"Once, Trickster Man snuck into the Circle of Wejwej and stole one of his Stones of Power. He did not love the Stone–he did not even know which one he stole–he did it only for the joys of theft. When the gods of the Circle saw the Stone was missing, there was a great uproar and old Trickster knew he could not keep it for long.
"So he quickly ground it up as fine as he could and baked it into bread for his friend, First Ancestor. But Trickster Man was in a hurry and did not grind the Stone very carefully. While most was turned to flour, there was still much grit, like grains of sand. There were even a few pebbles.
"First Ancestor ate the bread and even broke a tooth on one of the pebbles, but Trickster Man just laughed and said it was a wheat grain that missed the millstone.
"With the Stone gone, Trickster Man made a copy out of mud and straw and decorated it to look like his stolen prize. This, he slipped back into place among the other Stones of Power, and with his crime concealed, Trickster went on to other adventures and mischief. And now, no one–not even old Trickster Man–knows which Stone he stole, although many people and gods have tried to guess…
"What was that, my sweets? Well, you know what happened to First Ancestor. When it came time, Wejwej hit him on the head and chopped him up into many, many pieces. From these pieces, Wejwej made the first people. From his feet came the great wandering tribes like us and the Niag Dancers. From his bones came the Mountain People. From the rest came the others, even the soulless people of the Lands of Rust to the south.
"But what Wejwej didn’t know was that First Ancestor had eaten the Stone of Power and all its grains were mixed throughout all parts of him. And so there was a little bit of Stone in each person Wejwej made. And now we all carry this power. Most have just a little–just a tiniest speck of flour–but some have one of the bigger grains–or even a pebble–and they are our most powerful shamans."
Ul-Leilie, djeli storyteller of the Ghali’MwanaMungu tribe
***
"Poor little witch girl," Esmeree’s accomplice sneers. His Brackish burr rattles through the darkness of the mine. She crouches lower, pressing her back hard against the unfinished stone. Coal dust sifts through her hair, invading eyes, nose, and mouth. She resists the increasing urge to cough or brush it away and hugs her small Palpi scimitar closer to her belly. She can hear him shuffle through the dirt as he feels his way towards her in the darkness.
The ember within her breast hums in sympathy to her fear, and she rubs the skin in hopes of calming it.
She risks another look. Peering up from her hiding place, she sees the big Brackish cing mercenary still crouched near the mine entrance, his huge spatha broadsword held easily in one hand. His eyes drill into the sticky blackness as he meticulously examines each shadow, each shape, in hopes of recognizing her familiar form. One step at a time, he works his way deeper into the darkness.
Esmeree eases back into cover and stares forlornly down at her scimitar. Even covered with coal dust, it still catches the occasional glint of light from the entrance. Thin, elegant, it was the perfect fashion statement for a young sellâria eager to climb the social ladders of the Seven Kingdoms. In its silk and dyed leather sheathe, it drew envious looks from men and women alike, just as the jeweler said it would.
If only it worked as well in her hands as it looked on her hip. Esmeree sighs quietly. If only she was a better fencer. The gashes on her arm and knees, her ignominious retreat to this mine, and her perfectly healthy opponent attest to her weak swordsmanship. With his first swing, the bastard cut her to the bone right across both legs. One swipe with that spatha of his. She grimaces. He was probably trying to hobble her.
She should have bought the pistol.
"C’mon now, inigena, let’s just put this ugliness behind us. Make nice like we used tä, uh? Hiisi ain’t mad na more." She hears him pause, listening for a reaction or movement. He shuffles forward a few feet, his blade kicking up blue sparks as it hisses along the rusting I-bars of the coal shuttle’s railway. "Figure we’re even, uh?"
Her hand silently closes around fist-sized block of coal at her feet. "Hiisi…" she whispers.
His eyes snap in her direction, and his sword follows her throat as she slowly rises from her hiding place. The tip of his blade wavers ever so slightly but enough for Esmeree to notice.
"Easy…" He pauses, "Esmeree…" She can almost see him smiling.
