by C. M. Lind
She turned her head to the nightstand, but nothing else laid upon it. At its foot were the broken bottles of liquids and dried herbs that Aimee had left for her, and a cup laid a few feet away. She leaned over instinctively to search in the glass, to see if the poppy’s nectar was amongst it. Her bulky, bound hand pushed the glass a few inches before she pulled back.
She hadn’t’ realized her hands were bandaged until that moment.
The bindings smelled foul—as if they hadn’t been changed in days. There was no blood on them, but the layers of bandages had been soaked with sweat, dried, soaked, and dried so many times that the wretched scent and the bandage were one and the same.
She sat up in the bed and grabbed the bindings with her teeth. The taste of old, putrid salt touched her tongue. She ripped, and the binding tore away in one pull. The splints that held her fingers straight fell with the bindings onto the bed, and she pushed them away with her other bound hand.
The skin looked wrong—unhealthy she thought, as she looked at her hand, like withered, tan prunes. She curled her fingers, trying to make a fist, but she couldn’t. They were stiff as dried sunflower stocks. She splayed her fingers out and then tried again. They bent a little farther but still resisted.
She hooked her free fingers into the bandage on her other hand and tore the linen and splints away, casting them to the floor. Her other hand was also stiff, and she slowly began to stretch it. She would inhale as she curled her fingers, and then exhale as she would splay them back as far as she could. Her joints popped. Her muscles felt like stiff sinew.
A surge of nausea hit her again, but she refused to vomit. She knew there was nothing in her stomach to even expel, and the thought of retching nothingness again made her stomach tighten. Her muscles tensed. Acid began to creep up her throat and she swallowed—hard.
Once she was sure that her stomach wouldn’t revolt, she opened her mouth and called out for Aimee in a long, crackling, angry moan. Vitoria heard movement downstairs, and then loud, heavy footsteps heading her way. It wasn’t Aimee’s steps, so in her mind, for a brief moment, she went to the only other logical conclusion. She thought it was James’ corpse thudding up the stairs towards her.
The hatch to her room opened, and blonde hair was the first thing she saw peek through. She pulled the blanket over her body as she recoiled from him. A tightness in her chest arose for a moment at the sight, but it wasn’t James’ hair.
It was Ulrich’s. Her face turned red, and she felt hot.
“What?” She swished her tongue over her teeth in an effort to pull the acid from them before she dryly swallowed. “What are you doing here?” She hurled the words at him before he even entered the room.
“It feels the same doesn’t it? In a way?” He didn’t sound angry, but he didn’t sound happy. He had a small basket in his hand that was covered with a small square of cloth. “I brought you something, as usual.” He walked over to her, set the basket on the nightstand, and then took a step back. “But it’s not, is it?” He waited for a response.
She gave him nothing but contempt.
“So you’ve escaped a cell, only to stay locked up here?” He pointed to the walls of the attic with his hands. He stared at her, and she lowered her eyes to the floor. “What the fuck, Vi?” he asked sternly. “What the fuck are you doing?” He paused between every word.
She flexed her hands, focusing on the painful stretching sensation.
“I’m talking to you, Vi. What the fuck are you doing with yourself? You escape that place just to end up in an attic getting fogged by poppy for weeks? After you gut and castrate someone?” He flippantly and caustically chuckled. “Oh, yeah. That guy. A guy I have never heard of by you, even though I’ve known you for years. Do you think that was something maybe you should have talked to me about? In fact, you never talk to me about anything. What do I really know about you anyway? I thought we were friends at the very least, but then you don’t send any word to me. And after that last visit? Your cryptic few minute drop-in? Of course I was worried. I am worried! But you don’t even care, do you? ”
She waited for him to finish. “Where is it?” she growled.
He cocked his head to the side while he shook it. “Down in the gutter.” He motioned to the window. “You’ll have to get out of bed if you want to lick it up.”
Her eyes darted towards him, but he didn’t back down.
