The Vampire & Her Witch

The Lothian Court, and perhaps the entire Great Hall, held their breath as they watched Lady Ashlynn reach for the Holy Flame Blade.

Everyone thought they knew what was about to happen. The Marchioness would place her hands on the hilt of the weapon and give the formal order to Ignatious to act as her headsman and claim the life of Abbot Recared. That wasn’t the moment they were waiting for.

The moment they were waiting for was the moment that a High Inquisitor became a simple headsman to execute a member of his own order. No one living had ever seen such a thing, but they were certain that it wouldn’t be an ordinary execution.

But Lady didn’t rest her fingers on the hilt of the Holy Flame Blade in Ignatious’s hands, or even hover above it while she gave her orders. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt wrapped in braided gold wire, gripping it firmly and confidently as she drew the blade from its ornate sheath.

”Merciful Lord of Light, she, she isn’t going to... to... Is she?” one of the captive Inquisitors stammered. Few knew what it took to wield a Holy Flame Blade better than the Inquisition. Fewer still knew that, when he arrived from the Holy City, Inquisitor Diarmuid had visited their Abbey during the summer, carrying both a Holy Flame Blade and a Holy Light Blade intended to test the most devout of the march.

The Church had celebrated a miracle when the newest Templar, Owain’s former personal guard, Sir Tommin, had turned a Holy Light Blade into a shining beacon of divine light. In that instant, he’d gone from the newest, most junior Templar in the march to one of the most important.

But no one had possessed the righteous fury necessary to ignite the Holy Flame Blade, and the sword Diarmuid had brought to the march returned to the Holy City unclaimed when he returned to make his report to his superiors.

Everyone in the Great Hall knew that only the truly faithful could ignite a Holy Flame Blade, but only the Inquisitors in the Great Hall knew the searing pain that would accompany making an attempt and failing. The instant Lady Ashlynn drew the sword, she would be subjected to the Holy Lord of Light’s test, and if she failed, if she offended the Holy Lord of Light by doing what no woman had ever done in the history of the Church, then the flames of the blade would reduce her to little more than bones and ash.

But while the Inquisition unconsciously scooted away from the sword in Ashlynn’s hand, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe, Ashlynn’s gaze held no deep reverence for the blade. It was a tool, one she knew she would need tonight if she was going to overcome Owain’s accusation of witchcraft.

In the barren, frozen wasteland of the High Pass, she’d struggled against the weapon. In the end, she’d been forced to smash past its resistance to her with a tremendous amount of energy drawn from the bare bones of the earth. Like smashing a lock with a rock, it had worked, but the sword left her hand and forearm covered in burns that she hadn’t been able to heal until she returned to the forest.

This time, however, there was no resistance. The steel sang in her hands as it came free of the sheath, and Ashlynn responded to its challenge with the fury she’d kept locked in her heart the entire night.

The Holy Flame Blade demanded a righteous fury, so Ashlynn allowed everything she felt about the Inquisition to flow into the blade. Like pouring oil on an open flame, Ashlynn opened her heart and let loose everything she’d felt when she learned how Percivus had tormented her sister. She added years of resentment from living in fear of the Inquisition and her hot, fresh contempt of the Abbot, who had run his abbey like a crime syndicate.

She poured all of those things into the intricately patterned steel, and more, along with the tiniest thread of energy drawn from wood as tinder for the flames... and then, the Holy Flame Blade ignited.

Pure golden flame rippled across the surface of the blade, flowing from Ashlynn’s hand to the tip of the sword and enveloping the blade in a dancing, writhing flame far brighter than the candles in the gilded chandeliers above or the roaring flames in the Great Hall’s hearths.

When Ignatious drew the blade, his flames were gentle and subdued, burning brightly while looking almost docile and completely under his command. Ashlynn’s flames were something else entirely.

The flames seethed and writhed along the length of the blade, and here and there, whisps of golden flame floated free, as if they couldn’t wait to consume the target of her rage. Heat flowed along with the flames, and everyone standing on the dias suddenly felt as though they’d stepped outside on a warm summer day as Ashlynn held the blade aloft.

At the Blackwell table, Aubin’s hand clutched the pendant hanging from his neck as though it were the only thing holding him upright. His heart thundered in his chest, and his eyes opened wide, refusing to blink lest he miss even a moment of what was happening.

He’d come here tonight prepared for many things. He’d come prepared to preside over the most tragic wedding of his long career as he watched Lady Jocelynn bow down to an inescapable fate. He’d been prepared to rebuke Lord Owain in the hopes of mitigating the suffering that lay ahead of Lady Jocelynn, and he’d been prepared to remind the lords of the march that, no matter how heavy his hand was, there were forces that even their marquis would have to bow down to.

He had never expected to see one of those forces appear before his very eyes... but the instant he saw the flames enveloping the sword in Lady Ashlynn’s hand, everything suddenly made sense. Her impossible survival. Her return, here and now, at the most critical moment, as if the Holy Lord of Light himself had guided her here. The portents and signs of great change that he’d seen in the stars...

All of it suddenly made sense, and Aubin dropped to both knees when he finally understood.

”Saintess...”