Chapter 3

  Lyenass, Rankia, 30th of May 987, early morning

  The sight catches my breath, or at least it would have if I was still breathing and, for a while, even the distant thrum of the coming sun is not enough to distract me from the view.

  In front of me, under the light of the moon, Lyenass languidly deploys itself.

  Imagine this: A hill so big it could as well be a small mountain. A river as large as two fields, lazily flowing around said hill.

  Buildings on the slopes, numerous enough that I can’t count them. Piers over the water, with tens of ships anchored to them.

  And at the very top of the mountain, like a crown on its head, a massive wall of wood protecting a space as big as my village, the core of which is a monster of stone that I recognize as a castle if I remember my mentor’s teaching.

  “It’s so big…” I whisper, and Manon chuckles a bit.

  “Is it the first time you see a real city?” She asks me, and I nod a little. I can feel her body against my back.

  “Well, Lyenass is the biggest city one hundred and fifty miles around, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Irass, the Royal Capital. That city is at least fifty times bigger,” She tells me.

  Impossible. Bigger than this? How big would that make the capital?!

  “And a hundred times smellier, too, though Lyenass is already unsanitary as it is. I swear that, each time I’m forced to pass by the slum, the rabble smells even worse than the last,” She adds, “Alass, the orphanage is my prerogative, and so I shall endure it.”

  I don’t like what she says, and how she says it. A few months ago she would have counted me in this ‘rabble’ too. Maybe she still does.

  Now I’m irked, but not for long. Soon enough, the emotion leaves me.

  ***

  Even though the sun is already announcing itself to me, it’s very much still night, so I’m not surprised to find the gates closed when we arrive.

  “Who goes there at such an hour!” A guard bellows more than he asks, standing atop a sturdy wooden guard tower, barely a few yards from us. He doesn’t even wait for an answer, “Know that you will have to wait for dawn, as the city gates are closed by order of the Lord of Lyenass himself!”

  Manon is surprised, Francis too. Wait, are the doors not supposed to be closed at night?

  “Marc, you dingass, you’re talking to Lady Manon, and I swear on all the Gods that if you don’t open the doors right now, I’ll have Alexandre assign you to latrines duties until winter comes!” Ah. Francis seems quite tired, and is thus unwinding. I’m starting to see a pattern here.

  “No, you won’t.” Manon rebukes her witch servant, loud enough for the soldier, Marc, to hear, and adds, “On my authority as Lady and Heir of Lyenass, I order you to call an escort and open the door.” I shiver. It’s the first time I hear her talk like that, cold and assured, bloated with pride. Now that’s nobility for you.

  “O-Of course my Lady! I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait a moment!” He then leaves as his three other colleagues watch over us. I can hear them snicker at the fourth man, laughing at the comic of this situation.

  I frown, feeling restless since I’m not yet hidden from the coming sun, but then I feel Manon nodding in my back. “He won’t open the door until he has enough men to keep it safe, just in case we’re being used as a tool to invade the city. Good man.” She whispers, having felt my unrest. I’m a bit surprised by the attention.

  “Of course,” Francis answers, moving his horse closer. There is a patch on the side of his beast where it was hurt, but thankfully the dagger only inflicted a flesh wound, though the poor thing still suffered from it. “Lord Charles has an eye for talented people, even if he doesn’t like them,” The witch is eyeing me as he speaks, but somehow I know that he’s also talking about himself.

  People aren’t always kind toward witches, after all. A pang of pain twists my chest when that thought brings my mind back to my dead mentor, burned in his own house by the very people he healed throughout the years.

  ***

  “Lord Father,” Manon says, curtseing deeply. I am tense, I don’t know how to behave.

  We’re in a big stone room, three yards high, ten deep and six large, and we’re facing a man sitting on a wooden throne, the head of a strange creature carved at its top, its eyes made out of two fancy red stones while its snoot reminds me of a big cat, but with a massive fluff of hair all around it.

  The man is more impressive than the throne.

  He’s massive, I can see where Manon’s frame comes from, the tallest man in the room, the tallest man I’ve ever seen, and that’s with him sitting.

