Rise of Souls
I sleen pushed the oars into the water, her mind on other things as the boat skimmed through the mist.
She had awoken early, as was the custom for a guide. There were not often travelers awaiting ferry to and from the island, but those called to this kind of service knew that guests were sometimes unexpected, their purpose often urgent.
Of course, this had been less true since the arrival of Amalia, the new Lady of Altus. In fact, Isleen could not remember a time that had been more peaceful than the year since Lady Amalia had taken the island in hand. The closure of the Gate to Samael, archdemon and enemy of the Sisters, had signaled an end to the fear that had informed every action of the Sisters for two thousand years.
It had taken time for the island to relax its guard, for celebrations to take place without the ever-present vigilance of the Brothers tasked with securing them, for Lady Amalia to walk freely about without a battalion of protectors at her back (though some on the island claimed to see Dimitri follow her at a distance, ever-watchful for potential danger to his beloved).
Even Isleen and the other guides had been allowed to relax their standards for passage to Altus. They still traveled through the mists that shrouded the island in secrecy, still took their assignments only from a select few people, but gone was the worry that their lives could be taken at any time, the island breached by the Lost Souls.
Thanks to Lady Amalia—and yes, her infamous sister, Alice—Samael would be trapped on the Otherworldly plane for eternity, the Gate that would have been his passageway to the physical world closed. And that meant the mortal world on one side of Altus was finally safe from the Otherworldly demon who resided on the other.
And Altus and all who lived there were safe as well.
Isleen tipped her face to the sky, the hood of her cloak falling back to reveal her long, dark hair as the mist swirled around her. The briny smell of the sea was part of her. She smelled it on her skin when she returned to the Sanctuary at the end of each day, listened to its soft roar as she fell asleep at night. Sometimes she was certain saltwater ran in her veins.
She felt the approach of land before she saw it. She was used to being on the open sea, accustomed to the vast expanse of water and sky around and above her. An obstacle ahead—any obstacle—rang like a false note through her bones.
She lifted the oars out of the water, allowing the boat to glide slowly forward, feeling the sandy bottom of the ocean scrape against the hull as it found the shores of England.
The beach was empty. In the distance, Isleen could see the sway of beach grass, the faint shadow of trees. She was beginning to wonder if she had misunderstood her instructions, miscalculated the timing, when a figure approached through the fog.
At first, Isleen did not know if the figure was a man or a woman. She and the other guides were never told in advance whom to expect. An order to see someone through the mist to Altus was enough. They guided their boats to land, picked up the waiting passengers, and delivered them to the island without question. It was not their place to query those who supplied the orders.
But a moment later, a man stepped confidently into the boat without a word. Isleen was relieved that he did not greet her. Speaking while on duty was forbidden for guides, and it was uncomfortable to retrieve someone who attempted to converse when it should have been clear after a few attempts that she could not—or would not—reply.
She used the oars to push the boat back into the water, surveying the man surreptitiously as she did so. His flaxen hair was long, brushing the cape that was tied around his neck. His form was hidden by the cloak, but his legs looked solid and strong, his feet, clad in black boots, large. Strength and confidence, perhaps even arrogance, emanated from his person, and she realized with a start that she
I sleen pushed the oars into the water, her mind on other things as the boat skimmed through the mist.
She had awoken early, as was the custom for a guide. There were not often travelers awaiting ferry to and from the island, but those called to this kind of service knew that guests were sometimes unexpected, their purpose often urgent.
Of course, this had been less true since the arrival of Amalia, the new Lady of Altus. In fact, Isleen could not remember a time that had been more peaceful than the year since Lady Amalia had taken the island in hand. The closure of the Gate to Samael, archdemon and enemy of the Sisters, had signaled an end to the fear that had informed every action of the Sisters for two thousand years.
It had taken time for the island to relax its guard, for celebrations to take place without the ever-present vigilance of the Brothers tasked with securing them, for Lady Amalia to walk freely about without a battalion of protectors at her back (though some on the island claimed to see Dimitri follow her at a distance, ever-watchful for potential danger to his beloved).
Even Isleen and the other guides had been allowed to relax their standards for passage to Altus. They still traveled through the mists that shrouded the island in secrecy, still took their assignments only from a select few people, but gone was the worry that their lives could be taken at any time, the island breached by the Lost Souls.
Thanks to Lady Amalia—and yes, her infamous sister, Alice—Samael would be trapped on the Otherworldly plane for eternity, the Gate that would have been his passageway to the physical world closed. And that meant the mortal world on one side of Altus was finally safe from the Otherworldly demon who resided on the other.
And Altus and all who lived there were safe as well.
Isleen tipped her face to the sky, the hood of her cloak falling back to reveal her long, dark hair as the mist swirled around her. The briny smell of the sea was part of her. She smelled it on her skin when she returned to the Sanctuary at the end of each day, listened to its soft roar as she fell asleep at night. Sometimes she was certain saltwater ran in her veins.
She felt the approach of land before she saw it. She was used to being on the open sea, accustomed to the vast expanse of water and sky around and above her. An obstacle ahead—any obstacle—rang like a false note through her bones.
She lifted the oars out of the water, allowing the boat to glide slowly forward, feeling the sandy bottom of the ocean scrape against the hull as it found the shores of England.
The beach was empty. In the distance, Isleen could see the sway of beach grass, the faint shadow of trees. She was beginning to wonder if she had misunderstood her instructions, miscalculated the timing, when a figure approached through the fog.
At first, Isleen did not know if the figure was a man or a woman. She and the other guides were never told in advance whom to expect. An order to see someone through the mist to Altus was enough. They guided their boats to land, picked up the waiting passengers, and delivered them to the island without question. It was not their place to query those who supplied the orders.
But a moment later, a man stepped confidently into the boat without a word. Isleen was relieved that he did not greet her. Speaking while on duty was forbidden for guides, and it was uncomfortable to retrieve someone who attempted to converse when it should have been clear after a few attempts that she could not—or would not—reply.
She used the oars to push the boat back into the water, surveying the man surreptitiously as she did so. His flaxen hair was long, brushing the cape that was tied around his neck. His form was hidden by the cloak, but his legs looked solid and strong, his feet, clad in black boots, large. Strength and confidence, perhaps even arrogance, emanated from his person, and she realized with a start that she
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