Chapter 1
Inquisitions
Present day, on the hidden Island of Tartarus
It had been years since Eshar had left the confines of the dark cave he’d come to call home. Now, all he seemed to do was wait—wait for his damned prophecies to finally come true. Soon, he thought, it would all be over at last. The end was near; he swore he could feel it. Holding the ornate gold cross necklace in his hands, he let his fingers glide over the diamonds until they rested on the blood-colored ruby in the center of it. Thinking back, Eshar remembered all the lost souls that had been consumed by his convictions and the blind faith that steadfastly assured him that his prophecies would come to fruition. Those wayward souls had been willing to die for the cause, it was a pity they had always turned out to be so disappointingly weak. Over the years his mortal minions had valiantly tried to do what he required of them, but they inevitably failed, cracking under the pressure.
Tomás de Torquemada had been different. He alone seemed to have the backbone required to do what really needed to be done. He had even been willing to enter the priesthood, agreeing that there was no better way to exact Eshar’s revenge than by using the Church to do it. Holding the cursed relic in his increasingly tighter grip, Eshar became lost in his memories and the feelings of hatred that he could no longer escape.
Castile, Spain 1485. In the depths of the Spanish inquisition
“Do you confess?” drawled the Grand Inquisitor, as if he were having a perfectly perfunctory conversation with one of his constituents. The accused twisted out an agonized retort, scarcely recognizable as the Lord’s Prayer.
Not good enough, he thought with cruel glee.
“Do you confess?” he asked again, this time sounding neither bored nor perfunctory. The placid cruelty was in sharp contrast to the prisoner’s anguished cries and he only paused long enough to enjoy the sound of the victim’s agony. “Very well,” he intoned, growing closer. A pair of sadistic, glowing eyes came into view as the prisoner refused to answer once more. The final stretch was next, and Tomás was impatient. “Stretch him farther,” he plainly demanded as if he were ordering more hot water for his tea. More than anything, Tomás prided himself on efficiency. He wanted the job done cleanly and quickly; mercy only brought his productivity down.
Tomás’s ears perked up at the sound of the frail young man’s ligaments popping and his muscles tearing; it was a familiar and almost comforting sound to him by now.
Now he’ll confess, he thought, they always do.
“Do. You. Confess?” he boomed; his voice so firm it overrode the prisoner’s screams.
It had been days of continuous torture and yet the prisoner refused to break. The inquisitors were new and still lacked the necessary conviction. With stubborn prisoners such as this the Grand Inquisitor was always summoned to provide a demonstration. When Tomás de Torquemada had finally arrived, the other inquisitors realized they had underestimated their leader. It took less than two minutes with Tomás for the accused to break. His deep-set eyes were overshadowed by his thick and heavy brow, which hid his perpetually exhausted visage. Tomás had lost his ability to rest when he exchanged his humanity for power. He was left with the insanity his omnipresent waking hours presented to him.
“Yes!” the broken man howled. His face became muddled as his capillaries burst from the stress. His body quivered as he wept and prayed.
Tomás smiled upon realizing that he had broken him so completely. The rest of the proceedings were standard and held nothing of interest. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I condemn you” Tomás intoned dutifully before kissing the heavy cross around his neck and holding it to his heart.
He had commissioned this ornate and heavy cross to honor his liege, Eshar. The cross had a piercing chain that often drew blood from his neck. He wore it always. It was as dear and as intrinsic to him as his own limbs. The cross itself was inlaid with the whitest diamonds to signify the cleansing of the world’s unclean heretics. The center, a brilliantly red ruby, is what he cherished the most. It was a constant reminder that the blood on his hands was sacred, a necessary sacrifice to accomplish what had been asked of him. Eshar, his Master and surrogate father in many ways, had always told him that blood could wash away pain and transgressions. More importantly, it could also wash away the ungodliness of heretics.
“Let it be known that this man, this false ‘converso’, has confessed to heresy.” He looked down at the confessor thoughtfully before continuing, “This criminal, according to papal law, is to be burned alive at the stake.” Tomás often had to stifle his amusement when the confessors were surprised upon hearing their fate. Did they think they would go free once they confessed their crimes? Did they think they would not be punished?
“May God have mercy on—” the heavy dungeon door slammed abruptly, interrupting Tomás.
A young priest had stormed into the interrogation, his face a ghostly white. “Your Grace,” he stammered, “you have a visitor.”
Tomás glowered at the priest. He hated to be interrupted, especially during an interrogation. He walked slowly toward the priest, never averting his angry gaze. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper, but his disgust with the man before him was crystal clear.
“Who, pray tell, is such an important visitor that it justifies the interruption of God’s work?” he growled.
“He’s here, your Grace,” the priest paused, “he said you would know—.”
“—Yes, say no more,” he interrupted, trying to smother his shock and anticipation as he realized Eshar had come to visit him here.
Tomás made no attempt to explain and rushed out of the dungeon, the doors slamming upon his exit. He swiftly sped by other rooms, his heavy robe dragging on the ground with a rustle. Some of those rooms were occupied with the living doomed, others with the tormented ghosts of recent confessors. Each room was filled with demonic instruments, all splattered with dried blood and the reek of rotten flesh. When he arrived at his chambers, Tomás was out of breath. His chest heaved his heavy golden cross about, causing the ruby to cast a hellish glow on his chamber door. Upon entering, he was greeted by the otherworldly loftiness of his beloved master. Tomás bowed immediately to Eshar, the one responsible for all Tomás’s success in cleansing the world of the Unholy.
“Master, to what do I owe the honor of your presence?” Tomás asked without raising his head.
Smiling, Eshar answered, “You have been working hard Tomás. I thought a visit might do you some good.”
Tomás had always tried to decipher Eshar’s odd accent but could never seem to place it. Some vague Mediterranean hybrid he had always assumed, or perhaps Italian. Relieved, Tomás exhaled, swallowed, and righted himself. “Well, Master, it is always good to see you,” he purred excitedly.
“You are doing good work, Tomás. You should know your reputation is spreading, just as we’d planned,” Eshar’s emerald eyes filled with pride as he said this. “You should also know, my boy, that there is a rumor” he paused, making sure he had Tomás’ full attention, “that you are getting out of hand.” Eshar slowly stood up from the wooden chair he was seated in and moved toward his minion to reassure him. “Of course, I know that you are only doing what is necessary, but you must be careful. The Pope becomes nervous when he is disliked. It is vital that you do not lose his favor and relinquish your power as Grand Inquisitor.” He stared at Tomás commandingly, his luminous emerald eyes now a penetrating deep yellow.
Tomás knew exactly what Eshar was talking about. The Pope had actually been against the Spanish Inquisition from the start. It had been Queen Isabella who forced the issue and she did so with Ferdinand, not the Pope. Since Tomás had been the Queen’s Confessor, his plan to instigate the Inquisition in Spain had been easy to pull off. Fortunately for him, Isabella was quite persuasive when it came to the King.
Eshar brushed past Tomás as he opened the door to leave only turning to deliver his last words of warning. “And Tomás…”
“Yes, Master?” Tomas bowed his head subserviently.
“Do not disappoint me.”
By the...