CHAPTER SIXTEEN - SORCHA'S CONFESSION

“Sit down,” the Inquisitrix said, and Sorcha drew up one of the chairs to the desk in the middle of the room. The Inquisitrix took the other seat, directly across from Sorcha, studying her critically.

The Inquisitrix was a big woman, broad shouldered and muscular. She wore black robes and a grey tabard, her hood drawn up around her mask. Her sword belt carried a blade at either hip.

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Yes,” Sorcha said, staring at her hands in her lap.

“Then you understand that I must ask you certain questions.” The Inquisitrix turned around at last and leaned both hands on the back of her chair. “Take off your mask. Look at me.”

Sorcha hesitated, then removed her mask and lifted her gaze to meet the piercing blue eyes of the Inquisitrix.

“Were you a virgin when you left Loth Kavnor?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still a virgin now?”

“No.”

“How did it happen?”

“Darians.”

The Inquisitrix pulled out her chair and sat down, rested her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers. “Darians,” she echoed.

“We fought back,” Sorcha whispered. “We did. There were too many of them; they were too strong.”

“We?”

“All of us.” Sorcha's eyes were wide, remembering. “They took off my mask and I just... I couldn't move, I couldn't even think. They took us to our ship and locked us in the hold. I don't know for how long; we were bound, blindfold... the dark and the quiet does something to your mind, eventually you don't care what happens to you so long as something happens!”

“And what did happen?”

“I did what they wanted. I let them put me in chains and I did whatever they told me...” Her confession came easily then; she told the Inquisitrix everything, from the moment of her capture to her surprise awakening in Loth Kavnor only a few hours past. She spoke of her capture, of the harem aboard the ship, the Naril, her training, Rathelon and Odacon, the loss of the ship off the Darician coast, their rescue by pirate captain Isa Maxine, the voyage to Heimjaro, the death of Odacon in battle on the Kephilkazpa Strait and the final doom of her fellow prisoners in the harem, all of it in one long babble. When she had done, the Inquisitrix sat back and studied her in silence.

“And what of Sabra? I would have expected the pair of you to cleave together, but you have yet to mention her at all.”

“She's dead,” Sorcha said. “She wasn't taken by the Naril; she escaped. There was nothing she could do for us, so she went on alone. Last time I saw her was at Pen Korcha; she eloped with DeSilva.”

“Then how is it you come to be with him?”

“He... they...” Sorcha struggled for a response and finally had to backtrack; “Sabra died. Monte was with her; she was murdered by one of the Naril, one of the same who captured me: Rathelon.”

“Odacon's chief lieutenant,” the Inquisitrix supplied. “I see. An odd coincidence.”

“You'd have to ask Monte.”

It was the first question Sorcha had not answered in full; the Inquisitrix's eyes narrowed. “Be assured that I will.”

The Inquisitrix stood up and moved the table to one side. She instructed Sorcha to rise and moved the chairs out of the way. Sorcha glanced up at the manacles hanging from the ceiling and the rack of whips against the wall. “What are you going to do?”

“I will discover the truth. Take off your clothes.”

Sorcha hugged herself protectively. “I've told you everything.”

“Yes. And now we must test what you have said. Take off your clothes.”

“Please...”

“You've been in the harem; do you pretend to be shy?”

Sorcha shook her head miserably.

“Then what? The tattoos? They are exactly what I wish to see. Take off your clothes.”

At the command's third repetition, Sorcha obeyed. The tears fell freely, but she stripped off her tabard and the shirt beneath, stood in her underwear so the Inquisitrix could see her arms and legs, her stomach, back and shoulders, covered in Naril witch-marks.

“Everything,” the Inquisitrix said, and Sorcha sat down on the chair again to strip completely. All shyness had been suppressed in slavery, but she trembled to stand naked before the Inquisitrix. The big priestess betrayed no emotion at all.

“Lift your arms above your head.”

Sorcha obeyed, and the Inquisitrix approached and fastened the manacles about Sorcha's wrists before pacing around her, studying the tattoos closely for a long time. Sorcha held her tongue as long as she could, but the silence drew on and she blurted out, “What are you going to do to me?”

“I'm going to save you,” the Inquisitrix said. “You've fallen far from Iaran's grace, child, but perhaps I can bring you home.”

Sorcha twisted her head to stare in terror at the whips. Odacon had employed the whip to keep his slaves in order, but rarely to excess; Sorcha had tasted the whip enough to fear it, but never endured a genuine flogging. She shuddered, dependent entirely on the Inquisitrix' mercy and knowing full well that people in authority were rarely restrained in their use of it. The Inquisitrix followed the direction of Sorcha's gaze and selected a riding-crop from the rack. She bent it between her hands to test the cane, swished it a few times, then used the crop to touch one of Sorcha's tattoos.

