Creativity

Featured From the Archives: Inspiration is a Fickle Wench

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Ah yes, my post about inspiration, or rather, the lack thereof. As I stared blankly at the titles in my drafts folder this week, waiting for something (anything!) to spark an idea, I realized that this post would be oddly fitting. It’s also fairly old, so there’s a good chance it will be new to a lot of you. Given my complete lack of inspiration this week (I’m serious, I think my muse died, or decided to flit off to her beach with the cabana boy again), it’s safe to say this is better than anything I could have managed to drag, kicking and screaming, from the depths of my brain. It’s at least somewhat humorous, and I bet a few of you out there will be able to relate. Enjoy!
 

Inspiration is a Fickle Wench

by Kisa Whipkey

Originally Posted on 8/10/12

 
Have you ever had those days where you suffer from a complete lack of inspiration? Where you feel like a creative well that’s run dry? Yeah, me too. In fact, it happens more than I’d like to admit. For someone plagued by the never-ending breeding of plot bunnies, I have a remarkably hard time finding the motivation to actually write. Oddly, the most sure-fire way I have to motivate myself is to declare to the world that I’m not writing. (Sorry, writing group buddies. Sometimes I have to cancel just so the muses in my head will freak out, screaming, “No! You can’t write absolutely nothing this week!” and finally show me the path to the next scene they were greedily withholding.)

But inspiration doesn’t just apply to writing. We need it for all things creative. It plays just as much of a role in creating a masterpiece of art, or choreographing a moving sequence for demo team. And some days, it’ll simply refuse to come when you call it.

I find the idea of inspiration a fascinating thing. Where does it come from? Is it an invisible lightning bolt that shocks our imagination to life the way a defibrillator brings our hearts back from death? Is it a gift from some higher power, sending waves of creative energy coursing through us like sunlight? Is it the whispered voice of a muse dressed like the women of Greek mythology? Or is it just some random combination of neurons firing that creates a delusional escape from reality? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone does. But I do find it intriguing that when a writer talks about hearing “voices,” they’re considered brilliantly touched by inspiration. When anyone else says it, they’re considered mentally ill.  What separates inspiration from insanity? The final product? Who’s to say that people with schizophrenia or brain tumors warping their neurological pathways aren’t the most in tune with that magical force we call inspiration. Or that those of us who claim to rely on it for our careers aren’t actually suffering a slight mental meltdown. Interesting stuff, isn’t it?

All I know about inspiration is that it rarely shows up when I want it to. Case in point, I’m now suffering through week 2 of the current inspirational drought. This wasn’t even the blog post I had scheduled for today, but I was too uninspired to finish the original one. Which made this the perfect week to muse about the elusive nature of the muse, so to speak.

I’ve mentioned a few times that I find inspiration through music, going into rather lengthy, and probably creepy, detail about it here. I’m not sure why that’s my avenue of choice, but it’s always been that way. Maybe I’m mooching off the creative brilliance imbued by the composer/songwriter. Maybe I’m gifted with a finely tuned sense of musicality, and I can find stories through the nuances and layers of musical instruments the way others can through dreams or spoken words. Maybe I’m just nuts. But regardless of the reason, that reliable source of  melodic inspiration only seems to cover the initial conceptual phase. It gives me the base-line, the foundation on which I have to build, and more plot bunnies than I could ever write, even if I was lucky enough to be a writer that could finish a novel in a few months. When it comes to the actual creation part, the nitty-gritty work part, I’m left to suffer the whims of inspiration like everyone else.

Every writing website, advice article, author/artist blog out there will tell you that creator’s block is a myth. That it’s just an excuse for being lazy, for procrastinating, for giving in to your fear of failure, or for a plethora of other reasons. They’ll all tell you that you just have to power through those days when you’re lacking inspiration. That you have to discipline yourself to create every day. That you can’t wait for the muse to come to you, for the weather to align perfectly, for the fourteen cups of caffeinated beverage to kick in, or for whatever that magic combo is that ignites the fires of inspiration for you. And they’re probably right.

I, however, can’t force it. When I’m not feeling inspired, I end up with this:

“Blah, Blah, more Blah, Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh! Stuff and things. Blarg. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Oh, and more Blah.”

How would you like to read an entire novel of that? I know I wouldn’t. So I ignore all those lovely professional people out there smarter than me, because their perfectly valid advice doesn’t help me. And I wait, sometimes days, sometimes weeks, sometimes even months for the return of inspiration. Does that make me a lazy, procrastinating, fear-frozen artist/writer/choreographer? Maybe. It definitely makes me slow. But one thing I’ve learned over the years chasing down my dream of making a living at something creative, is that you have to be true to yourself. You can read as many books, blogs, advice columns as you want; take a million classes to hone your skills; talk to everyone you admire who have been lucky enough to make a living doing what they love, but in the end, it’s all about figuring out your own creative style, the strategies that work for you, and the confidence to believe that just because your process may be a little different, doesn’t make it wrong.

And mostly, that inspiration is a fickle wench you can control about as much as you can control the weather.

Book Review Wednesday: The Curse Merchant by J.P. Sloan

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Yes, I know, it’s technically Tuesday, but since this will be occupying the spot of glory on my blog until Friday, I thought we could let that slide. Besides, I’m part of this here spiffy blog tour:

Tour Banner for The Curse Merchant

And no, I’m not lying. The banner does say the tour ended yesterday, but this is the date I was given. So, this is the date I’ll supply my review. Right after I give you the obligatory information about the book.
 

The Curse Merchant

by J.P. Sloan

 

Cover for The Curse Merchant

My Rating: 4/5 Stars

 

Dorian Lake spent years cornering the Baltimore hex-crafting market, using his skills at the hermetic arts to exact karmic justice for those whom the system has failed.

He keeps his magic clean and free of soul-corrupting Netherwork, thus avoiding both the karmic blow-back of his practice and the notice of the Presidium, a powerful cabal of practitioners that polices the esoteric arts in America. However, when an unscrupulous Netherworker interferes with both his business and his personal life, Dorian’s disarming charisma and hermetic savvy may not be enough to keep his soul out of jeopardy.

His rival, a soul monger named Neil Osterhaus, wouldn’t be such a problem were it not for Carmen, Dorian’s captivating ex-lover. After two years’ absence Carmen arrives at Dorian’s doorstep with a problem: she sold her soul to Osterhaus, and has only two weeks to buy it back. Hoping to win back Carmen’s affections, Dorian must find a replacement soul without tainting his own.

As Dorian descends into the shadows of Baltimore’s underworld, he must decide how low he is willing to stoop in order to save Carmen from eternal damnation… with the Presidium watching, waiting for him to cross the line.

This book starts with a bang. From the first sentence, we know we’re in for two things: a snarky narrator (and it’s no secret I adore a snarky lead) and a gritty, rough-around-the-edges kind of read. And neither disappoints.

