The whole world slowed down in that instant. Through this elongated moment, only Mastema’s voice rang with haste, “The knives on the counter! Seize one!”
For a split moment, her eyes moved to the sharp tools gleamingly arrayed just in arm's reach, then jerked back immediately. From the opened portal, there poured now a flood of candlelight, spreading like dawn creeping in a ravine of the damned. Such a strangely hypnotic effect it brought that try as she might, Cordelia could not take her eyes away. Then a figure entered, spreading the light to every unobscured corner. Even as her familiar hissed sharp warnings and pleaded for her to arm still, the person turned. There was nothing between them. The light cast on Cordelia’s everything: her ghastly face, her blood-soaked skirt, her reddened hands. All this the wrinkled face beheld instantly, and went wide as realization set in.
“Slay the woman now!” cried Mastema, ringing like a resounding bell amid a fire. “Ere she alarms the whole town!”
A small, shrinking old woman; over her head there drawn a dark shawl, over stricken face terse locks of gray. The aged limbs were so feeble and slow Cordelia could follow each movement with languid ease, marking even the vibration in the hand holding the candle. There was small doubt Cordelia would reach the knife ere the old woman could fully comprehend the situation.
And she might then. And killed.
With a great sob, Cordelia shook herself from the stupor and threw herself at her feet, hands clutching the woman’s skirt.
“No! Do not call out, I beg of you!” she cried desperately, “They’re looking for me! Don’t call out!”
“But who... are you?” The old woman’s voice was hoarse, fearful, and trembling. Yet she did not cry out. “Who’s looking for you?”
“Lie!” Mastema’s hiss rang.
“I killed,” Cordelia spurted out, almost sobbing, or already was, “I killed someone... I did not mean to - but he was trying to... trying to....”
“Soft, soft now,” the woman bent over, bewildered still, but she hushed Cordelia, “Calm yourself, I won’t call anyone, you hear? At ease!”
Cordelia lifted her eyes, “Let me stay until night! Only till it’s night! Then I will be gone!”
“No, you can’t,” the woman said and straightened herself, straighter than before when she had entered the room, trying to get Cordelia to her feet. “You can’t. Not here. But follow. There are rooms further in.”
Cordelia nodded. And despite Mastema’s protests and cautions, she held her breath, face palish like a ghost, and stuck close to the old woman as she exited the way she had come. Beyond was a long corridor running parallel to the shack’s length. First the woman cautiously poked her head in, peered down its length, then once assured not a soul was around, she signaled Cordelia to follow. Their footsteps echoed almost as loudly as Cordelia’s heart. It was as dark as a dungeon, save for a patch of natural light at the far corner where the corridor bent. On the opposite wall, doors at intervals stood silently, but the old woman passed on.
Cordelia thought little at first of the place’s appearance, but as they went it occurred to her as a strange thing how in a town with mostly small and shabby houses there could be so large a building. For surely she had not made all the way to the keep, and this was not the way into the walls. But there was nothing to it now. She followed the candlelight and the old woman’s slow pace. And when the lit corner was at hand, the woman turned sharply, pushed open a door. It was the last room in the hallway, as small as a walk-in closet. A straw bed lay at the opposite wall, a small square table and a chair beside it. All of which’s dusty smell told of long years in disuse.
The old woman was already at the door when Cordelia studied her new environment with cautious eyes. “I’ll be back. Do not stir unless you hear knocking on the door!” And she hurried away, closing the door behind.
Cordelia stood in darkness once more, only a very faint light slipped through the crack under the door. She dropped silently on the straw bed, wringing her hands, and felt the dried blood stuck there. The room stank with its smell. The smell of death. The stench of murder. How she feared it would expose her were aught to walk by the unlocked door! But feared she also the lonely dark, the sepulchral space, even as she feared reproachful human eyes, being a fugitive from the world of daylight. She dared not breathe loudly, and for a while too scared to stir from where she sat. As though there were eyes with her even in that shut-up place, watching, accusing.
For a long while, the immediate fear of being discovered occupied her mind entirely. Her thought wandered to the searching party that may be even now looking for her. Only the artisans of the streets had seen her face, and yet for the most part they had shunned her pleading look, though mayhap a glimpse could be all it took to later identify a stranger to the town. Only the woman, that prostitute, had had a good look at her; and that rough man also. What had happened to that woman? What had that man done? Cordelia might never know. She dared not think. Her addled brain could ill afford to worry about another person.