“These are Naril witch-marks,” the Inquisitrix said. “Black Kellion sorcery. I must know how deeply you have been schooled in the doctrines of Naril.”

“They never told as anything!” Sorcha protested, struggling though she knew it was futile. “Odacon had us tattooed instead of branded, that was all...” her words became a yelp of pain as the Inquisitrix plied the whip across her thighs. “It's the truth!”

Another cut of the whip silenced her, but she cried out when the Inquisitrix gave her six of the best, overlaying her tattoos with a cross-hatch pattern of stinging weals; Sorcha hung from her manacled wrists, her legs weak and her breathing ragged.

“They chained us to a pentagram,” Sorcha whispered. “And they used us to cast spells. They blasted the castle at Lake Karmensis, and summoned a demon... I tried to escape once... Ahh!”

She yelped again as the whip cut her back, hung in silence for a few moments before starting again; “I tried to escape, but they caught me. Odacon used the witch-marks to stop me running, and the other girls brought me back. My own cousins brought me back! They beat me up and put me in chains and brought me back to him; my family did that!”

“And they are enduring their punishments, you may be sure,” the Inquisitrix said. “We are not here to discuss their guilt, but yours.”

Sorcha hardly heard her, pain and helplessness flinging her back into memories she had buried deep in her soul. “He showed me what could be done to a slave, threatened to give me to the Akurite of Minath Dor... that was when I gave up. I'd tried until then, I had, to keep some part of myself safe from them, some little piece they couldn't touch... but he took it. He showed me I had so much more to lose than my life. I pleaded with him to let me live, begged him to let me be his slave; there, is that what you wanted?!”

The only answer was another cut of the whip across her backside.

“I let DeSilva have me,” Sorcha said, blind to her surroundings now and numb to the pain. “I let him treat me like his whore. I deserved it; Sabra's death was my fault, what happened to the others... it was all my fault, I didn't deserve to get away!”

The Inquisitrix stood back, resting the cane on her shoulder. “Go on.”

Sorcha was breathing hard, sweat and tears pouring down her face.

“I deserve this,” she said. “I don't deserve to come back home when twenty other girls were lost because of me. I've done things no Silvan woman ever should; the Naril didn't even have to chain me; they gave me the cuffs and I put them on myself. The other girls all hated me, and so they should; it was me that led them to slavery...”

“Enough.”

The Inquisitrix plied the crop again, but Sorcha barely felt it, overtaken with a familiar but long-unfelt sensation of weightlessness as endorphins flooded her body. The Inquisitrix' voice barely penetrated her fogged awareness.

“In all you have told me, of your guilt and failings, not once have you described what happened to you as rape. I find that detail bizarre.”

Sorcha struggled for clarity, her mind tenuously retaining consciousness of her body hanging by the wrists. “I wasn't... they didn't...”

“Oh, but they did.” The Inquisitrix' voice turned silky. “They took your mask and they locked you in the dark, and when they were ready, they took you to a cabin where one of them raped you. That is what you told me. But that is not how you described it; you did not use that specific word. We can stay here all night if we must, before you describe it as it truly was.”

Sorcha lolled her head to stare at the Inquisitrix, her mind slowly coming to terms with her tormentor's demand.

“One girl made it like that,” she breathed. “Brindani, she resisted...”

“But you didn't wait to see what they did to her; you lacked even the courage to know, much less endure it yourself!”

The whip cut savagely, surprising Sorcha so that she screamed.

“I learned!” She yelped. “She fell in love with them! She was marching naked up and down the deck with the whip, they put her in charge of the crew!”

“Don't lie to me!” The whip cut again. “Half of what I've heard is lies, oh I'm sure the events were true enough, but what you've told me of yourself...” The Inquisitrix lost control entirely and took to screaming at Sorcha, brandishing the whip as she stalked up and down the cell, plying it only occasionally in her fury. “Why do you want me to believe you're nothing but a slut?! Why convince me of that? What did they do to you, that broke a Silvan heart so utterly?”

“Nothing, they didn't have to!” Sorcha bucked in her chains, frustration driving her to struggle for the first time. “I just gave in! What was I supposed to do? I just did as they told me, that's what I was always raised to do anyway, the only difference was that they told me to have sex!”

She glared at the Inquisitrix, flinching when the older woman raised the whip again but still holding her gaze.

