The Vampire & Her Witch

The guests had nearly all arrived, and a low hum of mutters, whispers, and occasional prayers for protection filled the great hall. But while the people gathered at Dame Sybyll’s summons all knew their lives would change in some way or another tonight, there were a few people for whom that change was even more imminent, and likely far more drastic.

At the front of the hall, standing just beneath the dias that held the gilded throne and several other ornate chairs, three men stood, bound in heavy iron shackles and looking like they were about to die.

Bastian Hanrahan looked nervously around the hall, surreptitiously watching people file in while he kept his head bowed low and his hands clasped together. His posture resembled that of a well-trained dog who had been very loudly told ’Bad dog! No bones!’ His shoulders were slumped, and even when he shifted, he never strayed from the spot on the floor where he’d been placed. And all the while, he kept glancing toward the doors as if he was waiting for his master to return and tell him that all had been forgiven.

His father, Ian, by contrast, scowled about the room with his lips pursed tightly together and his brows lowered so far that his dark eyes could barely be seen. He very pointedly faced away from his eldest son, turning his attention instead to the people who had once bowed and scraped before him, meeting the gazes of each and every one of them as if he could see into their hearts.

Some gave him a grim but reassuring nod, as if to say that they stood by him still and would speak up for him. Others turned away from him in shame, clearly intending to leap to the coattails of the next powerful patron to come along. The worst ones, however, were the ones that looked at him with an open, gloating sneer, as if they were pleased to watch him tumble from his lofty throne to face justice that was so rarely meted out against the members of the aristocracy.

But where the looks Ian Hanrahan received ran the gamut between strained pity and outright gloating, the looks directed to the final member of the trio in chains were universally uncomfortable, if they were willing to look at him at all.

While the Hanrahan father and son had taken advantage of their cousin’s generous offer to wash themselves and dress in fresh clothing before they stood to face her accusations, Loman Lothian had done no such thing. He stood as straight and proud as an arrow in his torn and bloodstained robes. He refused any healing from the demon who had wounded him, choosing instead to pray to the Holy Lord of Light for a miracle of restoration.

What he’d received left him tired, worn, but free of obvious injuries as he stood in the great hall that just hours ago had hailed him as their savior. But as calm as he looked on the outside, inside, his heart trembled and shook, and the last words he’d heard from the diminutive witch echoed again and again through his ears.

”We can forgive you for what you did to Lord Jalal,” Heila said as she bound his wrists. ”We can forgive any number of our soldiers that you killed because this is war, and soldiers kill each other in war. But we can’t forgive you for killing your own people,” she said as she looked at the withered, crumpled bodies of the fallen acolytes before looking over the ramparts toward the west gate plaza.

”We can’t forgive you for what you did tonight, and Dame Sybyll will judge you for your crimes,” Heila told him. ”If you survive tonight, I promise to bring you to an Inquisitor who can teach you a better way to find your faith, but compared to Diarmuid,” she said with a sigh. ”You may be more powerful, but your struggle will be much harder than his, assuming you live to begin it.”

It wasn’t hard for Loman to imagine a demon choosing to condemn him. They were mortal enemies and he’d slain many of them tonight. Condemnation was the least of what he should have expected. But to be condemned for the humans who had succumbed to the miracle he invoked rather than for the demons it slew... That was something he’d never expected, and her words cut deeper into his soul than he’d ever imagined the words of a demon could.

But as much as Loman wanted to sink into a night of rest, solitude, and prayer to sort out the countless questions that swirled in his mind like shards of glass slipping through his fingers, he wasn’t going to be allowed that luxury.

The time had come, the benches were full of spectators, and even the walls of the hall were lined with people who had nowhere to sit. There would be no more delays, and no savior rushing to his rescue. Instead, a loud voice at the back of the hall boomed out from the muzzle of a claw demon who dressed in harlequin-patterned livery in midnight blue and emerald green, as though he were a servant of a wealthy noble and not a demon who had arrived in this hall amidst conquest and bloodshed.

”Stand and kneel!” the doorman called, pausing long enough for the people assembled in the hall to find their feet and kneel in the narrow aisles between rows of benches. A few moments of scraping furniture and awkward wobbling later, his voice echoed off the walls of the great hall again.

”Presenting, Dame Sybyll Hanrahan. Daughter of Baron Brighton Hanrahan. Progeny of the Harbinger of Death. Crimson Knight of Airgead Mountain. Ruler of Hanrahan by right of Birth and Blood,” the doorman said, pausing after each impressive title to allow the audience to feel the weight of it before he continued on to the next.

All eyes turned to the entrance to the great hall, where the broken oak and wrought iron doors had been removed, leaving only the gaping doorway where everyone expected to see the famed Crimson Knight.

No one, however, was prepared for the crimson-haired woman with bone-white skin who stepped out of the corridor before pausing in the entryway.

The wounds that marred her perfectly sculpted features were nowhere to be seen as her crimson eyes swept over the crowd. Even though the few thimblefulls of blood Heila had been able to offer her were only enough for superficial healing, the Willow Witch understood well how important this moment was to Sybyll, and she was able to give the disfigured vampire a gift of healing that Nyrielle’s previous progeny were never able to imagine when they’d faced Templars and Inquisitors during the War of Undying Demons or the Brothers’ War.

Now, Sybyll looked like a vision of strength and feminine perfection as she glided down the long aisle at the center of the great hall. Despite the winter chill, the sleeves of her rich, burgundy gown were made entirely of a light lace that revealed the toned musculature of her pale arms. Brightly polished garnets and flecks of obsidian glittered in the light of the great hall, covering the entirety of her bodice and trailing all the way down to her lush hips before turning into hundreds of twinkling points of glittering light scattered across her dark skirts like stars in the night sky.

She wore no necklace, nor any rings hanging from her ears, but a single, unmistakable signet ring on her right hand announced her identity to the people of the hall even more loudly than the doorman had.

Everyone had seen the reproduction of the lost Hanrahan signet ring, but few had seen the original, produced by the king’s own jewelers in the Royal Capital. Now, the impeccable craftsmanship and the clearly visible maker’s mark on the side of the ring added yet another layer of credibility to Dame Sybyll’s claims, and many in the audience who still harbored doubts felt them slipping away.

Not a single person spoke as Sybyll ascended the dais to take her seat on the throne, looking out over the assembled people and slowly meeting each of their gazes before she moved on to the next person. Many of them were people she knew, even if they’d never known her as anything other than a visitor, a customer, a passerby, or a patron. But she knew them, and they knew her, and she could feel the wave of recognition rippling through the hall like a half-spoken greeting, welcoming her home.

”Ye may raise, but do no sit yet,” she said with a smile as she greeted her people at last. ”I’ve returned ta’ me father’s home, but I didn’a return alone. I needed help, an’ I’ll need help now ta’ see justice done. So cheer fer me friends an’ allies,” she said as a genuine smile formed on her lips, revealing only the faintest hint of her fangs. ”An’ show them that a bit o’ snow won’t turn the hearts o’ Hanrahan cold...”