"You want to make up, Hiisi? Then how about a KISS!" She throws. Hiisi ducks at the sudden suggestion of movement, but his silhouetted figure is too easy of a target. The block of coal hits him somewhere in the vicinity of his head with a loud crack and clatters away into the darkness. A small cloud of dust rings him as he howls in pain and stumbles to his knees.
"Yä whorish BITCH!"
Esmeree tries to bolt for the sunlight, but Hiisi’s blade cuts upward to block her. She bats at it with her scimitar, but the only effect is an impressive noise and a small spark. Slowly, she backs off in the en-guarde position he taught her. Her legs are injured, and her stance is weak. "You ard-vitchoor son-of-a-bitch!" she spits.
Distantly, the mine behind her repeats their curses over and over.
"Esmeree… Esmeree…" Carefully, Hiisi rises to his feet. The vain buffoon even tries to dust himself off. A halo of coal dust surrounds him now as the sunlight behind him streams through. She imagines he looks like a dark angel from the Fire Hell.
If only he was as merciful.
Hiisi used to brag that all her tricks would be useless against him. Unfortunately, it seems he was right. Her best efforts have only brought her here.
Her ember seems to squirm with anticipation as an idea comes to her. Slowly she massages it as she begins the summoning.
"What’s the matter there, witch girl, uh? Had a taste of me other blade and now yä fears it?" He waves the point of his sword. She backs deeper into the darkness. "’Tis a kinder death I’m offerin’ than yä’ll get back home. They’ll know about yä by now, Easy! Go home and the Inquisition’ll find yä a nice warm spot on a spit… or perhaps a tight necklace on a stockade, uh? Maybe yä gets tä live with yer old man, yäh?"
He giggles at his own jokes and then coughs harshly. He hacks and spits. "Damn this mine. Damn this dust."
Esmeree feels the heat building within her, focussing within the ember beneath her fingers. Silently, she casts the power to a spot just in front of the warrior. It starts small and grows. It is an old game, and she and her ember play it well.
"Hiisi…" she whispers.
"Ah, now c’mere darlin’. I promise tä be quick… at least quicker than a bonfire, yäh?"
"You like fire, Hiisi?" The spot has grown to a tiny pinprick of light.
"Wha?" Hiisi’s head reels backwards as he tries to focus on the glowing ember of light in front of him. She can see his soot-covered face well in that light. Realization dawns in his eyes. "Esmeree, nage…"
The spark ignites the coal dust hanging in the air. A blossom of fire erupts and expands to fill the mineshaft. It surges towards the cing, lifting him and throwing him backwards. Esmeree turns and ducks behind her cover, but the fire rushes over her with a thunderclap, sucking the air from her lungs and bludgeoning her body. She tumbles over the sharp stones and lays stunned in a heap of coke rock.
***
"God’s work can be seen in all things, my child. In the minor miracles of the world around us–in the sun and the moon above us, the windows into the Two Hells–in the glory of the Certu and the humility of the Dulia–in the sorcery of His priests who guide us."
Old Myrdd smiles sweetly at the little girl. She comes to him in lieu of her chores at the Mill, and he teaches her in defiance of the laws of the Medianist Church. But in those eager gray eyes, he finds a student in a city who has long since lost interest in anything an old man can teach.
Never mind that teaching a girl to read and write is a crime punishable by death. How far can he already be from that fate now?
"But I hear sailors," the girl asserts stubbornly, "They say our lands are weak with magic! I hear about the bad gods the Bracks pray tä and all the magic their sacardds can use and…"
"Hush, Esmeree! Don’t say such things so loudly! It’s–"
"And I heard about the Naked Lands even further away…"
"Esmeree!"
"…where just about everybody can use magic, and–"
"SILENCE child!" he snaps and then immediately regrets it. Esmeree frowns in a hurt way and glares at the stains on her dirty pauper’s smock. He looks around him, but no one in the street outside their alleyway appears to have heard her outburst.
