Miserere was my debut novel in 2011, and as such, it had some problems. The prose was too purple, the descriptions too long, and the villains were a bit over the top. Thirteen years and four novels later, I’ve learned a lot about writing fiction, and I’ve grown, not just as an author, but as a person.
Once I reacquired my rights to Miserere, I reread it with more experienced eyes, and rather than just reissue the old book, I used the opportunity to make the story stronger. When Stefan graciously offered me space on his blog to host an excerpt, I thought long and hard about which scenes might have changed the most.
Frankly, each chapter has changed dramatically from the original. I’ve cleaned up the tautology and sharpened the character interactions, especially between Lucian and Catarina. More than ever, they feel like a brother and sister diametrically opposed to one another.
In the end, I chose to begin this excerpt at the beginning for people who have never read Miserere and to reacquaint former readers with the new edition. The first chapter is rather long, so I’ve found a good stopping point and left you there for now.
The story begins in the Sabbatical year 5873. Welcome, my darklings, to Woerld:
*
Chapter 1
Night shadows deepened when Lucian extinguished the candle beside his bed. The cry beyond his chamber ended too soon for him to determine its source. He listened for the noise to repeat itself.
The hearth fire crackled. The blaze saturated the room with heat, but Catarina forbade open windows. His twin was always cold.
Sweat crawled through his hair. The seconds ticked into minutes. He remained still. Listening. Wondering if they intended to come for him.
Sounds drifted upward from the room beneath his chamber. A man laughed too loudly with a thin note of hysteria. The sound gave Lucian goosebumps.
Something—perhaps a vase or a mirror—shattered. Another peal of laughter clipped the air before indistinct voices murmured in approval.
Reaching for his cane, Lucian stood and limped across the room. His knee, stiff with the premature arthritis afflicting his old wound, caused him to move more like a man of eighty than one of forty when he first rose. He despised his infirmity, and in his agitation, he turned the key with more violence than necessary.
It was a futile gesture. If his twin and her company wanted access to him, nothing so flimsy as a lock would stop them.
As he went to his chamber’s sole window, he kept to the carpeted areas, and the rugs muffled the sound of his cane against the floor. Elaborate tapestries covered the marble walls with his sister’s favorite hunt scene. Firelight distorted the images, elongating the faces of the hunters and hounds into freakish mutations. The stag’s eyes were almost human with their pleading, but there was no mercy. The hunt was over. All that remained was death.
Lucian averted his gaze from the tapestries as he passed the desk piled with papers full of endless calculations. Books littered every flat surface, including the ottoman squatting between two cushioned chairs by the hearth. He had only to ask and his every request materialized, but all the gifts in Woerld couldn’t replace the life Catarina had stolen from him. A prison, no matter how finely furnished, was still a prison.
Though he reviled her house and all she stood for, he never tried to escape again. He learned to fear his sister after his first failed attempt to leave her.
At the casement, he pushed aside the heavy drapes to open the window over her verdant gardens. The window seat accommodated him comfortably, but his humor didn’t improve with the cold breeze. Years of helpless rage slow-burned through his chest to rise like bile at the back of his throat.
On the opposite side of the city, the construction of the sprawling bastion for the fallen angel Mastema continued unabated. Dozens of fires illuminated the black turrets rising to meet the night. Girders stretched upward to the overcast sky, forming an open claw as if stone and steel could snatch the paradise the Celestial Court denied the fallen.
This time, they might succeed. Rather than use her power to locate and hold hell’s gates shut, Catarina calculated the appropriate longitude and latitude to find a weak hell gate. One she intended to exploit.
The city of Hadra remained so isolated from the lower lands, Woerld’s other religious fortresses were unaware of the gate, or the temple Catarina commissioned to protect it. Otherwise, their Katharoi—knights who knew the intricate spells to seal the gates against the fallen’s hordes—would already be there.
Yet no word came from any of the three closest bastions: the Citadel, the Rabbinate, or the Mosque. The Hindu bastion of the Mandir, at the heart of Woerld, remained silent, as well.
