Way of the Wicked – Chapter One
It was a bad night to be standing guard.
Alone at his post, Private Carl shivered and pulled the thick woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders. Overhead, the sky was dark with rumbling storm-clouds, and he was positive that he'd felt a spot of rain just a moment ago. It would be just his luck to be caught in a downpour now, having already been frozen halfway to the bone by the ferocious winds coming in off the ocean. Nobody liked pulling this shift at the best of times – the gatehouse roof was almost completely exposed to the wind, and there was no room to put a brazier of hot coals to ward away the chill, but when it rained the job went from uncomfortable to downright miserable.
Once again, he cursed that bastard Blackerley, who had assigned him this shift earlier in this week, and that bastard Hanz, who was meant to be standing it with him. They were both nearby, he knew, probably down in the bottom level of the gatehouse playing cards and drinking some of the endless supply of mead that Blackerley always seemed to have available. The Warden would throw a fit if he knew about it, but it was fast approaching dusk and the Warden never stepped out of his tower this late unless someone summoned him, which none of the guards were ever inclined to do.
It wasn't that Mattius Richter was a bad man, exactly, but in the opinion of everyone else who worked there the old man was simply a bit too inflexible to get along with, too obsessed with his rules and the pursuit of justice to willingly turn a blind eye to those things that made life worth living. Bit of an ironic attitude for them to hold, really, considering that Fort Branderscar tended to serve as a prison for the most infamous and dangerous criminals in all of Talingarde, but that was just how things had worked out.
Besides, Wizards were just plain creepy. If the Warden preferred to stay in his tower and read whatever smutty romance novel it was he'd had imported recently rather than walk the walls and punish a bit of harmless slacking off by turning them all into frogs, then that was just fine by Carl.
His musings were interrupted by a rhythmic flicker of light from the mainland. Frowning, Carl picked up his own lamp and returned the signal, closing and opening the shutter in a particular pattern that he'd long since memorised. They'd used to use signal horns for between the fortress and the small guard station at the far end of the bridge to the mainland, but after a few too many messages were lost beneath the constant roar of the ocean all around them they'd switched to lanterns instead.
The signal came again, and he had to wrack his brain for a moment to interpret it. Visitor, that was it, and not anyone official judging by the lack of any qualifying additions to the code. That was strange. Oh, certainly the prisoners kept here were entitled to the occasional visit from friends and family, but as a general rule only the very worst kinds of scum were sent to Branderscar, and few of those had anyone that cared enough to make the trip. It had been months since anything like this had happened, and besides, they were only holding one real inmate right now.
But who would come all this way to visit her?
-/-
It was cold in the cell, the air filled with the kind of icy chill that sunk right into your bones and stayed there until you'd forgotten what it felt like to be warm. The prisoner had known cold before, of course, thought herself accustomed to it… but never like this. Even in the depths of the worst northern winters, when the wind howled and the ground was covered with snow for months at a time she'd been able to ward off the chill with the aid of fire and thick clothing, but here she had neither of those. The only source of heat and light was a torch in the corridor outside her cell, and her fine and practical clothes had been stripped from her when she arrived, replaced with ragged scraps of fabric that only barely served to protect her modesty.
Another gust of wind blew in through the barred window and she shuddered, the involuntary motion setting her chains clinking softly. It had to be deliberate – she refused to believe that the guards were unaware of the slow torture their facility inflicted on those incarcerated within. It didn't matter how thick the stone walls were if you broke them with barred windows in every cell, and any fool would be able to see that chaining someone with their hands and legs at full extension just meant they couldn't even curl up to preserve heat. Was she meant to be grateful that they'd at least secured her in a way that allowed her to sit down? That saved her from slowly choking under her own weight, true, but given everything else the net result just wound up exchanging one kind of execution for another.
What was the point of it all? She was already under sentence of death, and for all their faults she'd never thought of those who worked in the justice system as being sadistic. Was this meant to be some form of involuntary penance? She'd heard that some of the more ruthless sects believed that suffering was the path to enlightenment, that someone could cleanse themselves of their sins in the eyes of Mitra through sufficient pain and devotion.