Dorian Lake crafts hexes and charms fueled by the karma of the person purchasing them. But he avoids anything involving the darker arts of the Netherwork. That is, until an old flame reappears and pulls him head-first into turmoil. Now, in order to save Carmen, Dorian has to find a way to replace her soul, all while evading detection from both his rival — the man responsible for Carmen’s predicament– and the Presidium, who essentially police the use of magic.

One part gritty police procedural/spy novel, one part supernatural thrill-ride, The Curse Merchant is definitely intriguing. I found the world building to be generally well-done, with lots of attention paid to the history and back-story of both the craft and the characters. The structure of the story was a bit disjointed in places, as the narrator has a tendency to drift down memory lane, but the wit and tongue-in-cheek sarcasm more than made up for that. Fast-paced and full of twists and turns, Sloan definitely knows how to keep his audience hooked. But I found his take on magic, especially the karma angle, to be the most intriguing. It was refreshingly original.

I wouldn’t recommend this to readers who prefer their books to be clean, as swearing and violence are both very present. But for those who don’t mind a little grit in their fantasy, this book is a great find. With a lead character whose charm and integrity endear him immediately, and a plot that will have you questioning your own sense of morality, The Curse Merchant is everything a great urban fantasy should be. The only reason I didn’t give it five stars is because I felt it could have been a little better edited. But that’s no reflection on the author’s talent, and doesn’t sway me from recommending his work to fans of the genre.

**Disclosure Statement: I received a copy from the publisher in exchange for an honest review. **

 

About the Author:

J.P. Sloan is a speculative fiction author … primarily of urban fantasy, horror and several shades between. His writing explores the strangeness in that which is familiar, at times stretching the limits of the human experience, or only hinting at the monsters lurking under your bed.

A Louisiana native, Sloan relocated to the vineyards and cow pastures of Central Maryland after Hurricane Katrina, where he lives with his wife and son. During the day he commutes to the city of Baltimore, a setting which inspires much of his writing.

In his spare time, Sloan enjoys wine-making and homebrewing, and is a certified beer judge.

J.P. Sloan

Website | Facebook | Twitter

Storytellers & Grammarians: The Different Types of Editors

KWhipkey 1 Comment

A few months ago, Hubs and I were at one of our favorite restaurants, enjoying a nice basket of Cajunized tots and a couple cold beers. And, being the creepers that we are, we eavesdropped, I mean overheard, a conversation from the next table that started me thinking. While waiting for their food, the boy at the table would challenge his sister on rules of writing, definitions of obscure words, and other English-related stuff. After the first couple rounds, Hubs started looking to me for verification, mouthing, “Is he right?” Because, as an editor, this should be my realm of expertise, yes?

Eventually, though, I honestly wasn’t sure without having to use some sort of reference guide. See, the boy had transitioned from the basic rules of grammar we all abide by into things like the roots of words and obscure facts about the structure of language and grammar that I rarely need to know while editing. But he clearly loved it as much as I love talking about the techniques of storytelling. And right there, the proverbial light bulb went off, clarifying something I’d been witnessing for a while, but that I hadn’t put into words — there are two fundamental types of editors.

I know what you’re thinking: there are way more than two types of editing. And you’re right, there are. For argument’s sake, here’s the list of the most common editing activities:

  • Developmental (Overall storytelling)
  • Line Editing (Word Choice, Smoothness, Clarity, etc.)
  • Copy Editing (Grammar, Spelling & Punctuation)
  • Technical Editing (One specific aspect of a manuscript)
  • Proofreading (Formatting issues, Typos, etc.)

Note that I called those editing activities. Because, while there are five different areas an editor can be skilled in, there are still only two types of editors — the storytellers, and the grammarians. What I’ve witnessed over the past few years is that, regardless of the type of editing activity, the person doing it will invariably fall into one of these two categories. Why? Because I’m talking about the core way they view a manuscript, their fundamental perspective.

You’ve heard me talk before about how editors are not all the same, how it’s important to know whether you’re working with a copy editor or a developmental one. And this is why. The core philosophy of your editor will dictate the quality and type of editing you receive.

Grammarians are fantastic line editors because they’re brilliant with the actual words. They love the English language will the zeal of an English professor and will be the first to call you out when you deviate from the grammar laws. In short, they’re the grammar Nazis I mentioned in my post on the different types of critiques. But in the grand scheme of things, they’re superficial editors. Meaning they never dive past the actual words on the page, the specific combinations of letters and symbols on a white background. This is the main reason you’ll see some editors charge tiny little fees and have a turn-around rate of two weeks. Because all they’re doing is polishing the surface of your work, putting a band-aid on wounds they may or may not even see.

I’m sure I’ve just offended a large portion of the editors out there, and for that, I’m sorry. But it’s true. A grammarian editor will never look at the deeper problems of a story. For that, you need a storyteller. Storyteller editors are a rare breed, capable of doing the same level of line edit quality as a grammarian, but also capable of seeing past the words to the story underneath. They’re the equivalent of literary surgeons. They’ll spot the weird bone spurs, the fractured character arcs, the fatal plot holes that bleed the life from your story, the illness that keeps the emotional context from resonating with readers. And this is true whether you hire them to only do line edits, or whether you want the developmental side. Because they can’t help but see those things.

Storytellers understand elusive concepts like voice and style, and they’ll help you bend the rules of grammar to fit your story. Grammarian editors won’t. To them, that’s a cardinal sin, and they don’t understand why you would want to do that. Storyteller editors will ensure all the pieces of your manuscript work to form a cohesive narrative. Grammarians won’t. They’ll make sure all your words look pretty. Storyteller editors will challenge you, pushing you become a better writer. Grammarians will fix your typos and call it good. I’m sure you’re starting to see the pattern here.

So, how can you tell the difference? When you’re looking for a freelance editor, or you meet your publishing-house-assigned person for the first time, how can you know which type of editor you’re getting? That’s the tricky part. Ideally, you’ll want to look at any previous work they’ve done. Buy (or borrow) one of the books listed on their resume and see how you feel about it. Is it solid grammatically, but riddled with storytelling problems? (Readers are surprisingly attuned to these kinds of issues, so you’ll be able to feel it, even if you don’t know exactly why it didn’t work.) Chances are, they’re a grammarian.

Another option would be to track down other authors the editor has worked with and ask them for their impressions. Did the editor help them with a particularly tricky part of their story, or were they fast? (Speed is an indication of quality, remember? It’s much faster to skim the surface of something than it is to really internalize and think about someone’s work.)

The final clue will be in the feedback itself. If you’ve found a storyteller, they’ll always start with in-depth feedback that delves into the core of your story. Their first email to you will likely contain information on theme, character development, pacing, and any potential problems with those areas. Or, alternatively, if you’ve hired someone solely for line edits, watch for feedback that steps out of that territory. Trust me, storytellers can’t help but point out flaws in logic or areas that are murky/underdeveloped. Whereas grammarians will stick exactly to that — the grammar.

