Conundrum
"Whatever was damaged shall be compensated." Kian promises the portly man standing in front of a house with a broken down door, staring nervously.
"Yes, yes, or course!" The portly man is wringing his hands nervously when the Magical is brought out. He has violet skin and is of slim build. He throws a nasty look at the property owner but does not resist the arrest.
"You are not in any trouble yourself, if that is what you're worried about. You have obeyed the law and acted as a proper citizen should," Kian says. The man is visibly relieved. "I understand if you're angry though." He adds casually. This steers the homeowner around, facing him wide eyed.
"Angry? No, no, no, not at all!"
"Really?" Kian feigns surprise. "My people have just broken down this exquisitely carved door and I'm certain you heard the broken glass when they were inside, just as I did. Surely you feel a little resentful?"
"No, no, I understand the necessity of it all, I would never hold it against you and yours, good sir."
Kian says nothing, turning instead to address the men in his temporary service, instructing them to take the prisoner away and await for his further orders. He takes one last glance at the overly cooperative home owner before issuing a formal thanks and leaving him to his business. He could read the discontent on the man's round face as surely as if the words were written all over it. He's been trying this time and again, it's becoming a habit of his, admittedly not the healthiest one. He reprimands himself for wasting time, promises himself he will drop this act, but he can't. The only times he ever gets an honest answer is with prisoners whose fate has already been decided, people with nothing to lose, rebels and their sympathizers, Magicals caught red handed doing vile magic. A few times Magicals in a Ghetto dare to speak up, tough he can still see caution in their demeanor, they remain guarded and leave a lot unsaid. Others try and lie, or avoid answering. He receives many thanks on behalf of his people, for saving and protecting Marcuria. He hears praises of the Goddess. Some do it better, some not so much, but they all lie. Never again has anyone thrown their honest opinions at him the way the Strange Woman - as he mentally names her - did days ago. He has never spied her in the city since, although he secretly hopes he still might. He considers delaying his trip back after his mission is accomplished and the Scorpion is sent to the next life, to find the woman and talk to her again. He cannot actively seek her out yet, it would be unforgivable, he already spends too much time contemplating her words. Sometimes his thoughts travel to a darker route. What if she was a rebel after all? He didn't miss the daggers at her hips, though that didn't necessarily mean anything. Still, she was headed to the Friar's Keep, and a prisoner disappeared from there the same day. But the said prisoner had been accused of materializing out of thin air, it wouldn't hurt reason to assume that she could just as well disappear through thin air, it didn't have to have anything to do with her. And once again, he returns to his first conclusion. Had she been the culprit, she wouldn't have been so honest with him, that would be a little… stupid. So he sets the thought aside, again and again. It almost feels like a sin to suspect her, after such undiluted sincerity. What he cannot set aside is the thought of how much deception and pretense he receives when he seeks an honest opinion from anyone else. So many carefully selected words, polite smiles and each more false than another.
For several days now things have been catching his attention, the things he would have and probably has ignored before. He notices a blue skin female calming her offspring in the most motherly way possible, sending a dull pang through his chest, the feline half man helping a starved homeless human with some food. More bits and snatches of that extraordinary conversation start popping up in his head as he sees acts of kindness and cruelty, honesty and deceit, empathy and indifference, so ordinary, so human... and he finally realizes he's going too far. He half wants to get the Strange Woman's words out of his head for once and for all, but it's a battle he's losing everyday. Contrary to his intentions, her voice becomes a clearer memory, ingrained in the depths of his mind, as if some other part of him is holding onto it. He catches himself involuntarily guessing what she would say every time he makes progress on his mission, when he finds the lead, when he seizes a likely informant, when his sword plunges through the throats of the unlucky few that foolishly thought to stand in his way. They are brave, he readily admits it. But that's not enough to stand in the way of the Apostle whose hand is guided by the Goddess. The victory is swift and sure each time. This is what keeps him going. Whatever the Strange Woman said, the Goddess is leading him on his path, it cannot be a wrong one. She was very passionate about her views, it's undeniable. She seemed intelligent enough that she would have had reasons for holding them. All the more pity that she does not know the Love of the Goddess, hasn't been anointed in Her Light. Even as she was born of it, being a human, she did not walk in it. Had she known the infinite wisdom of his faith, the blessing, the bliss it brought to all that turned to it, she would have understood, surely. He can only pray that it happens one day. She did not seem unworthy of it, if he dared to be a judge of such things.
