‘I watched a gentleman be accosted today in the street by the civilian guard. Though it was for that petty reason that the guardsman discovered he held a Channeler’s weapon within the breast pocket of his linen shirt, below several other layers as an attempt to disguise it.’

‘Standard law states that the gentlemen must be brought before Citadel’s magistrate to face trial for carrying a weapon in violation of Malevolent Weapons Act. Yet, all he received was a fine for a “misdemeanour on the basis of picking quarrels and provoking trouble”.’

‘While the man was later found and captured by the National Guard and dragged before the magistrate; the civilian guard only dealing out a fine struck me curious. I wonder if it is possible that the feeling that Citadel’s national security is endangered has pervaded even the guardsmen of our Capital.’

‘I shall continue to investigate the mood of Citadel’s capital.’ - Excerpt from a letter Toran Rhosyn sent to Lucien Blodyn informing him of the conditions of Citadel, January 1263.

———

She was almost ritualistic in performing her own version of penance, her self-flagellation, for her sins. She was certain that this was her remedy. It would bring her closer to God and that he’d forgive her for her crimes in his name. It was a necessary obligation though. For both really, the penance and the sins. To be a religious revolutionary required such to ensure that God’s will would be carried out faithfully.

Screaming red welts raged throughout her back like death adders. Crimson blood trickled down her naked back and legs like crystalline tear drops, before plunging into a weak puddle that looked like a partly filled glass of wine had spilled beneath her feet.

She shivered slightly, embracing the pain of her own repentance for her sins, feeling God’s forgiveness, and her own. She knew this was deserved for she had inflicted this and much more pain countless times over to others. And she would do it again without hesitation.

Finally, she took out her book of Scripture and channelled once more.

“Consano.”

Her prayer was accepted, and she radiated that familiar golden shroud. Outside, the wind wailed with bitter indignation, and the spirits answered their calls. They floated incorporeally through the small cut out window, dancing above her head once again. They flowed down her arms and formed the liquid globe above her book of Scripture.

She wished the Miracle to be performed and gave it direction to heal, and the golden sphere’s surface roiled. It extended streams of golden light like tentacles caressing her broken skin, knitting the flesh together until it was uniform, without scar. The rage was pacified, and the welts melted away along with the pain through the blessing of God’s Miracle.

As her body was healing itself, she thought she heard the sound of a bell being rung in the distance. It was on the very edge of her hearing so she couldn’t be certain if her mind was playing tricks on herself, she pricked her ears for certainty. The tolling continued, and she started in remembrance.

Four, five, six. This many tolls meant mid-afternoon service had ended and public worship and confessions were to begin. Creirwy had to have finished with the sample now, for Heledd needed it, or else her operation would fail. Even Creirwy knew that couldn’t be allowed to happen.

She bent over, picking her cassock and gown from floor where she strewn it before she began penance. The red stains of her blood were barely visible on the dyed wool, but also it was still wet from the rain, so the blood did not stain badly. She moved it to a corner of the room in preparation for it to be cleaned in the morrow’s chores, instead taking out a clean set from her wardrobe.

After dressing herself and buckling her belt, with her book of Scripture and other important items pocketed away in an attached pouch, she opened her door and left for the convent’s common room. As she entered, her eyes caught sight of the small box she had bought earlier from the apothecary left on the table. It was the sole object on the table, or in the room if the furniture and paintings did not count.

Heledd took the box, pocketing it once again in her pouch, and strode out into the corridor with the painted ceiling. She followed the same path she took to reach the convents, instead returning to the main hall of the Cathedral. Just outside the door, on the eastern wall, were a line of confession boxes. She found the designated confession box, sweeping its curtain aside, and dipped inside.

She sat down on the carved oak chair and was greeted with a mixture of the sour odour of varnish, and the musky smell of aged wood. A lit candle burned orange above, the flame’s forked tongue tried to lick the wooden ceiling, though it was too far away. As she settled herself in the chair, with her arms relaxed on the chairs arm’s, her first confessor entered the box opposite her own.

“God blesses you, dear lamb.” Heledd said gently.

“Thank you, Mother…” The confessor began recounting their sins of the day, before expanding onto some of the more serious cases they did during the weeks prior that they had not visited. Heledd ended it with an absolution, and the confessor left satisfied, providing a donation to the Church for its service.

