The Vampire & Her Witch

”So, what Lady Ashlynn did in the courtyard when we arrived, when she healed Sir Tommin’s wounds,” Diarmuid said as he tugged on his neatly trimmed beard in thought. ”It felt like a miracle, and that’s the right way to think of it,” he concluded, looking to Ashlynn for confirmation.

The intention of her ritual had been pure, bestowing mercy on a man who had wronged her deeply. She’d done something wondrous, and the power that flowed from her had been so great that she hadn’t just healed the broken Templar kneeling before her; her power had encompassed the entire courtyard, easing pains, mending wounds, and soothing wounded spirits.

If that wasn’t a miracle, then Diarmuid didn’t know what was, and the framework that Ignatious introduced seemed to support that kind of interpretation. The Church would call it heresy, but in Diarmuid’s opinion, such great acts of kindness and compassion were worthy of reverence, wherever they came from.

”I dislike hearing my rituals referred to as miracles,” Ashlynn said with a slight shake of her head. ”Just as much as I dislike being addressed as ’Saintess’ by some people who have experienced my witchcraft. I’m still a person, Diarmuid. It’s enough to be respected as a ruler, I don’t need to be worshiped as a deity or the representative of one.”

Erkembalt nodded silently from his seat, reaching for his goblet of cider and taking a measured sip. The Artificer had been quiet for most of the evening, content to observe and enjoy the feast while others did the heavy work of the evening, but his expression showed approval of Ashlynn’s rejection of worship. He understood, perhaps better than most, the danger of allowing tools, even magical ones, to be mistaken for divine artifacts.

Myth and legend had a way of turning even the most ordinary of things into a sacred object, and once something was sacred, it became entirely too troublesome to deal with. People would endure horrible curses and afflictions rather than see a treasured relic destroyed, and more than once, Erkembalt had been forced to defend himself from would-be customers when he suggested destroying the ancestral treasure that was the source of their problems.

But even that was preferable to the fawning adoration of some customers who took him as an incarnation of the First Smith or something equally silly once he’d broken the curse they’d paid him to remove. What he did wasn’t miraculous; it was deeply technical, and many of the Sorcerers of Sundered Earth who hadn’t broken their vows and walked away from the ancient order could do what he did and a great deal more.

To the ignorant warriors of High Fen City’s arena, who seemed to do most of their thinking with their muscles rather than their brains, he was a savior, but Erkembalt had only ever seen himself as a repairman, setting right the things that had become broken and releasing people from the traps they’d been too entranced by to avoid blundering into.

”I’m sorry,” Diarmuid said, bowing his head in apology at Ashlynn’s rejection of the term ’miracle’ for what she did, along with the title of ’saintess’ that it seemed like some people were already eager to hang on her head.

After seeing what she was capable of, he could understand why people would feel that way, and her conduct combined with her gentle compassion, even for people who should be her enemies, to make her seem even more worthy of the title, but he respected her desire to be truthful with people, and to avoid exploiting the faith of others for her own gain.

”I meant no offense,” Diarmuid added. ”I’m just trying to sort out the details so I understand them clearly.”

”That’s part of the problem,” Ashlynn said with a heavy sigh. ”Because of the Church, people think of even the most ordinary of things as miracles bestowed by the Holy Lord of Light. But they aren’t miracles, especially when they’re performed by the majority of the Church’s clergy. The price you pay for your power is far too cruel to call what you do miraculous, Inquisitor.”

”If you’re referring to what I did in the Battle of Hanrahan,” Loman said from the far end of the table. ”That sort of sacrifice is very rare. More often, it’s the priest themselves who bears the burden of calling upon the Holy Lord of Light for a miracle.”

”Minor miracles are exhausting, but you can recover with a bit of rest,” Loman said, thinking of the countless minor miracles he’d performed as a priest in Lothian City or in the healing tents of Liam Dunn’s army. It could be exhausting work, especially if the wound he was healing was life-threatening, but he’d never considered the price to be higher than he was willing to pay.

”It’s only when the miracle grows larger that you have to pay a greater price for the Holy Lord of Light’s aid,” Loman concluded confidently as he reached out for one of the small walnut-tarts, popping it into his mouth as if to emphasize how little the cost of creating minor miracles bothered him.

In truth, his casualness was an act. He’d eaten several of the small treats, but if you asked him which ones he liked, he couldn’t even recall which ones he’d sampled or what they tasted like. He wasn’t eating because he liked the sweets, but because he needed something to do after experiencing Sir Ollie’s dark wind that gave him a sense that he was in control, even if the only thing he was in control of was the contents of his plate.

It was a feeble lifeline, but he clung to it nonetheless, because the alternative was to sit like a petulant child, and he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone at the table, particularly the dark-feathered sorcerer sitting next to him, calling him out for sulking again, not when he was feeling so brittle and fragile.

”That’s not the price I’m talking about,” Ashlynn said sadly, shaking her head at her brother-in-law, who had been so badly deceived. ”Ignatious...”