Private Tales A World Governed by Providence

[Priestess Marta Maisal]

Among Marta Maisal's countrymen, there was a popular debate, one which attracted eloquent orators and rowdy drunkards alike to partake. And that debate was this: which was more so the center of evil on Arethil? That is, which propagated the use of blasphemous magic the most, thereby doing the most harm to the world? Elbion, with its renowned College, or Vel Anir, with its formidable Dreadlords? Among Gildans this debate could almost be a national sport all its own, each quite fond of his or her own side, many "games" held and many victories had.

It would be a lie for Marta to say that she had never participated. Yet in more recent times, after a number of her travels abroad, she found there to be a notable third option—and perhaps one that her fellow countrymen would never have suspected.

* * * * *

ALLIRIA​

The great city of trade. The naval master of the seas. The center of the world.

Mayhap on the surface Alliria appeared innocuous enough. What argument could the kindly hearted person lodge against the cosmopolitan nature of the bridge between Liadain and Epressa? Yet beneath what glossy veneers which first attract the eyes, for Alliria was indeed a beautiful city, there hidden from view could be found some truly wretched innards. Yes, though not as prominent as Elbion or Vel Anir in magic, still there were schools devoted to such and its use was as openly on display as nearly any other city one could name. But it was not its indulgence of magic which to Marta made Alliria a sinister place. No indeed, the blasphemous use of magic was more a symptom in Alliria's case rather than the disease.

And the disease was vice.

What else could one, if availed of even the faintest notion of wisdom, expect from a city which had toppled the divine and put coin in its place? Yes, money was the god of Alliria. Gold and its acquisition sat upon the throne most high. And this, sadly, made for fertile ground for immorality of all stripes. Sin flowed through Alliria like the very waters of the Strait.

Therefore, what better place for Marta to be? What doctor spends her time among the healthy, and not the sick? To save a soul from unrighteousness, to bring them out from the shadow of displeasure of the gods, the faithful servant waits not to be approached but with a keen eye and trust in the gods does the approaching.

And, looking now from the back of the wagon on which with other travelers she rode, looking upon the Epressan gates of Alliria, Marta was especially interested in finding more of her kind—Letai—here in the great city. She could guide them into the light of Regel. She could show her fellow Gildans that, like Penitents, there yet could be found virtue in those of Letai blood; that she herself was no rare exception.

If but one soul could be so righted, then all would be worth the effort.

Emelia Atchins

 

[Emelia Atchins]

She went through the motions of her life each day, but with every successive day it felt ever more empty and without meaning.

It should have meant something. The void where her heart had been ached more now than it did before. Taking righteous vengeance should have made everything better. It should have put a patch over the hole that had been leaking her life away for two years. It should have stilled her rage and brought light back in its place.

There was no light. There was no rage. There was nothing. It had been a month since she had gone into the underbelly of the city and, well... spoken words filled with a power not her own. She had bargained for it, given up a piece of herself for it. Spite and vengeance had driven her to that bargain, and then had driven her to doing things she had never, ever thought she would do.

She didn't even know if she was the same person anymore. She thought not. She was no longer whole, rather fractured and brittle...

It was late in the day, the sun still two handspans above the horizon. The late afternoon light spilled through the gleaming windows of the Mistral Refuge. The name was especially apt today, as it was the northerly wind that turned the seasons that was blowing out of doors. The patrons that stepped through the door into the immaculately clean common room had donned light coats in place of vests.

She was working alone today. It was the middle of the week and there hadn't been much custom in the last several days anyway. Once, she might have expressed some interest in the lack of trade. Now? She simply wiped down tables and cleared away plates and cups from the last two who had arrived and headed upstairs.

She carried the dirty dishes back through the swinging door and into the kitchen. Her father was at work at the oven, tending to the meal that would be served in the evening. He looked up from the firebox as she entered and watched her as she glided through the room like a ghost, draped in the simple dress and apron of the house. Watched as she dumped the dishes carefully into the sink.

There were lines of worry etched at the corners of his eyes.

"Em...," he began. She stiffened for a moment and then went to work cleaning. She said nothing back, of course; she had no voice. It had been the price for her cursed gift.

"Em," he began again, straightening and closing the firebox. "I know it has been tough, but..." He shook his grey-maned head slowly. "I'm sure he'll come back. Sure of it."