She snorted softly to herself at the thought, unable to muster up the energy for a real laugh. If that was what they were hoping for, then they were going to be sorely disappointed. She'd spent most of her adult life surrounded by the faithful of Mitra, and if all of their self-righteous preaching hadn't elicited a conversion already then the chances of her breaking under a bit of prolonged discomfort were slim. Especially not if this was how they treated those they wanted to 'save'.
A dull throb of pain from her arm reinforced that point, and she bit her lip rather than give her tormentors the satisfaction of seeing her cry. It was just one more reminder of what they truly thought of her, no matter what anyone else might try to claim – a runic 'F', seared into the meat of her forearm by hot irons shortly after arriving; the symbol of the Forsaken, those condemned to death or life imprisonment by the justice of the courts. No one had ever escaped from Branderscar before, but even if she could, there was no life waiting for her while she bore that mark upon her flesh.
Once, she had been Captain Mirabelle Barca, veteran of the North Watch and scion of one of the nation's oldest and most noble Houses, but no longer. The moment the courts had named her 'Forsaken' all of that had been taken from her – her inheritance confiscated, her commission dishonourably discharged, her very name blotted out from all official records of service. Her family had been furious of course, had done their best to appeal the decision and pursued just about every legal means at their disposal (and probably quite a few less than legal ones as well) but at the end of the day, there hadn't been anything they could do.
Murder wasn't something most people were willing to easily forgive, after all.
Her musings were interrupted by the low creaking noise of an opening door, followed by the sound of booted feet on the stone floor. Gritting her teeth, Mira took a moment to control her emotions and remove any sign of discomfort from her expression. Her pride was the last thing she had left, and she would be damned before she allowed anyone to see her without it.
She'd been expecting one of the guards making an infrequent patrol, maybe with a comrade along for conversation and possible backup. It was something of a surprise, then, when a full party of no less than five soldiers came along the corridor and stopped in front of her cell. Four of them were just the regular shift, common soldiers virtually indistinguishable from one another in her mind, but the man in the lead was one she would remember for as long as she drew breath: Sergeant Thomas Blackerley, a short, surprisingly portly soldier with greasy black hair and glittering eyes. He was the one who had branded her on her arrival, pressing the glowing iron into her arm while two of his men held her down. Her screams had barely seemed to matter to him – indeed, she had a sneaking suspicion that he had enjoyed it.
"It's your lucky day, prisoner." Blackerley said roughly, pulling the ring of keys free of his belt and unlocking the door to her cell. "Your sister has come to visit."
Mira kept her face carefully blank, not allowing any kind of reaction to give away the truth of her thoughts, but inside she was frowning. She'd had a sister once, but little Lisa had died of the pox years ago. Clearly, someone was sending her a message – after all, if they'd just wanted to masquerade as a family member it would have been far more sensible to simply pick someone who actually existed. What were they playing at? Still, she could worry about that later – right now, it was far more important to make sure that none of the guards picked up on the discrepancy. A distraction was in order.
"Why thank you sergeant." She said slowly, her voice still tinged with the carefully controlled edges of a highborn accent. "You are doing me a great kindness. Maybe if you loosened these chains a little, I could return it in kind."
One of the soldiers near the back of the group smiled lecherously at the implication, but Blackerley just grunted. "No, I like having eyes. Get her up, but don't loosen the bonds."
Mira just smiled, as sweetly as she could, while the soldier at the back of the group blanched and took half a step back out of fear. Apparently the sergeant had actually read up on her history before she was transferred here. It was almost a pity. Not that she'd been exactly intending to invite that kind of trouble, but she'd always been something of a cynic at heart. A lone female prisoner, clad only in threadbare rags and soon to reach the point of being unable to tell anyone anything ever again? Some men would find that combination irresistible, so she made a point of heading off any such intentions before they could fully form. All too many people allowed their base desires to dictate their actions, but she'd yet to find many who would pursue them if they believed they'd lose body parts in the process. Magical healing might remove the physical scars, but the memories would last forever.
