Part 3:  Revenge

Hear this, masters of EroBernd!
                Awake, you drunkards, you sinners,
Your blighted children’s days dwindle.
                Still you lull, fearing nothing?  Hear
                                Your Griffin’s sleeping breath!

The ebon Dragon invades thy lands!
                His teeth are the teeth of Hell’s fire,
His coils colder than Hell’s cold ice.
                The blood of thousands drenches his claws.
                                Come, proud Griffin’s death!

The priests of Mut faced the Dragon.
                The priests of Ehre faced the Dragon.
Thousands upon thousands fell at
                his tread.  His name is Gokh the Devil.
                                Martyrs to his dark feast.

For the Dragon has the power
                to ravage the land and the sea.
I hear the cries of the fallen,
                The torn throats of the fallen plead
                                for mercy from the beast.

The lands turn black beneath its wings.
                Brack, Drungi, all minions of evil
Ravage beneath Gokh’s bleeding sky.
                Fiery judgement for the weak.
                                Salvation for the pious.

Who can challenge the Dragon’s might?
                Awaken, holy Knight of God!
Sacred Paladin, do battle!
                Throw down the beast with sword of flame
                                and your sacred aegis!

Testimony of Saint Grefflet,
Disciple of Guiot

Chapter 21: Esmeree’s Ordeal

Her eyes open in the darkness.  Holding her breath, she listens carefully.  First is the roar of the blood pumping through her ears.  She has to consciously will her terrified heart to slow.  Next, she acknowledges and ignores the muffled street noises of Cliffs Reach’s nightlife seeping in through her windows.  Somewhere in the tenement, she should she hear Rat Face’s thunderous snore.  She searches for it but doesn’t hear it.  This terrifies her even more.

Instead, she hears the stealthy noises of men outside her door.  Three of them.  Now four, maybe more.

Hiisi’s dead, the deal with Jacobus is broken.  After crying at Myrdd’s cell, there really wasn’t anywhere else for her to go other than Rat Face’s bar.  It was her home before Jacobus’s palace, and she’s in no condition to fight for a suitable place in the Mill.

That lack of choice has come back to haunt her.  She knew it would.  It wasn’t hard for them to find her.  She only hoped it would have taken them longer to come.

Her Palpi scimitar is under her bed.  As she reaches for it, her rotten mattress creaks.  The door crashes open, and mailed Templars fill the room.  Her Hammer dents the helmet of the first, but as she struggles to get out of bed, the others pile on top of her.

As they pin her arms to the floor, torchlight shines off the metal edges of knives and truncheons.  She closes her eyes and prays to her ember.  Perhaps she can summon a thunderbolt like Usk’s and throw these bastards off of her.

“Do not worry,” a calm voice says.  “If we sense her summoning, we will be sure to tell you.”  A robed man appears above her, one hand holding the torch high in the air.  By his face, Esmeree knows him to be Muttese.  “Shoot her dead if that is the case.”

His voice is strong, clipped, with perfect EroBernac pronunciation.  His robes are black with yellow-accents, his head shaved bare.  Around his neck hangs a bisected circle of the Holy Medianist Church.  The Median is made from a pair of twisted silver and iron bands.  By his robes, she knows him to be a Deacon of the Medianist Church.  He looks down at her as though she were some interesting insect.

Somewhere out of her sight, she hears the click of a doghead being cocked, and she quickly quells her ember’s summoning.

The Deacon seems to sense this, and he smiles.  Glancing up at the Templars restraining her, he nods.  A soldier on either side each takes a handful of her shirt and pulls.  The garment tears apart, exposing her ember.  The Deacon’s eyes widen when he sees it.

“By Pennenc!” he exhales.  “To have such a witch living right under our noses!”

Esmeree is dying to snap back with an angry retort, but everything within her warns against it.  Nothing would be gained by her defiance now.  Closing his eyes, he raises his Medianist symbol.  Suddenly, she feels a spell dancing across her ember.  It strokes its surface, probing its power.  Her ember tries to resist, lashing out here, wriggling free there, but somehow she suspects this is exactly what he wants.

One of the Templars is caressing her wrist in a very disconcerting way.

When he finally opens his eyes, the Deacon nods knowingly.  “So it is true.  She bears a homunculus.”

The Templars around her murmur with frightened excitement.

“Jealous?” she spits.  “Ashamed of your own tiny spark?”

