Traitor and Redeemer

SimiaLess knew something had changed when she saw two torches bobbing down the corridor towards her cell. Only one guard ever made rounds at a time. The cells were completely escape proof. Verris saw to that when he stormed the castle. She managed to summon the energy to lift her eyes to watch as two forms appeared in the flickering lights. She was exhausted after doing her usual set of exercises. SimiaLess had no use for a fit body, but some habits were hard to break, and it kept her healthier. She wasn’t sure of the motivation behind that thought, considering she’d just as soon be dead.

She pushed her dirty hair behind her ears and scuffled backwards to sit on the metal frame bed, the mattress long since moth eaten and stained. When Verris would come down and taunt her, long ago, he came alone and without a torch. He liked the sound of his voice rising from the darkness. The footsteps of the two men echoed in the cavern-like dungeon, and she shivered in fear. This didn’t bode well. It could be an execution or a summons. SimiaLess had no compunctions about her fate in the broken world. She was far safer lying forgotten in a dungeon than out in the world where people knew her name and her face.

“SimiaLess,” a voice said, the ‘s’ slightly hissing. The guard who normally brought her meals peered between the bars of the cell. “You haven’t eaten.”

The plate that held her dry bread and the mug that held her unfiltered river water lay untouched by the little door set in the bars. “I can’t seem to find an appetite any longer,” she replied truthfully. “With meals such as these it’s a wonder I haven’t succumbed to scurvy.”

“Stubborn twat.” It was low, muttered, but she could hear it just the same. She couldn’t see the face of either man, as the shadows cast too deeply. The other man, more slender than the guard, reached forward and stuck a key in the rusting lock. He turned it with some difficulty and swung the cell door open. The hinges let out a baleful shriek of protest, and SimiaLess found herself cringing at the noise. The slender man stepped inside of her cell and crouched down in front of her. The torch backlit him, so she could see nothing except that he had long hair, unbound.

“Come with me now, SimiaLess,” he said, his voice an accentless court put-on, or at least she would have said it was a put-on had the aristocracy still existed. He took her by her arm and helped her up. Her legs, still sore from her brutal exercises, gave out, and the man tightened his grip. “Easy. Help me, Greive.”

The guard made a snort of displeasure but slipped inside and grabbed SimiaLess’s other arm with his free hand. The slender man slipped SimiaLess’s arm over his shoulders and wrapped his arm around her waist. Once she was situated, Greive backed away from her as if her skin burned. The man holding her didn’t seem to notice as he helped her out of the cell. Greive led the way with his torch, and for the first time in longer than SimiaLess could say, she took more than seven steps in a straight line. She passed by the guards’ room, where two other guards played dice in front of a roaring fire. A pot of something that smelled delicious was cooking, something that would never find its way to the prisoners’ bowls.

As they passed through the room, the two other guards gave her matching glares. Greive doused the torch and sat next to his companions, where they began to whisper to each other. In the light, SimiaLess could see that the slender man who had retrieved her was obviously a high ranking officer, or would have been had the old hierarchy existed. He wore a tailored black suit, with shining black boots and the red stripes of an office on the hems of his sleeves. She didn’t catch much else of him, as she was too concerned with getting her feet underneath her so the man wouldn’t have to drag her.

The spiraling staircase proved a great difficulty, but she refused to force the man into carrying her. He never lost patience, even though their pace was excruciating. He never spoke a word, just silently helped her. It was unnerving.

When they finally reached the ground floor, the man ushered her into a small empty antechamber. He let go of her, and she fell to the floor. She shook her head and pushed her tangled hair from her eyes. She looked up, and saw the soldier clearly for the first time. Her attention was drawn straight to a faint white scar that ran from beyond his hairline at his temple down to his jaw where it cut through a day’s worth of stubble. It just barely missed the corner of his eye and cut straight down. Despite the long scar, he had a handsome face. High, sculpted cheekbones emphasized his angular jaw, and his eyes were a piercing ice blue. His raven hair was sharp against his pale skin, and SimiaLess deducted that he couldn’t have been older than thirty.

