Year 3

She dreamed of Frederick Vahramp: a perfect, smooth body; sharp, elegant visage; strong, naturally shielded mind. In her dream, she realized Vahramp had always had a shielded mind. He probably didn’t know it. It explained why she’d never been able to sense him at Fort Shepherd, why he’d been able to attack her without warning, why she had been unable to find and destroy him as she had other undead during her last days in the Empire.

She dreamed he rested in a cool, damp, dark place, attended by others like him. But unlike the starved creatures Devorah associated with Vahramp, these creatures, too, were creatures of smooth perfection. This, she realized, was what all the creatures Vahramp had converted would be if they were to gorge on blood. And their minds too, she learned, were naturally shielded against her power.

She dreamed that in his convalescence his body and mind had begun to heal, but he had to rely on his subordinates, allowing them enough blood to regain their minds, their personalities.

Except she wasn’t dreaming.

She couldn’t dream because she couldn’t sleep. At least, not in the normal way of things. Instead, she was reclined in the comfortable chair in the room in her mind and she let her mind wander. It was the closest she could get. Her mindspace was her only refuge, without it, she’d have gone mad from lack of sleep and the incessant light.

She had no idea how long it had been since she’d slept, since she’d been captured, as she had no sense of time with the constant light. Sometimes sheer exhaustion would cause her to slip into unconsciousness but that wasn’t sleep. Her only escape was the mindspace. There she could relax, could, eventually, fall asleep. But when she fell asleep, she returned to her body and there the light invaded.

She was never free from the light.

Of all she'd been put through, it was the unending light that was true torture. Her bare cell was constantly, diffusely lit. There were no shadows anywhere, not in any corner. Not even when she pulled the rough smock over her head could she block out the light. Not even when she screwed shut her eyes as tightly as she could. The light was always there.

It was prudent, of course. With a shadow, even just a sliver of darkness, she might have been able to escape. Or fight back.

Further precautions against her escape had been taken. There was nothing in her cell but the light, her smock, and herself. Though she might be able to forge her smock into a weapon, nothing she had done with it had given her that combat awareness she enjoyed with weapon in hand. The smock was taken from her daily and replaced with another, allowing her no chance to alter it.

The men and women who tended her necessities were all wrapped in tight mental shields, giving her no hint of hidden thought, no clue on how she might escape. There weren’t even any ghosts nearby she might influence or command.

It seemed they'd thought of everything.

Devorah estimated she'd spent a week railing against her capture: attacking her jailers, pounding on their mental shields, searching for any scrap of shadow. She'd spent the next week pleading for mercy: begging for just a few hours of dark, promising not to escape, abasing herself on the stone floor. Now she sat in the center of her cell, quietly, eyes closed, breathing deeply while mentally she sat in the room in her mind and whiled away the hours with reading and card games.

Sister Churchstep, it seemed, no longer wanted to play chess with her. A game of chess would have been a welcome distraction. Though the books and cardgames and meditations were often enough to keep her mind away from the light, a game of chess would have been yet another distraction in her metaphorical quiver.

In a sudden pique, she dashed off a quick note.

White,

Still there?

-Black

She lifted the white Royal and placed the scrap of paper beneath, replacing the chess piece with a muted click that embodied her impotent anger. She sat back in the chair, determined to remain until Piety Churchstep returned to peruse the bookshelves or contemplate the chessboard. Then they could talk, face to face, here in their innermost sanctum and Piety, for all their differences, would surely help her escape.

It’s strange, she thought, that we have never met in the mindspace.

Despite her determination, the exhaustion overtook her, and she slipped into fitful not-quite-sleep, terrified by the light shining through her eyelids.

She was jarred from her restlessness by the arrival of High Cleric Marcus Radden. He visited her often, or so it seemed in a room of constant light, a room without time.

When he’d first visited she’d attacked him, her hardened body sinking fists, feet, and elbows into every soft bit she could find. She had drawn blood, painting the horrible white tile. But she had paid for her instant gratification. Guards clad in white, armed with shielded minds and stout cudgels, beat her into submission three days straight.

The next time the High Cleric had appeared in her cell, she had been wide-eyed with fear and exhaustion and pleading. He had spoken to her, but she hadn’t understood, only able to plead for release.

