The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  The trial — as had been explained to her by a tall, hook-nosed creature who had introduced himself as Confessor Lymbert — had three categories. Lymbert, whose name Myrren had recognised with a sinking heart, preferred to call these categories ‘degrees’. The word made him smile each time he uttered it.

  Myrren had already undergone Lymbert’s so called first-degree. Apart from the permitted rape by one of his assistants in which her virginity was torn away from her, she had been stripped, bound and flogged in front of a group of hooded men. They were presumably remnants of Zerques whom she realised were far more interested in viewing her naked body in pain than extracting anything more than her helpless shrieks.

  Myrren had always believed that King Magnus was not in favour of these fanatics, that he had crushed them and their Order. Her parents had not shared her optimism. They had always warned her to be careful.

  ‘It’s your eyes, my love,’ her father would gently say. ‘The zealots will not see your beauty or hear the intelligence of your words. They will see only the mismatch of your eyes and all the old superstitions will rise up to frighten them.’

  She had known since she was old enough to converse with others that she was different and was being protected by her parents. Her mother had once confessed the constant anxiety she and her father held for Myrren. She too had referred to her daughter’s eyes and the old fear.

  ‘Poke them out, then!’ Myrren had once suggested angrily, much to her parents’ dismay. She had not meant to shock them but she was tired of the constant care she took to distract strangers from looking at her full in the face. Tired of the scarves and shawls her mother insisted she wore when out and about.

  It was never going to change. The fear was ancient and, though Morgravians were more enlightened and even openly dismissive of the existence of magic these days, the need to privately ward against things of sorcery still pervaded. Myrren had wished she did possess the power to change the colour of her eyes because she had known the Witch Stalkers and their whisperings would hover around her for all of her life. She remembered how she had felt hollow after being so abrupt with the noble, sensing immediately that it could lead to trouble simply because of old-fashioned superstition about eyes — although she was past caring once his unwelcome hand had slipped beneath her skirts. His drunken breath made her feel ill and his decrepit and desperate desires brought a wave of disgust. Her contempt showed in her rebuke. And now she was paying the price.

  Nevertheless, she would give no satisfaction to these men.

  And so after the first couple of licks from the whip which brought her shrill objections, she had clamped her teeth as hard as she could and uttered no further sound. She would give them nothing of herself, not even her groans.

  Another woman, far older than her, had received similar treatment simultaneously and she had cried throughout, begging for pity. She was accused of slaying her husband but no one paid any attention to the old burns, the bruises, the obviously previously broken and now twisted limbs. Here, clearly, was a woman tormented by a brutal husband. It mattered not. In finding the courage to kill him, she would now pay with her own life. The flogging had finally stopped and both women had remained bent over barrels, inhaling whatever air they could drag into their lungs to steady their trembling limbs and shattered nerves. The pain from the bleeding welts on Myrren’s back had been so intense and all-consuming it became part of her. She had somehow been able to absorb it and put it aside. Moments later she had been turned and strapped to a post. She recalled ignoring the cloudy messages of pain from her back as it had chafed against the rough timber. Still naked, the men had then enjoyed watching her body from a different angle, but more importantly, she had been able to witness what was happening to her companion.

  They had obviously decided, Myrren deduced, that she should be saved for future entertainment — a suspected witch, after such a dearth, was to be savoured after all. Myrren had watched mournfully as the other woman had been dragged from her barrel.

  ‘Put her boots on,’ Lymbert had commanded, bored with this one, and Myrren had closed her eyes. She knew what was coming, for Lymbert had already taken sincere delight in giving her a guided tour of this torture chamber.

  The sagging woman had been hauled jabbering towards a bench where she had been pushed into a sitting position.

  ‘Bind her hands,’ Lymbert had ordered.

  ‘I beg you, sir,’ the victim had beseeched and Myrren had clenched her eyelids tight and had tried to close off her hearing but could not. She knew there would be no mercy now, not for a killer … certainly not for one who would not admit to murdering in cold blood.