Of course, they had no way to know. Catarina carefully masked her bastion’s true intent from the general populace, and the city of Hadra was well protected from the south by the Aldilan mountain range, which served as a natural barrier. Their isolation left his twin safe within the center of her intrigues, like a great dark spider, spinning her web of deceit and growing her army.
The sky lightened with dawn. Doors slammed below as Catarina’s guests took their leave.
Leave. That was what he needed. He had to get out of the house, even for an hour. He closed the window, careful to secure the latch and calm himself before he went downstairs. Don’t make her angry.
If she sensed even the slightest resentment in his attitude, she’d slam the doors shut on him and trap him inside. Today he feared he would go insane if he couldn’t get out.
Rather than call his servant, who would no doubt bring the usual array of light indoor clothing, Lucian dressed himself. Although it was only autumn, the winds off the Aldilans blew cold, so he chose his heaviest clothing and his boots.
At his bedside table, he opened the drawer and removed his psalter, which was wrapped in a silk scarf with faded crimson flowers. Other than his father’s signet ring, the scarf and book were the only possessions he maintained from his life before Hadra. He placed the scarf and psalter in his breast pocket, close to his heart.
With any luck, his sister would be in bed, exhausted from her night of debauchery, and he might slip out unnoticed. He opened the door to find a frightened manservant prepared to knock. The servant lowered his hand.
Lucian tightened his grip on the cane. “What does she want?”
Relieved, the man bobbed twice in hurried bows. “She wants to see you. She’s in the dining room.” He hesitated, glancing up and down the hall. “If you please, sir,” he whispered.
No, it doesn’t please me. Not at all. He wouldn’t send the trembling servant back to her with that message. She’d have the old man beaten to death if she was in one of her moods. Instead, he gestured brusquely, and the man scurried ahead of him.
It took him several minutes to navigate the marble staircase one painful step at a time. He made no attempt to hurry. As he reached the main floor, one of the maids stepped into the corridor beside the dining room door, carrying a dustpan full of broken glass. Tears streaked the livid bruise forming on her cheek, and she wiped her nose with her apron, curtsying as he passed.
He found his sister seated at the head of the table, wearing nothing but a loosely tied dressing gown. A gold-filigree pendant with two ravens, their beaks locked in an obscene kiss, hung between her breasts.
Four of her guards were in the room, each wearing a pendant with her raven seal, each guarding a different door. They didn’t openly acknowledge Lucian, but if he made one wrong move, they’d be upon him.
Catarina looked up from a report. The bruised circles beneath her dark lashes deepened her gaze. She looked like a cadaver. “What took you so long?”
Her sharp tone reignited his anger. “I was delayed.” He twirled his cane and thumped it on the floor, indicating his leg. “Darling.” A cobra couldn’t have spat more venom into his endearment.
“Don’t mock me today, Lucian. I’m not in the mood.”
When are you ever? He clamped his teeth against the words. Antagonizing her was pointless. He wanted out, and he knew the game he must play.
A shadow slid by on his left. His sister’s demon familiar, Cerberus, entered the room. The creature disguised itself as a large hound but fooled no one. His pallid flesh sported no fur, and the large batlike ears carried no canine resemblance. Razor-sharp talons clicked against the tiles as he moved to Catarina’s side. He appraised Lucian with cold, silver eyes and rolled his forked tongue over multiple rows of teeth to grin lewdly. Mercifully, he did not speak.
Now our little ménage à trois is complete, Lucian thought desperately.
His sister rang a small silver bell. The door leading to the kitchens slammed open, and a young woman almost tripped over her skirts to get a tray of coffee to her mistress. There was only one cup alongside the urn.
Catarina waved the girl away and served herself. “Close the door. We need to talk.”
He shoved the door shut with his cane and took a seat at the foot of the table directly opposite her. She began her assault early this morning. He had no doubt she intended to dole out his pain in slow increments all through the day.
“Captain Speight tells me he has had some difficulty with you.” She shifted the pages and read from the report. “According to Speight, you’ve been warning priests, rabbis, and imams to move their congregations out of the city by midwinter. You’ve also advised a bhikku and a brahmin to do the same.” She met his gaze evenly and tapped the report with a manicured nail. “Is this true?”
