The Lineage
(Part One of the Life of Iliayne Senefeld)

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One
The Child From Cerrey

IT IS WELL into the night when the guards arrive at the monastery, a boy leashed between them, near death and dragged along behind their horses. He has long since given up the fight, succumbing to the dull numbness of shock. His mind is a void, and but a single thought away from oblivion.

Will they kill me tonight? I don’t want to die...

The monastery gates are barred to the night. With unneeded force, the captain of the guard strikes the bell tacked to the high wall and peers into the shadows expectantly. The hall remains dark, where only the wind stirs the empty yard. After a moment of strained impatience, he once again bares his wrath on the bell, this time knocking it clean off of its bracket.

“Where the bloody hell is everyone??” He shouts, turning to the rest. “You’d think they’d keep a watchman for us, at very least.”

“Patience, Vlad. It must be past three by now,” another guard reproves, rather boldly. “They wouldn’t expect us—“

The captain cuts him off vehemently. “It is a matter of God’s work, is what it is, and if I am kept to wait another minute, I’ll whack the beast’s head off myself. I’d think that all that has happened is more than a decent excuse to keep one bloody bastard awake long enough...” By this time a sleepy-looking monk has come to the gate, regarding them sullenly in the light of his oil lamp. The captain shuts his mouth with a snap.

“Good evening.” The Brother says stiffly, rousing to attention at the sight of the boy. “Ah, yes. Forgive us that you were made to wait. Word was received of the appalling business south in Cerrey and your coming, but under the circumstances we did not expect you until sometime tomorrow morning.”

“This is pressing business that couldn’t wait the night out. Get on with it, then.”

The Brother’s visage hardens into a practiced mask. “Enter, please.” The ancient gates are flung open wide enough to allow the horses passage into the yard, and while the Brother lights similar lamps around the perimeter with his back markedly toward them, the guards roughly rouse their charge.

“This is the child of the witch,” the captain proclaims, dragging him up by his collar.

“So I had surmised.” His eyes drift to the monastery’s southern wall and beyond to flickering lights in the distance. By now the pyre had fallen to embers, its captive to ash. “So you killed the woman after all.” He adds softly.

“Indeed, justice was served, although the father is yet to be caught. We were strictly instructed to bring the boy here after he witnessed the execution, though this is certainly not the place for such a creature...”

The Brother ignores him. “Bring him out of the cold. How long have you been dragging him along like a sack of flour?” Then turning to the boy his icy mask melts away to concern, “You must be freezing. And exhausted.” He bequeaths the men a dirty look. “Well? Let him off the leash, he’s not a dog.” There is a moment of hesitancy, and then the captain turns away with disgust, spurring his horse to the gate once more.

“Release him.” With an ungentle toss, the child falls whimpering onto the flagstones before the Brother and is quickly scooped up into his rough brown night coat. Blood quickly stains the fabric black.

“That is all, I assume. And now, if you don’t mind, it is late and the child’s wounds must be immediately attended to. Good night sirs.” He dismisses them coldly, turning to enter the darkness of the hall.

“Coddle the monster, if you will!" The Captain sputters, "But know very well what you comfort, monk, is the spawn of the devil! His father’s side, all of them... blood Necromancers! Witnesses...”

“Salvation is not denied to the innocent within these walls, as it appears to be elsewhere, sir. We deal in mercy, not prejudice.”

“I tell you, his fate is already set for him by generations of his vile ancestors! And what if his father returns for him, to turn him...?”

Slowly the Brother circles to face them again, his face a placid void. “The scriptures of the God in which I believe write that there is no such thing as fate, that all men create their own destiny. What say yours?” The guard stirs uneasily, looking back and forth between them. There is a fierce instant where the Brother and the captain lock eyes, and the captain wishes nothing more than for the boy to morph into a terrible monster within the monk’s arms and devour him. The moment passes, and without another word, the captain spurs out of the yard and down the looping road back to Cerrey; the remainder of the guard is quick to follow.