He looks surprised, either because she is capable of speech or that she dares use it to address him.  “You will be under our care so long as you are in the custody of the Inquisition, which will be for the rest of your life—”

“Or yours!” she cuts in.  She couldn’t resist.  One of the Templars backhands her for her trouble.

The Deacon doesn’t appear impressed.  “How long that will be remains up to you.  However, from your behavior thus far, we suspect it won’t be long.”

He extends his Median again.  “Now to prepare you for travelling.  It is but a short distance to the Citadel, but there is no point in taking unnecessary risks…”

“What,” she snaps, “No wooden charms?”

He frowns and hesitates.  “We don’t understand your meaning.”  He shrugs and extends his holy symbol again, “But we are sure it will all be made clear to us during your inquest.”

With that, he casts another spell.  She feels it invade her ember.  He is a sorcerer—certainly not near as powerful as she—but he is infinitely more experienced.  His spell batters down what weak defenses she has, and she feels its tendrils coil around her ember.  Her ember fights back, sending out tendrils of its own.  Soon, spell and ember are enmeshed, writhing around each other in a multitude of warring tentacles.  Slowly the spell fades, but the battle rages on.  Esmeree can see that now her ember only wars with itself, but she is powerless to stop it.

She pleads silently for her stone to hear her, to understand it is being tricked.  The voice that answers her is eerily calm and independent.  “Be still, child,” it whispers, “I cannot be distracted from protecting us.”

The ember is controlled by her homunculus, and the homunculus need not heed her.

With a nod from the Deacon, the Templars lift her up and drag her from Rat Face’s tenement.

vvv

Esmeree groans in the hard iron chair.  The unforgiving device is deviously designed, and while she is not yet locked into its embrace, she can easily envision its purpose.  Its shackles would stretch the arms and legs backward, the chair’s hard frame arching the back.  Such a position provides easy access to the face, throat, and genitals for savaging by the inquisitor’s instruments:  probes, clamps, and burning pokers.  The surface of the chair has gutters to carry away the blood and smaller bits of tissue.  Its metal eases cleaning between uses.

Around her are arrayed a frightening collection of inquest devices.  Tools for crushing, tools for cutting, tools for puncturing and penetrating.  Vats of water stand beneath pulleys hanging from the ceiling.  The water of one vat steams at near boiling, the other is clear and still.  Chains around her wrists prevent her from exploring these furnishings any closer, but Esmeree is content to remain where she is anyway.  The Inquisition has been torturing and killing witches for hundreds of years, and Esmeree has no reason to believe they should fall down on the job just because she is in their care.

She has been given only a prisoner’s smock to wear—much akin to the crude garments of her youth—and she squirms slightly as the chair’s cold metal burns the skin of her thighs.  Her injuries from her struggle with Hiisi have begun to bleed and ache again, and her bandages are sorely in need of changing.  She rubs her ember, but to no effect.  Her stone is still in conflict with itself, still tricked by the Deacon’s simple spell.  There is no escape by magic, and an alert Templar stands guard at the door, preventing any more conventional escapes.

She is cold, hungry, and terrified, so when the door finally opens, she is almost glad that the waiting is over.  The Deacon enters the darkened room, followed by a smaller man carrying a stool and a lap desk.  He nods and makes pleasantries with the guard, who replies tersely.

The Deacon crosses the room and sits in a simple chair opposite Esmeree.  He leans back and regards her for a long time as he waits for the scribe to set up his desk and prepare his paper for writing.  At last, he says, “Do you know who we are?”

The scribe begins writing furiously.

She shakes her head as she answers, “A Deacon from the Inquisition, sent to torture me for being a witch?”

The Deacon rubs at the stubble on his cheeks thoughtfully.  With the exception of his light beard, his head and face are completely devoid of hair—even his eyebrows and eyelashes.  “This is a popular misconception,” he agrees.  “But in fact, you are incorrect on nearly every count.  The Inquisition is not an organization as you imply, and we do not torture people because they are heretics and witches.  As a matter of fact, we do not torture people at all.  Such a task is left to the Doge’s doctors.  Let us hope you won’t need to make their acquaintance.”

He smiles grimly at Esmeree’s frown.  “However, you are correct in saying we are a Deacon.  We are Deacon Mummenschanz of Aquilaleon of EroBernd.  We are a Deacon of the Holy Medianist church, and we have been specially trained and commissioned as an Inquisitor.  Our official title is Inquisitor of Heretical Depravity.”

