"The Witch Finder, Tarquinn" by Lyndsay E. Gilbert aka Liadan

Crowded in, body to body, body on body, we lie hating each other, hating the heat. The stench of sweat and dirt, of breathing bodies, hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the rotting of the dead

These halls of the poor are darker than hell

The ravage of famine, death’s sickly smell

The Woraton’s child who died here last week

Is lying among us, a burial to seek

We can’t afford to bury the dead

We can’t afford to be clothed or be fed

Our only hope now is the Witch Finder’s call

To lessen our numbers and clean out our hall

We’ll turn in the women to the summoning bell

We’ll feed all the witches to the great fires of hell

*

When the sun is in the sky the streets of any normal town are full of the hustle and bustle of daily life.  The market stalls are the focus of the attention and the shouts of traders rise above the hum of activity as the people move from cart to cart buying vegetables and cloth and useless trinkets too.  There is crime of course- pick pockets, con artists, sellers of faulty goods, even murderers.  But most crimes take place at night, in the darkness of a back alley; no one ever comes to the screams even if the hapless victim manages to choke a pitiful call of agony or for help.

There is no such thing as sunlight on Epsilon. The sky is a raging vortex of shifting colours and nasty temperament.  The world is plagued by storms and covered mostly with a forest that few may enter, for fewer come out alive. 

Epsilon used to be a dead world, dead save for the stalking of man killing monsters and faeries.  The King came here as an exile.  An upstart from a world far away where men are seen as nothing more than dirt and where any uprising meets with severe punishment.   Osiris Descouedres’s punishment was exile to a wild world, there to die with all his misled followers. 

They piloted them through the stormy vortex and down into the atmosphere below.  The sun cannot shine through those heavy clouds and so they plummeted down into eternal night.  Left without food, transport, warmth or protection they were surely doomed to die. Stalked by monsters and faeries from the evil forest around them, hungry and freezing they began to despair of their dreams, their belief in a world were men and women were equal, and were no person was left to starve while another feasted at a grand banquet.

Forests of Faery is what came to save them, they were not stranded after all but surrounded by a living portal, a passing place between the worlds.   And out of the depths of that forest came the Draconians.  Now, Osiris was a charming prince, and he befriended the Dragon people, awed at their wings, their strength and powers.  The Draconian people took pity on these wrecked warriors of revolution and peace and so they agreed to help them.  First food, shelter, clothing, then transport, weapons, technology, and finally the building of a stunning castle of Ebony that became the home of all.

This is the history of Epsilon.  It begins with a visionary, a passionate young man flying in the face of hatred and discrimination.  The History of Epsilon is how that young prince became an exile and how he built a kingdom and befriended dragons.  How he heated up a world without a sun using magick and technology and how he built a population through warfare he once abhorred. How he built an empire from a kingdom and became rich from the mining of moons of ruby and mountains of ebony.  How he enslaved Dragons and turned on his friends.  How he came to worship a warrior god of old.  A god of hate and oppression.  How this man of equality came to chain the goddess and create a world of misery for every woman in his Empire.

Then how he built up his riches and neglected his people.  There are the rich and highborn of Epsilon who build castles and tend fields rich with crops at the hands of slaves.  Then there are those forgotten…the poor people of Epsilon- those who do not live on the moons with a sun to warm their faces but those who live in the cold and dark Poor Quarter of main world Epsilon…right on the edge of a forest.  If starvation, hard labour and disease do not kill them then the Old Ones from the forest will.

Three Thousand years later and there is a way to pilot through the storms and capture worlds for the Glory of Epsilon.  But She is just a broken dream.  She is the broken dream of a young man who could have achieved everything but turned to madness and broke every dream ever dreamt in three thousand years.  He still sits on his Throne, his pale and beautiful face austere and unforgiving- his eyes blue glaciers of ice without a soul beneath to warm them, his hair as ebony as the walls of his twisted castle.  This is the History of Epsilon and the misery of her Present. 

There is no happy market in the Poor Quarter, the call of the traders are listless cries for business that will not come.  The common people of Epsilon can’t even afford to bury their dead; they have no use for trinkets.

