"Shepard of the Dead" Short Story: Paternal Pursuits
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“Be gone with you, child,” the cathedral guard said gruffly. Holding her by the head and belt, he unceremoniously tossed Isabelle out into the street. She hit the cobblestones rump-first, leaving a warm pain in the wake of the impact.
“I just want to find my father,” Isabelle spat back, rising to her feet. “They records of my birth in there!”
“Well, the Holy Chosen says you belong outside, so that’s where you’ll stay,” The guard replied, folding his thickly muscled arms across his chest. “Now, you best get moving before the Chosen sees you in passing. She’s got a long memory, that woman, my I’Kara bless her.”
Isabelle huffed angrily, before walking away. On the other side of the street, she sat at the entrance of an alley, glaring at the massive cathedral before her. The local clergy, a Favored with short black hair and a green tunic, was dusting off his hands as if he’d just finished a menial task. He shot her a disdainful look as he stepped back into the cathedral.
He’d just thrown Isabelle out into the street.
All for asking one simple question!
Isabelle rubbed her buttocks, still sore from the recent awkward landing. The answer lay inside that brick fortress, hiding behind those beautiful stained glass windows. As if all the Holy Mothers of the church’s past were bent on keeping her from the truth. The truth her own mother insisted on keeping hidden.
“Your father was a drunk nobleman who didn’t want anything to do with us ‘common folk,’ Isabelle,” Her mother would say. Usually, while nursing a bottle of foul smelling ale. “It won’t do you any good to go chasing after him. Besides, a young girl has no business consorting with nobles. If you want to help this family, find another one of those pretty broaches. We made fifty silvers of off that piece!”
Any other day, Isabelle would have contented herself with batting her pretty eyes or picking some pockets. At least, a baker in the lower quarter said Isabelle’s eyes were pretty, before he gave her a leftover biscuit.
Her brown hair was cut short, in the traditional style. Anything longer and the clergy would step in. Only the Chosen could enjoy long hair. A sign of favor from the Divine Mother.
Isabelle sighed, focusing on the street traffic as she calmed her nerves. The upper quadrant was rich with potential marks. Jewelry, gold, and family heirlooms hung in public display for any pickpocket with light enough fingers and quick enough feet to take advantage of the opportunity. Coin purses and belt pouches were fairly easy. Rings and amulets were trickier, but doable.
Isabelle touched the lock picks, tucked away inside her left sock. A trade not even her mother knew she’d learned. A beggar in the lower quarter had a sorted history and a softness for Isabelle’s plight. Sometimes a picked lock was all that kept Isabelle and her mother fed, despite her mother’s efforts as a seamstress.
But last night, Isabelle’s mother was in a particularly dark mood. Things at the tailor shop were not going well, and she cursed the Chosen who oversaw her birth.
Chosen Chantrell. The same Chosen who lived in this very Cathedral of I’Kara. The sun occasionally peaked through a thin layer of clouds, giving the impression that the many-widowed building were somehow winking at her, mocking her efforts to find the truth.
Isabelle’s birth records must lie in this very abbey! The church was always fussing about marriages and births. Something about making up for the casualties of the last Corpse War. They were usually done in secrecy too, in case a noble spent too much time with a ‘common’ woman.
Isabelle sighed. If only this were one of the smaller abbeys back in the lower quarter. There she could stick to the shadows and easily blend in to the rest of the population. Dust, stains and bruises were easy to come across. Gold, lace and silk of the upper quarter, not so much.
Today though, Isabelle had a mission. She stared across the street at the massive cathedral sprawled out across the entire city block. High iron fences encouraged the people to enter via the South Gate, where two burly Followers of I’Kara waited. Their polished chainmail was dented from recent use, maces dangling at their belts. They stood at attention, faces empty of emotion.
Mother would spend the entire day at the market, trying to find a buyer for some of her rarer fabrics. Isabelle would have until sundown, when mother closed up the tailor shop. Isabelle patted the purse tied beneath her sock. She'd already stocked up on a little savings, so she already had something to show for today’s efforts. Mother would be cross if she knew Isabelle was wasting an entire day searching for her father’s identity.
The problem was getting into the Cathedral during the day. Mother would suspect something was amiss if Isabelle tried anything at night. Mother was quite the light sleeper, despite the ample amount of ale she consumed at night. Sneaking out while she was home wasn't an option.
So, how could Isabelle manage this in the middle of the day?
A tangle of noblewomen passed by, whispering to themselves. Judging by their elaborate dresses and high neck-lines, they were headed for the cathedral. Isabelle hopped to her feet and scurried along behind them, jutting out her chin. Noble types always stuck their chins out when they pulled rank. Perhaps she could pass herself off as one of them.
The women passed the guards with a nod of acknowledgement. There was a confident air about them. They didn’t just hope the lowly Favored would let them in. They expected it.
Isabelle walked dangerously close to the last two women, hoping the guards would look away before…
“Here now,” a gruff voice snapped. The women paused, glancing toward him. Someone caught a firm hold of Isabelle's collar. “Where do you think you're going?”
“To seek forgiveness,” Isabelle replied mechanically, putting on her most pious face. Eyes wide, palms up, shrugging meekly.
“In those rags?” The guard spat, turning to the women who had stopped when he spoke. “Is this girl one of yours?”
“Of course not,” the tallest woman laughed. The broach on her dress shook, making the engraved hawk appear to be hopping with humor. “Look at the soot on her fingers. Why, I'd never get the stain out of my dress. Of what crime could you seek forgiveness, little urchin?”
“Sneaking into the church,” Isabelle replied, staring at her feet. “I’ve got to find forgiveness, or the Divine Mother won't accept me.”
“Find a decent job first,” the Guard said, hauling Isabelle back to the street. “You'll need to buy reverent attire.”
“And a bath,” a stout woman said, pinching her nose. She flicked a silver coin passed him, into the street. “The first thing to learn about the Divine Mother, girl. Spiritual purity begins with the body. Begone.”
“You heard the lady,” The guard said, giving Isabelle another push, forcing her to stumble further into the street. “Go back to the lower quarter, before I call the city guards. They will not be as merciful as us.”
“As you will,” Isabelle said, gritting her teeth. She grabbed the silver coin and scampered into the crowd. Despite the many footfalls of passing clergy and nobleborns, she distinctly heard laughter from the Cathedral gates.
Isabelle circled around to the north entrance, perching at yet another alleyway. These guards looked just as bored as the first, watching people pass with blank stares. Isabelle chewed the inside of her cheek, thinking.
If the clothes gave her away, then the answer was simple. But how would she slip in once she had the right clothing to fit the role?
The guards parted, making room for a somber procession.
A wizened Favored lead a dozen acolytes toward the cathedral. The acolytes were Isabelle’s age, all dressed in pale tunics and wearing hemp belts around their middle. Their hair was cut short, like the Favored’s. Their faces were stoic as they stared straight ahead, at least when the Favored was looking their way.
He carried a book under his right arm, his left hand clutching the spine. Treasuring the word of the Divine Mother. The students followed his course with crossed arms and somber eyes.
