Friar Cedric

The Questioner has come. He stands outside my cell bars, not approaching overclose. Velvet green robes, shoulders draped with stole of black to declare ecclesiastic authority. Thumping the floor with a staff wound with vine in sign of service to the Green Saint. We stare at one another. I don't know the fellow, though no doubt we've crossed paths in chapel and temple, in studies and sacred gatherings. He clears throat in sign that he now begins formal speech.

"Are you Cedric Weiland, ordained Priest of the Order of St. Demetia from the parish of Pomona?"

I debate whether to stand or remain seated upon the stone floor. This is ceremony, and I have come to loathe ceremony. But sitting is rude. And I do not resent this person. I do not long for the power to defy his pompous authority. I desire the power to open his mind to the truth. There is no greater power, nor more rare.

I stand, arms at side.

"Yes, I am Cedric Weiland."

"Excellent. Are you that Cedric Weiland who accompanied the excommunicate Bishop Amandine to the Republic of St. Hephaestus, to learn systems of thought contrary to the teaching of Sainted Demetia and the Lord of Saints?"

"Indeed I did go to Daedalus. With full permission of the Counsel of Studies."

He declines to debate permissions.

"And did you not return from that land of mechanical abominations tainted with the Lucretian heresy?"

I smile. "I returned with a tinderbox that told me the hours of the day. And a book of formulae explaining the motion of objects, whether falling ball or whirling planet. But neither time nor motion are abominations to the saints. Say rather, they are laws of the creation of the Lord of Saints."

He stamps his staff, making an unimpressive 'bump'. "I am not here to debate. Such would be painful to my mind and your soul. Let us in mutual mercy be brief. I ask now once. Cedric Weiland, who is Lucretius Carus?"

And there it is. The question that cannot be danced around, nor turned upon its head. If only the officious fool would argue the nature of the saints, the source of magic or the mystery of existence. Then I could draw forth a thousand clever words. And if he crossed into discussion of the worlds hidden within those points of light we call stars... Ha. In an hour I would have him questioning the very earth he thumps with his staff.

He repeats the question, the thump of staff. "Twice now I ask. Cedric Weiland, who is Lucretius Carus?"

'Painful to my soul,' he'd said. What is 'soul'? A word for the shadow that calls itself 'me'. The saints themselves are shadows; and the Lord of Saints too. All, all, mere shadow. But for shadow to be cast there must be light. Light is Truth, Truth is light. The light of the stars is the fire of infinite suns. The night sky is the only true host of heaven. Their light touches us; and yet knows us not. Light, truth, fire... for a moment I am overcome, shivering before the vision that contains all things, and yet only knows itself through my clay eyes, my trivial mind.

Words. Truth is no tangle of words. It is revelation. It may come in a book of perfected formulas describing time and motion. It may come in a quiet hour watching the dawn. Or in a cold night peering at the stars through crafted lenses, perceiving one tiny bit of their nature. No matter the medium, Truth is the only true fire from Heaven. Alas that we cannot pass it on to others, except in words. We only speak of light in words of shadow.

And so I think, and so I shiver, and so the Questioner waits. No doubt knowing full well my thoughts, if not the meaning of my thoughts.

To live dishonest, or die honest?

Such an easy question. Live, of course. Breathe. Give my life to studying shadows, the words of the world. Not end screaming in flames.

And yet... ah, no. No going back to hiding, to obsequious service to a system of idiot ritual. That is just a slower, more degrading fire.

"Thrice I now ask and done," intones the Questioner. Thump of staff. "Cedric Weiland, who is Lucretius Carus?"

I take breath. No doubt one of the few remaining to my life. Unless I escape, granted. That small hope remains, like slight breath upon an ember, keeping it alight. And so strengthened, I give answer.

"Lucretius Carus is the One True Saint."

From the other cells comes cheering, laughing, hissing. Well, I'd forgot we had an audience. Not one that agrees with me, or even follows the argument. Still, these are folk who can appreciate a dramatic stand.

The Questioner shows surprise. Obviously he expected me to equivocate. It occurs to me that my brave answer was meaningless, excepting unto me. They'd have condemned me though I howled my faith in the saints. No doubt the writs of condemnation are already signed and sealed, the tinder gathered to the stake.

But the man keeps to ceremony. Nods, thumps his staff to say 'we are done now.' Then walks down the hall, seeking his next subject for review.

I sigh, fold myself upon the floor again. I am trembling with exhaustion. Strange that merely being in a cell, reciting a few words should so tire one.

The guards turn from the Questioner to me, unimpressed. They'd hoped for a fiery debate, prayers, curses and spells shaking the stones. I'd have preferred it myself.

Jewel

"I am absolutely not a witch," I tell the fool of a Questioner. "That's a horrible lie put on me from two evil slimy nasty things named Agat and Hemp."

"And why, hmm, should they do that?"

"Because I found out they were witches." I want to add 'dimwit,' but do not.

"And how did you discover their secret?".

I open eyes wide to show my girlish horror. "Oh, you can smell the dark on their souls like, like sweat off a plow horse. Geese hiss as they pass. Dogs growl and babies shit."

"Hmm," says the man. "And did these two fiends give you the broach with sign of Hecatatia?"