He smoothes the folds of his thick black robe as he crosses his legs.  “The Inquisition is a group of individual priests handpicked by the Primate, Esmeree, specially charged with the necessary task of rooting out heresy in all its forms.  There is no Inquisition per se, merely officers of the church serving in that capacity.

“Our goal as Inquisitors is not to punish heretics in the most horrible of manners.  We are primarily tasked with identifying the guilty, convincing them to confess their sins and repent, and restoring them to the fold of the church in as expedient a manner as possible.  Torture is used only to achieve the confession, never as a punishment.  Execution is usually reserved for heretics who refuse to repent and for multiple or incorrigible offenders.  Death by ordeal and execution are considered the worst of failures for us, because it means one more soul is lost to Gock.”

“You burn witches all the time,” she says darkly.

“Ah, yes,” he corrects, “But only after they have confessed.  In which case, the flames cleanse their souls, and they are embraced by God.”

“My fate seems to remain the same.  I confess, I burn.  I don’t confess, I burn.”

He nods.  “Should we find you guilty of witchcraft, on the earthly realm, yes, that is true.  But it is where you end up afterwards that really matters, now doesn’t it?”

When she doesn’t respond, he continues, “However, we’re not dealing just with your fate, are we?  It seems that you have consorted with many others in this city and abroad, and these individuals might likewise be tainted with heresy.”

He nods at her alarmed expression.  “The process of inquisition suffers from the public perception that everyone who falls into our clutches dies.  This is most unfair and untrue, Esmeree, and we need to dispel that thought from your mind, lest you be hesitant to name your accomplices.  We can assure you, for those whose souls are salvageable and who confess readily and in purity of spirit, the sentences can be quite mild.  Wearing a Median sewn upon their clothing as a sign of atonement, for example, or pilgrimages, or donations to church offices, and the like.  To implicate another during your inquest, Esmeree, will not necessarily condemn them to torture or death.”

He leans forward and inclines his head.  “Do you understand?  It is important to us that you do, because we want no confusion between us before we begin.”

His powerful, calm voice rings eerily in this stone room.  Nothing about this situation assures her of anything.  She glances at the implements of torture around her.  How can she not understand?

“Do you understand?” he repeats, his voice taking on a harder edge.

“Yes.”

He nods and leans back into his chair.  Removing a sheaf of papers from his robes, he leafs through them momentarily.  He glances at her from over the parchments.  “Your inquiry will be performed according to the strictest guidelines set forth by the Practica Inquisitionis Heretice Pravitatis.”

Esmeree mouths the words.  “The Conduct of Inquiry Concerning Heretical Depravity?”

Deacon Mummenschanz smiles, “Ah!  You speak Synesi!  When we discuss your education, you must be sure to tell us who it was that took it upon himself to teach a girl such things.”

Esmeree sags as he makes a note in his parchments with a small charcoal pencil.  When finished, he looks back up at her.  “Do you know why you have been brought here?  The official charges leveled against you?”

She thinks for a long time before finally saying, “No.”

“You are accused as a heretic and that you believe and practice beliefs, rites, and magics contrary to the wishes of God and the laws of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Esmeree nods sullenly.  Mummenschanz raises his eyebrows in surprise, “You confess to these crimes?”

Esmeree looks up sharply, “I suspect I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t already considered guilty.”

“What you think we believe is irrelevant at this juncture.  We asked if you confess.”

“No,” she sighs.

“Before the eyes of God, do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth concerning the matter of your witchcraft?”

“If I swear to tell the truth regarding my witchcraft, does that not imply that I confess to witchcraft?”

“You can swear to tell the truth regarding your witchcraft, and then say you practiced no witchcraft.  However, you must swear to tell the truth regardless of any matter we discuss.  Considering the deep personal issues you have at stake here, absolute honesty is imperative.  So,” he says, smoothing his robes again, “you must swear.”

“I do not recognize your right to interrogate me, Deacon, and I do not believe that God would approve of this inquiry!” she snaps.  “You, this room, this inquiry is offensive to the God I know and understand, so how can I swear to Him that I will tell the truth?”

He smiles condescendingly, as though this is logic he’s heard many times before.  “It is not an offense against God—nor is God offended as you believe and say—when in judicial process, truth is sought while error and heresy is uncovered.  And in all this, it is the judgment of the inquisitor—our judgement and not your false opinion—that must determine what is to be done.”

Esmeree swallows and looks to the scribe.  The thin man keeps his head down, his writing hand a blur between the paper and the inkwell.  When he reaches the end of the Deacon’s speech, his pen stops and simply waits.  He never looks up or acknowledges Esmeree’s stare in any way.  He must have performed this task many times before.

