Mistress of Helena

Chapter 8

In the heart of Helena, a road told a tale of diversity and coexistence that was unparalleled. This was Welton Path, a tribute to a magistrate’s vision, where every faith, from the prominent to the obscure, found a place to call home. Each building, each structure on this path, was a testament to the myriad beliefs that people carried with them across the tumultuous seas to this island.

Various statues graced the street depicting various deities from faiths both prominent and obscure. But most were ones depicting the messianic teacher of the dominant faith of Luminarism, the Luminary of Ambria, an ancient teacher sent from the six Gods of Creation who’d bestowed his wisdom before ascending back to the heavens. Then there were the majestic, carved stone pillars, painted in a deep shade of green, standing as proud markers for the even more ancient Faith of the Jade Towers.

Nestled amongst these, however, was a sanctuary that had always stood out like a sore thumb: the Chapel. This unassuming place was the abode and worship center for the Whispers of Magia, adhered to solely by Lady Matilda. In an irony that couldn’t be missed, amidst the decline of faith and the decay of the other centers, the Chapel remained the only active place of worship. As the islanders’ desperation grew, the words of other faiths became mere echoes, but Lady Matilda’s chapel stood resilient.

The once-vibrant street had transformed into a haunting echo of its past. Every structure, except for the Chapel, stood abandoned, a testament to desolation. Derelict buildings, with their boarded-up windows and doors, lined the road, creating an eerie silhouette against the sky.

The majestic statues and intricate decorations, which had once gleamed with pride, now bore the relentless scars of time and weather. Colors that used to illuminate these divine representations had been stripped away, leaving only a faint trace of their former glory. Now, they stood muted, battered by the elements.

A defining feature of the street was its noticeable tilt, causing a steady stream of water to trickle downward. This melancholic flow, combined with the street’s desolate appearance, had earned it a new moniker: the Weeping Way.

Every step Carrack took toward the Chapel was laden with reluctance, a heavy growl rumbling deep within him. The cold water of the Weeping Way splashed against his boots, his footsteps mirroring the discontent in his heart. His men, sensing their commander’s unease, remained close on his heels.

As they pushed through the tall, imposing wooden doors, a cold chill wrapped around them. The dimly lit interior took a moment to come into focus, and as their eyes adjusted, they discerned the soft glow of numerous candles dispersed across the unadorned stone walls.

Contrasted against this muted backdrop, wooden tables stood in a somber row. Each table bore the weight of a body, shrouded in a pristine white sheet. The cloth lent a sculptural quality to the deceased, transforming them into eerily lifelike statues, adding to the morose ambiance of the room.

Amongst the shadows, Lady Matilda’s acolytes—the Listeners—paced methodically. These enigmatic figures, recent additions to the Chapel, stood out in their dark cloaks. Every Listener, irrespective of their gender, had a shaved head. Their ears were covered meticulously, shielding them from the cacophony of the outside world. It was said that in this self-imposed silence, they could truly hear the whispers of their deity, Magia, who imparted her wisdom directly into their minds.

The Listeners glanced at the newcomers, eyes brimming with suspicion and disdain. But, recognizing the visitors, one broke away from the group, approaching with a respectful bow. As he did, Adcock’s gaze was drawn to another Listener, who was in the process of unveiling a corpse. The sight was chilling—the deceased had been relieved of their ears. Adcock began to curse involuntarily but was promptly silenced by Carrack’s sharp nudge and a finger pressed against his lips. It was known to all that speaking—or making any avoidable noise—was strictly forbidden within the sacred walls of the Chapel.

Carrack met the gaze of the Listener standing before him, the air thick with unsaid words and mutual understanding. With deliberation, he silently formed the words, “Lady Matilda.” The Listener responded with a bow, her eyes then darting with a hint of warning toward the other men accompanying Carrack.

The message in her gaze was clear to Carrack. He motioned for his men to wait outside. Foeham paused for a moment, uncertainty clouding his eyes, but eventually nodded. By the time he decided to move, the other two were already making their swift exit from the Chapel.

