• Part Two

    Yellow seed scattered onto the frozen earth, the chickens clucked and shoved their way to the seed. Feathers and squawks erupted as two hens fought over one seed apparently more desirable than the others. Nadia rolled her eyes at the chickens and tossed another handful of grain at the birds. The bucket of grain went back into the kitchen to be replaced by a basket lined with a nest of straw.

    Eggs. She thought. I hate eggs. She glared at the chickens unmercifully. Chickens too. She mumbled something under her breath and picked her way over the squabbling birds to steal into the henhouse. The eggs were in clear view now, easily accessed with the chickens out of the way.

    With care, she lifted the eggs from their nests, brown and smooth jewels in the midst of the golden straws. Nadia placed each egg into the basket and with every nest plundered, she crept out of the coop and back to the kitchen. Sister Caroline had a fondness for eggs; Nadia’s only fondness was for the baked goods the eggs made possible.

    Nadia frowned at the fowl, and stepped around the bulk of the feathered maelstrom. Now, if strawberries were in season. . .eggs would be more than worth it. Sister Caroline made wonderful strawberry pie with meringue on top as light as clouds and as sweet as the berries themselves.

    She shivered, hurrying back into the warmth of the kitchen and settling the eggs down on the center table next to the bowl of pickled beets and the unfortunate rabbit that the old dog, James, had brought in the night before. Much to the surprise of Sister Caroline and even more to the surprise of James himself. He lay upon the earth, long ears covering his eyes and limbs splayed out. His back leg twitched, dreaming no doubt, of the chase of the night before.

    The dog brought a smile to Nadia’s lips, two high spots of color on her cheeks as they warmed from the cold of the yard. She stepped closer to the fire, plopping down on the stool next to the handle that turned the spit in the fire’s center. The last bell would call the rest of the inhabitants to their duties soon, leaving little time for solitary reflection.

    Nadia stared at the fire, adding another length of wood to keep it alive. What will I do if I leave? Go with John? She shook her head. It wouldn’t be so bad, one half of her mind reasoned; it is charity, said the other. I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to go. She slumped her chin into her hand, the dog was making noises in it’s sleep. A sort of high pitched growl that wasn’t really a growl.

    “You seem lost in thought.”

    “Good morning, John.”

    He settled down next to her, his seat an upended bucket. “I didn’t startle you this time.”

    “No. I saw you come in.” She straightened. “What do you want?”

    “Can’t I have a pleasant conversation with you?”

    “I don’t know, can you?” Her head turned quickly, eyes meeting his.

    He flinched at her gaze. “I suppose so,” he paused. “Why are you so hostile?” He leaned forward, into her space and much closer than any young man had ever been before.

    “Why are you so nosey?” She leaned back, uncomfortable with his breath hot on her cheek.

    “Haven’t we already had this conversation?”

    “Probably.” Her lips turned, almost a smile. “I suppose I haven’t been very friendly.”

    “And I have been very nosey.” He held out a hand. “Truce?”

    She took his hand. “Truce.”


    I was wrong. He will not see reason. I can only follow my own conscious and the will of God is clear. He will not succeed. . .

    In the normal course of events, their path would have taken them south and then east. However, as this was a time for all that could possibly go wrong to go wrong, they went southwest. This change of direction confused me. I stood from the trail, brushing the snow from my knees. The tracks were clear, you couldn’t hide the passage of that many people.

    Hausberg is not that way. I growled something blasphemous under my breath and rubbed some feeling back into my arms. It was possible that the pass had collapsed; this would make the western veer necessary. The western pass rarely closes, even in the harshest weather, and the road splits a few miles down; they could go east from there. But it also meant I was even farther from Hausberg.

    I kicked a nearby tree in frustration. The snow trickled down from the evergreen branches onto my head. A bird chirped what was no doubt a curse in it’s language and flew off. I was happy no one was around to see my foolishness as I started after the trail.

    At least the army would move slowly. As they say, armies march on their stomachs and this army was soon going to need provisions. I smiled, when I caught up with them, the first thing to do was spoil their supplies. Father Benedict had thrall over the Order, that was true, but a few days of no food might make some of the brothers see the truth.

    My own stomach grumbled it’s opinions about dried meat as I contemplated digging a bit out of my pack. No. I needed fresh meat, and a fire would do me good. Alone I could travel far faster than they could with their strings of supply horses, it was no great waste to hunt down a rabbit for dinner.

    . . . They have left already, but I must follow.



    One day. Nadia stared at the snow outside the window of the workroom, her hands still on the table. One hand gripped a needle and thread, the other a bead the size of a pea. The snow lit the shadows inside her eyes, she blinked and turned away to clear the flashes of floating color.

    “You will never finish the rosary at this pace, Nadia.”

    “Ah, but Sister Margherite, if I finish the rosary I will have nothing to do.”

    Sister Margherite frowned, dark eyes hooded by eyebrows still dark despite the wisps of grey hair vainly attempting to escape her black wimple. “You could make another, of course.”

    The other sisters were watching, their own hands swift to pierce needle through bead.

