12.6

Marta had just wanted to get some sweet rolls for herself.

Not to let one of the servants find some for her, not to order a cook around to make it. Just go out, hand over some silver from her own coin pouch.

Sit on a corner

And have a sweet roll.

That’s all she wanted.

But something went horribly wrong.

There were guards, there were ropes, there were words said about her?

She didn't remember clearly. It was hard to remember anything.

Then she was asleep.

And then Marta started waking up.

Always just waking up.

Always drifting out of a heavy slumber.

Always feeling weak and confused. She had just- something..

There was a sweet taste filling her mouth so thick and cloying that she yearned for clean water to wash it out. Her throat felt raw somehow, but not quite. Scratchy. Like she was going to choke but had somehow forgotten too.

She tried swallowing hard and felt things move and shift inside, some of the awful syrupy sweetness diluting in her spit. Her teeth felt woolen.

Her eyes audibly cracked as she opened them, then they closed just as hard without her will.

It was bright.

Too bright.

She felt her fingers move, her hands flex, arms bend. All without her say.

She felt addled and confused.

What had happened to her?

Her back bent unnaturally, strangely, it was not how she stood or bent or got up in the morning.

And then her eyes opened again and though the light burned, she did not squint or close them, she tried.

But the will to move anything felt like it was sinking into a mire.

Like every part of her had to move through thick blankets.

There was a voice, but it felt as muffled as her eyelids.

Something in her jaw flexed and her ears popped.

Marta swallowed hard.

The voice repeated it was coming from an indistinct blob in front of her.

“Marta? Marta Thurzó?”

The voice from the blob said her name, and Marta blinked by her own will.

That was a stranger’s voice, a southern voice. Either Viznove or maybe Zekhedge? She was still learning the manner of speech of their neighbors.

To prepare for her trip?

She was pretty sure she had been making a trip, there were preparations.

Marta’s voice cracked trying to speak and something came loose inside that caught her off guard and started a spasm of coughing and choking.

A hand was suddenly on her neck as she hacked and wheezed around a crumbling profusion of ‘things’ in her throat that kept coming loose and tickling her to cough even harder. And then heat and flush filled her neck, squeezed it closed and then ‘clenched’ against her will and ‘pressed’ up to her jaw.

It was like she was being sick, and yet it was nothing of the sort, awful flaky chunks filled her mouth as they were squeezed out by her swelling flesh from below and then suddenly a cool chalice was at her lips.

“Fill your mouth, don’t swallow. Move the water around then spit to your side.”

Marta could not have swallowed if she wanted, her neck felt full to bursting and hot as a fever! She could barely breathe for how swollen her throat was. And even though she was mostly doing as the voice commanded it felt like it was half her own body moving to the command then by her actual desires.

Swish blessed water in her mouth, turn head.

Spit.

With whatever the awfulness that had come up her throat now washed clear and the terrible syrupy sweetness cleaned away, her mouth felt fresh as mountain air.

The swelling in her throat vanished as suddenly as it had come.

The figure that she still could not focus on and only recognized as darkness and hints of a pale blob that might be a face spoke again.

“You are Marta Thurzó of Arva? Daughter of Count Thurzó of Arva?”

She nodded and tried to speak again, her voice came out like something from a crow.

“Ye-asg?”

Why was it so hard to speak?

And then suddenly she was starting to sit up without her say so, her voice bleating like a half dead lamb as legs moved without her own desire to and stood her up and then turned her like a soldier.

“Good, your father has been very worried about you. You will follow me.”

The sudden change in height made her briefly feel dizzy before there was a rush in her ears and suddenly she was not.

She didn't even sway on her feet but her hips twisted uncomfortably as they tried to walk her along. Half blind as she was, she could barely coordinate but tried to move with a less rigid gait, the effort easing her steps.

And for her attempt, Marta felt the pace come to her, the steps becoming her own. Although they subtly twisted her ankles still to guide her through the blurry confusion of the world.

At first warm carpet and then cold stone was under her toes. They moved past a shift in the air, There was something light and thin hanging on her body.

Then a thud sounded behind her.

Things felt strange.

Vision started to clear as she blinked, focused, blinked once more and found herself in a long stone hallway.

It looked like a cellar.

But along the walls instead of casks of wine or other stores were alcoves with people.

It was only after they passed the fifth one that Marta realized they were all women and girls. Each wearing a plain undyed smock, like you might dress a babe in.

Each laying on a length of rough bedding.

All of them moving slightly, weaving and twisting. Shifting their bodies almost like they were uncomfortable. Or dancing on their backs.

But they moved in sinuous unison. Like reeds of grass carried by a water’s current.

They moved and yet their eyes were closed. They twisted and turned in waves in their alcoves.

Some seemed weaker and frailer then others but the pull that washed over them was still noticeable in even the faintest most faltering twists on those that looked half starved.

Marta reached to the fabric that draped over her and found the same undyed woolen smock.

As her eyes cleared even in the dim light of candles around her she could see her own hands, they looked sunken and aged. The flesh pale and the skin hanging on her knuckles and veins like an old woman.

Her fingers trembled as she raised them to her face and felt relief at the flushed and full cheeks that her fingers still found.

The man in black robes, for that is what was ahead of her, glanced over his shoulder and frowned.

Not in a way that seemed to judge her. More like one of the painters doing a portrait who noticed a mistake.

Marta had not even realized she stopped.

His voice had a hint of annoyance, frustration but no anger.

“That won’t do.”