Of course, she was uncomfortably aware that if the soldiers decided to make a serious attempt at exploiting their prisoner anyway that there probably wasn't a great deal that she could realistically do about it. She was chained up quite thoroughly, with little ability to maneuver or escape, and chances were anyone who thought to try something would have the advantage of numbers and equipment – more than one piece of scum had proven quite willing to beat their prey half unconscious before taking advantage, and the guards here all carried hefty wooden clubs for subduing unruly prisoners. Her surest defense, then, was confidence and reputation. If they felt convinced that she would maim anyone who strayed too close, they were much more likely to take their 'affections' elsewhere.
Two of the other guards moved into the cell, seizing her by either arm as Blackerley released the locks holding her manacles to the floor and wall. Mira hardly thought it necessary – resisting at this point would gain her precisely nothing, when her hands and feet were still chained together – but stayed silent all the same. At least this way she'd be able to move to some degree, maybe work some heat back into her frozen limbs.
Never releasing their holds on her arms, the guards marched her out of the cell and down the corridor towards the guard post at the end. As they went, Mira took the opportunity presented to glance around for a few moments, checking the other cells. She'd had a bag over her head when she was first brought here, and from her position chained to the wall of her cell she had hardly been given much of an opportunity to take stock of her fellow inmates. Long habit had conditioned her towards evaluating and considering any possible resource when at all possible, but even a quick glance here confirmed the worst. There were no other prisoners, each cell standing empty and unlocked. Did Branderscar regularly stand so empty? Surely not, for even in a country as virtuous as this there had to be a regular stream of true villains condemned to the worst prison able to take them. Perhaps she had simply come at a quiet time then, or else just missed the last round of executions and deportations that had cleared out the former residents. Either way, it seemed there would be no help from fellow inmates – she would live or die on her own.
The guard post was little more than a small room with a table and a pair of chairs inside, separated from the actual cellblock by a heavy wooden door. Despite herself, Mira frowned at the design choice. The stairs in the corner of the room made this small guard station a natural choke point for controlling any attempted breakout, but the door prevented any of the guards from actively watching the prisoners, and from what she'd seen so far they only patrolled the cell area every few hours. True, keeping the door closed meant that the heat from the large fireplace on the far wall stayed in, but were the guards here truly so slack? And if they were, was there any way to exploit it?
Not giving her time to really consider what she'd seen, the soldiers marched her straight across the guard station and through the door on the far side. The small room beyond was illuminated only by a burning torch on one wall, without any kind of window. Mira's eyes flickered back and forth, taking note of the iron fittings still embedded in the walls and the faded stains of red and brown on the floor, and promptly revised her earlier assumptions about the cruelty of Talingarde's justice system. True, the place looked to have been remodeled in recent years and evidently wasn't much used, but she could almost feel the terrible things that had been done in this place.
The woman waiting within should have looked comically out of place, clad in a long black mourning dress and wearing a silken veil, but something about the confidence in her stance made her seem right at home. Even dressed for a funeral, she looked stunning, the sort of woman who could stride into a noble ballroom and dominate the scene within moments. Her hair was a blond so pale it might have almost been white, and the eyes that studied the new arrivals from behind her veil were a stunning emerald green. Indeed, she almost looked too good; even the most attractive people tended to have minute flaws if you looked closely enough, but the woman in the veil might almost have walked out of a flattering portrait rather than anywhere real.
"Thank you for bringing my beloved sister to me." The woman said, her voice a low silken purr as she addressed the sergeant. "Please, might we have some privacy?"
Blackerley nodded, and the two soldiers holding Mira's arms escorted her over to a small chair in the middle of the room that was the only piece of furniture. They sat her down firmly and then backed away quickly, as though releasing some kind of wild beast that might turn and lunge for them at any moment. Then, without a word, all of the men left the room and closed the door behind them.
"Good to see you again, dearest." The veiled woman said with a smile, looking Mira up and down with a kind of detached interest. "I hope you haven't been treated too badly."
For a moment, Mira wanted to snap out a sarcastic retort, to interrupt whatever elaborate game her visitor was playing with a few sharp words and a scowl, but she fought down the impulse a moment later. Whoever this was, they were here for a reason, and if she gave into the urge to snarl at her she might never learn what that reason was.