He still didn't know. Her husband wasn't ever coming back. She had seen to that herself. She could still feel his neck beneath her fingers as she squeezed. He had raised his hand one too many times. And he had killed their...

Emptiness. Void. No heart to feel any more. The old pain did not steal from its place in hiding. Even that was scared of the coldness that had stolen over her a month ago.

She shook her head and shrugged. Father thought she had been sick and lost her voice then. He knew she couldn't speak, but he seemed to forget it on a daily basis. Sometimes she did, too. Her spoken words were as empty as she was, though. Funny that silent as she was now, she was still heard more often than before all of the dark business had gone down.

"Look, Emelia, I know-" he began, but she raised a soap covered hand to forestall the discussion. She didn't want to talk about it. The ringing of the bell over the door saved her from having to. Without a word, she dried her hands on her apron and silently slid out of the room to see if it was custom that had arrived without really caring.

So long as she didn't have to struggle through a conversation that she didn't have the energy to deal with. Paying guests were easier than this.

 

[Priestess Marta Maisal]

"Excellent. Where, then, would you like to sit and talk?"

"There's a place I occasion. Cozy. Quiet. Quieter than here, I'll tell you that. Let's meet there."

"Let us indeed. And what is the name of this place?"

* * * * *

THE MISTRAL REFUGE​

Daelin was a Letai of elven heritage and mildly reptilian features. He stood tall, had a firm—if perhaps somewhat cold—gaze with those dark eyes of his, and Marta noticed early on that he had a habit, likely born of his lizard's kin spirit, of quickly, frequently, and subtly licking his lips. Certainly he was an Allirian through and through, at least at this juncture of his life, but for him to express an interest in further conversation was promising enough for Marta to pursue.

Many a troubled soul had wounds for which they despaired of a cure. And many of them hid it well enough to proceed with an ostensibly good life, putting on smiles whose weight was unbearable to hold. The most delicate part of all this was, in fact, presenting the cure for which these souls so longed, for the cure in question was as painful to apply as medicine was bitter to ingest. Many would shirk with all their strength the one thing they needed most.

So, promising. Yes, Daelin's interest was promising.

More surprising still, as Marta approached the Mistral Refuge, she saw that Daelin had in fact arrived first, and was waiting for her outside the front door. By the grace of Regel, how delightfully novel—usually it was the other way round! Daelin had a personable, even chipper, attitude when first they had met in the morning elsewhere in Alliria; mayhap this cheerful outward demeanor belied a man who harbored an eager willingness to imbibe the medicine of which he on his own could not avail himself.

"Evening, Priestess."

"Good evening, Daelin. Shall we go in?"

"Yes," he said. "As I mentioned, it's quiet. And you could get yourself a room here too, if you don't already have set accommodations."

"That I will, in fact, for convenience's sake."

And this, though Marta could not know it, was what sealed in the misfortune set to visit her in the night, for Daelin was counting on her doing this.

Daelin pushed open the door. Above, a small bell chimed from the motion. One of the innkeeps, a human woman of middle years wearing an apron, came out to greet them. Though it was not overly apparent, it seemed to Marta that the innkeep had traces of a severe countenance just behind her present expression. An ungovernable client mayhap soured her day, or something of the sort.

"Good evening, Emelia," Daelin said, this with all the politeness and scant familiarity due to an acquaintance of circumstance. He smiled. "Any vacancies this night? One room for the Priestess, if that's the case."

Her introduction done for her by Daelin, Marta merely nodded in cordial manner, hand preemptively upon the coin pouch within her robes.

Emelia Atchins

 

[Emelia Atchins]

She slipped into the common room and stopped short when she was addressed by her name, giving a sharp look at the customer who had spoken it. She did not immediately recognize them. Didn't really matter, though. There were plenty of merchants that travelled the routes that took them through Alliria multiple times a year.

She thought nothing more of it.

She raised a wrinkled hand with all five fingers extended, and then closed her fist and raised another two. Seven room empty; the Refuge was practically as empty as it ever got. She moved with a sense of purpose to meet them at a distance. She indicated any of the tables that they would like, as all were currently empty. The scent of roasting beef wafted on the air, peppery and subtly sweet.