“What am I doing up here?” she asked, not expecting any sort of answer.

“Verris wishes to speak to you,” the man answered. He pulled down his sleeves, an almost prissy gesture. “A servant will be here shortly to attend to you.”

“A servant? When have I ever warranted a servant?” She looked down at her scratchy canvas shirt and the trousers that slid off her hips, held up only by a thin piece of twine. She touched her hair gingerly.

“I have no answers.” He stared at her, sprawled on the floor, with an air of dispassion. It was calculating, emotionless. It made her shiver.

“Who are you?” she asked, the words sticking in her throat. It was hard for her to speak, so many months went by without needing to. “Any soldier who wore the stripes of the army wouldn’t be so disinterested in my person.”

“I am called Sambric,” the man said, with a slight bow. That was unexpected, and SimiaLess nearly laughed out loud. “I don’t understand what else you have said.”

“What I mean is any officer worth his stripes would have snapped my neck given half the chance.” SimiaLess pulled herself to her feet and nearly toppled over. Sambric reached out and steadied her with one hand. “And they certainly wouldn’t be so quick to help me,” she added.

“Why not?” Once he was sure she wasn’t going to fall over again, he let go. He was genuinely curious. How could he not know who she was? Everyone knew who she was and working so closely with the castle staff, he had to know she wasn’t someone to engage in friendly conversation.

“Because,” she said. “I am the Betrayer.”

Sambric just stared at her. “They call you SimiaLess the Betrayer. Is that what you mean?”

SimiaLess couldn’t tell if he was jesting or serious. If he was joking, he certainly had a flat delivery. Before she could reply a young girl, no older than fifteen, slipped in the door. She curtsied deeply to Sambric.

“I’m here for the woman, sir,” she whispered. SimiaLess noticed that she was very careful to avoid even looking at both Sambric and SimiaLess herself. Back before Verris took control, servants weren’t quite so submissive. But with a man like Verris, who knew how the world had changed? SimiaLess still wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since she was thrown in the dungeon.

“Very good. Please bathe her and clothe her to suit Verris.” Sambric spoke to the servant as casually as he spoke to SimiaLess. “And when she is fit to be seen, bring her to the audience chamber, where Verris will be waiting. Take all the time you need; he will be patient this time.”

This time?

“Yes, sir,” the girl said, and curtsied again. She flicked her eyes towards SimiaLess. Instead of the hate she’d been expecting, the girl seemed almost fearful. “This way, Priestess La’Tir.”

Sambric watched as SimiaLess staggered to follow the servant. SimiaLess felt uncomfortable, doubly so by the girl’s honorific title. “I’m not a priestess any longer. I haven’t been since-” She hesitated, not truly knowing how long it had been since she was cast out of the order and joined with Van Coty. “A long time. And I am quite certain I’m no longer fit to carry the La’Tir name either.”

The girl glanced at her again and ducked her head back down. She picked up her pace and SimiaLess had to struggle to keep up with her in the freezing corridors. The dark castle wasn’t a warm place, even in summer. They passed no other servants, and soon SimiaLess was quite lost in the twisting corridors. The last time she had paced these corridors freely she had betrayed the country. No, not the country. She had betrayed the world. Herself. Van... Ciran. And what had her betrayal earned her? Nothing but heartache, misery, and the guilt of the world on her shoulders. And here she was, about to be prettied up for Verris’ twisted amusement. The servant was scared of her, Sambric didn’t even care who she was, and SimiaLess didn’t even know how old she was now. She felt as if she had lived a hundred years, going over every bit of the last days before she was captured. The moments played before her eyes, Helmzane’s threat to end her life, Van’s grief-stricken face, and perhaps worst of all, the despair in dear little Danni’s eyes.

She hadn’t run hard or far enough. Her, a RaLinne! She’d been captured by agents of Verris. It was unheard of for a RaLinne to be cornered in such a pathetic way. But SimiaLess was a pathetic person. Everything she strove to do slipped through her fingers like and. She should have been dead, like those who fought to uphold justice and life. She should have been the one to be unmade. Yet here she was, alive and mostly healthy. Wouldn’t that irritate Helmzane to no end?