The Inquisitrix stood quivering with fury for a long time, the whip still raised and tears of rage in her eyes. Then she exhaled, lowering the whip as she turned away. With her back to Sorcha, the Inquisitrix lifted her mask and dabbed her eyes with one sleeve. Replacing her mask, she stood with her head bowed for a long time before she spoke.

“You poor child; I see you will require much work before your rehabilitation.”

The Inquisitrix put the whip aside on the table and took out a set of Silvanni rosary beads. Sorcha hung listlessly, waiting while the Inquisitrix wound the beads in her fist and kissed them to her lipless mask. She walked behind Sorcha and touched one the tattoos with the beads.

“Te Gladi,” Inquisitrix said, and the selected tattoo glowed and writhed on Sorcha's skin. It was a serpent, coiling around Sorcha's entire body from the tip of its tail at her right ankle to the fork of its tongue behind her left ear. Sorcha moaned when the serpent moved, grasping the chains above her manacled wrists and biting her lip to keep silent.

“Vos Gladis,” the Inquisitrix said, and Sorcha whimpered in premonition. “Estote Meum Praesidium.”

The serpent was alive now, slithering flat and two dimensional on Sorcha's bare skin, pushing aside or moving around the other tattoos in its way. The glow of the tattooed serpent filled the room with an ill violet light; Sorcha was writhing herself now, shifting her weight from one foot to the other unable to hold still.

“Stop, please, you've seen enough, no more...”

The Inquisitrix was relentless; “Vincente,” she said, and kissed her rosary again. The glow of the tattoo intensified and Sorcha screamed in agony, pinpricks of fire racing up her spine. The serpent lifted its head from her neck and hissed, its tongue flickering close beside her face. Sorcha's scream choked off in terror, mesmerised by the serpent growing from her flesh.

“Don't move,” the Inquisitrix said.

From the corner of her eye, Sorcha saw the Inquisitrix slowly reaching for her sword.

“No!” Sorcha bucked suddenly in her bonds, shying violently away from her interrogator. “Stay away from me, you mad bitch! You're insane! Sick, sadistic...” Her cursing became a constricted mew of terror as the serpent tightened its hold around her. Fully a yard of the wyrm had uncoiled from Sorcha's body and reared up now like a cobra, the lidless eyes unblinking while the forked tongue flickered in and out. It twitched back minutely in preparation to strike, but the Inquisitrix' hand was already on her swordhilt; as the snake flashed forward to bite Sorcha in the throat, cold Silvanni steel was interposed to clip off its head. The snake was dead upon the instant; its coils slackened and fell away, leaving Sorcha's skin clean where the tattoo had been and six feet of decapitated serpent writhing in its death-throes on the floor.

Sorcha stared at the Inquisitrix, terror and wonder competing in her eyes. “Can you remove them all?”

“It will be a sore trial on us both.” The Inquisitrix leant against the wall, her sword held loosely with the tip resting on the ground. “It will require many sessions and cannot be done here. The final decision is with your aunt Duella, but I will recommend that you return with me to the abbey and undertake a novitiate to begin your recovery.”

She put away her sword and unlocked the manacles. Sorcha collapsed immediately and lay on her side amid the bloody coils of the Naril witch-snake. She barely had strength to lift her arm but reached weakly for her clothes which lay in a heap nearby. Outside, footsteps sounded, quickly approaching the cell door. A man's voice barked, “What's going on? Open up in there!”

The Inquisitrix went to the door and opened the hatched window to look out. She made a small sound of annoyance opened the door. A big man stood in the doorway, hands on his hips and green eyes starting from his head above a full red beard.

“This is no concern of yours, Donal,” the Inquisitrix said, before Donal Utryce could speak.

“No concern of mine?” He almost choked on his apoplexy. “You mad bitch, you've been torturing my daughter!”

“Since her adoption by the clan, you have had no parental claim. Nevertheless, I am finished for now; you may speak with her momentarily.”

Sorcha blacked out; her next memory was of a familiar smell and strong but gentle hands rolling her on her back. Her father's voice said, “Och, what have they done to ye?”

Consciousness persisted only a few moments; Sorcha barely managed to mouth her father's name before darkness claimed her and she knew no more.

Sorcha awoke in her own bed in the minaret suite of Loth Kavnor. Her interrogation was a dim nightmare until she rolled over and awoke the whip-cuts on her back and thighs. The pain was mind-numbing; Sorcha curled up into a ball and sobbed until the first shock of agony faded to a throbbing ache.

Long weeks in scant harem attire under the southern sun had darkened her skin, but the removal of the tattoo had left a serpentine swathe of livid fresh pink through her suntan. The skin was soft and raw to the touch; Sorcha sat up very carefully, wincing at her myriad injuries.

