Chapter 9: Exile

Don't depend too much on anyone in this world because even your own shadow leaves you when you are in darkness.

— Taqî ad-Dîn Aḥmad ibn Taymiyyah

"Perhaps we should speak of this in the morning?" The Elder sat back, satisfied the campfire was well stoked. "Rest: sleep. Tomorrow break bread with us and then we'll be able to decide where to go."

But Lisa knew there would be no sleep. Not only because her body had become unaccustomed to retiring at that early hour of the evening after all those late nights with Țepeș, but because she was wary of being left alone with her thoughts.

"Why do you think this prophecy is about me?" She was determined to obtain at least one answer to an unpleasant question.

"Because instead of coincidences, we believe in signs. Your presence triggered a vision in a Revered Speaker—"

"Yes, I come from the village of Lupu. And Lupu means wolf, but," she challenged him, leaning forward, facing the Elder across the orange glow of the fire, "how do you know that by merely mentioning I am from Lupu earlier did not trigger your Revered Speaker's memory?"

Mircea nodded sympathetically.

"Could be, could be."

"I am a woman traveling alone. You met me as I settled among refugees in a field: it is quite natural to surmise that I, like most of the people with nowhere to go, am 'burdened', no?"

"Absolutely," Mircea agreed in a sanguine tone.

Lisa eyed the man suspiciously. He was being agreeable: even reasonable. But she had the feeling he was not one bit deterred from his thinking by her observations.

"Absolutely…But?" she added, expectantly.

"I do not know what you expect me to say." He shrugged.

"You still believe…?"

"Lisa, you are a healer, yes? As such you know, better than most, that certain symptoms may indicate an illness, but that sometimes more observation and more time may be required."

"Yes…" she acknowledged.

"Prophecies are the same: I can't be certain of anything, but I have my presentiments. And I am willing to consider what they may lead to. Signs are not always clear—or better: the designs of the Universe are clear, but our abilities are limited. After all, we have only one body and one brain with which to experience all of life. It is easy for impressions to be tainted by fears and other prejudices. It is why sometimes it is difficult for us to distinguish reverence from fear or why there is little difference between the physical manifestations of a mystic's ecstasy during spiritual contemplation and a lover's blissful release during the sexual act."

Lisa turned her face away. The Elder quickly cleared his throat.

"Forgive me." He clasped his hands over his knees. "I got carried away and committed a terrible mistake for a storyteller: I failed to consider my audience's sensibilities. I did not mean to discomfit you. I only meant to speak to you as an equal, as a learned companion. Perhaps, though, as we have only recently met, I ought to choose my words and examples a bit better." He offered her a small, polite nod. Lisa's brow furrowed.

"I am no prude: what you said did not offend or shock me." She could not reveal, however, that his words had brought back memories of that strange night, of the intense, exquisite pleasure shimmering through her body, numbing awareness of Țepeș' teeth piercing her flesh, draining her blood—just the thought made her shudder. Such violence occurred simultaneously, alongside the tender way he held her, in how he clasped her palm against his chest. In her delirious, muddled mind, she dreamed she had coaxed a bloom of warmth, of life, from cold, indifferent stone. For a brief moment of dizzying clarity, she no longer knew what boundaries existed between her and Țepeș. It had been intimate— more intimate than any physical experience she had ever exchanged with any lover. It was a sensation of wholeness, of profound oneness, at once exhilarating and peaceful.

…et ne nos inducas in tentationem: sed libera nos a malo…Lead us not into temptation: but deliver us from evil…The supplication echoed in her mind. Why was it that despite all her attempts to cling to reason, to logic, it was thoughts of the many prayers and incantations she'd been taught as a child and surrounded with all her life that presented themselves to her aid, to scatter her confusion? All those beliefs heeded the warnings: of the devil's guile, of the illusions he was capable of unleashing. It was the province of craven superstition assailing her, threatening the orderly universe she had so defended and loved.

"Lisa?"

The voice called her gently, but when she raised her eyes, the entire world appeared to blur. It was only at Mircea's interjection of concern that she realized her cheeks were bathed in tears.