"Your concern is appreciated." She said instead, keeping her voice level with a deliberate effort of will. "You'll have to forgive me, but I don't know your name. A bit shameful for a long-lost sister, but it's been a stressful week."
That earned her a throaty laugh, and a small nod. "I imagine it has. You may call me Tiadora."
Despite the situation, Mira smiled slightly, noting the choice of words: 'you may call me', not 'my name is'. A distinction that might mean nothing or everything, depending on precisely what it was the visitor was intending and who she was beyond these walls. This got more interesting by the second.
"Well, Tiadora, good as it is to see you I have to wonder at the timing." She said by way of response, tilting her head in curiosity. "It must have been quite a journey to get here. What brings you all this way?"
"Very well, we shall get straight to business. I am here to extend an invitation." Tiadora said simply, turning and beginning to pace around the room with a slow, almost predatory grace, her dress making a soft swishing noise as she moved. "I have a patron who is very interested in meeting you. Unfortunately, he is unwilling to set foot in a place like this personally, so you will have to go to him."
Her slow pacing had taken the other woman out of Mira's immediate line of sight, but she refused to crane her neck or turn around on the chair to follow the movement. Something told her that allowing the other woman to control the flow of the conversation to that extent would be a mistake, a sign of weakness that she could not afford to show. Even so, her heart began to race as the full implications of Tiadora's words began to set in. No one had ever escaped from Branderscar Prison before, but then not many had ever tried, especially with help from the outside. After a certain point the place's reputation had become self-sustaining - if escape was impossible, trying would simply waste valuable resources for no gain. Better to strike while the prisoners were in transit, or else write them off as lost altogether. But if someone had decided to make the attempt anyway, while the guards were so evidently slack...
"That is an intriguing proposition." Mira said evenly, an edge of anticipation colouring her tone. "I should very much like to meet this patron of yours, but I am afraid that unless you have brought a Royal Pardon with you arranging such a thing would be... difficult."
Not that she seriously thought a royal pardon was even a remote possibility of course. The House of Darius hated the House of Barca with a cold but unrelenting passion, had done so ever since winning the throne of Talingarde from them eighty years ago. They might have spared their rivals from death, continued to tolerate their presence in the courts out of pragmatic necessity, but to release a scion of Barca from prison? Especially one convicted of murdering a man in a duel, a law that they themselves had personally instituted as a way of distinguishing themselves from the prior rulers? No, that was never going to happen.
Two slender hands landed on Mira's shoulders, her visitor having apparently moved up behind her while she was lost in bitter consideration. "No pardon I am afraid, but I was instructed to give you a small trinket." Tiadora said, leaning down to all but whisper the words into captive ears. Her breath was icy cold, and this close Mira could detect a subtle resonance in every word, as though a second person was repeating what was being said a fraction of a second afterwards. She fought down the instinctive disquiet stirred itself in her gut at that realisation. That Tiadora was more than she appeared was hardly a surprise - the real question was what. Still, any thoughts on that topic would have to wait, as the slender hands moved from her shoulders and down her arms to wrap themselves around her bound wrists.
"Magic can be a potent tool, if you know how to use it." Tiadora whispered in her ear, now standing so close as to be almost embracing her. With careful motions she opened the fists that Mira's hands had instinctively made and pressed something small and silken into her palm. "It can bring strength to the weak, tear the mighty from their thrones, and hide the true nature of a thing from inquisitive eyes. In the right hands, even the slightest amount can be put to a great many ends."
Releasing her, Tiadora straightened up and stepped back, allowing Mira to look down and see what it was she had been given. It was a veil, the same one that Tiadora had been wearing when she was escorted into the room, made of fine quality silk and covered in small patterns of silver thread. Actually, now that she looked closer, some of those shapes seemed to have recognisable forms - a blade, a small bottle, a coil of rope...
Eyes widening in surprise, Mira's head snapped up to regard the graceful form of her visitor, who had now moved back around to stand in front of her once more. Seeing the light of understanding dawn, Tiadora simply smiled and inclined her head. "As I said, a trinket. My patron is not in the habit of solving the problems of others for them, so nothing in his gift will see you vanish from your cell or fly from the castle's highest tower. But in the hands of one of sufficient cunning and will, even the most basic of tools can be turned to the greatest of ends."
