Islana's Story
"Sit." Jereh's arms were crossed over her chest as she glared over at the two in front of her. Not a trace of white graced her hair, but she was a Knight who held rank—enough that Islana did as ordered.
Cleran obeyed as well, though he looked much more scared than Islana. She was more sullen, clearly as angry as Jereh.
"Talk," Jereh demanded next. Islana glanced over at Cleran, and he shook his head slightly. She gave him a malicious look and turned back to Jereh.
"About what?"
"I want an explanation."
"For?"
"You know damn well for what. Explain now, or I'm going straight to the Voice," Jereh snarled. "When did this start?"
"Last week," Islana answered, trying to get her temper under control. She hated Jereh, but she wasn't going to let the Voice hear about this if it wasn't necessary. "But it had been coming for much longer."
"Start from the beginning."
Islana shot Cleran a look, and then out of spite declared, "Cleran was thinking about it first. Right from when I was captured. He can explain that part of it."
Jereh fixed her gaze on Cleran, who did his best to muster his courage and look her in the eye. He failed miserably and concentrated hard on the painting behind her. Dysis is going to kill me. Unless they kill him... Aloud, he started, "His Holiness gave the orders to capture her alive, and I was one of the men assigned to the mission..."
[OPENING CREDITS]
Episode I: How It Started
Islana couldn't move and she hurt like Hell. Neither one boded well. And she couldn't remember why... Her eyes fluttered open, but she found out that it did very little good: the room was pitch black.
She tested her muscles and found that they were working, but something else was restraining her. She also found that there were searing pains whenever she tried to move, as well as a sharp pain in her chest and a headache bad enough that she didn't even have to wonder if she had a concussion.
The pain in her lungs felt like a rib piercing somewhere. At least, that's what she'd assume, since her rib cage felt as if she'd broken large portions of it. Taking as deep a breath as she could manage, she tried to clear her head and concentrate.
Given the levels of her headache, that was hard, but she managed to bite down the rising panic. The last thing I remember was... It took a minute to fill in the blank. I was on a courier assignment to the mainland, I think. And I was riding along the coast, but there was a ship that wasn't supposed to be there... People were behind me, and then in front of me too...
So it was an ambush. Damn. She continued to recount the events as she recalled them, but found lots of gaps in her story. Somehow, I got knocked off my horse, and I hit the ground hard—I think maybe that's how I broke the ribs.
I know I got back on my feet and I had my sword out, but there were too many people. Someone must have hit my head and knocked me out. I think.
So that was where the concussion and the broken ribs came from. She tried to move again, and concentrated on what happened. She could feel more clearly now that some of the wool was clearing from her head. She had been bound hand and foot, of course, and it felt like there was something else around her—wire, she realized. It was tightly wrapped wire, and it cut into her skin every time she moved.
Which meant she wasn't wearing her heavy clothing any more, either.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dark while she caught up on her memories, but she still couldn't make out much. She felt like she was rocking, and it made her ill enough that she retched. There was nothing in her stomach, though, so she just got some acidic burning through her throat, and the wire caught her as she shifted by reflex.
The rocking—and the scent, now that I think about it—means I'm on a ship. Great. She couldn't see much, but there seemed to be large square shapes around her, probably supply boxes. So that placed her in the hold.
The hold of a ship, presumably controlled by Warriors and heading for their Island. I'm tied too tightly to escape, I can barely think through this concussion, and I can barely breath period.
Goddess save me.
"Cleran, Ocan." Dysis nodded to the two men, and motioned them to take a seat. The High Priest's office was elegant and designed to impress. He sat behind a marble desk in a chair with yellow velvet cushions, though chair was a modest description: the seat looked more like a throne. Golden statues stood in all four corners of the room, and a large window on the back, behind Dysis' seat, was lined with a set of yellow curtains that matched the cushions on his chair. The two side walls were hidden behind tapestries, paintings and bookshelves, which contained nearly as many statuettes and figurines as it did books.
