Unable to shake the champions’ faith, the demon came with burning blade and breath of flame till only three of God’s remained. Yet together, Iago, Ezekiel, and Camilla struck as one through the heart of the demon, and it was done… or so they believed. For when they drew their swords from its flesh, the demon defied death, descended form into a great red serpent, and burned both men in a single breath.
Camilla was left alone to slay the Devil’s beast, her men dead or fled; and of the seven, she knew her strength to be the least. But even in that darkest hour, our lady knight did not cower or plea. She instead cast down her sword in an act of purest faith and clasped her hands in prayer. Daring to face the demon flame, she claimed as loud as her voice could carry, ‘Lord, grant me strength! Enough to cast this fiend to his rightful place! To protect me from his claws and fangs and hellish flame! So that none may ever again praise his cursed name!’ And lo, God sewed onto her flesh a miracle to best the demon’s breath. From her back blossomed wings of purest white, and her skin became weaved with light so that no attack by the beast might do her harm. Then, armed with the mighty word of God, Camilla’s voice rang out like a trumpet’s blast and cast that demon back to the fires everlasting.
And so the miracle had come to pass. Yet our Camilla, now crowned by a halo of holy brass, was not yet ready to pass God’s pearly gates. Instead, she lingered behind and pled on behalf of the Impii’s fate. And as we know, to this very day, the Lord was so moved as to forgive the Impii their sin. They would be saved, as was decreed by our saint, not by the sword, but by God’s holy word.
Gavin cleared the theatrics from his throat. “Bless you Gareth, for lending us your wonderful gift again this year. It is with your words at heart that we better remember Lady Camilla’s undying faith and benevolent mercy, that in our time we might overcome the temptation to condemn our wayward brothers. For we must recall that we are all sinners in this world, and until that judgement day comes, sinners we shall remain.
“Praise the Lord and his yet begotten son. May soon his kingdom come.”
“May soon his kingdom come,” Jael murmured with the rest of the assembly, nearly unaware of her spoken devotion amidst the daydreams dancing before her eyes. She was, in her mind, riding alongside God’s champions as if she were Camilla herself, braving the hell-scape and placing her faith in the miracle that was to unfold. She even envisioned Camilla’s heavenly ascent—the feeling of wings bursting from her back, the weight and warmth of a halo about her head—but then the clamor of a hundred feet tore Leonhardt from her flight of fancy. Man and maiden, mother and child, all stood with mouths agape and necks twisted for the vestibule door, and even the good deacon, whose expressions tended toward the underwhelming, poured his attention over the open portal. Standing a head smaller than the shortest man in her row, Jael climbed onto the pews and peeked over.
Through the entryway of Herbstfield’s meager chapel strode a single man surrounded by four. The latter of them, it seemed, were knights of an older time, suited in crimson surcoats over shirts of maille, and armed at the hip with broad-bladed swords. They bore uniquely embossed helms as well, each shaped to match the sigil emblazoned on its owner’s chest, though not one of them went worn. Instead, the antiquated knights cradled their helmets underarm as to keep keener watch over their charge—a vested clergyman, Jael guessed him, from his sober scowl and naked jaw. By the white and gold of his regalia, she figured him for a bishop as well. What she did not understand is why a high priest of the capital city might visit a farm town chapel, especially one so far from Pareo. Then her conundrum doubled. She glimpsed the glimmer of gold in the crucifix rows of his seven-tier crown, the crosier in his hands, and in the watered-silk fringes of his burgundy mantel as it flowed behind him like the river Nihil.
That can’t be right, Jael doubted her eyes till she recognized the bishop’s crosier for what it truly was. Æturnum, the sword Saint Constance released from the Rock: wide as a man’s hand and twice an arm’s length, hidden away in its scabbard, all brass and brazed lace to match its gilded hilt—a thing cruciform and immense, bobbing and swaying above their heads with every step. Yet the strange bishop’s grace seemed inhuman as he crossed the nave. He moved with feet like feathers, unencumbered by the relic, unfettered by his age. Jael could hardly believe it, but her lips were already tracing his name.
“Pride,” started Saint Paul as he abandoned his Temple Guard at the foot of the chancel and climbed its few stairs where the deacon awaited him, “it is a sin against our humility, yet how can I not be proud of such a faithful and obedient flock?” He paused just long enough for Gavin to vacate his little lectern and genuflect.
“Forgive me, Your Holiness. I am not worthy to serve his divine majesty.”
“None are worthy of the Lord’s grace,” countered the saint, extending the gold-ringed knuckles of his right
