I slip back, entering a more conscious state. My defenses tended, and my mentality rested. It continues like this for days. The internal clock gives five of them before there is any change. Up until now, I have been strapped to a metal chair and unable even to open my eyes. On the fifth day, I leave the chair on wobbly legs as they shove me along some cold passageway. A sack keeps me from seeing anything. The linen is scratchy, and the chains weigh my unused body down. The cell is a two-meter box with a piss pot and some musky hay. I ignore the accommodations and slip into my mental palace between visits with the seers.
The snotty slop suspends visible pieces of rice and beans that smell like fish. It is undoubtedly an attempt at porridge.
“Ya eatin' all that?” The prisoner next door asks.
“Yes,” I grunt, digging into the slop.
“A fresh fancy one with a gut for slop? Good on ya.”
“Fancy?”
“The noble, ya see,” They specify, gesturing to me.
“Oh?” I laugh.
“What brins ya?”
“Why are you here?” I challenge.
“It ain’t new, ya see? I’m poor, the emper of wretches. Been in’da streets all my life, ya see? Been dead before I've been anything else. I’d always been dead, ya see. I’d always been meant for here, even born to it, my opinion.”
“Could you not work? Did you have no education?”
“Been born in’da east. It’s all war there. The schools are miltas and costly. Everythin’s costly for me, ya see? I live on the kindness of others. A woman, a mother, of course, looks in on me in my castle of dirt. Her partner is an angry drunk man and an officer. I ain’t gripin'. I am what I been born to be is all, nothin'. Ya see?”
“There was no chance?”
“No. There be chances, but I never cleared em’. Always too slow. Work is short, and there’s always a cleaner one, a nice and smarter one with better words. So I do what I can.”
“A bandit— I mean, a person practicing banditry?” I whisper.
“Ah? From the north, are you? They call us other names outside of there. Terrorists, rebels, scoundrels. Bandit ain’t such a bad one.”
“So you’re a murderer?”
“What is a murderer? Is the Penntry full of em’? They kill those thins beyond the wall. What about the land wars? Of course, everythin is formal, and no one calls it a war. It is a formal thin. You can kill all the people you want for the land of another kingdom if it is traditional. Suppose leaders and commanders are telling you to kill your neighbor. And the produce? The gold costs lives spent. It is all a lie, ya see? I am a murderer, but so is everyone.”
“You expect to convince me?”
“No. Just an older adult passing the time. Ya owe me your story now.”
“I made no promises, spy.”
“Ah?” they laugh a warm laugh, “Serves me. Ya got me good; ya did. How about ya tell me where you're from? That can’t be a secret.”
“I am from Willows Grove, north of-”
"I know all the groves in the empire. Ours is red-haired wood, west of the Finvin capital. It's a stupid name for a city if ya ask me. Anyway, that's the way of the east. The miltas are the way of the world, and everyone else works the roads or fields. But that's just me. I hate it all, and so I shall die."
“You will go to the mines?”
“The mines? That’s a funny word. I’d reckon there are enough dead bodies made there to fill the whole thing. Kilometers of cramped corpses make more a mausoleum than a mine, with more bodies than mana gems. I’d say I go to a death camp. I go to a cruel certainty.”
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“And you don’t deserve it; couldn’t you serve your time and be rehabilitated?”
“A sentence of a day in the mines means I have one day to live. Who deserves to die for their crimes?”
“I don’t think anyone should die for crimes.”
“Then how certain of death can you stomach?”
“What do you mean? How is life imprisoned comparable?”
“I am a slave. I ain’t got rights. I’m their property. And they will take from my life. Force it from me with justice and call it pure.”
“So you blame society?”
“I do blame it. I blame myself and my poor choices, but society’s always been wrong. I ain’t enough to reckon who’s more, but both got shit. They can’t oppose creation. Maybe it was simpler, and people could know enough, now though? With everything so muddled. People know not of truth, only comfort.”
“And you know the truth?”
“Me?” They laugh again, the sound reminding me of Balduan in heartiness. “Not me. I am a liar and murderer. What do I know of truth?”
“You seem to have an opinion.”
“And you don’t? Or you’re smart enough not to talk about it. You’ll see soon; Ya see.”
The noise cuts off like a glow gem, casting the block of cells into silence. Occasional sounds, better not distinguished, corrupt this silence and tinge the air with foul. I study in my mind palace to distract myself from it all. Those disturbing noises pull me out. And it's back to my fiddling. I wait for my next interrogation session like this.
