Breakfast was a gloomy affair, gloomy enough that Shana was allowed a seat at the usual rectangular table downstairs, in the servant’s quarters, sitting in Karina’s chair no less. Head maid Manalia ate with the usual pageantry, carefully and purposefully, like a noble born. The head butler, too, was quiet, not having even raised the first concerns of the day like he usually wont to do.

Karina’s absence was no-doubt glaring to everyone, and yet they kept quiet.

It was the twins that first broke the silence. Safina, the blue-eyed twin, cleared her throat. “Shall we speak with Lady Losinda on all our behalf?”

“No.” Manalia spared but a single word before she resumed her meal.

Before Moria, the red-eyed twin, could talk, the maroon-eyed butler Josack then spoke. “She will be healed at the behest of our house healer,” he said. “We may yet hope that she is gracious enough to lend her aid.”

Shana had direly underestimated the Goldman’s standing in the house, to be so important as to keep even the most outspoken ones of them all quiet and brooding, even after such a barbarous display. Karina was still in her bed, wheezing like a sickly child on the brink of death, and all they could do was hope and beg.

Shana would have smiled, were it not for the fact that it was in poor taste to do so, with the dismal air suffusing the room. Now, they understood what it was like to be in her station. Now, they knew how a black-eyed wretch like her felt every day of her life.

And to think that all of this had started from a simple prank. Certainly, it was an ill-begotten one, and one that no-doubt provoked the Goldman in a deep way. Mothers tended to be overprotective, but even Shana could not believe that the self-same mother who had broken down in the face of Lady Janina’s harsh words could have such darkness in her soul.

She hoped that the young boy she had been charged with would not grow up to be one such person, to break the bones of their lessers in a fit of overreaction. She hoped that the Goldman would stay with them for as long as possible, if only for Shana to instill in her boy a proper, Aellian set of values, albeit not to the extent that he would also mistreat a black-eyed person like her.

“It’s not right,” Safina persisted. “We have rights too. We cannot be expected to endure such mistreatment, and from an outlander no less.”

“Hear,” someone said, and the proclamation was echoed once more by someone else. Shana continued eating in silence, wondering if the butler or head maid would defuse the situation.

Manalia stabbed a piece of potato on her plate much harder than was strictly necessary. “It’s not,” she agreed. “But who among us has netted such an amount of favor, to be able to speak against the one who healed our Lady’s man?”

There lay the crux of the issue. Lady Losinda was deeply indebted for Reza’s help, and if the full story came out—and it absolutely would if the Judge himself was to be involved—then they would only side with the wronged mother, whose very own infant child had been cursed in such a way. The written word was important, doubly so for the nobles who lived and died by them.

Shana was truly beginning to understand the world now, the ties and tethers that people in power were bound by, and how the peons had no choice but to read the subtle signs of such things and side themselves wisely.

No. That was just empty, fanciful thinking. She was no wiser nor any more intelligent than the lowliest of the low, a black-eyed sod whose strongest aspect was to do everything in their power to spare others the indignity of bitter, ugly work.

Yet, she now felt… angry at her situation, angry at the fact that even in this cruel, Aellian hierarchy, even an outlander, a Goldman of all things, was still higher than her. It made her want to hit something, to hurt herself and find ground in the pain she inflicted on herself, like she had done time and time again as a young child. She thought she had grown from such behaviors, disabused of its efficacy by her orphanage matron, who had warned her not to lose herself in grief lest she fall mad and…

She shook her head, and the motion caught the eyes of the twins. Shana cursed inwardly at their attentions, their sneering lips and disdainful eyes. “Speak your mind, girl,” Safina said. “Or do you relish this turn of events, believing yourself above reproach now that you’re that outlander’s child’s wet nurse?”

“I said no such thing,” Shana murmured.

“Then what?” Moria followed. “Speak your mind, as my sister bade you.”

“I have nothing on my mind.”

“Typical,” Safina scoffed. “Pay her no mind, sister, for by her very own admission, her head is empty and bereft of thoughts.”

“Leave her be,” Manalia pronounced, and the twins returned to eating their meals without either apology or acknowledgement that Shana was even present.

Another servant, Morick, raised a concern. “Have we heard from Lady Janina yet?”

More dark tidings to fill the dark air. Shana could not understand why the others were so obsessed with recounting the gossips of the Reizenbrahms when all they seemed to produce was such misery and grief.

Predictably, Morick’s question was left unanswered, once again plunging the scullery into a gloomy silence.