    “We both know that, that wouldn’t happen.” Nadia set the work down, knocking beads to the floor in her haste. She looked at the floor, and then at Sister Margherite. “Excuse me, I feel unwell.” Nadia stood and ran from the room.

    One sister sighed, setting aside her own work. “I do not like to see her so distressed.”

    There were murmurs of agreement.

    Sister Margherite stooped over, collected the fallen beads and replaced them on the table. “Tomorrow will be a difficult day.” She looked at each sister in turn. “We must pray for her.”

    “Yes, we will pray,” said the sister from before, a middle aged woman who had taken the name Mary Helen. “But what if our prayers are for her departure?”

    Margherite looked suitably scandalized, though she secretly harbored the same feelings. “We will pray that God will lend us His wisdom for whatever may come.” The words bore a note of finality and quietly, the sisters went back to work.

    The snow was not the best place to sit when a person is upset. But that is where Nadia sat, out of sight behind the wall separating the frozen garden from the chickens. The black of her skirt splashed against the crunch of frost and snow. Her hands were stuck beneath her arms for warmth, her cheeks white but for two spots of red. She stared into space, eyes locked on nothing.

    A rabbit, desperately trying to look inconspicuous, nibbled on a bit of frozen and withered cabbage no one had bothered with after the first freeze. The ground sloped downwards from here, sloping further to meet the road that lead north and wrapped around the hills to lead south towards the ruins and Saint Michael’s Forest.

    Apparently on impulse, Nadia reached under the collar of her dress and lifted free the silver chain. In the shadow of the wall, no light caught the worn edges of the charm. She placed it to her lips, catching it between teeth and tongue to taste the metal. After a moment, she let it fall with a soft squelch as it left her lips to fell onto her dress. Saliva spelled a slight stain of wet around the disc, barely visible against the black of her dress.

    She shivered, having not bothered to put on her coat before rushing out into the snow. There was the crunch of snow under shoe to her left, but she did not bother to look up. “Good afternoon, John.”

    “You have a sixth sense.”

    “I suppose.”

    “I brought you a coat.”

    She looked up at him. He held out the coat; it was hers, black wool with brass buttons. She smiled. “Thank you.”

    “May I?” He gestured to the ground.

    “If you wish.”

    He sat down, draping the coat over her shoulders as he did so. “Do you normally sit in out in the cold with no coat?”

    “No, normally I sit out here completely naked, but I’m behaving as we have guests.”

    He snorted--and then coughed. “You are unique, you know that?”

    “The sisters--even your uncle--would not say that if they heard me.” She paused. “I don’t belong here.” She took in a heavy breath and exhaled shakily. “I don’t belong here.” Her voice cracked, the start of tears.

    John seemed a bit at a loss, but wrapped an awkward arm around her shoulders. “Things will work out, God willing. You’re a bright girl, Nadia, there are plenty of opportunities out there for you.”

    “Everyone keeps saying that and yet, I don’t believe them.” She sniffed, wiping tears and mucus from her face and washing her hand in the snow. “Everyone tells me to trust in God, but, I can find no faith in my heart.” She stood, pulling the edges of the coat tighter around herself, its arms flopping uselessly at her sides. “You have been kind to me, and I thank you. I cannot accept your offer, but, neither can I stay. I will find my own way, John, God willing or not.”

    His lips parted as though to speak, she shook her head and hurried back around the wall and into the kitchen. John frowned and slowly rose from his seat. From here, the ruined tower of Leo was just visible, Nadia had been staring at it. His eyes widened. “She knows,” he whispered to himself. “She knows.”



    The sun’s light still dared to enter Nadia’s room, playing across her cot and table. She sat on the cot, her discovery--the journal--open upon her lap. His handwriting was neat, each word carefully formed and spaced from it’s fellows, the lines straight. At this point, he had met the boy who would become his loyal squire, John. The boy would play an important role, the official history had already revealed as much. But the encounter was more colorful than Nadia had thought it would be.


    I found a boy today, or rather, he found me. He wandered into my camp, drawn no doubt by the smell of roasting rabbit. He told me his name was John. However, after several minutes of conversation, I am convinced that the boy is touched. . .

    Rabbits scream when you kill them, a sound much like a babe’s cry. Unnerving. I held it by the hind legs, gutting and cleaning it efficiently. The organs weren’t much for keeping, but I pulled heart, liver and kidneys free for superstition’s sake and buried the rest. Skinning takes little time on a small animal when you have a decent enough blade. The hide, unfortunately, would go to waste; I had neither time, patience, nor the proper tools to tan it. The hide and head went the way of the guts, buried in the snow. The animals would have the remains before my portion was cooked no doubt.

    There wasn’t enough blood to thicken a stew, but the beast would roast up nicely. I wrapped the carcass up with the other bits in a length of properly tanned hide. Last thing to do was throw the remains of the snare as far as I could and scuff dead leaves and snow over the blood.

    Only the animals would know I had passed here.

    I made my camp deeper in the forest, a bare clearing just an arm’s reach wide. It took little time to sweep the debris out and carve a fire pit into the frozen earth. The fire took longer, the spark sputtering and refusing to light the cold moss and twigs. Still, by the end of a quarter hour, the spark had taken.