This familiarly indignant feeling has started to come on more and more lately. It pecks at me. How? How can this be justified? I know that there are sides, but this has to be wrong. I know it in my bones. I won't be killing people to achieve my ends. I have no intention of harming anyone.
“Accused six two four, stand up and approach the bars backward with hands behind back. Now, hold still. Walk.”
The guard is a nondescript person with a monochromatic uniform. The imposing part is how clean it is. It reminds me of the few officers I have seen in my life. Willows Grove has one appointed to deal with miscreants, and Brinx has a small precinct. It does not let a wrinkle smear its authority. I was supposed to fear this person, so I smiled instead.
They compel me forward by the cuff. “It must be boring work—guarding, that is. Do you get a lot of interesting stuff?”
“Be quiet, or I will assault you.”
“Bring in on burly-” I begin before a whack clubs me into curling up.
“You will respect my authority.” The officer barks out in a calm voice.
The whole beating is formal, with ten strikes before it is over.
“Not much fun then?” I laugh, curling back up to take another ten.
The abuse over the next week slips into my periphery. There is only one I can trust, only one truth. I am master of myself, and none shall command me here. They moved too soon, suspecting I would crumble. Now they know who I am.
Shannai greets me as I stumble from the prison. Bags hang from her puffy eyes. I am lucky to have people like her fighting on my side. Her look is that of a convict ready to face the mines. She holds out her finger, and I shake my head, holding out the rapier vertically.
“Place your hand on the hilt atop mine. Okay, this next part will take a minute.” I instruct, moving through the motions.
“Things have changed.” She notes as we enter my palace. “Was it awful?”
“It was torture. I entered some kind of state for the last half. It won't recall well. I only remember shaking until my whole body ached with it. It is strange how it emanates from you, a personal earthquake.”
I don't need to mention my constitution, that I have deceived the truth, that I have denied and dilaudid myself. No one leaves if they can't hold up, as we all have the secret. She holds me as we both hold the hilt. Only those who can destroy themselves in the pursuit will be able to hold back. To whom death is not a fear, but all of these are things I don't need to say as tears stream down my cheeks.
“I have to tell you something.”
“I think I already know.” I smile.
“You do? You couldn’t…”
“I assume you had a hand in it.”
“Are you mad? How are you like this? How can you even look at me?”
“No, it was a smart move. It will push back the investigation long enough while diverting all suspicion from you.”
“You’re not mad that I didn't at least tell you?”
“You couldn't have. It had to be authentic, and it would have been another secret to keep.”
“I believed you could hold up, and my m— the speaker was getting too close. It was the only option I had.”
“I know, but I’ll need you to assuage my concerns.”
“Ominous.”
“It is a bit intrusive, but it isn’t unreasonable.”
“Fair enough.”
Food is the only thing on my mind. It is delicious, absolutely beyond comparison, as it tends to be when Shannai pays. The Risotto's tender grains of umami swim in creamy mushroom sauce. The pinot noir flows freely from N.E.F.C.D. 21,900 to soothe the savory dish. The room is light with cheer, defying the bleakness of my past weeks.
“You should have seen it, knocked him flat in seconds.” Shannai snorts.
"How did you get around that A.O.E.?"
“It was simple for me. Obviously?” She brags.
“I was referring to a tell, or is there a sign?”
“Oh. Yeah, I forgot you have trouble with that. You have to keep an eye on his left hand. He attacks with the right and holds it in the left.”
“Duel combustion takes a heap of magic.”
“Us magic families’ are known for our stores.”
“So modest.”
“To waste with modesty.” She hollers with a full mouth in the decorously coarse dining room.
“We will burn it with the rest.” I support.
Our night's continuous merriment works magic into my soul. It wheedles as we laugh at the fools that sit at our sides. They lament us or hurl a few insults but are quickly put right by my friend, the foul-mouthed high noble. She will curse so explicitly that they leave in an uppity mess. They proclaim their reprisals on the untouchable opposition to their iniquity, a well-to-do woman with a grudge.
We laugh about this or that, which is nothing in the end. It plays a chord in my head that longs for my stoic confidant. I am happy and unburdened this time, though, and it's beautiful. The world is fake, but who's to blame? A veneer covered in grime, which is the corruption? It makes for a fun slide at best. And we slide down the main street, racking up a ruckus to announce the freedom of reprieve.