A couch, designed to match the imposing main throne, stood off to one side; Dysis slept on it as often as in his equally lavish bedroom. Finally, facing Dysis' desk were two chairs, scaled down versions of Dysis' seat. The two Warriors sat carefully, both familiar with the High Priest but not used to seeing his formal office.
"You summoned us, Holiness?" Ocan asked politely. He was the oldest man of the three by more than ten years, and by far the most experienced. After finishing his training as a Warrior when he turned twenty, he fought frequently for three years before being assigned to a totally different job: torturer. He worked for the Warriors, when they captured Knights, and was fairly sure that was why he'd been summoned by Dysis.
"Yes. I got word that the Knight is in your custody?"
"Indeed she is, Holiness."
"Good." Dysis paused. "Good. Ocan, I'm fairly sure you can guess why you're here..."
"Indeed, Holiness. Do you have a list of questions you'd like me to ask her?" Ocan asked. It was a polite way of asking what to demand of her in the torture chamber; he never came out and mentioned what he had to do to get answers. Dysis had a notoriously weak stomach.
"Actually, I don't. I plan to have this Knight.... Islana... judged and executed in public in, say, a week's time. I want her to be at full strength—or close enough to fool people. It's a show of strength, gentlemen.
"Since the fleet was destroyed, we've had a run of bad luck. People have begun to lose faith, which I can not allow. To be frank, we've lost a good deal of military strength, if we lose public support, we will lose period. And so a show of strength—we can deal with this Knight, no matter how strong she is. We can deal with any Knight."
"I see, Holiness."
"But," he continued, "She murdered Rallan. I want her punished. Not broken, for the crowd's sake, but I want her to suffer. You can do this?" "With pleasure, Holiness." Ocan bowed slightly in his seat. Dysis gave him a grim smile. "Very well. Cleran, you will be working closely with Ocan. I'm putting you in charge of the prisoner. I want you to ensure her security at all times, use as many Warriors as you deem necessary. But for the most part, I don't want her out of your sight. You can do this?"
"Yes, Holiness," Cleran said, nodding once.
"Good." He sighed. "May Ocando watch over us all. Dismissed."
The two men rose and bowed, then started for the door. "Oh, Cleran?" Dysis called. Ocan continued, as Cleran stopped and spun.
"Holiness?"
"You can still call me Dysis, you know. I am your brother."
Half brother, Cleran corrected mentally, but nodded. "Dysis?"
"I received word from Father. He sends his greetings."
Cleran nodded. "Thank you, Dysis."
"I've suggested he write you personally, but... You know how Father is."
"Of course."
"I only wish I could understand why the two of you don't get along." Dysis sighed.
Because I'm his bastard, Dy. I'm his humiliation. I show that he has human weaknesses, and he hates me for it. "I guess we just don't." He shrugged. "Don't worry about it. You've got bigger problems."
"Trust me, I know." Dysis managed a weak smile. "Go take care of the Knight."
"I will."
"Sundancer be with you."
"And you, Dysis." Cleran bowed again and left Dysis to his own devices. He glanced down the hall and saw that Ocan hadn't waited for him, which was really no surprise. There was no love lost between the Cleran and Ocan—or really, Cleran and any of the Warriors.
He made his way through the Great Church to the Warrior's Complex, built separately but on the same grounds. It was a several minute walk, and it gave him time to think; his thoughts continued along the same lines they'd been while he'd spoken with Dysis.
Cleran didn't hate his father. He'd come close to it, but even though his father had never acknowledged him officially, he also had always made sure that Cleran had at least a roof over his head and clothes on his back.
Black clothes, Cleran reflected bitterly. Bastard's black, people called it. That was the law, it was how the illegitimate had been singled out. It isn't fair. Life isn't fair. But it's law.
And damned if he was going to ask Dysis to change it. Dy had done a lot for him already, probably too much. Cleran's rank, while not really near the top of the Warrior's hierarchy, was much higher than any other bastard's, and though he was skilled, he knew full well he wasn't so skilled he should have been able to overcome a social prejudice so easily. Dysis hadn't been the High Priest for very long, but it had been obvious he was going to be High Priest for several years. That was why Cleran held any rank at all.
