The Fickle Winds of Autumn

An inescapable weight of rough hands wrestled Kira down onto the cold of the cell floor; her arms and elbows cried out in sharp pain as they were wrenched and pinned behind her back. Shock, tiredness and the miserable late autumn chill had drained the fight from her body; her mind scrambled in a dense fury of fear and confusion.

What did these people want with her?

Were they going to hurt her?

Were they here to kill her?

Who were they?

Had the morning flown in so quickly?

Was it already time for the trial?

Was Ellis hurt too?

The pressure of an ugly knee held her head firmly in place and prevented her from seeing the faces of her assailants; her wrists burned and chafed against the heavy rope that bonded and bit into them.

The abrupt sounds of Ellis struggling echoed through the unyielding room; the resounding thud of several harsh blows quickly silenced the scuffling disturbance.

“Make sure those ropes are tight,” a voice ordered from the corridor.

She recognised its dark baritone - it was the priest who had been so eager to condemn her in the courtroom - the priest who wore the stark black robes with the crimson trim.

The hefty knee released her head. She turned and blinked into the piercing focus of the doorway. A dark silhouette loomed bluntly against the bright lamps outside.

Dense shadows obscured his face, but the priest seemed to be staring directly, intently at her.

Yes, it was definitely him.

The one that she had heard the others call ‘Caldor’.

Had he come to finish his work?

To execute her and Ellis now - silently, without fuss, in the dead of the night, when no-one could prevent him?

It made sense. Why would he risk them both being reprieved in a fair trial tomorrow morning?

He took a few bold steps into the cell and glared down at her. Even through the grim chill, his fervent disdain prickled across her nervous skin.

Two guards hauled her to her feet and dragged her towards the door.

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Was this how they were going to dispose of her?

Without even a word of condemnation?

Or a faint chance of mercy?

“Wait! What are you doing?” she demanded through her fear. “Where are you taking us?”

The tight eyes of the dark priest glimmered at her through the raw gloom of the cell.

“This one seems a noisy little thing,” he said tautly. “We’d better gag them both, just to be safe.”

“But we were promised a trial tomorrow!” Kira tried to shout. A coarse, foul rag was stuffed into her mouth; its sour abrasive taste scratched down onto her tongue; a second binding quickly cut across her cheeks and the corners of her lips and pinched at her hair and neck in a painful knot.

She winced and tried to cough - but it was futile to fight against the strength of the acerbic cloth and the determination of her captors.

A bleak fear fractured through her.

An empty hollow corruption ate at her mind and the pit of her stomach.

Surely it couldn’t end like this?

Wasn’t her life - everything she had learned and touched in this world, all of her dreams for a future - worth more than this?

An obscure, anonymous execution, with no-one or nothing to comfort or speak to her but the concealed darkness of the night?

She squirmed and wriggled - frantic against the cutting ropes - but the stout guards bundled her through the doorway, into the blinking brightness of the corridor, without trouble or remorse. Her numb legs dragged reluctantly, powerless to do anything but comply with the forceful urging which hauled her along the muted night arteries of the Cathedral.

Ellis’s footsteps slumped and struggled behind her.

She tried to turn and see if he was badly hurt, but the guards pressed her head unceasingly forward, forcing her to make do with the slow defeated sound of his feet as they scuffled on the stone floor - which was no reassurance at all.

But they were alive.

They were both still alive - for now, at least.

Her dazed limbs were hastily pushed through a series of darkened passageways - the stark bare walls were unlit and unadorned, stripped of the sweetened smell of incense which flooded the joyful brightness of the central, well-used cloisters; their dingy footsteps were muffled by the labyrinthine night, where no sentries patrolled or prying eyes could see.

But Caldor must have lived and worked at the Cathedral for long enough to know all its winding secrets by now.

But wasn’t the priest in black still a man of Faith?

Was this truly what the scrolls had taught him?

That this underhand behaviour was the correct way for a Father of the Church to act?

Her fatigued body trembled; shocked and weakened by the evening’s events.

Her miserable senses, too cold and frightened and confused to struggle or fight, or notice their surroundings.

It was strange - her curiosity had yearned to explore the Cathedral when Aldwyn had forbidden her to leave his chambers. But now she was here, getting a personal guided tour through its shadowy under-belly, all she longed for was to be safely back, eating honey and toast, secure in his rooms, in front of the glowing warmth of his fire.

Yes, poor Aldwyn!

Probably this hurried execution was all she deserved.

She was responsible for Aldwyn’s death.

And she was some sort of terrible witch.

Of course, the priests were frightened of her and wanted her out of the way as soon as possible.

She had seen it in the courtroom.

The nuns had often said she would come to a bad end - perhaps they knew their business?

So was this it, then?

Was this how it felt to be dead?

To know your destiny was already ended?

This was the solemn, lonely fate the Surrounder had chosen for her.

Her careless feet stumbled and tripped with the pressing speed of the guards; their unfeeling strength held her upright as her legs crumpled - they did not falter in their pace.

Her faint limbs regained their footing; her mind calmed and cleared. Even her anxious stomach seemed to accept its fate.

It wasn’t fair that they were being smuggled out like this - without some sort of trial, or a chance to explain their side of things - but what chance did Aldwyn have?

Life beyond the convent walls was messy and unpredictable - but Aldwyn deserved justice - and she deserved an inglorious, worthless ending, in the silent dead of the night.

Her head was thrust down sharply under a low archway. Her eyes strained and blinked as she emerged into a bright, sweet-smelling corridor, richly decorated with vivid tapestries and carvings. Her mind rippled and reminisced - it was the place where she and Aldwyn and Ellis had all first entered the Cathedral, just by the Great Southern Door. It was the cold floor where she had been recaptured.

The guards shoved her forward, towards the dark looming timbers of the imposing doorway. Several other people had already gathered there - some more guards, each carrying a flaming torch; the grey-haired Librarian, her sliver pendant glinting and winking in the flickering light; next to her, a young man, whose exotic clothing betrayed that he was not of these lands, perhaps not even a Believer.

The three waiting sentries acknowledged Caldor. They silently unlocked the Great Door and pushed with soundless strength. An icy draught of night-air crept in through the widening gap and stung Kira’s nose. She shivered as the wooden barrier swung open on its ornate hinges and invited in the darkness of the unknown, unseeing night.