Chapter 59 | Sephania
Sephania
It’s the day of Father Cullard’s execution. Sorry, Archpriest Cullard.
He can style himself however he wishes—the voice of the True on this mortal plane; the herald of war against the Damned; the authority on faith in Nuhav.
I’ll always remember him as the piece of shit who raised me as a child pickpocket and ruined the lives of so many of his flock before and after me—with people like Sister Cyprilis coming to mind—starting all the way from his humble beginnings as an abbot at the House of the True.
The last name on my list.
For a despicable man like Cullard, so filled with sin it’s present in every finger and toe he still possesses, an easy death is too simple. He was given a public trial after the truths of his betrayals to his people came to light, and he was summarily charged to die a slow and agonizing demise.
The Nuhavians have been a people living in fear and bloodshed for decades, and now they want a vessel to exact their revenge and get out all their aggression and frustrations.
Father Cullard is the perfect vessel for this cause.
The perfect scapegoat for the people to watch suffer, before drinking over his grave and making merriment on his corpse.
Then it’s back to work.
The execution takes place in the central town square close to the Temple of the True, a little bit of irony for the man.
An audience of thousands swell the streets, pushed into every nook and cranny, peeking out from alleys and storefronts, hanging out from windows and rafters, sitting on rooftops because there isn’t enough room for everyone on the ground.
The crowd cheers and yells and jeers as Cullard is dragged through the crowd by Captain Rirth and his Silverknights—men who see Cullard’s death as a path to redemption to their own cause.
Rotten fruit and rocks are thrown at the bedraggled priest, who is dressed in the same dingy robe he once wore as an abbot.
I recognize faces in the audience. Grown men and women who were once part of his flock, molested and hurt and taught cruelty and thievery before being tossed aside when they were no longer useful.
It’s a somber moment for me . . . but utterly satisfying to watch Cullard get his just desserts as he’s lead through the procession. And I know he will get no last-minute reprieve from a gallant rescuer like Vanison did with Indokkus.
I’m standing against the railing of a second-story balcony, in a packed two-story tavern. My mother stands next to me, watching the goings-on with more dismay than me.
“This is quite a grisly affair, dear daughter,” she murmurs, eyes peeled across the wide town square before us.
We have to speak loudly to hear each other, even so close together, because of all the yelling and hollering.
“And you orchestrated”—she gestures vaguely at nothing—“all this?”
“The people did. I am simply the channel they use to voice their opinions, Mother.”
Rirth begins speaking from the raised stage at the front of the square, reading off the many atrocities of the doomed man. It’s too loud and he’s too far for me to hear anything, but this is more about the spectacle than anything else.
The people certainly deserve a spectacle, and so does Father Cullard.
“You know,” Jinneth muses, tapping the railing in front of us, “your father was hung.”
I blink at her, turning my head, raising my brow.
“Hanged?” She shrugs. “Well, both.”
I choke out a laugh. She smiles demurely.
“And now you have the Iron Sister at your side,” I say.
Her face brightens as she stares forward, off into the distance, remembering memories I’ll never understand, surely. “Yes, I do.” She puffs out her cheeks. “And let me tell you, Keffa is something else. A different breed.”
“I’ve seen how she fights, that wild old biddy. Tried to protect you when that winged bastard came to steal you away, didn’t she?”
While we nonchalantly converse, Father Cullard is busy being drawn and quartered. Not enough to kill him, but just to make his squeals and screams of agony rise into the stifling summer day, above the din of the audience.
“She sure did,” Jinneth says dreamily. “Valiantly, too. Did you know she was a Silverknight?”
I nearly sputter, eyes widening. “What?”
“Oh yes. She doesn’t like to talk about it”—though my mother does—“but she was one of the foremost champions in Heskel Angul’s day. She comes from a long line of warriors, apparently. Not born in Nuhav, but from some faraway land.”
A loud snap and wail pierces the sky as something inside Cullard breaks.
I pout at my mother. “Fascinating. Tell me more. I know Keffa never will.”
“The first time I met her, I was at a ball with Lenaro, your father. Bloodsuckers attacked us through the windows, came at us like a wave of death. Started slaughtering people left and right.”
I cringe.
Cullard cringes harder as his broken body is now being lifted by a rope loosely tied around his neck—not enough to kill, but to make him squirm and kick and struggle. People near the front of the crowd throw more rocks, debris, and shit at him.
“Lenaro was suddenly nowhere to be seen, the coward. I was on my back, ready to die . . . and there stood the Iron Sister in front of me. Gallant, beautiful, flowing hair. I was instantly smitten. She and a few others in the crowd helped fight off the Buvers before the massacre could get out of hand.” She chuckles to herself, blushing slightly.
“Imagine my surprise? My awakening happens as death stares me in the eyes with dripping fangs.”
I let out a dreamy sigh of my own, thinking about my mates. “I can relate, Mother.”
Cullard screams again as he’s tarred and feathered, turning into a dark blob in the distance that resembles a floating, overcooked chicken.
“We never get to plan when our ‘awakening’ happens, do we?” I muse. “Imagine my surprise when I realized I desire vampires.”
She tuts a laugh. “That handsome devil of yours? I suppose he’s not so bad after all.”
“Skar saved your life,” I point out, lifting my fingers, “twice in one night!”
“Yes, but he did it for you. Not me. If it was up to him, I’d be splattered hundreds of feet at the base of that tower right now.”
“That’s true love, isn’t it?” I ponder. “Save someone you despise because they’re associated with the one you love.”
She looks offended. “You’re saying he despises me?”
I cringe. “Erm, well . . . no.”
She laughs, nodding deeply. “Only jesting, my dear. Those were wise words. I hate him too.”
“Mother!”
“What?” Jinneth throws her arms up, feigning innocence. Then she grows serious. “The important thing to me, Sephania, is that you are loved. And by so many.” She gestures at the huge crowd again, though I suspect she’s talking more directly about the four men I call my own.
Cullard, by contrast, is not currently feeling very loved. He’s getting a sword dragged down his chest to open him up, tortured every way imaginable while bloodthirsty citizens cheer on his macabre death sequence.
Yesterday, Skar asked me if I wanted him to turn Cullard, like Dimmon Plank, to keep him suffering for eternity. I replied that I couldn’t stand the thought of having to look at or think about that man longer than I had to, and that it wouldn’t be necessary, but thank you for the thought.
I suppose me and Jinneth and all the others have been so desensitized to the sheer scale of violence in Nuhav and Olhav, that seeing Cullard’s innards spill out of him in a great plopping heap, and then wrapped around his body and neck like they’re a child’s sweet treat, is just another summer day for us.
“Oh my,” Jinneth mutters, looking out and seeing Cullard’s death throes as he twitches and twirls in his noose. “Looks like it’s the climax.”
The cheering rises to a fever pitch.
A few minutes later, Father Cullard is gone, and yet the Silverknights continue blaspheming his corpse for a little while longer, just to give the audience an encore.
Sometimes, I have no idea how I’m going to turn this ravenous society of lunatics into a peaceful community. I can see now how Antones failed to make the Grimsons into a pacifist enclave.
But then I think about how my people were raised: in constant fear of a flashing dagger in an alley; a friend selling you out to a flesh-trader for a bit of coin; vampires stalking from the shadows to steal your loved ones; faithful men preying on your children.
And I say to myself, Progress isn’t a straight line. We have to start somewhere, right? That new beginning we all dream of—that peace we long for and prosperity we fight for . . . it can begin right here, right now.