At last, Esmeree nods, “I will swear to tell the truth…”

As Mummenschanz nods and prepares to proceed, she raises her hand, “but only on issues that concern me personally.  I will not implicate any others.”

The Deacon frowns and shakes his head wearily.  “Esmeree, you must understand that your friends will not be harmed, nor will they suffer any damage or injury as you fear.  For it redounds to their good—and to the salvation of their souls—when those who are infected and implicated in error are detected.  It is in this way that they can be corrected and converted from error to the way of truth, lest they become more corrupted themselves and infect or corrupt others with their error.”

“No.  For their good or for their harm, I’ll not betray anyone.”

“Esmeree,” the Deacon growls, his cold voice suddenly terrifying her to the core, “If you refuse to swear to tell the whole truth, we will be forced to level the sanction of excommunication upon you.”

“I spit on your excommunication,” she whispers, now shaking with fear.

His brown eyes turn darker with rage.  “To refuse to acknowledge excommunication is to hold the keys of the church in contempt.  To do so is one article of error and heresy.  Anyone persevering in it is to be considered a heretic, and you will be judged a heretic, condemned as such, and as such will be handed over for our immediate judgment.”

Esmeree merely trembles in her cold chair.  “Friends of heretics are heretics, Esmeree,” he adds, “and we shall proceed against them immediately as well… regardless of whether or not they were previously free of guilt.”

After a pause, he says, “You sit and shake before us like a little girl, and we are not sure if you are understanding us.  Let me clarify.  You can take the oath and testify in good faith—some of your friends may be implicated and may be in need of correction, some of them may not—or you can refuse, and we will render judgement upon all of them equally.”

Esmeree cannot face those dark eyes, but when he leaps to his feet, she cowers away from him.  “You, Esmeree of Cliffs Reach, have been arrested as suspect!” he bellows, “Accused of the acts of witchcraft and consorting with Gock the Dragon, enemy of God!  These errors the Holy Medianist church holds and teaches as contrary to right faith, to the state of the Abaisd Territories of the EroBernd Empire, and to the apostolic authority of Primate Klemm!”

His face is bright red with rage, and flecks of spittle rain down on her.  “You have been brought before us, Deacon Mummenschanz the Inquisitor, and required and admonished by us several times according to legal form to swear that you will tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth both concerning yourself and concerning your accomplices, believers, and benefactors, alive and dead, as it relates to the matter of heresy and especially the high crimes of witchcraft and the coition with Gock!  You will make this oath NOW, or you and everyone you hold dear will most certainly DIE!”

She blinks up at the enraged Inquisitor and studies his eyes.  The man is deadly serious, and while he used to feign sympathy and compassion, there is none anymore.  There is no pity.  There is no flexibility or kindness.  All she sees is an intellect of cold steel blades, a singular resolve to root out and destroy the enemies of his God, and right now, all of it is focussed on her.

“I swear.  I swear to tell the truth,” she sighs.

Mummenschanz smiles and sits back down, his rage passing like a Last Summer storm.  “There,” he says as he straightens his robes, “We can proceed.”

Esmeree begins to cry, though he takes no notice of it.

Shuffling through his papers again, he says, “You’ve run this scenario through your head many times, haven’t you?  Matching wits with an Inquisitor?  As a witch, you must have.  I’m sure it has been a fear of yours all your life.”

“Yes,” she says quietly.

“Why?”

“What?”  Suddenly, she realizes her mistake.

“Why have you feared inquiry all your life?”

Esmeree swallows, trying desperately to think of something she could say.  She wipes at the tears on her face, but they refuse to stop.  “Everyone fears inquiry, sir.”

“Everyone?  Do you say that I do?  Do you say Primate Klemm fears it?  How is it you have come about such insight?”

“N—no,” she stammers.  “I didn’t mean everyone.  Of course, there are some people who are secure… but most other people fear it.”

“Secure?  Secure in their piety you mean?  Secure in the knowledge of their faith and purity of spirit?  Yes.  Hence, it is those who are unsure of their faith, unsure of their acts, who need to fear inquiry—as you fear inquiry and as those you consorted with fear inquiry.  Is this what you meant?”

Esmeree hesitates.  His eyes steely, Mummenschanz leans forward, “You see, we must assume you spoke in exaggeration when you said you knew everyone feared inquiry…”

“No.”

