Annatrice's emotional pain only served to heighten her sensitivity to the cacophony of thoughts which seemed to cloud her judgement and distract her concentration. The voices in her head were fleeting and indecipherable. They were not useful in any way; they were an annoyance to the point of intolerability. When it came to the point of the young woman reaching for the small dagger to draw a small trickle of blood from her thigh, she knew full well that it was wrong but the clarity it brought was like a sup of ale to the most dependant of drinkers. As the blade sliced the marble-like flesh, Annatrice could begin to arrange the bombardment of mental clutter and attain some measure of self control and order in her mind. She could feel the presence of a couple of the King's guard downstairs and Constance's fascination with their masculinity and their mystique. She could feel the anger of a couple next door in the adjacent house as they argued incessantly about the emergence of a new woman in their lives and she could experience the animal passion of two people making love across the street. She understood the discomfort of the footsore market trader who had been on his feet all day and the feeling of claustrophobia and hunger of the chickens that were caged, ready for the slaughter. As the intensity of the pain ebbed away, so the thoughts began to jumble again, like a language that had been spoken so eloquently but then reduced to a series of random, incoherent statements. The confusion began again and the more distressed Annatrice became due to its constant presence, the more Annatrice sought another slice of clarity.
The hours passed and Annatrice barely noticed the skies darken and the air freeze as she sat in her chair, her cream gown saturated in her own seeping blood. When Constance finally returned; she had been ordered to stay away by Annatrice in a fit of pique, it was to find her Lady asleep in the chair. Her head was slumped forward her dress stained with the brown oxidised product of her shameful masochism.
When Annatrice awoke, it was once again a bright and sunny morning and she was in her bed, her fouled clothes removed and a new set of underclothes on. Annatrice realised at once that Constance had keenly sought to save her from the indignity of waking in such a desperate state and cursed her own stupidity, for now it was obvious to her maid that her blood letting was an ongoing issue.
“Morning to you milady.” Constance said as she walked in, her footfalls so quiet, so well practised.
“Yes...morning.” Annatrice replied, her head spun, her eyes were heavy. The toll of taking on board the troubles of the world was a burden that she found difficult to bear.
“I hope you did not mind me seeing to you last night milady.” Constance said with more than a hint of nervous tension in her voice. Annatrice sat up and attempted to choose her words well.
“No...No I do not mind. I am...sorry for being so foolish and causing you undue toils and worry. It will not happen again.”
Annatrice spoke the words but knew them not to be true; the urge to pain herself had begun already as a throng of noise befuddled her senses once again. Constance dropped a handful of towels on top of a dark wood set of drawers.
“If I may be so bold milady...I have taken the dagger from your possession, I fear for your safety.”
Annatrice did her best to hide her intense annoyance at her maid's interference.
“Is that for my safety or for the sake of your King's quest?” She said with a hint of frustration.
“Oh, for your own safety of course, I should not like to see you scar the most blessed of flesh further, t'is a desecration milady.”
Annatrice slumped back into the bed, her hand covering her sensitive eyes from the low sun. Sensing her Lady's pain, Constance came to her side and sat upon the bed.
“I cannot see you in such agony milady. Pray tell me why you must hurt yourself in such a manner?”
Constance reached out and held Annatrice's hand. Despite the maid's youthful appearance, she was still a good ten years her Lady's senior and had the touch of a mother. The tender notion was enough to bring Annatrice to tears once more and with that, the bubbling turmoil in her mind increased.
“T'is the only way I can stop the frightful confusion, I fear that it will consume me!” Annatrice gasped for breath as she let her emotions free. Constance pulled Annatrice close and held her.
“I do not pretend to understand your malady, milady. I can see no purpose in drawing blood so readily.”
Constance looked down upon the frame of her Lady as she curled up into a ball, the pale perfection of her skin savagely disfigured in the prolonged attack.
“T'is not the blood, t'is the pain, I need it.” Annatrice was barely audible as she buried her face into the comforting midriff of her maid. Constance could not help but think that the woman she held in her arms was quite insane and in her torment, Annatrice could feel that too through the murky haze.
“You think I am broken, that I have been cursed.” Annatrice snivelled; she could not help herself to reveal her findings.
“It matters not what I think milady.” Constance replied, not in full receipt of the facts, her mandate was to service the young girl and tend to her needs, not counsel her or become embroiled in the affairs of the King.
“I am scared...what is happening to me?” Annatrice was desperately searching for an answer and a relief to her affliction. At first, it was a curiosity, a blessing at times when her playful nature demanded the truth from her peers, but now in the dawn of her adult years, her power had become unstable, intolerable and her desire to appease the demons which resided within her head, insatiable. Constance had no answers to her Lady's most confounding of questions; her gentle rocking motion and her warm embrace were all the comforts she could give at this time. Secretly, Constance yearned the return of the King and an end to this service, for the child set her ill at ease.