Now, despite the exhaustion and anger, she felt calm. When he appeared, jarring her from not-sleep, she was satisfied to know she still sat in meditation, eyes closed, breathing steady.

“Hello, Devorah. My name is Marcus.”

She recognized him. Marcus was the High Cleric and he stood before her in a simple tunic, pants, and sandals, smiling at her benignly.

“I know who you are,” Devorah said.

“Do you? And you seem quite sane. How interesting.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want to save you, Devorah.”

“From whom?”

“From the councils. From the masses. They're prepared to hang you in the center of Kinswell Square, you know. But more importantly, Devorah, I want to save you from yourself. You've been gifted with great power but have neglected the responsibility that comes with it.”

Devorah laughed, not because the claim rang false, though it did, but because he had very nearly quoted one of her favorite books and didn't know it.

“I disagree,” Devorah said through her laughter, “But I suppose it's a matter of viewpoint.”

“That, my dear, is the problem. Morality isn't a matter of viewpoint. There is right and there is wrong. You are so far in the wrong that I fear you cannot even know what is right. And so, you have become one of my special tasks. I will teach you.”

Devorah giggled. “I am to learn morality from a man who extorts the poor, uses fear to control the gullible, and tortures prisoners?”

High Cleric Radden smiled benignly, and that smile frightened her. “Indeed. And here is your first lesson, most important above all else. If you do not learn this there is nothing I can do for you. God, the truth of His Word, and the righteousness of His chosen, is the only moral path.”

Devorah’s case of the giggles became uncontrollable. Between gasping breaths, she managed, “I don’t… don’t believe in your… your god.”

He struck her then and she sprawled to her back, but she couldn’t stop the giggles. “Or any other god for that matter,” she amended.

When he appeared again, the next day perhaps, Devorah opened her eyes. She was sitting in the middle of the room, composed.

“You will learn to believe, child. You will learn to admit you believe in God.”

Devorah shrugged. “But I don’t believe. Do you want me to lie to you?”

“It will not be a lie.” High Cleric Radden’s smile seemed pasted on. “You will admit that you believe, and you will mean it.”

“I have no problem lying if the situation warrants,” said Devorah, “but no matter what you might force me to say under torture, the torture will not convince me your god exists.”

He struck her again.

And as she lay on her back, choking on her own blood, staring at the incessantly shiny, white tile, she wondered what High Cleric Radden intended to do to her, what made him so certain he would convince her of his truth.

But when he appeared again, she didn’t let him see her fear.

“I have something to show you, Miss Kempenny.” He held one smooth-skinned hand out to her.

Devorah didn’t want him to touch her, but neither did she want him to hit her again. She worried that acquiescing now would be one small step toward giving in. But she gained nothing by sitting in her bright cell, resisting passively. Perhaps something in what he had to show her would help her escape.

“Every move,” Devorah whispered.

Marcus Radden titled his head at her and smiled his false smile. “What was that, Miss Kempenny?”

Devorah put her hand in his “I said, show me.”

She didn’t blink. She was certain she didn’t blink. But between one moment and the next, Devorah was no longer in her cell, no longer in the doorless, windowless room of white tile and constant light. She was, instead, in a hallway of white tile lit by lanterns.

In a heart-leaping moment of hope, she reached for any scrap of shadow that might lurk: in the groutlines between tiles, under the feet of High Cleric Radden, inside her own mouth. But there were none. Whatever insidious enchantment lay on her cell lay on this hallway as well.

High Cleric Radden laughed gently. “There are no shadows here, Miss Kempenny. That is why you wear that sweet look of defeat, is it not? I’ve gone to great pains to make certain that there are no shadows.”

Devorah pushed her disappointment away and instead looked around the hallway, taking in what details she could. Like her cell, the floor, walls, and ceiling were covered in the white tile reflecting shadow-eating light. The hallway was long, stretching forever in either direction, interrupted by doors on either side. There were no windows, there was no furniture, there was nothing she could interpret as a weapon.

Men in white clothing patrolled the halls. She couldn’t be certain any of them were the same who had beat her during her first days in her prison, but she couldn’t be certain they weren’t.

