by C. M. Lind
All the times he visited her, he never imaged that was what she would do if ever freed. He should have known better, he reprimanded himself. The Disciples of Nox wanted a woman free, and he never once thought that maybe it was best to leave her in prison. No, he thought, instead he met with her, and thought she was in need of help. He decided that she deserved freedom, and he decided that he would be the one to help her live a good, free life.
The way Vitoria had always mocked The Disciples and their goddess Nox, he had never thought that the first thing she would with freedom would be that. He repeatedly replayed the rumors of how it happened in his head—graphic in detail to the point of nausea.
Aela had told him in his dreams that he was a murderer, and he felt like one the day he learned about the body.
He told himself he was bound by his dedication to Anker to help The Disciples, but honestly—deep down in his mind—he knew he could plausibly deny them. The modern Avelinian church of Anker did not support The Disciples—but he had to adhere to the old stories. He had to be difficult, he chided.
There would be days in The White Cliffs where she wouldn’t talk to him, and he would pass the time telling her stories—some of home, and his beloved Aela, but mostly of Anker. While Vitoria would lie besides him—silent, still, and practically comatose—he never really thought she was actually listening to him.
But she was listening—and for some reason she killed someone in a way that was… He wasn’t sure. Was she trying to be respectful? Was she perhaps paying Ulrich some twisted homage? Perhaps, maybe some sort of blasphemous gesture for Ulrich’s god? The idea sickened him, and he was oppressed by guilt, as if he was coated in heavy, suffocating tar that wouldn’t even let him breathe.
During those two weeks, he didn’t smile. He didn’t offer counsel to parishioners. He simply could not do so since he heard about that body. Instead he took on the less desirable work at the temple, and none of his brothers complained. Ulrich cleaned, and he cleaned impressively well. He attended to whatever he saw in need: washing a backlog of laundry, scouring chamber pots, dusting statues, sweeping every night—he did it all. Anything to keep him from talking to anyone, from having another’s eyes peer into his own, and from wondering if others could somehow know that he was responsible for that man’s death.
Aela told him that he had killed many, and he quickly realized it was to be true: that the man in the alley was just the beginning—surely he had to be.
Who the mangled man was badgered his mind. The rumors gave him no solace—apparently no one knew who he was. What had the man done to demand such brutality? He would close his eyes at night and be seized by nightmares. He was on the ground, dead but aware, accompanied by the marred corpse of the unknown blonde man. Aela had called Vitoria “a hunter in a forest of men,” and in his dreams, Vitoria cleaned her kills with delight… including himself. Only then did he contemplate that dream closely. He was sure he knew what Anker meant for him to know: that Vitoria’s actions would kill him—not with a bow or a knife—but with guilt.
The only one who could give him any answers was Vitoria. A small part of his mind told him not to judge her until he had heard her side, but it was impossible for him to support that notion with her profound silence. Days passed, and the longer her absence was, the more his guilt turned to anger.
His two weeks of impotent worry ended when he was folding baskets of laundry alone. While his hands folded clothing, his mind brooded on her. The least she could do was send him a letter, he thought. But there was no letter, no messages, no late night visits—nothing.
He folded another tunic, one of many identical ones provided at the temple, and laid it onto the already large pile on the table in front of him. All he needed was one word from her, or a few-minute visit, or… anything! He seized another tunic. He spent so long with her, getting to know her and helping her escape from The White Cliffs just to be forgotten. He folded the tunic poorly, and as he went to place it on the pile, it crumpled into ball.
No, he corrected himself, he wasn’t forgotten—she had discarded him. He lashed at the tunics. They launched from the table, onto the floor, crumpling into a blobby mess of cloth.
Ulrich rounded the table, and, before the clothing had even settled from its assault, he stomped on them. He stamped them, over and over again.
They were dumb! They were foolish! They were unnecessary, he told himself. He continued, stomping again and again, yelling in his head, but never uttering a sound.