A test, Mira realized in that instant, her mind racing. Well, it made a certain kind of sense. Whoever Tiadora was working for evidently had a considerable degree of power and influence, but not an endless supply of either. Harboring a fugitive would represent a considerable expenditure of resources, especially one high-profile enough to be incarcerated in Branderscar, so naturally the prospective employer would want to make sure that she was worth spending that kind of time and effort on. If she could escape from here with basic resources and her own natural abilities then she would have proved herself worthy; if not, all that would be lost was a single magical bauble. All in all, it pointed to someone wealthy, ambitious and absolutely ruthless. She liked the sound of him already.
"Trinket or not, I am grateful." Mira said at last, choosing each word with deliberate care. "A meeting seems a small price to pay for such generosity. Might I presume that you already have a venue in mind?"
"But of course." Tiadora replied. "The mainland near this fortress is dominated by a great series of marshes. On the far side lies what the locals call the Old Moor Road. Make it there, and look for a manor house with a single lantern burning in an upstairs window."
The blond woman glanced over at the door to the small meeting room and frowned ever-so-slightly. "However, it seems our time is up. I understand your execution is scheduled for three days hence, so that's what you have to work with. Don't disappoint me, dearest."
A moment later and her expression changed; the amusement and arrogance fading away as though they had never been, swiftly replaced by the very picture of solemn grief. A heartbeat after that, the door to the room swung open, and Sergeant Blackerley entered.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to wrap things up there, ma'am." He said apologetically, inclining his head to Tiadora. For her part, the blond woman simply nodded, the glimmer of unshed tears in her emerald eyes.
"I understand, sergeant." She said in a voice of complete misery, leaving Mira in more than a little shock at the sudden change of demeanor. "Thank... thank you for letting me see my sister one more time. You have done me a great kindness. There will be no need to search her."
As she spoke that last sentence, the strange resonance returned to Tiadora's voice, and the air itself almost seemed to shiver with the potency of the words. Blackerley didn't seem to notice, simply blinking once and then nodding again. "A great kindness... of course, ma'am. For you, 'tis nothing. Now, would you please come with me?"
With that, the two of them left the room, neither one so much as glancing behind them. Mira frowned slightly, and mentally upgraded the threat that Tiadora evidently posed. True, the blond woman had seemed to be on her side so far, but how far could a woman trust her own impressions when someone was throwing around that kind of magic? She didn't feel inclined to trust Tiadora or otherwise obey her every whim, which probably ruled out anything too potent, but if her visitor had employed something more subtle in their brief meeting how would she ever be able to tell?
Then the guards were returning, and there was no more time for doubt. With a quick motion of her wrist Mira gathered the veil and held it tight in her hand, out of sight of the soldiers that seized her arms and hauled her back to her feet. As they escorted her back to her cell, she made sure to keep her head bowed and her shoulders slumped, not daring to look either of them in the eye lest they see the keen anticipation that smoldered there like glowing embers. Let them think her defeated and helpless, broken by this final proof that her friends and family had abandoned her. She had tools, now, and allies waiting for her beyond the walls of the prison, and that was more than enough. They had grown slack in their vigilance, convinced of their own superiority, and she would make them pay for it before the day was done.
In silence they hauled her back into her cell, one man all but pinning her against the wall while the other reattached her manacles to the heavy chains bolted into the walls and floor. It was almost amusing, the way they so visibly relaxed once she was secured once more, and without so much as a second glance they locked the door to her cell and returned to their guard post down the hall, already discussing the visit with one another in low voices.
For twenty minutes or more, Mira did not move so much as a muscle, content to hang limply in her chains and wait. The arrival of a visitor would have excited the guards, especially one as beautiful and mysterious as Tiadora. They would spend some time discussing it with one another, indulging in idle speculation and the occasional crude remark for as long as they could reasonably expect to get away with before returning to their posts. It would do her no good if she slipped her chains and made it out of the cell block only to run into a group of half a dozen soldiers lingering in a hallway.
