The clamor of armored soldiers echoed down a broad stone hallway, and the order of the fortress knight sounded firm to his men, who hold two prisoners roughly in tow. “In the fifth cell, commander – the sun room – until morning.”
“…but my lord, that cell is occupied.” With the raise of his hand, the war party halted nervously.
His eyebrow turned up at the corner in a half-scowl, he asked “By whom?”
“Pardon, my lord, I thought you knew. The witch, brought in some weeks ago by no less than ten armored men. They found her practicing black arts in the lower village.”
“To what end, commander?”
Though a full head taller than his lord, TyrFalk lowered his head in shame to reply, “It was not reported, sire.”
A slow nod from the knight brought about his silent pause, and then turning to a recruit he ordered, “Find the man who brought her in and have him report to me by sunset.” Sending his messenger away with the power of his waving hand, he turned to an arched window where the dark sun beat heavily just above the horizon, illuminating stone, knight and commander and a handful of armored soldiers, bloody and sweating with the day’s victory. “I will see this prisoner before moonrise. Put the others in the dungeon for the night, until I decide what to do with the magician.” A piercing glare to his commander drove Sir Andren’s reprimand directly into mutual understanding. “In the future, TyrFalk, I will be consulted on the uses of those holding cells, and notified on the capture of such ill-reputed offenders.” He turned without a word and disappeared into a winding hall, leaving the company to his commander, now visibly upset by the interchange.

A wet fist rubbed the face of an oval shaped mirror nearly three hand-widths across and cleared away a cloud of steam, leaving the glass beaded with water. Brown eyes, deep set, and wrought with the weight of authority reflected back at the man who would not sleep this night. He studied features for a silent moment, tiny lines at the corners of those eyes, the rough growth of three days deep auburn on his face, a lower lip cracked with a blow and trickling blood. Welling water cold as ice into both hands to splash away the last traces of red, he blinked fiercely away the fatigue and sadness of the day’s battle. Still so much work to be done before he could think of rest, the knight stepped back from the wash basin and retrieved black leather gloves still damp and red to replace them on his hands. A battle to reclaim the eastern watch-post, the erection of shelter for his people now without homes, and the burial of shattered bodies. Not enough? No, there is a witch in the sun-room. Her captor rants of evil magic and warns of danger in her wake, and before rest I must also pass judgement on this woman. Woman! So dangerous to be in the sun room? The fifth cell. He sighed and ran a gloved hand through his dark hair, short and thinning a bit, shot with gray at the temples.

At the end of a narrow passage, the sun room was the last cell built by his grandfather, when prisoners were tortured for information and confession. Under Sir Andren, the room was seldom used for holding, and never for torture. In the rule of his father, those taken in war were offered the sanctuary of peaceful residence in the village where contributions to the community and their yearly tax were considered retribution enough for past allegiances and after five years, such men were pardoned and became full citizens under the protection of the reigning lord. Now prisoners were either executed, ransomed, or sent to serve in the village until such sentences were completed, and even when the room was used to hold someone over night, they were always removed from it before mid-morning.
Andren made his way slowly to the doorway. Pausing at the dead-bolt, he turned to the attending guard to ask, “How is she, boy?” The youth stammered shyly, “Sire, she is as always by the end of day… burned and exhausted and….” Then more bravely, he met the knight’s gaze and asked, “Do you believe in the black art, sire?” “I cannot say, boy. I have never seen it for myself. You stand guard here over this woman each day… what do you believe of it?” His face flushing, he looked to the ground and replied slowly, “My lord, she does not eat, yet she does not fade away. She is burned by nightfall, and healed before dawn. But still….” “Speak your mind, boy. I have asked for your thoughts.” The young man nodded solemnly. “My lord, she does no man harm, even with words, and seems kind. I should fear her or hate her, but I do not.” “Ah then perhaps she has cast some spell over you, my boy.” Andren’s smile flashed genuine and his hand clapped the boy’s back in a gesture of forgiving assurance. “I shall hope she is as you say so that this room can be filled with men who may deserve it’s heat, or emptied to herald peace.” The youth nodded and hurried to pull back the lock, opening a heavy door for his lord.
Andren’s first step placed him just inside the sun-room, named for its upper windows filled with strange arched glass which, during daylight, focused and amplified the sun’s rays into beams of great heat aimed directly at the space on the wall where now the woman stood chained. The pale moon had not yet risen, but twilight blue filled the room with enough light to see quite clearly, and he looked toward her warily. Draped with a nearly transparently thin robe, her head hung in exhaustion far greater than his own, her weight dangling painfully from steel chains which bound her wrists nearly a foot above her head to the wall. Her arms were marked with wide red burns, and her robe clung to the damp sweat now coling in the evening’s chill. Hair cut to her ears and toussled in every direction hid her face from him, but he thought for a moment he saw her shudder. Two more steps, then to the center of the room, and he stopped in the light of an open window directly in the center of the room between four column pillars. Taking one deep breath, he spoke firmly from where he stood. “Tell me your name, woman.”
Her head raised slowly, until eye-to eye she met his stare. Her face was strained, her breathing shallow, but her voice was strong and clear and unafraid. “I am Amerys.” Eyes blue as the twilight itself searched his face, studying features and gathering an impression of the man she stood accountable to. His voice echoed from the walls with too much power, “Do you know of what crime you stand accused, Amerys?”
“My lord is to the point, and perhaps rougher than necessary. Come speak with me, Andren, face to face, for I am human as you are with blood in my veins as red as your own.” The sound carried gentle but confident to his ear. A haunting echo of Andren through his mind, he took a step toward her, the name melting into the pulse of his own quickening heart-beat. As he came to stand before her, she spoke again.
“Do you, my lord?”
“Do I what?” His gaze narrowed as he pondered her question for the briefest moment.
“Do you know of what crime I stand accused?”
She seemed a paradox to his logic. Witch, woman, burned, beautiful… Yes, beautiful.
“No, lady. To be frank, they tell me you are a witch, but no man can say what evil you were about when taken.” He paused, then said solemnly, a hand dragged slowly through his hair, “It is … unfortunate … that the grievance was great enough to have you placed here, and worse yet that I was not told of it. You have been here longer than any enemy.” Cruel. Unnecessary. I would never have…
“Your apology is accepted, my lord,” she whispered, locking him in her gaze. He shifted uncomfortably, breaking her stare to watch the moon rise through the only open window, its light pouring white into the now-cold chamber. His fingers wrestled a leather glove from his right hand as he turned to face her and speak, but as he turned no words would come. Bathed in the light of the moon, her eyes shone like pale sapphire and her body began to heal. He dropped without thought to his knees, reeling back from bewilderment at the sight and stared as the marks of torture disappeared from her form. She stood strong to face him with an unearthly glow. “I am guilty of no black art, Andren. But I am magi, and if the power of spirit and nature are criminal in this land, then I am rightly captive.” Mind racing, he scanned the room without purpose, his eyes finally returning to her own seeking explanation for the unexplainable. Miracle. No, Witchcraft. Some strange evil…
“Evil is a word used casually to justify the condemnation of something you do not yet understand. But you will, Andren. I come here of my own will seeking the man who brings compassion to a world of pain. I have come here for you, my lord. I claim the mercy of servitude, but to yourself alone.” With a glow as if she were the moon itself, Amerys drew her arms effortlessly through the chains which had bound her, and fell to her knees before her lord, taking his bared fingers to her lips in a tender kiss.