“In here, miss,” the servant said. SimiaLess followed her into the room and was taken aback by the size of it. It was a bathing room, reserved for royalty. The pool was from the hot spring, no doubt, one of the hundreds that fed the river that formed one side of the castle’s moat. Two more servants were waiting, and they quickly undressed SimiaLess, neither one of them daring to look in her face. The whole process was maddening. They scrubbed the grime and sweat from her skin, combed the tangles from her hair, and dried her carefully with fluffy, soft towels. It was an unheard-of luxury, this bathing room, after the devastation Verris had brought upon the continent. SimiaLess felt sick as one of the girls began twisting her hair up into a complicated style. The other servant helped her into a dress, out of fashion even before the Great Battle.

The girl twisting up her hair was the first to speak. “The only reason you are not dead, Betrayer, is because Verris holds us hostage to serve him. We love our families more than we hate you.” Her voice was thin, straining. SimiaLess closed her eyes.

“I don’t deserve even that much explanation.”

“Don’t mock us with your pathetic attempts at humility.” The girl was very well-spoken, and SimiaLess wondered who she’d been, once. When she was innocent, and the world believed in the Prophesied Hero. Who had she been before Van Coty had failed? “You will not gain any respect from us by any amount of repentance. You cannot be forgiven.”

“I am not asking for forgiveness, nor do I wish for your respect,” SimiaLess snapped. She pushed the girl away and stuck the last pin in the knot in her hair. She turned to look at all three servants. Two were taller than she, and all were younger. All were pretty, and one sported a purple and black bruise over one eye. “I make no effort to deny who and what I am. You could pull my hair out and beat me black and blue for all I care. In fact, I almost wish you would. I have no idea of my purpose for remaining alive, and you know Verris as well as I do. He still has use for me.”

The bruised one picked up a silver-wrought circlet and placed it on SimiaLess’s head. She secured it with a few pins and tucked the loose strands into it to hold it even tighter. “It’s no secret, SimiaLess, that he hates you even as he loves you.” The girl stepped away as if touching SimiaLess’s hair burned her. “The God Destroyer has many uses for such a woman.” She touched her eye gingerly and turned away. SimiaLess stared at her back, feeling as powerless as the young girls around her. The difference was that she only had herself to blame for her own feelings. She stood up, her knees feeling weak. She wasn’t sure if it was from nervousness or the fact that she’d had more exercise today than in years.

The girl who had brought her to the bathing room stepped forward and opened the door. She headed down the hallway, and SimiaLess had to pick up her skirts and scurry after her. It had been a very long time since she’d worn a proper dress, and never anything so grand as the velvet concoction she was current swathed in. It was deep blue with lighter blue accents, royal colors she wouldn’t have been allowed to wear to any official function in the years when the royalty still lived. Not that she would have; priestesses wore only white as a rule. The filigree circlet on her head was also finer than anything she could have worn before. It didn’t escape her that she was also wearing kid leather slippers, a royal’s pair to be sure. Verris certainly was making use of whatever wardrobes the nobility had left behind when they fled. Or were killed. It wasn’t right, that she should be wearing a dead royal’s gown. Princess Liratel had been a lovely young woman, and her dark hair and grey eyes were certainly more suited to the colors than SimiaLess’s own ash blonde hair, sallow skin, and hazel eyes. SimiaLess wondered idly if Liratel had been granted the dignity of a true burial. Not likely. Verris had dumped most of the royalty and nobles he killed into the river that flowed beside the castle.

She shivered at the thought of the beautiful young woman’s lifeless, bloated body rushing along the currents and being swept out to the Tathian Sea. It was a morbid thought, one of many SimiaLess seemed to have since she betrayed all she held dear. She knew she deserved hate for the unmaking of Ciran, but she couldn’t understand why Verris felt the need to keep her alive. Verris owed her nothing, except his thanks and a swift slit of the throat.

