by Anthony Ryan
He turned to beckon a pair of guards forward. Like the soldiers on the road they all wore the same grey and black livery, though they were of a markedly less cowed demeanour. The chainsman’s presence had muted the habitual brutality of the others but this lot faced no such constraints. Recognising the increased risk, I lowered my gaze to a respectfully subservient angle, nudging Toria to do the same when she continued to let her too-clever eyes roam.
“Put them in the woodshed and take a couple of days to feed them up before you shove them in,” the sergeant instructed the two guards. “They won’t last the week otherwise and his lordship’s been griping about the losses lately.”
The shed they pushed us into was small and cramped with piled logs, obliging us to huddle together for warmth. The guards had surprised me by tossing us a couple of blankets along with a decent supply of bread, cheese and water.
“Don’t gulp it all at once,” I cautioned Toria as the door slammed shut and she began to tear into the bread. “A belly that’s been empty for so long needs to be reaccustomed to food. It’ll throw it all back up if you eat too quick.”
She slowed her chewing accordingly, avoiding my gaze despite the proximity. I had wrapped the blankets around us and our breath mingled in the chill. She hadn’t said much after the chainsman’s test but had been assiduous in her self-appointed role of keeping me awake during daylight. We had also shared in suffering his increased parsimony in providing food. Despite finding myself pressed close to a young woman, I felt no lust, only hunger and, as the pain of starvation abated, a growing and familiar brand of hatred for our recent captor.
“If it takes me all my remaining years,” I said around a mouthful of cheese, “I’ll find that heathen bastard.”
Toria’s eyes flicked to me then away again, leaving me with a sense of something unsaid but of great import.
“What?” I demanded.
“The words he spoke,” she said then fell to silence again, stiff with reluctance.
“You speak Caerith?” I said, giving her an insistent nudge when she didn’t answer.
“Caerith are a common sight in the southern duchies,” she replied in a grudging mutter. “Mostly traders working the roads between the ports. I picked up a few words when I was younger. Eornlisch – it means ‘fate’. I think he said, ‘Fate is a lie.’ Didn’t sound very convinced of it though.”
“What fate?”
“How the fuck should I know? Whatever it was—” she shrugged “—it’s fairly certain he regretted not killing you on the road.”
This was a point I couldn’t argue. In time, I fully intended to ask the chainsman all about his baffling words and might even give him a quick death if he was properly forthcoming.
“You didn’t run,” Toria said, interrupting the flow of my thoughts as they slipped towards vindictive plotting. “Back in the marsh. Why not?”
“Like he said, I’d’ve died in fairly short order. Staying was the smart thing to do.”
Once again she darted her bright, clear-sighted eyes at my face. “You’re lying. That’s not good.”
The growing ball of food in my belly proved sufficiently restorative to bring a small laugh to my lips. “Why?”
“Because when you didn’t run you created a debt, a life debt. That means a lot where I’m from.”
“And where is that? You’ve yet to tell me.”
Her oval face twitched in irritation and she took another bite from the loaf. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is I’m not allowed to let you die.”
“Allowed by who?”
“The Seraphile, of course. You die through a fault of mine and they’ll never let me step through the Portals.”
Another laugh rose in my throat then died when I saw the seriousness of her expression. It wasn’t quite the implacable, devout certainty I had seen in Hostler, but it was the face of a sincerely held belief nonetheless.
“Best not do that, then,” I told her. “Though I suspect you’ll have your work cut out, for I’ve no intention of staying in the Pits one hour longer than I have to, and I’ll bear any risk in escaping.”
“It’s never been done. Every outlaw throughout this kingdom knows it: there’s no escape from the Pit Mines.”
“I should’ve died a dozen times over the course of the last few weeks, and yet I still draw breath. Don’t worry, I’ll not leave you behind.” I put an arm around her shoulders, the first time I had touched her, feeling just bone and muscle with barely a hint of softness. I half expected her to pull away, but she shuffled closer, compelled by the need for warmth, I assumed.
“I’m still not going to fuck you,” she cautioned me. “Whatever the debt between us.”
