Maiden of Pain

CHAPTER THREE

The Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR)

Rummer in Bezantur was known by the locals as the Reeking Heat. Piles of refuse scattered throughout the city had slowly grown through the year, and now baked in the sun, their ripe stench carried about the city by stiff winds that blew in off the Sea of Fallen Stars. The citizens of Bezantur dealt with the Reeking Heat in their own ways, most of them ineffectual in actually providing any sort of sustained relief. Even those who resided in the Central Citadel, the home of the city's ruler, resorted to an archaic method involving cauldrons of incense and fans.

Fortunately, the master of the Gentral Citadel had other means available to him. Aznar Thrul, tharchion of the Priador and zulkir of the school of Evocation, warded himself from the heat and the stench with his magic. Crisp air from some faraway mountaintop filled his nostrils and flowed over his skin, the result of a simple invocation he had learned when he was just an apprentice.

Regardless, it was not helping his mood, but that had more to do with who he was meeting, not the weather.

Aznar sat tapping his fingers on the ornately carved oak table that stretched out before him. While most audiences were held in the throne room, the conference chamber had been selected for this particular meeting. It was one of several concessions Aznar was forced to make in order to get Samas Kul, master of the Guild of Foreign Trade, to come to him. He had also forgone the normal rule that all visitors entered his presence naked. It was worth the risk to his person not to be subjected to the sight of Kul's fleshy rolls jiggling before his eyes.

The doors to the conference room swung open, and Aznar's chamberlain entered.

"O, Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir, I present Samas Kul, Master of the Guild of Foreign Trade." The sticklike servant bowed and stepped to the side to reveal a corpulent mass in red silk and leather. A red skullcap rested atop Kul's shaved head, which was so lumpy it appeared the man was having some sort of allergic reaction to multiple bee stings. The high, flaring collar of his tunic tried unsuccessfully to hide the layers of excess skin that flapped under his chin. Leather shoulder pads studded with gems struggled vainly to add any sort of form to Kul's upper body. The sleeves of his tunic ended in leather bracers that covered his forearms. His fat fingers swelled around the thick bands of gold that adorned each hand. Brown hosiery and knee-high leather boots completed the outfit.

Samas waddled in and dropped his bulk into the chair at the opposite end of the table from Aznar. At a nod from his liege, the chamberlain bowed once more and stepped out of the room, closing the doors behind himself.

"Thank you for coming, Guildmaster Kul."

"I must admit, I was rather surprised to hear from you." Kul's voice was a wet rattle in the back of his throat. "My past requests for your time always seemed to… conflict with other pressing matters of state."

It was obvious Kul knew Aznar was simply avoiding him.

"I would be remiss in my duties as tharchion if I did not keep abreast of all that happened within my city." The statement was meant more as a subtle reminder to Kul of Aznar's position above him. It was infuriating that he even had to provide such a reminder. The man was an accomplished transmuter, but nowhere near a match for the Zulkir of Evocation. It was Kul's political clout that kept Aznar from crushing him like a fly. Samas Kul controlled the Guild of Foreign Trade, the vast, bureaucratic body that oversaw the running of every Thayan enclave around Faeriin. Aznar had to be careful. If he wanted to keep control of this meeting, he could not tip his hand too soon. "So, tell me how things fare with the guild?"

"Exceedingly well, as I am sure you know." Kul's fleshy lips parted in a toothy smile. "The coffers overflow with coin from the enclaves. Their success is more than anyone imagined, I dare say."

Aznar clenched his jaw to keep from rising to the bait. Kul knew of his stance against the enclaves when the idea was first proposed. He knew what a thorn in Aznar's side it was to have all that gold sitting in his city, yet be unable to touch but the barest portion of it through tariffs and municipal fees. That was going to change.

"That is good to hear," Aznar said, leaning forward, "because it is time I started seeing more coin from the guild."

"And how do you propose to make that happen?" Kul seemed unfazed.

"I was thinking the guild's increasing usage of the city's port facilities wasn't accurately reflected in the leasing fee it pays."

"I see. That would certainly net you a few more coins, once the fees cleared all those layers of bureaucracy."

Aznar's eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. Was that a threat? No, he reasoned, it was the simple truth. Aznar held no illusions about the corruption within his city's government. After all the bribes and skimming off the top, he really wouldn't see that much of an increase.