More often than not, these were general types of confessions she experienced during her day’s service. One after another, they would enter telling her of what great sins they thought they had committed, and she would listen until the end, when they left with absolution.

Though from time to time, others would interrupt that chain of continuous sinners with questions for her. They fell into two broad categories:, those who encountered information in the streets promising of freedom for those bound to servitude on aristocrat’s plantations, or inquiries into new religious doctrine.

The candle above had melted greatly since she entered the confession box, the wax was almost at the metal holder. Even after the tenth confessor had visited Heledd since mid-afternoon service began, she was still waiting for the most significant confessor of the day. A time had been arranged and confirmed by her other operatives, and they had yet to arrive.

She yawned into her palm as she waited patiently for the next person to enter, it had been some time since her last confessor had left. Her ears pricked as she heard the curtain door opposite her ruffle in disturbance, though she could not see anyone enter for the wooden panel separating them blocked her vision. There was silence between them for a short moment, but Heledd broke it as she probed in curiosity if there was a person across from her.

“God blesses you, dear lamb.” Heledd repeated her opening once again.

“May his light shine upon us dearly, Mother.” The confessor spoke with an imposing tone.

“We are going through trying times, lamb of God. Confessions will be met with absolution, for creatures of God may be required to use unnatural means to pass through these tribulations. You are welcomed in his holy radiance.” Heledd continued, and finally hope glinted in her eyes.

“As it should be, Mother. Sometimes a first must be given for a fifth, and double for a ninth, only then can three pounds of gold help bring an end of the night.” The confessor replied.

Their words were nigh gibberish, but for the conversation to progress, and for the matters at hand to be dealt with, they had to continue. These phrases had been decided upon before their meeting by intermediary staff within the organisation. Only those participating in the operation knew what they were, and when they were spoken, they confirmed that whoever she was speaking to was at least involved.

“With the end of that night does the slumbering God wake once again. The toiling dream that traps us within shall break, and with it we can return to the loving embrace of the Creator.” Heledd continued on from the confessor.

“If we fail to break the dream, humanity will sleepwalk from creation into destruction, never fulfilling its purpose.” The confessor said heavily. Heledd let out a sigh that she didn’t realise she had been holding. Her agent was before her.

“So be it,” Heledd murmured in prayer, her eyes downcast. She blinked then looked at the panel before her. She rooted through her pouch containing the small box, then withdrew it. The pills inside rattled gently against its wooden frames.

“Do you remember the order of worship?” Heledd asked. Before the agent could reply, she continued. “First, you must cleanse both hands and face with holy water, as deep blue as the ocean itself. That will clean the external body. Next, a simple meal of bread and wine, as crimson as the very blood of God himself, must be eaten. Internally, you will be cleansed. Finally, you listen hymns to settle the soul, cleansing you spiritually. You might do this in the main hall of the Cathedral, but the lighting must be as bright as the golden sun itself. If this order is not taken, worship will fail.”

She pushed her hand through the small cut out slot in the wooden panel, spreading her palm open which contained the pill box. She felt it leave her hand as the agent took from her.

“So be it done, Mother,” the agent’s voice responded. “I must ask a favour before I leave, Mother. I would like to be absolved of my future sins; thus, I request the forgiveness of God for the operation I am to undertake… It is a great burden, and I want to apologise, and receive his blessing, before I leave.”

“It is done, Child. Know that this must be carried out and God permits it so. I wish you Godspeed.” Heledd spoke gentle reassurances to the confessor before her. The voice did not respond, though only the sound of the curtain flapping as it was brushed aside did.

Her side of the mission was over, it was in God’s hands now for it to be completed.

———

Horace stepped out of Saint Hans Cathedral, descending the cobble steps that led onto the street, with the pill box in his pocket. He straightened his servant’s black doublet, then strode back to the Reiol Palace, taking the winding streets over the High Walls of Reiol. This way, he could slip back into the Palace grounds without being noticed by too many keen observers.

Due to the torrential rain, that had yet cleared, that had mired the streets, he had been forced to wear gaiters over his leather boots, attached by leather buckle straps, and overalls to cover his breeches. With each step he took, the mud squelched beneath his weight while his gaiters and overalls were made sodden by the outdoor weather.