“I shall endeavour to conceal my heartbreak, my lady.”
Toria let out a small sound, not quite a laugh, but her next words held no vestige of humour. “It might be best if you put a leash on that word-spinning tongue of yours. I doubt it’ll carry much weight with our fellow miners.”
The wonder of food and relative warmth soon began to pall into anxious boredom as our two days in the woodshed wore on. Toria and I exchanged our outlaw tales charting various exploits, from amusing failures to unexpected profits. She remained frustratingly vague about her origins but from what I could gather her career had begun in Dulsian, the most southern duchy in Albermaine. She had also stolen or tricked her way through parts of Alundia before moving on to Alberis, most populous and richest duchy in the kingdom. I was particularly interested in her tales of Couravel, the great city where King Tomas held court and, it was said, so many people lived it was impossible to count them all. Judging by her description it seemed a bad place for those of our calling.
“Most of it is just houses piled up on top of each other, making for narrow streets choked with shit, beggars and the nearly dead. The pickings are poor unless you’re willing to cut throats for one of the gangs. They run the whores and the alehouses and spend the whole time fighting each other. If we ever do get out of here, I’m not going back there.”
She in turn was greatly interested in my time with the legendary Deckin Scarl. I knew he had long been a figure of great renown within the Marches, but it seemed his fame had reached absurd proportions in the wider kingdom.
“So,” she asked, pulling the blanket tighter as the night’s chill closed in, “he really did give to the poor?”
“When he wanted them to keep their mouths shut or curry favour. But mostly, what we stole, we spent.”
“All of it? He must’ve kept some.” She shifted to regard me with a suspicious eye. “You wouldn’t be holding back some precious knowledge, now would you? It strikes me there must be a spot deep in the Shavine Forest where Deckin Scarl hoarded his treasure.”
“If he had a hoard, I never saw it.”
“You’re missing the point.” She made an exasperated face. “A map pointing the way to Deckin Scarl’s buried loot would be sure to fetch a sovereign or three. A dozen such maps would fetch a great deal more, especially when reluctantly sold by the only surviving member of his famous band.”
“A very good point.” I allowed my outlaw’s mind to wander, sparking possibilities with its many turns. “Or, such a map might draw the eye of a guard willing to part with his keys one dark night.”
“But first we’d have to draw it, and letter it. I’ve no hand for either.”
“Nor I. But it’s something to ponder in the days ahead.”
“Or the years.”
“Days,” I said, voice hardening with a surety that now brings a faint smile to my lips at the folly of my youthful optimism. “I have much to do and it won’t get done wasting away in a mine.”
My certainty suffered the first of many dispiriting knocks upon beholding the Pit Mines in full for the first time. I hadn’t expected much, perhaps a well-guarded tunnel leading to subterranean depths. Instead, as the gates swung open just wide enough to allow the guards to shove Toria and me through, I looked upon a great crater some three hundred
paces wide and about a third as many deep. The walls were cut by a single unbroken descending ramp that spiralled down to its arena-like floor. The spiral’s passage was marked by several mineshafts, dark rectangles breaking the monotony of grey-brown soil and rock. People entered and emerged from the shafts in a continual stream. Those who emerged walked with backs bent by burdensome sacks while those passing in the opposite direction moved with marginally more energy, backs straighter but heads sagging with fatigue. The sack bearers ascended the spiral ramp to convey their burdens to a large pile near the rim of the crater. Having delivered their cargo, they turned about and began a weary downward trudge.
The grimness of the scene was depressing in itself, but my escape-obsessed mind focused more on the fact that this entire crater could be observed with ease by anyone walking the wooden wall that snaked around it. I saw now that the wall was in fact formed of two barriers, the inner side being far more formidable in its sturdiness than the outer. Also, for every guard looking out, there were three looking in, a fair number of crossbowmen among them.
“Not one in a hundred years, remember?” Toria sighed as the guards swung the gate closed behind us. Upon being roused from a fitful slumber we had made a brief and swiftly punished attempt to engage them in talk of Deckin’s mythical treasure.