“…Such knowledge is impossible for a young woman to possess, and would certainly be an admission of witchcraft…”

“No!  That’s not what I meant!  I—”

“…The other possibility is you were simply speaking of personal experience about your fears and those of your accomplices, yes?”

“No!”

“There really cannot be any other answer.  Which is it?”

“I merely meant,” she says slowly, trying to measure each word, “Is that the Inquisition holds so much power, with punishments so severe, that people fear being falsely accused.”

“Fear of power is merely fear of power laid in the wrong hands, Esmeree.  Do you not trust the Inquisition?  Do you believe the Inquisitors incapable or unwilling to come to the correct decisions?”

“They are men, and men make mistakes.”

“Ah, this is true, but they are men answering the call of God, serving as the hand of God, speaking as the voice of God.  The Primate of Cærimonia personally chooses each member.  Surely you’re not saying the Primate is fallible?”

“No, I—”

“To suggest thus is the highest of heresy.  To question the Inquisition’s purpose is heresy.  Perhaps you suggest the charter of the Inquisition is unsound?  That would be heresy as well.”

Esmeree looks down at her hands.  Myrdd had tried to teach her word games like these, but the Inquisitor woefully outmatches her.  Slowly, she descends into quiet weeping.  “I fear,” she sobs, “that it doesn’t matter what I say.”

The Deacon is quiet for a moment before he says, “What you should say, what we require, is the truth.  The truth within your soul.”

He sighs deeply, totally unmoved by Esmeree’s pathetic display.  “Acting as a witness, Esmeree, tell us whatever you know, knew, saw, believe, or believed concerning heresy and especially concerning the errors and crimes of witchcraft and war against the true God.”

She covers her face in her hands and shakes her head violently.  She’s had it with this man’s clever tongue and leading questions.  “Nage!” she screams, “No!  I’ll tell you NOTHING!”

His voice remains calm, somehow penetrating the echoing cacophony of her screams.  “This is merely the first degree of inquisition, Esmeree.  Truly, we hope you don’t force us to proceed further…  The utensils you see around us can be used during the second and third degrees.  Please don’t make their use necessary.”

“No!” she screams with fury.  Head down, her fists pound her knees as she spits at him.  “I’ll speak to you no more!  I know who God is!  You’ll never convince me that the God you answer to is the true God!  In my heart, I know God!  And God spits on you!  He spits on what you do!  He spits on your church and on your Inquisition and on your Primate!”

Mummenschanz’s face becomes impassive.  Somehow, she senses her outburst has confirmed something to him.  This makes her even angrier.  Leaping from the torture chair, she lunges at him.  Her chains fetch her up just short of his seat.  Her nails strain for his eyes.  Realizing she can’t reach him, she satisfies herself with giving him the sign of the fig right in his face.  “I’ll kill you, little priest,” she sneers.  “You and that tiny ember of yours!”

He blinks, and suddenly Esmeree realizes the source of his aversion towards her.  Sneering, she rips her smock open, exposing her ember.  “This is what you want, yes?  You pathetic little man!  You hate me because God gave me a magnificent stone like this?”

His rage is sudden and all-consuming.  Leaping to his feet, he strikes her across the face with a blow that sends her crashing back into the steel chair.  The wound on her face reopens, and blood begins flowing down her throat and across her chest.

“How dare you!” he screams.  “How dare you spit in the face of God!  How dare you utter such vile words in the presence of a Deacon of God!  May you drown in the poison of your own words, you foul witch!  My only hope is you live through your ordeals so you may experience your own burning!”

As Esmeree nurses her jaw, she takes satisfaction in knowing that she at least managed to shake him from that annoying royal “we” affectation of his.  He gestures to the Templar.  “You!  Come here and unlock her chains!”

Esmeree is confused.  Surely they’re not going to let her go?

As the Templar detaches her shackles from the steel chair, Mummenschanz glares at her with naked hatred.  “You wish to challenge the Church?  You wish to test your mettle against the Inquisition?  Very well.  Rest assured, I will endeavor to fulfill your worst nightmares about the ordeals of the Inquisition.”

Jerked to her feet, Esmeree’s hands are forced behind her back, and her bindings are tightened.  A rope is strung through one of the pulleys on the ceiling, the end attached to her wrists.  With a gasp, she is jerked into the air.  Almost immediately, her wrists and shoulders are wracked with agony as her weight slowly begins to stretch her shoulders against the joints.

After speaking briefly with the Templar, Mummenschanz sends the guard away.  The Deacon stares up at her.  “I have summoned for the Doge’s doctor.  As soon as he arrives, we can begin the second degree of your ordeal.”

