Temple of the Winds

He rushed to her and took her hands, he licked his lips. His eyes darted about. "They won't notice us. Pretend we are just going about our business. They won't question us."

She didn't know how to answer such delusion, but was denied an attempt. Three men in blood-splattered leather and hides and fur stepped through the door. They were so big, and the room so small, that it took them only three strides to close the distance to the Abbot.

Two had greasy, curly, matted hair. The third was shaved bald, but had a thick beard like the other two. Each wore a gold ring through his left nostril.

The one with the shiny head snatched the Abbot by his fringe of white hair and yanked his head back. The Abbot squealed. "Trade? Do you have a trade?"

The Abbot, his head bent back so that he could look only at the ceiling, spread his hands in supplication.

"I am the Abbot. A man of prayer." He licked his lips and added in a shout, "And books! I care for the books!" "Books. Where are they?"

"The archives are in the athenaeum." His head tilted back, he pointed blindly. "Clarissa knows. Clarissa can show you. She works with them. She can show you. She cares for them." "No trade, then?"

"Prayer! I'm a man of prayer! I'll pray to the Creator, and the good spirits, for you. You'll see. I'm a man of prayer. No donation required. I'll pray for you. No donation."

The man with the shaved head, his sweat-slicked muscles bulging, pulled the Abbot's head back further and with a long knife sliced down through his throat. Clarissa felt warm blood splatter her face as the Abbot exhaled through the gaping wound.

"We don't need a man of prayer," the invader said as he tossed the Abbot aside. Clarissa stared in wide-eyed horror as she saw blood spread under the Abbot's brown robes. She had known him for nearly her whole life. He had taken her in years ago, and kept her from starving by giving her work as a scribe. He had taken pity on her because she could find no husband, and she had no skill, except that she could read. Not many could read, but Clarissa could read, and it provided her with bread.

That she had to endure the Abbot's pudgy hands and slobbering lips was an onus she had to abide if she wanted to keep her work and feed herself. It hadn't been that way right from the first, but after she came to know her work and feel safe in being able to meet her needs, she came to understand that she had to tolerate things she didn't like.

Long ago, when she had begged him to stop and that hadn't worked, she had threatened him. He told her that she would be banished if she made such scandalous accusations against a respected Abbot. How would a single woman, alone in the countryside, survive? he had asked. What truly terrible things would she suffer then?

She supposed it wasn't the worst of things. Others went hungry, and pride didn't fill their bellies. Some women suffered worse at the hands of men. The Abbot never struck her, at least.

She had never wished him harm. She only wished him to leave her be. She never wished him harm. He had taken her in, and given her work and food. Others gave her only scorn.

The brute with the knife stepped to her, startling her from her shock at seeing the Abbot murdered. He slid the knife behind a belt.

He gripped her chin with callused, bloodstained fingers and turned her head side to side. He looked her up and down. He pinched her waist in evaluation. She felt her face burn with humiliation at being scrutinized so. He swung to one of the others. "Ring her."

For a moment, she didn't understand. Her knees began trembling as one of the burly men came forward, and she realized what he had meant. She feared to cry out. She knew what they would do to her if she resisted. She didn't want her throat slit like the Abbot, or her head bashed in like poor dumb Gus. Dear Creator, she didn't want to die. "Which one. Captain Mallack?" The bald man looked into her eyes. "Silver." Silver. Not copper. Silver.

A maniacal laugh cavorted through the back of her mind as the man gripped her lower lip between a thumb and knuckle. These men, these men who were experienced at judging the worth of flesh, had just valued her more highly than her own people. Even if it was as a slave, they had given her value.

She clenched shut the back of her throat to hold in the scream as she felt the pick stab into the margin of her lip. He twisted the pick until it poked through. She blinked, trying to see through the tears of pain.

Not gold, she told herself, of course rot gold, but not copper, either. They thought her worth a silver ring. Some part of her was disgusted at her vainglory. What else did she have, now?

The man, stinking of sweat, blood, and soot, shoved the split silver ring through her lip. She grunted in helpless pain. He leaned in and closed the ring with his crooked yellow teeth.

She made no effort to wipe the dripping blood from her chin as Captain Mallack looked her in the eyes again. "You are now the property of the Imperial Order."