by C. M. Lind
Below that keep was the real prison, where she had been for two years, and below that, near the moldering base of the rocks below, was where the torture took place. That was where they had first brought her, and it was where she had spent her first few months as a guest of The White Cliffs.
“Knock, knock, lady.” The guard tapped the metal bars with his knuckles. “It’s the priest for you again.” The metal cell door made no sound as it swung out into the stone carved hallway.
She sat cross legged on the cold, hard floor, making no movements that could be perceived as aggressive. “Thank you, boy.” Her words had a spark of rebellion to them—but only a spark. She didn’t know the guard’s name, but it was one of the few who actually spoke to the imprisoned. That was how she knew that he was new. He would soon change into another beast, her mind warned her, all too happy with his position of power over the powerless. He looked weak. Perhaps he went too often without food as a child, she reasoned. Her mind flashed for an instant: a strike to the throat, preventing him from screaming for help—but she stopped, and she pulled herself back to reality.
And then what? There are many more waiting for a chance to have at you.
After all, women in The Cliffs were a rare sight. She stiffened at the thought.
Don’t give them a reason.
She nodded. It was barely anything more than an imperceptible tilt of the head.
Ulrich walked in, wearing the usual robe he always did. His large, silver amulet was the only thing of worth and beauty on his person—the one ornament expected to be worn by men such as him. His long, blonde hair was rebelling against the leather thong attempting to hold it back, and freed strands framed his broad, strong face. A basket full to spilling was in his left arm, and two wineskins were on his other. At the sight of Vitoria sitting in her small, empty cell, he pressed one of the wineskins to the lad. “Thank you, boy. Now please give us our allotted time.”
The lad smiled, accepting the wineskin without hesitation; it was a satisfactory tip. The guards liked Ulrich since it was well known that he always shared his drink with whoever was on watch over Vitoria. She figured he did this as a way to buy her the smallest of mercies from whoever watched over her. It did not.
The boy waited for Ulrich to step into the cell before locking the door behind him. He hooked the lantern into a small groove in the wall opposite her cell. It was another small kindness that the new guard imparted without thought. Usually, Ulrich had to argue with the attending guard over such things.
Ulrich didn’t wait for the door to close before sitting next to Vitoria. He began to unpack the basket as they listened to the echoes of the departing guard’s footsteps. First he laid out a section of cloth; on it, he placed fresh fruit, vegetables, cheese, a whole game hen, and a loaf of sourdough that filled the cell with its aroma.
The prison allowed in no eating instruments, and, even if they did, they searched a man going in and out, and the absence of such a utensil upon exit would make Ulrich’s return visits unlikely, and Vitoria’s current situation far more unpleasant. It wasn’t uncommon for some of the lifers to simply die of starvation—not from an act of disobedience but from simple negligence.
“Some weather we’re having, isn’t it? Suppose to be getting worse in a couple of hours.” From his pocket he pulled a small metal tin, emblazoned with mint leaves. He opened it and offered her a pill from inside.
She pursed her lips for a moment, repulsed, but she took the mint flavored pill and swallowed it, taking a hefty swig of cool water from his remaining wineskin. “Aimee’s pills and tonics always give me the worst stomach aches.” She scrunched her face. She hated mint.
“Yes, well,” Ulrich said as he began to fiddle with the handles of the basket, “she does her best, but I’m not supposed to be giving unknown substances to prisoners.” He gesticulated with his hand. “That whole, ‘afraid they’ll kill themselves’ thing really puts a damper on Avelinian justice.” His hand went back to the handle. “But a breath mint? I’ve been bringing those for years. Nothing to suspect there.”
The overpowering taste of mint clung to her mouth; somehow, the water seemed to make it worse, as if it was spreading the horrible taste around, coating her tongue in its lingering residue.
“Come on, now.” He stopped playing with the basket and grabbed a section of bread. He pressed it into her hands. “Feel.”
“Still warm.” She wanted to smile.