The Listener guided Carrack to the rear of the Chapel, stopping before a thick door that opened into the sanctuary. As it creaked open, the sound reverberated, dominating the silence of the building. Carrack stepped slowly into the sanctuary, immediately noting the staleness in the air, mingled with the fumes of incense. Behind him, the door closed with a resounding thud, leaving him facing a figure knelt in silent prayer before a simple altar.

The figure was Lady Matilda, the mistress of the Chapel and the foremost listener for Magia. Draped in raven-colored robes, she stood, the fabric rustling softly. As she turned to face her visitor, Carrack felt a tight grip in his chest. His unease deepened when he saw the smile that slowly spread across her face.

Clasping her hands together, she brought them before her face, immersing herself in a moment of profound meditation. When her eyelids finally lifted, revealing those piercing eyes, she lowered her hands gracefully. “Now,” she exhaled, the weight seemingly lifted off her, “we may converse.”

“I trust this won’t be a lengthy exchange,” Carrack remarked, his voice unwavering. “I am here on pressing matters.”

“I can see it, you know.” She observed him, the gaze of her deep green eyes unyielding. “Your eyes, they’re distant, like you’re already far beyond this place, this moment. Yet, they betray just enough to pierce through this steadfast facade you’ve presented.” As she tilted her head, the light stubble from her frequently shaven scalp became evident. “I sense unrest, unease, inquisition, and could it be … a touch of mistrust, directed at me?”

Feeling uncomfortably exposed by her observations, Carrack momentarily evaded her penetrating stare. His fingers involuntarily tightened as he sought a place for his thoughts to hide, but there was nowhere he felt he could shield himself from her and that sent a shiver up his spine. Gathering his composure, he met her gaze again. “My meals are scant, my sleep, scarcer. I’ve traversed great distances in relentless rain and gusts to reach this point. Naturally, I am wearied by the search that led me here. And don’t flatter yourself, I’m suspicious of everyone.”

“Understandable. Protect what’s within—it’s a stance you’ve always favored,” she remarked, shrugging as she moved to attend to the incense burners dotted around the sanctuary. “So, what is it that has led you here? You mentioned a search?”

Clearing his throat to counteract the tickle from the incense, Carrack began, “Indeed. We are on the trail of two women, both masquerading as kin to an executed felon. They—”

“Took the body with them?” Lady Matilda interjected, still busied with the incense. “You haven’t come here under the pretense that I played a part in this, have you?”

Carrack paused momentarily, choosing his words. “It had crossed my mind, admittedly. But the women we seek don’t fit the mold of your followers. While it’s known you can be … forceful in your approach to obtaining bodies—”

I believe,” she said, a gleam in her eyes, “‘persuasive’ is the term I favor.”

“Very well,” Carrack conceded. “Persuasive. Still, deceit and theft aren’t practices I’ve known to be associated with your church.”

Meeting his eyes, she teased, “My Lord Carrack, that may just be the most generous thing you ever said about this church.”

Carrack growled with frustration before turning the conversation back to the matter at hand. “In any case, I’m confident that you are not involved in this … directly.”

“Directly?” Matilda tilted her head. “What do you mean by that?”

“Come on now, your acolytes have beaten to a pulp their fair share of people who mishandle corpses. So—”

Cutting him off with a nonchalant wave, Lady Matilda finished for him, “You surmise that while I’m not directly implicated, I may be privy to the miscreants responsible. With the city as it is, many are pushed to desperate lengths. Exactly what information have you gathered?”

Carrack admitted, “Scant details. A mere physical description of the two women and an eavesdropped destination.” He proceeded to relay the description of the suspects and the whispered location. On his account, her eyes sharpened with recognition.

“The washroom?” Lady Matilda repeated, feigning ignorance, but the gleam in her eyes suggested she was all too familiar. “You genuinely haven’t come across it before?”

Carrack’s brow furrowed, the confusion evident. “Should I have?”