"If I may suggest an alternative that would be mutually beneficial?" Kul was watching him closely. Aznar nodded for him to continue.

"Were you to sponsor a few enclaves of your own, you would receive a direct cut of the profits. No intervening agencies to bother with, just straight to your own purse."

Aznar sat quietly, letting the silence draw out. So, it came back to this. It was not the first time Kul had approached him about sponsoring an enclave. The idea was a bitter pill to swallow, considering how vocal his criticism had been.

"I assume you've cut similar deals with the other zulkirs?" Aznar already knew the answer to that.

"It's just business, you understand."

"Of course. I will think more on your… suggestion. Thank you for coming, Master Kul." Aznar smiled politely while silently signaling for his chamberlain. Kul stood and followed the man out of the chamber.

As soon as the master of the Guild of Foreign Trade left, Aznar Thrul's smile twisted into a snarl. The obese mound of flesh tested his patience, speaking to Aznar as though he were an equal. Regardless of the wealth the guild generated, Aznar was a zulkir and tharchion, and Bezantur was his city. Perhaps it was time to show Samas Kul exactly where he stood.

Unfortunately, Aznar needed Kul and the guild. The admission made him grimace. He had opposed the enclaves at their inception, ridiculing the notion that Thay could gain power by selling magic rather than taking what it wanted by force. He had been proven wrong, and now had little share of the enormous profits that flowed through the guild's coffers. Not that Aznar lacked resources, but he would not stand idly by while the purses of the other zulkirs grew at an alarming rate.

However, his demands of a greater portion had been politely refused by Kul time and again. The guild-master's audacity to repeatedly suggest that Aznar perhaps sponsor the opening of more enclaves, thereby increasing his cut, was maddening.

Aznar slammed his fist on the table and stood up from his chair. As angry as it made him, Kul was right. Aznar was not so inflexible as to ignore the recommendation. The question, then, was where. There were already enclaves in almost ninety percent of Faerun's major cities, but sponsoring one in someplace smaller than Saerloon, Baldur's Gate, or even Hillsfar was hardly worth his time and effort.

That left cities in nations that opposed either the Red Wizards or the arcane in general. Aznar quickly eliminated Aglarond, Rashemen and Mulhorand as possibilities. There was too much bloodshed by Thayan hands in those places, and there was no one of any significance Aznar had a hold over. Then it came to him.

Aznar strode down the hall toward his study, a predatory grin on his face revealing the triumph he felt as the pieces of his plan began mentally falling into place. The last question to resolve was what catalyst would be used to set things in motion. It could not be himself, or any of his underlings. No, the agent had to have nothing to do with the Art at all if this were to succeed.

When he reached his study, Aznar grabbed several sheets of parchment and sat at his desk. There were many people who owed him favors but only one he could think of with the resources and competence to accomplish this task. They had met more than twenty years ago, before he became zulkir of Evocation. They had been introduced, really, at one of the many socialite parties thrown by some minor noble, where everyone scurried from circle to circle with hopes of elevating their own status. He still remembered it quite clearly.

Mylra, headmistress of Loviatar's Manor, sidled up to Aznar as he stood in a circle of fellow students from the school of Evocation. She wore a flowing gown with long sleeves and an empire waist. The green silk matched the tattoos that covered her shaved scalp. Thick lines of kohl circled her eyes, rouge powder coated her cheeks, and her lips had been painted a dark red, all in a vain attempt to hide her age. Aznar watched her approach from the corner of his eye. It had been like this all night, people coming to offer their congratulations or praise for his accomplishments in the Art.

This is the price of being a rising star, he sighed to himself. Aznar turned to greet Mylra, and saw she was with another woman, about twenty years old, standing quietly at her side.

"Master Thrul, don't you look…" The rest of what Mylra had to say was little more than buzzing in Aznar's ear. He smiled politely and nodded, but his gaze was fixed on the woman with Mylra. She was nearly as tall as Aznar, her head shaved except for a single stripe of long, braided hair that ran from her forehead back to her shoulders. She wore a simple dress of white, belted at the waist with a gold braid. What intrigued Aznar the most was her unwavering, dark eyes that seemed to drink in his soul.

"Well, if you'll excuse us, Aznar, there are some other people I wanted to speak with."

Aznar blinked, just now aware that the conversation had run its course and Mylra was turning to leave. What was the name of the woman with her? He realized he hadn't even asked. Mylra was already involved with another group across the room before he could open his mouth.