He presented no defense. He was guilty. Woerld’s religious houses usually stood immune to the bastions’ political instabilities, but Catarina’s intercourse with the fallen brought them into the direct line of battle. Once Mastema’s temple was complete and the hell gate opened, their lives were over.
Catarina glared at him. “We’ve convinced these fools the temple is being erected as a common place of worship, and now you’re hobbling around the city, telling them the truth. Mastema’s council is worried word will leak into the lowlands to the bastions. They are adamant I take action. Against you. My own brother. What are you trying to do? Commit suicide by proxy?”
Better than dying by inches. To his left, a log popped against the hearth and sent a blaze of light up the chimney. The hissing fires were the only sound as they played their demented game to see who would provoke the other to anger first.
She stood and brought her palms down on the table. “Answer me!”
“Yes.”
Whether she was shocked at his honesty or that he wanted to die, he had no idea, but she made no retort. Instead, she lowered herself to her chair and feigned nonchalance by sipping her coffee. Her hand shook slightly as she rattled the cup against its saucer.
Shunning Woerld’s languages, she spoke to him in their native Wallachian so the guards wouldn’t understand her next words. “Good God, Lucian. Are you serious?”
She must have seen the answer in his face, because she held out her hand, and he could have sworn the tears glittering in her eyes were heartfelt. “Why do you wound me like this? If you were dead, I would be cut in half. Will you tear out my heart?”
In the past, she’d coddled him with promises of familial love spoken in words remembered from their youth. This morning was different. Whether it was his bad night or his worse morning, he felt nothing for her platitudes, not even regret for the love they’d lost. Sometime in the night, he had died, and he wasn’t sure he would ever live again. His misery complete, he turned numb to her pleas.
“I love you,” she crooned, oblivious to his disregard for her manipulation. “I don’t want to see you hurt again. You misunderstand—”
“There’s been no misunderstanding, Cate. You’ve made your position clear,” he replied, speaking in the province’s harsh dialect. “You expect obedience from me. Absolute obedience.”
“Very well, then.” Her eyes grew cold with her failure to win him. “I shall have it. Mastema has named me Seraph of his fortress.”
Her words settled in his stomach like a block of ice. The ever-present fire roared, and a rivulet of sweat touched his collar. “When?”
“Last night. And what is my first order of business as Seraph?” She clenched the pages of Speight’s report and threw them in Lucian’s direction. “My recalcitrant brother.”
The papers wafted to the center of the table, as ineffectual against him as her rage.
“Let me be clear, Lucian. The only reason you’re still alive is because of me. If you continue your flagrant disobedience, even I won’t be able to plead your usefulness to our cause.”
“Are we finished, Cate?”
“Have I dismissed you?”
Lucian didn’t answer. Nor did he leave.
“I’ve appointed Malachi Grusow as my Inquisitor. He assures me our Katharoi will be prepared to march on the Citadel in the spring.”
Lucian looked down and picked an imaginary piece of lint from his pants so she wouldn’t see his scowl. Katharoi.
She and Grusow demeaned the honorable title of Katharoi by bestowing it on their ragtag army of mercenaries and cutthroats. A true Katharoi spent years training in martial and spiritual arts while the men in Catarina’s army were little more than ruffians who owned armor and sword.
Catarina sipped her coffee. When she returned her cup to the saucer, her hand no longer shook. “You will open the hell gate at the next black moon.”
“The power of God has left me.”
“The power comes from within you, fool. Don’t forget, I studied at the Citadel too.”
“I won’t do it, Cate.”
“Oh, you will.” She met his gaze evenly. “Obedience, Lucian. That is what I want, and that is what I shall have. No matter what I must do to wring it from you. We’re close to achieving our goals.”
“Your goals.”
She ignored the distinction. “The Citadel is about to descend into chaos. Our spies have reported they will soon have no heir. Rachael is dying.”
His chest filled with the familiar guilt that destroyed his nights. He’d betrayed Rachael with an act that could never be undone, but surely, she wasn’t dying. The Citadel had other exorcists just as skilled as him, and she would have submitted herself to an exorcism. She had no choice. As the Seraph’s last heir, she stood between anarchy and unity within the Christian bastion.
