by C. M. Lind
Saemund’s aloofness was mixed with mirth as an unabashed smile crept onto his face. “No.”
“Follow,” ordered Balfour as he marched past Saemund, clipping him with his shoulder.
Saemund looked out the window. The calls of screeching gulls caught his ear, and he saw a few pass by. He smiled at them before he turned to follow the Justicar.
Down through the keep they walked. Silence was all that the Justicar gave Saemund, and Saemund was happy for it. He could sense the Justicar’s agitation, and Saemund nearly giggled at the way the man seethed—like a spoiled boy who had been denied a sweet roll, thought Saemund.
They did not travel far together. They climbed down an iron spiral staircase that groaned as they moved, bringing Saemund to the highest level of cells. They were all completely empty, their doors left ajar. Only the faint scents of the previous occupants marked them as unique.
“Here,” said Balfour, pointing at an empty cell. Radiant light from further down the hall dimly illuminated the place, where a thin opening that functioned as a primitive window was the only means for fresh air and light.
“Yes,” said Saemund, pretending to completely know the significance of it. He could guess well enough—it was clearly related to Vitoria. The scent of her weakly hung about the place, but she had been gone a long time, and her overwhelmingly pungent scent was as mild as a breeze passing through a long forgotten bakery.
Balfour pulled on the cell door and pointed to the keyhole. “She picked that.”
Saemund lowered his gaze to the lock. Even through the poor lighting, he could make it out—better than a simple human could ever do. The lock looked old—outdated. He figured he could have just kicked the door, and the latch would have given away in one strike. Saemund cleared his throat as he hid his amusement. “Perhaps you should upgrade your locks then.”
“This is not a joke, priest!” Balfour was not amused. His stern façade lapsed to anger in a flash as his nostrils flared and his eyes practically protruded, but, just as quick, he regained most of his composure. “She did not just pick it with her fingers; she must have been given something. You were the last to see her before her escape.” His mostly regained composure wavered with a single twitch of the eye. “Do you have anything to add that may enlighten me?”
Saemund knew well that Ulrich was the last to see her, and that Ulrich had brought her a “special” picnic. What was special about it, the journal didn’t say. “To the best of my recollection,” Saemund paused for a few seconds as he folded his arms, leaving the Justicar waiting in anticipation. “No.”
“You did not provide her with anything?” asked Balfour. “You did not assist her?”
“Nothing beyond the food your guards approved and excellent company.” It suddenly occurred to Saemund that no other guards were around them in the hall. His thoughts wandered to where they tended to when he was surrounded by boring humans. He couldn’t help but note that the Justicar’s neck was bare and oh-so-vulnerable to his strong hands.
“She did not say anything to you that would lead you to believe she was escaping?”
“No,” said Saemund with a placid face, wondering again what the Justicar probably tasted like. So lean, he supposed, and delightfully delectable. Those raised with status and coin always tasted so satisfying to Saemund.
“Do you know of anyone that would have helped her? Or anyone that could be helping her now?” The Justicar shot his questions fast at Saemund.
Saemund’s thoughts jumped from food to the journal. He knew someone had helped the woman, but the journal only referred to the man as C. C directed Ulrich, but Ulrich never trusted him. Beyond that, there was nothing else that the priest had noted. She seemed to have existed alone—as if she was not even a human like the rest of them. “No. I can’t think of anyone.”
“No one? What about family? Did you speak about that?”
“Yes, briefly.” Saemund took a second to think of what he would reveal to the Justicar. “Her mother died when she was young, and she did not have a father.”
Balfour looked like he was about to throw his hands in the air, but instead he crossed them tightly. “Damn. Anyone else? Brother? Sister?”
“No,” said Saemund. “She is alone.” He thought about how the woman was at Turmont’s Tinctures, just waiting for him. While he knew Aimee was there as well, she did not enter his mind at that moment. Instead, he pictured the woman lying barely clothed and helpless on her bed.
Balfour tilted his head slightly. “Alone? Everyone has someone.”