000

“Do you have initiative?” I asked the Focus. Very little had changed with the familiar’s soul over the last three days that I had observed it, except for one thing. It had finally re-emerged from that inert state of what I theorized was it being deep in thought.

“You,” it responded, the glyph forming faster and smoother than before. I was its initiative. That was consistent with the subordinate role it had taken on so far.

“Why did you stop responding to me the last time we spoke?”

“Thoughts. Confusion.”

Did it perhaps need time to assimilate information? In that case, it was obvious that I needed to increase its mental attributes from now on. I should probably invest the occasional Endurance in it, too, to increase its durability, but Power felt pointless for it to have.

Unless that somehow translated to increasing the intensity of my spells, which I would have to ascertain once I had more attribute points to throw around.

“Circle Magic,” I said, and transmitted the glyphs to it. The soul bubbled, almost growing in size. “Do you understand?” It did not respond. I tried to get its attention several times afterwards, to no avail.

I would let it mull over the spell for now, rather than continue calling for it to no avail. My mind receded from the diamond and I was in Janina’s cell again. There was a torch on the wall, illuminating the room enough that I could make out every corner of the cell, inscribed with haphazard circles, whose edges contained circles of their own, and static glyphs decorated within some of them. The set-up was rudimentary and inefficient, even I could see that, but it was the best that I had at the moment.

A sacrifice would have to be placed on one circle, right next to where Janina was chained, and killed in a very specific sort of way, one which drew out the soul slowly and steadily. To achieve this, they needed to be kept just past death’s door while continuously healed of their injuries until their soul seeped out in its entirety, leaving behind an inert husk of their former selves.

“Are you finally ready?” Reizenbrahm asked. I turned to his stone-faced self, holding the poor prisoner like an errant child. The raggedy, grimy man struggled in place, but the old Judge’s grip was like iron, barely even moving.

His question angered me, reminded me again of the grisly task that he expected of me, and of the unfairness of it all. I had to be of help to him now, I was obligated to as a condition of my Sentence. That didn’t mean I had to like it. “Yes,” I said. “You know the procedure, though I am obligated to say that you must only sit back and watch, even if that is not my wish.” I injected sorrow in my words, easy enough to conjure, despite everything that had happened to me.

I had killed before. I had been cruel and harsh on several occasions now, but this was different. There was no enmity between myself and the doomed prisoner, and that did make a difference.

The Judge, twisted though his morality might be, spared a measure of mercy for me as he pushed the prisoner into the cell, following closely by. “Sit,” Reizenbrahm demanded, when they had reached the circle. Reluctantly, the prisoner did just that.

“My sir, I beg leave of you,” he murmured as Reizenbrahm gripped his head firmly. “Though I am guilty of many, many crimes, I ask to see my loved ones one last time, so they may know what became—” With a twist of his hands, and an ugly, wet, tearing sound, the prisoner fell on his face, right on the circle.

I sucked in a breath, and it was all I could do to remember the procedure and begin the process of healing the poor sod’s fatal injury. My hesitation worked for me, however. The soul needed to recognize that the vessel was dead in order to tear itself free from it, and had I begun to heal him before his true death, I may well have successfully revived him.

In my senses, I could feel the Circle Magic activate as the soul was torn from the man’s body in a slow and manageable stream, enough that I could ply my craft with ease. That subtle, nigh-invisible globule attached to his soul, the one that governed the magnitude of his Wisdom, detached and attached itself to the unconscious Janina.

An error led to two, and suddenly the ritual unraveled on itself. The sacrifice’s attributes disappeared, to wherever such things went when a soul passed on, and Janina inherited not a single iota of attributes, not even fractionally.

But I knew where I went wrong, and that was a good start.

And all it’d cost was a human life.

I clenched my jaws, dispelling those thoughts. Were it up to me, we wouldn’t be doing this at all. This was on Reizenbrahm’s head, not mine.

“Do you have others?” I asked the man. His lips twitched as he stared at the corpse of the man he had killed with his bare hands. He was an old hand in killing, but this was no-doubt new to him, too. There was something visceral about such purposeful slaughter, such a morbid transaction that involved a person’s soul. Even a seasoned warrior like him, and a judge that had doomed many a criminal to their deaths, could tell the difference, sense it in their hearts.

“No.” He shook himself out of his funk and turned to me. “Not yet.”