  Two specially crafted vices had then been clamped around the woman’s feet. She had been still too much in a swoon from the pain of her flogging to even realise that more pain was coming. Needless to say it had not taken too many twists of the cruel screws to shatter the shin bone in one of her legs, at which point the victim had screeched a confession, agreeing that she had in fact pre-planned and then murdered her husband without remorse.

  Myrren could tell that the Confessor had little interest in pursuing the truth, particularly in the cases of common criminals. With her knack for perception, Myrren understood that Lymbert did not view extracting confessions from thieves, bandits and murderers as his appointed duty. It seemed he wanted the old woman dealt with as quickly as possible, in order to pursue his real interest — the annihilation of witches and warlocks, what he called the curse of society. Myrren’s father had once shared a rumour he had heard that Lymbert’s grandparents had been fervent Zerques, whose only daughter had supposedly been killed by a suspected witch four decades previous. As a result, right from childhood Lymbert had harboured a grudge against anyone who dealt in matters of magic — and extended this to herb men and women, whom he believed drew on devil craft for their healings. Fearful for their daughter, Myrren’s parents had gathered as much information as possible about the Confessor. Lymbert was renowned for being so stringent in his investigations that he never brought a victim to trial without their conviction being a certainty — and Myrren knew it would have taken only one glance at her eyes for him to be sure of winning a conviction in her case.

  Myrren opened those same odd eyes now and fought back tears at the memory of the older woman’s terror. She remembered how Lymbert had turned and smiled directly at her as he signed the woman’s death warrant. The message Myrren received from that cold grin had been unmistakable. He was reserving her for much harsher treatment. The woman had been carried off and not heard from again, presumably despatched that same day.

  Lymbert’s assistant, the same one who had used her body, had then untied Myrren, blowing his foul breath into her face as he had whispered all the other sexual obscenities he would like to inflict on her. He had deliberately let her fall when the bindings had come loose and had then savagely grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to her feet but still she had given none of those present the satisfaction they so desperately wanted.

  ‘Back to her cell,’ Lymbert had commanded, unmoved by her courage. ‘The Witch Myrren of Baelup will undergo second-degree torture in three days,’ Lymbert had proclaimed to all present. Then he had looked at her. ‘That should give you sufficient time, my dear, to lick your wounds,’ he had chuckled softly at his jest, ‘and perhaps loosen your tongue.’

  So now she sat in the dungeon contemplating the next stage, when Lymbert and his henchmen would get down to the real business of torture. Myrren was not sure whether it was day or night. The cell was small, windowless and airless save whatever fetid air might leak up the corridor and through her bars. She huddled herself on the ground, naked save for a rough scrap of blanket crawling with biting insects. Nevertheless it was all she had and the young woman wrapped herself as best she could, turning away from the doorway.

  She thought of her parents but did not cry this time — it seemed every pointless tear had leaked from her body. But then she thought of the black p
uppy and tears surged again. He had been a special present and had brought such joy. Myrren had called him Knave. He was abandoned now — she felt sure her mother would not be of a state of mind to care about a dog.

  ‘I wish I could fight back,’ she whispered. ‘If I were a witch, I’d seek revenge.’

  The tears came for Knave and with them a voice in her head.

  Fear not, my child. You are no witch but you will have your vengeance.

  ‘Who speaks?’ she whispered, terrified, whipping her head around in the darkness.

  I am Elysius, the man spoke into her mind.

  A few hours later Myrren felt exhausted but at peace. She was amazed that she could think so calmly about the inescapable trauma which lay ahead for her. Elysius had explained much. Now she understood. He had urged her to be brave. She realised she had no choice to be anything but courageous.

  Lymbert and his henchmen were preparing to come for her. The Confessor had sent her some items of clothing. Through his aide he insisted she wear them but she soon found out they were nothing more sophisticated than a piece of rough cloth, with a hole for her head, and another strip of fabric for a belt. Myrren wondered if Lymbert had suddenly had a change of heart and would allow her a modicum of dignity through her trial. But she was an intelligent and perceptive young woman and nothing about Lymbert’s conduct so far could convince her that he possessed any empathy for his victims. She dismissed her notion as wishful but gladly donned the garment. In sudden inspiration she used the blunt spoon, which sat amongst the congealed mess that passed as food in this place, to scratch a message onto one of the stones. It made her feel defiant in these last hours of her life.