Probably also why I've been trusted with this assignment. "Either that or he's afraid I'll get myself killed in a battle somewhere," Cleran muttered aloud. "He has reason enough to think it."
That wasn't a memory he really wanted to deal with, so instead of dwelling on that battle, he just shrugged it off. I'm alive, and I suppose that's all that matters.
[EYECATCH]
Islana finally awoke again, wondering what was going on. Her memories were still groggy, but the pain seemed to have settled down.
The sight that greeted her was almost enough to convince her that the last few memories she had were only a nightmare. Leaning down over her, his hand on her forehead, was a boy in his late teens, with green eyes and pure black hair. She could feel the energy radiating from his hand into her, and knew him for a Healer, all of which pointed towards being back at home... But something was subtly wrong.
For one, Islana didn't recognize him, and she was certain she knew all of the Healers who worked with the Knights. And if he was old enough to be a Healer, he'd have his ear pierced and the dark purple crescent moon earring to show what he did... But his ears were both unmarked, and that meant that he wasn't a Healer, at least not officially. But why wouldn't I be at a real Healer's? ... But if I'm not still in Kalatsu, where am I where someone with black hair could be Healing me?
"Who...?" she managed to ask, slightly surprised it came out at all, but frustrated that had been all she'd managed to say. She forced a deep breath, concentrated, and said, "Where am I?" Her speech was slightly slurred, though; whatever the Healer had done had dulled her mind somewhat.
He gave her a look she couldn't interpret, but said nothing and removed his hand. "Where—" she repeated, as she tried to sit up, but found she was restrained. Her ankles and wrists were still tied, but now had been affixed to the Healer's table as well... Though the wire was gone. So it wasn't a nightmare. But then who was Healing me, and if the Warriors are responsible for this, why are they Healing me at all?
The boy had stepped out of her view, and she found she couldn't see much other than a ceiling made of stone. However, she was able to hear a door swing open and someone enter the room. He spoke to the Healer for a minute in their own language, and the the door opened again and one of them left.
A Warrior stepped into her field of view. His hair was a darker shade of red than most of the Warriors, and his eyes were hazel and looked amused. "H'lo," he greeted her, now speaking her language, though with an accent. "Feeling better?"
His voice was pleasant enough, though the question didn't sound like genuine concern so much as taunting. She watched him carefully, but stated, "Yes."
"Pity. But it was necessary. I'm going to be moving you now, and you're not going to try to escape. Or I'll kill you. Understand?"
"Yes," she repeated.
"Good." He ducked back out of her sight, and she felt him loosening the bonds on her feet, detaching them from the table and fixing them so she would be able to walk.
"Though if you were smarter, you'd have someone here with a knife to my throat while you untied me."
She couldn't see him, but could practically feel the look he was giving her. "Watch your mouth, or I'll have you gagged," he told her. "You should be thankful I had you Healed at all." He moved back to her hands, and she could see the top of his head as he detached them from the table, but noted he kept the ropes around them tight and held them firmly. She heard the sound of metal on metal and recognized it for a sword being drawn, and then felt the blade at her neck. "Sit up. Slowly, to make sure I don't 'accidentally' slit your throat. Bring your legs over the side to your left."
She did as instructed, turning as she sat up, letting her legs dangle. He leg her wrists go at some point, but kept the sword steady. "Step down." She did, and was almost surprised when her legs held her weight. He moved to be standing next to her and placed a hand tightly over her shoulder. "You're going to walk where I tell you to. Keep a steady pace." He gave her a slight push towards the door, and she took the hint and stepped carefully towards it.
The Warrior kept pace with her, walking very slightly behind, hand gripping her shoulder tightly. "Where am I?" she repeated.
"Doesn't matter. You won't be leaving," he promised.
"Who..." she took a breath again, she was still having trouble focusing. "Who was that Healer?"
"Just a slave who has some of the talent." The Warrior paused, then continued, "You needed a Healer, but legally we weren't allowed to let you see one. That's actually a law, believe it or not." He was getting more confident in his ability to speak her language, and his accent was improving slightly. "And, well, we're not allowed to train slaves, so technically, he's not a Healer at all. But he does have the talent for it, and even without training is pretty good."