His umber eyes lit up. “Yes! I decided to go to the baker last, just for you. You need a belly full of good food and water.” He leaned in and whispered, “You need your strength, Vi.”
She bit into the strong sour bread, feeling its softness dissolve into her mouth, overpowering the dreaded mint.
Ulrich quietly, yet horribly, hummed a tune that Vitoria couldn’t place. She sat in silence while she savored her bread and drank most of the water. Ulrich still fiddled with the basket’s handle.
She grabbed the fruit, a bright orange thing. “Ulrich?’
“Yes?” Ulrich’s eyes immediately abandoned the handle, and turned towards Vitoria.
She held the bright orange thing in front of him.
“I decided to splurge today, my dear. It’s an orange from the Southern Venari colonies. You peel off the hard rind. Then you eat the flesh within. Just use your nails; they wouldn’t let me bring in a knife or anything. I’m told they’re quite good, but, personally, I find them a bit sticky.”
They forcibly filed her nails every week, so she could never even scratch a guard—but Ulrich didn’t know that. She never told him. She bit into the orange, pulling a small bit of rind off with her teeth. Her face twisted at the bitter taste as she spit it out.
“Why would you ever do that?” Ulrich was clearly torn between laughing at her and comforting her. He ultimately chose to laugh, as was his custom.
“It smelled good,” she said, only half-lying to him. It had smelled good, but, ultimately, she saw no other way to peel it. Vitoria set the orange down and went for something safer: some greens and spring onions. She shoved a handful of them into her mouth. They were still crisp.
“But…” Ulrich was at a loss of words. He blinked several times as he watched her eat her vegetables. After a few noisy chomps, she ripped a section of hen off. Shoving it into her mouth, she ate with the grace of a hound.
He went back to the basket.
“False handle?” She licked the grease from the hen off her fingers.
“Yes.” He tried twisting the handle.
“Give it here then.” Vitoria wiped her hands onto her rough grey tunic before seizing the basket from the priest.
“Conyers showed it to me before,” said Ulrich. “I just can’t remember exactly where I’m supposed to press, but I can figure it out on my own if you’re patient.” The last part he insisted on, but she ignored him.
Vitoria went to the other end of the handle and felt for the loose section. She rotated it, and a compartment revealed itself. Inside sat two wooden handles, a section of wire, and two hair pins.
Ulrich’s eyes went to the compartment, and his face looked mortified by her alacrity. “At least we can enjoy our cheese now.”
She lobbed the basket at him, hitting him square in the head. “Is this joke to you, Ulrich? Sneaking in a cheese wire so we can eat cheese in slices?”
“Hey!” He picked the basket back up. He glanced at the handle, but the compartment closed without the pressure of her hand to keep it open. “Sure, cheese for now.” He offered her the basket again. “And then for you to keep.” He smiled. “You’re leaving tonight.”
“Now?” Vitoria looked as if she was going to pounce. “Why now, Ulrich? Why not last year? Why not two years ago? But now, yes now, you give me a cheese wire, some hair pins, and say ‘time to head out?’”
Because they never cared.
Ulrich looked down, unable to meet her eyes. She had never spoken to him in such a way, never showed such anger, especially towards him. The c
heeriness from a moment ago dissipated as his shoulders hunched over, and, no doubt to Vitoria, he burned with an inexcusable, deep shame. “I don’t know. I don’t make the decisions. I’m only told what you’re supposed to hear, and if a cheese wire and some hair pins will help you leave this place, then I’ll gladly risk myself to sneak them in.”
She had hurt his feelings, and she knew it, but she could not bring herself to apologize to the only friend she had since being imprisoned.
A friend would never leave you in such a place.
She assembled the cheese wire, and then she sliced the cheese. She could feel the cheese wire had steel core handles, and whatever the thick wire was, it was gloriously resilient. She handed him the first piece, a particularly pungent white cheese.
“Thank you.” He accepted and took a large bite.
She placed a slice in her mouth. Their eyes met for a moment. He looked happy. She was angry.