She wanted to cry out. For why must this thing happen to her? Was the hankering for a peaceful life so greedy a want, that she must be punished so? And had she not done good, or in the least attempted to do good, trying to save that woman? Mayhap it was she who had been in the wrong, and the apathetic artisans had been right to not intervene. Mere business disputes, so they had thought it. And mayhap ‘twas true, mayhap that man would eventually pay yet the wanting coins, and the prostitute would be fine with that later settlement. Then what had she murdered for? So foolish and useless, this thing! A craven imbecile she was! If only she had not approached that woman then - so filled had she been with hopes and fancies for the future, so bright were the visions, mere moments ere her eyes had fatally laid on that prostitute. She had erred. To be sure. But cannot one err? Cannot one commit a mistake once or twice? Or a few times more? Why ought she to be punished for trying to do good? It is absurd. But absurdity. What then is the use for conscience in a world so morally unsound? Why must she fear, flee and act a criminal for trying to do good? If this should be her just deserts then why even bother in the first place? She should have taken advantage of the dark tablet and her altered soul, but why had not she?
The blood stank all the fiercer, for she had been burying her face in those stained hands. So much blood had flown from that skewered chest. So much blood contained in a sack of flesh. But had that man really died? She could see even now, that his hands had moved. In the slumbrous way of the dead or a fiend, moving for her throat, tightening around it. Many dozens of hands, moving, searching, groping, from all the places, for all the places. For every single one of those gnarled stinking hands she cut down, there sprouted another, coming, holding, grabbing in unending silence.
Her scream pierced the veil. Someone was slamming their fists on the door, so loud it pounded on her very eardrums. But then her keen senses relented, and she realized that the steady knocking had actually been gentle, feeble. The scant light under the door had long gone, in its place was the warm illumination of a candle. For how long she had slept, Cordelia could not tell. Only her whole body was rigid as though subjected to a torturous posture for days. She searched with her hands, found the back of the chair, leaned on it, found the wall, followed it.
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Tremblingly, she cracked the door open, and saw the face of an unknown man. She slammed it shut. He did not push his way in, but she barricaded with her own entire body, back against the wood. There came whispers from the other side. One of the low voices belonged to the old woman from before.
“It is me dear,” the woman said, knocking gently on the door again. “Open the door, will you? I will be the only one coming in.”
To this Cordelia stepped away from the door with reluctance and strained eyes, ready to defend herself, while allowing it to swing inwards. And the woman came in, bringing a candle, and set it on the table. Then she went back out, whispered something, and received a tray.
“Eat, then we will talk,” the woman said, placing upon the table bread and a bowl of soup.
Cordelia slowly consumed the meager meal, her eyes at intervals moved to the door. The food, though warm, tasted like sour water and dirt to her parched tongue. All the while she was silently conscious of the woman’s intense staring. Once, the woman rose abruptly, saying, “Silly me, to entirely forget you must wash and change! Now sister Marlene should have something your size.” She went to the door, cracked it open and whispered again. Cordelia made a mental note of the presence beyond the door, and knew that the room was being guarded.
That repast done, the old woman was still staring. Then, as Cordelia was looking away, glancing warily again at the door, she felt the woman’s hand brushing against her face. But surprisingly, she did not recoil, only froze.
“Poor child,” the woman said, feeling the scrapes and bruises on her face.
“What happened?” It was Cordelia who asked first, though herself unsure of what answer she sought. “Are they looking for me?”
“You will be safe here.”
Cordelia’s eyes darted to the door again. “How am I to know? What is this place?”
“You sit in the house of God, child. You will come to no harm.”
“God? Which God?” she asked fearfully.
The woman’s eyes clouded for a moment, no longer than an instant ere it passed. “The one and only. This here is His temple, where no secular power may reach you.”
“Are you a priestess?” She realized. Too often she had dealt with the dark fey gods of late that she had forgotten the chief one in this world. The God of knights, Chief of the good gods.
“Only a servant in His house. Are you not from this land?” Her brow knitted.
“No,” she answered quickly, “It’s only been a day since I came. I know not of the local worship. Forgive me.”
“ ‘Tis fine, child. We all of us are children of God, here or anywhere; you will be safe here as aught soul of the land. Now have you calmed down? Wash your hands and I will tell you what I have learned.”
“Yes.”