The bells rang. Large, monstrous, heavy iron bells that nearly made the walls around him vibrate. The moon was out, and it was time for the priests to sing—but not Ulrich. He hadn’t sang since he heard of that body. His brothers at first were happy and jovial with him about his musical abstinence, but, after a while, Ulrich could tell they were worried. Ulrich had always loved to sing, even though his voice was as sweet as a crow’s caw.
The bells stopped, and, in its place, he could hear their voices. The loud chorus started with a deep, rumbling bass. Ulrich turned his back on the clothes.
He fled the temple. The two priests that manned the doors didn’t stop him. Usually there would have been questions about where he was going at such an hour, such as when he’d be back, and possibly a reprimand for ditching the nightly songs and prayers—but not that night. They gave him concerned looks as he left but that was all—and Ulrich was thankful to be left to his anguish.
Out the front doors of the temple he flew, and he was surprised by how relieved he was once he was into the fresh night air. A crowd was entering the temple (the choir was one of the few free forms of culture available to all), and Ulrich sidestepped them with grace, skirting along the lines of beggars that flanked the steps of the temple.
Their hands reached out, begging for petals or a blessing from Ulrich. But Ulrich didn’t feel like he deserved to bless anyone. He fled them with as much haste as he had left the temple. It was the only time in his life as a priest he had denied anyone such a thing.
Ulrich wanted answers, and he knew where to get them. He turned towards Powder Street. It was time for him to visit the witch, Turmont.
* * *
Ulrich normally was never out at such an hour, and he found his way to Powder Street slowly. He made a wrong turn once or twice, but, luckily, his priestly vestments won him sympathy from the few people out on the streets.
The shops of Powder Street were all closed but inside there were bright lights burning. People worked and lived in their shops in such a place—no establishment there could have afforded to own or rent two parcels of land. A few beggars were still out, and they seemed surprised to see a priest. Their hands shot out towards him, but Ulrich evaded them.
He had never been to Turmont’s Tinctures before, and he couldn’t find it. He passed building after building, some slender, some fat, some immaculate, some in disarray—but it simply did not appear to his eyes. Ulrich passed a slender building with one faint light coming from within and a beggar sitting nearby the entryway, and he instinctively went to avoid the beggar, anticipating the empty, weak hand begging for priestly compassion. But the hand never shot out nor did the beggar call out to him. The idea that the beggar might have been sleeping occurred to Ulrich, but, as he passed, the beggar’s head turned to watch him.
Ulrich continued down the street, thankful he didn’t have to blatantly ignore another downtrodden soul. He made his way to the end of the block, and there was still no sign of the shop.
He ran his hand through his oily hair—but stopped halfway. With that hand on his head, it occurred to him that he hadn’t bathed in a week, and he wiped his oily hand on his robe. Normally Ulrich washed his hair a few times a week—an indulgence by most standards, but he thought his hair was worth it.
Frustrated, and acutely aware of his own unwashed odor, he turned around. Back up the dark street he walked, slower than before, scrutinizing every building he passed. Again he saw the same places and signs as before, but nowhere was there t
he apothecary he sought.
As he came up the street, he saw the silent beggar from before that was still watching him. He figured he could ask the man about Turmont’s. More than likely the information would come at a cost, and Ulrich, as a priest, carried no coin. Perhaps he could appeal to the beggar’s spiritual needs instead? Yes, he told himself, a priest’s blessing seemed adequate compensation for simple directions.
Ulrich walked directly up to the man. He was greeted by the overpowering stench of what Ulrich thought might have been a dead pig left out in the sun for a week. The beggar had a hood drawn over his face, but Ulrich felt as if the stranger was somehow looking him right in the eyes.
Ulrich pursed his lips, and he couldn’t help but flair his nostrils while his nose acclimated to the stench. He had spent an entire two days in the last week scrubbing off months of layered human waste from the latrines at the temple, but this was what made his stomach revolt, as if he had slowly ingested the spoiled pig instead of just smelling it.
The beggar did not move while Ulrich composed himself.
“Excuse me,” said Ulrich, managing to keep his voice steady. “I’m looking for Turmont’s Tinctures.”