Anger was all she seemed to have anymore.
She swallowed her piece before she asked, “What is the plan?”
“I’m told you know your way with a garrote, so you get a cheese wire. Hopefully you won’t have to use it.” He paused.
She remained silent.
He sighed before he continued. “Wait until the tail end of the storm. You’ll have to get down to the water. Climb however you can toward the harbor. There is a small fishing boat with a boy named Sylvaine Davids. The boat will be burning two lanterns, both at the rear. He’s waiting for you; he’ll be watching The Cliffs. He’ll get you as soon as you’re clear of the rocks.”
“Ulrich, they kill people with those rocks. They toss prisoners off the cliff to be impaled. There is no walkway or ladder to even get the bodies.” She remembered being shown those rocks topped with freshly tossed prisoners. “They let the gulls and the waves take them bit by bit.”
“I wish there was more I could do, but that’s all I was told. Conyers said you should already know how to escape, that you’ve had enough time to know the layout, the guards, the shift changes, the windows, everything.”
Conyers thought higher of her than anyone: her beloved brother-in-law. She supposed she would have eventually been a master under his tutelage, if her apprenticeship hadn’t been interrupted.
He’s making you save yourself. Typical.
“You have all day, and into the night, to figure it out. Pay close attention to the storm. You must not escape too early or too late, Conyers said to use the noise as cover. No one will hear anything over the rain and thunder. Please, please, be careful.” His voice clearly pleaded for her safety, but his eyes begged for her friendship again—any flicker of warmth from her.
He looked as if he was going to grab her dry, rough hand, but he must have thought better, because instead he went for more cheese.
The rest of his hour-long stay was filled with Ulrich praying for her and telling her the news of the city. He always kept her informed, saying it was important, since she would be free one day. He said he wanted her to feel like she never missed a thing. Vitoria listened but did not say much. She had no news to share, and the thoughts in her head she wished him to never know—the pure rush of killing again, the game of stalking your mark, taking from others what you wish, all these thoughts she never shared with anyone, especially the simple Ulrich. Quietly, she finished the food, stripping every morsel of meat from the hen with her teeth.
When their hour was up, Ulrich embraced Vitoria as usual, but time it was for a fraction longer. Vitoria gave a limp return to the embrace, instead using her energy to control her feelings of anger—and of excitement.
She heard him leave. The echoes of his footsteps were quickly lost to the loud wind whipping into the prison. Within moments she knew her plan for the evening, and she only had several hours to wait. She had lain in the prison many nights and days, dreaming of a hundred ways of escape, but now it was within reach. With two hairpins, a cheese wire, and the very tangible possibility of revenge, she genuinely smiled for the first time in years.
Chapter 4
Her master was dead. Soli had found him lying on his bed: a worn book nestled close to his breast, mouth slightly agape with a small trail of spittle down his chin—the usual for a man who read as late as he could. In their evenings together, she would watch his eyelids languidly droop, fighting for every word, until sleep won. He was always one to smile, even when he slept, and Soli had always supposed that his mind wandered into pleasant, dreamy memories of home. After all, that was what she dreamt of.
On that day, he did not rouse to the smell of the strong black blended tea she brewed daily for him. He did not stir to her playful taunts, telling the old man that she would drink it all without him if he wasn’t fast enough. He did not awaken to her touch on his hand or the hesitant, yet frantic, shake of his shoulder.
He was cool but not cold. He could not have been dead long. She did not pull away from him; instead, she pressed her hand against his chest, strongly on his still heart. Northerners do not fear the dead, nor should she cry for him.
She stayed there for what felt like only a few moments, knowing that he was gone from her forever—but she did not want to accept that her master, teacher, best friend, protector, and adopted father was gone from the world forever. She wanted to cry, but then she felt extreme shame at the thought. Roed would not want her to weep for him, so she would not allow herself to.
Her hand pressed firmly as she spoke the words: “May Urdorin welcome you to his table.” She paused, but then she added in a whisper, “For he would be a fool to do otherwise.”