*

Name: Kardin Radutas

Date of Death: 15^th June

Reason of Death: Witchcraft

Clara read the sign quickly, then again to clarify what it said, licking her lips as her mouth became increasingly dry and a sour taste settled on her tongue.  Kardin Radutas was the owner of the poor house; she remembered his surly features and his large black-toothed grin well.  She could see it clearly as her mind conjured his image and added to the dread she was beginning to feel in the pit of her stomach, worming its way up into her chest like a venomous snake. 

Her hand became slippery on the handle of the bucket she was carrying.  Her father had sent her to the town well for water and she had chosen to walk past the street’s Poor House as she always did.  Most days she would go inside and beg the kind man that guarded the reception to allow her a few moments with her mother.  The man was always reluctant to begin with but she in turn always broke him down and he allowed her to slip past him and enter the disgusting hole that was the Poor House. 

She knew the man pitied her, even though she was relatively wealthy in the secluded area of the Poor Quarter that she lived in.  Her mother too had once been wealthy enough to get by.  Her father was able to bring a small but respectable income to his house by working for the town priest.  Importantly it was a fixed and regular income and he had been able to feed three wives and seven children on it, albeit sparingly.  Now he only needed to feed two wives and seven children for he had conveniently rid himself of her mother. 

No one interfered with the abuse that wives endured at the hands of drunk, frustrated or just plain evil husbands.  Her mother had once told her that the men of their class beat their women because they felt insignificant in their poverty and thus they had to cling to the fact that they were men at least, and thus worth more than their lowly women. 

It was this small theory that had earned her mother the final blow.  He had lifted the poker from the fire and struck his wife on the head.  It had almost killed her.  And though Clara wished she did not think these thoughts, she believed that it would have been better if the blow had killed her mother.  Instead it had left her half mad, one moment raving mad the next perfectly sane.  Clara’s father worked for the priest, and no priest cared to employ a man with a devil infested wife in his house. 

So, her father had solved the matter by throwing her mother out onto the street and she had been received by no one but the Poor House.   She had visited her mother as often as she could for the two years that she had been living here.  The People of Epsilon were an immortal race and could only die unnaturally.  Their bodies did not age beyond the twenty first year.  Legend told it was a punishment from the Ancient God.  Only one God was worshipped on Epsilon, and he was an unforgiving God.  And so she knew her mother would die an unforgiving death.

Looking at the death sign nailed to the Poor House door was like looking at her mother’s execution warrant.  There had been talk of devils and witchcraft as long as Clara could remember, she had seen burnings in her short time of seventeen years.  She even knew women did resort to witchcraft- but the church didn’t always catch the culprit.  The whole procedure was one of fear and lies and deep betrayal.   

They hated her mother, the called her a witch, the devil’s own familiar.  Her mother seemed to play up to it with her bouts of raving lunacy.  She often hissed and chanted, screaming as if in torment and then laughing as if possessed.   Clara hated to watch the people staring at her, the girls whispering behind their hands to one and other, the men drawing the Holy symbols over their breasts with fear in their eyes.  Clara wanted at times to stab them each in the head with a metal poker and see how they fared themselves. 

But now there was no time for bitter thoughts, no point to them either.  This death would be blamed on her mother, and it would be no simple priest or travelling witch hunter that would try her.  It would be Tarquinn Dan Helios, Lord of the Moon of Asha, High Priest and Witch Finder of Epsilon that brought his court of trail and confession down upon the innocent head of her mother.  And there would be no one there to stand for her.  Her husband certainly would not, and Clara herself was useless.  Women were not listened to, especially not young women.  And most certainly not by the Witch Finder.

Sighing with a heavy heart she turned back to the lamp lit street and made her way to the well.  Many women were gathered there talking.  It was a social place and men wondered at how it could take so long to gather a pitcher of water.  Usually Clara was involved in the mindless gossip, but today a silence fell over the women as Clara joined the queue.  The stunned silence was followed by whispers and then an apt conversation held quite openly.

“I `erd `is eyes were full red.  Not even blood shot like, but all red.”  The first to speak out was a women Clara knew worked for the Poor House.  She was a cook there in the redundant soup kitchens, and she would have been pretty if not for a large red burn that came down over her left eye.  She was course looking, Clara thought, and her tongue had always been vicious.

“Definitely Witchcraft then, and everyone knows that Poor House is creepin’ wi’ witches.”  Clara did not miss the sly looks that passed over her, thrown like a ball from woman to woman.  If you didn’t catch it you had to leave the inner circle. 