Despite the enormous wealth of the aristocrats, and even the Crown, they refused to spend the money required to line the streets with cobblestone like they did with their courtyards. It made the winter especially difficult to traverse as the streets were torn under the duress of the activities of the people who lived in Pentref.

Horace had wondered numerous times how even the aristocrats themselves had not gotten frustrated by its inconvenience, but he supposed the travel provided by the High Walls of Reiol let them rise above it and ignore it. Rather, that they thought they didn’t need to spend money on these issues as those that came before them had solved the issue temporarily, and when the time was right, the future generations could do it for them.

After sliding down part of a hill, and covering his overalls in a brown, wet sludge - which he’d prefer not to think about what could be mixed in with it - Horace trudged atop of a flattening region of the city. The slopes had petered off, making way for the Crown palaces. He had arrived before the Reiol Palace.

Horace stopped to think as he now stood within the rolling gardens of the Palace on how he got in this situation. For as much of his criticisms of the aristocracy, he was as much a part of it as they were. Born to a distant branch of the Ilwynfen family, he was resigned to broad insignificance. However, to now be tasked with regicide, it amazed him how fate twisted reality.

“Horace, your presence is required by Her Royal Majesty.” A voice sounded towards his right. He looked up from the ground where he was removing his muddied gaiters and overalls and saw the woman standing above him. It was Morrigan Honnen, the First Lady of the Bedchamber, and the Lord Privy Seal of His Majesties’ government.

“Right away, Dame Honnen.” Horace responded, stashing them inside the worker’s clothing bins, getting up from his seated position. He trailed after Morrigan who led him from the stables to the main palace.

Even now, despite him being the king’s attendant, he was still one of many, and lower ranking one at that. His status as a low born aristocrat prevented him from rising through the ranks that served the royal family. Though, he was in a better position than many. Serving the royal family was more prestigious than serving any of the other Eight Great Families, so he had bit his tongue withheld some of his grievances.

The side door clicked shut behind Horace and Morrigan, and he once again straightened his doublet as he walked inside the Reiol Palace. The wind had creased his clothes, and he needed to look presentable, though that was a desire of the ego more than anything.

Looking smart and respectable as he poisoned the king while smiling at him, and he smiling back, was not something that they would expect. Oh, how that interested him! They might expect someone in the kitchen, or a dark clothed man in the night, but never one so brazenly and blatantly before him. Though, that was the advantage of a slow killer. They would soon forget this meeting, though common as it will become in the future, and when the King dies, he, Horace, will not be blamed.

Menservants and maids flooded the halls, rushing in and out of the different rooms of the interior palace. Some held brooms, others held cloth’s damp with hot water and soap to clean the silvery, and finally some held papers. They disappeared between the various antechambers, the dining rooms, the bed chambers, and the drawing rooms. There were far too many rooms in this Palace for such a small family.

He supposed though that with him dressed in proper silk and livery, that added another dimension. One of a remarkable sort of trust, though ill-placed even as they knew how common it was for attendants like him to be asked to poison their Master. The duality of respectability was always a fascinating conundrum.

What made someone dressed respectably any different from those who killed dressed in tattered rags? What made it any less likely to happen? Why was a man dressed in silk seen as more honourable and trustworthy than a man with a black eye, wrinkled clothes, and a cudgel in hand, despite one knowing that they were both murderers?

Morrigan led him through an antechamber that opened into the Peace Drawing Room, then through another door that opened into the Queen’s Bedchamber. Unsurprisingly, the Queen herself was in this room, and she rightly commanded the whole room’s attention. Her imperious gaze locked onto his lowly self as soon as he stepped foot onto the carpet, behind Morrigan. He cowered slightly beneath her gaze, remembering his station once more.

“Horace, do you have word from the Church on treatment for His Royal Majesty?” Queen Priodi demanded of him.

“Of course, your Highness. They have provided a prescription to be administered for him, and I have it on my persons. If it pleases your Highness, I may enact his treatment.” He responded with the civility and servitude of an attendant of his status.

“That is quite alright, Horace. If you pass it over to Morrigan, she may safely administer it for my Royal husband.” Priodi violently rejected his offer. Horace grimaced internally. It was not meant to be like this, only he was allowed to kill the King!