Forces hailing from Făgăras began to move south in the morning, unwilling to grant the Ottomans further territory and the possibility of defeat and loss of a major stronghold. Soldiers rode south, preparing to face the Ottomans in an open battlefield. The town, and its Saxon walls, less massive and imposing than Făgăras', would serve as the Wallachians' fortress.

Carts creaked noisily as townsfolk fled northward. War was imminent as the armored horsemen rode past the town hoisting the standards of noble houses Lisa did not recognize.

In the afternoon, a telltale stillness hung in the air; it was akin to the moroseness before a menacing storm. In the distance, columns of smoke rose into the sky.

"Should we move north as well?" the Elder's wife asked. Their belongings awaited, neatly bundled, ready to be carried out at a moment's notice.

"We stay," Mircea decided.

Lisa glanced toward the desolate, rocky countryside, fierce determination on her face.

Then I will stay, too.

The first wave of soldiers returned at daybreak, bringing the survivors of the first clash of battle—at least, those who were fit enough to ride or withstand being hauled over a horse. Lisa presented herself at the church, where pews had been pushed away and the nave cleared to house the wounded. Three other Speakers went with her: the Elder's wife, Sypha, and Liviu.

At the church she encountered the usual assortment of battle injuries, which she quickly began to treat. She struggled to find a balance between honesty and encouragement. It was exhausting work she performed with conflicting emotions: it brought her thoughts closer to the man who had imparted so much wisdom to her. She couldn't help being touched deeply by the wounded. To the boyars, those soldiers were merely numbers: bricks in a wall they hoped would hold. But she felt compassion for the sorrow of her patients, many of them untried soldiers, finding their first taste of battle a sobering rather than a glorious one. She had treated an ashen-faced man gripping an arrow's shaft, its head firmly lodged in his shoulder, his lips pale and quivering. Another lad with haunted eyes sat dejectedly on the ground, clasping his abdomen as if trying to hold in his entrails; despite the superficial wound, he wept as bitterly as if he had been struck mortally. Lisa worked with quiet efficiency, with the confidence of a seasoned healer bolstered by the knowledge she had acquired. She held shaking hands, stroked sweaty and grimy foreheads, listened to tearful regrets and unrestrained resentment. A boy no more than fourteen had died in her care: he had squeezed her hand fearfully until a terrible quiet overcame him. Nameless and small, she had held him as she imagined his mother would have wanted her boy to be consoled, trying her best to impart to him, somehow, that he was not alone as his grasp on life waned.

Other healers watched her interestedly and heeded her recommendations: buckets of fresh, clean water were hauled in for the frequent washing of hands, cloth wraps boiled in a cauldron at the nearby smithy, and needles were run through flames before stitching wounds. It was far from ideal, Lisa knew, finding herself at the helm of that improvised infirmary, but the odds were better than they would have been without those rudimentary cares.

Liviu had become her shadow. He was no healer, but he was large and eager to help. He hoisted pails of water, carefully relocated the wounded, and delivered her instructions to their helpers. A Speaker's memory was useful, Lisa found, when keeping track of detailed directions and to whom to give poultices, salves, balms, extracts, and tinctures. She found she only needed to repeat herself once with him before he ventured forth, a gentle giant among ailing men.

"Come. Now you must rest."

Lisa peered up from her patient at Sypha's benevolent expression. It was early into the evening of the second day.

"But there are so many wounded!"

"You will be of no use to anyone if you give in to exhaustion or fall ill." Sypha crossed her arms authoritatively. She was small and her closely-shorn hair reminded her of a sprinkling of ashes, but Lisa had met similar women at the convent. They were accustomed to issuing their orders in the guise of suggestions. She smiled wanly before hoisting herself up from the ground, where she had been sitting, keeping watch over a soldier whose high fever had finally broken. One was wise to heed such "suggestions".

When Lisa finally departed the church, she moved swiftly through the narrow streets, her gait broad and confident despite the unease the soldiers camped out on the town square caused in her. She rushed past bands of men who were distracted enough by her solitary figure to eye her with suspicion, resentment, or, what caused her step to quicken, interest. She had pulled her hood over her head, trying to deflect any unwelcome attention to herself.

A pair of bleary eyes followed Lisa through the square gradually registering recognition. After she turned down a street, the man jutted his chin in her direction contemptuously.

"Vrăjitoare," he uttered before spitting on the ground.