His prisoner is taken to a special barrack set aside for him to use as an interrogation room. He does not cooperate with the Friar's Keep all that well and cannot stomach their zealous bureaucracy. The Dolmari is set on a chair. Chained to a chair would be more accurate. Some of his possessions are spread on a small stool nearby. Kian gives his attention to them first.
"What is this?" He takes a small piece of cloth. It's dark blue satin, with extraordinary embroidery in silver thread, but what it depicts Kian is not quite sure.
"It's a piece of cloth", the prisoner says. A bravado Kian has seen only too many times, and most of the times it falters in the end.
"I can see that", he's perfectly calm, turning the cloth this way and that, "but what is this silver shape embroidered on it?"
"A pretty ornament".
Kian nods. "You're a Magical, hiding outside the ghetto. The owner of the place we arrested you is very forthcoming about your identity, your friends and the kind of business you conduct. Do you think this attitude can make your situation any better?"
"It can't make my situation much worse either, can it?"
"Perhaps it can. You could be subjected to unnecessary pain. What if we torture you for answers and our efforts are a touch too much?"
"Then my blood would spill on the same soil as that of my forebearers, I would draw my last breath on the grounds my sacred temple stood instead of being shipped off to your accursed capital to stand some farce of a trial. What do you know? It turns out my attitude can make my situation better, Azadi!"
Kian's face is carved in stone, "An admirable sentiment", he says, "although you are quite mistaken. No Magical is allowed to set foot in our holy capital, we have other areas reserved for the likes of you. But I suppose, it makes little difference to you". He takes a seat opposite his prisoner, eye to eye. "Is this thing precious to you then?" He asks. "It must mean a lot to you, or you would not be protecting this secret." The Dolmari remains silent. "I know this is some heathen symbol. It will be destroyed either way. All you can hope for is to leave a memory of it in another man's mind."
The prisoner gives him a curious look, appraising him anew, "What would you care of that memory, Azadi? If you think this symbol can give you any information, you…"
"I don't", Kian cuts in, "All I'm trying to do is…" What am I trying to do, really? "To learn and to understand", he decides in the end.
It's followed by a silence filled with suspicion. The other man narrows his eyes at him, trying to see falsehood. "It's the White of the Draic Kin, The Mother", he finally draws, the words mean little and less to Kian, "Do you even know who the Draic Kin are, Azadi?" he does not bother to keep disdain out of his voice.
"I can't claim such knowledge", Kian admits, "The only mothers I've ever known are the woman I was born to and the Goddess who gave life to us all."
Dolmari snorts, "You and your Goddess… Well, Azadi, the Draic Kin are the heralds of the Balance, our guides and protectors when we almost doomed ourselves, they were instrumental in creating the Divide and founded the Order of the Sentinels. After the Divide the White and the Blue of the Kin have come here to Arcadia and the Red and the Green have gone to Stark". He pauses and laughs. "You have no clue what I'm saying! You don't understand any of it, you don't know a thing about the Balance, the Divide. All of you are the same. You ignorant fools… You don't even know what you are messing with". His face twists as bitterness spreads over it while Kian fights to control his rage at being made a mockery.
The conversation ends with Kian calling for the soldiers to do with the prisoner what they will. There will be a beating at the very least, probably worse, but he does not interfere with any of it. He has others held for questioning and question them he does. They prove far less brave, willingly providing information he needs, giving him names, facts, an address.
He spends extra time sitting in front of a fireplace that night, sharpening his sword, knowing he'll need to use it soon enough. Only when the Sun rises next day his focus is put to test by Neale's messenger bringing him a note. The purple skin Dolmari has somehow managed to hit his head on a doorpost so hard, he died on the spot. Kian's first inclination is disbelief, he is almost convinced that the interrogation went too far, until he reads that this happened when they were leading him out after he had been questioned, informed he was to be shipped off to the Azadi Empire. He went willing and docile, the note says, but at the door he made an unexpected move to jerk himself out of the grasp of his gaolers, too relaxed to react in time. He smashed his temple on the wooden post with such strength, he shattered it. The man put his actions where his words were, Kian thinks bitterly. He was an unholy magical, but the notion does nothing to diminish Kian's unwilling respect for him. When he heads to his destination, escorted by a handful of soldiers sent by the Emissary, he can't help but wonder if any of them would have the guts to do the same.