Isabelle watched the group pass through the gates without complication, considering. Surely the guards wouldn't miss one more acolyte entering the grounds, if Isabelle's clothes didn't give her away…
Hurrying south of the Cathedral, Isabelle scampered along the side of the road, which gave way to a shallow ditch. Water gurgled along the bottom, diverted from a mountain stream far out of town. Refuse cluttered the ditch, leftover food and excrement drifting lazily out of the city.
Isabelle followed the ditch for three city blocks before seeing a flicker of pale cloth amidst the mess. There! The high and mighty nobles were always quick to throw away something a more desperate man could use.
Taking a deep breath, she scurried into the mire and pulled up an acolyte's tunic. A purple stain marred the chest, suggesting an accident involving wine. She sniffed the purple stain.
Wine was for church goers and noble types. Something her mother certainly couldn't afford. Sadly, the smell of urine and excrement buried whatever sweet smell the purple mark once offered. Isabelle pursed her lips, pondering for a moment. She couldn't very well walk into the cathedral smelling like the hind end of a mule. She needed to get this washed.
Isabelle hurried down to the largest fuller's house she could think of. Here, in the lower quarters of the city, she passed a few children she knew, mostly the children of fellow merchants, or orphans living off of whatever they could find. She offered a mere nod of acknowledgement as she passed, focused on her goal.
To her good fortune, the doors and windows were wide open. Hot white steam billowed into the open air. It looked almost as if the building were crying upside down. Soap in the eyes did burn something awful.
Isabelle grinned. At least this place didn't post a guard. She walked in.
The air was thick and hot. Isabelle stifled a breath. The summer days were uncomfortably warm, to be sure, but not like this. This was suffocating.
Six cauldrons boiled with hot water. Three women worked around each one, scrubbing handfuls of clothes along grated washboards. They each wore brown aprons, except for the one walking around shouting orders. Their arms were pink from the hot water, like the raw flesh of a rabbit. Yet they smiled and laughed as they talked with each other.
Isabelle hesitated. Each of these women were three times Isabelle’s size, with forearms as thick as Isabelle’s face. Not to mention, the cauldrons were five feet high. She might be able to throw the tunic into the mixture, but she'd never be able to clean it without anyone noticing.
“Here now, what's that horrible smell?” A broad-shouldered woman with a curved nose and a green apron pushed into view, staring down at her. “Did you sick on yourself, child?”
“M-m-me ma'am,” Isabelle sputtered, holding up the tunic. “I… need a wash.”
“We don't work for free, child,” the woman huffed. She glanced at the tunic. “That rag is far too gone anyway. You’re an acolyte. Go and ask your Favored for another. The church has many replacements.”
“Silvia?” One of the women at the vat chimed in. She wore tan colored linen under a brown apron. Her hair hung in locks of silver and brown, though her face still carried a touch of youthful grace. “Look at how scared she is. I bet she already has. A couple times. She doesn't want to anger her Favored. Were those Arnadi boys pushing you into the mire?”
Isabelle put on her best wounded expression and nodded, stifling a fake sob. The thick air tickled the back of her throat, helping to sell the deception with a raspy cough.
“Ahhh, my nephew is an acolyte too. Those Arandi kids are always causing trouble. Their mother was a Chosen, so they treat the other acolytes poorly,” The kind hearted woman said, nodding to her boss. “Surely we can help her out, just this once?”
“We don't work for free, Iris,” The broad-shouldered woman huffed.
Isabelle fished into her pocket and pulled out the silver coin. The boss lady took her money in a flash. She eyed the coin suspiciously for a moment, as if expecting the bauble to denounce Isabelle as some kind of fraud. Finally, the boss lady turn to Iris. “I expect you to only take a few minutes on this. I have another pile of laundry with your name on it.”
“I will be quick,” Iris said. Taking Isabelle's smelly tunic by two fingers, Iris looked down at Isabelle and said, “This way little one.”
They went to a smaller cauldron at the back of the washroom. The water was already a light brown color, like dry dirt on a hot summer day. Hot steam billowed from the surface. Equally hot red coals glowed from the small fireplace underneath.
“We have to wash this separately,” Iris said, stuffing the tunic into the cauldron. “Or the rest of the clothes will get messy too.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle offered, watching her work. “This is a big help.”
“You're welcome,” Iris said, smiling sweetly. “You remind me of my two boys. acolytes themselves, did I tell you? Serving the church at such a young age… Can you think of anything more godly?”
Isabelle hesitated to answer. Not only did she know every little about the details of clergy life, but her own experiences with the Cathedral were far from religious. Finally, she snapped on her most devout face and widest, most innocent expression.
Thankfully, Iris turned to her work rather than the conversation. She soaked the tunic, scrubbed it with soap, then a brush, then rinsed, and then repeated the process. Her skin from fingers to elbows was pink from the heat, but she didn’t seem to mind.
The minutes ticked by and Isabelle found herself mesmerized by the routine. There was a quite melody to the job, especially since Iris hummed along as she cleaned.
Soap. Brush. Rinse. Repeat.
Finally, after a bark of warning from the boss lady, Iris lifted up the tunic from the frothing soap. All but the purple stain was gone now, leaving the fabric bright and youthful again. Isabelle marveled that the church would throw out something so easily repaired. Well, except for the stain.
“I think I can help you with the stain,” she said, pausing before handing over the tunic. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. No, this will never do. You're still filthy. Here, hold still.”
She took a cloth from her pocket, dipped it in the soapy mixture and wiped the dirt away from Isabelle's face. Next she cleaned her hands and neck. The hot soap itched against her skin. She fought the urge to scratch. If this would get her into the cathedral, then she'd gladly bear an itch or two.
“We must fix your hair, too,” the nice woman said, running her wet fingers along Isabelle’s scalp. She scrubbed and brushed the greasy strands. “There. Now you look the part.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle beamed. Glancing at the tunic, she added, “What did you say about the stain?”
“Here,” the woman said, slipping the tunic over Isabelle’s head. The moist, hot fabric felt warm against her skin. More itching. Joy.
“Fold your arms, as if you're praying,” the woman suggested.
Isabelle obeyed, crossing her arms over her chest. Then she curled her fingers upward and inward, until them met just beneath her chin. The A’Kara’s divine pose. The traditional, prayerful salute to the Divine Mother, A’Kara. The acolytes walked for ages holding this pose. Isabelle glanced down and grinned. The stain was hidden under her arms.
“There you are,” Iris said with a content grin. She stroked Isabelle’s cheek. “Now, off you go before my boss gets upset.”
Indeed, Isabelle could already see the boss lady circling towards them, storm clouds brewing on her face. Isabelle’s welcome was over.
“Goodbye!” Isabelle said, scampering away.
“Good luck,” Iris replied.
Thankfully, a stiff breeze filled the street as Isabelle returned to the cathedral. By the time she reached the tall iron fence, her tunic was dry. From the safety of the north alley, tucked out of view, Isabelle considered her next step.
She’s already had issues with the guards at the south gate. There was too much of a chance they’d recognize her. These guards might let her in as she was, alone, but if she ran afoul of them then she wouldn't get into the citadel.
Just to be safe, she had to find one of those processions…
She hurried to a nearby intersection of a busy cobblestone street, and a luxurious looking tailor’s shop. All lace, silk and velvet.