    Over the next half hour, I had the fire built respectably and a makeshift spit whereupon my rabbit roasted merrily in salt with it’s organs stuffed and stitched back inside. I breathed deeply of the scent and smiled, things were turning out quite well.

    It took the prospect of a good meal to put things in perspective. But then, it usually does. Now all I needed was a warm bed. And a warm body--my heart whispered blasphemously. I shook my head. No. I had no need of such comforts. It was to God, not my loins, that I owed my allegiance.


    . . . He claims to have come from the cathedral, which I know has already burned. He claims that there is no battle near here. It is obvious where my duty lies. I will keep the boy with me until a priest can be found to take care of him.


    Nadia smiled. This was not the grand entrance that she had picture for the famous squire. His future master thought him mad, that had to make things…difficult. Still, John would become very important later, every account said as much. John saved Michael’s life at least once and helped him to defeat the Betrayer. She sighed, lips curving down into a frown. It would be nice to be useful. Girls are not meant to be useful. She closed the book. If I were a boy, things would have been so much simpler. . .

    Her expression changed. Her lips parted and eyes brightened in revelation. “If I were a boy--”

    Night fell and the residents went to sleep, whispering midnight chambers empty of conspiracy. Many lay awake in their beds, staring into the night, wondering. Father Price sat at his desk, reading again a much folded and worn letter by candlelight. John watched out his window for the figure he knew he would see, the moon too high and full for such excursions to be hidden.

    He was not disappointed. At the half past two, a shadowy form crept across the snow. They headed south, towards the ruined tower and the frozen lake. John closed his eyes for a moment to let the form pass from his sight and then opened them again and they were truly gone. He pulled his hand from his pocket, opening it to let the tiny silver medallion catch the light. Each line was acutely realized and defined. A lion’s head roaring in minute detail.

    “God be with you, Nadia.”

    The girl stole across the snow with grace born of desperation and lingering thoughts of guilt. Gone was the veil and severe black dress, replaced by trousers and shirt. A heavy wool sweater layered under her coat and knit cap pulled tight over her head.

    She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, heavy as it was with purloined food and traveling gear. Her eyes flicked one last glance back at her home before she disappeared down the trail and behind the hills.

    Beyond the hills, rode men on horseback and men on foot made haste towards the cathedral. In the lead there was a man of dark purpose. The years had not been kind to him; his right eye lay buried in the battlefields of sand across the great eastern sea, his left hand had given three of its fingers to the jungles of Nyobe. Underneath the black of pant and coat, a nefarious scar ran from his left knee to the thigh. He winced each this time thigh touched the saddle.

    His men were in similar states of disembodiment: one man’s ears were clean off of his head--a sacrifice to God, another bore no tongue--cut out in vow of silence, the last was missing something far more personal, and the others knew better than to talk of it.

    The men on foot were priests, dressed in burlap robes tied with rope. Each priest’s head shaved clean, and each held a leather lash. Men of God. A heavy cross of forged and polished steel hung from silver links around the leader’s throat, a single stone the red of a virgin’s blush centered on the cross, the symbol of his authority and a sign to all who could read it as such to get out of his way. Wherever the cross of steel went, the Inquisitors followed.

    The sun made it’s trek back into the sky and the riders drew within sight of the cathedral. To the south, Nadia rested in the shell of the tower of Leo. “Happy birthday.” She sat upon one of the heavy stones scattered about in radius around the tower. The first rays of light peered out over the mountain, spilling onto the snow, the lake and trees. A lone ray singled her out, lighting upon her hair in a fiery halo.

    Astonishment crossed her face as the light crept around her, spreading the halo down her neck and shoulders. It swelled past her shoulders to her hips and down her legs. She closed her eyes against the glare, one arm raised over her eyes. The light intensified, red and gold and white. It bloomed about her, a flower of fire, and then--it died.

    Nadia was gone, her knit cap forlorn in the snow. The journal still laying upon the stone.

    A leaden knock on the cathedral’s main doors echoed through the halls, drowning the bells in foreboding. Sister Mary Helen, as the keeper of the keys, hurried to the door. She slid aside the tiny panel to see who it was.

    A single eye peered up at her from under a cowl. The steel cross flashed in the impending light. She closed the panel and stumbled away from the door. Mary Helen looked from the door, and then back down the dimly lit hall. Panic crossed her face. Her breath was heavy, chest movements steady and harsh.

    “Sister Mary Helen, who is at the door?” Father Price stepped out into the light. He looked from the door and then to the panicked woman. “What’s wrong?”

    She swallowed. “It’s the Inquisition.”

    “Find Nadia, hide her. Now.”

    The sister nodded, lifting the skirt of her habit and running down the hall. Her pale legs flashed in the dim light.

    Father Price shook, his face grey. He clenched his teeth together and straightened his back. “God be with me.” He walked to the door, lifting the heavy bar. “God be with her.” The door swung open, and a cold wind swept past Father Price and into the cathedral, his robes whipping around his legs. The Inquisitor smiled, revealing broken and rotted teeth. “Welcome to our humble church.” Father Price bowed.

    “Such a warm welcome.” His voice was harsh. “Where is the girl?