Only then did she realise that she was not alone; her father sat asleep in the big chair by the fireplace. She had not seen him over a year and had long ago given up any hope that he would ever welcome her home.

She lay utterly still from the instant that she saw him, terrified that he might wake and that first moment of seeing him again should end. But of course it did end; Sorcha had to look away at last, though whether moments, minutes or hours later she could not say. She sat on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor, her hand gripping the mattress while she hesitated to stand. She told herself it was in consideration of her back and other injuries, but in truth she still savoured her father's sleep and dreaded the moment when he would wake.

She was getting dressed when it happened, hidden behind a modesty screen while she put on a fresh uniform.

“Sorcha, where are you?”

“I'm here.” She hurried into sight, still adjusting the straps of her mask and finger-combing her hair into place.

“Och, why are you getting dressed? It’s the middle of the night.”

“It can't be, it was already night when...” Sorcha glanced out the window and saw that her father spoke the truth. “How long was I asleep?”

“Two days, almost to the hour. But it's no time now to be getting up; a few more hours in bed will do you no harm.”

“I want to see Monte.”

“The Kellion skunner? He's in the dungeon.”

Sorcha put one hand automatically to her mask. “But why? He hasn't done anything wrong!”

“Oh, no...” her father said, sarcastically. “Just cost the clan a score of riders, not to mention what he's done to my daughters.”

“What he's...” Sorcha echoed, uncomprehending. “You mean Sabra?”

“Aye, and to you. He's in the dungeon for his own protection; if he were walking free, I'd cut out his heart.”

Donal turned away to stare out the window; Sorcha ran to him and tried to make him look at her again. “Father, it’s not like that, he didn't kill Sabra, and what happened to me... that wasn't entirely his fault.”

“No' entirely?” Donal's eyebrows rose incredulously. “No' entirely? You mean he didnae lead you all off on a trek through hell? Your sister's dead and you're being sent to the nunnery, Sorcha; is that not enough, that you still defend this man?” Donal took both her hands in his. “Is it that you love him?”

“I don't know; how is love supposed to feel?”

Donal laughed but had to look away, biting his lip before he spoke again. “It doesn't matter. Whatever hold he has on you, he'll not be able to reach you at the abbey; you'll be safe there.”

“He doesn't have any kind of hold on me!”

“Does he not, then?” Donal caught Sorcha by the wrist roughly and forced her sleeve back to the elbow, exposing the tattoo along her forearm. “Do you think Duella would tell me nothing? The demon ring that boy carries, the evil power in him... I know enough; it’s only the Inquisitrix' word saving you from the stake!”

“She tortured me! She's going to do it again, what do you mean she saved me?”

“There was talk of sending you to Silveneir,” Donal said, grimly. “To the Foreign Quarter.”

Behind her mask, Sorcha gaped, fighting comprehension. “You mean...”

“Aye; there were some who thought that you might redeem your failures by working for the clan. It came to a vote as to whether you should go to the nunnery... or to a brothel.”

Sorcha reeled inwardly. A nunnery she had expected; being burnt at the stake had already occurred to her when she had momentarily contemplated bringing her Goro lover home to meet her family.

The knowledge that her family had debated selling her to a brothel to fund work on the dam sat her down heavily in the chair where her father had so recently slept.

She took off her mask and held it in her lap, studying her reflection in the curved mirror and only belatedly realising her transgression from the look in her father's eyes. The habits of a Silvan woman had deserted her on the long journey, and she hid her face from him too late.

“I'm sorry.”

Donal put his back to her and stared out the window, waiting while she put her mask back on. Only when she looked at him again from behind the anonymous mirror did his eyes soften.

“The mask is a cruel tradition,” he said at last. “But it’s our tradition. If we forget the things that make us Silvan, we forget who we are. That's what's happened to you, isn't it?”

Sorcha nodded, lowering her eyes again until her father put one hand on her shoulder.

“The Abbey is the best place for you. It’s not a punishment; it’s a new life. In time you could have a career in the temple, go to Silveneir as a sword-dancer, maybe even be a Diva someday...” Donal trailed off, his eyes drawn back to the window.

Beyond the glass, lights had appeared in the distant darkness. At first they were few, but as Donal and Sorcha both looked out the window, the lights multiplied into a vast crowd advancing up the Naril Vale across the frozen paddy fields below Loth Kavnor.

“What is it?” Sorcha whispered, although she already knew.

“The Kraag,” Donal replied, dully. “They're here.”