He hoisted himself off the ground unsteadily, his tabard featuring a black Tular and a crescent moon stained with the rusty hues of mud and blood.

He knew what he had seen and to whom he'd have to report it to.

The Speakers had taken shelter in an empty stable inside the town. The stale odor of livestock permeated the small building, but it was a dry roof over their heads, something she was grateful for when thunder began roiling in the distance. The town had been practically deserted since the last two days and Lisa was grateful she had taken up with such a welcoming band of travelers. Her tense expression eased when she met Radu's earnest face at the door. Safety, at that point, was an illusion. She understood that wars all had an unpredictable order of their own, eschewing laws and other quaint constraints imposed on men during saner times. But she took solace in the illusion, believing that among experienced wanderers such as the Speakers, she was protected. They had seen and experienced so much: surely they would recognize signs of danger to themselves. The charms they wore and placed throughout their campsites did not irk her so much: they were proof of watchfulness. Lisa fell asleep, exhausted, her cloak spread over clumps of hay, the sound of dripping water coming from the back of the stable lulling her into a dreamless slumber.

The knock fell hard against the door, rattling it and causing a general sense of alarm and confusion among the Speakers. The Elder emerged from a darkened corner, wiping bits of hay off his long blue cloak. Dorinel followed him cautiously while the others retreated further inside. Lisa watched the menacing men approach the door when she heard a sharp hissing sound behind her. With a glance over her shoulder, she noticed the small fire had been completely doused. Her eyes narrowed—there was no one close enough to douse it. A confused glance toward Florica was met with a conspiratorial nod and a finger poised over her lips in a gesture of silence as she sat beside the oldest Sypha.

It was still dark outside, but the entrance became flooded with the foreboding flicker of torchlights. She burrowed deeper in the hay, hoping she was not conspicuous.

"We are searching for a woman," a booming voice declared. Lisa frowned. Something about it sounded familiar. "She was seen headed in this direction from the church earlier in the evening."

Mircea replied. "Here you will find Speakers and while some of ours are at the church to help with the wounded, none of them has returned yet."

Lisa couldn't help a faint grin. The Elder hadn't lied: he'd merely worded his response very strategically.

"We'll verify that for ourselves." A figure clad in a dark hood stepped inside and turned toward them. Lisa's eyes widened. She was finally able to place him: he was one of the conjurers that had visited Tepes' castle. Sheer panic coursed through her.

"Please do. And sit with us to tell us how the battle with the invaders goes."

As if on cue, a strong, pungent stench arose from the nearby bays. Florica stepped forward, dutifully.

"Tea?" she proposed.

Eugen and Matei began a childish, melancholy wail and Radu punctuated it with a loud and splintery cough.

Mircea remained standing, his hand outstretched in the gloom of the barn. Florica scurried as if trying to start a new fire. Lisa held still, holding her breath, watching only Florica's fluid movements—the rattling of a pot, the failed spark of a flint strike.

The conjurer also held still, a gradual expression of disgust winning over his curiosity as the odor grew more putrid and the wailing tiresomely shrill.

"We must continue our search. Be on the lookout," he warned them.

"For a solitary woman?" Mircea wondered."What crime could she have possibly—"

"She is a witch."

"A witch? What kind of witch?"

The conjurer smirked.

"She spies on us— she reports back on our losses."

"To what purpose?" Mircea appeared doubtful.

"Not to what purpose: to whom," he revealed ominously. "She serves the Dragon himself. Once the defender of our people, the Dragon would now see us fall to a fate as grim as Constantinople's."

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Florica stopped her busy rifling and Radu halted mid cough. Only the whiny cries pierced the silence. Lisa felt any hope dissipate; her lot had been cast without her even realizing it the moment she had sought out Țepeș.

"Surely, you realize the Dragon was never a friend of the people," Mircea finally spoke. "To seek his aid is to invite disaster to strike. This is a grave matter, indeed."

"Yes: you would know, wouldn't you?" the conjurer added, his resentment over his futile expedition to enlist Țepeș rekindled. He raised his hand to his nose, trying to break the waves of nauseating stench. "Inform the authorities should you come across her. She is tall, fair haired," he warned. "There is a reward for her capture." His eyes surveyed the room's darkness. "Remember there is punishment for those aiding and abetting a witch."