"A slave." She sounded annoyed. They walked in silence for a few minutes, as he steered her around several corners and down a staircase. They descended down a flight, and Cleran paused to pick up a torch and sheath his sword, then continued down several more flights into a dungeon.
He deposited the torch in a holder on the wall, reached into a pocket, produced a key and opened the door. "Step inside," he ordered. Islana hesitated for a moment and he shoved her forward instead, causing her to stumble forward a few steps before she caught her balance and walked the rest of the way in. The Warrior shut the door behind her, locked it, and pocketed the key.
"Welcome to your new home, Knight," he said. "My name is Cleran."
She took in her new surroundings for a minute. Her cell was small, with the back wall, ceiling and floor made of stone. The other three walls were made of iron bars, and the door was set in the front wall. Outside her cell was a hallway; it was hard to make out too far down the hall in the dim torch light, but it looked like there were more cells. A chair had been placed outside her cell beneath the torch, and she noted that rather than leaving, Cleran sat and watched her.
There wasn't much to work with within the bars. A mattress was pushed to one side, with something grimy that had probably been a sheet at one point covering it. Aside from that, all there was was a bucket in the corner. She suppressed a shudder, realizing what that was for.
She also took the chance to glance down and see what she was wearing. Last she'd known, it had been a set of warm fur-lined clothes and a heavy coat; it was only autumn on Kalatsu, but on the southernmost Island where the Knights lived, it was impossible to tell and she'd been riding through a blizzard. Now she found herself in a sleeveless shirt and a skirt that reached three quarters of the way down her thigh. Both were tight enough that she wouldn't be able to hid anything from her captors.
Islana took a seat on the mattress and leant against the stone wall. Hesitantly, she reached up with her bound hands and ran her thumb across the edge of her ear, and discovered that, just as she'd expected, her earring was gone. The piercing was very sore to the touch, apparently it had been ripped out. She was glad she had no memory of that.
Finally, hesitantly, she asked, "Any reason you kidnapped me in particular, or was I just lucky?"
Cleran shrugged. "You killed a High Priest and destroyed an entire fleet. Did you honestly think we'd let you get away with it?"
"I didn't think you'd go to the trouble of tracking me down and kidnapping me."
"You killed the High Priest," he restated. "You will be punished for it."
"So what, you'll kill me?" she demanded.
"Yeah. Eventually. But first, well... First, you're really going to regret it." He looked her in the eye for a moment, smirking.
Dysis sat at his desk, wearily wading through the documents that had accumulated there. He had planned to get them all taken care of as they came in, but somehow, crises had a way of developing, and things got shoved to the back ground. He sighed, wishing once again that politics didn't play such a large part in his role as High Priest. He loved his God and was happy to devote his life to serving Ocando, but Dysis had been less thrilled with the thought of ruling an entire Island.
At first, that had made him grateful for the Council, but the Council had really been what forced him to learn politics so quickly. It wasn't as though he hadn't expected it or had never been exposed to politicians before; Dysis had been the Heir to one of the higher ranking families, and he'd worked as an aide to High Priest Rallan for two years before he was elevated to his current office.
But observing politics was far different than dealing within them. The Council consisted of himself and the four High Lords and met four times every year; with one regular meeting and one emergency Council session so far in Dysis' career. The emergency was, of course, Rallan's death and the fleet's destruction. Dysis hadn't yet known what he was dealing with.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the High Lords weren't so split on issues dealing with the War... Lord and Lady Alayrin had practically condoned the burning of the fleet, they'd been against Rallan's decision to build it to begin with. But it had been built in spite of their lack of support and the fact they'd voted against it—even if the four Lords had united against the fleet, Rallan would have won; he simply would have it declared a religious matter and gone ahead with it. He hadn't needed to, however, only two of the five council members had voted against the fleet, and that wasn't enough to stop it.
But the Alayrins hadn't contributed to the funding. They were the richest family on the whole Island, and Ocando knew the Church wasn't overflowing with funds and needed their support. So even though they couldn't stop the fleet's construction, just by ignoring it, they had hindered the process.