Saemund’s disinterested face shattered with loud bouts of laughter. “Not everyone!”
Balfour paused to let the laughter float by him like an ill wind. He took a deep breath and then ordered Saemund to follow.
“What else do you have to show me, Justicar? More useless locks?” Saemund tightened his lips to repress the next bout of laughter. He was suddenly very pleased with his decision to visit. He hadn’t been so amused in quite a long time. The Justicar had nothing to offer, thought Saemund. No one knew the woman like he did after all.
“Downstairs.” Balfour walked by Saemund and headed to the end of the hall.
Saemund threw a last glance at the empty, cold cell. He took a deep breath. Her sweat and tears were absorbed into the rough floor. Worn shadows of her blood graced a few stones. He breathed again before turning to follow Balfour, who waited for him to follow at the iron staircase.
“We found her blood here,” said the Justicar as Saemund made it to the stairs. “She was barefoot, and the iron ripped her feet open.”
Saemund tapped the stairs with his foot, and it shakily groaned in reply, as if injured by the monster. “And no one heard her?”
The Justicar shook his head. “No. No one heard her.” He pointed at the metal column that ran down the middle of the spiral. “Because she did not use the steps. She went down that.”
Saemund peered at the column. There were smears of dried, flaky blood trailing down it. Clever girl, he thought to himself—but he gave the Justicar nothing but a shrug of indifference.
The Justicar went down the steps, and Saemund followed. Down a few floors they went, and Saemund’s eyes trailed the dry blood intermittently running down the column.
“Here,” said the Justicar. “This is where she went.” He stepped off the staircase into another hallway carved into the stone of the cliff.
Saemund stepped from the stairs, and it rattled at his departure. “Is this where she escaped to? Another level of cells and guards? And no one saw her here?”
The Justicar’s jaw clenched. “No. No one saw her.”
“I was told that no one had ever escaped The White Cliffs before her.” Saemund raised his eyebrows. “I must say that I am disappointed in your inmates.”
The Justicar spoke through his thoroughly clenched jaw. “There are only two exits to The Cliffs. That is why no one had escaped.” His face was turning red.
“And which one did she stroll out of, I wonder?”
“She made a new one.” The Justicar walked ahead, stopping in front of a nearby door that was closed. “Over here.” He beckoned Saemund with one curt hand.
Saemund walked over. Through the door he could smell all manner of meats and spices.
“She went in here.” He pushed the door open. A few small pigs hung from the walls on hooks. Shelves were lined with food, and a few closed cabinets reeked of spices. “She took a hook.” He turned away from the room, and he continued down the hall.
Saemund turned to the Justicar and called after him while he caught up. “If she stole a hook, then why is the door not locked now? Surely another could do such a thing.”
The Justicar ignored him as he continued down the hall. He stopped in front of a large opening in the wall, kicking a few seagulls away that had taken to the ledge in a moment of rest. “This is where she escaped.”
Saemund walked up just as the gulls flew away, shrieking at the Justicar as they fled. He looked d
own, but he could hear it before he even saw it: crashing waves. Loud, large waves pounded against the jagged spear-like rocks below—the famous rocks that impaled the condemned that were marched off of the top of The Cliffs.
There was half of a torso still clinging to such a rock. Its intestines were spread out in the water, and they washed back and forth with the ocean’s rhythms. Its only company was the several gulls circling it. They darted towards it in the few moments of calm from the waves, snapping at what pieces of flesh they could.
Saemund turned to the Justicar and raised his brow. “I never knew she could fly.”
The Justicar sneered, practically steaming from anger. “She took the hooks. With them, she rode a young, innocent man down—leaving him on the rocks. We found him the next day. Do you know how difficult it was to retrieve him? To get him to his mother for burial?”
Saemund looked down the hall and then back to the rocks below, imagining the entire scene playing out in front of him. She snuck up on him like a ghost, making no more noise than a whisper. The hooks would have slipped under the collarbones, and he would have had no chance avoiding her. Oh, how he must have screamed, terrified from the phantom attack and the fatal fall. The rocks below becoming larger as he fell onto them, impaling him. He must have bled like a slaughtered pig, his organs and blood slipping out against the penetrating rocks. His lungs collapsing. His body failing him without warning.