Carefully, painfully, he sits on the ground next to her and brushes away the garbage to clear a space for drawing. "Listen, child. These are dangerous questions. To even ask them places your soul in jeopardy… at least so says the Prophets of God, blessed-be-their-names…" He sighs. "It is true, in the lands to the north and south of the Seven Kingdoms, the magic is different… ah… more vulgar. Dirtier. And the further away you travel from the bosom of the Medianist church, the more this is the case. It is as if everyone can use it, almost as if they can pluck it from the air itself."
With the end of his walking stick, he draws a crude diagram of the world in the dirt.
"What have I told you?" he asks, "What happens should you travel up, past the Brackish lands, to the ends of the world?"
"Jungles and deserts."
"And then what?"
"Demons and the Fire Hell."
He embellishes his drawing. "And in the south?"
"Demons and the Ice Hell."
"That is right, child," he says, finishing the picture.
"But…" She concentrates with thought. "If that’s where the Hells are, why’re the sun and moon called the Windows tä Hell? And if Hell is where the magic is strongest… Where does God live?"
The old man smiles and marks the center of his drawing. "God lives at the center of creation, at the Source. The center. The Median."
Esmeree struggles with the concepts laid before her. Her mind swims. It is at times like this when a familiar tingling occurs in that hard lump beneath her throat. Her hand slaps up to her chest, but it is too late to stop what has already started. She looks around, trying not to look worried, but so far nothing seems to have happened.
Myrdd watches the girl with sadness and wonders what kind of chest problem the poor child can have. Never has he seen a child with this kind of breathing distress.
"Do you realize, child," he says, chuckling in an attempt to lighten her suddenly dark mood, "That the peoples at the furthest extremes–denizens of the so-called Naked Lands–have almost no culture? No understandable language? No true art or music? They have no metal but use sticks and sharp stones and wear crude skins or nothing at all?" He smiles even broader and nudges her, "I hear some even have bones through their noses…"
This doesn’t seem to have any affect on the girl. Slightly miffed, he straightens. "What would you rather have? Magic at your fingertips, but nothing on your back? Look at the great cities of the Seven Kingdoms. Look at the mighty navies of Palpin, at the great Medianist cathedrals, and tell me which peoples are more blessed by God?"
"But why…" Esmeree’s eyes dart to and fro, searching for movement in the garbage, "Why do the Bracks and the others have sä many gods?"
"You mean the devils like Bàs and Johlpa the Ax and Suptra?" The girl nods silently. "They are merely aspects of the true God. The foolish barbarians are just too drunk with the magic that soaks their lands to realize it."
"But… I hear that Johlpa can cast lightnin’ down from the sky and…"
"Aspects. Aspects of a greater whole. Listen, if a palace Templar points his musket at you, do you talk to the man or do you talk to the gun?"
Esmeree smiles. "The gun, of course." She giggles and then too late realizes her mistake. The loss of concentration was all it took, and now, it’s loose. Her ember has summoned again.
Myrdd shakes his head. "Barbarian folk like the Bracks talk to the gun. God Himself is a much larger being and hence harder to comprehend."
"How…" she asks, suddenly grim and distracted, "do yä really find God, then?"
"Ah," he smiles, "That’s easy. Through the teachings of the holy mages of the church and the lessons of the Prophets. We are united with God when we die."
"What if yä want tä meet God before yä die?"
She sees it now. A clot of hair and twine, forgotten among the trash of the alley, begins to stir. Before her horrified eyes, it rises and takes form. First a head, then arms and legs. It jumps from one leg to another and then spins in a neat pirouette. She tries to focus on what Myrdd is saying. Carefully, deliberately, she massages the lump under her skin, but the tingling persists.
The puppet prances, trying to get and hold her attention.
"To pass from this world to the next, and stand before the face of God, you must travel through one of the Hells and accept God’s judgement…" He leans forward to catch the girl’s eye. "Are you listening to me? It is not a decision made lightly, nor often. Only the greatest of our wizards have attempted it, and none save the third Prophet, Guiot, has ever returned… Although there is some debate on that matter."
Her head snaps up, "Why?"
Myrdd shakes his head, "No, that can be a subject for another time. Now," he says, clearing away his drawing of the world, "Let us move on to mathematics…"
Esmeree’s eyes drift from her teacher to the dancing tangle nearby. It seems to almost dare the near-sighted sage to notice it.