It is my opinion, in case you couldn’t guess, that storytellers are the stronger editors, and whenever possible, you should seek one of them. But grammarians have their place as well. They’re excellent proofreaders, and if you’re confident in the integrity of your story (as in it passes your critique partners and beta readers with flying colors) and simply need someone to double-check/polish your grammar, they’re perfectly acceptable.  The important thing to take away from this is that there is a difference. So know exactly what you’re looking for, and who the best editor is for that. Don’t ask a grammarian to do developmental edits, and don’t expect a storyteller to ignore structural flaws while line editing. Understanding the way your editor is likely to view your manuscript will give you a better idea of what to expect in terms of feedback. Which, in turn, leads to a better working relationship, and everyone likes when projects go smoothly, right?

Featured From the Archives: How to Write Martial Arts Fight Scenes

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For the past few weeks, this post has surfaced almost daily in my stats, making it by far my most popular article ever. The fact that it is continually being Googled probably means that I would do well to post it again, don’t you think? Maybe the universe (and by universe, I mean all you lovely authors out there with the power to Google stuff) is trying to tell me that this information could benefit someone at the moment. Never one to ignore omens (my whole urban fantasy series is based around the concept of synchronicity, after all), I’m going to do just that.

This week’s feature is a little over a year old, but it’s as valid today as it was then, and I hope it helps those who are searching for it. Enjoy! 😉
 

How to Write Martial Arts Fight Scenes

by Kisa Whipkey

(Originally Posted on 8/9/13)

 
Fight scenes. Whether live action or written, they can be such a pain to pull off, falling all too easily into the realm of cheesy. You know the ones I mean; we’ve all seen and read them — fight scenes where the creator was more focused on what looks cool and/or badass, and less so on believability.

Recently, I sent a frustrated plea to the Twitterverse, begging authors to do their research before including the martial arts in their fights. Believe it or not, it wasn’t until after I sent that plea that the light bulb appeared and I realized I’m in a unique position to help my fellow authors. As both a martial artist and a writer, I have insight that could help authors overcome the hurdle of fight scenes. So today, I’m going to use that background to dissect a written fight scene and hopefully illustrate how to effectively incorporate martial arts techniques. About time, right?

First, let’s take a look at what you don’t want to do.

_________

Charlie grunted as his back slammed into the wall, his opponent’s hands wrapped thoroughly around his throat. He struggled, trying to kick his opponent in the groin but only managing to connect with the man’s shin. The attacker snarled, loosening his hold on Charlie’s neck. Without pausing, Charlie threw his left arm between them, turning to the side and trapping the attacker’s arm against his own chest before elbowing the man in the face.

The attacker stumbled backwards, grasping at his bleeding nose. Charlie didn’t wait. He had the upper-hand. He advanced toward his opponent, his hands raised to guard his face, his body relaxed into a sparring stance. The attacker glared up at him, straightening into a matching stance.

With a yell, Charlie threw a round-kick at the attacker’s head. His opponent ducked, sliding between Charlie’s legs on his knees and jumping to his feet with a swift kick to Charlie’s back. Charlie stumbled forward, turning to face his attacker before he was struck again and instantly ducked the knife hand strike aimed at his head. Charlie responded with a flurry of punches, varying his target from the man’s head to his torso and back again. The man blocked most, but a few landed, knocking the attacker from his feet.

Charlie stood over him for a split second before finishing him off with a well-placed axe kick to the sternum. As the attacker rolled on the ground, sputtering, Charlie ran for the safety of a nearby cafe.

_________

Now, that’s shockingly not as bad as some I’ve seen, although it’s sure not going to win me a Pulitzer either. Some of you may even think this is an all right fight scene, aside from the obvious grammatical flaws that could be fixed with a few more drafts. But this is the example of what not to do, remember? So let’s figure out why.

Did you notice that I gave you very little about why this fight is happening, or where? I didn’t even give you the attacker’s name! But I did tell you in agonizing detail the techniques they’re using and where the blows land, placing all the emphasis on the choreography, and none at all on the characters or motivation behind this moment. The result? A laundry list of steps you could re-enact, but that you feel not at all.

That’s because this approach is all telling. That’s right, the infamous telling vs. showing debate. I tell you exactly what’s happening, but I don’t show it at all. You don’t feel invested in Charlie’s situation. You don’t feel the emotions. You feel excited, sure, because it’s action, and even poorly written action is exciting. But it has no lasting impact on you, does it? This scene is about as forgettable as they come.

It’s also unrealistic. Who out there noticed the completely implausible choreography I threw in? I know the martial artists in the audience did, because it screams “cool factor,” its entire existence a nod to something awesome and badass, but that, in reality, is actually physically impossible.

If you guessed the knee slide under Charlie’s legs, you’d be correct. Bravo! You get a cookie.

This is why it’s important to understand the dynamics of a fight, not just the choreography. Those who have done a round kick know that while performing it, you balance on one leg, your body positioned so that your center of gravity is entirely over that back leg. If someone were to try and go through your legs the way I described, they would take out your supporting leg and you’d both end up in a flailing pile of limbs.

And then there’s the knee slide itself. If you read it closely, you realized the attacker is standing still. Where’d he get the momentum for a knee slide? Unless they’re fighting on a slick, hardwood floor that’s just been mopped, he would need a running start. I don’t know about you, but if I tried to drop to my knees to slide anywhere, I’d be sitting on the floor looking like an idiot asking to get kicked in the face. It’s just not believable.

So let’s try that scene again, this time, fixing all those things I called out.

_________

Charlie grunted as his back slammed into the wall, Eric’s hands wrapped around his throat. Hate emanated from his friend’s eyes, judgement and accusation burning them into a sinister shade of blue. Charlie gasped, choking as Eric’s fingers cut off his air like a tourniquet.

His mind screamed at him, desperate to know why it was being punished. His lungs burned, his mouth working like a fish on dry land, sucking in nothing but fear. The edges of his vision started to grow fuzzy, black dots appearing over Eric’s shoulder, distorting the red glow of the club’s EXIT sign like reverse chickenpox. Panic flooded his veins with adrenaline. He struggled, clawing at the fingers sealed around his throat. He tried to kick Eric in the groin but only managed to connect with his shin, the impact ricocheting painfully through his foot.

Eric snarled, loosening his hold, giving Charlie the opening he needed. He threw his left arm between them, turning to the side and trapping Eric’s arm against his own chest before elbowing his best friend in the face.

Eric stumbled backward, grasping at his bleeding nose. Charlie didn’t wait. He advanced toward his opponent, his hands raised to guard his face, his body relaxing into the sparring stance he’d practiced for years– knees bent, weight forward on the balls of his feet, head lowered. Eric glared up at him, straightening into a matching stance. Their eyes locked. It was just like old times, only now there was no one to referee the match, to stop it before it went too far.

