The Vampire & Her Witch

The chapel in Lothian Manor had been many things to many people over the long years since it had been built. Cellach Lothian had resented the need for a chapel on the manor’s grounds at all after the vast sums of money that had flowed from Lothian coffers into the Church’s hands to build their Great Temple in the heart of Lothian City.

The pledge had secured him Templars and Inquisitors by the dozen for his assault on the Vale of Mists. Yet, while he knew full well that he’d never have claimed the victory his father failed to achieve during the Second Crusade without the Church’s aid, the price he’d paid left a bitter taste on his tongue and he’d taken a small measure of joy in an act of petty vengeance against the Church when he ordered Lothian Manor’s chapel to be built behind the stables where the summer sun would produce a truly spectacular aroma that drove away all but the most faithful.

The building itself had been small and narrow with only a view of the rising sun from its single wall of stained glass windows, but it had been enough for the most pious among the household staff to take time away from their labors to pray or seek the counsel of a priest.

During Odhran Lothian’s rule, things between the Lothian family and the Church changed dramatically, and one of Odhran’s first orders when he was old enough to take his father’s place as Marquis had been to tear down the stables and move them to the far side of the inner bailey while High Priest Leon Lothian commissioned an expansion of the original chapel, doubling its size and adding a wall of stained glass that faced west toward the setting sun.

By the time of the War of Four Templars, the chapel in Lothian Manor had become a hub of daily life. Services were held at dawn, midday, and dusk, and every member of the household staff was required to attend one of the three every single day. That practice had endured until Bors Lothian took the throne and put an end to it.

”Anyone whose faith is so thin that they need a daily reminder of the Holy Lord of Light’s existence should give up the act,” Bors declared. ”And anyone who is so pious that they desire to spend hours in prayer every day of their lives should don the robes of an acolyte and follow their life’s true calling.”

Services were still held for a time, but attendance plummeted until the resident priest found that he could no longer justify lighting all of the lamps and burning so many candles when the only people filling the pews most days were laborers looking for an excuse to escape their work at midday service or troublemakers hoping to reform their image by performing piety.

This morning, however, was vastly different from any the chapel had witnessed in a hundred years since its foundations were laid.

In the hour before dawn, High Priest Aubin had watched as a steady stream of people filed into the chapel that had long ago fallen into disuse and neglect. When he apologized that only the pews in the front were truly fit for sitting on, Lady Tosha Saliou had surprised him by offering to take up cleaning rags to restore the place to what it should be.

”Everyone needs a bit of comfort this morning,” Tosha told the white-haired priest. ”Some more than others. More than that, after last night, I think there are several people who would be grateful for something to do... A way to feel like we’ve helped.”

”Isn’t that right, Riwal?” Tosha asked her son as she placed a hand on his shoulder, more to reassure herself that he was still with her and fine after the events of last night than because the rebellious young squire wanted any comfort from his mother.

”Mother’s right,” Riwal said, nodding his head obediently. ”We’re happy to help.”

And just like that, a dozen more people had stepped forward, taking up mops and brooms or cleaning rags to clear away the dust and knock down the cobwebs that had collected in the corners.

Soft morning light from a sun that refused to cast off its cover of clouds had begun to brighten the room, illuminating the three icons that defined the stained glass windows of the eastern wall. A brilliant, flaming sword cast a reddish-orange glow on the pews before it at the front of the hall, while the back of the hall was bathed in the white and gold light of the shield and radiant sun. In the center, the emerald light of rolling hillsides gave way to the azure of the sky and a single golden beam of a rising sun that split the chapel in two.

The icons were meant to pay homage to the Templars, the Inquisition, and the Lothian March, three forces united as one to overcome the threat of witches, demons, and the wickedness that lay within the hearts of men. On any other day, High Priest Aubin would have found comfort in each of those things, but today, he found himself struggling not to flinch away from the light...

Much as he imagined his newest friend would, he thought with a snort that ruffled his long flowing mustache and beard.

The people who had survived last night’s horror had come to this chapel in the morning seeking a kind of solace of the spirit that few things besides faith could provide, but they were hardly alone in that. Once Lady Ashlynn’s forces had begun to clear the Great Hall, sending the manor’s guests back to their rooms to receive their meals, Aubin’s feet had brought him here, and not long after, he was joined by the youthful-looking High Inquisitor who had fought at Ashlynn’s side.

”Hello, Brother Aubin,” Ignatious had said when he entered the chapel to find the old priest standing before the altar, looking lost as he searched for a prayer or piece of wisdom that would ease his troubled spirit.

”You look like you need a friend,” Ignatious said as he took a seat in the front row of pews. ”If it helps to talk, I can listen. If you need help understanding, I can do that too,” he offered as he gestured to a space on the pew beside him.

”I, I confess to being more than a little lost,” Aubin said as his shoulders slumped in defeat. ”I’d like to speak with you, but first, a question weighs on me,” he said as he tried to find the courage to face the question that had burned hotter and hotter in his heart ever since the fighting stopped and he had time to reflect on the things he’d seen and heard.

”Brother Ignatious,” Aubin said with some difficulty. ”Saintess Ashlynn said that it took you eighty years to find your way out of the darkness,” Aubin said slowly. ”At first, I thought that you had been named for a famous Inquisitor of old, the legendary hero of a generation who fought in the Brothers’ War. I thought you might be that great man’s descendant, but...”

”No, I have no descendants, and it’s unlikely that I ever will,” Ignatious said with a slow smile that revealed the tips of his fangs.

”I am that same Inquisitor,” Ignatious said. ”The one who ’died’ for capturing and interrogating the progeny of the Eldritch Lady of the Vale. My ’legend’ was written in pain and blood and fire, Brother Aubin. It’s nothing to be celebrated.”

”Then, then you...” Aubin stammered as his eyes locked onto the fangs that shone brilliantly white against Ignatious’s crimson lips. ”You’re a, a...”

”A vampire,” Ignatious said, not bothering to hide the truth from the High Priest who would learn it soon anyway. ”If you want to understand, I can help you, Brother Aubin,” Ignatious said. ”But you’ll have to face a greater struggle than you’ve ever known if you’re going to grapple with the truths I’ve found beyond the temple’s walls...”