“Aye, some wicked women livin’ there- that’s for sure.” The woman from the top of the queue chuckled as she wound the rope back taking her pitched and trudging back to the town. 

The gossip continued, the women hanging on to every morsel as though it was a life line, “It was ‘is wife that found him.  I’m sure she wasn’t half thinkin’ lucks on her side after the beating he gave ‘er last night.”

Another woman, and Clara could tell by the smell of her that she was from the Poor House, nodded, “Aye, he belted her on the ribs about ten times.  We could all hear ‘er screamin’ for mercy.  He had none, three fractured ribs she has you know.”

No one dared to comment, lest they imply that the man deserved the death he had met, though Clara knew many were thinking thus. 

“Well she can be a brazen thing when she wants to be.”  A stern woman ventured. And much more comfortable in the area of female degradation many of the women nodded, a few answering with a hushed, “Aye.”

“Well girls, no fears, the Witch Finder’s on his way.  My son seen his train and carriage at the manor when he was on his way home from work.”

Another hush fell over the women.  ‘No fears’ was an irony for sure.  Every woman in the town feared his coming, feared the hysteria that followed, and more so the death that came quickly on its heels.  The terrible, agonising death in the flames.

Clara filled her bucket hurriedly and left to the sound of whispering again.  Her right ear was burning and she smiled dryly, thinking of the old superstition.  When an ear burned it meant that you were being spoken of.  Left ear for love… right for spite.

*

Her father returned from work late.  Only the young children had eaten already, for it was not proper for wives to eat without their husband present to bring their prayers of thanks to Shen Ta.  The food was laid out, and grace was said but just as the meagre meal was about to begin a commotion started in the street outside the house.

 Clara’s father cursed before pushing his seat back and making his way to the nearby window.  He pulled back the moth eaten curtain and peered out into the dimly lit street, his eyes narrowed to adjust to the dark outside and then immediately widened again as he took in the cause of the noise.  His face blanched pale white and he let the curtain fall back again, “Quick!” He hissed, his eyes full of alarm. “Get the dinner into the back bedroom.”  His wives immediately obeyed him, gathering plates of warm food, knives and forks and hurrying into the hall with them.  Clara did not help them, but instead went to the window.  Her father was now pacing the floor behind her, his face still waxen, straitening out his clothes and running a shaking hand through his dirty fair hair. 

She pulled back the curtain just an inch or so and peered out into the street.  A grand carriage had pulled up at their humble home.  It was black as night and would have melded into the darkness if not for the gold stencilling that curled along the edges, twisting itself around the door like the vines of a poisonous plant.  Painted in the centre of that door was the proof of Clara’s earlier misgivings, the blazing symbol of the Church of Epsilon, lovingly embraced by the holy symbol of Shen Ta, embedded with sparkling gems that she could only imagine were rubies and onyx.

She had never seen so grand a carriage, and her eyes went next to the horses that drew it.  White mares, she saw, tall and elegant with black feather plumes upon their graceful heads.  The reins that held them were the same golden colour of the stencilling and Clara felt her mouth involuntarily opening in awe.  She fixed her gaze upon the door, seeing rich yellow light glowing behind a curtained window above the deadly symbol.  A black silhouette moved against the light, and she stared in horror as the shape came closer and the driver of the carriage stepped down and opened the door.

Clara had never seen the Witch Finder before, but she had heard many a tale.  In every tale he was beautiful and in every tale he was frightening.  And every tale, she decided in that instant, was true.  She saw first the hem of his flowing black robes as he descended the small metal steps of the carriage to the floor.  Looking up she took in all of his tall form.  He was strongly built beneath the priestly robes she could tell, slight yet firm. 

At his belt hung the famed instruments of his profession, a scourge with a beautifully decorated handle, adorned in fact with the same symbol on his carriage, a holy dagger hung beside this, and also a small silver vial which Clara knew held consecrated water.  The symbol was also embroidered in stark white on the chest of his robes, and it seemed to blaze there like a white flame. 

