Argenton was an unsightly castle. To be fair, it suffered from the fate of all old forts that time and different occupants had mutated for fortification more than style. On the other hand, to speak of the Kingdom of Deogratias one thinks of Camelot the crown jewel, of Gehenna fashioned in a morbid charm, and Eyrie perched high upon wonders. Of Argenton one thinks of a walled hill. And yet for all its lack of glamor and legends, Argenton had in the rough masonry and timbers its own magic. Perhaps it was for this that when the warband crossed the vast plains and drew near their inelegant home which rose above the motley villages, their hearts swelled with a sense of deep comfort and security, for no fortress in the land, save perhaps for the capital of Gehenna, were so well protected. And that was as well what one needed in such troubled times.

More than the long history as a stalwart against barbarians before King Gunther’s conquest, Argenton had always been a shelter against unknown forces. In Sir Kamaric’s library there was a book of tales before time, where Cordelia had read of the name attached to the first human settlement in this borderland, long before ancestors of the barbarians had conquered the stretch further north. People of unrecorded names had built the keep of eight towers to ward off dwellers of the great forests: feys and yet more ancient folks. The secrets hidden behind the ancient walls had been lost, but that it had stood unconquered by forceful means since ancient times was a fact. But even without this subtle hint of magic, Argenton was a veritable fortress. Even as one unaccustomed to warfare, Cordelia could guess the advantages provided by the river which fed the moat and the underground cisterns, or the strategic placement of sally ports along hidden passages in the hill.

It was all well and good, but Cordelia suspected there were more ways to conquer a province than laying a direct siege to its capital. Only she did not expect one would present itself so soon.

Long before the band had reached the cluster of farmhouses outside the castle wall, the gatehouse had betrayed something odd. ‘Twas a solemn banner flying by side with Kamaric’s silver wolf: two black halberds crossed under a blazing sun. The sight of which raised anxious mutters among them, for the sacred symbol of the sun was only allowed on banners of the archbishops and their most trusted servants.

The seneschal was waiting on the other side of the drawbridge with two warriors of Kamaric’s household. Accompanied by his wife and banner bearer, Kamaric crossed the bridge and led the band into the city.

“Welcome, lord,” the seneschal bowed, “I see you return with a captive and no casualty. A splendid campaign, sir?”

“Far from it. What lord enjoys my hospitality?”

“Envoy of Archbishop Ethelbert, sir,” he answered, “their leader Chief Inquisitor Simon of Timor, well, as you can guess, on the inquisition's business.”

Cordelia blanched at the answer. Fortunately, she was too far back in the formation to be noticed.

“An inquisition, you say?” Kamaric frowned.

“The incident at the temple reached the Council of Cardinals, it seems.”

“Like I haven’t enough troubles as is,” the knight grumbled. “Tell the inquisitor I shall receive him at supper.”

“Aye, sir.”

The knight turned around and called for Esme and Cordelia. Both rode to the front, neither seemed enthusiastic by the prospect of meeting an inquisitor.

“ ‘Tis no pleasant thing, to be sure,” said the knight. “But present yourself at supper, and pray, by your accounts give the man good reason to leave me well alone. I am not in the mood to entertain churchmen right now, what with so many things to prepare and so little time.”

“Yes, sir,” Esme said easily enough.

“Must I, sir?” Cordelia said miserably. “Esme can give a good enough account, I reckon. And I am not so hardy as your warriors to attend a formal dinner after many days on the road.”

“You will live yet, Cordelia. And try to come before the dessert for once.”

“Aye, sir,” she said wearily.

The knight nodded and signaled the band to head for the keep.

“No fan of holy men, eh?” Esme snided with a sidelong look. Perchance she had caught Cordelia’s reaction when the inquisitor was named.

“Well, are you?” Cordelia snapped. It took much of her effort to keep a straight face, and yet she could not wholly focus on maintaining her appearance at the moment. A crisis had sprung upon her when she had been looking forward to at least a few days of respite. And now it seemed in all likelihood she could be exorcized this evening by someone who had not played even the smallest part in her struggles so far.

Her mind raced now. And yet no reprieve was given her to think. For soon after a quick bath had been drawn and taken, she was ushered to Galilea’s chamber and made to undergo a fashioning process so as “not to bring shame to the Argenton’s household”. Amid the taking on and off of untold garments and pretension of calmness, her head spun in a dizzying spiral to madness and verging hysteria. Meanwhile, Esme looked on with amused indifference.

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Hours ago she was contemplating her great plans and ploys pertaining to the Maiden’s destiny, now suddenly she must find a way to survive the night, if at all. She had to skip this meeting, no other way. Yet she could devise no strategy short of playing death that would not invite even more needless attention to herself. And any kind of attention with an inquisitor in town, to be sure, would only put her sooner to the guillotine than not.