"Does anybody know who that woman with Mylra is?" he asked the others around him. Everyone shook their heads or said that they did not. Aznar excused himself and started toward Mylra and her companion, but he was intercepted by Lord Brusjen after only a couple of steps. The elderly patriarch of some minor noble house momentarily blocked Aznar's view of his objective, and the young Red Wizard craned his neck over and around the old man in an attempt to reacquire Mylra's position. She was nowhere to be seen.

Desperate, Aznar cut off Brusjen, physically moving him aside. He scanned the room and caught a flash of green silk exiting on the far side. The young woman trailed behind, but she stopped in the doorway and looked back, right at Aznar. Their eyes locked, and she smiled then followed her mistress out. Before he could chase after them, Milurkah livable, a fellow student who had practically thrown herself at him this past tenday, snaked her arm around his and pulled him aside. Aznar frowned but resigned himself to the fact he would not learn the young woman's identity that evening. He allowed himself to be led away, and even worked up a smile at the thought that he would at least be able to take his frustrations out on Milurkah tonight.

He contacted the headmistress a few days later and was told the woman was a newly appointed Maiden of the Lash named Yenael Duumin. Mylra invited him to the manor to meet her. After participating in one of their pain rites, he and Yenael spent the night together. For the next year they shared a bed.

Then one day, without explanation, she disappeared.

Other things had kept him occupied: his rise to zulkir, the Salamander War, and becoming tharchion of Bezantur. He was never at a loss for companionship during those years and hardly thought of Yenael.

So it took him somewhat by surprise when she resurfaced just a few years ago, requesting his aid in a plot to replace Mylra as headmistress. He readily agreed, realizing the advantage of having a powerful temple in his debt.

While the ink dried on the parchment, Aznar mouthed a cantrip to summon his chamberlain. The man appeared in the doorway as Aznar pressed his seal into the hot wax on the back of the envelope. It was time to call in a debt.

"What is your bidding, O Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir?" the chamberlain asked with a bow as Aznar rose and walked over to him.

"Have this delivered immediately to Headmistress Yenael at Loviatar's Manor. I'll be in my bedchambers. Send her there when she arrives."

The Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

Prisus Saelis leaned against the port rail and watched the ship pull up to the pier, his breath visible before him as he exhaled into the chill air. A slight breeze ruffled his sandy hair; he shivered and pulled tight the collar of his wool overcoat. These trips were bittersweet. No city could compare to the clean, white stone buildings or the magnificent marble sculptures that lined the streets of home, certainly not Bezantur. From his vantage point, he could see the slave markets just beyond the wharf. Masses of filthy bodies milled about in pens while auctioneers yelled out bids. The markets rivaled the many temples as the dominant feature of Thay's largest city. He could see the spires of various religious structures rising above the tangled skyline. The whole city was a chaotic jigsaw whose pieces didn't quite fit. No, Bezantur was definitely not Luthcheq. But much as he loved the sites of Luthcheq, they reminded Prisus of his wife, gone now these past five years.

With a sigh, Prisus warded off the homesickness and melancholy that typically followed these reveries. He was here on business; best to get it done quickly and be off. The ship had docked, and a gangplank was secured from the deck to the pier. He motioned his manservant, Leco, toward the bags and made his way down to the city. The pair waded through the bustling crowds toward Myulon's, the only inn where Prisus felt even a little safe. It was located near the North Gate, which meant passing by the Central Citadel, home of Aznar Thrul, a Red Wizard and ruler of the Priador. A mix of human, gnoll, and goblin guards lounged against the black stone of the massive building, harassing pedestrians who wandered too close. Prisus made sure to keep his distance.

When they arrived at Myulon's, a twstory building of gray stone with a tiled roof, Prisus went straight to the front desk and checked in.

"Master Saelis, welcome. I did not think we would see you again until the spring." Myulon was tall and lanky. His head was shaved, but the sallow skin of his scalp was bereft of tattoos. He wore the same smile Prisus remembered, broad and unsettling, as though the innkeeper knew something you did not. Myulon handed Prisus a note along with the room key.

"You be careful, Master Saelis," Myulon said. Prisus frowned, not sure what to make of the innkeeper's words.

"Oh, I did not read the note," Myulon quickly reassured, "but I saw who delivered it. Those types of maidens bring only pain. I could find you a nice girl, if you like."