Just down the road, at a city well, Isabelle could see the acolytes finishing up the last of their afternoon prayers. Their Favored stood over the well, holding the totem which hung around her neck. She wore a green tunic with white lacy embroidered along the hem, with a simple hemp belt. The carving of the Divine Mother glowed with a soft light all its own, purifying the well.
Isabelle paused, licking her lips. Kes. The magic of the Divine Mother. There was a thing worth having. Far more valuable than gold or lace. Imagine how she could help her mother, if she could use powers like those!
Isabelle shook her head, forcing such thoughts away. She knew her place. She had neither the brains nor the inclination for clergy work. Given how the cathedral treated orphans like her, she wouldn’t want to work with them anyway. Best to slip in, take what she needed and get out.
The acolytes soon finished up their prayers and turned toward the cathedral, toward Isabelle. She stepped back into an alley, making sure to stay out of the Favored’s line of sight as he led the procession. He cradled a book of scripture against his chest like a mother might hold an infant child. The way mother used to hold Isabelle before father drove them from his city. Before mother turned to ale to help her sleep.
Once the procession passed her, she fell into step behind the last acolyte. With a careful glance, she mimicked their stride, keeping her arms folded in the Divine Mother’s salute and her eyes straight ahead. She kept her steps quick and light, hoping even the acolyte ahead of her would not even realize Isabelle was there.
They approached the north gate and Isabelle's stomach crept up into her throat. Her heart pounded in her chest. She forced herself to maintain her pace, eyes ahead.
“Favored Wilhelm,” One guard said, nodding in respect to the priest.
“Gregory,” the Favored replied. “How's the wife?”
“Much better, since your blessing, ma’am.”
“The Divine Mother preserver her,” the Favored said. She continued on without breaking her stride. The guards didn't even look at the acolytes.
They walked onto the cathedral's grounds. The air smelled different here, still think but with the heavy sweetness of incense and flowers. Isabelle wondered if some divine spell were at work, marking this place as holy ground. She gulped. If such a spell were surely in place, would it identify her as an intruder?
The acolytes turned right, following a winding path away from the cathedral, toward the gardens to the east. Isabelle pulled away from the group, and doubled back the way they’d come. She was careful to keep her arms crossed to hide the purple stain. No guards stood at this entrance, hidden from the view of the street by thick clusters of orange trees.
Glancing down at her tunic, she felt a rush of elation. There, that wasn’t so difficult, now was it? She smiled to herself and then strode inside the cathedral.
The building was massive. Vaulted ceilings covered with beautiful paintings momentarily stole Isabelle's focus. There were so many stories here. Pictures of Holy Mothers, angels, monsters, undead and demons, depicting tales of faith or woe.
The room felt so … big! Almost as if she were still outside, and the sky had simply changed shape.
Many pews filled this main room, leading up to a stone altar with many strange engravings. A few of them were of the ever familiar Divine Mother, bowing down to encircle the world in her protective arms.
The afternoon sun shone through the stained-glass windows, just as colorful as the paintings on the ceiling. They cast rainbows of color across the dusty room. A few Favored talked in tight groups near the altar. Against the back wall, Isabelle saw the arched entrance to the cathedral’s back rooms. That must be where the Chosen’s records lay.
A woman with long ebony hair stood in a black robe, lighting a series of candles at the top of the altar. Her leather belt was lined with silver and the hem of the woman’s tunic was lined with red lace. Her totem gave a soft, red glow as she tended to her duties at the altar.
A Priestess of A’Kara. They were rarely seen outside the cathedral. They wore an engraved totem around their necks, similar to the ones the Favored wore, but made of elegant silver. Some whispered they could use Kes to disguise their appearance, and stalk the city’s wicked at night. There was a reason their lace was dipped in blood.
Isabelle licked her lips. The Priestess sent a nervous shudder down Isabelle’s spine, but surely the Chosen’s office was in the back of the Cathedral, behind the altar. She was so close! A tingle of anticipation ran back up her spine. How far would this disguise take her, though?
Gathering her courage, Isabelle folded her arms in the divine pose and walked straight for the back rooms. The green-clad Favored did not look up from their conversations, but they blocked Isabelle’s view of the altar. She had a feeling if she just help looking straight ahead and held this pose, they’d allow her too…
Isabelle covered half the distance to the rear hallway when someone wearing a black tunic blocked her way. From this angle, Isabelle should see the lace hems were indeed stained a dark shade of crimson. The Priestess!
“Where do you think you're going, acolyte?”
“I'm looking for the Chosen's office,” Isabelle replied, trying on the same pitiable face the kind woman, Iris, had melted for. “Could you show me how to get there?”
“Humph,” the Priestess replied, glowering down at Isabelle. “The Chosen is far too busy for the likes of you. Who sent you?”
“F-Favored Wilhelm,” Isabelle said, thinking quickly. “I… made a mistake and she wanted the Chosen to deal with it.”
Isabelle unfolded her arms, revealing the wine stain on her chest. She hung her head in feigned shame. Staring at the ground was a good tactic, her ‘shame’ face wasn't very good.
“The Chosen isn't here at the moment,” the Priestess replied, sounding annoyed. “You'll have to return tonight.”
“Very well,” Isabelle said, glancing behind the Priestess, at entrance to the back rooms. “Where is his office? I'd hate to get lost back there.”
“There are only a few rooms,” the Priestess said, pointing back toward the entrance to the cathedral. “You'll hardly get lost. Now, go tell Favored Wilhelm she'll have to wait until tonight. You can do your penance in the garden until then.”
Isabelle's heart sank to the vicinity of her ankles. So close.
With a nod of relent, she turned and slowly walked back toward the exit. Over her shoulder though, she watched the Priestess. Once the woman's back was turned, Isabelle dropped to her knees. Hugging the edge of the pew, she slid past the Favored without attracting notice. Once she ran out of pews, it was a short hop to the back rooms.
She paused when she slipped out of sight, down the hallway, noting the grime on the knees of her once clean Acolyte’s tunic. The next person who saw her would likely know she didn’t belong. The Priestess was right, however, there were only a few rooms back here. Isabelle didn't bother with the open doors, but paused when she found a locked one.
Fishing a pair of lock picks from her other sock, Isabelle went to work. One of the few useful stills she learned on the streets. Something not even her mother knew about.
Hands trembling, Isabelle took a deep breath and forced herself to slow down. The clergy were quite content to chat in the main room, surrounded by church finery. She had a couple minutes, surely, before anyone returned to these back rooms.
The lock gave with a heavy click and Isabelle pushed the door open, anxiously biting her bottom lip. The room included a heavy desk in one corner, a handful of paintings adorning the walls and a spare dark blue Chosen’s tunic almost as tall as Isabelle. Chuckling contently, Isabelle slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.
Finding the lamp was easy. Finding the tinder-starter, less so.
In a minute, a warm yellow glow bathed the room. The yellow flame flickered contently. The smoke sifted upward, vanishing through a small grate at the top of the far wall.
Rubbing her hands together excitedly, Isabelle tore into the desk.
Quills. Parchment. Ink. A few half-written letters filled the top dresser drawer.
The second held a couple thick tomes and smaller bundles of letters, none of which had to do with Isabelle's mother.
The third held a lunch pail, with a half-eaten apple and a sandwich.