  His face is made of hard edges, his eyes are a shade of dark brown while his hair is short and dark. He wears grey clothes with red touches around his wrists, a green collar, golden rings at his fingers with more fancy stones embedded in them, blue and yellow, while a necklace with a big stone, pure transparent pink, rests on his chest. His beard is cut short, and streaks of steel-like grey can be seen in it, the only concession this man seems to have made to the passage of time.

  I thought nobles had to wear as many colors as possible to flaunt their wealth, but this man doesn’t need it. The room is doing it for him, with many a banner draped over the walls, a non-negligible number of them being torn, as if they had once been carried on poles, ripped away from their support.

  Small windows made of clear glass, such luxury, unfortunately let in the very first rays of the sun.

  This would have been crushing, if not for the look of relief that softens his traits. The only reason he’s not hugging her, I reckon, is that they aren’t alone.

  I follow their exchange as Manon explains why she’s here already, with a prisoner and another woman he doesn’t know about, and so early in the morning, too!

  They speak of troubles, of ambushes and of plots against them. I’m not sure I should be hearing about all that.

  “She is a witch, you say, that assassin?” He finally asks, looking at her limp body with a focused gaze, a mix of interest and mistrust. There is also a touch of disgust, which I explain by his devotion to the divine, specifically the God-Sun, if I understand the inscription around his wrists. They are small, discreet, but with this precise new gaze of mine, I still catch them, eventually.

  Manon nods, “Yes Father. She fired bolts of blood at us, powerful and dangerous. Francis nearly died.”

  Silence settles in the room as the middle-aged man thinks with ponderous, concerned eyes.

  “A witch to kill a noble. The dark practitioners have never been so bold.” I get from his words that this isn’t a common occurrence, or even an occurrence at all.

  “I fear we will see more of those in the future…” He adds in a soft voice, outraged yet resigned at the idea.

  “And what about this girl?” He finally asks, nodding at me. Manon turns around, looks at me, then at Francis, who nods back at her and takes it from here.

  ***

  It was early in the morning, early enough that he could see the sun rising behind the horizon. He had slept badly, tormented by an old wound that even now ate at his back and his focus, making his mood sour and angry. At least it wasn’t winter anymore, and his joints were less painful.

  Still, this was worth it. His dear daughter, Manon, had come back from a trip to see her fiancee, the second son of the Lord of Tellossa.

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  What a shame really. Manon was so competent, but she was sadly born a woman, weak and less bright than the stronger sex. He often dreamt that she was born a boy instead, so she could have taken her rightful place at his side, instead of having to marry her to some other noble brat who would come here to rule once the place became vacant.

  And now he was hearing about the most outlandish of tales.

  “Well, sir, this lass actually saved all our lives,” Francis told him.

  He was wary of Francis, because no witch could be trusted, each of them an affront to the natural order, yet the man had stood by him many times, and he could conjure a flame that looked pure and shone true like the sun. At this thought, he touched the prayers inscribed around his wrists. The God-Sun would forgive him for sheltering a witch, he was sure of it, yet Francis' continuous presence throughout the year didn’t soften his view on the dark arts, and the people of this city asked this from him, anyway. Witchcraft often ended in piles of burning wood, as it should be.

  “Do not abuse my patience, witch.” Exhausted and in pain, Charles snapped coldly at his servant, reminding him of his place, hinting at the witch’s impure existence.

  “Father, this is the truth,” Manon intervened, and their gaze met, his cold and judging, hers resolute and diplomate. She wasn’t lying, she couldn’t, she was his daughter and she knew her allegiance, and what was good for her.

  His gaze moved like a whip to look at the unknown girl, judging her.

  This brat, saving them?

  “Step up, woman,” He growled, on edge. He smelled something foul, was there a third witch in this room beside Francis and the assassin? The simple thought revulsed him. Two of them were two too many, a third one would be beyond horrible.

  The girl walked forward, and already it felt strange. She was moving too swiftly, her motions flowing into each other, and it was like she was forcing herself to be slow, even though she was so fast. His instinct as an old warrior was warning him: this wasn’t just a meek lass, no, there was something under this facade, dangerous.

  She quickly stopped in front of him, and he took his time to gauge her.