"Thank you, Myulon. I'll remember that." Thoroughly confused, Prisus climbed the stairs to his room. He unlocked the door, entered, went immediately to the writing desk, and broke the wax seal on the letter.

Master Saelis,

If you wish to go through with our transaction, come to Loviatar's Manor at your earliest convenience after arriving in Bezantur. Ask for me.

Yenael

Prisus was slightly taken aback. He was aware almost every god in Faervin had a temple or shrine of some sort in Bezantur, but what little he knew from his wife's involvement with the church of Loviatar still gave him pause. The goddess wasn't called the Maiden of Pain for nothing.

"I don't like this, Master Saelis." Leco had brought the luggage in and now stood over Prisus's shoulder, reading the note. "Do you really want to bring a Loviatan back into our household? Remember what it was like when Mistress SaelisWaukeen bless her soulwas involved with that cult?"

Prisus sighed and nodded. Unfortunately, there weren't alternatives. Without his wife, their daughter, Iuna, needed a governess. The poor girl was not adjusting well to her mother's death. They had gone through four women in the past five years because of her mood swings. Finding new help locally was suddenly all but impossible. So Prisus started searching elsewhere, but a steady increase in taxes by the Kara-noks made coin tight, and many of the candidates' fees were too expensive. He'd almost given up when he was contacted by a woman named Yenael.

Prisus left the inn right away. It was already late afternoon, and only a fool walked the streets of Bezantur after sundown without an armed escort.

The manor was just a couple of blocks east of the Central Citadel. It was built into a hillside, with extensive grounds consisting of graveled walkways that wound through well-manicured lawns. Prisus paused at the open front gate, unable to reconcile the church's reputation for painful torture with the peaceful landscape that stretched out before him. He approached the main building, a sprawling affair of stonework, unadorned except for the low relief of a barbed scourge carved above the lintel of the entrance, its nine tails spread out like a fan. Prisus banged the knocker on the iron-bound wooden door then stepped back to wait. Several minutes passed before it opened.

A robed figure surrounded by a soft nimbus of golden light stood in the doorway and said, "I'm sorry, but the manor is closed to the public while the rite is being performed."

Prisus could not see the face, as it was hidden under a hood, but he thought from the voice that it must be a woman.

"I am here to meet Yenael," said Prisus. "She's expecting me."

He showed her the note. He could feel the woman's eyes measuring him.

"You don't look like her typical subject. Loviatar calls all kinds, though." The woman moved back from the doorway, causing the nimbus to fade, and motioned for Prisus to enter. "Wait here while I find her."

Closing the door, the woman left Prisus standing in the middle of a small entry hall. Her words had been unsettling, and he glanced about nervously. Candlelight glowed from small coves carved in the walls, creating more shadow than illumination. Opposite the front entrance was a great open archway that led into the main sanctum. Prisus gasped.

The room was lit with numerous candles. Little flames filled candelabras or flickered in groups on table tops. In the center of the floor sat a large circle of candles placed several feet apart from each other. For each candle on the floor, a man or woman danced naked around it. Each person was singing or chanting, though none of them seemed in unison. And each, at some time during their ritual, would pass a body part through the flame of their candle, often holding it there for several seconds.

Prisus's nose wrinkled at the strange odor wafting in from the sanctum. It took him a moment to realize it was not incense, but the acrid smell of burnt hair and singed flesh.

Prisus turned to the door, ready to leave, and came face-tface with another woman. Instead of a robe, she wore a tight, sleeveless leather body suit buffed to a high shine. Her head was shaved, except for a thin braided tail that began at the base of her skull and ended between her shoulder blades. Blue tattoos of some unfamiliar design covered her scalp. Dark eyes reflected the wavering flames of the candles.

"Prisus Saelis? I am Sister Yenael." She smiled, a warm and friendly grin. "Let's go somewhere we can talk." She waited for a moment, sensing Prisus's shock. "Our Candle Rite happens every twelfth night," she explained, holding her hand out toward the sanctum. "Fire is one of the Three Pains. Loviatar teaches that pain brings strength of spirit."

Prisus shook his head then motioned her to lead on. They went up a flight of stairs and entered a small parlor. Red velvet drapes hid the hard stone walls, and plush sofas of crimson shared the floor with piles of dark red pillows embroidered in gold thread. Prisus had heard that the church of Loviatar often recruited from the ranks of the wealthy. It certainly explained the extravagance.