Standing off to one side were a pair of men, brothers certainly, possibly twins. They were unremarkable in appearance, brown skin, brown hair, brown eyes. Both were dressed in the same white uniforms as the other men in the hall, but rather than confident, they were meek.

Someone tugged on her smock and Devorah looked down to find a child, a boy with bright blue eyes, holding a water cup up to her. Shocked by the friendly gesture, she took the water. Naturally cautious, however, she only pretended to sip before handing it back. The boy smiled at her and scurried off. He was wearing a smock not unlike hers, though sized for a child. Devorah wondered what his crime was.

When she looked back at High Cleric Radden he’d lost his smile and was looking after the boy with a dangerously grim expression. Then he looked back at her, all smiles. He put an arm around her shoulder, oozing grandfatherly charm, and propelled her down the hallway.

“You are not my only task you know. There are others like you, others with great power who do not understand their responsibility.”

Devorah bit her tongue.

They stopped before a door. High Cleric Radden nodded at a large man with a shaved head, all dressed in white. Devorah shook her head to clear it, like brushing dust off a book left on a shelf for far too long. She hadn’t seen the man until the High Cleric nodded at him, and it made her wonder what else she wasn’t seeing. The guard opened the cell door. Beyond was an elderly woman on a narrow, but comfortable bed. She lay on the bed reading a book and sat up as the door was opened. She made to stand, but High Cleric Radden motioned for her to remain seated.

“No, no, don’t trouble yourself, Madam Gwendolyn. I’d like you to meet one of my new patients, Devorah.” He turned to Devorah and motioned for her to enter. Devorah did as he bade, searching for shadows under Madam Gwendolyn’s bed, under her desk, among the books on her bookshelf, but found none. She fought to keep the disappointment off her face.

“Hello, my dear.” Madam Gwendolyn smiled gently. “You must do what Marcus tells you. I know it’s hard at first, but soon you’ll understand his wisdom.”

High Cleric Radden beamed at the elderly woman. “Madam Gwendolyn caused us quite a bit of trouble several years ago. She’s got the peculiar ability to encourage plants to grow far more quickly than they should.”

“Why should that be a problem?” Devorah asked. “She could help crops to grow, which would help to feed people.”

High Cleric Radden gave Madam Gwendolyn an indulgent smile and the elderly woman returned with one of her own, which she then turned on Devorah.

“You see, my dear, I wasn’t using my power to further the truth of God.”

Devorah looked from Madam Gwendolyn to High Cleric Radden and back. “What does that mean?”

The High Cleric and old woman laughed.

“She’ll come to understand in time,” Madam Gwendolyn said to the High Cleric, as though she were comforting him.

The whole conversation felt off, false, as though it were a mediocre playacting, a rehearsed conversation.

“You are one of my greatest successes,” said High Cleric Radden fondly.

“Success?” Devorah repeated. “If you’re a success, why are you still here? Why haven’t you been freed?”

There were several moments of awkward silence before High Cleric Radden said, “Because this is not a prison, Devorah. Madam Gwendolyn could leave any time she likes.”

“You mean you choose to stay here?” Devorah demanded. “In this tiny cell where the light never stops and you can’t possibly sleep? And why should they torture you with constant light anyway? Are you an umbramancer too?”

Madam Gwendolyn flashed a moment of confusion.

High Cleric Radden was hurrying her out of the room. In the hallway, Devorah saw the brothers again, standing huddled together, frightened and concentrating on something only they could see. The High Cleric turned her away from them and back the way they had come. He guided her to a blank bit of wall and, without blinking, she was in her white-tiled room.

Alone.

• • •

Black,

Still here.

What is your name?

-White

No matter how long she waited, Devorah never saw Piety in the mindspace. And still her little sister had yet to move a piece on the board. Perhaps, if she explained to Piety who it was she’d been playing chess with and that she needed help, she might meet the other girl in the mindspace. Or, perhaps, the knowledge would frighten her.

Devorah stood before the bookcase perusing the shelves for something new to read. Her gaze stopped on a volume that wasn’t a proper book. Instead, it was a leather folder that bound its pages with nothing more than a leather cord. Intrigued, Devorah took it to the desk and untied the cords. The papers within the folder were loose and covered with a neat hand. The title declared: Notations on the Design of Fire-arms and Black Powder.