A silver pendent of Shen Ta hung heavy about his neck, resting on his chest over the embroidery.  His hair was lengthy and cascaded down his back, flowing over his shoulders and over an arm that clasped the Holy Text close to him.  His hair was peculiar indeed, black hair with streaks of silver white running through it.   When he lifted his head high to survey the run down house before him the white streaks shimmered dangerously in the light of the street lamps.

Clara dared then to look at his face. The first thing that she saw were his dark red eyes.  They seemed to burn in his pale face, there above perfectly chiselled cheekbones and an unyielding mouth that suggested well his cruelty.  His expression was one of the unimpressed and Clara realised that his carriage was worth more than everything that her father owned put together- from the clothes in their cupboards, the plates and cutlery too, to the run down home that was actually the envy of the town.  Tarquinn Dan Helios looked upon it as he might look upon a leper.

Her father’s two wives had come back into the room, Clara was glad the other children were sound asleep.  Her father had composed himself and ordered each of them to sit down at the table once more.  They all did as they were told, Clara seating herself opposite her father’s youngest wife who was only a year older than her.  The girl openly glared at her, “This is the fault of your evil mother, this is.”  She whispered.

Clara did not entertain her with an answer, for she was sure if she opened her mouth her tongue would refuse to move out of fear anyway.  A loud knock at the door made them sit up in their seats and her father went to the door as a voice called, “Open up in the name of the King.” 

Hurriedly her father unhitched the latch and opened the door, stepping back with a low bow as the Witch finder entered the house.  Clara and the two wives stood up only to give low curtsies.  They rose again when instructed to.

Tarquinn was surveying the interior of their house with the same expression he had looked upon the exterior with.  After a long silence he rested his cold gaze upon her father, “I have reason to believe that your first wife has practised witchcraft to cause the death of a certain man by the name of Kardin Radutas.  I have come to question you on the character of this woman. “    He was well spoken as any member of nobility or of the church and each word was sharp with every syllable accented crisply.

Her father bowed again, “I will answer any question you ask as best I can, but first let me make you more comfortable.”  He turned back to his wives and daughter, “Make yourselves scarce women.”  He said, and as Clara was following the two women out he spoke again, “Not you girl, you will wait on us.  Go prepare some refreshments.” 

She nodded obediently, her eyes catching sight of the Witch Finder’s bodyguard entering the house just as she left to go to the kitchen.  She made a pot of tea and brought the good shortcake out.  She had baked it for the celebration of Droshalla at the end of the week.   She was sure she would not be celebrating anything anymore by the end of this week.  Using the best china she placed everything onto a tray and went back to the living room.  

She poured the tea silently, tuning into their conversation with a dread in her soul that went beyond plain fear.  Perhaps she was already beginning to grieve for her mother, for even now she knew there was little hope.

“You threw her out when she was becoming unruly.  Do you mean the demons had taken hold of her while she was living in your home?”  The Witch finder took his cup of tea from Clara’s hand without so much as looking at her, his eyes were still fixed intensely upon her father.  She wished she could tell him that the reason her mother became ‘unruly’ was due to gross abuse, but it was not her place to speak, whether she told the truth or not.

“Yes, I would catch her filling the children’s heads with nonsense.  This was before she started taking raving fits of madness.  Writhing about as though the devil himself were shaking her.” Her father even shuddered to accent his stressful recall of her behaviour.  Clara found herself filling with hatred, and fighting with her anger to stop herself from acting on it.

The Witch Finder merely nodded, “What nonsense did she speak to your children?”  He asked, before taking a sip from his cup.

Her father looked at her, “Clara is probably better to answer that, she’s the woman’s oldest child.”

The eyes of the Witch Finder finally settled on her, and he looked her up and down before gazing intently into her eyes, “What things did your mother speak of…witchcraft at any time?”

Clara swallowed hard, setting down the pot of tea and rubbing her hands down her apron nervously, “She did speak of it once.  She said magick was a part of all of us.  She spoke of how men were encouraged to use their Gifts and how they ignored women.  But Mama did not know any magick herself. And when she spoke of it she abhorred the practise of the dark arts in men and women.  She said they taught it primarily in the Universities to young men and that they provided the best paid status for those who practise it in the Court.”

The Witch Finder raised an eyebrow at this, and a humourless smile curved his lips, “Shen Ta’s dark face must be worshipped, all the gifts he gives to men must be cherished.  Epsilon would have never been realised if not for the magicks of our founding men.”