  She was tall for a woman, nearly six feet tall, eight inches smaller than Manon, which made her as tall as most men in the room besides himself, but he was a giant amongst men, so it wasn’t a fair comparison.

  She was wearing a simple, rustic robe of poor making, brown and slightly stained… he frowned.

  Stained with blood, he now realized. His intuition was getting louder by the second, yet he smothered it, along with any preposterous or impure thoughts.

  She had black, unkept hair falling around her face and on her shoulders in greasy locks, while her eyes were a very light blue, lighter than Manon’s.

  The dress she was wearing didn’t really do justice to her body, that he could see too. He guessed muscles under the poor fabric, and her build spoke of an outdoorswoman, yet her face and her hands were completely devoid of any scar and, beyond the filth, he could see that her skin was white and silky, and that she didn’t lack womanly charms even if she wasn’t much old, what with her fertile hips and her plentiful bosom, a good wench that would spawn a slew of strong peasants under the thrusts of a man dominant enough to break her, he thought.

  “So you saved my daughter, girl?” He asked aggressively and with disdain, trying to intimidate her, because he was the lord of this city, and his will was the law. It wasn’t because a grain of fear had sprouted in his heart, no, not at all. Him, lashing at this girl because of his unease? He would never.

  No, this was simply his right as the patriarch that he was, and not an effect of his pain, exhaustion, and disdain at the woman standing there.

  To his surprise, the girl didn’t react. No emotions could be seen on her face, her eyes were two empty pits… He frowned, first at the lack of effect, then when he recognized her gaze.

  This was the look of someone who lost everything, up to herself. She was dead inside, like some of the soldiers who fought at his side in too many wars, and killed too many men to remember.

  “Yes. Your daughter was held captive by bandits. I killed them all then freed her, Francis, as well as Manon’s two helpers and the remaining guards.”

  He raised his brows. She didn’t call her sir or my lord, she didn’t even bow, she gave him no sign of respect, how outrageous!

  Then the meaning of her preposterous words hit him.

  “And then I saved Francis and captured the blood witch assassin. It hurt. Both my hands were busted.” She added, massaging her whole, very beautiful, and perfectly fine hands.

  What was this story? This whole thing was just a farce! Her hands were fine, she wasn’t a warrior, and whatever his instinct was saying, it was wrong! Was this old age getting to him, to even entertain the idea that this girl could have saved his Manon?!

  Now quite angry, he turned a wrathful glare at his daughter, who needed to be chastised like the spoiled brat she was for wasting his time like this! “Well, Daughter? When will this farce end?!” He asked with anger and haughtiness, “Guards, throw that madwoman back from where she came,” He added with an aggressive way of the hand.

  “Father! I swea-” Manon tried to say, but he interrupted her.

  “Silence, child! You will be punished fo-” CRASH!

  A soldier just smashed into a wall, interrupting his words. Said soldier then fell on the ground with a loud THUD! and stopped moving, out cold.

  What just happened? His gaze trailed back to the dirty madwoman, and cold sweat erupted over his skin, his anger swept away by fear and apprehension.

  Claws extended from her finger, big, dark, dangerous, and her eyes were as deep as a moonless night.

  Ah.

  Well, he should have trusted his instinct.

  ***

  The sun is up, its glare trying to reach me through the windows, yet the world is slow, I’m focused.

  And angry. Manon’s father didn’t even give me time to explain myself further. I could have shown my strength, demonstrated my speed or showcased my claws and fangs but no, he had to get angry, dismissing me like a dirty rag and treating his own daughter not much better.

  For a few days, I had been cradled by Francis and Manon, but now here it was again. Yet another man, a master, looking down at me, treating me, and his daughter, us women, like we were just weak and incompetent babymakers.

  A rage like I haven’t felt in a long time now consumes me.

  An example. That’s what I need, to make it a show and imprint my anger deep into everyone’s soul.

  Manon had helped me. Reluctantly, carefully, with distance maybe, and mostly thanks to Francis, but she still helped me. And even for Francis…

  I felt the disgust of this lord Charles when he had looked at his own loyal servant, touching the prayers sewn on his clothes as if it washed away some kind of filth that Francis had brought inside the room!