All this for a girl. Charlie knew it was ridiculous, that he should walk away, but fury mixed with adrenaline, coursing through him like a pulsing heat. If Eric wanted a fight, that’s what he’d get.

With a yell, Charlie threw a kick at Eric’s head. Eric ducked, sliding easily into a leg-sweep, knocking Charlie’s support from under him. The ground smashed into his back, forcing the air from his lungs in a rushing wheeze. He rolled backwards to his feet, still fighting against the tightness in his chest. Eric closed in on him, pushing his advantage, arms and legs flying. Charlie blocked as many of the blows as he could, his arms jarring in their sockets every time he did, his ribs and face blossoming with pain every time he didn’t. He stumbled back through the shadows of the alley until he was once again cornered.  Cringing, he held his hands up in surrender. Eric backed off, eying him warily as he spit blood onto the darkened pavement.

Charlie’s knuckles were bleeding, his ribs bruised, and his lip split into an oozing gash. It was time to end this.

“All right, I give,” he said,  the words gravelly and pained as he forced his battered throat to work. “I’ll never go near your sister again.”

_________

Still not the most epic writing sample, but you see the difference, I hope? Now, we not only know who Charlie’s fighting, but why. I’ve also fixed the choreography so that it’s believable, and added emotional content and description, putting the focus on the characters instead of the martial arts. No one cares about the techniques, but they care a lot about how those techniques feel, the emotion behind the action. Understanding that is the difference between creating a scene from a clinical distance and creating a deeper POV that will resonate with readers.

So, how can you take your fight scenes from flat to amazing? Easy, just remember these three things:

  1. Show, don’t tell. The techniques themselves are not important, the emotion is. Only use a technique name if there’s a reason we need to know the exact kick, etc.
  2. Believability is king. Never throw something in just because it sounds awesome. Make sure it’s actually physically possible and makes sense with the choreography and your world.
  3. When stumped, ask an expert. If you’re at a loss, find someone familiar with the martial arts and ask. Don’t just rely on Google and Youtube. They won’t give you the insight personal experience can.

That’s really all there is to it. Not so hard after all, is it? And if you ever find yourself in need of some martial arts feedback, I’m always available. Just send me a note with your questions, and I’ll happily provide some help. 🙂

Short Story Feature: Confessions

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I’m a tad short on time this week, thanks to a Day Job promotion that really should have been called “Now you get to do two positions for the price of one” and various other mountains of to-do list items avalanching (yep, I made up a verb! Go me) everywhere. But I still wanted to give you something fresh, rather than dredging something up from the archives. What is this fresh something? Well, remember how I said a couple weeks ago that I wanted to start featuring some of my shorter fiction? No? Here’s the reminder, then.

This week, I’m showcasing my third published short story — Confessions. Set in a fictitious (so don’t get your britches in a bunch people, it’s not meant to be thinly veiled social commentary) world, it’s a story about losing faith. The thing I’m most proud of, though, is the non-traditional format. For this particular story, I chose a circular narrative, attempting to mimic aspects of cinematography. Did it work? Well, I’ll let you be the judge. 😉

**Note: This is another one that’s on my list to revise and re-publish, so keep that in mind as you read. It was polished enough to be snatched up by a magazine, but I’m well aware of the flaws it contains. That said, feedback is always welcome, so feel free to comment!**

 

Confessions

by Kisa Whipkey

She was trapped; pinned between justice and an impossible fall. The sky was red as the blood she’d left pooling on the tiles of the cathedral floor, silhouetting her as she stood with her back to us, contemplating her choice. Tall stucco buildings glared from hollow eyes, disapproving of our pursuit. I agreed with them as I pushed my way to the front of the guards, closer to her.

I know what I had witnessed, but even so, no one deserved this. Either way, she would die. And I wasn’t entirely convinced she was wrong, that we weren’t the ones inflicting a corrupt sense of justice. I wasn’t sure why I had followed her, or what I hoped to accomplish, but some small voice urged me to try and talk her away from her fate — to try and save her.

As if hearing my doubts, she turned to face the guards splayed out in cautious defense. She smiled at the spears trained on her, the look a cobra gets before it strikes. Her dark eyes locked on mine.  In that instant I could see she wasn’t repentant. She believed in her mission; she knew she was right. Her certainty made mine waver even more, but before I could step forward to intervene, she spoke.

“Forgive me my sins,” she said calmly, as if she and I were the only two people on the low rooftop. I froze, knowing in my soul what she was about to do. I could have stopped her. But instead, I watched as her smile widened and she stepped backward off the roof, falling gracefully with arms outstretched, welcoming oblivion.

***

“Stop, wait . . . go back. Let me start over, this time at the beginning.”

The bored Inquisitor across from me merely nodded assent, his eyes glazed as he idly carved a repetition of swirls into the wooden desk. He didn’t care what I had to say, none of them did. They knew the fate of the criminal. I was simply a formality. One of the wronged, but only marginally since I had survived. I knew if I wore anything other than a priest’s robe, they wouldn’t have bothered to hear my tale. It didn’t matter though. My mission was to impart the truth, even if they didn’t want to listen.

Taking a deep breath, I started over, determined to make him understand, or at least to question.

***

She was a soldier, a warrior of the gods; chosen to help eradicate the blemish of the Saharians. Her sacred duty was to rid the earth of those who refused the teachings of Helerian; who persisted in spreading heresy and corruption into the civilized world. With their strange eight-legged deity, the Saharians were surely the spawn of the underworld. And she had no qualms sending them back where they belonged.

Her horse danced under her, its gray coat shimmering in silver ripples of anticipation. She held the high-strung Arabian in place with impatient hands, waiting for the order to descend on this village of the enemy.  With one hand, she adjusted the fabric that wrapped around her head and face. The robes of a crusader were a beautiful thing. Comfortable without being constraining, the sand colored fabric allowed her to blend with her surroundings and fulfill her divine destiny.

Finally, Devriath raised his sword, glinting light to the waiting soldiers in a signal that would end the lives of many. She ground her knees into her horse’s sides and the animal bolted forward. The dull thud of hooves against the sand was the only warning the condemned villagers would have before the crusaders fell on them like a dust storm.

Screams rose into the heat of the desert as the first Saharians fell. She drew her weapon in anticipation, a smaller, curved blade that mimicked the wicked smile of a young moon. Without slowing, she galloped through the streets of the village, slashing her way through anything or anyone in her path.

Suddenly her horse stopped short, rearing with a shrill cry of fear as one of the villagers waved a torch in front of its face, the orange flames licking hungrily toward the velvety muzzle. She tried to keep the panicked animal from losing its senses, but instinct won over loyalty. She jumped from the saddle as the Arabian spun and bolted, its raised tail flowing behind it like a flag of surrender.