"Myrdd," she asks quietly, "Why aren’t there any girl wizards?"
The sage freezes in his drawing of the day’s lessons. After a long pause and a sigh, he answers, "It is a simple case. To be a wizard, you must be chosen to carry the sacred embers of God. Only men have the… mental faculties to perform God’s sorcery. Women are too fragile, suggestible. Hence, God chooses only men to carry the embers… They are remnants of God’s Covenant with His people."
Esmeree increases the pressure on the knot in her chest. The string marionette freezes in its dance and begins to shudder. "Girls aren’t born with these embers?"
Myrdd shrugs. "Some are born with some kind of magical focus, but they aren’t the sacred embers. These poor unfortunates frequently go mad or turn to a life of evil and witchcraft. Only the… ordeals of the Inquisition can cleanse their souls for absolution. Be grateful, Esmeree, that you are spared that fate."
He sniffs and coughs. "What is that smell?"
Looking around, he sees a small mound of smoldering hair. As Esmeree sulks, he brushes it away with disgust, "Now, on to mathematics…"
***
Esmeree staggers into the blinding sunlight, deafened and half-mad from the explosion. A black sludge of blood and coal dust runs down her face and legs. She stumbles over a forgotten piece of timber and falls amongst the mining equipment left to rust out in the open. She lays there, senseless, alternating between agonized fits of terrified weeping and blissful unconsciousness.
It is nightfall when she first wakes and realizes she can hear more than just a dull roar. Beneath the buzz in her ears are the muted songs of crickets and other sounds of the forest at night. Carefully, she tries to rise, only to find the muscles in most of her limbs in rebellion to her wishes. Her back cramps, and she retreats back into a ball, shuddering from the pain.
"Is this it, Esmeree?" The voice is her ember’s, but it startles her nevertheless. "Is this where you finally surrender? It would certainly be easier, wouldn’t it?"
In disgust, she spits. The black mud of blood, snot, and coal slowly rolls down the side of a rusted ore cart. She knows, just a few hundred yards away, is their camp. Food, water, bandages, horses to take her wherever she wants. All she has to do is get there. "But it is easier just to lay here in the dirt, isn’t it?"
Her ember’s voice is mocking, reminiscent of Hiisi’s tone, and that hurts even more. "Go ahead and give up. What does it matter now? Your friends have more important things to worry about than you. The fishers and sticks won’t have you. The boy is gone. Hiisi is… gone. And if what he said was true, the Inquisition knows about you now. That means all deals with Jacobus are off. You can’t even go home anymore..."
Esmeree carefully reaches out and grabs the side of the overturned ore cart. Slowly, she shifts her weight, willing each complaining muscle to relax and do its job. Ignore the knots; ignore the bruises and the cracking scabs. "And look at yourself. All busted up. You think those knees will hold you? It was a good shot Hiisi gave you. Think you’ll ever hear right again? Let’s lay odds on how that face of yours looks now. I’d say even money is you couldn’t rate as a half copper oainjyr in the Heap. My guess is you’ll be offering the Skudd fishermen blows and hand jobs in return for their fish heads and other goodies… Have to fight off the seagulls and lepers for your dinners from now on, eh?"
One muscle at a time, she lifts herself onto her elbows and looks around. In the darkness, the mine entrance looks like an inky gash in the side of the mountain. To one side are the foreman’s and maintenance shacks. She knows these to be locked from her panicked flight from Hiisi earlier. Metal and wood debris lay scattered across the ground. Though she cannot see them in the brush and tall grass, she knows two rusting rails run from the ore elevator, into the forest, and away through the mountains towards Cliffs Reach; it’s still a good day’s ride away, but she could follow those tracks home if she wanted.
Downhill are the overgrown wagon tracks. Through that gap in the trees are the small creek and her campsite. Slowly, she begins to crawl.
It feels like hours before she’s finally rewarded with the welcome presence of her marka pony. She must have forgotten to tether the beast again. Through her deadened ears, she hears it whicker a nervous greeting and nuzzle her hair. Damn animal. She’s had it less than a year, and it’s already grown attached to her.