Vaguely smiling and feigning astonishment at an article the marchioness presented, she resorted to the unreliable ally at hand.

“But how do they sniff out feys?” she pressed the question hastily in her mind, for the familiar was hemming and hawing.

“With their crooked noses, mistress, I would think,” Mastema answered unhelpfully.

“For all sakes’ sake!”

Galilea dropped her smile and a damask shawl.

“Ah, ‘twas fine. Only a headache, it came and went.”

“You’re alright?”

“In fact, no. Can you really not convince Sir Kamaric to excuse me from supper, ma’am?”

“You look swell enough, Cordelia,” the marchioness shrugged. “Come now, it shall only be a few questions. Churchmen are not so bad, and who can say, they may help advance your career, if ever you should think...”

“A nun, she?” Esme chuckled from her usual seat at the window.

Cordelia was growing weary of the Maiden’s newfound attachment to her role as a snarky bystander, and she shot her a look to convey it.

“There are two ways about it,” she returned to her internal inquiries, “either the man could scent what I am or what I do.”

“I suppose.” The snake didn’t even bother to address her respectfully this time.

“And if he could mark out a fey on sight, my best chances shall be in masking myself with Blending Presence. But if it is fey magic that trips his alarms then doing so shall be my undoing. If he can detect both, I’m smoked.”

“ ‘Tis a dilemma, isn’t it?”

“I’m onto something, and that’s the sole reason for which Jormungandr sent you to me is to be a useless nuisance. What use have you rendered me since my coming to this world?”

“You would not hear my counsel, mistress. I maintain that you ought to seduce the Maiden - only she may slay this nosy inquisitor with impunity. You want a roundabout way, there isn’t one. She’s your most powerful weapon and dangerous enemy, and there lies the nature of your quest: ultimate corruption and betrayal in the place least expected.”

She had already ceased listening to the old tirade. She lacked information, and there was never any to gain from the tiny snake. Huginn came to mind, for intelligence was his domain. But what little she had for payment, if it could even qualify as one, she would rather save for something more important. Push comes to shoves, she still had another trump card in Privilege of the Favored. As it seemed, it was only a matter of time before she would have to use that expendable power. It was just her rotten luck that it should be used when a war was brewing on the horizon.

“Perk up, now.” The marchioness tapped her cheeks as though she was an anxious child before her first formal party. “You know you’re under my husband’s protection, right? Your being a witch shouldn’t be at all a problem, if that’s what worries you. And you are a white witch! Everyone knows the church only condemns bad witches.”

Cordelia smiled wryly.

“Well,” the marchioness stepped back to admire her work, “Now off you go! I still have to prepare Esme.”

Cordelia scurried down the tower. It was getting dark and in her hurry she had forgotten to take a candle. But she needed time to think, and carefully descending in the failing light afforded plenty of it. As far as she could tell, she had the trust of most of the castle’s occupants, if a begrudged one from the seneschal. Yet she did not trust in their protection should an inquisitor reveal her true nature to the world. She had read much of those inquisitors and their deeds in demonology books. All indicated that they were a capable and respected force of good, second only to knights. Yet unlike knights, they attend only to religious duties to root out heresies and fell creatures. They must have their methods. But she knew not what. And it was doubtful whether her power Detect Holy could do aught with them. For sometimes they walk unseen among common people without the shining armors of knights, ready to strike lurking creatures preying on innocent humans...

“I can at least tell you how to identify one,” Mastema interrupted her befuddled line of thought.

“There’s only one in the castle. And I’m going to be introduced to him anyway, whether I like it or not,” she said sourly.

The familiar did not seem to listen. “Old, cranky looking, mostly. Common traits to be expected: bald and a crooked nose. Unapproving look. Ugly clothes. Impatient footsteps. Slow down.”

She almost stumbled upon reaching the ground floor. Someone suddenly appeared out of the dark, who, just like her, did not carry a candle. His eyes stalked in the dim light like a hawk and she could only make out his most prominent features: a bald head and a crooked nose.

“Very funny.” She cursed the familiar.

“Only because you weren’t paying attention,” sneered the snake. “But ‘twas only half a joke. ‘Tis him: your inquisitor.”

Her heart lurched even as the stranger halted in his tracks, his eyes transfixed on her. Slowly he turned. There was something like disbelief in how he stared. An old man to be sure, whose hands were hidden in either sleeve of his rough-spun robe. Presently he unfolded them, revealing bony hands that looked oddly like a bird’s talons.

He made a gesture which by now she had recognized as one Believers used to ward off evil. Loudly and indignantly, the inquisitor uttered a curse, “Foul creature! Begone! Begone!” One bony finger pointed straight in her face.

And that was it.

He folded his hands again, presently resumed his impatient steps across the ground floor hall as if he had not stopped at all.