She didn’t dream. That’s why she was sure she must be dead. She always had vivid dreams. So, she wasn’t sleeping, but she always thought death would be different. She knew what the old sisters in the Seidi taught her was not true. She didn’t expect to have to face Daga or his sons. Didn’t expect to join the countless condemned in the Otherworld. No, she didn’t know what to expect, but she assumed it would be something other than black silence. She had to admit, she was disappointed.

And then, out of the blackness, she felt a presence. She sensed determination, resolve. Exhaustion. She reached out, and the presence noticed. There was a flash of intense joy, then anger. Indignation.

I love you, too, and I’m sorry. She would have laughed at the spirit’s joyful swoops. If she were alive. At least, if she were to be condemned to this dark place, she would have company. Where are we? But before the spirit could respond in its way, a voice echoed faintly in the darkness.

Gimlet, A Gravedigger

“Oi!” Gimlet set his shovel on the ground beside the half-finished grave and pressed his fingers to the neck of the woman’s body.

“What are you doing?” Hawthen threw a shovel full of dirt on the pile next to the grave and paused to wipe sweat from his brow. “That’s creepy.”

“Hawthen, I think this one’s alive.”

Hawthen climbed out of the grave and bent over the body. “What’s that you say?”

“Yeah, this one’s alive,” Gimlet said. “Pulse is weak, but she ain’t dead.”

The two men stood in the spring sunshine, looking from the body to the grave. “What do you think?” Gimlet asked.

“We could just bury her,” Hawthen said. “That’s what the brother, that Inquisition fella, told us to do. Maybe he knew. You know, letting us do the final deed.”

“Yeah,” Gimlet drawled. They looked at one another. 

Discarding the shovel, Hawthen bent over and worked his hands under the woman’s shoulders. “Here, you get the feet.” They hefted the body and stumbled through the graveyard toward the wagon they left at the gate. “Not doing those bastards’ dirty business,” Hawthen said.

They placed the woman in the wagon and stepped back. “Where we takin her?” Gimlet asked.

Hawthen hesitated. “We’ll take her to my place,” he said.

“I think she needs a medic.”

“We take her to the medics, they’ll find her,” Hawthen said.

They stared at the woman for a time, then Gimlet said, “She’s a strong one. Might be she’ll fight through it.”

“Yuh,” Hawthen said.

“We’ll bring her to my place,” Gimlet said. “Di will take care of her.”

Hawthen chuckled. “She don’t kill you first.”

Hoerst

As Malleus of the Empire’s Inquisition, Hoerst didn’t normally have the time or patience to listen to complaints from those beneath him. He wanted to hear solutions to problems, not excuses. But the root of the current complainer’s problems was Hoerst’s fault, and he wasn’t just any underling. Much of Hoerst’s plans to resurrect the stumbling Empire relied on this man’s expertise. Still, when Manfrid took a breath, preparing, no doubt, to launch from the beginning of his well-rehearsed speech, Hoerst had enough.

“Brother Manfrid,” he said. The brother’s mouth snapped shut at Hoerst’s tone. Hoerst fixed him with a stare, then let a smile stretch his lips. “Do you think I am not aware of the problems I am causing you?”

“Oh, no, Malleus,” he said with a quick shake of his head.

Hoerst overrode his next words. “Then is it your contention that I am mistaken?”

Manfrid’s face stilled. His eyes shifted to the side, choosing his next words carefully. “Of course not, Malleus,” he said evenly. “I’m sure you know how best to achieve our aims.”

His emphasis on the last two words amused Hoerst.

“It’s just…” Manfrid gestured toward the closed door of Hoerst’s office. “I want to be sure you understand how these actions will slow our program.”

“Don’t worry,” Hoerst said. “I will not hold you responsible.”

Manfrid glanced at the other occupant in the room, Inquisitor Stefan Schakal. “Thank you, Malleus,” he said, managing to convey his doubt despite his smile.

“Excellent!” Hoerst said and sat forward, folding his hands on his desk. “Tell us, how have you progressed in your methods?”