He returned her stare. “And don’t think that Aimee will get you anymore. I had all day yesterday to go through everything in this place; it’s all gone.”
“You son of a bitch!” Her stomach was tightening again, and it took all of her energy to stop it from seizing. “I’m sick, and you took away the only thing to stop it.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach, hoping the pressure, like when applied to a wound, would help with the pain.
He laughed at her twice—quick, incredulous outbursts. “You made yourself sick, and you can make yourself better.” He walked to the basket and pulled out a small jug from within, leaving the cloth over the rest of its contents. He pulled the cork out and gestured to it. “Drink up. The worst will pass.”
“You bastard. I needed it for my hands!” The pressure didn’t help her stomach, and the idea of no more poppy’s nectar started to make her sweat.
“Yeah, you needed it. You don’t anymore. From the looks of your hands, you’re fine. Aimee told me you were healed days ago. When she came to take your bindings off you almost scratched her eyes out. You wouldn’t stop on your own.” He paused for a moment. “And she had too much heart to take it away from you,” he said through clenched teeth.
“She asked you here?” She couldn’t believe that Aimee would ever reach out to Ulrich for help.
“No one asked me anything. No one sent me any word. I came here by myself on my own.” He huffed. “Oh yeah, thanks for that too.” He couldn’t hide the hurt in his voice. He crossed his arms. “I was worried about you, thinking you could be in trouble, but when I get here I find you’ve become nothing more than a fogger!”
“How dare you judge me, priest!” Sweat was beading on her face, and the idea that Ulrich was hurt by her just made her angrier—that he had any right to be, that she owed him anything at all, that he would show up uninvited to her bedroom. “You made a deal with Conyers. You helped break me out.” A small cackle escaped her. “You had to have known I am a monster!”
“You’re right.” He lowered his arms. “I did make a deal with Conyers. I saw a scared girl who was tortured and abandoned. A girl who didn’t seem to belong anywhere. I should have known better, but I thought I could help.”
She laughed at him, mocking him with every chuckle. If he wanted to act hurt, she decided to give him a reason.
“Aela!” he shouted at her in an instant, heated flash. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “Vitoria, I still see that person. We are all who we want to be, Vi.” He looked away from her, and his words became soft. “I helped you because I thought if I could get you away from that place, and away from Conyers, you could live your own life. Now you have a chance at one, but I can’t believe this is how you choose to start it.” He shook his head, and the softness in his voice disappeared. “Which brings me back to my question: What the fuck are you doing? Really think about that question, Vi. What are you doing? What do you want?”
Ulrich stepped to the window, and he took another deep breath. Doves were cooing outside, begging the baker across the way for scraps.
Vitoria’s stomach lurched a few more times, but she took small sips from the jug. Inside was thick, creamy, cool milk. It soothed her stomach like a delicious balm, and she found herself taking a few more sips. She returned the jug to the table, and her hand paused by the basket. She flipped the edge of the cloth up, and three small rolls were inside. Her eyes flickered to Ulrich, but he hadn’t moved his gaze from the window.
She gingerly took one roll from the basket. Its bumpy, hard crust felt cool to the touch. She brought it to her lips and gentl
y took a small bite. The crust crunched, releasing crumbs all over her lap and the bed. Sourdough filled her mouth. She was thankful to have the powerful taste accompanied by the creaminess of the milk. It overwhelmed the memory of the dirty, foul taste from before. Saliva gushed with anticipation, and the small bites of bread plunked into her stomach.
She faintly tittered. “Conyers wants me to kill someone. That is a big surprise, isn’t it?”
Ulrich nodded, but didn’t turn away from the window.
“All that time in there, he could have helped me whenever he wanted, but he didn’t. He only helped me when he needed me. When all his other options didn’t work.” She took a few more bites. “Why didn’t you help me sooner?” She thought she was merely thinking the question—but it had slipped out.