Annatrice did not move from her bed the rest of the day. No matter how adamantly Constance pleaded with her to come down and eat, she was in no mood for any of it. On occasions, Constance would bring food and drink to her bedside and find her Lady writhing around in a fit, unable to shake the intrusive invasions. When loud, irregular thuds were heard from the scullery, Constance was bound to investigate and on her arrival in Annatrice's bedroom, she found her mistress striking her body against the hard resistance of a heavy set of drawers. Constance stood gaping at the young girl who laughed hysterically as she sat there; face reddened, eyes streaked with tears and her hair draped across her sweating brow.
“Ha! No, he cannot come soon enough for you woman!” Annatrice yelled, as she delved into Constance's mind and felt her desperation for the King's return and for all of this to be over.
“Stop it!” Constance screamed, completely losing her patience and daring to step across the boundaries of her station.
“No, you stop it for I cannot!” Annatrice screamed back, her youthful angst not helping in any way.
“You're a witch girl, a witch I tell you. I feel you, t'is not right!” Constance's placid nature was being tested to its limits, but there was something about Annatrice that drove her to display such anger and frustration.
“Yes, I remind you of your bitch mother whose mind was feeble and brought you such shame, you used to strike her in her moments of weakness and tell your brother she had fallen.”
Annatrice could not help but reveal Constance's most shamed past, the intense and prolonged torture of the voices in her head gave her cause to lash out at every opportunity. Constance aggrieved and on the edge of reason strode forward and lashed out, her fist driving into Annatrice's already bruised cheek. Constance tore at her hair as Annatrice fought back but with little hope of victory. The maid's anger was to be vented and Annatrice had accepted that her treatment was perhaps fully deserved. Flailing limbs and screams of distress would await the horrified visitors who stood in the doorway, their faces filled with horror.
“What in the name of the Gods is going on?” A tremendous masculine voice bellowed as Constance immediately stopped her attack and was rudely thrown to the floor by a recovering Annatrice.
Swallowing hard, Annatrice looked up to see the King, Deo Canthi with several members of his entourage including her husband Lord Charleroux. Her hair like a banshee, her body semi naked, her underclothes torn and bloodies, Annatrice shrunk back into the bed, hastily pulling the covers over her torso. Constance pulled herself to her feet and breathed hard as she stood up straight. She closed her eyes knowing that this unfortunate timing would cost her life.
“Speak, for I am at a loss to what is happening here!” The King demanded, as Annatrice looked at the most comical face of Charleroux, his mouth agape and his tongue visible.
“Spare me, oh spare me, sire. I have been driven insane by her spell!” Constance dropped to her knees realising that she had utterly failed to control herself and now was at the mercy of her Lord.
“T'is truth my Lord, I am fully deserving of any hardship that my maid presented to me, I spoke out of turn in a fit of frustration. Constance has been quite magnificent in tending to me, I beg of you to look beyond the disgrace of such a sight.”
Annatrice was solemn faced until the end when she cracked into an embarrassed chuckle. The King raised his eyebrows and looked around to his aides who all puckered their lips in confusion. Without further words he turned and walked out of the room leaving only Charleroux and his wife remaining, Constance skulked off too, wondering what mighty punishment would befall her.
“The Gods! What have you done to yourself?” Charleroux uttered as he approached his wife, once again pulling the covers high to keep her modesty.
“I can see your good intentions, I thank you for your concern but I am quite alright and need no further attention.”
Annatrice was not particularly comfortable around Charleroux, especially when so exposed and vulnerable.
“If you cannot share your pain to me then...” Annatrice did not let him finish his sentence, her throbbing wounds giving her ample stimulus to rob him of his thoughts.
“Who can? Because you are my husband and deserve in some way to dominate every aspect of my life? No Charleroux, I am your wife on paper but little more. We both suffer this agreement for our own ends do we not?”
Charleroux grimaced, knowing that he may as well not bother speaking when Annatrice was so finely tuned to his thoughts.
“Can you not see that I care however? It pains me to see you in such desperate straits.”
“Ah yes, I see that you long to soothe me, to dab cool waters upon my wounds, to touch my wounded skin and all the while, your manhood stiffens with the yearning to fill me with your seed. Be gone! Go and continue pandering to the King's wishes for he often wonders what usefulness you bring to his cause, your annoying utterance's filling his mind with the fulfilling thud of the axe upon the block!”
Annatrice turned away, once more realising that she had gone too far. Charleroux's heart thumped as he stood, turned and walked away in dignified silence.
“I am sorry!” Annatrice screamed out, her mercurial angst on show for all to see and hear as she suddenly felt the wash of hurt with submerged her husband's heart. Her apologies carried no weight however as Charleroux continued out of the room without reply, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
An hour passed in solitude for Annatrice who was left to her own devices whilst a conference took place downstairs in the reception rooms of the cramped town house. Annatrice need not even be there to have full knowledge of every word spoken, every intention, every doubt expressed. She paced around her room like a dog in heat as the throbbing ache from herself harming and the subsequent fight with her maid continued her moments of clarity.