Isabelle took a step back, considering. Her mother got married years ago. If there was a record, it would be tucked away, not sitting on top of the desk with next week's Cathedral attendance record.
The trunk in the far left corner. Modest and well-worn. Something the Chosen must have still owned eight years ago, everything else looked fairly new. The lock on the trunk certainly wasn’t. It was even easier to pick than the front door.
Isabelle lifted the lid. Hundreds of pages littered the trunk, as if they are all fighting each other to scurry out of sight.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Isabelle muttered, tossing one letter aside and then another. A pile formed in the center of the room. Anything dated before the harvest-tide eight years ago would not help her. She wasn’t terribly good with letters, but she knew enough from mother’s record books at the tailor shop to recognize dates and names.
Only a few handfuls of pages remained when Isabelle heard the door latch click open.
“Chosen Chantrell, I saw your light on. Did the meeting with the prince go amiss?” A familiar voice said. A green-clad Favored stared down at her, blinking in surprise. What foul luck. It was the Favored who had thrown her out, earlier this morning.
Isabelle took a handful of pages and shoved them down the collar of her shirt.
“What do you think you're doing?!” The Favored bellowed, his voice shaking the walls. He walked around the right side of the desk, arm outstretched, hand grasping. “I recognize you. You’re the urchin from before. How did you get that tunic? I’ll have you flogged for this!”
Isabelle jumped around the left side of the desk, sprinting for the door. Something caught a hold of her acolyte tunic, so she spun and ducked her head. The tunic slid right off and the Favored tumbled into the desk. Ink splattered across the room, pages flew into the air and the Favored let out a bellow, more of frustration than pain.
Isabelle bolted out of the room and down the hall. The cathedral looked very different in the fading light, the brilliant greens and blues of the stained glass were now overwhelmed by dark shades of red, as if the Divine Mother were taking notice of Isabelle's actions.
One final pair of clergymen, two green clad Favored, watched her sprint by in confusion.
“I just found a Favored snooping around the Chosen’s room!” Isabelle replied, hastily crossing her arms in the divine salute. “Threatened to hurt me if I told. He just tore my tunic off.”
As if on cue, a thud echoed from the Chosen’s quarters. The Favored let out a string of curses. Isabelle suspect the spilled ink could be the culprit, but she certainly wasn’t hanging around to find out!
“Favored Grimjaw?” One of the clergyman asked, looking past Isabelle. “Are you alright?”
The second they looked back toward the Chosen’s office, Isabelle bolted. The nearest one tried to grab hold of her as she passed. Isabelle felt the woman’s hand close around Isabelle’s hair, still slick from the day’s heat and Iris’s soap treatment. Isabelle slid free.
The cathedral passed by in a panicked blur, as Isabelle ran for it. Thankfully, the Priestess was nowhere to be seen. The other Favored looked up from their conversations, brows furrowed in confusion. Isabelle did not wait to offer an explanation.
When Isabelle burst through the double doors and into the gardens, her pace slowed. There was more cover here, basking in quiet stillness. Sometimes, the best way to get caught was to keep running. Here, her dark, mud-stained linen clothes actually blended into the soft earth and thick tree trunks.
Just as she felt her heart beat relax, heavy alarm bells rang from the cathedral's high tower. Followers of A’Kara shouted in alarm and in the dim light Isabelle could see the black-clad priest standing at the cathedral entrance, bellowing something at the top of her lungs. Her silver amulet glowed red.
Either gate wouldn't work, the guards were watching. Instead, Isabelle headed for the nearest fence line. Torches of angry Followers seemed to pop out of thin air, circling around the border of the cathedral. How long until they expanded their search to the fence line?
The tall iron fence was four times Isabelle's height, with only two cross-beams of iron to climb upon. Clinging to desperate hope as well as cold iron, Isabelle tried to scale the distance. She made it up to the second rung, but couldn't summon to strength to leap to the top of the fence. She stretched, reached, even prayed to the Divine Mother.
Glaring torches closed in from either side. Only moments remained.
Isabelle leapt.
She caught hold of the top of the fence, but couldn't pull herself up the rest of the way. Her feet slid uselessly against straight iron bars, searching in vain for decent footing. A painful, burning sensation up in her hands as she held on.
“No, no, no!”
She watched her trembling hands slowly open and betray her.
She fell to the cobblestone ground with a heavy thud. The world spun.
This was it. The Followers would haul her back to the Chosen and the Divine Mother only knew what kind of judgement that black-clad priest would rain down on her. Isabelle sat up glumly, clutching her head.
The darkened street seemed to mock her, alight with the dancing shadows cast from the Followers' torches. They were so close now, checking every tree, looking beneath every shrub. Seconds from discovery, with that gap between the iron bars mocking her predicament.
The gap between the bars.
Isabelle hobbled over to the fence, slipping her arm between the bars. Then her shoulder, her head, hips and foot. Suddenly, she stood quite safe on the other side of the fence.
“You there, hold!” A Follower cried, running up to the fence line.
With a grin, Isabelle scrambled into the darkness.
Once the cries of the Followers faded into the quiet night, Isabelle's glee faded. The setting sun painted dark shadows behind every building and down every alley. Isabelle had little time to make it home before her mother noticed her absence. To make matters worse, she still knew nothing of her father’s identity.
A few artisans were still closing up their shops, but the streets were clearing. Mother would return home soon and expect Isabelle to have dinner waiting. A sinking feeling settled in Isabelle's chest, as she pondered on her unanswered question. Food didn't sound particularly appealing right now.
She told herself it was for the best. Mother would be quite disappointed if her daughter ignored her wishes. For digging after information she shouldn’t know.
She couldn't shake intense thirst, the need to know the truth about her father. For reasons she couldn't quite understand.
The more Isabelle watched the noble rich and the pious clergy, the more she couldn’t shake the feeling she had a role to play in this world. Something bigger than picked pockets and the occasional lifted amulet. Perhaps if she knew the other half of her heritage, she’d be better off.
Something itched against her chest. She scratched the irritation through the fabric of her tunic. Something crinkled against her skin. She paused.
The extra pages, from the Chosen's chest.
Her breath came in short bursts and her heart rate doubled. With a trembling hand she pulled the pages from her shirt. A note from a grateful family. A letter of commendation from the church. The Chosen's official request to move his office to a room with a window.
There. The date matched her birth exactly. Soaking in the words, Isabelle held her breath, slowly sounding out each word. She didn’t understand half of them, but she finally found a name, written right next to her mother’s.
“Count Melvin Baregan, Lord of the Iron Citadel.”
Isabelle stared at the words, reading the birth records over and over again. The Iron Citadel. She’d heard of that place. The country’s last defense against the eastern barbarian hordes. Her father wasn’t just a nobleman, he was a general. A warrior.
Skipping down the cobblestone road, Isabelle hurried back toward the merchant's quarter. She felt like a missing piece of her shadow were suddenly made whole. She knew what kind of blood flowed in her veins. A seamstress, for certain, but also a general.
Isabelle pursed her lips, considering her position as she watched the sun finally wink out of view. No, her mother didn’t need to know about Isabelle’s discovery. Not for a while.
Isabelle was no fool, at only eight years of age she couldn’t very well cross the whole country on a whim! But someday, she would. Someday, her family would be reunited and they would be made whole again. Even if she had to drag her parents back together by their hair.