He makes himself comfortable in his chair, his calm quickly stored, and makes some notes to himself on his papers.  Almost as an afterthought, he looks up and asks, “Are you pregnant, or have you given birth within the past 40 days?”

Esmeree spits at him when her spinning motion gives her the opportunity.  Mummenschanz smiles and gestures at her rope.  “This technique is known as Strappado.  It comes to us from the Mynyddi.  Painful, yes?  The hanging is just to loosen you up, you see.  Under the supervision of the good doctor, what we do is alternately release and stop the rope.  You fall, you stop, you fall, you stop.  It is excruciating, I hear.”

Despite her discomfort, she manages to hiss, “Fuck you, you connus ard-vitchoor!”

He looks thoughtful for a moment before rising to his feet.  “Yes.  Of course.  Perhaps a brief demonstration is in order?”

“I thought you never tortured anyone yourself?  Or used it as a punishment?”

He walks to the complex-looking gear mechanism that swallows the other end of her rope.  He shrugs, “For every rule…”

Taking hold of a handle, he jerks it back.  Esmeree suddenly plummets towards the floor.  Just as suddenly, the rope catches her, jerking her to a violent stop.  She shrieks in agony as her arms and shoulders absorb the force of her fall, tendons and muscles straining and tearing.

Somewhere through the pain buzzing through her head, she hears him say, “Of course, you are right.  We really shouldn’t do it without the doctor present.  We hear it eventually rips the arms right out of the sockets…  But you look like a healthy young woman, perhaps one more example?”

After the second fall, the room echoes with her screams for hours.

“What is this?”

“I’m afraid, Deacon, that my doctor is unavailable, and that this inquiry cannot proceed any further.”

Through Esmeree’s muzzy perception, she somehow recognizes the Doge’s voice.  Slowly she opens her eyes.  Far below her on the floor, she sees Doge Marius standing with Deacon Mummenschanz.  She has difficulty understanding his words or making sense of anything she sees.  Her whole body, her whole being, is consumed by the perfect agony of her arms and shoulders.  A large pool of vomit and urine has collected below her, and she wonders where it came from.

As Mummenschanz stares down at a piece of paper with disbelief, the Doge risks a quick glance up at her.

“What?” the Deacon demands as he reads.  He looks up at Marius and shakes the paper with rage.  “This is intolerable!  We are to have full latitude with our subjects during their ordeals!  No one, not even the…”  His voice trails off as he reads further.

Doge Marius nods.  “So it would seem.  However.  The Primate apparently has been aware of this witch and has an interest in overseeing her inquiry personally.  Some months ago, we received standing instructions to ship her to Cærimonia by swiftest steamer should she ever be captured.”

Mummenschanz looks up at Marius with desperation.  “But we were to burn her for the upcoming Harvest Festival!  It would have been ideal!”

Marius nods sympathetically, “Sadly, if she is to be burned, it won’t be here.  And it won’t be by you.”

Mummenschanz gestures angrily up at her, and his voice takes a desperate turn.  “We have only begun her inquiry!  We have yet to hear her list of accomplices!  The list of charges is extensive!”

The Doge shakes his head.  “Nothing beyond the first degree,” his voice is stern, warning.  “She must be healthy for her trip to Cærimonia.”

“But,” Mummenschanz pleads.

“I’m sure we need not discuss the repercussions should she succumb to her injuries during her voyage to Cærimonia?”

“This is highly irregular,” the Deacon sighs at last.  “Why weren’t we told of this before?”

Marius looks surprised.  “I informed you as soon as I learned we had her in custody!  How was I to know you would proceed to the second degree so quickly?”  He looks up at her and smiles, perhaps with pride, “She must have proved quite intractable.”

Mummenschanz snorts.  “Yes.  You could say that.”

Marius nods to the soldier.  “Let her down.  Take her back to her cell.  She’ll leave on the next ship for EroBernd.”

The Deacon is no fool.  Raising his hand, he says, “No, that I cannot allow.  First I shall confirm this missive with the Primate.  Then you can ship her.”

The Doge bows.  “As you wish.  We shall keep her in our prisons until her fate is decided.”

As they turn to leave, Marius glances back up at her.  “So how did you find her?  How did you know she was in Cliffs Reach?”

The Deacon watches with a sour expression as the Templar lowers her to the floor.  “She had been preying upon a noble of your city, ensorcelling him, forcing him to perform unmentionable acts.”