Clara curtsied quickly, “Of course, my lord.”  She did not challenge him with the truth that women too had founded Epsilon, but he continued to speak as though she had dared to talk of it.

“Women hold gifts, yes.  But they are too easily twisted by the dark matter they may wield.  Instead they become forces of she-devils and workers of selfish evil.  Eventually they become murderers...”

“My mama is not a murderer.”  She cut him off, startling every person in the room, including herself.  An uncomfortable silence followed which was eventually broken by a small laugh from the Witch Finder.

“A passionate little thing, isn’t she?  Does she take after her mother?” 

Clara’s father could only stare at his daughter with hatred in his eyes, but Clara found she could not back down, could not lower her eyes.  She stared back at him with equal hatred.  He was the true murderer.  The murderer of innocence and of love.

“How old is she?”  The Witch Finder asked.

“Seventeen years, my lord.”  Her father answered, and a blush was burning in his cheeks.

“And yet she is unmarried.  Why is that?”  The man stood from his chair, and for a moment Clara thought she was going to run away from him.  But she stood firm as he came towards her, looking her over appraisingly, “She is certainly not unattractive, cleaned up a bit she would make a very beautiful woman.”

It was a high compliment from such a man as this, but Clara took no pleasure in it.  He himself was not married, and twenty-three years of age as far as the tales of him told.  She pitied the noble woman that became his wife, for he hated women.  His profession was to torture and kill them after all.

“Since I threw her mother out she has been needed here in the house.  Many have shown an interest in her though.  Even despite knowing the type of her mother.  I suspect it is her beauty.  A dangerous thing in a poor woman, so it was with her mother.”

The Witch Finder nodded, cupping Clara’s chin in a long fingered hand, “Open your mouth and let me see your teeth, girl.” 

Clara obeyed, knowing she was in good condition.  The Witch Finder nodded approvingly, “She will do.”  He turned back to the table, seating himself before his cup of tea again, “I will take her into my household as a servant.  Her wages will be forwarded to you.  I don’t think she’d ever make a good marriage here anyway and I’d fear for her soul wandering around unmarried.  She talks well, is neat and beautiful, and I know you could do with the money.  It is hard to make up a dowry for daughters in this area.”

Clara looked to her father in horror to see that he was smiling.  He would turn her away to the man that would burn her mother.  He would send her away from her brothers and sisters and everything she held dear for his own selfish gain.  He showed no sign of protesting.

“You are very kind, my lord.”

The Witch Finder smiled, “Think nothing of it, it is my gain.  I need a servant who knows the area well.  I will be working here for quite some time.  There are scores of witches wandering this town and I intend to root them out.”

*

Clara did not see the inside of the beautiful carriage or the vast expanse of fields and greenery as they travelled out of the town and into the countryside.  She had never been outside the town before and she had often dreamed of the countryside, lying in bed and imagining it as she dosed into sleep. 

She travelled in the carriage of a Lord, but she did not seem to care.  All she could see were the sleeping faces of her siblings, and her empty sleeping mat beside them as she walked away.  And the jealous faces of her father’s two wives.  Fools both, they would not look after her brothers and sisters.

They rode to the manor castle, and she dashed tears from her eyes before they had the chance to fall.  She wouldn’t give Tarquinn Dan Helios the pleasure of making her cry.   He didn’t seem to notice her anyway, for he stared out of his window at the passing scenery.  The pathway up to the Manor was long and winding and though she was tired when they finally came to a halt she did not want to rest.  The castle was imposing and she wished more than ever for the two story house that was her fathers and the warmth of cuddling close to loved ones.

She was helped down from the carriage by the driver and she followed Tarquinn up the many white-stone steps to the entrance of the Manor.  They were admitted entrance by a stern looking butler who bowed low to the Witch Finder, and looked her up and down.  She followed Tarquinn past him and up several flights of stairs to a grandly decorated door.  He took out a key from the pocket in his robes and turned it in the keyhole. 

Clara took in her surroundings with numb shock.  She had never seen such beauty in one room, such wealth.  Couches with solid gold frames glinted at her, embedded with rubies and pearls.  She stared openly at the fireplace which was easily the size of her father’s living room.

Her new master was watching her with an amused expression, “This all might take some getting used to for you, I think.”  He motioned to a door that led out into a candlelit hallway, “Follow me.” 