Saemund’s hairs squirmed with the thought as he swore he could smell the blood on the breeze.
“Did you hear me? That bitch rode a boy onto the rocks! She murdered him!” exclaimed the Justicar.
“Yes.” Saemund said, indifferent to the boy’s death. He pointed to their right, towards the harbor. “I suppose that she climbed the rocks to the docks. The hooks would have helped, or else her hands would have been ripped to shreds.”
“Who cares?” the Justicar practically shouted. “She murdered that boy. That woman slaughtered him like he was nothing.”
Saemund turned his attention back to the Justicar with a snort of dismissive laughter. “It is a long way to the harbor from here for one to climb! Surely she did not swim there!”
“This woman is a murderer!” The Justicar put his hand out to shake Saemund by the shoulder. “Is that the type of person you would protect, priest? A murderer. A sadist. A psychopath. A monster! She kills this boy, and then right away she is out on the streets disemboweling and castrating another man!”
Saemund looked at the hand on his shoulder, and he fought the urge to grind his own teeth. “I know about the man. Everyone knows about that man.”
“This woman is no woman. She is a monster, and we must deal with her as one,” the Justicar proclaimed dramatically, inflecting his voice perfectly. The shaking of the shoulder turned into the Justicar grabbing Saemund by the loose fabric of his robe near the neck. “Even though we are sworn to different gods, we are men of faith. We cannot allow a monster to roam our beloved city. I know you do not care for me, but surely we can work together to rein in such a beast! Help me find her.”
Saemund had his eyes on the Justicar’s hand through his imploring speech, and he wanted nothing more than to break it at the wrist and throw him out the opening. The way the Justicar spoke of the woman made his body tense and his pulse pound. As if the man knew anything about the woman. No one knew the woman like he did. No one.
“She belongs here.” The Justicar hands pointed to the cells around them, but a flick of his eyes towards the rocks below revealed where he really wanted to have her.
Saemund’s eyes darted to the Justicar like a predator who had just cornered his prey. “You.” His voice dropped deep as he barred his teeth. His voice had a reverberation that made it almost sound as if it was an echo of a man’s voice. “You are nothing but a pompous, ignorant, weak-willed, pathetic man.” He raised his eyes to the Justicar, whose mouth had finally closed, and whose eyes had gone wide—incredulous at the priest’s change in demeanor. “What hope do you have of catching her? None,” he stated definitively. “You will never find her; you will never bring her back to this place. She will never taste your judgement.”
“You piece of shit. I knew you helped her.” The Justicar tightened his grasp on the priest’s robe.
“No, you arrogant twat. I did not help her. But I know her. I know her better than anyone else, and, I promise you, you will never, ever lay a hand on her. You will never see her.” Saemund grabbed the Justicar’s hand in his own and squeezed it. “You are weak, and she is not.”
The sound of popping bones was accompanied by the Justicar’s grunt. He grabbed Saemund’s hand with his other to pull it away, but Saemund let go, freeing the Justicar’s hand as quickly as he had seized it. “How dare you,” sputtered the Justicar, holding his injured hand with the other.
“What will you do, Justicar?” teased Saemund as his voice regained the taunting mirth it had before. “Will you string me up in the yard? Will you tell a tale of how the priest hurt you?”
Balfour took a deep, stiff breath.
“That’s what I thought, Justicar.” Saemund turned his back to the Justicar and walked away. “I’ll see myself out.”
Chapter 28
Sparring with Randolph had been entertaining, even enlightening, to Soli. His style was delightfully unpredictable. Sometimes he hammered away like a blacksmith, forcing what was in front of him to bend to his strength. Other times he moved like a cat, light-footed and fast. But overall, he was confident. He reacted with purpose and drive—never hesitating in his movements after Soli had knocked him to the ground. No, after that, he moved as if he was no longer afraid of breaking her.
