Excerpt from Saint of the Shattered Veil

With my collection of dark fantasy short stories, Saint of the Shattered Veil, releasing on 21 April, I thought it time to provide an excerpt. This is one scene from the tale, “The Lost Vale.”

Beyond the flickering of the arcane lights struggling against the shadows of the Gloomshade Market, the passageways of Coldwraith Alley plunged deeper into the darkness beneath Eldori. Moisture slicked every surface, and moss and lichen covered the cracking stone walls. The farther Anya ventured from the market, the more infrequent the arcane torches, struggling to illuminate the pervasive, reeking darkness, became.

Anya’s armored boots echoed against the cracked and crumbling stone as she traveled with measured steps. On occasion, bits of dirt and stone clanged as they fell onto her ornate helm. Narrow alleys snaked off from the corridors. Each teemed with whispered conspiracies and furtive exchanges. Shadowed individuals of dubious trustworthiness flitted in and out of shadowed alcoves and from behind stained and tattered curtains, their voices low and desperate as they negotiated deals with a mixture of urgency and duplicity. Curiosity drew their attention to her, but when they recognized her armor and mace, they averted their gazes and then darted back into the shadows.

As she navigated the narrowing, winding passages of Coldwraith Alley, the faint scent of roses, violets, and incense cut through the stench of decay and damp, mossy earth. Anya paused. Seraphine wore rose and violet perfume, and the incense spoke of magical rites. Given the reputation of Coldwraith Alley, that suggested dark magic. Magic that would draw Seraphine Duskwhisper beneath the surface, not for power but for her dangerous curiosity.

Anya followed this scent along an alley and found herself pausing before a narrow archway hemmed in by ivy and crumbling stone. The air was colder and drier here. As she passed beyond the arch, Anya observed a small circle of huddled figures, their faces obscured by hoods and shadows, conversing in a murmur easily lost amid the dripping water and rustling of something unseen.

Anya lingered near the archway, attuning her senses to the shifting sounds. The figures spoke of a gathering, a congregation at a ruined basilica where ancient betrayals and shed blood—sacrifices, murder, none were certain—signed a pact with a force of nature, unknown and unknowable, a being of terrible power and inscrutable motives. A chill slithered down her spine; a gathering in such a location could only portend trouble.

Anya left the alley and resumed her progress. The corridors twisted and turned, becoming less angular and more serpentine as the cracked stone became crumbling dust atop rich, black soil. Fewer and fewer arcane torches flickered. Shadows lengthened and thickened as they danced. The oppressive dampness seeped beneath her armor, soaking her arming clothes as tiny rivulets of water traced paths along the floral filigree etched into her breastplate. And then Anya paused as a sound, low and mournful, a dripping of water and the distant, echoing toll of a cracked bell, cut through the silence.

She continued along her way.

Then, a single arcane lantern’s light, solid and steady, called her toward a chamber off of the narrowing passage. The chamber was modest of size, its walls rough-hewn and scarred with the markings of time. But it was in the far corner, seated at a crude wooden table laden with documents and an assortment of unusual objects was a woman, clad in rich fabrics, violet and ebony, exuding an aura of control, of command.

As the echoes of Anya’s steps and the crimson glow of her mace entered the chamber, the woman turned. Her porcelain skin, fiery hair, and emerald eyes—sharp and calculating that glittered in the lantern light—marked her as an aristocrat. Yet, despite her elegant appearance, she had an unmistakable edge to her, showing in the corners of her mouth and depths of her eyes, warning that beneath the veneer of refined nobility lay a heart hardened, searching, desirous for what it ought not desire.

“Well, the legendary Veiled Rose, here,” she said in a voice cool and measured, each syllable articulated with authority.

Anya inclined her head slightly. Her voice remained calm but laced with an undertone of urgency. “And you are?”

The woman returned the gesture. “It surprises me you do not recognize me, Veiled Rose, but perhaps were I adorned as follows…” She waved a hand, and a shadow formed before her face. As it dissipated, a velvet columbina mask of red, black, and purple diamonds stitched with golden thread adorned the upper half of her face.

“Baroness Ravenscar.”

Selene Ravenscar nodded. The mask marked her as one of the Marionettes, a guild of thespians and artists whose charisma and courtliness earned them a seat on the Council of Nine. Courtiers, spies, assassins. Baroness Ravenscar was not their Producer, but she was a known figure in all political, religious, and social circles. She often spoke familiarly with both Aldric Greymarch and Duchess Evernight.

“So, you do know me,” Baroness Ravenscar said, a wicked smirk dancing on her lips. “But that evokes an even greater question, noble Veiled Rose. What purpose brings you here?”

