A Kingdom of Lies (Realm of Fey #2)

CHAPTER 22

Abbot Nathanial had followed through on his vow and then some, returning when the sun was at its highest peak above Ayvbury with the beautiful offer of a bath, clean clothes and a good meal. It was incredible just how different my perspective on life was after my skin had been scrubbed and my belly was full of food.

We’d taken turns to wash, creeping through the empty church towards the abbot’s private rooms where the tub of lukewarm water waited.

Duncan had either pretended to be asleep when the abbot had returned for us, or really was enthralled in his drunken haze, because he didn’t stir. But by the time I’d returned to the attic, the bed was empty, and the abbot was waiting beside it, sitting upon the stool once again.

Hair still damp, my eyes flicked around the room as though he hid between towering stacks of books. “Where’s Duncan?”

The abbot looked up, eyes fogged with glistening sadness. “It would seem he has been harbouring some negative emotions towards me.”

“Perhaps I should go and find him,” I said, paranoid that his dirt-covered uniform and blood-soaked hair would only draw unwanted attention to us. “I did try and warn him not to leave, not with…”

“Duncan was never one to discuss the thoughts that clouded his mind,” the abbot said, shoulders hunching with one great exhale. “Even as a child he preferred the solace of his silence to conversation. He never saw the benefit of having the Creator to discuss his mind’s demons with either. Even as a young lad he believed prayer to be nothing more than wasted breath. It’s what surprised me most that he was drafted into the rabble of Hunters. What was so different from our god, to theirs, that made them so desirable?”

The answer was simple; the promise of vengeance.

“Do you know of their god?” I asked. “Because I’ve never heard of Duwar before. Not in any of the teachings when I grew up, or in mention from the fey.”

“Because history has a habit of forgetting itself, then wonders why we repeat mistakes.” The abbot’s expression changed as quick as a summer storm, downturned expression lifting into a furious snarl. “I do, indeed, know about Duwar. But only in part. Only what… the angels sing to me.”

Angels? Now this man was senile, for sure. “And what did those angels say about Duwar?”

“That Duwar is no god. Duwar is chaos incarnate. A monster. A lie for lost souls to follow.”

“What about Altar?” I asked, watching the abbot’s expression soften once again. “Do you view the fey god in the same light?”

“Not at all.” Nathanial gasped, clutching his chest as though an arrow struck him. “I gave my soul to the Creator long before I even knew of gods. Then, by the time the first hairs grew on my chest, I knew my life’s purpose as well as my own name. To spread the Creator’s teachings to those who listen, and encourage belief in those with space for it. Angels visited me – great winged warriors brandishing gold weapons.”

“Is the mention of angels just a figment of speech?” I asked, unable to hide my smirk.

“No, Robin. Angels. One day, you will see.”

I nodded, hyper aware that I’d offended him. “And these angels, what did they say?”

“Well, they gave me purpose. Now, Altar is no different, Father of the fey and recognised deity of your people. But Duwar, that creature has no standing to be titled as a god.”

A shadow passed over the old man, hardening his features as though Duwar’s name had the power to turn him to stone with hate.

I should’ve left to search for Duncan already, but the truth the abbot was revealing kept me rooted to the spot. “I don’t understand how Duwar’s name has never been brought up before. How a…” I refrained from using the title god. Instead, I opted to use the same title the abbot had used. “How a creature has captured enough people’s belief to encourage an entire faith yet is not mentioned before… besides your angels that is. Even in Wychwood the Hunters and their actions have been a mystery, believed to be tied with fey-blood and the desire for power. How does that tie to Duwar?”

“Sadly, I don’t have the answers you seek. However, Duncan will. Have you asked my dear boy?”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t refer to Duncan as dear, and no. I witnessed what the Hunters do in the name of their… Duwar and it is frightening. But it is the Hand they talk about. I fear that’s who Duncan really worships.”

“There have been whispers of what the Hand desires for many moons. In recent years, those whispers have become more like muffled shouts. More and more of their kind sweep across the land in the name of this Hand, taking your kind for blood, knowing that the King’s seal of approval will stop anyone from interfering. Yet the question I keep asking myself, one that even Duncan has refused to answer, is why? What is it they believe will happen? There was an age of Gods, written about in testaments old. However, that time has long passed and for most is nothing but stories you tell at night to keep naughty children from misbehaving.”

“Why now?” I asked.

“That is correct,” he said, eyes widening in curiosity. “Why now indeed?”

My mind was whirling with questions. It was hard to know which one to pick out first. Perhaps my silence was the abbot’s signal that I was finished with our conversation, when in fact, I was never more ready to find out more.