Through the small window to her cell she could just about see the sky, which was currently covered by thick clouds. That was good. Night had fallen barely an hour ago, if she reckoned correctly, which meant that the only real illumination for most of the prison would come from moonlight. An overcast night favored her, especially so long as she was careful to avoid ruining her night vision by staring at any torches or staying too close to the illuminated areas. The only thing that would make for a better situation would be... yes, there it was, a distant rumble of thunder and the sound of rain on stone. Not only would a storm provide further cover for any sounds she might make in her escape, it would sap the attention of the guards and drive them to huddle up under their cloaks or in doorways rather than keeping a proper watch for any trouble. Either way, she was unlikely to find a better set of circumstances before her three days were up.
In the cold darkness of the cell, Mira smiled to herself. It was time to begin.
The first step was to do something about her manacles. Carefully, Mira opened her fists and took a firm hold of the veil in both hands. The light was poor, but the silver thread made the shapes sewn into the silk easy to see even in the shadows, and after a few moments of study she managed to identify what she was after - a series of lines and coils that hinted at a small collection of fine tools. Moving with exquisite care, determined not to ruin her chances by dropping things on the floor and out of reach, she pinched the relevant section of the veil between two fingers and pulled. There was a soft tearing noise, and a moment later she was holding a finely-made lock pick in one hand.
Getting the pick into the keyhole on her manacles was more than a little awkward, given the distinct lack of flexibility offered by her bindings, but she had hours of time to work with and enough patience to make the best of them. Fortunately, it didn't actually require hours of work to achieve - a few minutes of fiddling and she was rewarded with a brief click as the manacles snapped open. Letting out a long sigh of relief, Mira brought the pick to her mouth and kissed it softly, grateful beyond measure that she'd listened to her uncle all those years ago and invested some time into understanding simple mechanical systems. Then, relishing the new mobility, she leaned over and got to work on the chains binding her legs.
The taste of freedom was finer than the sweetest wine, and the noblewoman had to stifle a joyous shout as she removed the last of the chains and stood unbound for the first time in weeks. It wasn't the physical restrictions of being imprisoned that had bothered her so much as the cold sense of utter helplessness the manacles brought with them. They were a symbol more than anything else, a reminder that whoever she had once been outside these walls, now she was no more than a helpless prisoner, unable to exert the slightest control over her own life or even the manner of her death. To be free of them at last was a gift almost beyond price, and at that moment Mirabelle Barca knew she would rather die than be chained again.
With quick, almost savage movements she tore the prison rags from her body, casting them aside piece by piece until she stood nude in the middle of the cell. The crude garments were a symbol every bit as much as the chains - too thin to offer protection from the elements and too ragged to preserve her modesty, they served only to define her as a lowly prisoner in the eyes of any that might care to look. If the price for defying such a degrading symbol was that she had to escape this place naked then it was one she would be happy to pay. Fortunately, though, a quick check revealed that such measures would not be necessary. Among the items included in the veil was a simple cloth bag, packed with a complete set of fresh clothes - a shirt, trousers and a comfortable set of walking boots. True, they were a far cry from the quality clothing she could expect as a noblewoman or the military splendour of her formal uniform, but they were sturdy, practical and perfectly fitted to her size. There were certainly worse options, so she donned them without delay, casting the occasional wary look back at the corridor outside her cell. It would not be ideal if a guard were to come along and discover her now, for there were few situations less conducive to self-defence than being found halfway through getting dressed.
Thus properly adorned once more, she quickly scanned the remainder of the veil for more shapes, pulling each implement free as she identified it. Better to have them on hand should the need arise rather than trying to locate and draw them when time was of the essence, after all. A pair of wickedly sharp daggers slid into the appropriate loops on her belt, and a small pouch full of coin was hung next to them, ensuring that she had the tools to deal with those situations that required either violence or bribery. A small lantern was considered and then discarded, for fear of drawing attention from any guard that might glance in her direction. A long coil of rope was wrapped tightly around her torso, passing over one shoulder and between her breasts to hang down by the opposite hip, and a small vial filled with red liquid was carefully stored in the same bag that had held her clothes before likewise being hung from her belt.