“How horrible for him!” Marius drawls ironically.

Mummenschanz catches the tone and narrows his eyes.  “His penitence is lengthy, but we understand he was but a pawn of this succubus.”

“Who else accused her?”

Mummenschanz stops.  “I beg your pardon?”

“As I understand it, it takes two witnesses to accuse a witch.  Who was the second?”

The Deacon thinks for a moment and then shakes his head.  “I cannot say, but it was someone from his household.”

“Ah!” sighs the Doge as the door closes.

vvv

“Please!” she begs her ember.  “Please listen to me!  The spell is gone!”

The ember squirms in its torment but doesn’t respond.

She lays on her side in her cold cell.  It’s been days since they left her here, and she still cannot move from the pain.  She imagines her arms are swollen larger than her legs.

The guards make sure to stack her bowls of gruel just beyond her reach.  She watches jealously as cockroaches and other vermin swarm across them.

“The spell is gone!” she moans in frustration.  “Why don’t you listen to me?”

Her ember remains silent in its struggles.

Sobbing, she beats her forehead against the stone floor.  What can she do?

What can anyone do when they’re helpless?  Closing her eyes, she prays.  She prays to God for strength, for support.  She begs for help in clearing the confusion of her ember.  “It is as the time Pennenc faced the Maze of Badmons,” she whispers into the darkness.  “‘The Drungi kave told him he was to walk its corridors or perish, but he faltered not in his path, for he saw the maze as it really was.  For the maze was as his harmony with God, and his faith in God was unshakable and true.  As he spoke thus, he saw his path through as though it was straight and broad.’”

She hesitates as she feels her ember tremble.  “Please, God,” she whispers, “Please clear the vision of my ember as You did that of Pennenc.”

A breath of fresh air seems to fill her cell.  One at a time, the tendrils begin to separate and retreat.  With each separation, she senses her ember gradually realize its mistake.  Quickly it sorts itself out and, with almost palpable embarrassment, tingles beneath her skin, awake and whole.

She rubs her cheek against the floor, happy for the first time in a long time.  “Thank you,” she whispers.  “Thank you, God.”

She winces as her arms slide back into their sockets with a pop.  “You’re welcome,” her ember whispers back as it begins the long process of trying to heal her.

She is starving and cold.  The guards bring food only infrequently—maybe once a day—or less.  It leaves her ember little opportunity to heal her.

“Can’t you just make food?” she pleads.

“Yes,” her ember answers.  She understands the words without hearing them.  “But as the Lady says, cause and effect, effect and cause.”

The change in her ember has been dramatic.  Ever since the painted man gave up his soul, her ember has been different.  It speaks independently to her now, no longer as simply another voice of her own.  It truly is a homunculus now.

What troubles her some times, is when it seems to know things that she doesn’t.  How could that be?

She limps the length of her cell.  Her arms are better, her wounds are better, but she is far from whole.  There is just not enough here for her ember to use to heal her—it is too cold, with too little food.  At last, she slumps in the corner and sulks, pressing her face against the bars of her door.

“Why?” she asks.  “Why do you need to make things cold or to make me hungry?  Why must they always be the effects of your magic?”

“It does not need to be just cold or hunger,” her ember considers.  “There have been other effects.  You have seen the sparks and felt the wind.  It is a matter of opposites.  You request healing, food.  Something else must be taken.  From order comes chaos, and vice versa.”

“Chaos?” she wonders as she feels the rough steel of her bars.  Chaos.  Cold, hunger, decay.  “Age?” she asks.

“Age, yes.  You want to be older?”

“Oh, no,” she says as she smiles at the bars of her cell.

vvv

“My lord!” the Templar announces with alarm.  “She’s up!”

The Deacon pushes his way past the guard and stares through the bars at Esmeree.  “Yes, I can see that.  So?”

The Templar hesitates.  “She’s been in a bad way for days, holy one.  Couldn’t move, couldn’t eat.  For her to be up now…  You don’t think,” his voice suddenly sounding frightened, “she’s summoning again?”

She peers up at the Inquisitor and tries to look weak and helpless.  She hopes he doesn’t check her stone, lest he realize his spell has been defeated.  She’d prefer not to deal with this sorcerer if she doesn’t need to, and there is no way she can guarantee he won’t be able to disable her ember again.

He glares at her with pale blue eyes.  “Oh, I don’t think she will be a problem.”

“Yes, Deacon,” the Templar mutters, still frightened.