The beggar remained still, and there was an odd mirth in his voice. “You’re too late.” He tsked. “It’s closed.”
“Yes, I know.” Ulrich swallowed. “I still need to find it.”
“I know of it, and I will tell you where it is,” said the beggar. “But only if you tell me why you are seeking it.”
Ulrich crinkled his brow. He wished he could see the man behind the hood, but the beggar was positioned in such a way that the only light around was behind him. Ulrich considered walking away from the repulsive, weird man, but he needed to find Vitoria. He decided placating the vile beggar was worth it. “I know someone there, and I need to talk to her.”
“A friend of yours?” asked the beggar. His voice was quiet and smooth.
Ulrich paused before he answered, “Yes.”
“A young woman?” The beggar’s head tilted to the side, and Ulrich could tell he was amused.
“Yes,” stated Ulrich, who was becoming tired of the beggar’s questions. “Young, but not that young,” he added quickly.
“A priest, out at such an hour, looking for a young woman—and all he wants to do is talk?” mused the beggar. He tsked again.
“Yes, you’re absolutely hilarious.” Ulrich stepped away from the man, unable to stomach his stench any longer. “Where is it?” asked Ulrich.
“Turmont’s Tinctures is right behind us.” The beggar pointed to the worn sign that hung on the tall, slender wooden building.
Ulrich looked at the small sign, and he couldn’t make anything out on it. “You sure?”
“Yes. Now you enjoy your visit, priest,” said the beggar.
Ulrich walked up to the door. Normally he would have knocked, but, as his hand went up to it, he found himself pounding instead. Not once or twice, but several times he struck the door.
He pulled away, and waited—listening intently for any signs of movement within. There was a rustle inside, and the door crept open. Aimee was standing within, with a single candle in her hand that shined on Ulrich’s face.
Ulrich turned towards the beggar, but the man was gone. Somehow the stench still lingered, but Ulrich decided to forget about it, and he pushed his way into Aimee’s place.
Aimee quickly stepped out of his way, and, once Ulrich was inside, she bolted the door behind him.
“Is she here?” asked Ulrich forcefully.
“Yes, of course,” replied Aimee as she latched the last bolt. “But I do not recall you being invited.”
“I took her silence as an invite.”
“She is asleep, Ulrich—as are most people at such an hour.” Aimee was in a threadbare robe, complete with simple, plain slippers.
“Where is she?” asked Ulrich, completely ignoring Aimee.
“You won’t get much out of her; she’s sleeping. Come back tomorrow in the morning,” said Aimee.
“Where is she?” asked Ulrich again, avoiding her gaze.
Aimee sighed. “She is upstairs. In the attic.” She shuffled towards the kitchen. “When you decide to come back down, I’ll have tea ready by the fire.”
Ulrich flew by her, and ran up the stairs. It took him a few moments but he found the pull string on the ceiling that opened up the attic. Inside he heard mumbling, but what was being said he had no idea. As he entered the attic, he noticed the humid heat and the smell of sweat. A dim lantern was lit on a table by a bed. By it rested a mortar and pestle, bottles filled with dried herbs and liquids, a pitcher of water, a damp rag, and a small, copper cup. Above the bed there hung an unlit censer, and whatever herbs had been burning in it before added a faint scent reminiscent of dead skunk to the already unpleasant smell in the room—still, it was fare more tolerable than the beggar on the steps of the apothecary minutes earlier.
“Vitoria,” he called out. “Wake up.” He walked closer to her: even steps, shoulders back, and mind and body filled with righteous confidence. He was ready to let it all out. How could she abandon him? Did she actually care at all about him or was their “friendship” a lie? How could she murder that man? Was she ever planning on talking to him again?
No noise came from Vitoria, so he called to her again.
She writhed at his voice, and the thin sheet covering her slid from the bed to the floor. A faint moan spilled from her lips, followed by a stifled squeal as she futilely grasped for the lost sheet.
Ulrich walked to the foot of the bed. In the dim light he could see her lying there, slowly twisting in her bed, managing only occasional garbled noises. She wore a thin shawl and a slick coating of sweat. Her hands were bandaged and splinted.