She obeyed him, and they walked down the hall to another room at the end.  The room was full of activity with servants and slaves preparing for their supper before bed.  They stopped their activity when their lord entered and made the necessary signs of respect. 

Tarquinn nodded in acceptance before ushering her forward, “This is Clara, and she is a new servant of the household.  I trust she will be made welcome. “

A well dressed woman, with auburn curls and smiling blue eyes stepped forward and clasped Clara’s arm, “How will she be dressed, my lord?”

“Well, I think.  Get her a good dress, well fitted.  She won’t be a plain servant; she is to be my company around the town this month.   Bathe her, and see that her hair is nicely styled.  She will begin work early tomorrow.” 

The woman curtsied and led her into yet another hallway- and through one of many doors into a grand bathroom.  The bath was not a mere metal tub as her own had been, warmed by the fireplace and shared by six other children.  Instead steps in the floor descended into a square pool that the woman began to fill with hot water from golden taps.  She poured in potions from glass containers on a shelf and bubbles foamed in the water, filling the air with a sweet aroma. 

The woman helped her to undress, throwing her clothes into a bin in the corner of the room, “No use for rags anymore.”  She muttered, giving Clara an appraising eye, “You are indeed a pretty one, a little underfed but we can fix that I’m sure.  Especially if the master is meaning you for his bed.”

Clara started at this, but the woman merely ushered her down the steps and into the steaming water, “Sit down love and I’ll give your back a rub.”

Clara was not going to be distracted, “I am for no ones bed!  Most certainly not the man that means to accuse my mother of murder.”

The woman manoeuvred her to sit down in the bath, and as the warm water immersed her she felt a pleasant shiver washing down her whole body, trying to calm all the rage and fear that lived within her, “There love, relax.  He’s just doing his job, he isn’t all bad at all.  If your mother is not guilty she should go free, unless of course she is dangerous anyway- murderess or not.  Besides if you go to his bed I imagine he might take pity on you quicker.”

Clara splashed an angry hand in the water, “I don’t need his pity.  My mother would prefer I keep my honour!” 

“Where is the honour in denying a lord?  By law you have no right to do so.  The Great God demands that all yield to those above them.”  The woman’s voice was calm and reasoning and she began to rub Clara’s shoulder’s soothingly.

Clara did not argue, for she could not without blasphemy and that would get her nowhere, “That being so, I’m still sure that a man of the church doesn’t condone such practises of women.”

The woman laughed at this, “Indeed not.  Our lord is kind to slaves and servants, good women.  He despises courtesans and such wicked women as seek their own gains at heart.”

Clara closed her eyes, enjoying the woman’s hands moving the aches in her shoulders, “Why are you so nice about him?  I have heard some terrible stories…”

“Believe them child, they are true.  But there are some evil things at work and he roots them out.  Women killing their own children and turning covens on one an other.  Tarquinn is a frightening man, but he is a man all the same…and he wasn’t always so cruel.  We are worried about him.  He’s stern and deeply religious.  But if you work hard and follow the laws of God he will look after you well.”

The woman left her in peace to soak after a while, and Clara turned what had been said over and over in her head.  Was he really a man, and could she ever persuade him of her mothers innocence?  And then could she persuade him to let her go?

*

She was woken early, a clock on the wall of her bedroom told her it was the fifth hour of the day.  The woman who had tended to her the night before now stood before her, hands on hips, “Time to get up, the dress maker has finished your dress, and we’ve got to sort that hair of yours out.”

Clara pushed back the warm covers and stepped out of the bed.  She had never slept in a bed before, nor had she ever slept without people in the room with her.  And though she had never been so comfortable, her spirit had been lonely. She had dreamed of her young brothers and sisters waking up to find her gone.

She was sent to wash, and when she returned to the bedroom she was presented with a very beautiful gown of pale violet.  The hem was of cream lace and she marvelled at the detail in the stitching and how it had been accomplished in only one night.  Several women helped her to dress and then led her to be seated at a dressing table. 

After some discussion they plaited half of her hair and allowed the rest to flow free down her back. They applied a small amount of make up and Clara enjoyed playing with the eye colours and the many lip pastes.   When she saw herself in the full length mirror she hardly recognised the woman reflected there.  The plait in her dark blonde hair was intricate and with her fringe clipped back her deep brown eyes stood out from her pale face, large and captivating.  She stared for quite some time before the women’s laughter brought her back to reality. 