I nodded. “Very well,” I whispered. That would give me time to refine the process, and correct my mistakes.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. Honesty was my only option with him. “I know where I made my mistakes, however, and next time—”

“Mistakes?” he whispered. “You cannot afford to make mistakes. This was—this was a life! The least you could do is grant this man’s death some meaning.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t get an ancient and unknown ritual that I had but three days to replicate right on my first try,” I said. I didn’t even have to pretend to be angered at his baseless indignation now. “Would you rather I commune with whatever gods you believe in and beseech them for help, or would you—?” He grabbed me by my throat and lifted me up. I didn’t resist, just dangling in the air while the secondary trachea I’d installed on my back opened up and drew in breaths, oxygenating the rest of my body.

My brain was cut off from that oxygen, however, but that was still fine. I cast an improvised spell meant to nourish my brain with a continuous influx of oxygen while he held me, nullifying my pain with another spell.

As I was, I couldn’t speak, but just seeing the helplessness in Reizenbrahm’s eyes, and the self-hatred at having lashed out in anger, it was more than enough to lift my own spirits. I had gotten to him well and good. I gaped ineffectually, affecting pain and fear in my expression. He let me go a moment later and turned away from me. I landed in a stumble, feeling my neck for any grievous injuries, but finding none. With a few more spells, I was perfectly whole. Reizenbrahm’s mind was not.

“I’m doing the best I can,” I whispered.

At that, he just stormed away, pushing past the two guards posted outside the cell, leaving me alone finally. I looked at the walls, inscribed with so many useless circles. The approach was wrong from the get-go. It all needed to go. Hopefully, my new familiar would soon have some insights on this… confusing morass of patterns.

Concern bubbled inside of me, and I knew why. There was no way I’d make an appreciable level of progress in this pursuit, not without some help. For now, I’d focus my efforts towards breaking the Sentence.

000

Guilt. Anger. Indignation. Daiclovius Reizenbrahm hated the situation he’d found himself in. He hated even more that, in the plainest terms, he’d invited it on himself when he took in Reza, that single time he’d let his ambition cloud his judgement. Now, he was going to pay for that mistake tenfold.

He’d always made sure to keep himself clean for this reason, knowing that once a person walked down the path of corruption, there was no easy way to turn back. He’d seen his fair share of such things in high society. The trading of unlawful favors, of doing everything that it took to cover up for their progeny’s mistakes, or their own mistakes for that matter. Innocent women killed for being mistresses of the wrong man, faultless Oathsworn guardsmen and soldiers forced to dirty their hands at the behest of their overlords, and executed as scapegoats so they would bring their secrets to the grave.

Corruption begot corruption, and Daiclovius had been a fool for letting himself take that first step.

“I’m doing the best I can.” That small, young woman, whimpering as he grabbed hold of her throat, just an errant press enough to kill her. Forced into an arrangement she wanted no part in, having done everything that was required of her with no sign of treachery in sight. He would know, as he had kept a very close eye on her from the moment he let her be anywhere near his children. As far as he had known at the time, Reza was safe.

Despite his comprehensive vetting, however, something terrible had still happened. Her best effort had simply not been enough. Daiclovius could chalk it down to some godly intervention, a consequence brought on her for no other reason than the fact that she chose to practice madness.

Or… he could take responsibility for his daughter’s unacceptable behavior, her hatred clouding her judgement so much so that she would openly, and in public, threaten the life of someone by no other reason than because she was simply born somewhere else from her.

If he didn’t have such control over himself, experience born from decades of serving under men and women with enough Charm to convince a commoner to kill their firstborn sons, he would have punched a wall, or obliterated the fixtures of his study in a fit of mad rage. Everyone had their ways of venting, and for Daiclovius, it was jotting down notes of all the things that enraged him so, before watching the parchments burn before his own eyes, letting his anger burn with it.

So much ash now decorated his study that were his wife to walk in on him now, she would know something was plaguing his mind.

She was indisposed, currently, grieving the ‘desertion’ of her daughter. It pained Daiclovius to have to lie to her, to have to inject an image of Janina’s cowardice in her mind, but it was a necessary lie, an adequate punishment for the girl’s bullheadedness. Had she only been more worldly, more accepting of the things she didn’t understand, had she only heeded her father’s warnings and all the lessons he’d so painstakingly tried to instill in her, then none of this would have happened, and Daiclovius would still have had a whole family.

Daiclovius stabbed the rapier on the ground, right next to his wheel-chair. “What do you want, daughter?” Daiclovius had brought the sixteen-year-old Janina out to the training grounds at the crack of dawn. She was still very sleepy, her eyes drooping and her balance practically non-existent as she swayed on her own feet.

“Father, I don’t understand.”

Daiclovius grinned. “It is clear to me that the pomp and pageantry of high society holds no appeal to you. Your mother wishes only the best for you, but I fear that she may have projected an image onto you, an image incongruous with your true desires. Tell me, girl; what is it that you want?”