He took a long breath. “Conyers always told me to wait. He always acted like the time to break you out would be soon, or that it would be some grand endeavor. Believe me, if I would have known all you needed was two hair pins and a cheese wire I would have brought them sooner. Maybe if I could have helped you sooner…” He exhaled and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Even Vitoria was still surprised that Conyers’ “grand endeavor” was nothing more than a care package smuggled in by a priest. “Did Aimee ask you to talk to me?” she asked.
“Yes, she did.” He turned from the window absently and took a few steps across the room.
“So once again, your concern comes from the urging of others,” she spat her spiteful words at him as if it was poison. “I bet Conyers told Aimee to make sure I get the job done.” She had only ever had one friend after all, she concluded, the boy from the brothel. But even friendship didn’t help her then. He ran off and left her alone, after all. She had no idea what ever happened to him, but she knew he had to be doing better than her. He always knew what he wanted, and he’d do it—consequences be damned.
“I’m here because I want to be.” Ulrich said. “As far as I’m concerned: to hell with Aimee and Conyers. She said she didn’t know what to do with you. That she fixes the body, but that she cannot fix the mind. Apparently, there is nothing wrong with your body, so she is at a loss.”
Vitoria didn’t know what to say to him—or if she believed him. She took a few more nibbles of bread as the silence sat between them like an unwanted mess that neither wished to acknowledge.
“Are you saying that the body they found wasn’t your job for Conyers?”
“No.” She frowned. “He was my payment.” In the back of her mind she heard his voice pleading with her, telling her the same lies over and over before. She thought perhaps if she would have done things differently—but then she stopped herself. The past is the past, she chided herself. She could not undo her actions. She could not un-hear his lies. She replayed his words again and again, like an instant overwhelming cacophony.
“You waited all that time in The Cliffs, and all you wanted was to kill him? The first thing you do is take a job for Conyers, and then right away kill someone else?”
The vocal cacophony stopped with the crack of James’ skull collapsing. She heard the voice in her mind stir at that crack, awakening from its foggy stupor, and it whispered to her what to say. “He deserved to die.”
“Did he? And why did he deserve to die in that way? Why would you do that to him?”
He eyes locked onto Ulrich’s. She hadn’t realized she had said the words the voice wanted her to say. It was as if it had spoken for her.
The voice within her whispered one word that she parroted to Ulrich, “Traitor.” After the word left her lips, the voice withdrew within her, like a snake coiling after an attack.
He gave her a half frightened, quizzical look.
She found herself wanting to tell him more. That she had needed the truth from James, but that he wouldn’t give it to her. That now she would never get it, and she hated herself for it. That she had been so confused when she looked at James. She hadn’t known if she wanted to fuck him or kill him—or both in that order. That she had never felt so euphoric in her life as she did when his skull fell apart under her fists. That part of her wanted to believe that he did love her, and that he hadn’t used her or thrown her away. That when she was inside The Cliffs and a guard let it slip that someone had collected the 100 gold petal bounty for her, that she hadn’t instantly known it was her husband (No, that had taken her embarrassingly long to admit to herself). That she survived the pit by seducing the men around her, and when they had let their guard down in orgasmic bliss, she would collapse their windpipes with her fist. That she felt no guilt for those men. That she had contemplated hanging herself in her cell with her trousers, but the thought of torturing James kept her alive. That at night she would dream about killing him—in all manner of creative ways. Her most recurrent fantasy was a series of short bursts of strangulation. Her hand would compress his windpipe repeatedly to no more than nine inches.
But she couldn’t tell Ulrich those things. She tolerated his company because he would never know those things about her. When he looked at her, she knew he never saw the darkness. He never really saw her, and the voice within her warned her long ago that Ulrich would hate her if he ever knew what she really was: a monster.
“Fine.” He turned away from her for a moment in frustration. “Are you going to kill whoever Conyers asks you to?” he asked her, taking a few steps towards her.