He began to dry wring his hands, his voice low.

“Your Royal Highness, that cannot be so…” He paused slightly, flinching beneath Priodi’s and Morrigan’s piercing gaze. “The prescription, if done incorrectly, may cause perpetual harm to His Royal Majesty. The Church trained me in the correct steps to administer it without causing him any harm. As you can see, I cannot endanger His Highness by letting someone untrained give him his prescription.”

Priodi’s face darkened in response, her eyebrows burrowing trenches across her forehead. Morrigan’s face, though impassive, was full of cold hatred towards himself. If he was not careful, they might strike to kill.

“That is quite alright, Horace. If it must be done, as you say, then you may administer the prescription to his Royal Highness.” Queen Priodi acquiesced, though not for long. He had to be wary of her, she had always had a grudge against him for his low birth. She would take any opportunity to kill.

That reminded him, once again, of his low birth. He was born to a far-removed branch of the Lafant family, and he had once thought to resign himself to broad insignificance. However, his blooming ambition couldn’t be contained. Despite being one of many attendants, he shone brightly like none other, and was picked to be the private attendant of the King.

His brilliant qualities such as his intelligence, his trustworthiness, and his reputability were all reasons for his success. His low birth could not hold him back, but it still impeded him. He could go no further than being the King’s private attendant, but he dreamed of higher places.

A sharp knock at a door startled him from his thoughts. Its hinges squeaked slightly as it opened into the King’s Bedchamber, giving view of the King laying above his silk sheets. He slumped slightly against his pillows and his breathing was rugged and slow. Horace appeared by his side and began checking his wrist.

Ah, he finally remembered why he took the opportunity to kill the king. He was a bastard born from a male heir of the Helygen family to a female serf in the Helygen family’s plantations. They both already had families, and he himself was hated by both a like. A symbol of infidelity by one, and a product of rape from another.

But that was insignificant, really. When he was left to die in the streets of Pentref, or was it in the field of the Helygen’s plantations? He couldn’t remember… Well anyways, when he was left to die, he resigned himself to broad insignificance because he was a low born child of some far-removed Blodyn family…

He was broken from his thoughts as the pill box, which he last remembered seeing in his pocket, was now open in the palm of his hand. He watched as his other hand picked up the first pill, it was as blue as the ocean, and placed it on the tongue of the King who swallowed it down with a swig of water.

Wasn’t he actually the low born daughter of the Aethnenni family? That’s why he resigned himself to insignificance, he was discriminated on based on class and gender…

He seemed a lot further back in his head than he remembered, like he was watching someone else’s dreams. He sat within with a smile on his face, enjoying the scenes played out before him.

The hand reached down once again, picking up the next pill, though its colours were a bit blurred. Were they blurred? But he was certain it was a red pill, maybe scarlet. It was placed once again on the tongue of the man before him and was swallowed down with water.

Who was he? What was he doing? Were they a he? Or were they a they? They were a low born right? Regicide, but why…

A fuzzy sleep was causing his attention to drift, but it was hard to stop. A dream, a toiling dream that trapped us inside. Was it this?

With his last few seconds of attention, he watched the hand repeat its action again. It picked up the final pill, this time grey, but he thought it should be yellow, though he didn’t know why, and placed it on the grey matter before him. It disappeared into the other grey matter.

As it happened, his consciousness dispersed with a sort of blissful peace. He could finally remember part of who was.

Horace was offered by the Scholars of Theurgy to poison the king, to enact regicide. He did not accept monetary payment nor any form of support. His justifications were purely political, and maybe personal. He was a low born, and he had found his way into the services of King Brenin Helygen, but that was all he could be.

The aristocracy quashed any attempts of social movement, preventing anyone rising higher than their stations. It was a funny irony that this was his attempt at social climbing, and it had worked. Maybe in the future he would be known as a king killer. A man who broke his social rank and slipped through the iron fingers of the aristocracy while all they could do was watch.

A self-satisfied smile spread across Horace’s lips as the man who once was died was and replaced by another’s control. King Brenin Helygen looked up at the creature that was before him, saw the smile, and smiled back gratefully.

He had been successfully administered his prescription of tuberculosis. The blue pill would delay its effects temporarily until when they needed it to act, while the red treated his current mild ailment.