It was only half a lie.
He went to Mori Manor’s temple, located at the eastern end of the structure. It was a tall room, the ceiling as high as the manor’s three floors. In the center of the temple was a life-sized statue of Karak, the first ever sculpted by Vulfram’s father. The statue faced the east, twelve feet tall and imperial in stature. Vulfram knelt on the pew before the statue, staring up at the visage of his most beloved god, and prayed.
Late afternoon gave way to twilight, which gave way to night, and still Vulfram moved nary a muscle. He stayed on his knees with his hands clasped before him, uttering words of entreaty. When his stomach rumbled, he did nothing. When darkness moved over the room like the tide over the shore, he did nothing. When the air grew cold, he shivered and did nothing else. Before long he knelt in near complete darkness, gazing up at a vague yet mighty outline of holy strength, as tormented as if he were trapped in the bottommost level of the underworld.
His mind was beginning to falter, his body to give out, when suddenly he heard a soft scraping sound, like linens being rubbed against a grainy surface. He blinked his eyes, bleary with sleep, and watched the god’s outline shift before him. It moved as if crouching, until it lay across the expanse of the statue’s platform, no longer part of the statue, which remained exactly as it had been when Vulfram entered the temple.
The silhouette of a massive hand reached forward and snapped its fingers. Candles flamed to life all around him, illuminating the temple with vaporous light. Vulfram could have wept with joy. There he was, live and in the flesh-Karak, reclining on the dais as if the hard marble were the most comfortable surface in both kingdoms. His huge yellow eyes gazed at Vulfram with compassion and wisdom.
“My Lord,” Vulfram gasped.
“My son,” said Karak, his voice loud and booming, seemingly shaking the temple. The statue above, a perfect likeness in white and black marble, trembled. “I heard your prayers. Something troubles you.”
Vulfram lowered his head. “I have lost my faith, my Lord,” he said, before cowardice could change his mind. When the tears came, he did nothing to stop them. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed you.”
Karak’s leisurely posture didn’t waver. “You have done no such thing, my son. Why would you think so?”
“My daughter has sinned gravely, yet I do not wish to punish her. More than anything, I wish to take her into my arms and flee this place, running forever if I must. It’s a desire I don’t think I can overcome.”
Karak stared at him with glowing eyes seeming to burn right into his soul, bringing warmth to his quivering bones. “You can overcome anything,” said the god. “I have faith in you.”
“What if that faith is misplaced?”
The god grabbed his shoulder, engulfing nearly a quarter of his body in his palm. “It is not. I know you will do what is right and that all who deserve judgment shall receive it.”
Vulfram nodded. “I have no choice in the matter, do I?”
“There is always a choice, my son. Most often, knowing the correct one is not the hard part. No, what takes courage, what takes strength, is making the choice we know is right despite every desire otherwise. Do you love me?”
“Of course. More than anything.”
“Then remember that my love supersedes all. If it is torment you fear, remember that the greatest torment would be to exist knowing I am no longer by your side. Do not run, not from me, and not from what you know is right.”
The god touched a finger to his forehead, and white light filled his vision.…
He awoke on the floor of the temple, his face resting in a small puddle of his own drool. The sunrise cast sparks of shimmering red on the statue above him. Vulfram lifted his head and gazed at the statue. The only sign of Karak’s visit was the aching hole in Vulfram’s heart. His back sore from sleeping on the hard floor, he limped out of the temple, shutting the door quietly behind him. He heard Ulrich and Oris’s children playing in the sitting room and smelled the sweet, narcotic scent of bacon frying over an open fire. Yenge’s voice cut through the morning air as she sang the sad song of love and loss she had sung to him on their first night together. His family, those who had not betrayed his trust, was waiting for him. It should have filled him with happiness, but it did not.
His decision was made. He had the hole in his heart to thank for that.
The sky was ominous, but even so, the effigy of the lion cast a long shadow over the damp grass that covered Erznia’s center square. Even more townspeople gathered than before, onlookers who congregated on the fringes of the assembly. The whole square was a giant bundle of nervous energy.
Vulfram strode to the center, feeling like a statue carved and come to life. He gazed at Bracken Renson, who stared back at him with fearful eyes. Where was the man who had so brazenly attacked Alexander the day before? In his stead was a frightened, yet hopeful, child. Vulfram wasn’t sure what had brought about this change, nor did he care. Bracken realized his son’s fate rested in the hands of the Lord Commander. Perhaps that was it.
He stepped up to the executioner’s stone, a thigh-high slab of granite positioned in the corner of the lion’s shadow. The only other time it had been used was fifteen years ago, when a rapist had been caught stalking the young girls of Erznia. It had been Joseph Crestwell who’d doled out Karak’s justice that day, just as it was Vulfram who would carry it out today. The stone still bore the faintest hint of the rapist’s blood.
Taking in a deep breath, Vulfram turned to address the crowd.
“We have gathered here today to bear witness to the punishment of Kristof Renson and Lyana Mori. They have been found guilty of infanticide, one of the worst sins against our god and creator, Karak, the Divinity of the East. Our race is in its infancy, and the lives blessed by our god are precious and rare. To end a life before it has even begun is not only a crime against Karak, but against all of us. The cost of this sin has been decreed by the Divinity himself, and that judgment is final. Bring out the guilty!”
A rumble passed through the crowd as Magister Wentner led a hooded Kristof and Lyana through them, flanked by Alexander and Vulfram’s scarred brother, Oris. The emotions of the assembly grew tenfold with each passing moment, some sobbing, some shouting in disbelief, a select few jeering. Those jeers cut into Vulfram, but he hardened his heart against them. To think on what he had to do, to dwell on the horror…he couldn’t. He just couldn’t, so he let it pass over him like water across a stone. Someone shouted “Karak!” and threw a rotten potato that exploded against Lyana’s pale, cream-colored gown, bathing her in stinking juices. He should have been enraged, but instead it was like a stake driven into the hole in his heart. At least the whore’s outfit and makeup had been washed off her. Lyana was about to greet her fate; at least she could do so with some measure of dignity.
The pair was brought before him and their hoods were removed. Lyana’s rosebud lips twitched and tears cascaded down her cheeks, but Kristof’s expression was wistful, almost dreamlike. His bloodshot eyes gazed up at him, and a half-smile appeared on his lips. Just looking at him, Vulfram felt a new respect for the doomed boy.
Then Kristof stepped forward, fell to one knee, and said, “I have sinned against my god. I accept the penalty without reproach, Lord Commander.”
Vulfram’s respect heightened even more. He nodded to the magister, who guided the boy back to his feet. Onto the executioner’s slab went his head. Oris began to walk away, to rejoin his wife and children at the forefront of the assembly, but Vulfram grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
“Make sure they don’t turn away,” he whispered into his brother’s ear. “Neither your children nor your wife. They must learn a lesson from this. Not even the blood of the First Families supersedes our responsibility to the one who created us. Understand?”