Rolling to her feet, she advanced on the man with the torch. She could see his fear in the quiver of the flame, but she didn’t care. He was one of them. He had to die. Calmly, she brought the steel of her blade slashing across the man’s chest in an elegant spin any Scarf Dancer would envy.

“Murderer!” a child’s voice screamed behind her. She stopped, stiffening. She’d been called many things in her career of death, but there was something different about this taunt.

“Makaris, no!”

Turning, she saw a woman run forward, clutching the small boy to her and trying valiantly to pull him out of danger.

“Why? What did he do to you?” he cried, his blue eyes accusing through the welling tears as he rigidly ignored his mother’s efforts.

His voice pierced her emotional armor as surely as an arrow does skin. He spoke with the same cadences she did, not the foreign accent she had been expecting. Horror filled her, truth dawning like a sunrise, as she stared into those small, fierce eyes. They were blue . .. blue! Not the sand color of the Saharians. This boy was Theinan — one of her own people!

Stricken, she looked at the mother and was met with a pair of fearful green eyes; Theinan eyes. Gasping as the air suddenly grew thin, she swept her gaze over the chaos, and for the first time in a long time, really saw what was happening. None of the villagers trying desperately to defend themselves were Saharian. The crusaders were slaughtering their own kind!

She staggered back against the nearest wall, bracing herself against its solidarity. This was wrong! Why were they attacking their own? Crumbling as surely as her conviction, she folded in on herself, covering her face with her hands. The scimitar thumped against the ground, forgotten. This couldn’t be happening. She must be mistaken! There was no way the church would condone this — killing was strictly prohibited in the great Book of Truth, especially the butchering of decent, devout people!

But when she forced her eyes open again, the scene was the same. Unsuspecting Theinan citizens were falling like fragile saplings against a strong wind, their lives taken for an unknown reason. This went against everything she believed in, and she knew the gods would be displeased.

She watched the melee for what felt like eons, the slaughter unfolding before her in slow motion. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. This couldn’t continue, but how could she possibly stop something as inexorable as an avalanche? Shaking off her lethargy, she let instinct guide her.

Picking up her discarded weapon, she threw herself toward the nearest crusader, stepping between his falling blade and the intended victim. Metal sparked as it clashed with squealing protest. The hazel eyes of her fellow soldier widened in shock and confusion, but she moved before she had a chance to change her mind. Her blade bit into his sand colored robes, staining them a dark red as his life ran from his body.

“Helerian, forgive me,” she murmured, turning away. The man he had been attacking shuddered before her. A flicker of hesitation dawned as what he had witnessed sank in, and she saw gratitude and uncertainty flood across his features. Quickly, he scrambled away, retreating into the recesses of one of the huts. She wasn’t sure if he would find safety there for long, but he wasn’t her concern anymore. She needed to find Devriath and get him to sound the order to fall back before every one of them was condemned to the underworld.

Her glance flickered to the body of the soldier and she felt the pang of remorse. She wouldn’t have time to reason with every one of her comrades, and most were so stubbornly ingrained with doctrine that few would even pause to listen. She would be deemed a traitor in a matter of seconds — one of the Lost, condemned to instant death without hope of salvation. It was either her, or them. Her one chance to escape with her robes intact was to find Devriath. And find him fast.

She prayed that she would be able to convince him as she ran toward the focal point of the battle, the screams and clash of weaponry rising to a near deafening pitch as she drew closer. Devriath would be in the middle of the chaos. He always was. Like the core of a fire, he never failed to be at the heart of the most intense battles.

She scanned the crowd, searching for the shining double blades of their leader. As she had expected, she glimpsed him at the dead center of the throng, his swords glimmering like deadly liquid.  Taking a deep breath, she threw herself into the fray, hoping vaguely that she could reach Devriath without having to murder too many more of the crusaders.

She darted beneath the blades of friend and foe alike; an avenging angel moving toward the heart of the conflict. She had already butchered three more of her fellow soldiers, saving two families and one lone woman, when she was suddenly tackled to the ground. Snarling, she rolled with her attacker into the shadowed recesses of an alley, away from the heat of battle.

Her breath slammed out of her as she was roughly pinned to the ground beneath her assailant. She tried to bring her blade up and felt it deftly stripped from her by a booted foot. Her hands were forced into the sand near her head with such strength she felt the tiny granules embed themselves in her knuckles.

“Enough!” he growled. “Constia, what are you doing?”

The familiar tones brought her gaze to meet the silver stare of the man above her. She didn’t need to see the rest of his face to know him, or to tell that he was furious. Shock, confusion and rage warred within his eyes and silently demanded an explanation.

“Let me up!” she spat, struggling against the weight of battle-toned muscle.

“Not until you explain what’s going on,” he answered, silver eyes glinting dangerously. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“How can you sit here calmly, when innocent people are being murdered?” she challenged.

“I’m not! You’re not out there anymore, are you?”

“No, not the crusaders, the villagers!” She felt a satisfied flush as his eyes clouded with confusion. “Or didn’t you realize that?”

“What, in Helerian’s name, are you talking about?” He sat back on his haunches, letting go of her arms, but still holding her pinned with his legs.

“Look behind you Bannar, none of those people are Saharian. We’re killing our own!”  When he shifted to look over his shoulder at the fighting, she tried to regain her scimitar, her fingers creeping stealthily toward the vicious blade. Without looking, his hand shot out, covering the blade and holding it pinned as surely as his body did hers. Frustrated, Constia slammed her fist into the sand and settled for glaring up at the man who had once been her friend and lover.

“I don’t understand, Constia,” he said, turning back to her, “One minute you’re with us, and the next thing I know, you’re attacking another crusader. One of your friends! Why would you do that?”

“How can you not see what’s happening? These villagers have done nothing wrong; they’re Theinan for Helerian’s sake!” Now it was her turn to feel confused. Why wasn’t he understanding? While they were arguing, more Theinan citizens were being murdered!

“I know,” he murmured, a pained look bringing his brows together and his shoulders slumping. Constia felt shock crush her and she stared in horror at the stranger above her.

“You know? Why aren’t you trying to stop it then?” Her mind whirled as she tried to make sense of what was happening. A cold pit of foreboding settled in her stomach like a bad meal and she knew she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear.

He looked at her with pitying gray eyes. “I’m doing what I was ordered to. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this, Constia. Surely you realized that?”

“No! What are you talking about? Those others were Saharian; I would never have killed our own people willingly!” She shook her head vehemently, denying his words with every shred of her being.

“There are no Saharians, Constia, not anymore. They were a race that died out long before we got here. The Church uses them as an excuse; a way to condemn those that aren’t loyal enough, a way to instill fear in the rest of us,” he explained softly, his voice gentle and filled with pain.

“But, that’s political,” she said, looking up at him with questioning eyes. He simply nodded and she felt tears begin to swell as betrayal set in. She had been used; her faith had been corrupted. Her chest felt like it had been cleaved with a sword, all her nerves raw and her spirit shriveling in despair. How could she have been so blind? So stupid?

