Chapter Thirty-Three The Trouble of Virtue #2
A pang in her heart, a conflicted twist of emotions rising at the thought of him. She could not bear the thought of returning to Southeast then, of facing Desil once more. Not after what he’d told her, not with what she now knew.
Nor did she want to linger in Central, surrounded by architectural markers of absurd wealth she no longer had any hope of attaining. White mansions, tall fences, treehouses for children—they taunted her as she stared out at the neighborhood, looming over her like giants.
Without thinking, she shook her head.
He raised a brow. “Have you another destination in mind?”
She paused, eyebrows knitting together. “What of the match-master? Is he to be executed, too?”
Saevem shook his head. “He’s been spared the death penalty for his testimony against the governor.
He provided some key evidence to corroborate with Matheranos being the Eza, but his own crimes will keep him in gaol for a long time.
He’ll be serving a life sentence in Haginuvo Penitentiary instead. ”
“Could I go see him?”
He looked at her, surprised. “You wish to visit the man who tried to strangle you to death?”
“I have some unfinished business with him.”
“He’s not actually allowed visitors in the interim. But wait a moment.” He dashed back down the corridor, disappearing into his office. Moments later, he re-emerged, holding something out to her. “My name paired with this will make the turnkeys amenable to your cause.”
It was the Coalition’s calling card, the diamond-encased hista flower vibrant as ever.
“Thank you, Master Arthil,” she said, bowing her head.
Her pointed politeness made his smile falter. “Lythlet,” he tried nervously, “I know this pales in comparison to the jackpot you’d hoped for, but perhaps this will help.” He presented a loosely tied bag to her.
Not daring to hope, she tugged at the neck of the bag until it was wide enough to peek into it. Bone-colored disks met her sight.
White valirs.
A considerable amount of coin—not nearly enough to match even a fraction of the bag of gold she had forfeited, nothing that would impact Saevem’s reticule deeply. But most certainly not an amount she could afford to reject out of pride.
“Thank you, Master Arthil,” she said once more, pocketing the gift. She appreciated his generosity, she truly did. She did not appreciate the symbolism behind it, however: she was returning to a life of having to rely on the charity of others.
“You’re welcome, Lythlet,” he said, looking relieved she’d accepted it.
She left the mansion, stepping out onto cobblestone pavements lined with baltascar lamps.
The westering sun limned the residential street in golden rays.
The cold, fresh air stung her lungs bitterly.
She wandered toward Haginuvo Penitentiary, her thoughts her only companions.
A fog of melancholy embraced her, wordless fears gnawing at her insides as her footsteps stumbled over the cobblestones.
The boots Saevem had bought her didn’t fit well, not the way Master Dothilos’s had, but they did the job, protecting her swollen soles from the streets.
Her stint as a conquessor had come to an end, one she had never expected.
No gold, no longer. Her dreams of leaving behind the southern slums had been crushed, not for the first time, likely not for the last. She wondered then what hand she could ever wield over her fate.
The world was a labyrinth, and she was a traveler without a map, and that frightened her beyond belief.
A sign swinging over a cast-iron gate welcomed her to HAGINUVO PENITENTIARY FOR WAYWARD SOULS. A guardswoman with an enviable musculature gestured her down a pebbled path to a huge building looming before them, like a mountain threatening to blot out the sun.
Inside, another guard greeted her, jotting down her details. The moment Lythlet said she wished to visit Renveld Dothilos, the guard shook his head.
“None are permitted to—”
Lythlet flashed the calling card, ensuring the embossed hista flower glinted in the light. “Master Saevem Arthil sent me here.”
It worked like a charm, the guard clasping his hand to his heart and bowing. He requested she wait in the courtyard for another guardsman to escort her to Dothilos’s cell.
The courtyard housed an ill-maintained shrine, a forlorn, time-vanquished structure of semi-crumbled pillars and dusty spires.
She squinted at the primary statue at the head of the twin rows of wardens—it was Kilinor, his ashy and chipped face just barely recognizable by the single carved tear sliding down his stone cheek.
Lichen with a blooming crust covered half his head, and tall flowering weeds sprang up around his feet.
“Why was I born under you, O warden of grief and mourning?” she asked in a shaking voice.
“Is this what you’ve condemned my life to?
