XXIX: Live With Cruelty 

"Riddeck, I'm telling you that she's alive," I plead for about the fourth time. But once more, he shakes his head. 

"It's not possible. She was lost in the insurrection — when Sorayvlad had their great Shogunate race. Her husband was killed and she was killed. Hells son, they sent us the proof. Three fingers." 

The torchlight flickers, cracking against the walls. I mull over what he's told me. It is understandable that they might think she's dead — after all, it's not like Sorina got in contact with them after the civil conflict within Sorayvlad. But war? Wasn't Sorina just a Princess — one far down the line at that? And didn't her supposed 'death' happen a long time ago? If so, why are they just now playing into this conflict — now when plague sweeps the lands of the South. 

Is there some political opportunity to be gained that I'm missing?

You're thinking too much about this. What does it matter? 

It's just another obstacle in your way. Let them have their war. It does not concern you. 

"Alright, look," I begin again. "You want to know my name? It's Raiten. And at the end of the day, the one thing I can assure you, is that I have nothing to do with Sorayvlad and your war. So, would you kindly let me go and be on my way?" 

Riddeck says nothing, narrowing his eyes. He stares at me like that for quite a few moments. I meet his gaze, unwavering. 

Then, with a sigh, he says, "I think I believe you, Raiten. Even about the whole Sorina thing. You don't look as if you've got something missing from your noggin. Or," he scoffs. "Perhaps that fall you had is still affecting you. Regardless, I don't really care to check — I've got too many other things to worry about." 

"So… you'll let me go?" 

"Unfortunately, that's not for me to decide. However, I can at least take you to the one who will have the displeasure of making that decision." He grasps my cuffed wrists and raises me above the hook with surprising strength. Unhooked, he drops my hands and I shake them gingerly. 

"Who is it?" I ask, in reference to the 'decision-maker'. 

Ignoring my query, he simply says, "Follow along. And please, don't try anything stupid. You've made a good impression — it'd be better to not waste that." 

…

It takes a while before I realize, with some amusement, that I am at the checkpoint along the road to Havenmarch: the very same checkpoint I was meant to raid with Kara's band. It is erected under the canopy of dark trees that make up what must be the Blightbriars. A palisade of stakes is raised on the ground, parallel to the dirt path. 

Watchtowers loom high above the gates and are populated with guardsman yawning about their tasks. The gates themselves are splayed below us as we cross the the walls — they are utilitarian to the highest degree, a mere amalgamation of iron and chain that lifts and falls to the tune of a pulley system — an unsavory maw for even more unsavory fortress.

The road ahead grasps my attention for it is laden with wagons and horses, carriages and supplies. People moving their lives away from Havenmarch. A mass migration — tolled and taxed by Catolica. A troop of soldiers inspects each caravan, wagon, and family unit — whispering some grim truths or threats to them. Most families give up half of what they own at the least; this much grants them passage through the fortress, through a narrowly built corridor of makeshift wooden materials that cuts through the center of the campgrounds. 

A few families, however, opt to keep their things and venture into the darkness of the woods. 

"This is cruel," I hiss. 

Riddeck looks at the thronging masses and nods. "War is cruel."

I scoff. "What war? Sorayvlad? This is not their doing — this is plague. And you reap from Havenmarchers like thieves." 

"I tend to disagree. This is merely an exchange. We will deal with their plague — but they must pay their dues. If not, they can face the plague themselves — out in the Blightbriars. See how they fare." 

"Surely you don't believe this is right." 

He chuckles lowly: "Raiten, right? I've learned long ago that there is no such thing as right. There is only what you can do right by your people — everyone else be damned." 

I try seeing if there's a way for the unfortunates to venture only a few shrubs deep into the woods. Unfortunately, this fortress spans long-ways into the Blighbriars with smaller walls stretching forth into the thorny blackness. Men patrol those walls too, though those ones seem of harder make. Veterans perhaps. 

Makes sense. Especially if the Blightbriars are filled with plagued and turned — I'd put my harder soldiers out there as well. 

We come to the mid-section of one tower. Its maroon door is closed and a large, silver knocker hangs half broken from its center. 

Riddeck goes to it and gives it a slam. The knocker nearly falls off, but the door itself opens in response. I turn around only for one of the four soldiers trailing us to butt his leather wrapped spear-head into my back, pushing me forward. 

I stumble into the room and Riddeck closes the door behind us. Then, he takes a knee, bowing his head in reverence. I look around. Firelight flickers from the upper reaches of the tower — torches built around the circular staircase going up. 

A figure works at a desk, hooded and scribbling over some documents. Lamplight illuminates their back. The room should smell musty — but rather, it gives the whiff of perfume. Spiced, expensive perfume. 

"I have brought the prisoner," Riddeck simply says. The figure keeps scribbling, dipping their writing utensil in some ink. 

I stand next to Riddeck for a few minutes, studying the figure in front of me. They are lithe and thin and I have strong suspicion that they are feminine. 

That suspicion is confirmed when they speak in a female voice — though, it is modulated to the lower baritones of a noblewoman: "What do you think Riddeck?" 

He clears his throat. "I think they are honest, if a bit misinformed." 

The figure sets their papers down and stands, producing a white handkerchief with which they wipe their fingers delicately. 

Then, they pull back the hood. 

Her hair is blonde and braided in a complex weave. She pulls up the sleeves of that oversized brown robe to reveal bracelets and rings adorning each hand. 

Dark green eyes — even darker ones than Sorina's, judge me. 

"I see the resemblance," I mutter. 

She ignores my patter: "My name is Pamela. I am Queen of Catolica. And you, prisoner, will answer my questions honestly. Otherwise, I will send you to the Blightbriars myself."