She closed her eyes and turned her head into the sand, feeling anguish wash over her like a scalding bath. Bannar released her then, kicking the fallen scimitar well out of easy reach as he moved a few feet away, watching intently. But she had lost her desire to move, her limbs numb and cold with defeat. What was she supposed to do now? Everything she had believed, everything she had done, was all a lie!

“Constia?” The soft query barely managed to break through her haze of self-pity. “I’m sorry, Constia. I thought you knew. We all did.”

That last sentence dispelled her anguish like a fog in a swift wind and she felt rage raise its hackles, its teeth bared to kill. Her eyes snapped open, their chocolate depths flashing with hate. Bannar tensed, his hand straying to the dagger at his side.

“You all knew? Every last one of you?” she asked coldly. He nodded. “Then you’re no better than them. You all deserve to die! You’ve condemned us to the underworld, and you don’t even care!” She rose and brushed the sand from her clothes with tense motions that spoke volumes to her agitation.

“ If none of you will set things right, then I will,” she declared, “Just answer one more thing, if there are no Saharians, then how do you explain the people we’ve fought? The ones with a different language and different coloring?” She glared at him, waiting to hear what twisted version of the truth he was about to expel.

“They are of Saharian blood, but they are also Theinan. Ages ago, the two races merged. The people in this southern region have kept more of their original language, and the genes are stronger here than they are in the north. But there are people of Saharian descent everywhere,” he explained, his eyes narrowing before he added, “The color of your eyes hints that even you possess some.”

“Lies!” she screeched, lunging at him in blind fury. She had no weapon, but she would make him pay for even suggesting that she was Saharian. He evaded her attack easily, capturing her flailing arms behind her back, his knife blade resting lightly against her throat. Refusing to accept defeat, she struggled, trying to kick him. They danced awkwardly, her kicking like a donkey while he easily avoided the expected blows. He had always been able to read her too easily, always besting her in sparring matches. Finally, he brought the knife more firmly against her skin, the sharp edge lacerating her neck just enough to subdue her.

“That’s better,” he mumbled behind her. Her chest heaved with anger and adrenaline, but she stayed still.

“Well, what am I going to do with you? Obviously, you are Graell-bent on killing everyone around you, so letting you go isn’t an option…” he trailed off, and she waited, eyes narrowing. All she needed was an opportunity. The history between them no longer mattered. He was corrupt and she would kill him as surely as she would have a Saharian.

Without warning, she felt him grab the bottom of the fabric that covered her face. He wouldn’t, she thought. With a dancer’s grace, he twirled her away from him, the fabric that had protected her identity unraveling and leaving her exposed. She screamed in outrage, turning to face him, her dark hair swirling around her in exuberant freedom.

He stood there, holding the strip of fabric in one hand, the dagger in the other. For a moment, she saw the old look of desire infused affection light his eyes, replaced quickly by a sadness she didn’t understand.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Constia,” he said, advancing slowly toward her, “But I can’t let you go either. So here’s what we’re going to do; I’m going to use this to bind you. I’ll leave you here in the safety of the shadows and go get Devriath for you. If you believe you can convince him of the error of his ways, then be my guest. But I can’t let you murder any more of our friends. Fair?” He waited, holding the fabric ready, his eyes searching hers for the resistance she knew he expected.

Instead, she aqueisced, nodding once and holding her wrists out to be tied. Warily, he began to bind her, his hands hesitantly winding the fabric around her. She remained compliant and in a matter of seconds he had securely bound her to the lintel of the door behind her. Apparently satisfied that there was no possible way she could cause damage to herself or anyone else, Bannar turned to leave.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he said before disappearing into the melee. Constia sat, her limbs constrained by the very fabric she had once found so freeing. Wearily, she let her head droop and her mind wrestle with the overwhelming truth that had finally been revealed to her.

***

Hours later, the battle was mostly over; the villagers were either dead or had been rounded up to be taken back to Mercuriar for trial. The church enjoyed publicly displaying the price of heresy so they had standing orders to bring back at least a few of the Lost from every raid. Buildings were being systematically searched, anything of value was taken and the rest destroyed in the cleansing flames writhing over the thatched roofs. Any rebels left were soon hunted out like rabbits and killed.

With the aftermath of battle well underway, it was time to deal with Constia. Bannar informed Devriath of the earlier confrontation as the two men made their way to where she was bound. Neither spoke as they drew closer, each lost in thoughts of how best to deal with the situation.

Both men stopped short as they turned into the alley, staring at the lintel where Constia had been tied. There was nothing there; she was gone. The fabric Bannar had secured her with lay like a shed snake’s skin in the sand, barely discernable against the element it so resembled.

Bannar felt a smile of admiration tug at his mouth. He wasn’t sure how she had managed to escape, but it didn’t really surprise him that she had. He had never met a woman he respected more; or feared for that matter.

Devriath’s expression wasn’t so kind. His brows were knitted and his blue eyes slitted in apprehension. He had no doubt that Constia was dangerous. He only wondered where she would surface, and whether he was her next target.

***

Finally the last sinner left. Sighing, I turned and placed my hands on the altar, letting my weariness be bolstered against its solid weight. I hung my head and simply stood, letting the day’s events cloak me like an ill-fitting garment. It was my job to listen to the wrongs of humanity and offer Helerian’s forgiveness, absolving them of their disgraces and fears. But some days were harder than others; days like today when the blackness of the human soul threatened to pull me under its turbulent waters.

“Do you have time for one more confession, Father?” a voice asked softly behind me. I shook my head without turning. It was nearly time for the Ritual of the Stars, the evening ceremony that welcomed the night and warded against the evil spirits that lurked in the dark, preying on the unfaithful.

“I’m sorry, my child, I do not. You will have to return tomorrow. I can promise that Helerian’s judgement will wait until then.” I wondered if I could indeed promise something like that? What if this poor person died in the night? Their sins would be unforgiven and they would face Helerian in all their shame. Would he have mercy because I had promised he would?

The hiss of a blade being unsheathed cut through my speculations and I tensed, my weariness instantly gone. Slowly, I turned to face the intruder, this desperate soul who would attack a priest rather than wait for forgiveness. The woman stood a few feet from me, her sword trained on my chest with obvious intent, its polished steel winking in the flickering candlelight. I couldn’t see her face, but her dark eyes were clear, harsh. She wore the robes of a crusader, the sand-colored fabric obscuring her identity and only hinting at her gender.

“I insist, Father,” she said, motioning with the tip of her sword to the curtained partition that was the confessional. I nodded slightly and slowly made my way back to the side that was mine. Her dark gaze followed me, the blade moving as slowly as I did so that it remained pointing at me with deadly interest. I lifted the dark burgundy curtain and stepped inside, letting it fall into place behind me. The inside of the small alcove was shadowed, the sparse furnishings discernible only as blocky shapes in the semi-gloom. I moved with certainty until I found the oversized pillow beside the low wall that separated my side from that of the confessor’s.

