She was in one of her old concubine dresses, her arms folded on her desk, her head buried as she covered her mouth to keep the sobs inside. It didn’t help. Her shoulders shook from a grief Martin never saw from her, or anyone. Martin closed the door and walked toward her, placing the candle on the desk. “Inessa?”

Her head popped up from her arms as she saw Martin first in the mirror then jerked around to see him standing next to her. She gasped, practically knocking over her chair to stand. She tried to pat her face dry with her hands before she gave a tiny curtsey. “Forgive me. I did not hear you knock.”

Martin stared at her, studying her closely. He had seen her sobbing moments before, and now she was struggling to stuff it all down and pretend like it never happened.

“Is everything alright?”

Inessa nodded, blinking quickly to keep the tears from coming. She kept her voice steady. “I shall return the dresses tomorrow, sir. Oh, I’m sorry, tomorrow is a holiday. The day after. I will return them. I am terribly sorry, sir.”

“Martin.”

Inessa looked at him, her eyes still wet, blinking more times to keep them at bay. “Pardon?”

Martin sighed, taking out a handkerchief. “Never call me sir. Never call me High Elder.” He handed the handkerchief to her, and she took it, turning away to use it.

“I shouldn’t, sir. Your wife, she was very clear tonight… it is not my place,” Inessa said as she finished dabbing her eyes and nose. “I don’t want to anger her.”

“She doesn’t get to dictate how you address me. If she prefers you call her ma’am, that is for her, but for me, you call me Martin, no matter who I am around. Understand?” Inessa held the handkerchief crumpled in her hands as she nodded, still not looking at him. “Where are your dresses?”

Inessa pointed toward the closet, and Martin walked in, careful with his candle. It was far easier to marvel at their beauty when they were not on Inessa. The dresses were indeed works of art. He checked and triple checked each one, but none of them broke the concubine rules that he could see.

“I did not mean to cause a stir at dinner. I… I did not mean to cause a fight between you and Sara tonight,” she said. Again, her voice was quiet, meek, far too willing to submit. Martin turned to look at her and she was standing as he always knew her to stand. Hands placed in front of her, eyes cast downward. If he hadn’t seen her sobbing, if he hadn’t given her the kerchief himself, he would have thought she shed maybe a tear or two. This girl was far too good at hiding her emotions. Almost like she wasn’t allowed to show them.

“You heard our argument?” Martin asked.

Inessa swallowed, then gave a tiny nod. Again, Martin ran through what they said to each other in his mind. It meant Inessa heard their nights together made him physically ill. That no one in the household wanted her. It did not surprise him that she was sobbing. What surprised him was how quickly she stuffed it down to be his submissive concubine, and his heart broke for her.

“Do you like these dresses?” Martin asked.

“What I like or do not like is little consequence, High Elder Martin. What matters is if you like them,” she said, not looking at him.

“Stop, Inessa. Just Martin.”

Inessa bowed her head even farther, shielding her green eyes. “I will do my best, si-” she stopped herself, but did not correct herself with Martin’s name. She simply looked away.

Martin closed the door to the closet and walked toward her again. She kept her head down, not looking at him. He placed the candle back on the desk. “May I?”

Inessa glanced up to see him holding his hands out, ready to touch her forehead. She nodded, closing her eyes. Martin placed his hands on her temples, closing his eyes. He sensed her anxiety and depression. He had never bothered to check before. It was deep. The girl who had kept herself quiet and submissive felt anxiety and depression deeper than anyone in his household. Martin sprinkled healing power. It was not enough to heal her completely. It was impossible in this life to heal such a thing, but he could ease it. Make it bearable.

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Martin released his hands, and Inessa bowed her head again, waiting for him to order her to do something.

“Do you like those dresses?” Martin asked.

Inessa looked up at him, blinking back tears. “They’re the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen, let alone owned.”

“What would you like to do with them?” Martin asked.

“Whatever you would have me-”

“Inessa,” Martin cut her off, a sharp but gentle chastisement. “What would you like to do with them.”

Inessa’s face crumpled and she looked away, trying to cover her reaction with the handkerchief. “I want to keep them.”