Anya crossed her arms over her chest. Her voice was even, firm, and urgent. “A lost Sister.”

That wicked smirk on Baroness Ravenscar’s lips fluttered as she chuckled. “One of yours or one from your… oh, that tone tells me one of your order has gone missing. And you seek information. Well, rumors are the lifeblood of the Alley. What is her life worth to you?”

Anya’s jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed behind her helm. Her heart quickened at the thought that the life of another could be reduced to a business transaction. Baleful magic demanded payment in life and soul eventually, and politics was baleful magic with indirect payment and hatred veiled in honeyed words.

Her muscles tensed. And then the Veiled Rose asked, “Your price?”

The baroness licked her lips. She sauntered toward Anya with an arrogance expected of her order’s leadership. Her voice shifted into a hushed whisper as she said, “A promise. In the future, when I have need of your services, you will provide them. I think that should be acceptable to you. No?”

Anya exhaled and then swallowed hard. Providing aid to those in need was one of the three vows she took as a Veiled Sister. And yet, there was an edge of danger to this request. This was not a request for Anya to hold to her vows. She knew that. This was demanding a contract be signed with no payment specified until it was demanded of her. This was a sword that would hang over her head, a weapon cutting at her very nature, and a most dangerous game. And still, Katyrena needed to be found.

Anya’s words were slow, precise, and clear. “As my vow demands.”

A dark, predatory chuckle danced from Baroness Ravenscar’s smirking lips. “As I expected. I will tell you this, Veiled Rose, there have long been whispers in the darkness of a black moon night that farther along and deeper down is a ruined basilica, etched in blood. This basilica they say has become a baptismal site for those wishing to cast aside old allegiances in exchange for the forging of newer, darker pacts—pacts with powers unnamed or long forgotten. Whispers say on days when the vengeance of the heavens rain and thunder upon Eldori a congregation of those desperate to trade betrayal for power. If your lost veil has descended here, then I would suspect her disappearance is but a single thread in a larger, more intricate tapestry of ambition, treachery, and the unholy truth of our pasts.”

Anya’s heart choked the breath in her throat. She swallowed hard, releasing a shuddering breath as she did. Her heart pounded. These words suggested more than defection. They hinted at a realignment with baleful powers. Her use of the word baptism spoke of a new life in a congregation after power regardless of what it cost.

“What else?” Anya asked, her voice a choked whisper.

Baroness Ravenscar’s eyes twinkled with a wicked, but not quite malicious, glee. Her voice darkened into a tone of unseelie seduction. “Not for that price, Veiled Rose. But know this: any forces conspiring to lure one of your noble order into darkness are not content with isolated malefic acts. You have slaughtered many beasts, monsters, and fiends to earn the reputation afforded your name, but the darkness before you now is more pervasive, more vast, and more subtle than any you have ever faced.”

A heavy silence descended upon them. The distant sound of dripping water, likely caused by rusted sewer pipes and the unrelenting storm above. Baroness Ravenscar’s words resonated with fear and rumor. Perhaps Aldric was incorrect, but perhaps his falsehood was preferable to the truth. Perhaps the truth was less unfortunate. Perhaps Junior Sor Katyrena had died at the hands of these powers. She would be mourned, but death with honor was preferable to betrayal.

Anya nodded. “Thank you.”

Baroness Ravenscar nodded. She returned to her chair by the table, her purpose in these dark corridors still unknown. And then said, “No, Veiled Rose. Thank you.”

Her mind darkened by this encounter, and her soul begging Elysia for Katyrena’s honor to be maintained, Anya Petrova retraced her path along the narrow passages in the depths of Coldwraith Alley. Each echoing footfall was a mediation on fear and duty as she contemplated what lay ahead. An ancient basilica, a once-holy place, now soaked in the blood of unknown and unnumbered ancient betrayals, now the home of those who seek power and care not for the price. And these bargains, the bargains that may have seduced one of her order, the bargains that drew her farther into the darkness beneath Eldori, threatened the precarious peace above.

Her search continued, leading her deeper into that part of the underbelly rarely trodden by those who value the safety of their reputation, person, and soul. Those selling consumable flesh—some for eating, some for grafting, and some for pleasure—hushed their dealings as she passed. Similarly, those selling hazebush, fiend weed, and blast dust silenced their conversations in her wake, and a soul shark, a necromancer offering loans demanding years of undead service if one could not repay, slammed his door as the crimson glow of her mace neared his establishment.

Murmurs refusing to cease at her approach drew Anya to a shadowed recess near a collapsed archway. Amid the desolation and decay of forgotten dreams and the silent testimony of ancient sorrows, a solitary figure kneeled over a makeshift altar of broken stone and tarnished silver. His presence was as spectral as Vespera Grimm’s, a fallen relic of a past life struggling to come to terms with a shattered faith and no redemption in sight.