He gestured at her and there was a flush of heat up and down her body, tingling in her hands and a faint rush that made her jolt.

One of the women in the alcoves behind her gave out a shuddering gasp almost like a moan of pain.

And then the heat settled and the only sound was of slowly writhing bodies in stone alcoves.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The man seemed satisfied, he nodded and turned away, resuming walking.

Marta for her part followed, staring at her fingers, flush and alive again just as she remembered them before the horrifying withering.

Maybe even more so?

She turned to glance again at the women in their alcoves to either side, at the manner of their dress, the sunken flesh of their bodies. The dust and grime on their skin and smocks.

They moved and breathed and yet they were somehow asleep?

Marta remembered waking.

Always waking.

Stings of pain, draining cold, a weakness, dizzying confusion, lightness between her ears and then sleep again.

Only to wake once more to the same.

Over and over again.

Until now.

Her voice creaked to try and say something but she could not make the words come.

Was not even sure what she was going to say.

So many questions jumbled in her head and strangled in the jam at her tongue.

The figure walked ahead of her and when she tried to slow and stop her steps, Marta’s legs and hips simply pulled her along uncomfortably and unnaturally out of pace with her own gait. She was quick to take initiative so that at least she walked comfortably.

Ahead there was a whispering sound like wind.

But somehow it seemed hungry.

They turned a corner and the alcoves were left behind. But now there were solid iron bars and shuffling unseen things in the dark beyond to either side.

Shuffling, whispery, wheezing things.

Marta again tried to pause, to stop, and again her shoulders, hips, knees and feet jolted her along. Kept her going.

The soft, almost panicked sounding breathing poured in from the dark. Desperate, hungry breaths. There was a lot of whispery wind moving past teeth and passing strained tight throats.

Throats that almost but not quite were keening in hunger.

In desperation.

In want.

But never fully breaking into voice, never uttering even animal pleas.

Just wind passing throats that sounded far too dry.

There was other noise too adding erratic percussion. Slide of flesh against stone, a rattle of chains and sudden clack of teeth coming together.

But nothing else.

Marta could not see into the black behind those bars, and she could either walk of her own accord or by the unnatural will of her limbs and the foreign force that commanded them.

The hall with the dark, and the bars and the strained near silent wheezing breaths went on for longer then she ever wanted it to be.

And to her horror, Marta could feel that while she could not stop, her limbs also refused to let her run ahead.

She was trapped at a slow easy pace as they passed room after room of those black cells and their thick iron bars.

The subtle hint of chains rattling against one another.

Clacking teeth.

Shifting skin on stone.

Finally they turned another corner and were leaving behind whatever that was.

The desperate and somehow hungry whispers now past had made her skin pebbled like plucked goose flesh despite her warmth.

Up a stairwell they went. Turning over two floors in ascent at least. The feel of the stone on her toes somehow was familiar. Like something half remembered in a dream.

Finally, a heavy oaken door with an equally heavy lock was before them but the solid metal latch undid itself and the door opened without a touch by the man

There was not even a pause in their shared stride..

Marta was embarrassed to admit it was only this that finally made her realize that sorcery was in play upon her.

But even that brief self-recrimination was melted away by the beauty of what was before her.

Daylight.

Not low candles, but proper sun.

Blessed daylight through windows and a warm comfortable hallway that felt achingly familiar to her.

And people, living, wakeful people who moved and looked and saw!

People other than this strange sorcerous man!

Servants and footmen and fine carpets and even tapestries and items of honor on display.

A proper hallway fit for living!

Not a horrible cellar or a horrific dungeon full of unseen reedy breaths past hungry teeth.

As they walked, there was even a view of wonderful blue water and the light was so beautiful! It burned her eyes to take it in but Marta could not have stopped even if it was searing her to cinders.

Her skin prickled where a sunbeam touched it.

Tingling lightly.

But she welcomed every scrap of it despite the slight itch that swelled underneath the first touch of sun on her skin.

She turned to look around and just welcome the sight of everyone around her.

But there was something off there.

The Footmen studiously kept their gazes straight, looking through her rather than at her. Like she was invisible.

She thought maybe sorcery of some sort had made her unseen.

But the Servants actively did not look at her at all, turning away and shuffling past quickly when her guide crossed their path. Their postures were full of shame and fear. As they refused to acknowledge her. The fright of those shying away from a wrathful lord or lady.

But that was all wrong for Marta.

She was joyous, not wrothfull.

The strange man in dark robes and slick hair walked without giving any of them or her a glance.

But then again Marta was incapable of not following him. She was chained to him as surely as if she had been tied and led by a rope.

What was going on?

Had she done something wrong and forgotten?

Where was she?

And then they came to a door and like the other it was opening without a touch. The man and her entered again without a single hitch in their stride.

Before finally stopping.

Even without the stilling in her joints from sorcery, Marta would have frozen at the sight before her.

Tears welling in her eyes as she saw her Father.

Standing there, caught mid stride in what looked like pacing. Slowly settling and then turning to face her entirely.

Hands held up halfway between either welcoming embrace or to cover his mouth like a distraught widow.

His eyes were shining wetly.

The sorcerous man’s voice sounded bored.

Executing the last step of a bothersome chore.

“As Promised, I have produced your Daughter healthy and unharmed. Does that satisfy your terms?”

Marta heard her father say the words in the brittlest and most exhausted tone she had ever heard from him in her life.

“Yes.”

And then Marta was being embraced in warm arms.