Manfrid’s entire demeanor changed. Gone was the obsequious toady. Instead, the man standing before Hoerst was the one the Malleus found teaching Science of the Mind in the Inquisition Academy ten years ago. He stood straighter, hands clasped behind his back, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Fear is the key.” He dipped his head and gave Hoerst a knowing smile. “Fear lays the mind bare, leaves it vulnerable to suggestion. But fear by itself is a blunt instrument, its effects unpredictable. It is fear’s many corollaries — disgust, contempt, xenophobia, etc — that allow us to plant our narrative in the subject’s mind. To construct a version of reality that serves our purpose.” He lifted a hand, extending a finger. “First is the anticipation of unpleasantness, the erosion of the foundations of a person’s reality. This, as you know, we accomplish by inserting the spirits of prophecy, the sjel’and, into the subject’s mind. Fear of an uncertain future is one of man’s most primitive drivers.”

Hoerst glanced at Stefan, gauging his response. The inquisitor had been his closest assistant, one might say, his fixer, since before he became Malleus. He knew of Hoerst’s efforts to make use of Brochen witches, but Hoerst never confided to him the true extent of his blasphemies. The Vollen Church considered consorting with spirits the worst kind of sin. Hoerst wasn’t worried Stefan would object on moral grounds, but he was curious how he would respond. Stefan sat rapt, staring at Manfrid. Smiling to himself, Hoerst returned his attention to the brother’s lecture.

“None of our subjects has shown an affinity for the sjel’and, so the results are often… unpredictable. Fortunately, the spirits have a grasp of what would cause the most trauma, and they seem to enjoy their subject’s torment. The results would be more reliable if we were able to direct them, somehow, but so far, we have not been so lucky.

“However, we have recently discovered one of our more successful subjects has a gift that allows her to plumb the depths of a person’s subconscious. Past traumas, dread, phobias, anxieties…” he said, twirling his hand as he enumerated his tools. After falling silent for a moment, looking thoughtful, he shrugged, and said, “Well, you can imagine how much more reliable it is to use a person’s most deeply held fears. For the first time, we can exploit a subject’s vulnerabilities in a targeted fashion.” He gave Hoerst a satisfied grin before continuing.

 “Of course, once you strip the subject’s reality from them, you must help them to construct something new. Something that allows them to feel safe in a dangerous world. We need merely feed them the narrative we wish them to believe. Something that allows them to feel safe. And then we repeat it until it becomes their truth.” He clasped his hands behind his back again. “At some point, not even direct evidence can sway them from their new truth. The human mind is really quite remarkable.”

Manfrid fell silent, looking from Hoerst to Stefan, a satisfied smile on his face. Before Hoerst could compliment him on his progress, Stefan spoke.

“But aren’t they dangerous?” He looked away from Manfrid and spoke to Hoerst. “This… procedure, though it might be effective… Well, it sounds like it would leave their minds broken. How can we be sure they will conform to our wishes?” His eyes flicked to Manfrid, then he leaned toward Hoerst and spoke with a quiet urgency. “I was there. The night that black-haired witch wrecked the fortress. I saw what she can do.” He shuddered visibly. “She was sane, at least.”

It was a good point. Hoerst had to admit, he often felt uneasy around Aife, the first graduate of Manfrid’s program. He often wondered what recourse he would have if the sullen witch decided she didn’t need him. He looked at Manfrid, expectantly.

Manfrid’s smile widened. “Well, this is the best part. You see, people…” His head waggled from side to side. “Many people, anyway, have a deep-seated need for a paternal figure. Someone they can rely on to tell them right from wrong, truth from lies, and this is especially true if they perceive the world as uncertain and dangerous. Once their mind is made vulnerable, one need merely implant such a figure.”

“The emperor,” Stefan said.

Manfrid stared in horror at Stefan. “Daga, no!” He gestured to Hoerst. “The Malleus.” He shrugged and adopted a dismissive tone. “They might seem dangerous. Are, in fact, quite dangerous. But I can assure you, they will do anything to please their father figure. The Malleus.”

Hoerst could tell Stefan wasn’t convinced and he was sympathetic. But what choice did he have? “Very good, Brother Manfrid. I see you have made significant progress. I’m sure I can expect that to continue.” Manfrid almost shivered at the praise. “Now, can we meet them?”

Manfrid became businesslike again. “Yes, of course. Your message said you wanted the most powerful, the most reliable subjects. Those criteria are often at odds, but in weighing various considerations, I chose these three. Although, as I mentioned, they are instrumental in our programming efforts and their absence will set us —”

Hoerst lifted a hand in a placating gesture. “I have said, I understand.” He gestured to the door and dipped his head.