Yenael lounged across the pillows, leaving Prisus to his choice of sofas. A robed man entered shortly, carrying two goblets on a tray. He offered first to Prisus then to Yenael. She rose partway to take the cup and whispered something to the servant, who bowed and left. Prisus sniffed the drink, a honeyed mead, then took a sip.

"I hope your trip went well, Master Saelis. No sahuagin attacks?" Yenael took a deep draught as she waited for his answer, her eyes never leaving him.

"No, no attacks." He shifted on the sofa, uncomfortable under the stare. He desperately wanted to get past small talk to the business at hand and return to his room at the inn. "Um, I'm not sure… I don't think you're quite what I was looking for."

Yenael gave a small laugh. "All business, I see. I like that. Master Saelis, I apologize for the confusion. I am not the one you will be hiring." She set her goblet down then snapped her fingers. The servant returned, this time with another woman in tow. Nearly as tall as Prisus, she wore a simple linen dress that blended with her pale yellow skin. The left side of her head was shaved. A tattoo of a nine-tailed serpent ran the length of her exposed scalp, its open mouth framing her left eye. The dark hair that remained was pulled into a long, thick braid that hung to her waist.

With confident strides, she brushed past Prisus to stand next to the reclining Yenael, who dismissed the servant with a curt, "Thank you. You may leave us." She turned to Prisus. "Master Saelis, may I introduce Ythnel."

Prisus stood as the servant departed. "I am pleased to meet you, Ythnel." The young woman gave a small curtsy in reply. "May I ask a few questions?" Prisus requested, looking at Yenael.

"You may speak directly to me, Master Saelis." There was no defiance in Ythnel's voice or eyes; it was just a statement of fact.

"Ah, yes. My apologies, then. Very well. If I may begin by asking how old you are?"

"Twenty-one summers, this Eleasias."

"Tell me a little about your education."

"I have studied the regional histories, lifestyles, and societies of Thay and its neighbors: Aglarond, Rashemen, Chessenta, and Mulhorand. I am also versed in the literary and performing arts."

"Remarkable."

"So, do you find her acceptable?" Yenael asked.

"If I might ask one more thing?" Prisus hesitated. His eyes bounced between the women, waiting for a signal. Both stared at him stone-faced. Clearing his throat, he turned back to Ythnel. "Why are you interested in becoming a governess?"

"I have lived my entire life within these walls," Ythnel said without pause. "I want to see with my own eyes what I have only read about in books. I wish to put to use what I have learned."

Prisus frowned. "I don't mean to offend, but I will not allow the dogma of Loviatar taught in my house."

"Do not fear, Master Saelis," Yenael said, finally standing. "Loviatans do not evangelize. Those who are interested seek us out." She smiled, but there was no warmth in it this time. "Is there anything else?"

"No, I think that is all. Here is the gold I promised as a commission." Prisus untied a swollen pouch from his belt and handed it to Yenael.

"The terms are agreed upon," Yenael announced. "You are free to go." She led them back to the entrance. "You may return in the morning for her things." Yenael opened the door. "Good night, Master Saelis."

"Good night, Sister Yenael." Prisus turned and led Ythnel away.

Yenael watched Prisus Saelis and Ythnel disappear from view then closed the door. "Good-bye, daughter," she whispered. It felt strange to think of the girl in that way. Yenael stood there for a moment, her hand still on the latch, wondering why the thought had even occurred to her.

There had never been a familial bond between them. Yenael had always treated Ythnel like another initiate. It was a purposeful decision on her parta kindness, even, in Yenael's mind. There always came a point in a child's life when the parent was revealed to be only human, imperfect. That revelation was often a form of betrayal to the child. In an act of mercy even now Yenael could not explain, she chose to shield Ythnel from this pain. The girl had been raised as a ward of the manor, told she had been orphaned when she grew old enough to ask.

What's done is done, Yenael told herself, and she is better off for it. She does not need the distractions a family brings. They would only hinder her in the task she has ahead.

Shaking her head, Yenael turned down the hallway into the manor. She needed to clear her own head, and performing her evening prayers would provide the focus she required. The only question was which whip she should use.