And the old woman settled on the straw bed, leaving Cordelia to attend to the water bucket. “ ‘Tis true, the guards have been looking for you, though they know only a young woman had been seen with a man now found dead. Mercy upon his soul. No one’s quite sure how it happened, but some say the man must have done things dishonorable.”
“Yet they still search for me?”
Just then, the snake at her wrist hissed. At once she drew back from the bucket, fixing her eyes on the door that was opening.
In came the man from before. And the woman’s hand was gently placed on her arm. “Afraid not. This here is Father Sergius. He’s assented to have you here for however long you wish.”
The man gave her a disarming smile, which widened the lines on his face, that of a man over fifty. The wine color of his habit had mostly faded and frayed, which hung loose on his lean, almost frail frame.
He gave the promised tunic to the woman and retreated to the far corner of the room, near the door, and said in a soft voice. “All as said sister Birna, child. By your leave, we will keep your existence known to her and I only. But the others in this house will not ask if I will not tell. Have you friends in this town?”
She nodded, but then thought it rude. “Yes father,” she said. “What of the laws of this land? Am I to be persecuted?” Her eyes narrowed.
“There’s much outrage among the guards,” he said cautiously. “Should you give yourself to Sir Kamaric, once he returns, there will be a fair trial.”
“What then? Will he hang me for murdering a man?”
“Surely not!” exclaimed sister Birna. “Your injuries tell of that man’s hideous deed! Though may God have mercy upon his soul!”
“Sir Kamaric is a proud man,” the father said, “but no cruel judge. And as a knight he is just. There is little to fear from him.”
“You do not know, you only guess!” her voice raised suddenly, “I do not trust he who’s the master of... of such a man!”
“Yes, child,” the man answered with patience. “I only tell you what I think will happen. For my part, I do not find you a murderess to be restrained. I shall not hand you to the guards, if that is what you fear. But there are things we can do, I believe; we may contact your friends for you. Are they ones you trust?”
“And surely,” sister Birna said, “if you do not, we have a carriage father Sergius oft hires to ride to the villages, and there’s the thought, we may carry you past the gate to wherever you please.”
To this, Cordelia’s heart leaped with joy, all the burden upon which at once cast off. Who could have thought of this sudden turn of events. For that was the certain way to escape her predication. It was almost too perfect, even. Little hope had she for a life in this town anymore. But anywhere else, then she may start over again. And that was all she could wish for.
“I beg your kindness then,” she said, “and implore you to help me thus. I shall think as to whether to inform my friends, though it is a great risk I fear.”
“So we shall,” the priest nodded. “I will hire a driver on the morrow, for it is rather late now. Yet I do think you should write a word at least for your friends, as I am sure they are worried.”
“As am I, father.”
She was indeed sure of it, now that her mind had cleared, the two pious elders had restored in her the faith of some good people in this world. And she thought of Esme, and knew that it was unfair to suspect the poor girl. Far from reproaching her for defending herself, the girl would have even approved of it. Why then had she feared so irrationally?
Vaguely, in the back of mind, she could sense the reason for this. But to such great lengths that sister Birna then went to comfort her, giving such words of assurance, and enthusiastic promises of a safe journey, all warranted by the priest, that all fears, rational or not, gradually diminished.
But once the sister and the priest had left, Mastema stirred around her wrist.
“Mistress.”
“What, you pest?”
“I see you are not in good spirits.”
“I am not. I cannot celebrate killing a man, nor being wanted for murder in my first town in this world,” she said. But in truth, her mood had lightened considerably, and all the more if not for the crawly reminder at her wrist of a dark deed.
“I thought that was a good slaying. Regret you the deed?”
“I regret the killing. Not so much that... that the scoundrel is dead.”
“One step in the right direction, I say. I have something to call to your attention, mistress.”
“So I gathered.” Cordelia took off clothes, and began washing. The blood was worse, but her entire body was also covered in mud. Her skirt had been entirely ruined, while the shawl borrowed from Esme had been lost. For the better, perhaps, for she feared to reuse ever again those clothes she had been seen in before the murder.
Mastema climbed higher on her arm, away from the splashing water. Its tiny head raised solemnly so as to emphasize the situation’s gravity. “You recall that shadow on the town wall?”
She paused in the middle of bending over, the wet cloth dripping on her leg. “Yes.”
“I am quite sure, mistress, that was an einheri, even as you.”
Her loosened nerves again tightened. “What did you say?”
“They’re onto you, Mistress. For now, they wait. But leaving this town would be suicide!”