The camp and their packs are just beyond, scattered across the clearing in disarray.
Slowly, deliberately, she makes her way to the heap of gear by the cold fire pit. Equipment lays strewn across the ground. She was in the middle of unpacking when Hiisi went rraakk with her. She had only a few seconds to realize this time his intent was not amorous but lethal.
As a fry, she learned to beware of men with killer’s eyes. Somehow, she’d dropped her guard with Hiisi.
Esmeree shakes her head slowly as she picks through their packs. When Hiisi’s hands closed around her throat, it was only through a quick summoning from her ember that let her break free and kick him away. Then she just stood there like a stupid idiot, staring at him in shock as he quickly found his feet and drew that huge sword. The slash across the knees sent her sprawling backwards, scrabbling for her own weapon. The cuts across her forearms saved her from a slit throat. And then she fled.
And then she found the mine. And now Hiisi’s dead.
She stares at his huge epos warhorse. It still wears its distinctive Brackish tack and saddle. The colors and cut of the leather indicate the owner’s homeland and clan standings. Esmeree wonders, for an outcast mercenary cing, he was certainly proud of his heritage.
Not that it matters now.
She looks down at the small pile of equipment she’s accumulated. Bandages, soap, fresh water, gin. Carefully, she wraps it all in a horse blanket.
Why is she feeling like this? Why is she feeling guilty? She looks back at the horse. The luct-marvos bastard had tried to kill her.
So why does she miss him?
She shakes her head and violently wipes the new tears from her face. Blood and dirt sting her eyes. What’s one more betrayal in her life? She should be used to it by now.
With her goods wrapped in the horse blanket, she works her way down to the creek to clean and dress her physical wounds.
***
Halos surround the gaslights and bonfires of Cliffs Reach as a fog creeps in from the Skudd Sea. In the high ground to the north, the merchants and nobles’ mansions of Marble Town glow all the brighter, like fine Fée castles spun from sugar. She can almost pick out Jacobus’s palace from here (the decadent pervert is probably hosting a party filled with young sellâria like her). At the top of it all, overseeing the land in all directions, is the walled Citadel. To the south, festering like a canker sore in the gums of the city, the Heap nestles between the city’s ports and the Brack River. The pathetic individuals living in those swamps can afford no candles or torches for light, and so the Heap lays dark across the nighttime cityscape like a black bruise. She can’t see it, but she knows it’s there nevertheless. She can smell it.
It’s probably the only safe place in the city for her now. Not even the Inquisition is brave enough to look for her in there for very long. Nor would they want to. A lifetime in the Heap would be worse than any Inquisition ordeal.
A departing steamer brays a greeting to a returning sister ship. Her hearing has only just begun to return, and she feels the air horn more than hears it as it bangs through the trees.
Myrdd once told her that the Skudd Sea was the life-blood of the 12 city-states of the Palpi peninsula. If that’s the case, then the ports of Cliffs Reach are its heart.
With her legs and arms stiff and tightly bandaged, she carefully urges her marka pony down the overgrown path towards Cliffs Reach’s main road, Hiisi’s larger epos war-horse in tow. All the ore mined in these hills used to flow down this artery and into the city, at least until the mines dried up and Cliffs Reach had to look to new industries. Up from the ports come grain, livestock, missionaries, and other goods grown elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, lands with better soil and stronger faith. These goods are either consumed by the citizens of Cliffs Reach or shipped north to inland city-states like Nacnæ, Ducci, and beyond. Esmeree isn’t sure just what is beyond, but she knows sooner or later you leave the Palpi peninsula and enter Brackish lands. Beyond that, the Chroani Kingdoms, the Naked Lands, and the unknown realms of demons.
As Esmeree nears the main road, the stench of rotting flesh raises bile in her throat, and she shudders as the stakes lining the road loom out of the darkness. The Inquisition is efficient in its rooting out of heretics, foreigners, and demons. The results of their ordeals line the roads to all Seven Kingdoms cities, either impaled or crucified. They are terrible testaments to the dangers of this world and the sacrifices some are forced to make to protect the souls of others.