She cocked her head to one side and moved her lips silently, doing math in her head with the slowness of someone that had only the most basic of education. After a moment, she dug in a pocket of her apron. She withdrew a piece of wood painted silver and with her other hand, held up a finger. She showed copper as well and held up five and then three. She mimed taking a bite, and sleeping, and looked a question at the pair of them.

Her eyes swept over both while she awaited an answer, but there was little interest in her eyes. In fact, there was something missing in them. An echo of the void she felt in her heart.

 

[Priestess Marta Maisal]

Marta and Daelin drew near to one of the many tables of the common room; truly there was a wealth of choice on this particular eve. They stood each by their chairs as Emelia mimed her question.

"Just a dinner plate for me," said Daelin amiably. And with a glance over to Marta he asked, "Would you mind overly much if I paid for your room?"

"You are too kind, Daelin. Though I must decline your offer, for I have my own means, know that my gratitude is as it would be had I accepted."

"Very well," Daelin said, smiling and taking a seat.

Then to Emelia, whom by now Marta had gathered was a mute, she said, "Dinner and a room, please."

And then she herself took a seat. Payment, as was due for each of them, would then be arranged and transacted.

Emelia Atchins

 

[Emelia Atchins]

She nodded briskly and accepted the payment then turned and went back to the kitchen in the swish of skirts and unutterable silence. The coins she placed in a money box. She took the change that was due, and then went to her father in the same silence.

He looked at her with a pained expression, but she wasn't having any conversation just yet. She held up a hand with two fingers extended and hurried away before he could say anything else. She snatched up a couple of glasses of mulled, watered wine and then swept back out into the common room to deposit them along with a plate of bread and butter.

She then returned to the back and was annoyed to see that her father had not yet served anything.

"Emelia..." he said, wiping his hands on his own apron. She stood there with her hands to her sides, uncomfortable and unwilling to speak. She noted the cheap diary on the table in front of him, piece of pencil at the ready. He made to reach for it, but she shook her head.

Hard to make someone talk when they could not. Evasion was as simple as not writing anything down.

Father sighed, shook his head, and went back to work. He sliced and served meat and vegetables with a hearty gravy on two plates. She took them and offered him a forced smile that didn't reach her eyes before slipping back out into the room to serve the pair.

She slipped away from the table and took up station at the counter. There was no reason to go upstairs and turn down beds, and there was nothing else to do. Instead, she was left to her own brooding while she waited for the pair to need anything or for anyone else to arrive.

 

[Priestess Marta Maisal]

Away went the innkeep, and for a spell Marta and Daelin had the common room to themselves.

Daelin, either by intuition plucking the thought from Marta's mind or simply as a means to ease into the more serious conversation to come by starting with a bit of topical commentary, said of the innkeep Emelia, "She wasn't always a mute." He nudged his head in the direction Emelia had departed. "I come here, but I'm not a regular here. I'm certainly not suggesting I know her or her father or anything like that. But something happened."

"What? Some tragedy, come like a brigand upon the road, visiting misfortune with suddenness?"

Daelin shrugged. "I don't know. Sickness, I would surmise. Come like a brigand upon the road, as you said. Poor girl."

"Yes, poor woman. Though no man, nor woman, is burdened with more than they are by the grace of the gods fitted to bear, still it is that a malady which evades treatment is difficult to endure."

A queer thing, but not altogether unheard of, that some wound or sickness might be beyond the capacity of even ajam healers, those who often relied more upon heretical magic than of the natural gifts salted throughout the plentiful earth of Arethil. And this was Alliria, after all, where healers—be they magical or not—were certainly keen to ply their trade for a modest (or perhaps in many cases not so modest) fee. Likely it was that Emelia's ailment surpassed the skill of even these mercenary doctors.

A moment after, Emelia returned and served them both dinner. Marta offered her a smile upon receipt of it, a gesture small but perhaps not insignificant. Regardless the innkeep Emelia went away and left them to their meal.

Soon, whether by Daelin's own initiative or by Marta's gentle prompting, would her work begin—or so she thought. Daelin was a practiced liar, a man who effortlessly mixed in copious truths with his fabrications to achieve an end. He meant to entertain the priestess, string her along for a bit, and then depart on genial terms...knowing where precisely she would be resting her head tonight.

Exotic ones fetched a good price.

Emelia Atchins

 

[Emelia Atchins]

She did the things that would be expected of her, even though time seemed to trickle by. She kept the watered wine topped, and eventually had to busy herself cleaning tables that probably didn't need it. She avoided the kitchen and her father at all costs.