Soli wanted to believe as others did, but she did not have much faith or love for the gods. She adored the stories, and she memorized every new one she discovered, but stories were just that: stories.
Her belief was based on her own experience. People claimed that the gods protected them, but they had done a poor job of that for her—and her family. The gods didn’t do a damn thing for them. Her own feelings aside, she still gave Roed his farewell, because even though she had no faith in the gods, she had faith in Roed.
Roed had never made her pray, but he made sure to let her know about his daily prayers.
The hardest part of that day was when Soli went through his things, item by item, deciding what should accompany him in death and what was to be sold. She hated that a grave was out of the question. She could neither afford one, nor would it be appropriate to bury him in Aveline. Travel back to Osterlock would have been too expensive, and Roed had no family land at which to bury him. Instead, a pyre would have to do, although she wished nothing more than to entomb him in a great place, something fit for a man who, to her, was beyond great.
A pile of his things was built at a nearby table, the essentials of what he would need in death. Of his drums, there were many, but Soli selected a few choice ones: a small collection that mimicked the sounds of rain and a large one that bellowed like thunder. To play those drums, he would need his Tordens: tools made of wood and bone that allowed a variety of tones to be achieved.
The last piece she added to the table was his axe. It was a small thing that was commonly used in Osterlock for throwing. His was worn from other uses though; most common among them was cutting firewood on the road. He loved traveling, and Soli had eagerly embraced his enthusiasm. As she held his axe in her hand, she swore she could still smell smoke embedded into the grain of the wooden handle.
The rest of his items she would sell to pay for the pyre. Aveline loved its taxes and fees. She would need to pay for the wood, the space to build the pyre on, and the permit to even light it.
As the sun began to set, and the storm outside blew throughout the city, she alerted a city guard to the death. One large yet dull fellow, soaked so much that his blue tabard looked black, took her statement, looked at the body for a moment, and then handed her a natural death certificate. She paid him the silver required, and he left without even telling her his name. And why would he? He got his silver collected for the city,
and he was in a rush to be done with his work. All he wanted was to be done for the day, safe at home, away from the wind and the rain.
At his home, where his family was waiting for him. A place he belonged in.
She would sell Roed’s items in the morning, but there was not much demand for Tordens and Northern drums in Aveline. They were alien instruments. She would have had no trouble selling them back home in Osterlock. They were of expert craftsmanship, but, sadly, it would be far too long before she would be able to go home.
She took the book from near Roed’s breast; she added it to the pile to sell. With the care one would handle a new born babe, she removed his long sleeping tunic. While others would have struggled with his substantial body (he was tall even for a Northerner, and old age had never robbed him of his muscle), she did not falter. She threw his tunic to the side. She would wash off his death bed discharge later that night, and then she would add it to the pile to be sold.
A life on the road had taught her to never have more than she could carry, and, as much as she hated the idea of Roed’s things being sold, she couldn’t carry all of his gear and hers.
She washed his wrinkled, cold flesh with a soft rag and a bucket of cold rainwater she fetched from an outside barrel. His backside was dark and purple from the blood pooling inside of him, but it did not bring her a moment’s hesitation. She took her time combing and braiding his long peppered hair. Selecting his best tunic, britches, shoes, belt, and undergarments took her longer than expected. Every time she grabbed one item, she would think back from when he purchased it or wore it for a special occasion.
Soli finalized his clothing and dressed him. It was difficult since his body was rigid, but, luckily, Roed preferred his clothes baggy, and those extra few inches were just enough to make it work.
All that was left was to put the kohl around his eyes, a cultural practice he rarely employed, but Soli felt it was right for his funeral. After all, she would have wanted one to take such care for her in her death, and, if the stories were to be believed, Roed and her family could see every move she made. She took care applying it around his eyes, one thick sweep on his upper lid, then one on his lower. The people of Aveline would say it was too thick, thinking she took no care in the application, but the way a Northerner applied it was heavy and precise.
