The three smoking stacks stood on the elevation near the gates. The flames were already burning out. Ona felt the scent of cooked meat, cloying and sweet, nauseous. And there they were. Burned flesh revealing bones. Blood didn’t boil out, sticking to them in grotesque way, encasing them in a dripping cocoon of liquid. Ona didn’t know if to come closer, out of sick fascination bordering with disgust; or to stay in place, willingly petrified.
The bodies were first impaled, on the thick stakes. Now, the stakes were visible through the burned meat.
“The heretics” she heard a voice. She turned her head, slowly. A tall man was coming her direction, a small, almost invisible smile on his lips. A book in his hand, and keys on his neck, his robes reaching knees, brown like a soil.
Ona again looked at the bodies. Heretics.
“The people shouldn’t carve brusha. It’s dangerous, and a sin. Those who want to be on good terms with the Fae kind, do not know what threat they bring upon us with their foolish actions. Brusha are signs of darkness. Darkness… can be purified only with flames.”
Brusha.
If Tiyan came with her… he would meet the same fate.
“Those people… carved them on…?”
“Beams of houses. Door. Even stones. Painted, carved, burned” his smile became wider. “And they were aware of what awaits them, if they do so. They were carrying pestilence in their hands, laughing from their Lord and Savior.”
“Impalement was necessary too?” she couldn’t stop her tongue.
“Flames were a means of purification. Impalement… a punishment” the man approached closer, and Ona saw that his skin is covered with similar tattoos that the guards had… but more intricate, and delicate, almost invisible if someone wasn’t very close.
“So… a witch hunter with very peculiar information… Losem at the gates should ask you further. What kind of information? From where. How obtained. But… you are not a simple witch hunter, aren’t you?” his eyes narrowed and Ona’s stomach moved with anxiety. Eyes of a predator. Someone who would gladly impale these people with his own hands.
If he didn’t really do that, in fact.
“You know old Avrasian” he continued. “So you are not a peasant. You must be a scholar and that makes the situation very interesting. The Old Academy cherished witches. Why would an adept become a prosecutor?”
Now.
Cautious.
“The world changed. I have information and no means to live. Food is scarcer day by day. And I do not have any friends among the witches.”
“No remorse, then?”
“No. I won’t die for ideals” Ona’s voice was harsh, like her life so far. And she knew she told the truth. No remorse. She would burn this place down, if she had to, to free Isnan.
“Very… opportunistic. I like that. And you are a woman. Very… intriguing.”
Ona’s face was like marble.
“It doesn’t matter, if I am a man or a woman, if I can be useful.”
The man laughed.
“On the contrary! Women very often are more… sacrificial. The burning spot in their womb, the one which gives life, makes their mind blurred of survival instinct. They will die rather than allow their loved ones to perish. How many loved ones you have lost, scholar.”
Fool.
Dangerous fool.
“Too many to count” she hissed through her teeth. “And too many to still care.”
The man stopped smiling, and his face took a darker expression.
“You surely wouldn’t paint brusha on a stone” he said more to himself than her. “But someone who doesn’t care, would bow their head before any god. Even the Fae king…”
The Fae king was on her list. Of those who she cannot reach, but would love them to squirm in pain, instead of those poor people burned in Arelt.
But the Praetor… was still doable. If she only managed to free Isnan and help her regain her power…
“Well, my good scholar” the man’s eyes showed a bit of playfulness which was completely out of place. “I think the Praetor would love to meet you and the things you may know. He likes the presence of people who do not care about the sacrifices.”
“Shouldn’t I be announced?”
“Oh… but he was already informed,” the man chuckled. “And looks at us as we talk. Nothing is happening in this city, evading his knowledge.”
He bent slightly and showed her the path. Ona saw that he had a slightly overgrown neck, on the back of it. And no tattoo, which all Inquisitors should have. Inflamed skin and small red dots, in a place where he should have the words in old Avrasian.
The man went forth, and Ona, not giving a second glance at the morbid stacks, followed him, trying to prepare for what was to come.
Praetor.
Ona never saw him in a vision given to her by Isnan. He never came to feed her with so called light. Ona never saw anyone doing it, and Isnan never shared this experience with her. But Praetor… was always absent, a shadow over Avras, a hand holding all ropes, tightly coiled around people’s necks.
“We have of course protocol” said the man, with a joyful tone. “But as you see, we rarely enforce it. The Praetor likes fast, efficient work. Protocol quickly has become obsolete. A useless trinket.”
“Surely there is a way I must address him?”
“Yes” smiled the man, his eyes beaming. “If he is gracious enough to have you.”
That sounded as wrong as giving hope.
The hallway they passed was illuminated by candles and Ona realized the building has no windows. No even small ones. The doors were at the same time numerous, leading to rooms Ona will possibly never see.
And somehow, she was glad she won’t.
When the man led her to a large chamber, Ona already had a loose plan. Tell the Grand Inquisitor as much as she can, without exposing herself. Be accepted. Find Isnan.
Very loose plan. But she had nothing else and time was not her friend.
