Chapter XIII

“To her eyes his beautiful body was bare, and the light cast shadows accentuating every chiseled muscle up and down his torso. In awe of him she planted kisses all over his chest and down his abdomen, raking her nails down his back. She relished the sounds of enjoyment her lover made as she appreciated the way God had sculpted his body. She took in his scent, strong but pleasant, and gazed up into his eyes as her fingers found the laces of his trousers, the contents therein begging to be freed, begging for the attentions of her mouth. She slowly undid the laces, watching his body twist in anticipation as her moving fingers teased him through the fabric.”

Grigori had to admit, if even just to himself, Liat’s writing was provocative. The descriptions of the lovers, both the strong, long-haired man from Uvino and the lithe, beautiful woman from Arx made his face hot and his stomach flutter. He certainly knew he was too embarrassed to read the scenes of their love-making with anyone else present in the room. He’d read through her unfinished love story three times now, and through that particular scene for the fifth time. A part of him had to wonder where it was that Liat learned to write such sultry, lurid imagery.

Since the story was a secret, though, Grigori knew he’d have to be careful returning the contents to her. The pages were not bound, they were loose, but they were numbered at the top so that Grigori could easily figure out what came next, even should he drop them. When there was a sudden knock on the door Grigori quickly gathered the pages together and rolled them up, slipping them up the sleeve of his cassock. Liat was still not ready to reveal to the world what she’d written, and good as the story was, Grigori could see how she might be embarrassed, or worried about how her husband would react.

“Who is it?” Grigori asked.

“It’s Sahar,” responded a voice on the other side of the door.

“Who?”

“…Duke Jachai’s squire…”

Grigori felt foolish for a moment that he’d forgotten the young man. “Ah, yes! Terribly sorry about that.” Grigori opened the door. “Yes, lad?”

“His Excellency wants to speak with you. He’s at the stables right now.”

“Lead the way.”

Sahar led Grigori down to the stables, where he saw Duke Jachai and several of his knights already saddled up. Liat stood beside the Duke’s horse, trying to look sad that he was leaving. Jachai would occasionally ride out with his knights into the cities of Nihilus and bring back people whom they suspected of being witches or warlocks for Grigori to interrogate, but this was obviously a longer trip than that.

“Grigori, there you are,” Duke Jachai said, riding over to him. “I’ve just received terrible news, age has claimed my father. I ride to his castle for his funeral and to accept my inheritance.”

Duke Jachai’s father was the Grand Duke of Arx, the strongest military leader in the kingdom and the general to whom all other lords looked for guidance during times of war. He was also a member of the Council, which crowned the King or Queen of Arx. Clearly, Jachai would succeed his father as the Grand Duke.

“Did you want me to ride with you?” Grigori asked.

“No, I want you to stay here. My wife will be here, so I need you to keep an eye on things. You’re one of the few men I would trust to keep her safe.”

“You can’t trust your own knights?”

Jachai looked over his men, some of whom were saying goodbye to wives or lovers, others were making crass jokes with their squires and the stable workers. “I trust their loyalty completely. I’ve fought and bled beside every one of them, but I don’t trust their judgment. If my castle has been infiltrated it’s you I trust to discover the spies and assassins.”

“I fought in the war with Nihilus years ago, but I’m not really a warrior, your Excellency.”

“That’s why I’m leaving my squire, Sahar with you, Brother Grigori. The strength of his arms is at your command.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘Brother,’ Excellency, I’m not an inquisitor anymore.”

“No, but you are my brother, both in arms and through God, and you are certainly more than ‘sirrah.’ The servants and the remaining guards have already been told to answer to you and to Liat while I am away.”

“I’ll be praying for your safe return.”

“As will I,” said Liat. Grigori knew that for all of her falsehoods, for all the ways she was deceiving her husband or saying and doing things just to keep appearances, at least this much was true.

Duke Jachai reached down for his wife’s hand and gave it a kiss before spurring his horse and riding off. All of his knights soon followed, some of them competing to be closer to the front. Sahar, Grigori, and Liat stood in silence watching them leave. By the look on Liat’s face he could tell that she was struggling with mixed emotions. The fact that the Duke had only kissed her hand instead of kissing her mouth was an indication of the utter lack of affection he had for her, which was part of why she wasn’t truly sad to see him go. In fact, she was relieved that he would be gone for a while, she wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of having a husband so emotionally distant. For a time she wouldn’t be wondering what was wrong with her that he was so afraid to touch her or speak to her with even the simplest words of endearment. Now she was sure that something in Jachai had broken long ago, and he wasn’t able to feel anymore. His heart had gone numb.

Sahar patted Grigori on the shoulder, “Well, if you need anything I’ll be practicing my sword technique in the training yard.”

Grigori had to smirk a little that Sahar called hitting a dummy with a weighted, blunt sword, using two hands and repeated overhead swings “practicing technique.” There wasn’t much technique, just brute force really, but whatever made Sahar feel better.

“My lady,” said Grigori to Liat, once Sahar was out of ear-shot, “May we speak in private?”