With a chuckle, Lady Matilda responded, “It’s been a hotbed of illicit activities for years, even before our times grew dire.”

The realization caught him off-guard, like a sudden shock. The hair on his neck stood on end, and he felt as though he had just spotted a fire that needed immediate extinguishing. How had this slipped through his grasp? His pride in his thoroughness and the security of his town took a hit. “Why am I only hearing about it now? What are they infamous for?”

“It seems they’re better at discretion than one would think,” Lady Matilda mused. “I assumed you had decided to monitor them rather than confront them. You know the usual activities one might want to shield from the authorities—sex, drugs, unreported good, and what have you.”

A flush of embarrassment-tinged Carrack’s cheeks. His mind raced, trying to piece together the gaps in his knowledge. Was his team complicit? Why hadn’t Lady Matilda shared this earlier? Overwhelmed by the surge of thoughts, one crucial question bubbled to the forefront. “Where is it?”

“Predictably direct, Lord Carrack. But I’ve always admired your forthrightness,” Lady Matilda said, her face impassive as she walked back to the altar. “But information has its price. I want another session.”

Carrack’s response was swift and vehement: “Never again. That’s final.”

“But why?” Lady Matilda pressed. “The last time, you and I both—”

“Once,” Carrack snapped. “And never again.”

Lady Matilda’s demeanor turned icy. “What was so repugnant about our last session? The fact that it actually bore fruit?”

“Fruit?” Carrack scoffed.

“Do you not recall the endless pilgrimages you made to every sacred place, seeking solace for your torments? None availed you, save for me.”

“You didn’t help,” Carrack seethed. “You dissected me.”

“Yes, I did. How else to find the truth you so skillfully concealed?”

“Skillfully?” Carrack was incredulous. “You call your methods skillful?”

“Effective,” Lady Matilda countered coolly. “You need to face your demons.”

“With you as my guide?” Carrack’s chuckle was mirthless. “I’d rather the demons.”

Lady Matilda’s eyes flashed. “Even in deceit, you betray traces of truth. I sensed the deeper layers of your pain. You’re just too frightened to confront them.”

“Perhaps because you drugged my senses with your unholy incantations.”

“We don’t dabble in magic,” Lady Matilda snapped. “Every acolyte here undergoes the same rites. They must grapple with their past, seek redemption, and then find their way to righteousness.”

“You assume I seek your path to righteousness,” Carrack said.

“I don’t,” Lady Matilda replied. “But you must complete our journey.”

“Or?”

“How have the shadows haunted you since?”

Carrack’s gaze dropped, and his voice was barely a whisper. “They’ve grown darker.”

“We unearthed your wound,” Lady Matilda’s voice softened. “Now, we must cleanse it before it festers beyond cure.”

“Why do you even care?” Carrack’s voice held a tinge of genuine bewilderment.

Lady Matilda’s eyes softened. “It saddens me that you see me as so detached. My concerns for you predate the present troubles on this island. Given the circumstances, I fear for you even more.”

“Tell me where the washroom is,” Carrack said, his jaw tight.

Lady Matilda exhaled heavily, her patience seemingly wearing thin. “Just one more session, Carrack. You have the freedom to leave whenever you wish, even immediately. But grant me this one session.”

The throb in his temple became more pronounced, signaling the onset of a migraine. Still, Carrack’s determination remained unwavering. He was on a mission, and arguing with Lady Matilda was not helping. He finally conceded, “One session. No more.”

“And you’ll keep to that promise?”

“Yes. But don’t expect me to stay the whole time.”

Lady Matilda nodded, turning back to her altar, and falling to her knees in reverence. “The washroom is situated off the square. Ponzin Street. It’s the old bathhouse. Sound familiar?”

Carrack paused, reflecting on the absurdity that he couldn’t connect the dots of those clues. “All too familiar.” He began to make his exit when Lady Matilda’s voice halted him.

“A deal’s a deal, Lord Carrack. Don’t forget.”