Their steps rang in the room – her heavy boots and the man’s silent murmur of soft shoes. Ona promised herself that no matter what will happen now, she won’t surrender. She will try to save her sister even from behind the prison bars.
The Praetor though…
… Ona didn’t expect him to be so old. He was sitting on the chair by the table, his short, pale beard and hair were gleaming with gossamer of age. His face was scarred by the wrinkles… and his eyes…
… not cruel…
… not sadistic, like she thought they would be. Not even power hungry, not mad.
They were tired. So tired.
Tired like the eyes of Isnan, after weeks she spent in his dungeon.
“Your Light Eminence…” the man with the keys bowed before the old man. “A very… intriguing creature I bring you. Claims she knows things that may be to your interest.”
Ona bowed, but only slightly. Not too humble. She has an upper hand here… even if in reality, she had nothing.
She hoped the gol dust, mixed with paint and rubbed in her skin, would be enough to hide her real age, in face of what she was about to say. If not…
The Praetor’s blurred gaze washed over her. But he said nothing. No even a singular word, not even a sigh. Just… silent and observant attention.
“Speak” the man in brown encouraged her. “The Light Eminence will not talk to you directly. I am his mouth.”
Ona took a breath and spoke indeed, a bit faster than she wanted. But the man’s cold gaze almost pinned her to the floor.
“I was trained in the Academy, my Lord. They taught me history, and politics, so I could become a chronicler, as I desired. After the war, when the Academy was destroyed, I settled in Nirey. And as you know, this is a neighboring village to… Feirne.”
The Praetor’s eyes still were focused on her, nothing changed in them. Like he was an attentive corpse, waiting forever for a miracle to bring him to life. But the gleeful man in brown looked more interested.
“Feirne, you say… and how much, living in Nirey, can you know about this cursed place, scholar?”
“Enough to know where the remaining Gifted may hide.”
The man in brown looked slightly on the right, and his face became tense. But soon he realized he might give out something important with that and turned again to Ona.
“You knew Gifted?”
“I was dining with them and seeing them take births. I lived among them. After their promise to save us from the Fae.”
The old Praetor was still like a stone. But the joy in the man’s eyes became almost fearful, like Ona was telling something no one should know. A terror engulfed her. What if she said too much?
What if they guess that she is of Feirne blood too?
“And you want to sell those who gave you food and allowed you in their circle?”
“As I said, I need to live. And they all escaped… living others to the Fae’s king anger.”
She remembered the man in black, shadows dragged behind him, like raven wings. And wherever he went, the earth was gaining rot. Whatever shadows touched, became enchanted, in a bad, sick way. And the woman, walking by his side, the one who shattered the protective bubble they all lived in. Her eyes were pale like moons, and his… black as wells filled with horrors.
The man in brown didn’t laugh anymore. His face was even more tense.
“Revenge… a low feeling, easily used by more powerful ones. Easily manipulated.”
Like you. And by you.
“I almost died” she grinned, with a most nasty grin. “I told you already. I have seen too much. This world is as it is. I won’t fall because of others. And there is still a chance that we see the end of winter. I want to survive to see that day. The Inquisition is the only power that still matters in Avras and wass not swallowed by Ain’asel. I will serve you as I can.”
The man laughed, sharp, dark chuckle.
“So you would serve fey too, if they were to destroy the Praetor’s holy mission.”
“If they gave me the chance, yes” Ona’s smile reflected his. “But they wouldn’t. So I am bound to this world, and squeeze from it as much as I can.”
“Do you thi—”
The noise of the opening door interrupted him. They almost slammed by the frame. The man in brown immediately landed on one knee, the old Praetor started to slowly descend too.
It was a young boy.
No more than twelve years old. But his eyes were flaming with sickness, his face was almost red with tension. His robes were as brown as the man’s, but with an iron belt fastening it in waist.
“Aloralt! Ah, Aloralt!” his voice trembled, as he approached, his steps though firm and sure. “Who is this? Where did you find her?”
The man bowed his head deeper.
“She came to us offering information, Your Light Eminence.”
The boy’s eyes turned to Ona. Sickness. Yes, he flamed with fever. Something was possibly eating him alive, some disease. His eyes were… completely unfocused.
He waved his hand at the kneeling man and he stood up, still with a lowered gaze.
“Scholar… you stand before Praetor Singr Alusa. The Lord of the Light and a Torch of Arelt.”
Ona looked with disbelief, when Singr Alusa took her hand and shook it, in a fevered greeting, like he was clinging to her with all energy he had.
This was the Praetor? This… child? Was is a sick game… or…
“You know things I want to know too” the boy took his hand back as soon as he offered it. It was warm and sticky, sweated. “You are not lying. They say you are an enemy, the cruel mirage. But I know it’s them who lie. My gratitude will be enormous! Huge! As big as this city itself.”
And he laughed.
This laughter was not cruel or dangerous, but it sent shivers by her spine. Madness. Hysterical laugh of a person who lost his sanity.
And Ona knew she stepped into abyss.