"No doubt. And just what do you plan to do once you capture the Dragon's servant?"

The man smiled grimly.

"Why, render the Dragon deaf and blind, of course! If he will not aid us, then he has no business here. After all, 'Maleficos non patieris vivere'," he quoted with an oiliness that made Lisa grit her teeth from the blatant hypocrisy.

"Yes, yes." Mircea feigned awe as the conjurer stepped out.

After the door slammed shut and was secured tightly again, Mircea let out a long sigh.

"Florica…You can make it stop now."

At the sound of his voice, the petite woman sprang into action. Lisa was able to perceive, behind the hands she'd loosely clamped over her eyes, a flash of bright light. Compelled by the brightness, Lisa removed her hands to find the fire glowing once more and the hideous stench gone.

"Lisa, you can come out now," Mircea called. "We must talk."

She gazed down at her satchel.

"Yes. I understand. I will take my leave. I do not wish to place you all in danger."

Mircea let out a soft huff.

"Danger? We can handle arrogance and ignorance. We have had lifetimes of experience. The danger you need to concern yourself with is of a different ilk. A far more different ilk."

He peered about the stable, spotting the solitary loft.

"Come up. We must speak."

"Very well," she agreed warily.

Mircea sat on the floor stiffly. Lisa took his arm gently, but he waved her away with mild impatience.

"The day I cannot do these things for myself is the day I need to step off the road. I am not ready for that yet." He grinned.

"The Speakers tell stories, some so old they have transcended history and become legend. We tell them. It is not our purview to decide on their veracity. We are merely their stewards. We tell the stories. And a story differs very little from a spell. A story can heal…and it can harm."

Lisa shifted uncomfortably.

"I will admit to being entranced by a good story, but as to spells and magic…"

"You've made it abundantly clear: you reject magic."

She did not shrink from his gaze.

"Although my beliefs have been challenged, I feel I must."

"Why?"

"I am a woman of science. I believe…in the forces that govern nature. In their fixed and predictable order. Magic is simply—"

"Another branch of science?"

Lisa shook her head.

"It is born of a desire to thwart and overpower, to usurp and change. It proposes to violate the forces of nature, and therefore, I cannot believe…It is merely wishful thinking!"

"Lisa, a practitioner of magic must study as carefully as any disciple of the natural sciences."

"To consort with demons? To compel them to do their bidding? That is just preposterous and a disgraceful excuse to exempt one of responsibility! So, if a man in a fit of anger murders his wife, he can blame it on demons, on black magic, and be absolved?"

Mircea pondered it.

"Only if, in fact, demons were involved."

Lisa let out a frustrated growl.

"I will admit: most are ill-equipped to assess such matters. How does one know, Lisa?" He shrugged. "You are a doctor. How do you know whether an illness is one thing or another?"

"Aah! I have procedures to follow and tests I can conduct to observe and come to conclusions. It is all there—not always plain for the eye to see, but if the right experiments are done, I will be able to ascertain—"

"And what happens if you do not fully understand what you are supposed to do? What happens if you err in a step or administer the wrong treatment?"

"People can be harmed…Perhaps even die."

Mircea nodded, satisfied.

"Yes, yes. It seems we have a common enemy."

Lisa tilted her head.

"Ignorance," he revealed.

"Very well. Let us assume then that magic," she paused briefly to let the absurdity of it all settle in, "is, as you propose, a science. It just seems to be very arbitrary and dependent on the powers and skills of so-called conjurers. In theory, anyone can study science and come up with the same observations and results. Not so in the field of magic."

"Mm…I will grant you that magic is more selective. Not all are are capable of practicing it. Not all are born with the talent or predisposition." He grinned again. "But I am sure there is a scientific reason for that."

She shook her head tiredly, unable to even crack a grin.

"Let me ask you this: what is the definition of a fundamentalist?" Mircea wondered.

"From what I've observed, it is someone who will interpret dogma literally and not consider any other interpretations or possibilities that would threaten their beliefs, to the point of embracing irrational and improbable stances."

"Ah. Would you say that is a good definition of your attitude toward magic?"

Lisa's brow furrowed in immediate indignation.

"The difference is, I'm not burning other people at the stake for having opposing beliefs!"