Perhaps, then, she could finally enjoy some peace.
“I just want to find my father,” Isabelle spat back, rising to her feet. “They records of my birth in there!”
“Well, the Holy Chosen says you belong outside, so that’s where you’ll stay,” The guard replied, folding his thickly muscled arms across his chest. “Now, you best get moving before the Chosen sees you in passing. She’s got a long memory, that woman, my I’Kara bless her.”
Isabelle huffed angrily, before walking away. On the other side of the street, she sat at the entrance of an alley, glaring at the massive cathedral before her. The local clergy, a Favored with short black hair and a green tunic, was dusting off his hands as if he’d just finished a menial task. He shot her a disdainful look as he stepped back into the cathedral.
He’d just thrown Isabelle out into the street.
All for asking one simple question!
Isabelle rubbed her buttocks, still sore from the recent awkward landing. The answer lay inside that brick fortress, hiding behind those beautiful stained glass windows. As if all the Holy Mothers of the church’s past were bent on keeping her from the truth. The truth her own mother insisted on keeping hidden.
“Your father was a drunk nobleman who didn’t want anything to do with us ‘common folk,’ Isabelle,” Her mother would say. Usually, while nursing a bottle of foul smelling ale. “It won’t do you any good to go chasing after him. Besides, a young girl has no business consorting with nobles. If you want to help this family, find another one of those pretty broaches. We made fifty silvers of off that piece!”
Any other day, Isabelle would have contented herself with batting her pretty eyes or picking some pockets. At least, a baker in the lower quarter said Isabelle’s eyes were pretty, before he gave her a leftover biscuit.
Her brown hair was cut short, in the traditional style. Anything longer and the clergy would step in. Only the Chosen could enjoy long hair. A sign of favor from the Divine Mother.
Isabelle sighed, focusing on the street traffic as she calmed her nerves. The upper quadrant was rich with potential marks. Jewelry, gold, and family heirlooms hung in public display for any pickpocket with light enough fingers and quick enough feet to take advantage of the opportunity. Coin purses and belt pouches were fairly easy. Rings and amulets were trickier, but doable.
Isabelle touched the lock picks, tucked away inside her left sock. A trade not even her mother knew she’d learned. A beggar in the lower quarter had a sorted history and a softness for Isabelle’s plight. Sometimes a picked lock was all that kept Isabelle and her mother fed, despite her mother’s efforts as a seamstress.
But last night, Isabelle’s mother was in a particularly dark mood. Things at the tailor shop were not going well, and she cursed the Chosen who oversaw her birth.
Chosen Chantrell. The same Chosen who lived in this very Cathedral of I’Kara. The sun occasionally peaked through a thin layer of clouds, giving the impression that the many-widowed building were somehow winking at her, mocking her efforts to find the truth.
Isabelle’s birth records must lie in this very abbey! The church was always fussing about marriages and births. Something about making up for the casualties of the last Corpse War. They were usually done in secrecy too, in case a noble spent too much time with a ‘common’ woman.
Isabelle sighed. If only this were one of the smaller abbeys back in the lower quarter. There she could stick to the shadows and easily blend in to the rest of the population. Dust, stains and bruises were easy to come across. Gold, lace and silk of the upper quarter, not so much.
Today though, Isabelle had a mission. She stared across the street at the massive cathedral sprawled out across the entire city block. High iron fences encouraged the people to enter via the South Gate, where two burly Followers of I’Kara waited. Their polished chainmail was dented from recent use, maces dangling at their belts. They stood at attention, faces empty of emotion.
Mother would spend the entire day at the market, trying to find a buyer for some of her rarer fabrics. Isabelle would have until sundown, when mother closed up the tailor shop. Isabelle patted the purse tied beneath her sock. She'd already stocked up on a little savings, so she already had something to show for today’s efforts. Mother would be cross if she knew Isabelle was wasting an entire day searching for her father’s identity.
The problem was getting into the Cathedral during the day. Mother would suspect something was amiss if Isabelle tried anything at night. Mother was quite the light sleeper, despite the ample amount of ale she consumed at night. Sneaking out while she was home wasn't an option.
So, how could Isabelle manage this in the middle of the day?
A tangle of noblewomen passed by, whispering to themselves. Judging by their elaborate dresses and high neck-lines, they were headed for the cathedral. Isabelle hopped to her feet and scurried along behind them, jutting out her chin. Noble types always stuck their chins out when they pulled rank. Perhaps she could pass herself off as one of them.
The women passed the guards with a nod of acknowledgement. There was a confident air about them. They didn’t just hope the lowly Favored would let them in. They expected it.
Isabelle walked dangerously close to the last two women, hoping the guards would look away before…
“Here now,” a gruff voice snapped. The women paused, glancing toward him. Someone caught a firm hold of Isabelle's collar. “Where do you think you're going?”
“To seek forgiveness,” Isabelle replied mechanically, putting on her most pious face. Eyes wide, palms up, shrugging meekly.
“In those rags?” The guard spat, turning to the women who had stopped when he spoke. “Is this girl one of yours?”
“Of course not,” the tallest woman laughed. The broach on her dress shook, making the engraved hawk appear to be hopping with humor. “Look at the soot on her fingers. Why, I'd never get the stain out of my dress. Of what crime could you seek forgiveness, little urchin?”
“Sneaking into the church,” Isabelle replied, staring at her feet. “I’ve got to find forgiveness, or the Divine Mother won't accept me.”
“Find a decent job first,” the Guard said, hauling Isabelle back to the street. “You'll need to buy reverent attire.”
“And a bath,” a stout woman said, pinching her nose. She flicked a silver coin passed him, into the street. “The first thing to learn about the Divine Mother, girl. Spiritual purity begins with the body. Begone.”
“You heard the lady,” The guard said, giving Isabelle another push, forcing her to stumble further into the street. “Go back to the lower quarter, before I call the city guards. They will not be as merciful as us.”
“As you will,” Isabelle said, gritting her teeth. She grabbed the silver coin and scampered into the crowd. Despite the many footfalls of passing clergy and nobleborns, she distinctly heard laughter from the Cathedral gates.
Isabelle circled around to the north entrance, perching at yet another alleyway. These guards looked just as bored as the first, watching people pass with blank stares. Isabelle chewed the inside of her cheek, thinking.
If the clothes gave her away, then the answer was simple. But how would she slip in once she had the right clothing to fit the role?
The guards parted, making room for a somber procession.
A wizened Favored lead a dozen acolytes toward the cathedral. The acolytes were Isabelle’s age, all dressed in pale tunics and wearing hemp belts around their middle. Their hair was cut short, like the Favored’s. Their faces were stoic as they stared straight ahead, at least when the Favored was looking their way.
He carried a book under his right arm, his left hand clutching the spine. Treasuring the word of the Divine Mother. The students followed his course with crossed arms and somber eyes.
Isabelle watched the group pass through the gates without complication, considering. Surely the guards wouldn't miss one more acolyte entering the grounds, if Isabelle's clothes didn't give her away…
Hurrying south of the Cathedral, Isabelle scampered along the side of the road, which gave way to a shallow ditch. Water gurgled along the bottom, diverted from a mountain stream far out of town. Refuse cluttered the ditch, leftover food and excrement drifting lazily out of the city.