  Myrren considered her torture now. Lymbert’s choice would most likely be the rack, for his eyes had lit up at its mention during her tour, and probably thumbscrews, which she had seen the Confessor almost lovingly stroke when he had presented them to her.

  But Myrren was wrong.

  When they led her once again into the main torture chamber it seemed he had reserved something far more special for her. Many more people had gathered, including the smug Lord Rokan, invited no doubt to savour the results of his connivings. In fact the room was crowded with men, none hooded this time, eager to witness her trial and the confession.

  As she had entered there had been talking, some jocular and a few voices raised in obvious excitement and anticipation of what was to come. Her arrival had all but silenced the chamber. Myrren, fuelled by her strange conversation with the man she knew only as Elysius, felt brazen. She raised her head and challenged her audience with a compelling gaze which saw most of the men clear their throats and cast their eyes towards their feet. It was a small win but it made Myrren obstinate in her resolve to die with courage.

  Rough hands began to tear the flimsy garment from her body and Lymbert’s seeming generosity fell into place for the falsity it was: he had insisted on her being robed only in order to make the theatre of her torture, beginning with nakedness, that much more dramatic for his audience. She hated him and she hated the King who would permit this.

  The rents in her robe revealed her body, just blossomed into womanhood, and the audience’s gaze no longer rested in discomfort by its collective feet but was drawn to her bared skin. Rokan watched hungrily. A squealing noise sounded from above and she noticed that the onlookers were now staring at a contraption being let down from the high ceiling.

  All but one, that was.

  Myrren ignored the contraption as well. Her gaze was inexorably drawn to the one pair of eyes which watched her and not the strange instrument of torture. It was a youth. A crop of bright red hair sat atop a plain and lightly freckled face which was heavy with despair. His own unremarkable eyes were riveted upon her. Not upon her bare flesh but on her own ill-matched eyes. She could not help but allow her expression to soften at this lad and she even dared the barest of smiles. He looked petrified and her heart hurt for him, for she could tell that this boy did not want to be here and bear witness to her suffering.

  Lymbert was making some announcement to the gathered who nodded and made sounds of approval, led by her accuser, Rokan, but she paid no attention. She had already lost all sense of embarrassment at her nudity but was acutely aware of her hands being tied tightly behind her. Myrren had no idea what they were doing or why. The Confessor had certainly not talked her through this particular scenario.

  Myrren felt grateful that since hearing the voice of Elysius she had felt a strange numbness overtake her body. She recalled his softly spoken words now, repeating them silently to herself.

  They will hurt you, my little one. But the pain will be minimised. I cannot save you but I will give you the means to avenge your death. Hear me now, I give you a gift …and he had told her it all.

  Why can I not use this gift to save myself? she had asked into this strange void opened in her mind.

  Because, child, they will burn you. It will not work. He explained why.

  She had fought back the initial surge of hope as understanding dawned. He had spoken more but it was of an intimate nature. She had heard his words, his explanation of who she truly was. Despite the shock of it, she had loved him then for sharing the news and she had buried the information within. She would not resurrect that joy and have it tarnished here by these proceedings.

  Myrren of Baelup was no witch but she had a gift to give which would unleash a relentless power until it found the true target of her vengeance.

  Now a cleric was brought to absolve her of her sins. She turned her gaze on him and watched him recoil at the sight of her eyes. Nevertheless, he prayed to Shar’s Gatherers to claim her soul and for that she was grateful.

  ‘Thank you,’ she uttered to him alone as he began his mournful prayer to guide her soul to Shar.

  She looked over the short priest’s bowed head, her attention drawn again to the youth with the red hair, whose gaze had not released her. To his side, she noticed, stood a bigger, stronger looking lad, bordering on being a man. She took a sharp intake of breath. Her captors thought it was because they had just tested the ropes which bound her hands but Myrren’s sound had escaped at the beauty of that olive-skinned fellow who stood next to the only sympathetic soul in this chamber.

  The beautiful man leered at her nakedness and presumably whispered something lewd to the red-headed lad who scowled with disgust and blushed furiously. Hitting his mark, the dark-haired one laughed loudly and Rokan nearby joined in.