“I don’t know!” Janina shouted, now finally waking up in truth. “I don’t know what is required of me, or what you want from me. I just—“ She heaved a sigh and sat down on the ground. So unladylike, yet so her. Daiclovius could not muster any irritation, only fondness at her irreverence.

“I want nothing from you, other than your continued existence,” Daiclovius said, and to some amount of surprise, he realized he was only speaking the truth. His love truly was unconditional. “I simply want to know what path I can push you down that would make you happy.”

“Well—” She threw her hands up. “I don’t know, okay? My life is in disarray and no one wants to marry me. I hate making clothes and I hate even more reciting poetry or, worse yet, composing some of my own. What lady-like activities could I possibly find joy in?”

“Come, my child.”—he gestured towards the sword that stuck up from the sand.—“and let us try something new entirely.”

“A warrior?” She balked. “Me? No, father… mother would have my head. And yours, for that matter!” She would, most certainly, but it was a small price to pay to see the girl smiling.

“You’re angry,” Daiclovius observed. “You are discontent. You want to see more of the world, and I understand that fully. What I am offering you is just that: freedom, and the ability to fight the good fight against anything you may disapprove of. You are not merely a lady, to be sequestered in opulent halls and spoiled rotten to your heart’s content; you’re a human, and all humans need a way to vent their anger. Take this sword, not with uncertainty, but with purpose, and channel that rage into it.” And in doing so, she may yet find her own purpose, her own joy in life.

Janina stood up and slowly approached the sword. She seized the handle, and to Daiclovius’ eyes, a shock of exhilaration ran through her, of surety in this path. His heart swelled at the sight; she was her father’s daughter, that much was clear.

And whatever she now did, he would support her wholeheartedly.

Would it have been better if Janina had never picked up the sword, and thus grown strong enough to make her own mistakes, mistakes that even her father, the great Reizenbrahm, could not protect her from?

There was a virtue to letting your children make their own mistakes, but Daiclovius could not see it in this particular disaster.

Where had he gone wrong? He had tried to talk to her time and time again, tried to encourage her commanding officers to pull her away from active duty so she could rest and recuperate her mind in comfort. He had spent a fortune in keeping her safe, even outfitted her with a Royal Treasure to call her own, and yet that hadn’t been enough. She had come back from the war ugly and misshapen, if not physically then most certainly mentally. Even had Reza not been in their midst, she would still have found a way to be angry at everything.

In his effort to help her vent her anger, and purge it from her system, he had unwittingly cultivated it, made it so powerful that even she could not control it.

Without a doubt, it was his greatest regret.

A knock sounded from his door. He quickly centered himself, and shoveled the ashes of his burnt feelings into a drawer, dusting himself off right after. He checked himself for tears, and wiped them off with a cloth, hoping that he could also chalk down his bloodshot eyes to stress and overwork rather than grief. “Enter.”

His butler, Josack, came in with a sheaf of papers. “Royal mail, my lord.”

“What for?”

“Mass interrogation, it seems.” Daiclovius’ interest was immediately piqued.

“Prisoners from the war-front?”

“Yes, my lord.” He walked to his desk and deposited the papers. Daiclovius read through them quickly, and was gratified by the news, although a little worried. They were going to send fifty prisoners to him for prompt interrogation, and he was to report back within the month.

His worry, however, was founded on the fact that he knew how the Goldman soldiers operated. The generals kept information neatly partitioned from their rank and file; the soldiers knew nothing of their officer’s grander designs. This had been proven time and time again. For the crown to demand that the judges of the kingdom once more enter into a futile effort... it did not bode well.

He should, indeed, prepare to evacuate his family. He still had holdings and a reputation in Filomena. Even if it made him out to be a coward, he would rather live the rest of his life with his family than languish in a Golden City cell, or worse yet, made into a slave.

There was one last letter, however, kept inside an envelope. It was unmarked, with neither name nor address. “And this?” he asked.

“It came with the others.” If it came with the royal courier, then no doubt, it was important, despite all the secrecy. He retrieved his letter opener and slit the envelope smoothly.

The Inquisition was coming. One o’ clock. No date. No accusation. Just an impromptu visit.

“Josack, what time is it?” He tried his best not to betray any desperation in his words, but the old butler had caught it all.

“A quarter to one, my lord. Why, what is the matter?”

He steadied himself as well as he could. “I, uh, I have matters to attend to. You are dismissed, Josack.”

He stood up, and made haste to see Reza. The Inquisition was coming, and they had sent their best.

The Ghost.