Upon hearing his trembling, pleading prayer to Elysia, Anya recognized his voice. She approached with softness and said, “A long way from Atheria, Lord Marshall Mortbane.”

The old man turned, and Anya’s heart broke as his eyes, clouded with the weight of his own transgressions, searched her for recognition. When he spoke, his voice was a rasping whisper, a far cry from the powerful baritone she remembered from childhood. “How does the Veiled Rose know my name?”

Anya nodded. Of course, he did not recognize her beyond the moniker she had earned from her veiled appearance. She was but a child of thirteen when Atheria fell. He knew the epithet given to her by those she had helped. After a moment of silence, she said, “You advised my father, Ser Casimir.”

He regarded her with some confusion and disbelief. After all, the Petrova manor was burned by the Black Chain, and the family was beaten, violated, and slain. As he pondered her claim, his eyes searched for clues, clues she could not reveal without breaking her vows.

“A bold claim for one who vowed to never reveal her face in public,” he said. “If you are one of his daughters, what have you to offer besides his name?”

Anya loosened the straps on her gorget, allowing her to lift the locket bearing her family’s coat of arms, a rose surrounded by burnished thorns, and small images of her parents inside. She handed it to Mortbane. Tears glassed in the corners of his eyes as his gaze rested on the stern but fair visage of Ser Casimir Petrova. His heavy sigh suggested the flooding of his mind with memories. He closed the locket, reading the inscription on the back as he did.

Anya Ylsianne Petrova.

Lord Marshall Mortbane sighed as he returned the locket. A wistful but melancholic smile graced his face for a brief instant. “Little Anya—not so little anymore. Forgive me, but we believed all of you slain. And to find you have taken vows stricter than your father’s and to have become the beacon of light he wished all of us to be. Perhaps the gods do show mercy. But why… why are you in Coldwraith Alley?”

Anya returned the locket to its place around her neck and tightened her gorget. “A Veiled Sister has gone missing.”

“Sad news,” he said. “I have seen none of your order in these forsaken depths, which is good for her, I suppose. But I have heard whispers of rumors amid the gossip among those selling in the Gloomshade Market, particularly those hiring mercenaries and the poor from Cinderfoot Hollow to extract ancient artifacts from the old observatory, Gloamist Spire.”

“A spire beneath the city?” Anya asked.

He nodded. “The Circle of Ash has long mourned the assault on its riches that caused the foundations to shatter and the tower crash into Coldwraith Alley. There are those among the merchants who believe, or at least ponder, a connection between a recent appearance by a Veiled Sister and the search for those artifacts.”

“Where is this spire?” She asked. Anya’s mind quivered in fear at the implications of his words. She had already learned of ancient powers beneath the surface, but this information, from someone she and her father trusted, suggested ancient powers desired by those who eschew morality, as evidenced by their willingness to sacrifice the poor to obtain these powers, once resided above the city’s surface.

“The path you ask me to provide is dangerous. And though your reputation declares you as competent and capable, these artifacts are, according to rumors, remnants of an age when the ancient powers, the divines, the primordials walked among us, when some were buried on our soil, a time when the lines between sanctity and mortality, between mortality and damnation, were as thin as a hair’s breadth. Those who study the arcane and ancient seek these artifacts for the raw, primordial power contained therein. Those who seek power believe them a path to contact entities older, more powerful, and less safe than the Bale Lords. As your father’s former adviser, I advise you to forsake this path… please.”

These words gave Anya pause. Ancient powers, unholy pacts, and the seduction of dark power had been warnings given to her by each person she had spoken to while seeking Junior Sor Katyrena. The Lord Marshall’s words rang true. Abandoning this quest was prudent, but it would require breaking her vow.

Anya sighed and then asked, “Where is this spire?”

He sighed. “As single-minded as your father. Very well. Return to the path you followed to arrive at my little hovel. You will come to a place where the road forks. Take the left fork. You will find the crumbling ruins of the Gloamist Spire.”

“My thanks.” Anya inclined her head in respect and then turned to leave.

“I will pray for you, Lady Petrova,” he said. And as she left his sight, he added, “Elysia protect you more than she protected your father.”

So, what is Saint of the Shattered Veil? It’s a collection of ten dark fantasy short pieces following the adventures of the warrior nun Anya, “The Veiled Rose,” Petrova and her void-touched sorceress lover and friend Seraphine Duskwhisper. Those who enjoyed the tales of Fafnir & the Grey Mouser, the Elric Saga of Michael Moorcock, The Witcher, Castlevania, and Dark Souls will like these tales.

You can pre-order both paperback and ebook now!

-Robin