The King was questioning Constance who was vehemently protecting her own self interests and rightly so, she had much to lose from falling out of his favour. Constance recalled every moment from the last two days in fine detail, her account of the night of the blood and the dagger being the most keenly analysed. Annatrice despaired at her most jealously guarded secret laid bare; it was the mystifying element of her condition that she did not want to share. Even at her tender age, she knew that this aspect was her continuing and growing weakness, one that could be easily exploited by an unscrupulous master. Annatrice felt Charleroux's continued hurt and confusion. Somewhere in a most superficial soul, there was a tenderness that remained deeply buried under layers of greed and materialism. She heard his bold and forthright speak but shared in the lack of self confidence which so starkly contrast his outer and inner most thoughts. Annatrice could also feel the curiosity and scepticism of the King's men who were keen to see her skills in action. They questioned the usefulness of Annatrice and posed the query that all were keen to answer the most: what was the extent of her unique powers and how far was she willing to go in order to aid them topple Tragian's regime? They discussed tests, trials to see how far they could push her, they wished to know the range of her powers but most of all they sought to understand how they could capture the essence of her trait to use in isolation, to use without the need for pandering to her every whim.
The experience of watching, hearing and feeling the secretive meeting was wholly negative for the already fragile mind and Annatrice's frustration and rage at being used as a tool for the quest of power only drove her further into a fevered hysteria. She began to punish herself physically for the need to know more and it only spurned her on in her search for greater and greater agonies. She felt out of control, suicidal. She stood at the open shutters and looked down to the street, it was a significant drop, quite high enough to crush and break every bone in her body. The need to be far away from the squabbling minds below pulled her closer to the plummet but then her inner strength welled and her own defiance began to take command of her actions. Striding to the door, she opened it and began her descent down the tight and uneven staircase. To leave the house she would have to walk through the very room where the King and his entourage sat in debate, somehow though she knew that they would not see her and as she approached the ground floor chamber as she had envisioned in her mind, the collected Lords and generals had decided to vacate the room, all at once in favour of the latrine! Still wearing the most meagre of outfits, she parted the front door and skipped away into the freezing air of the street, the night casting its blackened vale across the town, its fires burning bright.
Confusion, embarrassment and anger reigned as the King, Charleroux, Constance and a number of nobles and generals were suddenly lucid and all standing tightly packed within the confined and malodorous room wholly unfit for royalty. Nervous laughter was met with cries of outrage as they realised they had all somehow, quite willingly risen and walked under their own power to the small chamber. Sensing that this was in some way Annatrice's doing, Charleroux rushed upstairs to her quarters which were empty, the cold night air blowing hard through the window.
“She is gone!” He cried out in both annoyance and surprise. The King surveyed the people around him.
“I want her found. Wake up your guard Devinn; I want her returned this hour. I don't care if you have to search the whole town, get her back here now!”
The King was as beguiled as he was furious.
“Keep your wits about you, she has the charm to turn your head and blind you to her presence.” Charleroux stated despite it being quite obvious now.
“Pardon me for saying sire, but she hears every word we say and every notion that passes through our heads but she cannot do it without the pain.” Constance stuttered, unnerved by Deo Canthi's brutish appearance and stern eyes.
“That much has become quite obvious woman. This girl is not our foe; she is our most prized asset. We must recapture her faith and take away that pain.”
One of Deo Canthi's generals stepped forward into the conversation. His bald head bore a scar from a devastating blow to the skull; it was clearly a miracle he had survived.
“Whilst our minds play tricks and our attention is turned, the girl walks by us and we are oblivious. I am sure the King can see the ramifications of such a skill used
in battle? With the right kind of research, it is not inconceivable that her powers can be channelled and focused, perhaps even to encompass and enfeeble an entire army?”
Drayk, the softly spoken but sinisterly scarred warrior spoke from the position of a general about to send his troops into conflict. He did not see in Annatrice a vulnerable young woman, barely out of childhood, vexed by her condition and seeking solace. He saw an indirect weapon of infinite destruction. A weapon that if used wisely could not only protect the realm from attack but to also conquer and unite the Protathaian Isle's under a single banner; that banner being the orange and gold standard of Deo Canthi. The King nodded but remained silent, conquest of the world was not high on his agenda, fulfilling his quest to unite the southern lands was always his quest first and foremost. The tantalising thoughts of his right hand man were compelling however, how could they not be? Annatrice of Cayborne was an extraordinary find and how the King punished himself for letting her slip through his fingers so easily.
The small hours of the night passed and Charleroux wandered through the desolate back streets of Horstock, unfamiliar with the town and its intricacies. It had occurred to him that if she chose to remain aloof then she would have no problem in doing so. Her will to feel the urgent presence of her seekers would ensure that she remained far away and never found. There was little point in calling out for her, Charleroux knew that only sleep would close her mind to her pursuers and he was not even sure of that.
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