His words snapped her out of her thoughts. “Not whoever.” She took a sip of milk. “Just one.”
He looked stiff, and his jaw had clenched again. “Why?”
“I said I would.” She set the jug onto the nightstand. “I made a deal.”
“You could just leave, you know. Just leave and do whatever you want. Let Conyers deal with his own problems.”
She flashed her eyes at him. “No! I made a deal with him,” she countered quickly. When she was younger she had always wanted to travel. James never liked the idea, but he said he would take her somewhere eventually. She had dreamed of the Venari Republic, maybe even going east to Aerondale, or even north to the Osterlock territories. She only spoke Avelinian, but that never had deterred her. She hadn’t dreamt that dream in quite a while, but Ulrich’s words had cruelly teased her dormant fantasies.
“Who cares, Vi? He left you in that shithole for far too long. Let him sort out his own problems!” Ulrich pleaded with his hands for a moment, but quickly crossed them.
His question resonated within her: why should she care? She could have left. She could have just packed up and headed wherever she wanted. The thought tugged at her and badgered her, like an incessant cat demanding attention.
But where would she go?
Where did she want to?
She didn’t know. She couldn’t answer why she should even care to do Conyers’ bidding—or if she even wanted to kill that nobleman for him.
The voice, which was an echo of a hiss that Vitoria barely heard, chimed in. We are not like Conyers. Our word means something. We finish what we start, don’t we?
She thought about James’ skull cracked open like a bloody melon underneath her fists.
“I’m tired, Ulrich.” She laid back down, sinking her head into the pillows to block out the light—and his gaze.
“Fine.” He walked to the hatch but stopped and turned back to her. “You do what you want, but you’re not in that place anymore. You’re free finally. Do what you want, but don’t kill someone just because Conyers tells you to. You’re not his dog—you’re not his monster. I didn’t take care of you all that time to watch you destroy yourself now.”
Vitoria turned her head and burrowed it further under the pillows.
“I always thought of you like a Northerner. You’re stubborn, and you’re a survivor. We don’t give up, and you better not. Whatever happened with that man—let it go. Don’t let his death steal that fire within you.”
She heard his steps descending down the hatch, and, once again, she thought of James’ body thudding down the stairs.
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Chapter 18
It had been weeks since Randolph visited the Justicars in their keep, but there had been no word from Balfour. After returning from the keep with Soli, Randolph saw to it that Balfour’s name had been added to the guest list for Jae’s Jubilee. Within an hour after that, he had sent Balfour word about it.
Even though Randolph tried to wait as patiently as possible, it was beginning to slip into his mind that perhaps Balfour had forgotten about him. Or perhaps that Balfour never intended to include Randolph in his investigation.
He would have loved to have kept himself occupied with Soli, but it wasn’t so. She had been particularly busy since the two had their outing. Ety had her preoccupied most evenings, which was when Randolph usually found himself with a lot of “don’t bother me” time from Jae.
If it wasn’t Ety hogging Soli, then it was Irene. She would hover around Soli like a busy bumblebee, and had taken particular interest in pushing Soli out the door every morning before Randolph could even say hello. They’d come back sometimes with a courier in tow, carrying some new thing that Irene would declare, “Soli just had to have!”
If it wasn’t shopping, it was some kind of treatment that Soli didn’t seem to want. Her skin was scrubbed, her hair washed and treated with Venari olive oil, her nails groomed, and her face plucked. Slowly, Soli didn’t seem to look quite the same to Randolph. She had lost that armored air to her, and she appeared soft and very Avelinian. Randolph didn’t like it at all.
Every time he’d try to talk to her, something would come up—as if Soli was being watched. Irene would walk in on them and pull her away: she was needed for party planning, Ety needed her for some reason, or an emergency shopping trip was incipient.
Randolph was beginning to feel rather lonely at the Reinout estate. He had quickly grown to like the idea of Soli being around, and, when it didn’t happen, he felt her absence thoroughly.