Ythnel rose from her bed and pulled back the curtains, letting the sun into the room Master Saelis had rented for her at the inn. She removed the shirt Master Saelis had provided as a nightgown, folded it, and placed it on the floor beside the bed. She then reached behind her neck to untie the thin leather strap from which hung a small, ceremonial whip with nine tails, the symbol of her faith. Ythnel knelt on the folded cloth and began a prayer chant. Every few seconds, as the chanting would reach a crescendo, Ythnel lashed herself with the whip, leaving pink welts on her smooth, sallow skin. With each lash, Ythnel felt a tingle of pleasure that transcended the pain.

A creak from the door brought the prayer to a halt. Ythnel quickly stood, just catching a glimpse of someone stepping back from the doorway. Remembering that she was still naked, Ythnel scooped up the nightgown, put it back on, and traded the whip for a towel and her clothes and walked out of the room. Prisus stood across the hall with his back to her. Ythnel tried to slip quietly past him, but he turned as she closed the door.

"I… uh, I didn't mean to.. I mean, it wasn't my intention…," Prisus stammered.

"Perhaps it would be best to knock first before entering in the future, Master Saelis," Ythnel said, unable to look directly at him.

"Of course." Prisus's cheeks were flushed. "I only wanted to tell you that I've booked our passage. And.. and Leco has your things. I'll have him bring them to your room. We can go as soon as you're ready."

"Thank you. I'm going to take a bath before I meet you downstairs." She didn't wait for a response.

They made their way to the docks after morning-feast. The city was already buzzing with activity, but Prisus seemed oblivious to it, lost in his own thoughts. As they approached the pier, Prisus finally blurted out, "Why do you beat yourself?" Several dockworkers who were loading cargo looked askance at the pair.

The embarrassment from earlier in the morning came rushing back. "I thought you were not interested in my religion, Master Saelis?" Ythnel raised a questioning eyebrow. She did not want to talk about it, but the deflection failed.

"I'm not," he replied a bit more discreetly. "To be honest, my wife was part of a group that dallied a bit in some of the less… exotic rites of your faith. She quit before we were married, thank Tymora. I just… I don't understand what could motivate someone to… to"

"To suffer?" Ythnel finished. Prisus nodded, but Ythnel hesitated, unsure how to answer. She had been told time and again by the clerics at the manor why they served as they did, and had repeated the reasons back just as often, but this was the first time she had been asked to explain to someone unfamiliar, and uncomfortable, with the Loviatan beliefs. "Why did you come all the way to Bezantur to find a governess for your daughter?"

"Because I love her, of course."

"And I love Loviatar. She is the only mother I have known. I want to show her my devotion, just as you wish to show your daughter how much you care for her."

"I don't think the situations are necessarily equivalent, but I guess I can see your point." Prisus shrugged. The pair walked in silence to the waiting ship and boarded.

For the first two days of the voyage, Ythnel was violently ill. The roll of the ship on the waves of the sea wreaked havoc on her stomach, and she spent most of her time leaning over a rail on deck, or over a pail in her quarters. Master Saelis was finally able to procure some sort of root for her from another passenger onboard that, when chewed, prevented nausea.

By the fourth day, Ythnel was enjoying herself. Gulls soared back and forth with the ship, bolstered by the brisk wind that carried with it the briny smell of the sea. Sail-finned fish leaped from wave to wave before the bow, racing the ship. It was beautiful, this open world of air and water, and quite alien to Ythnel. She lingered at the starboard rail well after sunset, watching the stars twinkling in the night sky, her breath forming puffs of white before her.

She shivered, hugging herself and rubbing her arms to keep the blood circulating. The wind cut through even the thick coat and mittens she had borrowed from Master Saelis. It was probably best if she headed belowdecks for the night anyway, before he worried why she hadn't returned to the cabin she shared with Prisus and Leco.

Ythnel turned and noticed two sailors were watching her from their stations across the deck. Most of the crew was asleep; the current shift included a helmsman along with a single guard fore and aft. These two were supposed to be making repairs to the sails or mending lines or something. Their work lay at their feet.

The intent behind those stares was unmistakable. Ythnel had seen it many times before, though she usually hadn't been the target. If necessary, she was confident she could handle the two men but decided it was better to remove herself from the situation. She strode toward the hatch that would take her belowdecks, not even bothering to glance at the sailors.

The approaching sound of boots on wood planks told her they were not going to give up so easily. Ythnel stopped and pointed at one of them.