“Got a map have you?” one enquired before delivering a hard jab of his gloved fist to my ribs. It wasn’t forceful enough to double me over but did cause a bout of painful retching. “They’ve always got a fucking map,” he muttered to his companion as they bundled us from the shed. Toria had the good grace to offer me a sheepish shrug before we were shoved through the gate with a cheerful, “Be sure to make friends early on.” The guard paused to favour Toria with a leer. “’Specially you, love.”
I rubbed bruised ribs and continued to search for any flaw in what I quickly realised was a perfectly constructed trap. Toria was much more concerned with our immediate prospects, slapping a hand to my arm and nodding at the crater. The reaction of our fellow inmates to our arrival consisted of a few weary glances but no attempt to approach. At Deckin’s instruction I had once allowed myself to be captured by the sheriff’s men and cast into a gaol in some minor castle. It had all been part of a scheme to free an old associate of his who, it transpired, had already succumbed to consumption before my arrival. The inmates there had swarmed upon me like rats presented with a fresh scrap of meat, administering a beating that would surely have descended into worse if I hadn’t drawn the small knife hidden in my shoe and jabbed out a couple of eyes. Here, the parade of prisoners continued their labour without interruption until Toria spied two figures, one small, the other large, ascending the spiral ramp towards us.
As they came closer, I saw that the smaller of the two was a woman, hair mostly grey but features, although creased in part, possessed of an odd smoothness that made it hard to guess her age. I estimated the large man at her side to be about forty, though I was soon to learn that even a short time in the Pits could add years to a face and body. His face and scalp were shaved down to grey stubble and he wore a patch over his left eye, the surrounding flesh marked with old scars leaving a pale web in the skin. This, I assumed, must be the leader here. All prisons have them, the one inmate who, through virtue of guile and brute strength, rises to dominate the others. One glance at the man’s hands, larger even than Deckin’s, left me in no doubt that challenging him was out of the question. From the baleful glint of his one eye as the pair came to a halt a few paces away, I concluded that the lack of overt defiance was unlikely to spare me a ritual demonstration of authority.
It was therefore a surprise when the woman was the first to speak, her voice even more surprising in its uninflected, educated fluency. It wasn’t quite the voice of a noble, but neither did it come from the fields nor the streets.
“Welcome, friends,” she told us with a tight smile, placing a hand on her chest. “I am called Sihlda. This—” she shifted her hand to the one-eyed man’s arm “—is Brewer. Who, might we know, are you?”
“Alwyn,” I said, matching her courteous tone and adding a bow. “This is Toria. We find ourselves cast into this place due to the most vile injustice—”
“That doesn’t matter,” Sihlda informed me. Her words were spoken without particular volume but nevertheless possessed enough habitual authority to stop the flow of my lies. “What brought you here is of no consequence,” she added. “All that matters now is your conduct within the confines of this sacred place.”
The word was so unexpected it prompted me to enquire with quizzical surprise, “Sacred?”
“Yes.” Her smile remained in place, conveying a familiar sense of serenity that made her next words less surprising. “You may look upon this great scratch in the earth and see only a place of toil and punishment, but, in truth, you are blessed to find yourselves at the door to the most divine temple to the Martyrs’ example and the Seraphile’s grace.”
“Oh fuck,” Toria muttered in disgust, thankfully too softly for this devout woman to hear.
“A temple?” I asked, experiencing the highly unusual sensation of not knowing quite what to say next. “I see.”
“No.” The woman laughed, an oddly pleasing sound for it was free of malice or judgement. “You do not. But perhaps in time you will.” She cocked her head and stepped closer, putting me in mind of a cat eyeing something that may transpire to be food or just inedible detritus. “Tell me, Alwyn, why did Ahlianna refuse King Lemeshill’s hand in marriage?”
More tests, I realised. However, unlike the chainsman’s little game, thanks to Hostler this was one I knew how to play. Putting a suitably devout expression on my face, I decided a quote would be the most effective response: “‘How canst I, one who hath heard the words of the Seraphile and witnessed the truth of the Scourge, surrender her heart and body to one such as thee? For, mighty and brave as thou art, thy heart is mired in cruelty and the uncountable deceits of the Malecite.’”