“Then keep them,” Martin said.

Inessa let out a shuddering breath. “But you and Sara? Your… your marriage.”

“What happened at dinner was simply a miscommunication. I was impressed by your dress, and Sara took it to mean a different thing,” Martin said. “If you had been a daughter of an old friend, I would have complimented your dress at dinner, and that would have been the end of it.”

Inessa nodded in understanding. “But I’m not that daughter of an old friend. I’m your concubine. And nobody wants me here.”

Martin winced. He couldn’t stop himself. It was the one thing she said with conviction. Inessa raised her eyes, maybe knowing already what his reaction would be. Knowing he too didn’t want her here.

“It’s not that I…” Martin paused. He knew he had to tread carefully here. He gave another sigh. “It goes back to the example. If you were the daughter of an old friend, I would welcome you warmly into my home. But…”

“But I’m a concubine instead,” Inessa said.

“And I cannot bring myself to separate you from what I have to…”

“From doing the thing that makes you physically ill,” Inessa said. He looked at her, the wording too precise. She looked down at her hands, fiddling with the handkerchief. “I know you weren’t looking at me like that at dinner. I know… I know what the look is, and what it feels like, and you didn’t give it. Sara complimented me on my dress when I put it on this morning.”

Martin took this information in. He had every right to get angry at Sara for her hypocrisy, but he found he couldn’t. This conversation of bringing Inessa home when she told him to fight it had to happen for a long time. And he somehow knew this is what the outcome would be. Spending who knows how many nights sleeping in a guest room.

“I will see you tomorrow morning, Inessa,” he said, remembering how deep her depression went. “I would like to see you at breakfast, and I will try to feel comfortable complimenting your dress.”

Inessa nodded. “Thank you, Martin.”

Martin gave a tiny bow, and Inessa curtsied. He turned around and headed out of the door. It was getting late, and he needed some sleep.

***

It was impossible to vomit quietly. Indenuel heard the moans, the screams, the jeers. He felt the unbearable pain in his stomach where he hit Andres with corruption, saw from his point of view as he collapsed against the wall with the dagger sticking out of his stomach. Felt it as Indenuel twisted it. He managed to climb to the side of the bed before he let out the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He kept his eyes shut tight. He couldn’t tell what time of night it was. There was some blood in the vomit where he accidentally bit his tongue.

You will enjoy hell, they said, a thousand voices speaking as one.

Here’s a taste.

There was a sharp pain in his head. Indenuel grabbed his forehead, covering his mouth with his pillow as he screamed. He knew this was what happened when pain went to the brain, but he wasn’t dying. He should be dead.

Oh, you have done so many evil things.

We will feast for eternity on your memories.

“Indenuel!” Tolomon shouted.

Indenuel couldn’t speak. Tolomon tried to speak to him again, but he couldn’t hear well past the screams and laughter as they watched him curl into a ball, stuffing his pillow in his mouth to keep the screams quiet. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He sensed them well enough, swarming his room. He didn’t want to see their contorted faces or their black eyes.

Some of them sneered and flitted away as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened instinctively. “It’s me,” Tolomon said. “It’s light enough now, we can call the High Elders. They can help.”

“No,” Indenuel said. “No, they can’t.”

“Yes, they can. This is what they’re there for,” Tolomon said.

Indenuel cracked an eye open and wished he hadn’t. Black swarms of demons were everywhere, crawling and shrieking, laughing and sneering. There were a hundred on him, trying to break his shield, snarling at him, laughing, pounding over and over against the shield that barely held a golden din. He covered his eyes with his pillow, shuddering.

“Knock me out,” Indenuel whispered.

“What?” Tolomon asked.

“Just knock me out. Make me not see it,” Indenuel said.

“I… won’t. I can’t do that,” Tolomon said.

“Then get me some sleeper drink that will let me wake up tomorrow when it’s all done,” Indenuel said, panting for air, feeling his shirt slick with sweat.

“That kind of drink is only made through corrupted means. I’m not doing it. Confess. Please,” Tolomon said.

Indenuel placed the pillow over his face and screamed as the memory of corrupted pain filled his body again.