Shadows gathered outside, and other customers arrived. There were only a handful of them tonight; most of the tables remained empty. It helped to keep the atmosphere subdued and quiet which suited her mood just fine.

It was one of the few that came in as the sun had turned the western sky into liquid fire that breathed a flicker of life into the emptiness within. Even then, it was but the barest hint of trepidation; some sixth sense warned her that trouble was afoot.

The new arrivals were clean cut and well dressed in clothes that were not quite black. They almost seemed like businessmen. Almost. They moved with an uncanny grace that she recognized from trained fighters. She could see no weapons on them. Didn't mean much; she too had no visible weapons on her. Except for the knife strapped to her thigh.

They watched her as she moved about the room, waiting on the handful of patrons. Unlike the one Letai that had come in, there was nothing friendly in their eyes or their words as they ordered the same as everyone else here.

Emelia couldn't help but feel that she had seen those two before, somewhere.

 

[Priestess Marta Maisal]

And so at length, and with much of their respective plates already emptied, did Marta broach the topic of Daelin's concerns. She had at the start briefly introduced the topic of shapeshifting, something which was borne in the blood of all Letai and proved a mighty temptation for many, and yet Daelin shrugged it off; he had, in fact, only done so "once or twice" and never found it to his liking. Color Marta surprised. What Daelin did have on his mind was this:

"Whoring."

"Whoring?"

Daelin sighed heavily and said, "Yes, Priestess, whoring and lechery. I'm afraid I'm a man who gives in easily to the siren's call of lust. I'll be honest: I never used to think it was a problem. And I can't rightly tell you when I started to entertain suggestions otherwise. There's been days when I'd go hungry just to...well, I ought not go into all those details, but I'll say it was an expensive habit. Call me a drunkard, but my drink was carnal delight."

After a small moment of consideration, Marta said, "Allow me to speak plainly, for here a certain openness is of the utmost importance. Would you find it more comfortable if I were to...withdraw myself from this communion? It is not my intention to abandon you, a soul in need, but in all journeys first steps are the most difficult; to borrow your analogy, I, sitting here before you, am like wine presented to the drunkard before he has been equipped to resist. It is not appropriate, nor fair. But fear not, I could return with a priest instead—"

"No," Daelin said, waving off her concern. "I'm not that far gone, Priestess. At least not in recent times. I had a few rude awakenings." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I'm just afraid I might fall back into it."

They spoke further, and evening turned to night. Daelin was resistant to the idea of any substantial change in his life, even to attending local Celestialism services. But he was interested in further talks, correspondences by letter as well. First steps were difficult, but, in time, mayhap a great many miles could pass by underfoot, unnoticed until the whim to look back came like an innocent breeze. If his heart was true, there was hope for Daelin yet.

Both Marta and Daelin rose. They said their goodbyes. Daelin turned and had a little fumble with a clean cut man, bumping into him, apologizing politely, and the man with stolid candor said it was alright; what truly passed between them was a covert signal, conveyed through the specific touch of hands and fingers, and this man (and his accomplice) were alerted that the job was on. Wait for the dead of night, that pendulum of stillness and dark between the waning day and the new. Wait, and then quietly grab the Priestess from her very room, disappearing her without a trace.

Marta knew none of this.

She went up to the counter, to the mute Emelia, smiling politely as she said, "May you show me to my room?"

Emelia Atchins

 

[Emelia Atchins]

There was a certain amount of frustration, not having much to do. It left one with time to think.

If there was anything that Emelia did not want to do at the moment, it was think. There were too many demons lined up and waiting for her attention. The rage in her husband's eyes. The agony in Korsk's, as he lay dying. The feeling of blood on her hand, and how unexpectedly easy it was to make someone...

...well, go away. Forever. Someone else and, by logical process, her own life.

Her eyes were distant, staring into unplumed depths, when the priestess spoke. She jumped a little, and then looked round guiltily. The only people left were this woman and herself; everyone else had already drifted off to bed or back out the door to wherever it was they called home.

Emelia took a calming breath, and then nodded to Marta. She took an unlit candle with her and headed to the stairs leading up. They were wide enough for two people abreast to climb them or for someone heading down to pass someone going up.

She gestured to follow, turned in a swirl of skirts and headed for the rooms above.