He was about to call her name with a strong, superior tone again, but, at the sight of her, his mouth simply fell open without sound. Ulrich sat on the edge of the bed, but Vitoria didn’t seem to notice. Not once had it occurred to him in those two weeks that she could not go to him. That she could not write him. He reached out and tentatively touched one of her bandaged hands. “Vi?” he asked. His voice was softer and lighter as if he was afraid that his voice could somehow hurt her.
She drew her hand away from him, and it went back to vainly clutching for the missing sheet. Her fingers could not bend properly from the splints.
Ulrich bent over and drew the sheet back to the bed. It was wet, completely soaked from her sweat. The moment it touched her flesh, she managed to pull it over herself as if it was her aegis.
Being the attic, it was the hottest room in the building, and even Ulrich was beginning to sweat himself. He patted her leg before he walked over to the one window in the room. It was as tall as him and twice his width. He unlatched it and opened it as far as he could. Outside was the alley and another tall building behind Turmont’s (possibly a bakery from the smell of it), but there was still a decent breeze. He hoped it would vent the room that Vitoria was wallowing in.
Feeling the cool breeze hitting his hair, he returned to Vitoria. She must have felt the wind because she started moaning again. She turned her head towards the window and let loose a high whine that reminded Ulrich of a puppy missing its mother.
It was typical of her, he decided—that she would deny him the confrontation that he so desperately wanted. The showdown, which he had imagined between them, that would have surely ended with her apologizing and begging for another chance. He had dwelled on his guilt for so long, steeping it in his anger. But Vitoria wouldn’t allow him resolution. No, instead she couldn’t hear his words. She couldn’t listen to what he needed to tell her. She couldn’t yell back at him. She couldn’t deny that she murdered that man—or confess.
Ulrich grabbed the rag on the nightstand beside her, and he dipped it into the water that filled the pitcher. He sat down beside her and pressed it onto her forehead. She hushed and melted at the touch. “I would have come sooner if you would have sent word.” He wiped her
face and then refreshed the rag. “But you’re always so stubborn, aren’t you?” He dabbed it on her neck and chest. She desperately needed a bath and a healer.
His anger and hatred suddenly shifted to Aimee. The witch was supposedly a healer, but what ailed Vitoria that she couldn’t fix? What illness or injury kept Vitoria from his words?
He put his hand on her forehead. He expected her to be hot, fighting some kind of fever, but she wasn’t. In fact, she wasn’t particularly warm at all—only the room was. Why on earth wouldn’t Aimee have taken better care of her? He looked at the window and then back at Vitoria. Her eyelids fluttered, and for a second he thought she was looking at him, but then they closed.
He refreshed the rag another time, and he let it lie on her forehead. Cool beads of water dribbled into her short hair and onto her closed eyelids. A small smile formed on her lips—or at least he believed he saw a smile. Ulrich smiled back, recalling all the times he had cared for Aela. Far too often as a child she would insist on staying out in the rain, and, far too often, she would become terribly ill. Vitoria did not look like Aela, but she never seemed more similar than in that moment.
A strong wind lashed through the window, tussling Ulrich’s hair. Vitoria shivered, and her hands shot out to grab nothingness. “No!” she tried to shout, but it sounded like an angry, dry whisper.
Ulrich gently took her hands into his own (the best he could). “It’s alright.” He shushed her.
“No.” She weakly pushed against his hands, but she was no match for him in her state.
He shushed her again, and, for a while, she continued to fight him the best she could. Eventually she grew tired, and her hands finally laid to her sides. Ulrich continued to calm her and to cool her with the fresh water. Eventually, he coerced her into even drinking some from the small cup from the nightstand. It was only a few sips, but Ulrich saw it as a victory.
He set the rag back on the table, and he noticed a small blanket that had been folded underneath it. He unfurled it with a snap of his hands, pulled the soiled sheet off of her, and laid the fresh blanket over Vitoria, making sure to tuck it in on the sides so she couldn’t lose it with ease.