Soli walked back to the manor, leaving Randolph to put away their gear alone (as he insisted on doing). It was still early enough that Jae would be asleep for many more hours, and Etienne would no doubt be reading in his office, nibbling on a few pastries. She figured she would have enough time to bathe and be dressed before anyone would call upon her company. She stretched her sore arms and sighed as she thought about slipping into cool water.
Part of her wanted to spend the whole day with Randolph—the two locked in exhausting, satisfying battle—but her muscles were hot, and she was unable to bear one more drop of sweat stinging her eyes or one more moment of the sun baking her head as if it was in a metallic oven. And, after all, she had other duties she had to attend to.
She glanced back. Randolph was out of sight inside the shed of weaponry and training gear, past the sparring ring. She took a deep breath as she pulled the helm from her head. A lock of hair caught on it, and she paused her step to pull it loose.
When the helm was free, nestled in the crook of her left arm, she pulled loose the damp leather band that held her sweat-soaked hair back. Moist hair slumped onto her back. She ran her free hand through, separating some of the clumped strands in a few passes.
Randolph must have been as warm as she, she thought. She wondered if the man could take a cool bath—or if the guards only had access to a bucket. She knew that they probably had to do without luxuries, but she thought it grossly unfair, in that moment, that she should be indulged only because of the gifts the gods had bestowed upon her: beauty and talent, while Randolph, a man who worked hard and labored for the wealthy, would be afforded only a bucket.
She thought no more of buckets, and her thoughts turned solely to Randolph—about him earlier that morning, when she woke him from his sleep. He had barely worn a thing; his chest and abdomen were far more toned and harder than any warrior she had seen back home. She smiled as she picked apart another clump of hair with her fingers.
She would have been lying to herself if she said she hadn’t lingered her eyes on him.
But she did lie to herself, and she didn’t admit a thing.
As her hand went to the left side of her face it faltered for a moment, and she instinctively cast her eyes back to see if Randolph was behind her—he wasn’t.
She went to run her hand through the l
ast of the dense, clumped hair on the left side of her head. The tips of her fingers brushed her scarred flesh. Unconsciously, she pulled her fingers away, as if the wounds were as fresh as when she was seven—the night an axe cleaved her ear from her head, and, along with it, a chunk of flesh. Thoughts of the night she had to run barefoot through the flaming remains of her home (scared and confused, only the urging, relentless hand of Malena, her maid since she was a babe, pushed her through the flames) replaced the exciting, yet bewildering, thoughts of Randolph.
She clenched her eyes and took a deep breath—she tried to do as Roed had told her: to keep a clear mind. To never let the thoughts of the past, as random as they were, knock her off balance. That every day of life was a fight, and like a real fight, she must stay alert and in control.
She exhaled slowly and finished running her hand through her finger-combed combed hair—but her fingers stopped. They were caught in a tangle, and she pulled forcefully, ripping a few strands free.
Malena, who had jumped in front of Soli as an attacker threw a lantern after her, still was in her mind. Malena screamed, but even with her breasts and face smoldering, she forced Soli to move on. To flee.
Soli stood on the grass, yards away from the manor, with strands of ripped hair in hand, and the image of Malena—whose face was turned into a twisted, soft, sticky, pink mess—was fresh in her mind as if she was seven all over again.
A strong breeze hit her, blowing the loose hair from her hand, and carrying it off onto the wind. She moved her hand to the rest of her hair, lifted it, and enjoyed the gust teasing her hot neck—a simple, yet effective, reprieve from her thoughts. A shiver ran through her and she dropped her hair back onto her shoulders, and while Malena had fluttered from her thoughts, a pall was cast over her mind.
She slipped through the garden, cutting through a lily bed to walk the red paver stones up to the spiraled iron and burgundy colored, opaque glass door. Finally, she told herself, a quiet bath to soothe the body and the spirit. She turned the handle slowly, in an attempt to make no noise, and pushed the door open, but it stopped a foot in, hitting something in its path.