"Fall!" she ordered. Propelled by divine energy channeled from Loviatar, the force of the command struck one of the sailors and knocked him prone.

The sailor who kept his feet jumped slightly at the obvious use of magic. Then he visibly screwed up his courage. "You're gonna pay for that, witch." The man continued to advance, his face twisted into a lecherous leer.

"What's going on here?" Leco emerged from out of the hatch. Ythnel saw his eyes dart between her and the two sailors. "Master Saelis sent me to look for you." He pulled Ythnel past him and closed the hatch after they both had descended.

"Thank you for your help, Leco," Ythnel said as they started down the narrow corridor toward their cabin.

"Don't thank me. I'm just doing what Master Saelis asked of me. Those men could have had their way with you for all I care."

Ythnel pulled up short, shocked by Leco's harsh words. "Why? What have I done to you?"

"You are a Loviatan. I know what that means. Master Saelis's wife was a Loviatan before they were married. I told him it was a bad idea to hire you. Rest assured, I will be watching you. I won't let you hurt him or his daughter." He continued down the corridor without waiting for Ythnel to respond.

She stood there for a moment after he disappeared into the cabin, shocked. The man hated her simply because of her faith. She had heard stories about this kind of prejudice from sisters in the manor, but now that she had come face-tface with such a situation, Ythnel realized she hadn't really understood what those sisters experienced. A deep sadness washed over her as she let herself into the cabin and quietly slipped into her bunk.

On the afternoon of the sixth day, they arrived in Luthcheq. The reflection of the sun off the white buildings created a dazzling brilliance that nearly blinded Ythnel, but she would not close her eyes. She had never been beyond the manor's grounds before; she had read of other cities besides Bezantur but had never seen them. All she had known were walls of dark stone. Here everything was so bright and clean. Even the movement of the crowds seemed orderly. Ythnel feared that if she blinked, if she looked away for just a second, it would all vanish like a dream.

Prisus had Leco run ahead to fetch a carriage while he and Ythnel waited with the luggage. As she watched people walk by, she noted how different they looked. There was a hint of olive to their skin tone, and their eyes did not have the same tilt as hers. Most of them were short, like Prisus. The men wore their hair cropped, with the bangs brushed down onto their foreheads. The women had their hair pinned up in back, with several loose strands of curls trailing down to their shoulders.

A carriage pulled up, and Leco jumped off the back and began loading their belongings. Prisus motioned for Ythnel to get in then followed, closing the door behind himself. Leco finished with the luggage and climbed up next to the driver. Ythnel's stomach began to flutter, and her palms sweated as the carriage started off. Prisus had gone over her new duties while they were aboard the ship, but now that she was moments away from meeting his daughter, she was nervous. The world outside the manor was so different. For the first time, she began to feel awkward about her beliefs. It seemed that they now served to alienate her rather than provide a common bond.

Ythnel wiped her palms on her dress and bit her lip. Prisus noticed the nervous gestures and smiled. "You'll do fine, Ythnel. I'm sure Iuna will like you. She's really a good girl. It's just that her mother's death hit her hard. It hit us all pretty hard."

Prisus sighed and looked out the window of the carriage. Ythnel gazed out as well, thinking the sights might help her to relax. They had left the docks behind and passed a solitary tower in the center of a well-tended garden. Four giant trees surrounded the tower, obscuring all but a single window at the top from view.

"The tower of Naeros Karanok," Ythnel breathed.

"So, you are versed in the politics of our city," Prisus chuckled. "Let's test that knowledge, shall we? Anything more you can tell me about the ruling family?"

"From what I understand, Naeros is also known as the Marker because he likes to disfigure prisoners. He's the grandson of Maelos Karanok, the family patriarch and ruler of the city, though that's mostly in name only. Jaerios, Maelos's son and Naeros's father, is the real source of power. I believe Jaerios also has a daughter, but I know nothing about her."

"Excellent." Prisus nodded. "What else do you know about Luthcheq politics?"

Ythnel thought for a moment as the tower faded from view. "The Karanoks have decreed that all arcane magic is outlawed. Wizards and sorcerers, and those who associate with them, are summarily executeda policy that has caused tension with neighbors and hindered the economy of the city."

"An understandable point of view for one who comes from a nation ruled by wizards, and not without merit," Prisus conceded.