“Of course,” said Liat.

Liat led Grigori off to her room. Grigori had taken special care, while walking with her, to redirect the servants and castle guards to other areas of the castle, to better ensure that their conversation would indeed be private. Once the door was closed Grigori slipped the pages of her story out from his sleeve and handed it back to her.

“I must say, you are a very gifted writer.”

Liat grinned widely that this was so important to Grigori that he wanted to have a private conversation about it as soon as possible. “You don’t have to say that…”

“It’s true. I admit, the character Lanzo was a bit flat sometimes, and I didn’t like how controlling he could be, but the love scenes were…in a word, provocative! And I loved the story overall, you kept me hoping that Lanzo and Nitza would stay together. Sadly, I still don’t know if they do or not, because the story’s unfinished.”

“You really liked the…you know…” Liat leaned in closer to Grigori and whispered to him, as if someone else might be able to hear her otherwise, “The intimate parts?”

“Yes! They were very exciting, and well-written.”

“You didn’t think they were too…vague sometimes?”

“Leaving it at least somewhat vague leaves a lot to the imagination,” Grigori said. “You know, this story could still be published. You could write under a pen-name. Or perhaps work out a deal for someone else to put their name to it, take the credit, and you could split the profits.”

“I don’t know…”

“What’s not to know?”

“Well,” Liat began, “You liked it…but that doesn’t mean other people will…”

“You’re afraid of rejection?”

“Yes.”

Grigori shook his head, “Tell me something, my lady, why did you start writing this story?”

“I guess…because I enjoyed it.”

“To escape the way things are, right?”

“I suppose.”

“You have a gift, dear lady, a gift that allows you to seek refuge from reality in creativity.”

“If you say so.”

“Now, imagine what these past few years would have been like without that gift, without that escape.”

When she stopped and thought about it in that light she came to a shocking revelation. Nearly the only times she’d been happy since she’d married Jachai had been when she got time to write her stories. When she tried to imagine what all that time would have been like without being able to escape into fictional worlds she felt emptiness inside her, a deep pit that she felt like her heart was falling into. Truly, the last few years would have been all but unbearable were it not for her gift.

Grigori could see by the look on her face that she’d arrived at the answer to his question, “Now think about this, there are other women, in similarly unhappy situations, who do not have your gift. How do you think they deal with their problems?”

“I don’t know.”

“They drink. Most unhappy people drink. But those who spend their time less self-destructively? They read, my lady. They read stories, like the one you wrote. Think about all the people whose lives you could brighten if more people could read this story.”

Once she thought about it that way Liat couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride rise up in her. She had a gift, one that she could use to enrich the lives of others, and here she was afraid to use it because she was worried how people would judge her. How foolish that line of thinking sounded in retrospect.

“Think on what I said, my lady,” Grigori said, making his way to the door. “I know that since I’ve been reading your story I’ve been drinking less myself. Think of all the other people you could help with your fiction. We’ll speak again soon.”

As Grigori walked out into the hall outside of Liat’s room, one of the castle maids bumped into him, glanced at the door, then looked at him again with a confused expression. Undoubtedly she was wondering what Grigori was doing in the Duchess’ bedroom. Grigori knew better than to even try to explain. Coming up with a quick cover story was only likely to make her more suspicious, as was giving even the slightest hint that he felt he was not where he was supposed to be. He simply gave her the most nonchalant expression, one which told her that absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary about him being alone with the Duchess. Perhaps a conversation to which the maid had no permission to be privy, given that she was only a servant. Grigori’s expression, furthermore, was pleasant, friendly, not even hinting that he was unhappy to see her right outside the door. He simply nodded to her and walked off, without speaking a word.

. . .

The wind was in Theoren's face. He'd have preferred no wind at all for this, but if there was to be any wind in his face was where he needed it, not at his back, lest it carry his scent to his prey. Ahead of him, many yards away, stood his prey, neck stooped down to drink from the pond, antlers bobbing up and down each time the buck lapped up the cool, refreshing water. It seemed to Theoren like he'd been tracking this deer for hours, and now he finally had his opportunity. Moving slowly, he drew an arrow from his quiver, trying not to make a sound as he pulled back the bowstring. He'd have to make sure to either kill the buck instantly or injure him such that he could not run away, and then he could move in and finish the job with his knife. With the angle he was at he had a good view of his prey's throat. Adjusting his aim for the wind, he pulled back the bowstring as far as it would go and held his breath to help steady his hand.

The arrow flew true, piercing the deer's throat. It flailed and kicked for a few moments before going down, head in the pond. Grinning over his success, Theoren ran over to the deer's body and slung it over his shoulders to carry it back to camp with him.

The sun was setting as Theoren made it back to camp. The camp was set up in a clearing of one of the most otherwise heavily-wooded places they could find. With any luck, the trees would hide them from anyone wandering around at night, even as they had a fire going. Theoren dropped the deer off at the edge of the camp and pulled out his knife, beginning to gut and clean the animal. He took special care of the skin, for once they'd made it to the Arxian capital Lorenzo could sell the skin to a tailor and split the profits with Theoren.