  She heard the dark one mutter, none too softly over the prayer, that the trial had been his idea. People nodded and grinned.

  ‘And it was I who discovered the witch in the first place, my Prince,’ Lord Rokan added, keen to be included in the praise.

  When Celimus scowled in his direction, the middle-aged noble considered it politic to remain quiet from hereon and allow the young upstart royal to have his moment.

  ‘Have you anything to say?’ Lymbert’s voice suddenly boomed to Myrren above the idle murmurings. Apparently the priest had stopped his praying. She had not noticed.

  Myrren took a deep breath and looked around her, not caring for her lack of modesty or the hungry looks it produced.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. She had nothing to say about her situation, but she did have a question of her own. ‘Who is that person?’

  Lymbert stepped aside, taken aback by her odd question, and looked at those gathered. ‘Which one?’

  Myrren gazed at Celimus. ‘You.’

  A triumphant smile stretched across the young man’s face and the redhead looked down at his feet as if in disappointment that she had not chosen him. Celimus took a step forward, all easy grace and arrogant swagger.

  ‘My lady,’ he said, accentuating his words to ensure the insult could not be mistaken for genuine politeness, ‘I am Prince Celimus.’

  She had not expected such lofty company for her pain but she managed to keep her expression unmoved, her voice steady. ‘I understand why the pig-fingered Lord Rokan would brin
g along his bruised ego and flaccid member for inflation at my expense.’ There was a series of audible gasps followed by sniggers amongst the audience and Myrren revelled in the high colour suddenly on the cheeks of the noble who had brought about her ruin.

  ‘But why,’ she continued, ‘would a Prince of the realm have any interest in this …’ she swept her strange eyes around the chamber, ‘mummery? For that’s what this is, sire.’

  The Prince grinned. She tried to imagine how many young women’s hearts would flutter at his smile and not recognise how malicious or indeed derisory it was. ‘Lord Rokan’s flaccid member aside, madam, I am here in the name of education,’ he replied and then grabbed Wyl. ‘This lad here has never watched a witch confess before. As he is soon to lead our great Legion and stand up as my Champion when I am King, I felt it was my duty to expand his knowledge of Stoneheart’s ways and the culture of Pearlis which has been sadly lacking in his life. He’s a country bumpkin, you see.’

  Wyl twisted away angrily from the grip of Celimus and shook his head vehemently so Myrren would know his attendance here was forced. He remained silent, though, imploring the beautiful woman before him to understand.

  She nodded but this time her gaze rested on Wyl. ‘Thank you,’ she offered and he knew she understood. ‘Do what you will, Lymbert. You’ll get no confession from me.’

  ‘Feisty,’ Celimus said, running his tongue over his lips. ‘Pity she had to be broken so. I would have bedded her first and loosened her tongue from a different sort of torture.’ And everyone around him laughed loudly again, led by Lord Rokan aiming to ingratiate himself to the crowd once more after the young woman’s heinous accusation.

  Lymbert’s eyes were sparkling. He hated that he had not won her confession … not yet anyway. ‘Myrren, may I introduce you to the strappado. It’s my favourite instrument. I’d like to take a few moments to explain how it works, if you please.’ He was all graciousness now, enjoying the chance to show off his latest contraption of pain. ‘Your hands are tied behind you for a reason and now my assistant is attaching the strappado to your bound hands. When I give the word, those three men over there,’ he said pointing but she refused to look, ‘will use that pulley to hoist you aloft, at which point we’ll all enjoy hearing your arms dislocating. My favourite sound.’ He all but shivered with delighted anticipation. ‘And did you notice the hundred pound weights, my dear? Well, as you can see — if you would only look — they are attached to your feet now and they, of course, will do their best to prevent your body leaving the ground, thereby assisting us to dislocate your hip joints. Oh glorious agony! Incidentally, we have decided to bypass the somewhat tedious second-degree and go straight to the third to save time and a great deal of pointless screaming. I hope that’s agreeable to you?’ He laughed jovially and everyone except Wyl, she noticed, joined him.