She huddles in the corner of her cell.  Despite the best efforts of her gaolers, she is now well fed and in relatively good health.  The Templar frowns at the unusually rusty condition of her bars but doesn’t make any additional comments.

“She looks just fine to me,” murmurs the Deacon.  His look is disconcerting.  His voice is wrong.  “Open the door.”

“Excuse me, Deacon?”  The Templar sounds shocked.

Mummenschanz snaps at him, “Open the door!  I’m going to continue her ordeal.”

Esmeree frowns.  His royal “we” is gone again.

The Templar fumbles with his keys, “Shall I summon your stenographer and the doctor?”

“No.”

“But how can you document her confession or ensure she doesn’t die from her ordeal or…”

Mummenschanz hesitates, his mouth working as he considers his reply.  At last he grimaces.  “Ah, fuck it!”

The Templar gasps in surprise as the smaller Deacon grabs him by the throat and throws him against the door.  He strikes with such force that his skull bursts as head and helmet are driven through the bars.

Esmeree stares with horrified fascination as fountains of blood and brains spill from the Templar’s body and collect in the drain at the center of her cell.  His head looks like a cracked isean egg shell.  The prison rings with a second metallic clangor as Mummenschanz tears the badly corroded lock from her door.

Esmeree struggles to prepare her Hammer, but the Deacon bridges the distance between her and the door with uncanny speed.  She nearly screams as he cradles her face in his hands, pressing it close to his.  His blue eyes shine.

“I think it’s time for us to leave, don’t you, Easy?” asks Drake’s voice from behind Mummenschanz’s face.

It is late into Last Summer—nearly Harvest Season—and thick fog shrouds the Citadel, invading nearly every crevasse and shadowed corner.  The stars are invisible, and the moon is merely a glow through the clouds.

It is cold, but Esmeree hardly notices as she steps away from the Deacon—or is it Drake?

“It’s been a long time, eh Easy?”

“Don’t call me that.  No one calls me that anymore.”

Drake shrugs.  Taking hold of each ear, he pulls.  With a sick, sucking noise, the skin stretches and then begins to slide away—like an old scab pulling away from an infected sore.  Esmeree’s stomach churns, but she cannot look away.  Quickly, Drake’s body is bare before her—if that’s what she can call it.  He is a creature of pure muscle and bone.  His razor-like teeth shine in the dim light.

Fresh blood runs in tiny rivulets across his exposed, outraged flesh.  A pool begins forming at his feet.

“What did you do with his body?” she asks.

“Hmmn,” Drake wonders impishly.  “After I fed, I left it in a most entertaining position.  It should prove quite shocking to those who stumble upon it…”

“Why would you do such a thing?” she whispers.  “Certainly someone will find it soon!  There’s no way you can hide like that!  They’ll see us…”

Drake smiles in a way that she’s never seen before.  Predatory, hungry, it suddenly makes her feel very unsafe in his presence.  “I walk these streets nearly every night, Esmeree.”  He inclines his head, “Have you heard tales of a man like me lurking in the darkness of Cliffs Reach?”

When she shakes her head, he nods, “I have my ways.”

He tosses Mummenschanz’s torn skin into the waters of the while marble fountain, apparently unconcerned that he is standing at the heart of Cliffs Reach’s governmental and religious complex.

“Drake,” she says softly.

“We need to go.  The Lady is anxious to see you.”

“Drake, where is your skin?”

“Safe.  Someplace safe.”

He extends a gory hand, and laughs when she shies away.  “Afraid of a little blood?  I remember a time when, you would have—”

Esmeree steps forward quickly and presses her fingers against what she hopes are his lips.  “Yes, I remember too.  But a lot has changed, and you’ve… looked better.”

He laughs again, and in his eyes, she sees the Drake she adored as a child.  He is the same man, with or without skin—she’s never had any illusions about his nature—but it is she that has changed.

“Then let us get to the Mill quickly,” he says, “so you may see the Lady, and we can be reunited properly?”

She hesitates when he takes her hand, and when he frowns at her, she rushes to the fountain and gingerly pulls the skin from the waters.  Holding it up like it is a washerwoman’s laundry, she is surprised by how heavy it is.  Without the flesh and bone beneath it, it is totally unrecognizable as the Inquisitor’s.  A cruel plan forms in her mind.  Her ember hungers for the taste of revenge.

She shakes her head.  No.  Not yet.

“Esmeree!” Drake hisses.  “We go now!”

She glances at the walls of the Citadel.  “Drake, there is something we need to do first."