How did they justify it, again? Dysis mused to himself, glancing at the tempting couch in his office. It was only an hour past sunset, and he normally wouldn't even think of sleeping for another few hours, but for some reason, he found himself very tired and felt a sense of dread settling in around him.
...Something about how building the fleet would encourage the Knights to attack, or at least, increase the frequency of attacks. We'd asked to use their docks, a mere formality usually. But they'd refused, claiming that when the Knights struck against the fleet—as they surely would—they didn't want their land or citizens endangered.
Rallan should have listened to them... Sundancer, why did they have to be right? Of course the Knights were going to attack the fleet; they have the manpower to do it. At least, we thought they would need manpower. Not just one girl.
At least we have her in custody. Finally. For some reason, the thought didn't make him as happy as it should have.
Someone knocked on his door. "Holiness?"
Dysis recognized the voice; it was Arot, his aide. "Yes?" he called back. Arot entered his room and bowed slightly.
"Holiness, there's a... A messenger here. He says it's urgent and that he's from Lady Alayrin."
"Show him in, then."
"It's just... The messenger is..." The aide glanced around nervously. "Erolis...."
Dysis managed not to look surprised, and dimly recalled having been told that Erolis—he had no surname, thanks to Dysis' own actions—had been hired by the Alayrins. Somehow, it hadn't surprised him...
"I see."
"Your guards would like to be present while he's in the room with you, Holiness."
"Erolis and I are friends," Dysis sighed. "Were, anyway.... I suppose, if it will make them happy, one may stand in. But Arot, he isn't dangerous."
"Of course, Holiness," Arot agreed.
Dysis bit back another sigh. Six months, and he was already tired of people agreeing with everything he said. He was certain that was why Rallan had liked him so much, he respected the High Priest very much, but always argued when he thought Rallan was wrong. So far, Arot hadn't shown signs of willingness to point out potential mistakes to Dysis. So far, no one but Erolis himself had.
Their conversation would be a refreshing change, if not fun.
Erolis was well known through the Island; he was the only man in generations to have been declared a traitor, but saved from execution. That trial had been the first major even during Dysis' rule. Erolis—then Erolis Dalasan, Heir to one of the High Lords—had been caught having an affair with his shadow slave, a girl several years younger than he. It would probably have been kept quiet and Dysis wouldn't have had to deal with it, except that the slave was with child.
There was, sadly, precedent for this. In such cases, the ashamed family would usually claim that the slave had been deliberately luring whatever unfortunate young man was involved into her trap, an attempt to gain some sort of power over him by convincing him he loved her. She was to be punished, and that almost certainly meant execution.
However, Erolis refused to let that happen. He'd fought his father tooth and nail to protect the slave girl, shouting that he loved her and she loved him. Lord Dalasan threatened to disown his son, but could only do so after Dysis had decreed it an acceptable move, and that meant the whole thing was in court with Dysis presiding as judge and jury.
That would have been bad enough, but Dysis and Erolis had been friends growing up. And Dysis was going to have to find the girl guilty, it was either that or let his friend wind up in disgrace.
Erolis had stated, point blank, that he preferred disgrace. So Dysis had compromised. He could never allow them to stay together legally, but by declaring Erolis to be a traitor to the Church, he no longer had to adhere to Church laws. But that meant that Erolis lost all rank and his family refused to acknowledge his existence; he no longer even had a surname except "traitor." But it had allowed Erolis to leave with his slave and by declaring that it was love, and that Ocando would never have allowed it to happen if it wasn't supposed to, the slave's life had been saved.
The door opened, interrupting Dysis' memories. Erolis stepped in, flanked by one of Dy's guards. The traitor was tall and broad shouldered, clothed in dramatically dark colors—deep purples and blues, all reminiscent of bastard's black. He's let his hair grow out some since the trial, Dysis thought. That was true, too; Erolis' hair was nearly shoulder length now, and held back by a black tie at the base of his skull.
It matched the two black streaks dyed in to his hair perfectly.