His madness had reason, she supposed, and she’d find out soon enough what he wanted with her. The servant stopped at the doors to the audience chamber and curtseyed at the stationed guards. They didn’t wear uniforms, but they were armed and watchful. It took both of them to open one of the heavy wooden doors reinforced with iron. SimiaLess stepped in at their vicious looks. Verris sat on a dais, in the former king’s throne. He looked just as he had when he stole the throne. His blonde hair shone in the candlelight, and his smile was deceptively gentle. He was dressed like SimiaLess herself, in a royal suit of the deepest blue. He was not armed, but Verris didn’t need such paltry things as weapons. His tunic was edged in gold, the embroidery detailed and of the finest handiwork. SimiaLess moved closer at Verris’ beckoning, feeling dread with every step. Sambric, the man who’d fetched her, stood to Verris’ right, watching with little interest. He stood with perfect posture, his hands behind his back and his feet apart. SimiaLess was certain that he would spring to action faster than it seemed.

“My dearest love.”

Verris voice, one she’d heard in her dreams for countless nights, pierced her to the quick. She clenched her fists at her sides, hiding them in the folds of her skirt. She lowered her eyes to her feet. The light was not terribly bright, but she longed for her dark solitude in the dungeons. So long down there had conditioned her to embrace the darkness.

“It has been three years since I last saw your beautiful face.”

Three years? She knew it had been quite a long time, but three years? A shiver went down her spine as she thought of what could have happened in three years. How many men and women and children had died because of Verris? Had the Temple she’d served been destroyed? The cities Verris vowed to demolish? What about her family, forced back into the wandering ways of the RaLinne people? And what about those she’d betrayed the most?

Had Van, Helmzane, and Danni been discovered?

She shivered again when Verris continued speaking. “The dungeon has not been kind to you, or so Sambric tells me. I could hardly notice, but that your skin is even paler than it once was.” Verris pushed himself off the throne and descended the steps of the dais. “It's like alabaster now.” He touched her chin with his forefinger. “The sickly pallor will disappear in time.” He rubbed her jaw with the pad of his thumb and tilted her face to look into her eyes. She tried to avert her gaze, but she soon found herself looking back at him. His eyes, the lightest of brown nearing topaz, held the twinge of madness she knew lurked behind his pretty words.

“If I may be s-so bold,” she stuttered. She cursed her tongue and spoke again. “What purpose do I serve in remaining alive? I gave you want you wanted.”

“You wish for death. How amusing.” Verris moved his hand to cup the side of her face. His hands were rough and warm. “How much will it hurt to find out that the gods were destroyed because the Oracle of Souls could not be controlled?”

“What?!” SimiaLess’s voice was sharper than she intended, but Verris only smiled.

“Indeed. Untold thousands died because Ciranniliara was the only person in existence who could weaken me so that Van Coty may have slain me. ’Tis a pity they didn’t figure that out until after she was wiped away.”

SimiaLess’s knees gave out, this time because of the weight of the guilt that settled into her soul. Suddenly, the hate of the girls didn’t seem strong enough for what she had done.

“Every night, every day, you’ve gone over the events of Ciranniliara’s unmaking in your head. What you could have done differently, how you could have convinced your pathetic friends that you’re not really a bad person. Horrible and misunderstood. My dearest, rotting in the dungeon is too easy a punishment for you.” Verris turned on his heel once more to face her. His smile was gone, but the light in his eyes was frightening in and of itself. “You far too easily slip into a daze, where you cannot properly suffer. You’ve adapted. Become tolerant.”

SimiaLess looked at the floor. She didn’t dare meet his eyes again. “What do you want from me?”

Verris laughed then, high pitched, piercing. And terrifying. “That, my dearest love, would ruin the surprise.” He crouched in front of her, and straightened her hairpiece like he might a child’s bow or cap. He lifted her by her elbows and pulled her into a tight embrace. SimiaLess struggled against him, but in her exhausted state she was no match for the deceptively strong man. He may have looked like a noble, but he had the strength of any warrior. He whispered in her ear, knowing exactly the terror he would cause her by his simple, yet profound words.

“The people want a traitor, and I will give them a traitor.”