The Cell
On a loose sheet of paper tucked into the front of the journal of Tamsin Trevelyan, Inquisitor
The guards brought the paper, quill, and ink I requested. Surprising - I assumed they would refuse. A greater surprise will be if I can read my own penmanship. These shackles are frighteningly well-made; holding the paper steady while the quill scribbles across it is nigh impossible. At least they needn't fear I'll try to pick the lock. Maybe they expect I am writing a confession?
What should I be confessing to?
Perhaps the greatest surprise will be surviving once I find out.
Everyone is so angry… The guards are hard-eyed and hateful, and there are always at least two in the cell with me, swords ready. When they deign to acknowledge my questions at all, their answers are terse, spat with derision. Mostly they ignore me, as much as they can ignore someone sitting practically at their feet. Clearly whatever they believe me guilty of is terrible. And my hand -
The last thing I remember, before waking, shackled and…and glowing in this prison is walking toward the chapel to pray for a successful outcome to Divine Justinia's conclave. Maybe the Maker doesn't care if we all kill each other off, down here, but Andraste should. Though I cannot imagine why she'd listen to me. I turned my back on Chantry life a long time ago. Cadfael wouldn't have ended up like this.
When the guards actually brought what I asked for, I considered writing my family about the deplorable way I'm being treated, and for reasons no one will tell me. But even if my words reached them, that's the only response I would receive. "Cadfael wouldn't have ended up like that." I know mother. I told you I'd make a mess of it. I miss him, too.
What could I possibly have done in that chapel to warrant being trussed up and held at swordpoint in a fetid cell, like some kind of common criminal? Is it simply fear of this mark on my hand?
Hard to blame them, if it's that. It hurts. It looks like no magic I've ever seen, though my experience is limited, I'll grant, despite - or maybe because of - my closest brother being a Templar. Oh, what he'd say of this! A dull green glow emanates from it constantly, and sometimes it flares bright enough to burn my eyes, hissing and crackling and sending waves of fire up my arm and through my chest. The ache takes a long time to fade back to a low throb, and then it flares again. Like it's straining to do…something…but hasn't the power, and must rest to gather its energy to try again.
I know, I know. I read too many novels as a child.
If - when I am released, I hope the guards return my daggers. They're all I have left of Cadfael.
Why am I bothering to write anything?
#
Question answered. Even voicing my fears only to a piece of paper that won't tell me to "Shut my damned mouth," is a comfort. I set it aside a while. Had a hellish time picking it up again in these shackles, and feared one of my guards would skewer me for moving too much. But would he assist? Of course not.
I gather someone more important than my guards will soon be coming to question me. Neither name nor title has yet been audible, but they speak with obvious respect. Despite wishing for someone of authority to whom I might plead…my case? My ignorance? What will I even say?...worry gnaws at me. Without knowing what I'm to have done, how can I convince anyone I didn't?
And worse - what if I did?
What if that gaping void in my memory really does contain something worth locking me up and throwing away the key? Or executing me? Inconvenient though I am, my family would be devastated to lose another child to this wretched war.
Curse you, Cadfael, and your damned sense of duty, going off to die for -
No. Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.
The mages he saved could have at least brought his body home. They certainly made ample effort to loot his Templar "brethren" who killed him.
Maker's blood and balls, this hand…!
#
The pain is passing again, finally. And now I must hope that in the event of my execution, no one sends this to my parents. Consider that a request, oh reader. They're likely to have more to say about my language than my death. Unfair, you say? You've obviously never met my family.
And now I'm talking to the paper. Goodness. Maybe this mark is causing some kind of derangement. Won't that be fun? (Maker, I hope not. I've always talked to things. This is a logical progression. Right?)
Voices echo from the hall outside. Female. I cannot place the accents but…
No. One is Navarran. Harsh. Angry.
The other seems to be Orlesian, but she's speaking so gently, I'm not -
Oh. Surely they aren't bringing the Divine herself to -
No, there were many Orlesians at the Conclave; it could be anyone. Probably a Revered Mother. Hopefully. Maybe hopefully? Would the Divine be more sympathetic to -
- whatever I'm supposed to have done?
They're coming closer. I should…stop. One of the guards is gesturing for my things.
Maker, find me alive tomorrow.
(Notes: Maybe this has been done to death; I don't know. The idea got its teeth in me and wouldn't let go, and it's a style I haven't written much in, so I wanted to try it. We'll see how it goes. I'm planning to continue this in a similar vein, quick peeks into the life of the Inquisitor in a diary format, rather than a full-on story. Let me know what you think!)