That I shall struggle uphill until I die, and remain unrewarded for any effort I make, always trying, always failing?
Was I asking for too much when I asked to be happier, to have the joy I’ve always read about, the joy I’ve seen others have? ”
He had no answer for her, but remained weeping, hand outstretched to an invisible supplicant below.
She reached upwards for that hand, tears blurring her vision.
Tightening her grip over it, she wished she could break it off, wished she could maim her warden.
“Is this how you want me, clinging to you from below, begging for scraps of joy from you like a dog? Must I beg for mercy just so I can live a life half as good as others?”
She released a shuddering breath, hand falling slack, tears splashing her boots. She turned away from Kilinor, crushing flowering weeds beneath her, coming to a stone bench beyond the shrine and waiting for the guard to fetch her.
· · ·
I N A SMALL corner cell outfitted with a humble cot, a man leaned against the bars, arms folded across his chest, head turned to the small window. He was mourning the sun, his angled jaw set in a bitter clench.
Master Dothilos.
There was a voice inside Lythlet telling her to turn back. Leave this man behind and abandon the poison he’d been feeding her.
But I will never have this chance again , she thought, grimly taking step after step forward, boots clunking against the cool concrete.
He turned as she approached the bars, pale eyes widening. “You,” he said, quietly.
She knelt to his level, staring at him. With the iron bars framing his face, he seemed different. He was not the malevolent tyrant, master of the arena she knew. He was not a man with his underworld connections in place, their strings tightly holding him poised and immaculate.
He was now but a shrunken figure hunched over in the corner of a gaol cell, alone at last with his thoughts.
He glared at her. “I didn’t think I was allowed visitors. Have you come to laugh at me?”
“I have not.”
“Surely you must feel joy at the sight of me now, ruined and locked behind bars.”
She stayed quiet. She felt many things then, things she needed time to articulate.
Joy entwined with relief. Anger, of course, at someone who had threatened her at every turn and beaten her once he believed her a traitor.
But she could muster neither triumphant smile nor vindictive sneer then.
She merely looked at him, and weariness flooded her.
He stared back. “You’re fortunate these bars are here. I didn’t get to finish the job earlier thanks to the Coalition, but I would have killed you if I could. You wretched cur, you fork-tongued serpent—how long have you been working with them?”
“Not very long,” she said quietly. “Just long enough to make a difference.”
“Fool,” he spat through the bars. “If this is about the governor, why must I be torn down for his crimes?”
“Do you think you’ve committed none of your own?”
“Mine are trifles compared to his! If one must burn, let it be him alone.”
“You chose to serve a man who has allowed corruption to infest our city for decades,” she said calmly. “You may pretend you’re better than him, but the fact remains you chose to be a cogwheel in the cycle of injustice.”
“And what have you received for all your noble efforts?” he sneered. “Working for the penniless Opposition would never make you rich, and you were foolish enough to turn down a mountain of gold back in the arena. Do you truly think your precious Coalition will reform this city?”
She fell silent, doubt clouding her mind.
The grim reflection of how politicians will happily appeal to the oppressed with bromides and lip service that fail to manifest actual change crept up on her.
At last, she muttered weakly, “I will wait and see the deeds of Governor Corio Brandolas before I judge him.”
He laughed, seeing through her pretense. “You should never count on others to uphold their duties to serve justice or mercy. A bitter lesson I was forced to learn a long time ago. I have grown up seeing things you could never stomach, I have suffered in ways you cannot count—”
“I know what you suffered as a child,” she said softly, “and I am sorry.”
He stopped, spluttering as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
“A member of the Coalition of Hope told me about the orphanage,” she explained. “He told me what you suffered as a child. And I know these are just words, but I truly am sorry you ever had to go through that.”
He stared at her, blue eyes wide and alarmed. But then he hardened, sheer rage lighting his eyes up like a spark. “Keep your mock platitudes to yourself.”
She felt very sorry for him then. He reminded her of the hound in Khavi Monul’s cramped kennels, the one she had hoped to free at first but couldn’t for its violent reaction—a beast so damaged by its own life, it could not understand she wanted to help it.
As she looked at Master Dothilos, she saw a man so damaged by his life, he could not recognize unmanufactured sympathy not meant to manipulate him.