Isabelle followed the ditch for three city blocks before seeing a flicker of pale cloth amidst the mess. There! The high and mighty nobles were always quick to throw away something a more desperate man could use.
Taking a deep breath, she scurried into the mire and pulled up an acolyte's tunic. A purple stain marred the chest, suggesting an accident involving wine. She sniffed the purple stain.
Wine was for church goers and noble types. Something her mother certainly couldn't afford. Sadly, the smell of urine and excrement buried whatever sweet smell the purple mark once offered. Isabelle pursed her lips, pondering for a moment. She couldn't very well walk into the cathedral smelling like the hind end of a mule. She needed to get this washed.
Isabelle hurried down to the largest fuller's house she could think of. Here, in the lower quarters of the city, she passed a few children she knew, mostly the children of fellow merchants, or orphans living off of whatever they could find. She offered a mere nod of acknowledgement as she passed, focused on her goal.
To her good fortune, the doors and windows were wide open. Hot white steam billowed into the open air. It looked almost as if the building were crying upside down. Soap in the eyes did burn something awful.
Isabelle grinned. At least this place didn't post a guard. She walked in.
The air was thick and hot. Isabelle stifled a breath. The summer days were uncomfortably warm, to be sure, but not like this. This was suffocating.
Six cauldrons boiled with hot water. Three women worked around each one, scrubbing handfuls of clothes along grated washboards. They each wore brown aprons, except for the one walking around shouting orders. Their arms were pink from the hot water, like the raw flesh of a rabbit. Yet they smiled and laughed as they talked with each other.
Isabelle hesitated. Each of these women were three times Isabelle’s size, with forearms as thick as Isabelle’s face. Not to mention, the cauldrons were five feet high. She might be able to throw the tunic into the mixture, but she'd never be able to clean it without anyone noticing.
“Here now, what's that horrible smell?” A broad-shouldered woman with a curved nose and a green apron pushed into view, staring down at her. “Did you sick on yourself, child?”
“M-m-me ma'am,” Isabelle sputtered, holding up the tunic. “I… need a wash.”
“We don't work for free, child,” the woman huffed. She glanced at the tunic. “That rag is far too gone anyway. You’re an acolyte. Go and ask your Favored for another. The church has many replacements.”
“Silvia?” One of the women at the vat chimed in. She wore tan colored linen under a brown apron. Her hair hung in locks of silver and brown, though her face still carried a touch of youthful grace. “Look at how scared she is. I bet she already has. A couple times. She doesn't want to anger her Favored. Were those Arnadi boys pushing you into the mire?”
Isabelle put on her best wounded expression and nodded, stifling a fake sob. The thick air tickled the back of her throat, helping to sell the deception with a raspy cough.
“Ahhh, my nephew is an acolyte too. Those Arandi kids are always causing trouble. Their mother was a Chosen, so they treat the other acolytes poorly,” The kind hearted woman said, nodding to her boss. “Surely we can help her out, just this once?”
“We don't work for free, Iris,” The broad-shouldered woman huffed.
Isabelle fished into her pocket and pulled out the silver coin. The boss lady took her money in a flash. She eyed the coin suspiciously for a moment, as if expecting the bauble to denounce Isabelle as some kind of fraud. Finally, the boss lady turn to Iris. “I expect you to only take a few minutes on this. I have another pile of laundry with your name on it.”
“I will be quick,” Iris said. Taking Isabelle's smelly tunic by two fingers, Iris looked down at Isabelle and said, “This way little one.”
They went to a smaller cauldron at the back of the washroom. The water was already a light brown color, like dry dirt on a hot summer day. Hot steam billowed from the surface. Equally hot red coals glowed from the small fireplace underneath.
“We have to wash this separately,” Iris said, stuffing the tunic into the cauldron. “Or the rest of the clothes will get messy too.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle offered, watching her work. “This is a big help.”
“You're welcome,” Iris said, smiling sweetly. “You remind me of my two boys. acolytes themselves, did I tell you? Serving the church at such a young age… Can you think of anything more godly?”
Isabelle hesitated to answer. Not only did she know every little about the details of clergy life, but her own experiences with the Cathedral were far from religious. Finally, she snapped on her most devout face and widest, most innocent expression.
Thankfully, Iris turned to her work rather than the conversation. She soaked the tunic, scrubbed it with soap, then a brush, then rinsed, and then repeated the process. Her skin from fingers to elbows was pink from the heat, but she didn’t seem to mind.
The minutes ticked by and Isabelle found herself mesmerized by the routine. There was a quite melody to the job, especially since Iris hummed along as she cleaned.
Soap. Brush. Rinse. Repeat.
Finally, after a bark of warning from the boss lady, Iris lifted up the tunic from the frothing soap. All but the purple stain was gone now, leaving the fabric bright and youthful again. Isabelle marveled that the church would throw out something so easily repaired. Well, except for the stain.
“I think I can help you with the stain,” she said, pausing before handing over the tunic. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. No, this will never do. You're still filthy. Here, hold still.”
She took a cloth from her pocket, dipped it in the soapy mixture and wiped the dirt away from Isabelle's face. Next she cleaned her hands and neck. The hot soap itched against her skin. She fought the urge to scratch. If this would get her into the cathedral, then she'd gladly bear an itch or two.
“We must fix your hair, too,” the nice woman said, running her wet fingers along Isabelle’s scalp. She scrubbed and brushed the greasy strands. “There. Now you look the part.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle beamed. Glancing at the tunic, she added, “What did you say about the stain?”
“Here,” the woman said, slipping the tunic over Isabelle’s head. The moist, hot fabric felt warm against her skin. More itching. Joy.
“Fold your arms, as if you're praying,” the woman suggested.
Isabelle obeyed, crossing her arms over her chest. Then she curled her fingers upward and inward, until them met just beneath her chin. The A’Kara’s divine pose. The traditional, prayerful salute to the Divine Mother, A’Kara. The acolytes walked for ages holding this pose. Isabelle glanced down and grinned. The stain was hidden under her arms.
“There you are,” Iris said with a content grin. She stroked Isabelle’s cheek. “Now, off you go before my boss gets upset.”
Indeed, Isabelle could already see the boss lady circling towards them, storm clouds brewing on her face. Isabelle’s welcome was over.
“Goodbye!” Isabelle said, scampering away.
“Good luck,” Iris replied.
Thankfully, a stiff breeze filled the street as Isabelle returned to the cathedral. By the time she reached the tall iron fence, her tunic was dry. From the safety of the north alley, tucked out of view, Isabelle considered her next step.
She’s already had issues with the guards at the south gate. There was too much of a chance they’d recognize her. These guards might let her in as she was, alone, but if she ran afoul of them then she wouldn't get into the citadel.
Just to be safe, she had to find one of those processions…
She hurried to a nearby intersection of a busy cobblestone street, and a luxurious looking tailor’s shop. All lace, silk and velvet.
Just down the road, at a city well, Isabelle could see the acolytes finishing up the last of their afternoon prayers. Their Favored stood over the well, holding the totem which hung around her neck. She wore a green tunic with white lacy embroidered along the hem, with a simple hemp belt. The carving of the Divine Mother glowed with a soft light all its own, purifying the well.