It was the last item, however, that truly drew her attention. A slender silver necklace, adorned with a simple icon wrought of twisted iron. She recognized the symbol instantly - there was only one being that used the inverted pentagram as its symbol, one name that every child in Talingarde was taught to hate and fear virtually from birth.
Asmodeus.
Well, that certainly answered a few questions, even if it did raise a dozen more. For a long moment, Mira simply stared at the innocuous symbol resting in the palm of her hand, pondering what it might mean. She took some pride in the fact that her family's tutors had never seen fit to hide the true nature of the world from her, so she knew considerably more about the Devil-God than most people in Talingarde. Her ancestors had worshipped him once, paying homage and obeying his precepts in exchange for rewards of power and wealth, an infernal patronage that had likely had more than a little to do with their original ascent to power. That had changed with the rise of the House of Darius, as Talingarde's new rulers held themselves in strict opposition to the philosophy of Hell and had stripped the Infernal Church of most of their power the moment they took the throne.
Nowadays, there was no Infernal Church in Talingarde, the worship of Asmodeus and his kind having been criminalised and then thoroughly stamped out over successive generations of Darian rule. Even his name had been scoured from the history books, replaced in most cases by the simple sobriquet of 'The Adversary' or any number of other sinister but non-descriptive terms. Possessing an icon of his faith or even knowing too much on the subject could see a man burned at the stake, their property confiscated by the Church and all rights and privileges they might have once held revoked. If Tiadora and her nameless patron were indeed followers of Asmodeus, as the amulet seemed to imply, they would by necessity be among the very last of their kind in the entirety of the country.
And if that was the case, what was she going to do about it? Slowly, Mira found her eyes drawn to the brand on her forearm, hidden now by cloth but still occasionally pulsing with burning pain. Mitra was for all intents and purposes the only god of note in modern Talingarde, his Church officially apolitical but in reality fully entwined with every aspect of the power structure. To be labelled as Forsaken was to be named an enemy of all Talingarde, cast out into the wilderness and barred from entry into all civilised society. She might find old friends and relatives who yet regarded her fondly enough to hide and shelter her for a time, but nothing they could ever do would revoke the sentence of death that the brand levied upon her. Once news of her escape was made public she would be hunted day and night by knight and peasantry alike, tracked across the land like a lowly beast and condemned to slaughter by men who knew themselves to be righteous.
In the face of that opposition, she had but two options. She could flee, running far and fast enough to escape the hounds of Darius that bayed at her heels, changing her name and past to forge a new life beyond the borders of the country where her enemies would not bother to pursue. It was not an especially appealing thought. For all its flaws, for all that the ruling powers had outlawed and condemned her, Talingarde was still her home. This was her country, the land that her fathers had ruled and that she had defended through years of service and the thought of simply abandoning it even now was enough to sicken her.
The other option was to fight, strike back against those who sought her death, overturn the social order that exiled her and the Royal House that condemned her. That was certainly more appealing, even if she knew enough to recognise her own pride and spiteful nature colouring the argument, but she was not so foolish as to believe that it was a goal that could be achieved on her own. She would need allies, resources and patronage of her own to even begin to approach such an ideal outcome, factors to level the playing field and allow her personal strength and willpower to see her through.
If that was the case, why not take up the cause of Asmodeus? The Darians were well known to have the support of the god Mitra, supporting and being supported by his Church to the point where the two institutions were virtually one and the same. To fight them with any hope of success she would need a divine patron of her own, and if the Lord of Light had marked her as his enemy, did it not make sense to seek support from the Lord of Darkness, who once had ruled supreme but was now cast out and condemned by the people of this land? For all their talk of dark lords and wicked champions of evil, not even the Mitrans had dared to suggest that Asmodeus would fail to support one who fought in his name, and right now she needed that support more than anything. And if pledging allegiance to such a being was to court damnation as the priests said, well, was she not already damned in their eyes? It wasn't as if she had anything else to really lose.