“Fire-arms and black powder,” Devorah read aloud. She flipped through the pages and was attracted to the meticulous designs. Though she hadn’t seen the weapons, Colonel Lambert’s descriptions had been enough to fix the image in her mind, and these drawings were clearly their designs. She had found House Loreamer’s new weapons shelved in her mindspace.

With a focus that blocked out the light, Devorah began to read, and as she read, she began to speculate on further improvements, her talent for weapons expanding to the theoretical with ease.

• • •

High Cleric Radden took her to meet other prisoners. There was Felix, who could predict the weather with perfect accuracy up to a week out, and Madeline who could breathe underwater, and Clifford who could speak with dogs.

She liked Clifford best. He was a shy man who acted not unlike a dog who’d been kicked too many times. Unlike Madam Gwendolyn, Clifford seemed genuine, if a bit slow. His smile wasn’t pasted on or a veneer over fear or poorly practiced. He obeyed High Cleric Radden without fail, but Devorah could detect no affection for the cleric from him. Though Clifford, like everyone else in the exhaustingly bright prison, was wrapped in a thick mental shield, she read his body language as easily as she had ever read anyone’s secrets.

Clifford liked to talk about the farm where he’d lived with his father before Marcus had come.

“I liked to run in the apple orchard. I’d run and run and run to the end of the row and then turn around and run in the next row. And when I got tired, I’d eat apples in the shade.

Devorah smiled. “And after that?”

“I’d run some more. Or sometimes I’d take a nap. Depends.”

After that first meeting, Devorah asked the High Cleric, “Why is he here? I’m an enemy of Loreamer, a rebel, a necromancer—I understand why I’m here, but he’s harmless.”

The High Cleric shook his head. “Clifford terrorized his father’s neighbors. He chased them, barking like a dog. He ran with the wild dogs in the hills, and killed livestock. He bit a little girl’s ear off.”

Devorah shivered.

But when she spoke with him next, Clifford’s goofy grin made it hard to believe he was vicious.

“There were animals. Lots of animals. I liked the chickens second best because I could chase them and they bocked and flew away, but they’re bad at flying and then they’d just bock madly at me.”

“Did you ever catch one?”

Clifford shook his head. “Father said I shouldn’t touch them ‘cause I’m much bigger.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. And my first favorite were the bunnies because they’re so soft and cuddly.” He sighed. “Marcus said if I’m good we might get a bunny here to cuddle.”

In the following days, Clifford smiled as soon as she was let into his cell and would dance happily from foot to foot before they sat on the floor to talk. Clifford told her about the stream out past the orchard and naps on the porch in the summer and the coyotes who howled at night.

“They wanted me to come play with them, but father said they’re tricky and to stay close to home.”

“He was probably right.”

Clifford sighed. “Yeah. I miss father, Devorah. But you know what? I like you. You’re nice, not like M…” Clifford cut off his sentence and looked around, frightened.

“It’s all right, Clifford. I know what you mean.”

Clifford grinned at her.

On the High Cleric’s next visit, Devorah knew she was in for an unpleasant experience by the set of his gaze. He appeared in her room, waited impatiently for her to take his hand, and pulled her down the hall to Clifford’s room. She wasn’t surprised he had noticed, but the revelation that whatever was about to happen was about to happen in front of Clifford made her bite her lip in trepidation.

She was distracted by a gentle tug at her smock. It was the small, blue-eyed boy proffering his cup of water, as he often did. Devorah took it and sipped at it before she remembered her caution. Quickly, she handed the cup back and the boy scurried off before the High Cleric could so much as give the boy a dirty look.

“One of you see to that brat,” High Cleric Radden said in his too-calm voice. “He’s escaping again.”

The water, unaccountably, gave Devorah a moment of clarity, a moment outside the fog of the white tiles reflecting the light that let her sleep only in fits and starts. And in that moment she saw not a hallway of white tiles, but of mundane, greyish brown stone. It was well lit to be sure, but not entirely without shadow. She spent that moment in confused awe, unable to make her tired brain reach for the shadows though she screamed silently for the comforting darkness just within reach. When the moment was gone, she wanted to weep at the return of the white tile. But she controlled herself. High Cleric Radden was about to make his move, and Devorah wanted to evaluate it with clear, unbiased eyes.