She joins the road and slowly rides beneath the judging gazes of those purified sentinels, cleansed by the holy ordeals of the Medianist Inquisition. She remembers an old priest telling her that to join their ranks is the highest honor an infidel can achieve.
She catches some movement out of the corner of her eye. Some are not quite dead, and they still twitch and writhe in a hopeless, animal kind of way. She is grateful her wounded ears cannot hear their groans.
Sunrise is near. A blush has formed on the horizon as God slowly opens His other eye to Hell. Already, cavalry and Templars are drilling on the parade grounds east of the city. Black cloaked Ravens bark orders to their troops.
She is in a hurry. She has no idea how honest Hiisi’s threat was, but if it was true, she needs to get inside the city proper and into her own territory before it gets too light. The gate or city watch might recognize her and turn her over to the church. Worse, sticks or fishers from her guild might spot her and turn her over to the Lady.
Despite her urgency, however, she pauses and bows in her saddle, performing the Morning Prayer to the rising sun. Her ember tingles.
Finishing seems to restore some of her strength. She feels more at peace and better prepared to meet whatever comes. Is this some gift from God, she muses, or is it one more blasphemous sin from the lips of a condemned witch? Absentmindedly, she caresses her ember and looks up. And freezes.
For some reason, she has stopped beneath the stake of the painted man. His naked body was strung up days ago, and yet it is still untouched by ravens or the elements. Dark blue tattoos swirl across every inch of his perfect skin. His chin rests against his breastbone, and his long hair obscures his face. She recalls, however, his fine features and sympathetic eyes.
She remembers the day the painted man arrived at her city. Naked except for his tattoos, he rode to the main gates of Cliffs Reach’s Citadel, carrying only a bag of modest possessions and a ludicrously long fighting sword. The blade was only two fingers in width but nearly as tall as a man. The haft alone was as long as her Palpi scimitar, and the pommel terminated in a large knob, almost perfectly mirrored. Hiisi suggested the extra weight was needed to counter-balance the impossibly long blade, though he scoffed at the idea of anyone actually being able to fight with such a weapon. At the time, Esmeree held her tongue, far from certain that this naked man was defenseless.
There he sat on his horse, beautiful and silent, his sword cradled in one arm–as though in challenge of the entire city–and there he stayed until the militia escorted him inside. Esmeree was in the crowds watching when they hustled him towards the Inquisition’s chambers. She saw his face and met his eyes and was filled with a great sadness.
Three days later, his body was crucified on the road, the Inquisition’s ordeal finished, and yet for someone who had died by their hands, his body was remarkably free of injury. She visited the body as soon as she could but waited until she returned home before her cried. To be seen weeping at the feet of an executed infidel welcomes unwanted attention from the authorities.
Now Esmeree finds herself at his feet again.
She notices something thrusting out from between his legs. Riding a little closer, she sees with disgust that someone has run him through the ass with his own sword. The long blade must be running right up his spine. The tip grotesquely distends, but doesn’t seem able to pierce, the skin at the nape of his neck. The blade buried deep in his body, his feet dangle on the hand guards like it is the seat of some child’s tree swing. This desecration must have been done after the painted man was dead and crucified, the Medianists’ last attempt to humiliate the infidel. Probably by a vengeful acolyte.
She wonders what he did, or what he represented, to cause the Inquisition to do such things.
She experiences a strange sense of pride as she realizes that despite the church’s best efforts, they were still unable to defile his beauty.
Esmeree slips through the wattle and thatch huts that make up the eastern rim of Cliffs Reach and heads for the Market Square inside the Guilders. Once inside the city, the main road becomes the Doge’s Promenade, and it stretches all the way up to the Citadel. Today is not an official market day; nevertheless, the square is still full of poorer Brack and Chroani farmers and craftsmen, all looking to line their pockets with any color of metal. With these people come the scent of desperation, and that scent tends to draw its predators. It is through these waters that Esmeree cruises like a river gator.