“Sure, let's just do that anywhere,” said Gerardo, turning up his nose.

“Put off by a little blood?” said Theoren. “A warrior like you?”

“That's more than a little blood, and blood and guts belong on the battlefield, not where I sleep and eat. That creature's going to stink, you know. Won't be able to catch a wink of sleep with that stench in the air.”

“That's what I was saying when you showed up,” said Theoren.

“Don't antagonize him,” interrupted Tassos. “As soon as you're done cleaning the beast take its body away from here. It won't do to attract wolves and bears.”

“I don't know, the wolves and bears might deter witch-hunters,” Theoren said with a chuckle. “No, you make a good point. I just wanted the meat close to the fire so we can get to cooking it right away.”

“Here,” Tassos walked over and helped cut off some of the meat, taking it back over to the campfire to let it roast on the end of a stick.

Lorenzo, who was puffing away at his pipe, asked, “Do you say the blessing over the food before or after we eat it?”

“In the case of meat? While it's cooking, actually,” said Tassos. “Unless I kill it myself, then immediately after I've killed it.” Tassos clasped his hands together and bowed his head. Out of respect, Lorenzo did the same, while Gerardo snickered and rolled his eyes. “Father, may the death of this creature honor you, and may it find new life as part of us. May we never forget that the lives we live come from sacrifice, from death. Mother, may the meat of this creature that has given its life for us bring us nourishment and satisfaction. Bless this meal. So may it be.”

“And if it tastes gamey or bitter, Mother, may you be damned!” Gerardo added.

Theoren tossed Tassos another slice of meat from the buck and Tassos added that to the fire as well. In time they had most of the meat from the deer cooking over the fire. Some of it would be turned into jerky for later on in the journey. What they couldn't eat, or couldn't practically cook in a single night, Theoren dragged off far away from the camp, a snack for the wolves and crows. As soon as the first slice of meat was done cooking Gerardo greedily grabbed it for himself, knowing that the others wouldn't dare challenge him for it.

They ate mostly in silence, an uncomfortable silence at that. Gerardo noticed that Tassos kept staring at him. He'd stare at Gerardo for several seconds as Gerardo was chewing, and then look down again just after he'd swallowed. Lorenzo kept listening to the sounds of the forest, straining his ears to listen for the sounds of anyone, or anything, approaching their camp. Theoren was scanning the distant shadows for the same.

Lorenzo could just imagine what the Inquisition's re-education programs were like. Considering that inquisitors were known to whip and beat themselves after they sinned to train themselves to associate sin with pain, Lorenzo couldn't imagine the conversion process was pleasant. No talks about how right Sandalphon is and how much nicer it is to be a member of the “True Way,” no, all flogging and torture for sure. Why did they need to have an Inquisition to convert people to their faith? It seemed counter-intuitive to Lorenzo. It would probably be smarter to have banquets to convert people, or bribe them with beer and wine. That image made Lorenzo laugh a little, people lining up to get into a temple because they'd heard the temple was offering free beer for all converts and free wine for all of the already faithful. Sure, there wasn't much spiritual truth to be found at the bottom of a wine bottle, but there was a certain appeal in a god who loved you enough to want you to celebrate life with friends and be happy. The True Way was all about restraining yourself, with the idea that nearly everything in life that added even the slightest level of enjoyment was evil.

Lorenzo was pulled out of his daze as he saw Gerardo grabbing his throat and signaling with his other hand that he needed help. His mouth was hanging wide open, as were his eyes. His whole body twitched.

“He's choking!” Theoren said, running over.

“What do we do?” asked Lorenzo.

“Hit his back as hard as you can, that'll knock something loose!” Tassos said.

Theoren struck Gerardo on the back repeatedly, but Gerardo was still choking. He fell on the ground, his face turning blue.

“Oh, by the Father! It's not working!” Tassos said, “Here, try some wine, maybe it'll relax his throat and the meat will go down!” Tassos poured a goblet of wine from one of the wineskins and handed it to Gerardo. Gerardo poured the wine down his throat. Again, nothing seemed to help. “Try punching him in the stomach!”

Theoren pulled back and punched Gerardo in the stomach as hard as he could. With any luck the shock would push the meat back upwards. When Gerardo was still choking he tried it again, and again, but all it seemed to do was cause Gerardo more pain. By now Gerardo's face had turned completely blue. He was clawing at his own throat, even until he drew blood, as if tearing away the flesh might give him a chance to breathe. His back arched and his legs kicked and flailed madly, before finally he fell limp on the ground. His eyes were wide with shock, and mouth still hanging open.

“Oh gods...”

“He's dead...”

Tassos shook his head and reached over to Gerardo’s face, closing the lids of his eyes. Once his nerves had calmed, Theoren realized that they needed to do something with Gerardo’s body, leaving him in the camp would just draw the attention of predators. He dragged Gerardo’s blue-faced corpse over to where he’d left the rotting deer and dropped him there.

And so they found themselves deep in Inquisition territory, just a few men, a carriage, and no sell-sword to protect them.