As I waited, it occurred to me that the crusaders weren’t home yet; they’d been sent far abroad to eradicate several pockets of the more troublesome heretics. What was this one doing in Mercuriar, and what could she possibly need to confess so badly that she would risk further condemnation by drawing a blade on a priest?

I heard the rustle of fabric as the crusader settled on the other side of the wall. I smiled in the darkness, certain that the slight noise had been for my benefit. The crusaders were highly trained in stealth, and she could have been right beside me without my ever knowing it if she’d wanted.

“What is your plight, my child?” I asked softly. The sooner we got this over with, the sooner I could get on with my evening.  An ironic huff of a laugh floated over the low wall, piquing my interest even more and setting uneasiness slithering through my limbs.

“My plight’s a little complicated, Father,” she answered dryly, “You see, it isn’t really mine in the first place. It’s yours. You and the other leaders I so foolishly trusted my faith to.”

“I don’t understand,” I murmured. There was a dangerous undertone to her voice that I didn’t like; bitterness?

“Of course you don’t. If you’re lucky, you won’t have known anything more than I. But I need answers, Father; answers only you can provide. If you give me what I need, then you will be the salvation of all your brethren. If you don’t, you will join them in the underworld.”

I stared at the void above the low wall, suddenly wishing that it was made of something more substantial than simple air. There was nothing separating me from this dangerous creature and this was clearly not a normal confession. My only choice was to try and reason with her. Maybe I could get her to calm down enough to escape and summon the guards.

“Who has wronged you, my child?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“The church.”

I choked, my throat strangling around the air I had been trying to breathe. She was definitely not the average sinner seeking forgiveness.  “Please, explain.”

“I have always been a devout woman, Father — a woman who has given her life to following the ways of Helerian, and who has devoted herself to helping in the fight against those who renounce him. And I have been used by the very ones I trusted; the priests and leaders of our mission, who told us that the Saharians were evil, that they must die because they spread poison against Helerian, spread corruption among the faithful . . .” she trailed off and I waited tensely, unsure where this was heading.

“The Saharians are evil. What you do in the name of Helerian is honorable and beyond judgment,” I ventured into the silence, hoping that maybe all she wanted was reassurance, knowing it would take much more than that.

“Lies!” she hissed angrily, the sound slithering over the wall to settle around my throat like the snake it resembled.  “Do all your kind lie, Father? Do you think that we are too stupid to realize the truth? That we can’t see that you manipulate us through faith, turning belief into a weapon of politics?”

“I don’t follow you, my child. What I have said is the truth.” I was confused. Nothing she had said sounded like a direct accusation, none of it seemed to equal the level of anger and betrayal lacing her voice. There was only one thing I could think of that might set off a reaction like this, but I sincerely hoped I was wrong.

“There are no Saharians!” she screamed, confirming my fears on the source of her anger. “Did you know that? The crusaders are slaughtering our own people! Killing Theinan citizens with fanatic zeal because the church — because you  told us to! Did you know about that too, Father? Did you?”

I flinched away from the storm of her words and for the first time felt true fear grip my heart in its cold embrace. I did know what she was talking about; I abhorred it actually. But I was a lowly priest, a servant of the people, and had no say in the decisions of the higher clergy. The ones claiming to know the will of Helerian better than the rest of us; they were the ones she wanted, not me. How was I going to make her see that?

“You are right,” I said softly, cringing. This could backfire immensely. Either she would be surprised by the admittance or would take the affirmation as fuel for her vengeance. I held my breath, waiting.

“Did you hear me? I said, you are right…You’re right! What the crusaders are doing is wrong. The high priests have corrupted the mission of this church, of our faith, and are using devout people — people such as yourself — for their own goals.

“But what you are planning is not right either. I can feel your anger; feel your intentions, child, but they will not ease the pain you feel. Only Helerian can do that. And we must trust that he has a plan bigger than we can ever know, that there is a reason why he is letting such horrible things happen to his children,” I stopped abruptly, realizing that I was preaching, the words pouring from me in a rush of vehement conviction. I sucked in a breath, waiting to see what my hasty words had caused.

“So you knew.” Her voice was cold, dead of inflection, and all the more scary in its flatness.  I didn’t answer her; I had already admitted more than I should have. I felt like I was holding a firework, watching the fuse burn closer and closer to the inevitable explosion.

“Didn’t you?” she asked again, more forceful this time.

I closed my eyes in resignation and answered, “Yes.” It was a breath only, a sigh of defeat and shame. “Yes, I knew. But I promise you, there was nothing I could do. If I had been able to stop the high priests, I would have. You must believe that I am as appalled as you,” I whispered, hoping the sincerity of my tone would diffuse what was coming.

“Thank you, Father.”

The fabric rustled softly, noiselessly, more a shimmer of air than of sound as she left. I waited, curling in on myself, knowing I had failed.

***

Constia moved swiftly. She had learned what she came for; learned that the church was every bit as corrupt as she had feared. Well, there was only one way to deal with the corrupt—the church itself had taught her that lesson.

She didn’t pause as she left the confessional, the heavy fabric falling back into place with barely a rustle. She was sure now; her mission clear. Her blade was held ready as she headed into the main hall of the cathedral, where the rest of the priests would be gathered for the Ritual of the Stars. She had timed her arrival well, there would be no others present, just the religious workers — just those who needed to die.  They thought they could play with people’s lives, jeopardize their immortal souls without their knowledge and there would be no consequences. They were wrong.

She burst into the great hall like a clap of thunder. The startled priests turned to face her, shocked into immobility, their hands frozen in the midst of whatever part of the ceremony they had been performing. She shrieked her war-cry and fell on the nearest robed traitor, her curved sword slashing through numerous layers of fabric. The man screamed in pain and crumpled, but she was already moving on, dancing through the stunned religious leaders with the grace of a practice form, as if there were no opponents, just her and the blade, a beautiful melding of feminine fluidity and deadly technique.

All around her, men were falling, clutching at various pieces of anatomy as their blood flowed, mingling in a communal pool of betrayal on the tiled floor. None resisted, none knew how. In a matter of seconds, the entire cathedral of priests lay dead or dying at the feet of the retribution they never saw coming.

Constia stood at the center of the massacre, her blade held in ready stance above her head, blood dripping from its sharp edge to fall past her shoulder. It would only be a matter of minutes before the guards were alerted.

A strangled gasp brought her whirling around to face the side door she had entered from. The priest who had confessed the church’s betrayal stood there, horror and grief twisting his features. Slowly, he sank to the ground, like his knees had simply stopped supporting him.