"Lord Serathi," Erolis said. His voice held none of it's usual cheer—and despite his status, Erolis was always cheerful—and his ever present grin was gone.
"Erolis."
The traitor turned messenger held out a sealed envelope gravely. Dysis accepted it, certain it contained bad news. It was an official document, closed with Lord Alayrin's seal. He opened it gravely, and saw immediately that the handwriting was not Lord Alayin's, but his wife's.
Dysis read the letter, paused, and read it again. It was short and to the point, a politician's letter in that no emotions showed where they clearly should have. "Erolis..." Dysis said uncertainly. "Please, sit." Erol nodded and accepted one of the visitor's chairs. "How... How did this happen?"
"Lord Kieris has been sick for some time," Erolis said, trying to keep his voice steady. He was having a hard time, and it was no wonder; the Alayrins had been the only ones who supported him after the trial. They'd taken him in and came as close to replacing his lost family as anyone could have. And now the High Lord had died...
"I was told he was recovering well after the last Council meeting. How did this happen, Erol? He had the best Healers on the Island!"
"I know. He... They could only do so much. At the end, all the Healers could do was block out the pain..."
"I'm so sorry," Dysis said. "I... I rarely agreed with him, but Lord Alayrin was a good man. I'm sorry for your loss... For Lady Serissa's. Is she..."
"She's doing as well as anyone could hope. In mourning. She... She plans to mourn for a long time, I think. She may not be attending the next Council meeting."
"Ah." That was the other part of the letter. "Lord Alayrin never named his Heir.... That's going to complicate things somewhat." Naming an Heir was really a formality, as the Heir was always (or nearly always) the Lord's eldest son, however it kept people from trying to usurp a Lord's power. But Kieris had never named his Heir, and although it shouldn't be too hard for Dysis to fix, it was going to require his meeting with the Council, and Lady Serissa would have to be in attendance.
"With all due respect, Lord Serathi, I don't think it will. Lady Serissa will be assuming her husband's duties."
"Will she." Dysis bit off the bitterness in his voice; he knew that Serissa Alayrin was a good woman, even if she had opposed himself and Rallan and every turn and made it nearly impossible for the Council to get anything acomplished..... "And she thought I would allow this because..."
"Because, quite frankly, Dysis, you can't afford not to," Erol said coolly. Traditionally, women didn't inherit land or the power that went with it; usually, Dysis wouldn't have cared, but Serissa would certainly use her husband's power to up her opposition of him...
"Really. Is that what she said?"
"She didn't have to, Dy." Erol grinned slightly. He knew anyone else would have been reprimanded by the guard for being so informal, but he was given special privilege—Dysis was desperate to make up for having had him disgraced. "You're broke, and anyone with eyes can see it. You need her money, and that means making her happy." "So tell me, is she threatening me, or is that only you?"
"Only me. But it's not a threat, it's a warning."
"I see." Dysis nodded; he could see where Erolis was right. Serissa would oppose him, and she had the financial power to do it. "Well, thank you."
"Consider it fair warning, then. Friend." He spat the word; clearly, Erolis had not forgiven Dysis for the results of the trial.
He got up to leave and was nearly out the door when Dysis called, "It was the only way to save her life, Erol."
He turned back sharply. "No, it was the only way for you to get me out of the way. I'm conveniently disinherited, and you don't have to worry about me becoming a High Lord and giving Lady Serissa and her supporters a majority."
"You think my decision was political?" Dysis demanded. "You think I wanted to see you disgraced? We were friends, Erolis."
"Yeah. Were. Will you be requiring me to return a message to the Lady?"
"Yes," Dysis sighed. "I'll have a letter of condolences finished by tomorrow."
"I'll stop by for it."
"Erolis, please—you're welcome for the night. We have more than enough room."
"So you'd like me to stay in the same Church that refuses to recognize that my wife's name is Nirra—or that she's even my wife? I'll stop by tomorrow." And with that, Erolis swept out the door, leaving Dysis to contemplate the death of a High Lord and how, precisely, to deal with a very stubborn widow.
[CLOSING CREDITS]