“Do you remember the goal of this exercise?” the cleric asked. But it was a rhetorical question. “The goal, Miss Kempenny, is to get you to recognize the existence of God. Of my God, as you put it. Have you come to recognize His existence?”

Devorah saw no reason to lie. She spread her hands and gave a small shrug. “No.”

“So you’ll not say the words, no matter what I do to convince you.”

Devorah began to see the shape of the High Cleric’s move. She didn’t reply. At the High Cleric’s command, the door to Clifford’s room opened and the man who could talk to dogs looked up. When he saw Devorah, he smiled. But when he saw the High Cleric, when he too saw the shape of the High Cleric’s move, he began to whimper. Another order, and the white-clad guards went into the room, cudgels in hand, and systematically beat Clifford until he fell to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, until blood spattered their cudgels, their clothes, the floor, until Clifford’s whimpers turned to howls turned to silence.

Devorah watched, appalled, silent.

When it was done, and the white-clad guards filed out of the room, High Cleric Radden turned to Devorah, his face impassive but for his eyes. His eyes held a manic glee.

“A dog who disobeys must be punished, Miss Kempenny. Do you understand?”

“You’ve a look of madness about the eyes, High Cleric.”

“Me?” The cleric laughed, a sound that didn’t dispel the madness she suspected him of. “Take a look at yourself, Miss Kempenny.” He snatched up a mirror from Clifford’s desk and held it out to her.

She knew it was another move in the game, but she looked anyway. The creature who stared back at her was unrecognizable. Dried blood crusted her nostrils, her face bore fading bruises, her hair was a tangled mess. She looked like a madwoman. Convulsively, she threw the mirror across Clifford’s room where it shattered against the wall.

“I’ll give you some time to think on it,” said the High Cleric in a kind voice.

• • •

She missed dreaming. Though the meditations in the mindspace often produced visions of Frederick Vahramp and the undead who served him, they weren’t dreams as she remembered from her childhood, dreams of palaces and sea voyages, dreams of monasteries and simple chores. She even missed the fever-induced nightmares. Though the mindspace seemed to have staved off madness, she could feel it encroaching. The song of Dr. Milton’s book had been a manifestation of madness. Perhaps the constant light would be her key to that unhinged state.

But since she couldn’t sleep, she read the Notes on Fire-arms. Compared to the notes Piety had written her, it seemed unlikely that the cleric had written the notes, which made her wonder, who had and why had Piety seen fit to store them in the mindspace? The notes and diagrams depicted large siege engines capable of tearing down a castle wall with speed and accuracy and tearing through men much the same. But Devorah wondered if she might be able to design a personal weapon based upon the fire-arms. A handheld weapon able to fire a metal ball at such velocity would make armor obsolete and put great power in the hands of the otherwise powerless. Kempenny Province still held the richest mines and most experienced foundries in all Khulanty. Once free of this prison, production of their own fire-arms would be quick and efficient.

• • •

If I can just get my hands on one of those cudgels, she thought, I could free myself.

It was an obvious solution, and Devorah berated herself for failing to consider it yesterday when she’d watched Clifford beaten to death, when cudgels were so close to hand. If she’d been thinking straight, she might have been able to save the gentle man.

Though time was obliterated by the light, High Cleric Radden’s visits had a rhythm to them, a predictable quality, and as she anticipated his next visit, she stood, opened her eyes, and made certain her liquid shield was wrapped firmly around her mind.

He appeared, as expected, without warning, as though she had blinked and he’d appeared while her eyes were closed. Except she hadn’t blinked.

She’d considered goals. Her own goal was obvious: escape. But High Cleric Radden’s goal wasn’t. He said he wanted her to admit belief in God, but she’d already denied belief and admitted a willingness to lie. Unless he was prepared to delude himself, any admission on her part could only be met with suspicion.

So, would granting him his goal put her any closer to her own?