She gave a placid nod, betraying a worrying lack of delight at my impressive recitation. Instead, she took another step closer to me, unblinking eyes searching deep into mine. “And what became of them both?”
Having memorised only one passage from this particular tale, I was obliged to craft a summation of the story as best as I could recall from Hostler’s preaching. “Enraged by her rejection, Lemeshill ordered Ahlianna be executed. Maddened by guilt he swore allegiance to the Covenant and began the first Crusade of the Martyr, laying waste to the armies of those in thrall to the Malecite until he was eventually killed in battle by foul and unnatural means. He and Ahlianna are named in the Covenant Scrolls as the Second and Third Martyrs.”
“Yes.” The woman’s voice had softened but the hard inquisition in her eyes told a different story. Devout she may be, but I could tell her faith hadn’t addled her wits as it often did others’. I had little doubt this woman could tell I had no attachment to the words I spoke. “And now they dwell beyond the Divine Portals, do they not? Bound together in their love for all eternity.”
This was a trap, but one easily sidestepped. “The Seraphile promise eternal grace to those who follow the Martyrs’ example, but only they can know what lies beyond the Portals. The rewards we receive when our time upon this earth comes to an end are not for us to know, for in the knowing we may falter.” I gave her a serious, slightly offended frown. “To speculate on such things is heresy.”
“Indeed it is.” She retreated a little, switching her attention to Toria. “Are you also so well versed in the Covenant, my dear?”
“As versed as I need to be,” Toria replied in a flat tone. As usual, her cleverness hadn’t extended to concealing her feelings and a scowl of deep suspicion creased her brow. For one who attached otherworldly connotations to the debt she felt she owed me, I found her reaction to this devout woman strange.
“Her devotion differs from mine in some respects,” I cut in. “But rest assured it is faith that binds us. She has an obligation to me,
you see, one she fears will draw the ire of the Seraphile should she fail to meet it.”
Sihlda arched an eyebrow at Toria who replied with a shrug of agreement. “He saved me,” she said. “A life debt not settled will anger the Seraphile.”
“Anger?” Sihlda’s brow arched a little higher. “The Covenant does not ascribe such base feeling to the Seraphile, at least not the true Covenant.”
Toria’s face darkened in response, lips forming a sneer of defiance. “Your truth, not mine.”
I expected this truculence to rouse some anger in Sihlda but she merely laughed and turned away. “Fear not, my friends, for all who endeavour to follow the Martyrs’ example are welcome in our temple, regardless of what schisms may have riven the faith beyond our walls.” She waved a beckoning hand and started down the spiral slope. “Come, let me show you our place of worship.”
Toria and I were quick to follow but came to an abrupt halt when Brewer stepped into our path. His eye tracked over us, bright with mingled suspicion and warning. “They’re both too clever,” he growled in a coarse Marches accent, his words clearly addressed to Sihlda even though his eye remained locked on us. “Lies come too easy, especially for this one.” He jabbed a large finger into my chest. “I don’t like it.”
“I heard no lies,” Sihlda said, a statement I found highly revealing. Apparently, her brand of devotion didn’t exclude dishonesty for I knew she had seen through my words as easily as finely made glass. “Besides,” she added, “we have need of cleverness, do we not?”
Brewer’s mouth twitched and I could tell he was fighting the urge to argue. This was a very odd prison, for it was clear to me now that power resided not in this man’s brute strength and criminal guile, but in the word of a small devout woman.
“Don’t mistake me, boy,” Brewer said, looming close enough so that the foulness of his breath gusted across my face. “Devout I am, but I’ll wring every drop of blood from your broken carcass if you do or say anything to harm Ascendant Sihlda.”
“Ascendant?” I looked at the small woman descending the slope, noting how she favoured the other inmates with a kindly smile as she passed by. Most either averted their gaze or responded with a half-bow, one hand placed over their chest, the customary show of respect to a senior Covenant cleric. It made me wonder if the title of Ascendant was one she had given herself or, even though it seemed incredible, she truly was a high member of the clergy. If so, what could possibly have caused her to be cast into this pit?