“Before you go to look for Duncan, would you do an old man a favour and answer a question?” The abbot’s knees creaked, like worn floorboards in a forgotten home, as he stood, liver-spotted hands clasped before his belly as though they held it in from slipping free.

“It would be the least I can do for a man who has let two vagrants into his home without hesitation.”

He smiled briefly, wide eyes full of an emotion I could not quite name. “Are you a believer? In the Creator, in Altar, it does not matter to me which.”

I paused, feeling the faint tremble of the ground as the memory of Altar’s temple falling down around me filled my mind and left a bad taste in my mouth.

“Yes,” I answered, surprised at how easy it was. “At least I think so. I’ve learned a lot in a short period of time and witnessed even more. What I’ve seen makes it hard to turn my back on the potential of higher beings.”

“I am glad to hear it,” the abbot confirmed, head bowing. “There may come a time when everyone’s faith, no matter in whom it is held, will become necessary. I fear something brews, something terrible and close. Having someone to fight for is as important as knowing whom you fight beside.”

I found Duncan within a grand room in the heart of the church. Relief chilled the blush of warmth that my anxiety spread across my skin. He’d not left after all, which showed that he was not as stupid as I was beginning to believe.

The room was both elegant and rich, with colour, stone and decoration that the rest of the church lacked. It reminded me of Altar’s temple, instead crafted from wooden pews and marble columned pillars that stood guard down the sides of the room. Vines and greenery had not claimed this place of worship. Instead, stone walls were covered by draping banners, each depicting scenes of stories that I could not recall.

At the front of the room was an altar, covered in a cream sheet with the sign of the Creator sewn proudly across its hem. A chalice waited upon it, the remnants of red wine drying across its rim. White candles still burned across the altar, dripping wax. The small, amber flames danced in the breezeless room, shifting freely for an unseen audience.

The Creator’s symbol, a four-spoked wheel with the arrow pointing northwards, could be seen all around the room. Even the flooring, tiles of black and grey arranged into the shape of the sign, spread out beneath my feet.

A creeping of thick incense crawled into my nose and clung on with desperate claws. I could taste the spice in the clouds of smoke that melted from the hanging golden burners which moved from side to side, pushed by an unseen hand.

I entered the room on gentle feet, concerned I’d shatter the ambience of blissful silence that held the room.

Duncan didn’t show any sign that he sensed my presence, but there was no doubt he was aware. He stayed were he sat, in the middle of a pew facing the altar as though it entrapped his attention completely. Daylight streamed in from the large, stained-glass window that hung proudly at our backs, casting a glow of brilliance across everything. The colours seemed to sway across the floor, interrupted only by the winter clouds that drifted lazily before the sun. Imprinted on the glass was an image of a woman with white wings and billowing hair, clutching a hammer crafted from yellow glass that gave it the impression of being gold.

Were these the angels Nathanial spoke of? Did he drink too much of his blessed mind and lose himself to the ideals of this faith?

“Do you mind if I join you?” I asked, voice echoing against the rafters. Even the flames upon the many candles stilled, listening contentedly for Duncan’s answer.

Duncan still had not washed. Hair soaked with blood, and dark clothing coated in grime. If anyone else entered this room they would have seen him and thought that the dead had risen. Instead, it was only me and him, plus the promise of the Creator who felt as real as the ground I walked on after the abbot’s comments.

The Hunter didn’t take his eyes off the altar as he replied. “I suppose it would be rude to refuse.”

It was not exactly the yes or no I expected, but not pushing my luck, I moved down the middle aisle and stopped at the edge of the pew he sat upon.

“For a second there I’d convinced myself that you’d left me here,” I admitted, scooting down the pew until I was beside him. Duncan’s hand was splayed out upon the seat beside him, fingers claiming the space for his own. Before I took my seat, he removed his claim and put his hand upon his knees in offering. Without question, I sat beside him.

This relationship was only going to work if we made it amicable. I had to try, for the sake of my end goal.

“And yet here I am still, contemplating why I’m even here in the first place.” His jaw feathered, eyes narrowing in on a spot at the front of the room. I kept looking at the chiselled lines of his dirt-covered face, recognising the gleam of grease that clung to his dark hair.

“You told me to come here. Believe me, if there was a reason not to drag you for miles at my side then I’d have preferred it.”

Duncan was as stiff as a spike of steel at my side. “I wasn’t exactly in my right mind after you almost killed me.”

“Almost,” I echoed. “You know, you never did say thank you. It wouldn’t hurt you to try. Or does providing recognition to the very beings you have sworn your life to hunt not happen often?”