Moments later, Esmeree is counting her coins and limping towards the walls of the Citadel. The slovenly Ducci farmer in the market naturally assumed Hiisi’s horse was stolen, and Esmeree was in no mood to haggle (she has no idea where Hiisi got it, but she hopes it was taken from Jacobus’s stables). She was happy to accept the pittance in copper Guilders the peasant offered, and in the process, she helped herself to nearly twice that value of his expensive produce.
Her own pony tethered at the public stables, she works her way deeper into the heart of the city, enjoying a large yam in the process. The great walled Citadel stands on the highest point of the city, and the walk uphill is long and difficult for Esmeree’s injured legs. The rugged cliffs overlook the Skudd on one side, the Brack River on the other, and the Citadel’s cannon can hold off an armada.
First, she must pass the doors of the finest mansions and palaces in Marble Town. Security here is tightest, and Esmeree tries to look casual as she slips by the bored mercenary guards. Her bandages help–the guards probably assume she is a leper heading for the cathedral for alms or blessings–and the Lady’s minions would never expect to see her in such a state.
These Marble Town homes are close enough for the finest families to find shelter within the Citadel gates, should hordes of unwashed Brackish warriors come spilling over the border. Esmeree wonders if Cliffs Reach has ever been invaded. Should it ever happen, she wonders what would happen to the less wealthy people trapped outside the keep’s walls.
Today, the great gates of the Citadel stand open, and even at this hour, the traffic in and out is heavy and unsupervised. She enters the gates and tries to avoid looking at the oppressive edifices of the city militia’s keep and prison. She keeps her eyes on her feet. The white marble flagstones of Ascension Square portray the rise to Heaven of the prophet Guiot the Virgin. As a matter of habit–her own private religious ceremony–Esmeree makes sure to grind her sandal into his eye as she heads for the plaza center and its the white stone fountain.
She takes two pots from a nearby pile, the least filthy she can find, and does her best to wash them in the fountain’s waters. The fountain provides the cleanest water in the city for citizens willing to make the trip. The only other option is the foul-smelling Brack River down by the docks. Feces is caked onto one of the pots, and she has to use her nails to scratch it out from the deepest gouges.
Huddled against the white stone, an old woman weeps and babbles, obviously overwhelmed by whatever life-misery God has chosen to dole out. Esmeree doesn’t give her another glance.
When both pots present a semblance of cleanliness, she fills one with water and the other with her stolen vegetables and heads for a special section of the Citadel wall. Moans echo from small holes in the stone. Occasionally, a thin hand reaches out to claw the air as she passes.
A woman and two children press against one, calling for someone inside to come take the food and water they had brought. There is no reply from the darkness, and their pleas become more desperate.
Not every criminal is executed by the church. Many prisoners’ crimes seem merely to have offended the sensibilities of the Doge or his noble peers. For such crimes, the suggested punishment is simple, being buried alive within the walls of the Citadel. The lucky ones with no friends or family die of thirst within a few days. The ones who are fed and watered can last for years.
Esmeree stops at one cell and taps the stone gently with her vegetable pot. "Old man? I’ve brought you your food and water." One at a time, she slips her stolen produce through the tiny hole in the wall. The black air inside is thick with foul odors, and she tries to keep her face away.
After a long pause, she hears something shift inside, and a wrinkled face with a watery eye appears in the hole. The Inquisition stole the other one with a red-hot poker. "Unh? Esmeree, my dear? That you, my child?" The face trembles as the eye focuses on her. "Dear god, what happened to you?"
She smiles, more relieved that she cares to show. Her hand flutters up to bandages on her face, and she looks away. "He betrayed me, Myrdd. He tried to kill me. He… he hurt me…"
Her friends are gone, the Lady will certainly have nothing to do with her, and Myrdd is trapped within this horrible wall. Hiisi and Jacobus have betrayed her, and the Inquisition is probably searching for her. Even the boy is long gone. She is no longer safe in her home. Tears well up again against her will, but she cannot stop them. She balls herself up on the ground beneath the cell and shudders with pain and grief.
A long moment later, a thin arm wrapped in parchment skin reaches out and caresses her hair.