Decided, she slipped the necklace over her head and clutched the pointed star it bore in an iron grip, feeling the sharpened edges of the icon dig into the flesh of her hand as she tightened her grasp. She might be ignorant of the formal rites and incantations designed to draw the attention of the divine, but one common element in just about every story she had ever heard was how often the gods responded to even the simplest acts of sincerity and faith. With that in mind, she closed her eyes and focused her thoughts upon everything she had ever read or heard about the Lord of Hell.
"Oh Prince of Darkness and Lord of the Pit, mighty Asmodeus, hear my cry." She said softly, pitching her voice low to avoid being overheard by a passing guard but infusing each word with every scrap of sincerity and desperate will she could muster. "I am Mirabelle, forsaken scion of the House of Barca, they who served you once and would do so again. I call upon the pacts my ancestors made, the oaths of service sworn upon my blood. Let me by thy instrument upon this mortal plane, an agent of thy infernal will. Give me the strength to cast down the House of Darius, and I shall serve in their place at your command. Give me fortitude to resist the searing light of Mitra, and I shall restore your church to its rightful place in this land. And above all else, oh Master of Hell, give me vengeance on those who have wronged me, and I shall carve your name into the very soul of this nation in endless tribute. By blood and fire, so let it be."
At first, the words came slowly, the noblewoman struggling to give shape to thoughts and concepts unfamiliar or dimly remembered, but each in turn seemed easier to say than the previous, until oaths and prayers alike were streaming from her mouth in an endless litany. It was as though some great dam within her mind had given way, and everything she had ever thought but not dared to say came rushing forth in a great torrent, her hopes and desires and very soul given form and cast out into the world in desperate invocation.
And as the echoes of the last word sounded in the darkness of her cold stone cell, she was answered.
It began with a whisper, an sibilant hiss on the very edge of her hearing that gradually grew louder, as though some great serpent was drawing ever closer. There were words there, the distinctive cadence of speech, but she did not recognise the tongue and could not determine their meaning. In her cell, the shadows seemed to grow deeper, the light from the distant torch slowly being strangled by the growing darkness that pooled around her kneeling form like water. It should have been cold, the endless chill of the costal night seeping into her motionless body as it had when she was bound in chains, but that did not happen. Instead, the air in the cell began to grow warm, as though heated by some great fire just out of sight. Given the discomfort she had so recently been enduring on account of the damp chill that pervaded the prison, Mira could not help but revel in the increased heat, the fierce joy in her heart only magnified by the evidently supernatural origins of the manifestation. She had spoken prayers to Mitra before, usually when it became necessary to convince her superiors and fellow soldiers that she was as devout as they in the name of political expediency, but the Lord of Light had never answered her. This, though... this was everything she had ever wanted and more, a sign from a deity that she was worthy of even the slightest attention.
Before her eyes, the heavy metal lock that held her cell door shut began to glow, at first a dull cherry red before progressing through to a brilliant white heat. The air around it shimmered with the excess heat, and with a slow inevitability the metal began to bend and melt under the touch of the magical flames. Drizzles of molten metal fell from the rapidly collapsing lock to pool upon the stone floor, and before long there simply wasn't enough of the lock remaining to hold the door close. It was at that point that the glow began to die back down, whatever infernal energy had been responsible draining away along with the deeper shadows and distant noises to leave her alone in the cell once again. Even so, Mira didn't mind - it would be almost childish to demand more at this point, now that her prayer had been acknowledged in such an obvious fashion.
True, she could likely have gotten pass the lock herself given time, especially with the aid of the fine tools her mysterious benefactor had smuggled in for her, but it seemed likely that was half the point. Asmodeus was not the kind of god to solve all of her problems for her just because she asked, nor would he provide a solution to a problem that she could not overcome on her own. Perhaps later, once she had proven herself worthy of greater investment she might be rewarded with such infernal assistance, but for now a simple sign of acknowledgement and something to speed the wheels was more than enough.
Waiting until the metal had cooled enough to be safe to approach, Mira rose from her kneeling position and carefully pushed the door to her cell. It swung open silently, and she stepped out into the corridor beyond, hands already caressing the hilts of her twinned daggers.
It was time to leave this wretched place, and gods have mercy on anyone that got in her way.