  Time slows even more as the brasier of my anger rages in my head. I grab the halberd of the next guard and, on a whim, rip its steel apart. I can feel the weakness in the metal, where it wasn’t hammered properly. I don’t know how, but soon enough I have two pieces of steel in hand instead of one, with fragments flying everywhere. I toss them aside to grab the guard himself by one wrist, before savagely launching him at his colleague standing at the right of the suzerain.

  Outch, I think I dislodged his arm from his shoulder.

  I walk to the other guard, left of Charles. Everyone is trying to react, but they’re even more sluggish than usual, more than in the Deep Night, even though the sun forces me to thread carefully through the room to avoid its rays.

  I take the guard’s weapon and break its shaft in two, then kick him in the balls before finishing him with an uppercut, sending him flying in the air with a face blue from suffering.

  There are two guards left in the room, which I promptly dispatch by taking the helmet of the first and bashing the second in the face with it, before grabbing the last one by the throat until he stops moving, then discarding it on the ground like, yes, a dirty rag.

  I turn around to face Manon’s father, Lord Charles of Lyenass himself.

  Strangling someone takes some time, so everyone else had time to react to my little outburst.

  He’s up, on his feet, sword drawn, while his daughter and Francis are standing against a wall, the first one shocked, the second one a sulfur ball ready in his hands. He’s one breath away from casting a firebolt, somehow I can taste it.

  “The bandits who captured your daughter numbered eight, and I killed every last one of them in under a minute. They had raped your daughter’s two maids, and were a crass group of disgusting individuals. I didn’t know who your daughter was at the time. She took the decision to ask me for my help, under the council of her mage, Francis, which turned for the better since I intercepted a bold of blood aimed at his head, my right hand getting half-destroyed in the process. I didn’t lie about that, I simply heal extremely fast.” I tell him coldly, his throne room full of the unconscious bodies of his bodyguards.

  I am holding my ground, proud beyond reason, determined beyond measure. I won’t break here, I won’t bend to him. I am strong and I do not fear bullies like him. I simply stayed away from them for as long as I could, and that ended two months ago, when I saved that couple from bandits.

  No more staying away.

  I snap back into mostly normal speed now that the combat is over.

  “Monster, heretic! What kind of godless abomination are you?!” He exclaims, shocked, and my face twists.

  “Godless?! Who do you call godless?!” I’m angry.

  Father had taught me all he knew about praying, in particular to Kerron, the Mother-Goddess! And every day, diligently, the two of us prayed, we prayed Kerron and prayed for my Mom's soul!

  ...Well, okay, maybe I didn’t pray much those last few months, but I’m still a firm believer!

  “I believe and pray to Kerron, the Mother-Goddess, and all the gods and goddesses of the Pantheon, and I will not let you insult me so!” I nearly scream back, exceeded by my wrath.

  He’s slightly taken aback by my answer, blinks once, twice, then recovers his countenance, “Then prove it, monster! Pray Kerron, ask for her mercy, and we’ll see if you don’t burst in flame!”

  The Gods hate witches and monsters, I know that, so even though my anger is supporting me, pushing me forward, I can’t help but have panic grasp my heart.

  What if I can’t pray? What if I’m really a godless monster, a heathen, a heretic?

  No! No no no no no! I am not godless! Lady Kerron wouldn’t abandon me so!

  I fall on my knees, clasp my hands together, and open my mouth, yet the words don’t want to come. I want to puke, I feel dizzy, and Lord Charles’ frown deepens, while anger overtakes his traits once again.

  No. I am not godless.

  I close my eyes as Manon’s father takes a step forward, unsheathing his sword.

  I am not godless.

  Charles takes another step, a third one. He’s getting close. I'm fighting, on the inside, a horror, a terror, blocking my throat, choking my words.

  But I’m not godless.

  The words finally flow through my clenched throat as if, one father the other, I am forcing each of them to come out, but I persist, if push myself through will and belief, even if my body hates it, even if my lips don’t want to move, even as the sun starts eating my flesh.

  I taste ash in my mouth, pain in my soul, but, but...

  But I pray.