Isabelle paused, licking her lips. Kes. The magic of the Divine Mother. There was a thing worth having. Far more valuable than gold or lace. Imagine how she could help her mother, if she could use powers like those!
Isabelle shook her head, forcing such thoughts away. She knew her place. She had neither the brains nor the inclination for clergy work. Given how the cathedral treated orphans like her, she wouldn’t want to work with them anyway. Best to slip in, take what she needed and get out.
The acolytes soon finished up their prayers and turned toward the cathedral, toward Isabelle. She stepped back into an alley, making sure to stay out of the Favored’s line of sight as he led the procession. He cradled a book of scripture against his chest like a mother might hold an infant child. The way mother used to hold Isabelle before father drove them from his city. Before mother turned to ale to help her sleep.
Once the procession passed her, she fell into step behind the last acolyte. With a careful glance, she mimicked their stride, keeping her arms folded in the Divine Mother’s salute and her eyes straight ahead. She kept her steps quick and light, hoping even the acolyte ahead of her would not even realize Isabelle was there.
They approached the north gate and Isabelle's stomach crept up into her throat. Her heart pounded in her chest. She forced herself to maintain her pace, eyes ahead.
“Favored Wilhelm,” One guard said, nodding in respect to the priest.
“Gregory,” the Favored replied. “How's the wife?”
“Much better, since your blessing, ma’am.”
“The Divine Mother preserver her,” the Favored said. She continued on without breaking her stride. The guards didn't even look at the acolytes.
They walked onto the cathedral's grounds. The air smelled different here, still think but with the heavy sweetness of incense and flowers. Isabelle wondered if some divine spell were at work, marking this place as holy ground. She gulped. If such a spell were surely in place, would it identify her as an intruder?
The acolytes turned right, following a winding path away from the cathedral, toward the gardens to the east. Isabelle pulled away from the group, and doubled back the way they’d come. She was careful to keep her arms crossed to hide the purple stain. No guards stood at this entrance, hidden from the view of the street by thick clusters of orange trees.
Glancing down at her tunic, she felt a rush of elation. There, that wasn’t so difficult, now was it? She smiled to herself and then strode inside the cathedral.
The building was massive. Vaulted ceilings covered with beautiful paintings momentarily stole Isabelle's focus. There were so many stories here. Pictures of Holy Mothers, angels, monsters, undead and demons, depicting tales of faith or woe.
The room felt so … big! Almost as if she were still outside, and the sky had simply changed shape.
Many pews filled this main room, leading up to a stone altar with many strange engravings. A few of them were of the ever familiar Divine Mother, bowing down to encircle the world in her protective arms.
The afternoon sun shone through the stained-glass windows, just as colorful as the paintings on the ceiling. They cast rainbows of color across the dusty room. A few Favored talked in tight groups near the altar. Against the back wall, Isabelle saw the arched entrance to the cathedral’s back rooms. That must be where the Chosen’s records lay.
A woman with long ebony hair stood in a black robe, lighting a series of candles at the top of the altar. Her leather belt was lined with silver and the hem of the woman’s tunic was lined with red lace. Her totem gave a soft, red glow as she tended to her duties at the altar.
A Priestess of A’Kara. They were rarely seen outside the cathedral. They wore an engraved totem around their necks, similar to the ones the Favored wore, but made of elegant silver. Some whispered they could use Kes to disguise their appearance, and stalk the city’s wicked at night. There was a reason their lace was dipped in blood.
Isabelle licked her lips. The Priestess sent a nervous shudder down Isabelle’s spine, but surely the Chosen’s office was in the back of the Cathedral, behind the altar. She was so close! A tingle of anticipation ran back up her spine. How far would this disguise take her, though?
Gathering her courage, Isabelle folded her arms in the divine pose and walked straight for the back rooms. The green-clad Favored did not look up from their conversations, but they blocked Isabelle’s view of the altar. She had a feeling if she just help looking straight ahead and held this pose, they’d allow her too…
Isabelle covered half the distance to the rear hallway when someone wearing a black tunic blocked her way. From this angle, Isabelle should see the lace hems were indeed stained a dark shade of crimson. The Priestess!
“Where do you think you're going, acolyte?”
“I'm looking for the Chosen's office,” Isabelle replied, trying on the same pitiable face the kind woman, Iris, had melted for. “Could you show me how to get there?”
“Humph,” the Priestess replied, glowering down at Isabelle. “The Chosen is far too busy for the likes of you. Who sent you?”
“F-Favored Wilhelm,” Isabelle said, thinking quickly. “I… made a mistake and she wanted the Chosen to deal with it.”
Isabelle unfolded her arms, revealing the wine stain on her chest. She hung her head in feigned shame. Staring at the ground was a good tactic, her ‘shame’ face wasn't very good.
“The Chosen isn't here at the moment,” the Priestess replied, sounding annoyed. “You'll have to return tonight.”
“Very well,” Isabelle said, glancing behind the Priestess, at entrance to the back rooms. “Where is his office? I'd hate to get lost back there.”
“There are only a few rooms,” the Priestess said, pointing back toward the entrance to the cathedral. “You'll hardly get lost. Now, go tell Favored Wilhelm she'll have to wait until tonight. You can do your penance in the garden until then.”
Isabelle's heart sank to the vicinity of her ankles. So close.
With a nod of relent, she turned and slowly walked back toward the exit. Over her shoulder though, she watched the Priestess. Once the woman's back was turned, Isabelle dropped to her knees. Hugging the edge of the pew, she slid past the Favored without attracting notice. Once she ran out of pews, it was a short hop to the back rooms.
She paused when she slipped out of sight, down the hallway, noting the grime on the knees of her once clean Acolyte’s tunic. The next person who saw her would likely know she didn’t belong. The Priestess was right, however, there were only a few rooms back here. Isabelle didn't bother with the open doors, but paused when she found a locked one.
Fishing a pair of lock picks from her other sock, Isabelle went to work. One of the few useful stills she learned on the streets. Something not even her mother knew about.
Hands trembling, Isabelle took a deep breath and forced herself to slow down. The clergy were quite content to chat in the main room, surrounded by church finery. She had a couple minutes, surely, before anyone returned to these back rooms.
The lock gave with a heavy click and Isabelle pushed the door open, anxiously biting her bottom lip. The room included a heavy desk in one corner, a handful of paintings adorning the walls and a spare dark blue Chosen’s tunic almost as tall as Isabelle. Chuckling contently, Isabelle slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.
Finding the lamp was easy. Finding the tinder-starter, less so.
In a minute, a warm yellow glow bathed the room. The yellow flame flickered contently. The smoke sifted upward, vanishing through a small grate at the top of the far wall.
Rubbing her hands together excitedly, Isabelle tore into the desk.
Quills. Parchment. Ink. A few half-written letters filled the top dresser drawer.
The second held a couple thick tomes and smaller bundles of letters, none of which had to do with Isabelle's mother.
The third held a lunch pail, with a half-eaten apple and a sandwich.
Isabelle took a step back, considering. Her mother got married years ago. If there was a record, it would be tucked away, not sitting on top of the desk with next week's Cathedral attendance record.