“She can hardly believe her own pretty face.”  One said, as she helped Clara into a pair of elegant shoes the same colour as the dress, “The master wishes you to take breakfast with him.”

“He would eat with a servant?”  She asked, astonished.

“Indeed he would.  The master eats with his close servants two days a week.  He believes in trust and humility.” 

Clara was still contemplating this as she was led out into the hallways and brought into a grand room with a large dark wood table in the centre.  Tarquinn was seated at the head of the table and he motioned for her to sit at the seat to his left, “Good morning, Clara.”  He said, smiling.

The woman behind pinched her arm and she answered quickly as she took her seat, “Good morning, my lord.”

“I trust you rested well?” 

“Very well, thank you.”  She lied, thinking of the dreams that had plagued her.  While her brothers and sisters woke to grief she feasted at the table of a lord.  A lord who sought to torture and execute their mother.  Guilt sat heavy on her heart.

The door to the dining hall opened again and a man entered, taking Clara by surprise.   A pendent of the church hung at his chest, but his robes were not the black robes of the Witch Finder but clear white.  His skin was tanned, and she deduced from this that he lived on the moons of Epsilon, where the sun might shine at day. 

His hair, like her own, was blonde- but of a far lighter shade, and was pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck.  Long bangs fell down over his eyes.  Eyes that were the colour of rich amethysts.  She took in a deep breath at the sight of his beauty.  Surely he too was a member of the nobility.

“This is Lord Taiten D’Lannos.”  Tarquinn introduced him to her calmly.  But at the revelation of his identity Clara jumped up from her seat and curtsied low, fear crashing over her heart in waves. The D’Lannos family were the wealthiest and cruellest noble family in all of Epsilon, and this man was a first son of the house.  And worse yet, he was the twin brother of Jordan D’Lannos, a man crueller than even the Witch Finder. The most talented necromancer that Epsilon had ever born, and Head Mage of the Court from the age of just twenty one.

“This is Clara, Tai.  She is going to be my company around the town this month.  She knows it well.”  Tarquinn spoke to the new lord in a familiar tone, even calling him by a shortened name. 

Taiten took a seat to the right of the master seat, opposite Clara as she sat down again on Tarquinn’s order.  Apparently Taiten was another lord who would eat at table with a servant.  This was surely unlike his brother, for she had heard tales of servants severely punished by the Head Mage for less.

“I’m here to see to the famine, Quinn.  I haven’t been out yet, is the damage bad?  Do they know the cause?”

Tarquinn placed food from the platters onto his plate and then onto Clara’s as he answered, “The linen factory went out of business.  None of the people can afford to buy food, and the farmers have started skipping the town and taking their produce on to wealthier places.  The Poor House can’t even run the soup kitchen.”

Clara barely heard what was said as she stared at the warm meats and sweet breads piled upon her plate.  She never ate so grandly, even at holy day dinner, usually.  She found it hard to remember her manners and fought to remain politely using the silverware.

Tarquinn watched her as she ate, she knew he found her amazement to be an enigma he could study and never empathise with, “Do not eat too much, being unused to this food will make you sick to begin with.”

Taiten was still concerned with the famine, “I am glad it is the holiday of Droshalla, the poor must be seen to then, it is the will of Shen Ta.”

Clara studied the young lord’s face as he spoke, realising he meant his kindness.  His white robes told her that he was a white priest of Arielle.  Shen Ta’s Angel Consort.  Arielle was kind and gentle, and all could look to her for mercy.  But Shen Ta overruled her, and he had little mercy.  Tarquinn’s black robes were the robes of Shen Ta.  Merciless.

“The poor will be seen to, yes.  My job is also thus on this Droshalla holiday.  The town is infested with Witchcraft.  Clara’s own mother is a suspect presently.”  Tarquinn ignored the heavy atmosphere that suddenly descended over the table at his words, his deep red eyes seemed to flash for an instant, but when he looked down at his plate the light was gone, “You know, they are calling me the Witch Finder here.  Did someone not tell them my job is High Inquisitor?  I didn’t work so hard to fill the place of a mere witch hunter.  I root every kind of heretic out.”  He spoke casually as he cut the food on his plate and Clara saw Taiten give her a pitying glance. 