Constia gazed at him, trying to decide if he should join his brethren. He had openly admitted what so many had tried to hide; had professed the same level of horror and helplessness as she. Did he deserve the same fate as his lying brothers? His eyes rose to meet hers, and widened in fear. Their gazes locked, each searching the other for understanding, for that flicker of empathy that was the definition of being human. Slowly, Constia lowered her sword and walked toward him. He remained on the floor, cowering slightly. She stopped before him and very slowly reached up to undo the fabric wrapped around her face and head, the second head piece she had renounced in as many days.

His hazel eyes watched her intently as she revealed herself to him, stripping away the differences between them until they were simply two people staring at each other. She dropped the garment on the floor. He looked at it in confusion, his eyes flickering between it and her face.

“I am no longer a crusader for this church. I am a crusader for truth and for justice. No longer will I wear the mask that ‘faith’ has bound me with. I will avenge those who have been wronged, and I want my identity known.” She sneered down at the fabric she had once found comforting, the fabric that had trapped her in lies.

“You were kind to me, Father. And honest. I appreciate that. So I will spare you, but with one request. In exchange for your life, I ask that you tell everyone — whether they want to listen or not — what the crusaders are doing. Spread the truth, Father. Will you give me your word?” she asked. He looked up at her, the fear draining from his eyes as a grudging respect took its place. She raised an eyebrow as the silence dragged on, her grip tightening on the sword at her side.

“Yes. Yes, I give you my word,” he said finally, lowering his gaze.

Shouts from the street outside echoed down the vaulted ceiling of the great hall. The guards had been alerted to her presence. Without another word, she bolted, disappearing through the side door just as the main entrance to the cathedral flew open and uniformed guards rushed through. She didn’t wait to see if the priest would betray her; she knew he would.

She ran, streaking out the servants’ door to the street beyond, pausing for a split second to sheath her sword. Turning, she sprinted down the street, shouts and the thrum of footsteps telling her pursuit was near. The city was a maze, but staying on street-level wasn’t an option; sooner or later she would run into the reinforcements she was sure were being sent. Taking a deep breath, she leaped at the nearest wall, grabbing the awning over the door and swinging to the roof in an acrobatic move the peasants below envied. She could hear their awed murmurs fade as her feet pounded up the slanted roof to the strange path at the peak. She had never understood the purpose of this trail; this flat pathway that ran smoothly over a string of roofs, like a pedestrian road from one side of the city to the other. Whatever its true purpose, it worked to her advantage now.

She paused to get her bearings, searching over the many forks of the rooftop trail for the most likely route of escape. Below, she heard shouts of frustration as the guards reached her point of ascent. She had only moments before they would be on the roof. Finally, she found her target — the path that led to the river-front homes and a sheer drop into the water below. It was a long shot, but it was her only option.

The service door to her right flew open and for a second she locked eyes with the priest she had spared. Shock flooded her features. Why was he pursuing her? Why wasn’t he leaving it to the guards? She sprinted away, ignoring the cry of the priest behind her. Did he think she was stupid enough to let them catch her?

She ran headlong down the path, vaulting over slight obstacles and staying low to the rooftop. She could hear the priest calling to her, begging her to stop, but she ignored him.  She should’ve sent him to the underworld when she had the chance.

She skidded to a stop when she reached the end of the path. Breathing hard, she gazed down at the impossible fall awaiting her. The river below winked in the dying light of the sunset; liquid metal all too happy to consume her. Her hands balled into fists as she considered her options. She could turn and fight, but she couldn’t fight the entire army of Mercuriar alone. She didn’t want to kill more innocent men; the guards were simply doing their job. In their eyes, she was a criminal, a murderer.

Her only other option was to jump. A fall of at least a thousand feet left slim chance of survival. The river was deep, but would it be deep enough?

She squared her shoulders, her decision made and was about to turn when a flicker of something caught her gaze. She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus on the spot that had caught her attention. There it was again! A shimmer of light against the rock wall, almost as if something was reflecting the last rays of the sun’s light directly to her.

It couldn’t be, she thought, peering intently into the shadows of the cliff face. Vaguely, she could make out the shape of a familiar figure as it once again signaled her with the tilt of a blade into the light. Bannar!

He was waiting half-way down the cliff on a slight ledge. As she watched, he pointed his sword at her then swung it in a slow arc toward the river. He then leaned away from the rock, tugging on a slim line of rope that held him suspended. She wasn’t sure what he was saying, but she trusted he had a plan. With a flash of light against steel, he signaled her again. It was now or never.

She smiled as she turned to face the men splayed out before her. The guards had their spears nervously trained on her. The priest stood in the forefront, watching her with pain in his eyes. His hands were raised in a placating gesture and he watched her cautiously, knowledge blooming in his gaze like a rare flower. He knew what she was going to do.

“Forgive me my sins,” she said softly, finishing the confession she had started in the cathedral. She saw his eyes widen as she stepped backward off the roof, her arms outstretched.

She felt like a stone, plummeting through the sky. She turned her body as she fell, arcing into a swan dive. She closed her eyes and waited for the impact.

Abruptly something slammed into her, knocking the breath from her lungs as it tangled around her in a confusion of limbs and sharp elbows. Her momentum shifted, swinging out to the side. Carefully, she opened her eyes and looked into a grinning face with silver eyes. Bannar had caught her mid-fall, plucking her from the sky like he would’ve caught a sporting ball, leaping from the small ledge to meet her descent. The rope tied to his waist and gripped tightly in one hand was responsible for the change in flight pattern, swinging them safely to the ground. When they landed, he let her go, swiftly untying himself from the rope that had saved them. A strong tug loosened the skillfully tied knot from its moorings, bringing the rope puddling at his feet. He gathered it quickly, erasing any evidence that would suggest she’d survived.

“Bannar, what? I don’t understand . . . what are you doing here?” Shock was causing her words to rush together, tumbling over each other in their effort to demand an answer. He just grinned at her, his features bare of the head wrap of the crusader.

“Shhh . . . you were right, Constia. I’m joining you. But we can talk about that later. Come on!” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the depths of a small cave and away from inevitable discovery by the guards already making their way down to the river bank.

***

The Inquisitor turned mildly interested eyes on me, but I could tell that everything I had told him had fallen on deaf ears. He hadn’t even registered that I suggested the criminal had lived. That was my proof that he really wasn’t listening to me.  I would have omitted the part about her escape if I thought he had been. Because I was sure she had escaped.

The search of the riverbank had produced nothing to verify my theory — rather it had seemed to discredit it. The guards had recovered a scrap of sand colored fabric from the water. It had lodged against a protruding root, floating there like the cleverly placed decoy I knew it was. The fabric was a head covering, but I knew that she had left hers in the cathedral, discarded at my feet when she declared her mission.

I could’ve spoken up then, could’ve informed the guards that she was alive, that she had escaped.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I smiled to myself and turned away, returning with them to this little room, relating what I knew to an Inquisitor that didn’t care. At least I had kept my promise; I had confessed the truth.

The End

Copyright © 2009 by Kisa Whipkey. All Rights Reserved.