The Vampire & Her Witch

”They weren’t really wrong, were they, my Lady?”

Diarmuid’s words filled the carriage, leaving no room for any other thoughts than the singular phrase. The people of Maeril were afraid that their homes would be attacked next... and in one sense, it was true, because Maeril really had been Ashlynn’s next target.

”But I never had a grudge against the common people,” Ashlynn said softly as she gazed out the window of the carriage, watching the houses and shops roll by. ”It wouldn’t have been necessary to harm them in order to occupy the town,” she said, though she shook her head at the end.

”It might not have been avoidable, in some cases,” she admitted. ”But I’ve tried to limit harm to common people as much as I can. I would have thought that people would have realized that when the raids were so restrained...”

”People don’t understand restraint, Ashlynn,” Isabell said gently. ”People will hear your calls to surrender, and they will choose to believe that you only offer terms because you don’t have the strength to defeat them. They’ll watch you level one town, and instead of believing that you could do the same to them, they’ll believe that you’ve exhausted yourself in order to obtain your last victory...”

”People only know what they’ve seen before,” Isabell said with a heavy sigh. ”When they are confronted by something completely new, they cling to any excuse they can to pretend that it’s just like the things they’ve always known.”

Isabell sounded tired when she spoke, as if she’d seen this play out countless times before, and each time, she’d been helpless to stop it. No matter how hard she tried, some things never changed.

”So far as these people know,” Isabell continued. ”War with ’demons’ means endless slaughter. If there hasn’t been slaughter yet, it must be coming soon. Maybe the raiders were too intent on stealing food to slaughter. Maybe they were too weak and hungry to murder innocent villagers, women, and children. But now they’ve eaten. So when they come again, there will be slaughter....”

”The people believe it, as sure as the river runs through their village,” Isabell concluded with certainty. ”So the only thing that makes sense to them is to run while they still can.”

”The Church isn’t helping matters,” Diarmuid added. ”I’d bet anything that Abbot Recared and Head Priest Jovet have been holding fiery sermons, stoking the fears of the common folk in order to drive them further into the Church’s arms.”

Diarmuid had met both men during his first visit to Lothian March, and in his opinion, each of them represented different ways that men failed to meet the struggle of their offices. Abbot Recared was a shrewd, ambitious man who sought to expand the influence of the Inquisition across the entire march. He wouldn’t waste a looming threat like this.

When word first reached Maeril about the raids, Diarmuid had no doubt that Recared had pleaded with the villagers to help bolster their defenses, calling for young men between the ages of thirteen and sixteen to join the Inquisition as Acolytes in order to stand against the looming threat.

Never mind that those newly inducted Acolytes wouldn’t be able to do more than fetch and carry blessed oil for the Inquisitors, or water for the wounded. Where there was fear, there was an opportunity to draw more young men into the Abbey’s hallowed halls, and Recared wouldn’t squander the chance.

At the same time, Head Priest Jovet would have his own plans for taking advantage of the crisis. Diarmuid wondered how many of the people who fled from Maeril had sold their homes and shops to the Church for a fraction of the Gold Sovereigns they were worth, just so they could have enough money to have a chance of starting over?

Or perhaps Jovet had sold blessings and talismans of safe travel, knowing full well that the people who were escaping early were unlikely to encounter true danger if they fled downriver. One way or another, the Church’s treasury wouldn’t suffer a loss... and neither would the Head Priest’s own purse.

”It also doesn’t help that, when the forces of the March have fought against the Eldritch,” Diarmuid added. ”They, no, we,” he corrected himself, refusing to shy away from his own guilt. ”We destroyed everything. We burned Eldritch villages to the ground. We killed women, children, the sick, and the old... No one was left alive,” he said, closing his eyes and lowering his head as he remembered the fires he’d unleashed just months ago.

Sir Ollie and Ignatious had told him about the survivors of the village that Diarmuid had helped Owain Lothian burn to the ground. About Old Nan, whose son, Lako, had fallen to Diarmuid’s flames, and about his brother Milo, who had become a close enough friend that he called Sir Ollie ’Brother.’

They’d also told him about the Heartwood Clan’s carvings, and how deeply it hurt them when Diarmuid and the Inquisitors who accompanied him from the Abbey soaked their burrows in blessed oil and burned them to the ground. The things they destroyed were just as sacred as the relics in his own temples, if not moreso, and they were just as irreplaceable as the scrolls written by the Great Prophet and the Saint Teacher.

Diarmuid had yet to visit Ollie’s village. He owed the survivors of the village he destroyed far more than an apology, and he had no idea how he would make amends for what he had done, but he knew he needed to try.

”If all the common people know of war against the Eldritch is that we fight until one side is utterly destroyed,” Diarmuid said, opening his dark eyes in order to meet Ashlynn’s turbulent, emerald gaze. ”Is it any wonder that the common folk expect that the Eldritch would do the same to them?”

”The people are afraid of you,” Diarmuid said. ”But they aren’t afraid because of what you’ve done. They’re afraid because of what we’ve done to the Eldritch, and they fear that the Eldritch will do the same to them. And they’re afraid because of what we’ve taught them... and the lies we’ve fed them.”

”So, please, Lady Ashlynn,” Diarmuid said, placing a hand over his heart where he wore the burning sun emblem of the Inquisition. ”Don’t blame yourself for their fear. Blame the people who are responsible for stoking those fears, and hold us accountable for putting those fears to rest. We owe you that much, at least, for everything you’ve suffered to reach this point.”

”I appreciate the offer, Diarmuid,” she said, deliberately refusing to use the title ’Inquisitor’ when she addressed him, despite the robes he currently wore. ”And I’ll accept whatever help you can give me. But if I really want them to accept a witch as one of their rulers, along with my coven and the rest of the Eldritch people, it will take more than a proclamation of our innocence from the Church.”

”The people need to see something to run toward, instead of something to run away from,” Ashlynn said as the carriage began to slow while the driver turned down an alley next to their destination that led to the carriage house of the Broken Blade Tavern. ”And when this is all over, I intend to give them something worth running toward.”

”Until then,” she said, putting aside her worries for a moment to focus on the most menial, physical task ahead of her. ”The crates concealing Marcel and Ignatious are fairly heavy, and we need to get them inside and into the cellars before any of the villagers get curious about what we’re unloading in such large, long boxes.”

”You need a hand, my Lady?” Diarmuid offered, rolling up the sleeves of his robes. ”I don’t mind a little bit of hard work.”

”Good,” Ashlynn said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she opened the carriage door. ”In that case, would you be so kind as to help Samira inside? Isabell and I should be able to manage the heavy lifting between the two of us, but I really don’t want to leave Samira alone while we do.”

”Of course,” Diarmuid said with a slight chuckle as he realized once again that he’d forgotten about the extraordinary abilities of the witches he was traveling with. ”Madame Samira,” he said, extending a hand to the heavily pregnant young woman. ”I’m at your service...”