Perhaps she would never gain Tarquinn’s mercy if his own friend did not have faith that he would.  She found that she was suddenly not hungry anymore.

*

Clara moved through the densely crowded rooms of the Poor House, retching at the smell of sweat and dirt and the unmistakable stench of death.  People too ill to move, black with dust, grabbed at her skirts as she passed them, and she could do nothing but walk on, leading the Witch Finder into the back room which was where her mother lived.

Sure enough they came upon a woman, her clothes tattered and dirty, her hair unkempt and unwashed.  Beneath the dirt it was the dark blonde of Clara’s own hair and as Clara knelt down to confront the woman she knew as mother, shame washed over her.  Here she was, dressed in fine apparel, smelling sweet with expensive bath salts and hair lotions while her mother shivered and starved in nothing but rags. 

A shadow came over her where she knelt and she knew that Tarquinn was standing over her, “This is she?”

“Yes, my lord.”  She answered, gently brushing her mother’s hair back to look upon her face.  The black dust on her cheeks was separated by lines of glistening white, and fresh tears were trailing down those tracks.   The woman’s eyes did not seem to recognise her daughter for a moment, and she stared up in fear before seeing the eyes that were the shade and shape of her own staring back at her. 

Clara sighed in relief as her mother threw her rag clothed arms about her, glad that she was in a fit state of mind.  Fit enough to recall her daughter.  She would need some sense of herself and all around her to deny the charges that were to be brought against her.  The Witch Finder came down beside Clara, surprising her, “Your mother lives in regrettable conditions, I see.”  His red eyes were narrowly appraising her mother, seeing the dirt stained face and unwashed hair.  Clara wondered at how a Lord could stand the stench of the room.

“These are the conditions the poor have always lived in, my lord.  What do you care in your fancy home with your clean slaves and servants to attend to you.”  She had not meant to say it, but now it was out.  A blush burned on her cheeks, creeping up from her neck where fear crawled from her spine.  The Witch Finder only looked evenly into her eyes, “The Great Lord gives a lesson to each, according to the glory of their soul.  I am your lord, you are my servant.  My means are my business, and I am deserving of them.  No one asks me to come with pity into the houses of the poor.  And I will leave right now if I am to be disrespected for it.  I shall leave giving no help.  And take my white robed priest of mercy with me.”

Clara hung her head, lowering her eyes away from his steady, unnerving gaze, “Forgive me, my lord.  I did not mean to speak to you so.”  A part of her wished to tell him to get out with his priest if it meant leaving her mother behind.  He was not welcomed by her to this house.  But she could see by the desperation in the eyes of her mother’s inmates that they hoped Tarquinn would clear out the houses, bury the dead and remove many women so that there would be less overcrowding and more food to go round.

It seemed the  Witch Finder would give them what they wanted, “Tai.”  He called the white robed lord to him, “Bring in the cleansers and have the dead buried. “  he stood up to face his friend, motioning to a bed in the corner upon which a body lay decomposing in white sheets, “They cannot afford burials and so they hold unto the bodies until they can raise the monies.  The dead occupy their beds during the day and then are laid out upon the tables by night.  The same tables off which the living well then eat come day break.”  Disgust was heavy in his tone as he explained the pains of the deprived people of Epsilon.

Tai went to do his friends bidding immediately, making his way through the dense crowd of people and to the door.  Clara assumed he would bring more priests of Arielle to aid him in cleansing the rooms of the death.  Tarquinn however was unravelling a scroll, sealed with black wax and tied with gold ribbons, “Hespasia Winton, you are suspected of murder by the arts of sorcery and are called into the custody of the church of Shen Ta where your guilt or innocence shall be determined.”  

Her mother would not let go of her when the royal guard descended on her.  And Clara herself began to weep as her mother was hauled away, “Be brave, I know you are innocent mama.  Be brave.” But the older woman was having another of her fits, and as she began to kick and scream, issuing ungodly screams between bursts of desperate laughter, Clara could see the look of scepticism on Tarquinn’s face, and she could hear the whispers of the people watching, “Aye, that’s a witch alright.  Possessed by the demons she’s called on herself.”

*