Well, no. I stole that from the farmhouse where I sculleried.

"Sure an' they did. Was ought wrong with it? My blessed mother always said St. Hecatatia was dearest sister to Demetia."

The Questioner nods. "Indeed, they are sacred sisters together. Ordained to the service of the Lord of Saints, surely as night and day, as the green fields beneath the sky, and the dark earth below the fields. Demetia has been given sweet revelation of Light. But her sister Hecatatia guards a most dangerous revelation of Darkness."

I consider grabbing his staff, bashing his holy head. He's close enough, and looks stupid enough. But I'm not idiot enough.

"I'm just a kitchen girl, m'lord," I whimper. "How'm I supposed to know these learned matters?"

"No need for you to know, child," he says, and smiles. "What counts is that your betters know. As you said, the stench of dark magic follows a practitioner about. And so we know that you, Jewel Stonefield, servant girl of the parish of Greencroft, are a witch."

Shit.

"No, no, I'm not." Putting hands to face as if to cover tears. Really, I'm covering teeth that want to snap into his throat.

"But do not despair," continues the pathetic worm of a priest. "You are young, and far brighter than you feign, and less evil than you believe. Poor girl, you fell into bad company. No doubt this Agat and Hemp were indeed witches who appealed to your dark desire to be more than an orphan farmgirl."

Infernum. That hits close. Clearly the officious worm has dealt with kitchen maids and widows who slipped into the woods by night, seeking power to make the world pay proper respect.

I say nothing; he blithers on.

"And then came the day your coven sisters turned on you?" Sounding genuinely sympathetic. "Such is the nature of those who corrupt the gifts of our Green Lady Demetia."

I resist an urge to burst into tears, admit his point, my guilt. Neither Agat nor Hemp were nice. But I am not nice either. Don't want to be. Nice is for fools and frauds.

I consider his words. They seem suspiciously nice.

"Am I not to be burned?"

"Child, no," chuckles the man. "The parish of Persephone hasn't burned a witch in long years."

Well, that's good to hear. I peek between my fingers. He's put on a fatherly look. Now I really want to hit him.

"No, a witch's head is cut away. It's only the remains that are burned. Ashes given to the river, else the crossroads."

"Oh."

"Not that such sad matters apply here. You shall keep your pretty head, young Jewel."

"I shall?"

"Indeed. What point in praising kindly revelation, if we be not kind?"

I remove hands from face, give him hopeful smile. It's not entirely false.

"Then am I to be released?"

He nods. "After branding and a nominal whipping. We shall send you to the Cloister in Pomona. There you will devote your life as penitent servant, learning the kind ways of the Green Saint. And all will be well, and all will be well, and all will yet be well."

Shit.

Val the Bard

Two of my fellow prisoners had the honor of a visit by a fully ordained Questioner of St. Demetia. Parading in robes and stole into this dank place, standing before cell doors to discuss justice and mercy, heresy and truth.

I, mere horse thief, got a justiciar's assistant. He didn't offer conversation. He informed me I'd receive twenty lashes, a 'T' for 'thief' burned upon my right hand. Then shipping in chains as indentured servant to St. Martia.

He offered to reduce the whipping to fifteen lashes if I took off my shirt.

Tempting, but we both knew he didn't have the authority to remove a single whip-stroke. In return I offered to kiss whatever parts of himself he put through the bars. His turn to looked tempted; but eventually declined, went away.

Pity, that. I'd have made him scream. And not in pleasure.

We prisoners listen as the witch receives a sentence similar to mine; whipping, branding, life-long servitude. Better than having one's head removed. She makes grateful sounds; they ring false as the coiner's wares.

Some of us cheered when the heretic cleric defied the Questioner. I did not. Absurd to die for a philosophical point. A bard knows, folk should die for flags, for gold and glory, for loves and hates. Not arguing whether the wind blows because St. Demetia puffs her lips, or because the sun warms the sky.

It's a matter of song. And song is all I have left. I consider that sad fact, and then consider again. An idea occurs.

I need to get a message to Alexandra, the Duke's daughter. The street-waif singing in the street outside the window earns coin from the families of prisoners, fetching items the guards won't mind, raising them to the window on a stick. And she carries messages. She has a strict rule to be paid first. Alas, my coins are all in the pockets of the city gate-guards.

I grasp the window bars, listen to the child. She has no training, and no special talent. But her voice is sweet and the stone wall of the city garrison gives a proper echo.

I wait till her song is finished, then I call down.

"Whisper!"

She doesn't answer. Maybe she can't hear, or chooses not to hear. I tug on the bars. They are thick but rusted. So many folk must have grabbed them just as I do, staring out. Maybe I can tug them away. I give it a try. No; I can't.

"Aye, miss Bard?"

I project my voice loud and confident, as if I sang before a tavern of rowdy drunks.

"If you deliver a message for me, I'll teach you two new songs guaranteed to bring in the coin."

She is silent. Then,

"Four songs. And they must be good songs."

I know better than not to bargain. She'll have no faith in what I offer.

"Three. But the third will be the best."

"Agreed."

A hard bargain, but I smile.

"Done for a song."

"Three songs."

"That's what I meant."