Manfrid gave him a quick nod, opened the door, leaned out into the outer office and stepped back.

The three women who prowled into his office reminded Hoerst of Aife. There was a feralness about them. It was in the way they moved, like wary predators entering an unfamiliar den. They wore short tunics and leathers tucked into calf-high boots. The garments were like those worn by many of the Brochen caste from mountainous regions. But isolated in their remote fortress, these women obviously developed a unique identity. The sides of their heads were shaved, leaving a wide strip of hair. Intricate tattoos, similar to those worn by the Sisters of the Seidi, adorned their scalps. Leather torques ringed their throats, and they wore intricately wrought silver bands around their upper arms.

Wide eyes roved his office warily. When they found Stefan, subtle predatory shifts in their posture sent a thrill of fear through Hoerst. Seeing Stefan’s discomfort, one of the women laughed. Her blond hair fell in a braid down her back. Hoerst was startled to see she wore the manacles the Inquisition recently designed to disarm witches. Iron mittens encased the hands, forcing the fingers to curl into fists, preventing the witch from channeling spirits.

She lifted her hands and rattled the heavy chain that connected the mittens in Stefan’s face. “These are my muzzle!” Stefan nearly fell backward off his chair, sending the woman into gales of laughter.

Hoerst didn’t blame him. No matter how often he worried about Aife, she was never so volatile as this woman. The other two watched the exchange with small grins. Gathering his courage, he cleared his throat. The women’s heads snapped around to glare at him. His breath caught, and though he maintained an outward composure, there was a frightening moment when he saw all his plans falling to ruin.

And then the women recognized him. They seemed to shrink, their coiled menace melting away. They turned to face him, dropped their heads, and peeked up at him. Hoerst let his breath whisper out between parted lips. Not for the first time, he looked forward to the day he could rid the world of these creatures. But not yet.

Manfrid, a smug smile on his face, said, “Malleus, may I introduce my most successful subjects? In truth, they are like daughters to me.” Hoerst was sure he saw a curled lip on the woman standing closest to Manfrid. Manfrid rested a hand on her shoulder, eliciting a small flinch he didn’t appear to notice. “This is Macha.” Manfrid leaned forward. “She is the only one I have who can insert the sjel’and into our subject’s minds.”

Ignoring the faint note of accusation in the brother’s voice, Hoerst said, “She’s Andian.” The woman’s eyes came up and met Hoerst’s for a moment, before she dipped her head again. Her skin was the rich mahogany of Hoerst’s desk. Her hair fell down her back in long dreadlocks.

“Yes,” Manfrid answered. “As you know, despite the purge, there are still scattered pockets of Andian in the western swamps.” Manfrid patted her shoulder. “As many Andian witches have, Macha has an affinity with animals, most especially birds.”

“Birds?” Stefan blurted and seemed to instantly regret it when the women’s heads pivoted toward him.

Ignoring Stefan’s outburst, Hoerst nodded to the woman in the middle, whose long black hair hung loose. “Vollen?” he asked.

“No,” Manfrid said. “Neiman is Ferol.” One eyebrow climbed his forehead. “One of Neiman’s gifts is the ability to induce fear, as I described earlier.”

Hoerst’s eyes slid to the blond woman wearing the mitten cuffs. “You assured me they were not dangerous.”

“And they are not. To you… or me, that is.” He nodded to the blond woman, who was peeking at Hoerst, a small grin curling her lips. “Eriu can be volatile. The cuffs are only there to keep her out of trouble.” He paused, then spoke slowly. “She will obey you and Macha, but you must be very clear in your instructions.” He cleared his throat. “She can be mischievous.”

“She’s Alle’oss,” Hoerst said and noted the twist to her mouth when he said the word.

“Yes,” Manfrid said.

“What is it you want of us?”

Surprised, Hoerst met Macha’s gaze. She stared at him, obviously fighting the urge to drop her head again. The other women, their heads still tipped forward, watched her out of the corner of their eyes. Perhaps the one wearing the cuffs wasn’t the one he had to worry about, after all.

“I want you to hunt down and kill three Alle’oss witches,” Hoerst said.