Catarina prattled on, quite content that her schemes were bearing fruit. “When she’s gone, we’ll establish one of our people as Seraph.”
“You’re lying.” Half-truths and lies. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d manipulated him by twisting her words with obscure meanings.
“Not this time.” Catarina buttered her bread. “Rachael never allowed anyone to cast out the daemonium, and it’s finally beginning to take her mind. She is lost in her prophecies. They say she dreams awake.” Her glare held him until he lowered his eyes in shame.
He called her bluff, surprised at his even tone. “The daemonium should have been adjured years ago.”
“She allows no one to heal her. No one to touch her.” Catarina nibbled her bread. “Someone she loved must have abused her trust.”
The barb hit home and he flinched. Rachael could be stubborn and might believe herself able to handle the demon, but she was not an exorcist. If she’d fought the creature this long, it was entirely possible she grew weary, and the daemonium was most dangerous to those who dreamed.
This was his fault. Lucian bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb to stop his tears. Not now, not here.
“Oh, please, Lucian, don’t tell me you’re still pining for your little whore. Your benevolent God left her in hell to become a one-eyed, drooling monster lost in dreams. The least you could do for yourself is bed someone who will recognize you in the morning.”
“I left her there, not God.”
“And you were right to do so.” She slipped a bloody piece of meat to Cerberus. “She was in the way. An obstacle.”
“I left her there in exchange for your freedom.”
“Console yourself with whatever lies you choose. It’s no matter to me.”
“I left her there because of your lies!”
The strength of his shout rattled the guards. One man stepped forward.
Startled, Catarina almost dropped the sliver of flesh in her hand. “Never raise your voice to me.”
Lucian stood so fast, he unbalanced his chair. The air around him darkened and crackled. He was rewarded with fear in his sister’s eyes.
Cerberus’s muzzle snapped as he jerked his head in Lucian’s direction. The demon snarled, his silver eyes narrowing. “Have a care, Lucian.”
“Don’t make us subdue you, brother.” His twin rested her hand on Cerberus’s broad forehead.
Her guards waited on Catarina’s word. Everyone knew the eventual outcome of the tableau. It had been enacted enough times in this house. Lucian might be more powerful, but she held the tactical advantage with the demon and her guards. When he’d fought them in the past, she’d called on her followers to restrain him. She wouldn’t hesitate to do so again.
They both knew it.
Lucian simply didn’t care anymore.
“You’re strong, Lucian, but you’re not invincible. Now stop your tantrum and sit down. We have more to discuss.” She waved her fork at him dismissively. “Obey.”
In his agitation, he gripped his cane until his hand ached. He examined the woman before him and felt nothing but revulsion.
Her eyes narrowed. “Damn it, Lucian. I said sit down.”
For this callous bitch, he had sacrificed Rachael, only to remain locked in battle against his twin until there was nothing left inside him but ice and apathy. His heart lay quiet now, cold as sorrow, dry as hate.
Lucian turned and walked away from her.
“Where are you going?” Her chair scraped the floor as she stood.
He jerked the door open. Another maid took one look at his face and fled down the corridor.
Catarina’s chair scraped against the floor. “Lucian? Answer me!”
He slammed the heavy door hard enough to shake the frame.
She called his name as he grabbed his mantle from the hook in the foyer. He emerged into a day as gray as his mood. Another of her guards attempted to impede his way. Lucian shoved him aside and reached the wide avenue before the soldier recovered himself.
A note of panic edged his twin’s voice as she called after him. Lucian didn’t stop. If she wanted to make him pay later, then let her. He would lie down and take it because he had purchased his pain.
And the price had been dear.
*
Teresa Frohock’s Miserere: An Autumn Tale is due to be published by JABberwocky in North America and in the UK, on January 21st.
Author Bio: T. Frohock has turned a love of history and dark fantasy into tales of deliciously creepy fiction. She is the author of the Los Nefilim series and currently lives in North Carolina, where she has long been accused of telling stories, which is a southern colloquialism for lying
Civilian Reader 