"No, you aren't. But the very nature of a scientist is to remain inquisitive and open to various possibilities, always striving to chart the unknown, isn't it?"

"This is different!"

"Is it? You are being as dogmatic and as intolerant, in some ways, as the blindly pious. All that differs are your beliefs— but the contempt, the assumption of being right, the assumption of moral superiority—are all there. Be very careful, Lisa, for if we aren't watchful and honest, we often become what we hate."

She remained seated before him, stunned. She was overcome by a dizzying sense, a free fall through a gaping hole. She recalled Țepeș back in the laboratory talking to her about alchemy and how the occult was a science of its own. "The first science," he'd uttered. She had been disinterested, unwilling to entertain it at all.
Vlad was trying to tell me then, she realized with a pang of sadness.

What would have happened instead if I had listened? Where would we be now? she thought with a surge of longing.

Mircea had prodded at something profound, however: she immediately rejected any conversation that hinted at anything supernatural with the same disdain and outrage she observed and resented when the faithful doubted her medicine, her scientific methods.

He is right. I have not approached any of this with an open mind. In some ways I have been no different than the faithful, blind in their devotion and rabid in their rejection of anything that is different from their faith.

"Your dedication to science needn't be lessened by accepting that magic exists. It merely broadens your own understanding of the universe," the man reasoned.

Lisa looked up, troubled.

"There is much to ponder."

"Good! That's more than I could ask for." Below, all they could hear was Florica's soft singing to soothe Eugen and Matei. "Now we can have an earnest conversation about your master, the Dragon."

A/N:
I haven't been able to write as much as I had hoped these last weeks, but I'm still writing. I'm excited for new episodes of the series. Any word yet on a release date?

Here are this chapter's nerdy notes with unsolicited commentary (I cross post to AO3, where I can post links to various historical sources for fun and maximum insufferablenessititude)

Constantinople fell to the Ottomans in 1453 (only a couple years before events in Castlevania take place). It was a horrible conquest. After a several days of battle, and Emperor Constantine (let us pause and reflect on how the Byzantine Empire began and ended with Constantines) refusing Mehmed II's ultimatum to pay tribute in exchange for relative freedom, the Ottomans breached Constantinople's legendary defenses. What ensued is from the Ancient History Encyclopedia: ". . .[R]ape, pillage, and destruction began. Many of the city's inhabitants committed suicide rather than be subject to the horrors of capture and slavery. Perhaps 4,000 were killed outright, and over 50,000 were shipped off as slaves. Many sought refuge in churches and barricaded themselves in, including inside the Hagia Sophia, but these were obvious targets for their treasures, and after they were looted for their gems and precious metals, the buildings and their priceless icons were smashed, the cowering captives butchered. Uncountable art treasures were lost, books were burned, and anything with a Christian message was hacked to pieces, including frescoes and mosaics."
I want to point out something else of interest: Mehmed used to make examples of leaders/messengers/anyone who pissed him off who opposed him by sticking them on pikes. It is likely that the historical Vlad Țepeș learned various methods of torture while he was held by the Ottomans in his youth. #worstvacationever #culturalexchangefail

Lupu is a real village in Cergău Commune in Transylvania. It's an area rich in history going far back into antiquity. In the late 1970s, a hoard of Dacian silver artifacts was uncovered in the area. The Dacian Silver Hoard of Lupu dates from the 1st century BCE.

"Maleficos non patieris vivere"- Exodus 22:18 : "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" (King James Bible). Now here's an interesting detail: although the vulgate bibles (the oldest surviving version being the Codex Amiatinus, a manuscript from the 8th century. You can see it in all its illuminated glory from the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana's digital collection ) clearly use the term maleficos, Latin for "wizards/witches", the original Hebrew is far more nebulous. The word mekhashepha, although also translated as "witch" by many prominent Hebrew scholars, also has a connection to early translations of the Old Testament into Greek during the 3rd century by Jewish scholars in Egypt: the Septuagint. This work defines mekhashepha as "herbalist" and further linguistic sleuthing has demonstrated that it even has a connection to "poisoner."
Tl;dr? — Crappy translators cost lives.

Vrăjitoare - witch

Next chapter coming soon, now with more Dracula! I promise.