The World Above the Sky by Kent Stetson Page A

filigree—at its centre a single discreet ruby, red as his Redeemer’s blood. Red as the blood of the heretic bleeding to death before him. Red as the fires of hell, which would claim her soul. God’s plan was clear to Antonio: Eugainia’s death would pay the balance. Order would be restored. Their lady dead, the resurgent Templar connivance would dissolve for good in complete disarray. The rational world of the virtuous Christ would once again prevail.
    â€œCome, Morgase.” Eugainia extended her hand. “Your ancient Goddess lies before you, here.”
    Antonio made the sign of the cross, sank to his knees, near Eugainia. “Intercede, Holy Father, on this poor child’s behalf—”
    Morgase strode to him. Antonio blocked the blow. Morgase twisted away.
    Her speech began to slur. “Cruel boys grown to murderous men. Your astonishing tale tells that through woman all evil enters the world.” She retreated to her Lady and the rock. “You torture us, burn us for witches. You slaughter our sons, rape our daughters, butcher our nurslings in your unholy wars.” She glared at Antonio. “You drove the Goddess from the earth. You and your kind. Viper! Deny it if you dare.”
    â€œThe King of Kings dispatched your pagan Gods to free the world of Goddess tyranny—”
    â€œWho would you be, you runtish puffed-up little peddler, without the power of the pope at Rome?”
    â€œYour pagan women’s sacraments were obliterated by the one true God and his one true church, at the behest of His one true Son, Christ the Lord himself.”
    â€œChrist hacked and burned our sacred groves of oak? No. It was you. Christ broke our bodies with rack and wheel? No. It was you. With hammer and spike, Christ nailed us to the bloodied gates of your unholy Papist hell? No. It was you. Roman men. Catholic men. Men! You place your foot upon our necks. You throw us a crumb— Mary, the poor bewildered mother of Christ, condemned forever, poor unwitting creature, to wipe the snotty noses of your cutthroat Christian whelps.”
    Morgase stood before Eugainia. She squatted, cupped her Lady’s face. “But we’re still here; aren’t we, My Lamb? We rose and still we rise through Phillip the Cruel and grim Pope Clement’s smoke, up to the uncharred air where God and the Goddess make us whole again.”
    Morgase lost herself in Eugainia’s tender glance. “Morgase?” Eugainia spoke gently, as to a child. “Morgase? Your face is fire. Your hands are ice. Morgase, my dear. Can you hear me?”
    Morgase stood, her face half twisted in pain. “They’ve poisoned the well! Flaming balls of tar o’er sail our castle walls and set the court aflame. Listen! They batter the great doors. I hear the voice of the unborn child: ‘Run, Mother of God,’ it cries. ‘Flee the dying world!’”
    â€œAnd so we have, my dear...Lord Henry, tell her.”
    â€œMorgase. We fled Castle Rosslyn and Edinburgh months ago. Papal Rome is two thousand leagues behind us now.”
    Morgase turned away, entranced. “Look! It is Herself. The Goddess emerges from her last great standing oak, branches of silver fir and lady’s yew in either hand. She speaks…”
    Morgase turned, addressed Eugainia who, from that instant, did not recognize her lifelong companion. The Shepherd of the Grail, round and solid as the earth itself, was rendered insubstantial as air. Morgase’s body rose from the earth, light as a thistledown. She spoke with the voice of the Selkie Garathia, not her own.
    â€œEugainia. Daughter. Successor. Go where water, rock and tree sprites lead you.”
    Eugainia strained to rise. “Mother?”
    â€œLord Henry,” Morgase said in the voice not her own.
    Henry fell to his knees.
    â€œLead my daughter to the Well of Baphomet. Let her drink from the sacred vessel. She will be restored. Then set