The carriage pulled into a private courtyard and stopped in front of a twstory building squeezed between its neighbors. It had a flat roof and an unremarkable exterior. A short flight of stairs led up to a plain but sturdy wooden door. Ythnel followed Prisus in.

"Iuna, precious, I'm back," Prisus called out when he entered. For a moment, they stood in silence in the middle of the living area. A beautiful woven rug covered most of the stone floor. Two sofas and a chaise lounge formed a semicircle before a marble fireplace where a small fire burned lazily. A doorway beyond the sofas led into a dining room.

"Papa!" A young girl of about eleven summers stood at the top of a staircase to the right. She wore a knee-length blue dress with lace ruffles at the shoulders rather than sleeves. Her dark hair was done up much like that of the women Ythnel had seen in the streets.

Prisus strode to the base of the stairs and opened his arms, catching Iuna as she leaped down the last two steps. He gave her a twirling hug then set her down. "I want you to meet someone," he said, turning her to face Ythnel. "This is Ythnel. She's going to help you with your studies."

Iuna's smile suddenly turned into a pout. "I thought we decided it was just going to be you and me, J? apa."

"Now, Iuna, you know how much I want that. But I can't always be here because of business, so you need someone to look after you when I'm gone."

Iuna crossed her arms over her chest, unconvinced. "I don't like her. Find a different one."

"There isn't anyone else," Prisus sighed. "Just give it some time, precious. Why don't you show her around the house? That will give you both a chance to get to know each other."

"All right, Papa. I'll do it for you." Iuna stood on her tiptoes and gave Prisus a kiss.

"Excellent." He smiled. "Now, I have to run to the Trade Center, but I'll be back by dinner. Have a good afternoon."

"Good-bye, Papa." Iuna waved as Prisus headed back outside. Then she turned to Ythnel. Her lips were pinched, and anger smoldered in her brown eyes. "Follow me."

Iuna led Ythnel up the stairs and down the hall to a small room with a single bed, a dresser, and a desk. Ythnel's belongings were sitting on the bed.

"This is your room. Not much" Iuna sniffed" but plenty for a slave." She looked pointedly at Ythnel then pushed past her. On the other side of the hall, they stopped before a closed door. Iuna opened it to reveal another bedroom. Dolls sat upon a chest at the foot of a four-poster bed. The floor was covered with several matching rugs. An elaborate vanity stood near a large window in one wall that looked out into the courtyard.

"This is my room. Slaves are not allowed in here without my permission." Iuna stepped into her room and turned back to Ythnel. "And that concludes the tour." She slammed the door shut.

It had been a long day, and Ythnel was glad to finally be in her room. She moved about in silence, unpacking her things. The emotional turmoil of the day manifested itself in a physical draining of energy, and sleep beckoned. Ythnel sat on the bed, fighting the temptation. It would be so easy just to lie back and close her eyes, to forgo the evening prayer for much needed rest. She wasn't at the manor anymore. No one would know.

I would know, her conscience scolded. And Loviatar would know.

Ythnel picked herself up and undressed. She took the whip from around her neck and knelt on the floor, her back to the door. The words of the evening prayer began to form in her mind, but she could not focus. Iuna's petulant face shattered Ythnel's concentration every time she closed her eyes. The spoiled brat infuriated her. Yet there was something about the girl that reminded Ythnel of herself. And there was the fact that her mother had been a Loviatan. Perhaps Ythnel's being here was a part of some greater purpose. Perhaps the Maiden of Pain had plans for the young girl.

First things first, she told herself. You've been hired to train this girl how to be a lady. Focus on and accomplish that before you start imagining you're here on some divinely ordained mission.

She sighed. It was an arduous task set before her, regardless. She would not be able to do it alone.

"Oh, Loviatar, the Willing Whip, I pray for the strength and wisdom to discipline this child. Let me help her, as I was helped."

Ythnel sat quietly for a moment, looking inward for that center of peace and order. A weight lifted from her heart, and she knew her supplication had been answered. With a calmed mind, she quietly began the chant of the evening prayer, letting the rhythm sooth and refresh her. She raised the whip.

A creak from the floorboards outside her door jerked Ythnel's attention away from the prayer.

"I thought we agreed to knock first, Master Saelis." She remained crouched, her head bowed while she waited for an answer. None came. "Master Saelis?" This time she rose. As she did, Ythnel heard the patter of little feet running away.