies. They were waiting to see his reaction and his instincts screamed that the order had been no jest. The large monk was holding out a cloth badge that bore Duke Bran’s sigil. An assassination of the city’s highest member of the clergy with such incriminating evidence … there would be blood in the streets. Civil war. The pieces fell into place for him and he almost scowled. Abbot Publius would no doubt help quell the madness, regardless of whether the duke fell or not, and in gratitude, the Church would no doubt elevate him to oversee the diocese that was now empty of its former master.
“No,” he said softly. “I will not do this thing.”
They attacked without warning or hesitation. Hidden blades flashed out, the steel reflecting in the bright moonlight, but found nothing but air as Gabriel had already thrown himself back. He hit the ground, rolled, and came to his feet in a single, flowing motion that became an all-out sprint almost before he was fully upright. There were sharp cries of surprise that pursued him, but he ignored them as he continued his headlong dash for the nearest alley. Feet pounded behind him – they were close but losing ground thanks to his speed – and he could hear grunts of exertion from those who had spent more time indoors than out.
He reached his target five or six steps ahead of his closest pursuer and opted for continued evasion. Using the corner of one building as a springboard, he jumped up toward the roof of another, his fingers howling with discomfort as he found a grip and hauled himself over the edge mere heartbeats before the nearest would-be murderer could reach striking distance. The clatter of metal against stone echoed loudly in the night – one of them had thrown their knife but missed – and Gabriel fought back the urge to cry out an insult. Instead, he scrambled to his feet and darted forward once more, heart thudding with both fury and fear.
The urge to retrace his steps to the monastery and give Abbot Publius a red smile roared within his chest, but he ignored it as he vanished into the darkness. Was it mercy? Or simply self-preservation? Bereft of his Assassin, the abbot would no doubt sound the armcry and perhaps even raise the whole city against him. It was not entirely out of the question that the others would still carry out their foul deed and then seek to pin the murder on him. That thought gave him pause, and he circled back around to the cathedral, using the ‘thieves’ highway’ upon the rooftops to avoid returning to the street, where he found a host of armed guards spilling out of the magnificent church. There were even a quartet of Templars and they surrounded the angry-looking bishop.
“You are sure it was he?” the man asked in a fierce tone that carried even at this distance. One of the Templars nodded. “Then send a squadron. Bring me Publius’ head.” He scowled. “Along with the rest of his body, if you must. I would have … words with that upstart.” Gesturing, he turned back to the cathedral. “Should he resist, then you have my permission to be merciless.”
Gabriel slumped back against the stone roof and greedily gulped in air. He looked up, begging silently for a sign. Anything that might show to him that he had chosen the correct path.
Rain began to fall.
“Mercy,”Gabriel murmured, his eyes still locked upon the straight, shining blade of his father’s sword. The demon had pled for mercy. And Gabriel had given it to him. “Misericordia,” he corrected himself, slipping into Latin.
Yes. That was a good name. As good as any.
He smiled and went back to work with the whetstone.
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