“What have you got planned for me today, High Cleric? Another of your successful prisoners? Another murder?” Her eyes felt dim and grainy, her head felt slow and stuffed, her joints felt loose and watery, but she managed a steady look. Or so it felt to her.

“Today, Miss Kempenny, you will finally admit your belief in God.”

Because she could see no reason why she should give him what he wanted, Devorah added impudence to her goals. “That seems unlikely.”

High Cleric Radden held out his smooth-skinned hand.

“In the game of chess, the final maneuver is called checkmate. To claim checkmate is to inform the opponent that they’ve lost. Do you understand, Miss Kempenny?”

“I’m familiar with the concept.” She put her hand in the High Cleric’s, curious despite herself.

The hall was empty but for them, not even the little water carrying boy. The High Cleric led her down the hall, still holding her hand. His grip was firm, but not painful. His soft hand felt strange in hers.

Instead of going to one of the prison cells, they walked to the end of the white-tiled hall and into a large room. There was a table, and strapped to the table was a small figure. He whimpered and Devorah realized that this was the boy who’d given her water.

“You see, my dear, I’ve known from the start that your own physical pain wouldn’t sway you. Despite that you are a little girl, you are also a battle-hardened veteran. And so I set out to understand what would. Can you imagine my surprise when it turned out that you simply cannot abide the suffering of your friends?”

Devorah couldn’t tear her gaze away from the boy. She saw immediately what the High Cleric intended and knew he was right. She would not have said, before now, that she was inclined toward friendship, rather that she was inclined toward relationships that benefited her: pawns. But Clifford had been of no use to anyone. His death yesterday had shown the High Cleric what he needed to know to break her.

The move was obvious, crude, and disgusting. It was the logical extension to yesterday’s murder. So, she considered whether there was any advantage to defying him that would outweigh the boy’s pain. She could think of nothing.

“Fine,” she said quickly, grabbing his robe at the sleeve. “You’ve made your point. I believe.”

High Cleric Radden smiled his practiced smile at her. “I’m sorry, what is it you believe in?”

He sounded like a smug child and Devorah dearly wanted to smack his smile off his face, but even more she wanted to spare the water-toting child any pain.

“I believe in God. You’ve convinced me.”

High Cleric Marcus Radden laughed lightly and walked to a side table Devorah hadn’t noticed before. She trailed after him, trepidation making her hesitant. When she saw the knives laid out so neatly upon the white cloth, her hand twitched.

There was something about the knives she should have remembered, something important, something that could salvage this situation. Her head began to pound and she looked away. Behind her stood the twins she often saw with the High Cleric. They’d never spoken to her, and sometimes she forgot they existed. She hadn’t even noticed they’d followed them into this room.

“Ah,” the High Cleric said softly. “Very good.”

Devorah turned to face him. He was looking at her, holding one of the small, thin, shining blades. His gaze flicked from her to something behind her and back. Devorah looked over her shoulder but there was nothing there and only a brief moment of disorientation hinted that perhaps, only a moment ago, something had been.

The High Cleric bent over the boy and placed the tip of knife at the boy’s throat. He motioned for Devorah to approach and Devorah felt compelled to obey. She swallowed hard as the High Cleric pressed the knife into the boy’s throat and the boy whimpered.

“I believe,” Devorah whispered. “You don’t have to kill him. You’ve won.”

The High Cleric nodded. “You’re right. I don’t have to kill him.” He ran the knife gently from his throat down his chest, pulling a high-pitched whine from the child and drawing a thin red line of blood from his throat to the bottom of his sternum. “But I must say,” he continued as he lifted the knife, letting a single, small droplet bead at the point of the blade and drop to the boy’s chest, “I don’t believe you.” He put the blade just under the boy’s left eye.

Devorah screamed her protest, her teeth and fists clenched.

The High Cleric calmly took out the boy’s eyes, one after the other. Then he took a larger knife and removed his fingers. Then he opened his skin at the belly and poked at the intestines within. All the while, Devorah could not look away. She watched the blood spill onto the table, gather in pools and drip to the floor. The High Cleric’s manic expression did not waver even as she screamed her belief over and over again.

She did not try to stop him, she did not try to take the knife, she did not try to free the boy. And it wasn’t until she was back in her cell, screaming her throat raw, that she realized she could have.