The trunk in the far left corner. Modest and well-worn. Something the Chosen must have still owned eight years ago, everything else looked fairly new. The lock on the trunk certainly wasn’t. It was even easier to pick than the front door.
Isabelle lifted the lid. Hundreds of pages littered the trunk, as if they are all fighting each other to scurry out of sight.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Isabelle muttered, tossing one letter aside and then another. A pile formed in the center of the room. Anything dated before the harvest-tide eight years ago would not help her. She wasn’t terribly good with letters, but she knew enough from mother’s record books at the tailor shop to recognize dates and names.
Only a few handfuls of pages remained when Isabelle heard the door latch click open.
“Chosen Chantrell, I saw your light on. Did the meeting with the prince go amiss?” A familiar voice said. A green-clad Favored stared down at her, blinking in surprise. What foul luck. It was the Favored who had thrown her out, earlier this morning.
Isabelle took a handful of pages and shoved them down the collar of her shirt.
“What do you think you're doing?!” The Favored bellowed, his voice shaking the walls. He walked around the right side of the desk, arm outstretched, hand grasping. “I recognize you. You’re the urchin from before. How did you get that tunic? I’ll have you flogged for this!”
Isabelle jumped around the left side of the desk, sprinting for the door. Something caught a hold of her acolyte tunic, so she spun and ducked her head. The tunic slid right off and the Favored tumbled into the desk. Ink splattered across the room, pages flew into the air and the Favored let out a bellow, more of frustration than pain.
Isabelle bolted out of the room and down the hall. The cathedral looked very different in the fading light, the brilliant greens and blues of the stained glass were now overwhelmed by dark shades of red, as if the Divine Mother were taking notice of Isabelle's actions.
One final pair of clergymen, two green clad Favored, watched her sprint by in confusion.
“I just found a Favored snooping around the Chosen’s room!” Isabelle replied, hastily crossing her arms in the divine salute. “Threatened to hurt me if I told. He just tore my tunic off.”
As if on cue, a thud echoed from the Chosen’s quarters. The Favored let out a string of curses. Isabelle suspect the spilled ink could be the culprit, but she certainly wasn’t hanging around to find out!
“Favored Grimjaw?” One of the clergyman asked, looking past Isabelle. “Are you alright?”
The second they looked back toward the Chosen’s office, Isabelle bolted. The nearest one tried to grab hold of her as she passed. Isabelle felt the woman’s hand close around Isabelle’s hair, still slick from the day’s heat and Iris’s soap treatment. Isabelle slid free.
The cathedral passed by in a panicked blur, as Isabelle ran for it. Thankfully, the Priestess was nowhere to be seen. The other Favored looked up from their conversations, brows furrowed in confusion. Isabelle did not wait to offer an explanation.
When Isabelle burst through the double doors and into the gardens, her pace slowed. There was more cover here, basking in quiet stillness. Sometimes, the best way to get caught was to keep running. Here, her dark, mud-stained linen clothes actually blended into the soft earth and thick tree trunks.
Just as she felt her heart beat relax, heavy alarm bells rang from the cathedral's high tower. Followers of A’Kara shouted in alarm and in the dim light Isabelle could see the black-clad priest standing at the cathedral entrance, bellowing something at the top of her lungs. Her silver amulet glowed red.
Either gate wouldn't work, the guards were watching. Instead, Isabelle headed for the nearest fence line. Torches of angry Followers seemed to pop out of thin air, circling around the border of the cathedral. How long until they expanded their search to the fence line?
The tall iron fence was four times Isabelle's height, with only two cross-beams of iron to climb upon. Clinging to desperate hope as well as cold iron, Isabelle tried to scale the distance. She made it up to the second rung, but couldn't summon to strength to leap to the top of the fence. She stretched, reached, even prayed to the Divine Mother.
Glaring torches closed in from either side. Only moments remained.
Isabelle leapt.
She caught hold of the top of the fence, but couldn't pull herself up the rest of the way. Her feet slid uselessly against straight iron bars, searching in vain for decent footing. A painful, burning sensation up in her hands as she held on.
“No, no, no!”
She watched her trembling hands slowly open and betray her.
She fell to the cobblestone ground with a heavy thud. The world spun.
This was it. The Followers would haul her back to the Chosen and the Divine Mother only knew what kind of judgement that black-clad priest would rain down on her. Isabelle sat up glumly, clutching her head.
The darkened street seemed to mock her, alight with the dancing shadows cast from the Followers' torches. They were so close now, checking every tree, looking beneath every shrub. Seconds from discovery, with that gap between the iron bars mocking her predicament.
The gap between the bars.
Isabelle hobbled over to the fence, slipping her arm between the bars. Then her shoulder, her head, hips and foot. Suddenly, she stood quite safe on the other side of the fence.
“You there, hold!” A Follower cried, running up to the fence line.
With a grin, Isabelle scrambled into the darkness.
Once the cries of the Followers faded into the quiet night, Isabelle's glee faded. The setting sun painted dark shadows behind every building and down every alley. Isabelle had little time to make it home before her mother noticed her absence. To make matters worse, she still knew nothing of her father’s identity.
A few artisans were still closing up their shops, but the streets were clearing. Mother would return home soon and expect Isabelle to have dinner waiting. A sinking feeling settled in Isabelle's chest, as she pondered on her unanswered question. Food didn't sound particularly appealing right now.
She told herself it was for the best. Mother would be quite disappointed if her daughter ignored her wishes. For digging after information she shouldn’t know.
She couldn't shake intense thirst, the need to know the truth about her father. For reasons she couldn't quite understand.
The more Isabelle watched the noble rich and the pious clergy, the more she couldn’t shake the feeling she had a role to play in this world. Something bigger than picked pockets and the occasional lifted amulet. Perhaps if she knew the other half of her heritage, she’d be better off.
Something itched against her chest. She scratched the irritation through the fabric of her tunic. Something crinkled against her skin. She paused.
The extra pages, from the Chosen's chest.
Her breath came in short bursts and her heart rate doubled. With a trembling hand she pulled the pages from her shirt. A note from a grateful family. A letter of commendation from the church. The Chosen's official request to move his office to a room with a window.
There. The date matched her birth exactly. Soaking in the words, Isabelle held her breath, slowly sounding out each word. She didn’t understand half of them, but she finally found a name, written right next to her mother’s.
“Count Melvin Baregan, Lord of the Iron Citadel.”
Isabelle stared at the words, reading the birth records over and over again. The Iron Citadel. She’d heard of that place. The country’s last defense against the eastern barbarian hordes. Her father wasn’t just a nobleman, he was a general. A warrior.
Skipping down the cobblestone road, Isabelle hurried back toward the merchant's quarter. She felt like a missing piece of her shadow were suddenly made whole. She knew what kind of blood flowed in her veins. A seamstress, for certain, but also a general.
Isabelle pursed her lips, considering her position as she watched the sun finally wink out of view. No, her mother didn’t need to know about Isabelle’s discovery. Not for a while.
Isabelle was no fool, at only eight years of age she couldn’t very well cross the whole country on a whim! But someday, she would. Someday, her family would be reunited and they would be made whole again. Even if she had to drag her parents back together by their hair.
Perhaps, then, she could finally enjoy some peace.
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