The Year of the Witching(90)
Bethel’s congregation spilled into the cathedral, filling the pews. The crowd was twice as big as it had been the first session of her trial, and many men and women stood along the walls or sat in the aisles.
When all the pews and benches were filled, Immanuelle took her place atop the altar again, folded her hands in her lap, and lowered her head.
For Ezra, she said to herself, turning his name over in her head. For Honor. For Glory. For Miriam. For Vera. For Daniel. For Leah. For Bethel and all of the innocents in it.
The apostles gathered behind her, forming a line along the altar. They were dressed in their most formal attire, thick robes of black velvet, the hems pooling at their feet. As the last of the congregation found seats in the pews or places to stand along the walls, the Prophet entered. He too was dressed in his finest, a robe of rich vermilion so dark it looked almost black. His feet were bare, and as he strode down the aisle, his toes glimpsed from beneath the hem of his robe. “It’s time for the accused to testify. Today we will hear her final confession.”
Immanuelle’s hands shook in her lap. She grasped her knees, her mouth dry and sticky. Raising her head, she peered into the throng of the assembled. There were faces she knew—Esther, sitting in the front row, and the Moores, who filled the pew just behind her—and many others she didn’t. The cathedral was crowded with men and women, all of them gazing up at her with the same fear and revulsion with which she had once looked upon Lilith in the Darkwood.
The Prophet turned to face her. “Speak now, and let the truth be known.”
Immanuelle squared her shoulders, forcing herself to raise her gaze to the flock. She knew that she had done no wrong, that she had no real sins to confess or be forgiven for. But she also knew that her fate and Ezra’s hinged on her confession. What she said next would determine whether they lived to see another day. If a false confession of guilt was what it took to save them both, so be it.
“My name is Immanuelle Moore. I am the daughter of Miriam Moore and Daniel Ward.”
Her words were met with silence. Dead, thick, sickening silence.
“I stand before you as a killer, and a liar, and a sinner through and through. I have dishonored my family name. I have dishonored the Scriptures, the Prophet, and the Good Father.”
Immanuelle paused, meeting Martha’s gaze for the briefest moment.
“I have walked the path of sin,” Immanuelle continued. “I have spoken to the beasts of the Darkwood in their foul tongue. I have defied the Father’s Protocol and lived in reproach of his reign. I have read in secret. I have seduced men of the Good Faith with my wiles and turned their hearts. I have broken the holy conduct of meekness and modesty and spoken out of turn. I have practiced witchcraft in the shadows. I have befriended evil and shunned the good that’s come to me. For these sins, I ask your forgiveness that the Father might—in His mercy—purge my soul of darkness. This is my final confession.”
Again, there was silence, save for the rhythmic echo of the Prophet’s footsteps as he walked alongside the altar and raised a hand to Immanuelle’s head, his fingers tangling through her curls. “Thank you for your witness, child. It is well heard.”
The flock said nothing. They waited, openmouthed, hungry for a sentencing. For news of a proper pyre execution, a live purging as the law of the Scripture would demand.
But if it was blood they wanted, they would not get it that day. For their Prophet had other plans. Plans he had made plain to Immanuelle—plans that would see Bethel laid to ruin if it meant keeping power in the palm of his hand.
“The Father has spoken to me through the Sight.” The Prophet’s hand fell from Immanuelle’s head as he moved to stand before the altar. “I have seen his children walk the plains and the woods beyond them freely. I have seen the sun rise above the land and chase away the shadows. I have seen the Father’s holy eye upon us once more.”
To this, there were shouts of praise and glory.
The Prophet raised his voice above their cries. “But there’s a price for the bounty and blessings I’ve seen.”
Apostle Isaac pushed forward, his eyes bright with frenzy. “Whatever price, we will pay it!” He turned to face the congregation. “For the glory of the Father?”
The flock shouted in answer. “For the glory of the Father!”
The Prophet raised his hands for silence. Sweat dampened his brow, and the muscles in his neck pulled taut, as if he was fighting to drag the words from his throat. “The Father has demanded that we raze the Darkwood and take dominion over it.”
Another cry rose from the flock. There was rapturous applause. A few of the people in the front pews fell to their knees, their hands raised to the heavens.
“To do this,” the Prophet pressed on, “to take dominion of what is ours to claim, we must overcome the darkness that resides in every one of us in different measures. We mustn’t be afraid to purge it, as David Ford did in the height of the Holy War, when he called the Father’s fire from the heavens.” He paused a moment for effect. “That is why on the dawn of the coming Sabbath, I will wed Immanuelle Moore and purge her of evil. I will carve the holy seal into her brow. Then—and only then—will the curse be broken.”
Immanuelle felt the air shift. There wasn’t a single sound. Not the squall of a baby or the whine of a child. Not a breath, not a heartbeat.