“You’ll get over it.” His reply was cold. It was the type of sharp tone that revealed the speaker did not wish to be spoken to.

Shame. I’m not going anywhere.

“Even in the presence of a god you are a rude bastard, Duncan Rackley.”

“Is he going to smite me for my disrespect? Come here, right now, and punish me for my lack of belief?” Duncan didn’t sound as angry as his words suggested, but the tension in his face, his twisting scar, gave the expression of someone in pain. “The answer is no. No, he will not, Robin.”

“I sense I’ve hit a nerve.” I flinched as Duncan leaned forward, gripping the edge of the pew until his knuckles were as pale as bone.

“ Severed a nerve more like,” Duncan confirmed.

I felt the urge to place a hand upon his back. The comforting thought caught me off guard. I soon realised he’d hate it and instead I kept them upon my own lap, useless and unwanted.

“You harbour a lot of hate for this place,” I said quietly. “Care to explain what it has done to you to make you feel such a way? Because from what I’ve seen, Nathanial loves you – don’t worry, I’m surprised by that too.”

Duncan’s nose scrunched as he shot me a side-eyed glare. “It’s not this place that I despise, but what it stands for. Praising a god that allows children to be left without parents. Do you not see how unfair that is? What god would see his own creations go without the love of a parent? What made me and the other children left at this doorstep any more undeserving than those who dwelled in the homes throughout this village and others?”

Duncan looked at me then. Truly looked at me. Stubble scratched across his jaw, deep, forest-green eyes shining with sadness all without the need for tears. His eyes flickered across my face as though searching for something hidden, lips parted in the promise of a secret that he did not share.

“If you do not believe in a god, then why join the Hunters?” The question haunted the silence between us. “Call me ignorant, but I see no sense in your choice.”

Duncan leaned back, blinking heavily, as my question settled over him. “The Creator promised peace, Duwar promised revenge. I picked what I felt was most just, as any young boy tormented by his parents’ death would. Sound familiar to you, Robin?”

I reared back, his words punching me in the gut.

Duncan took my moment of surprised silence to continue. It was his turn to strike a nerve. “We share something in common. I admit when you first demanded your audience with the Hand, I couldn’t help but notice how similar we are. I’ve never had the time to see your kind as more than just the means for the type of peace I required. Until you.”

I wanted to tell him that we were different, list the reasons which made him the monster, and not me. But I came up short, with not a single reason to give.

“Silence speaks louder than the guilty proclaiming their innocence.” Duncan’s voice was warm, despite what he was saying.

“I never preached my innocence,” I replied, looking down at my hands, fingers fidgeting on my lap.

“And I get the impression you are far from innocent.” Duncan stood abruptly.

“So I do scare you?” I asked, standing up beside him to block the way out. “Running away from conversation seems to be a speciality of yours.”

“I said intrigue, not fear.” Duncan smiled slowly, large hands finding themselves upon the belt around his hips. “I better go wash myself down, Duwar knows I need it. Then we are going to carry on this conversation later. No one is running this time. Not yet at least.”

Duncan stepped towards me, hands grasping my shoulders as he swivelled me out of the way. His grip was gentle, yet firm, a knowing touch with the confidence of control over another body. His toes touched mine as he shuffled past, looking down his nose at me as I glared up at him.

For a single moment, I couldn’t catch a breath.

Once Duncan had passed me and his touch was no more than a faint whisper across my arms, he spoke. “I always found this place boring. Days long and nights endless. Do me a favour, if you are up to it. Behind the altar, through the wooden door, is a room filled with wine. Nathanial was always a magpie for the stuff and will have bottles, so many he will not notice if any are missing.”

Duncan had a talent, one of distraction. Perhaps that was what set me at ease even after the tense conversation. It was impressive to recognise how Duncan could remove himself from his emotions and mask it. I wished I could do that, instead I was ruled by them, guided to make decisions that risked everything.

Perhaps I should’ve refused, demanded that he sat back down so I could understand him and, in turn, allow him to understand me better. That would have been important if we were meant to use one another to get to Lockinge. But what else was important was a distraction, and it had been far too long since I’d one of those last.

“You want me to steal holy wine from beneath the nose of a man who has shown us nothing but welcoming kindness?” I grinned as I spoke, chest warming as though I was a kid enthralled in mischievousness.

“I do indeed.” He turned on his heel, walking towards the door with a confidence that demanded attention.

Before his grubby hand reached for the doorknob, I called out a final question. “I know that the older the wine, the more potent it is. Any preference on the age or are you happy with anything?”

“Surprise me,” Duncan confirmed. “You seem to be good at doing that.”