Chapter Two: The Inquisitor’s Gaze

  The flickering torchlight around the tunnel’s bend signalled the imminent arrival of what was, no doubt, another unwanted complication in Selriph’s desperate flight. The unnerving, near-synchronous footsteps almost contradicted the distorted, overlapping silhouettes. Which betrayed the presence of more than one figure on the creaked, filmy walls.

  It can’t be… guards? Templars? Did that woman-templar track me down somehow…?

  The answer came as the figures passed the corner, a trio of masculine, armoured-clad silhouettes approached, their faces obscured beneath helmets. Even from this distance, in the relative gloom, Selriph could make out the subtle signs of expectancy, perhaps revelation, in their form and demeanour.

  The leading figure passed the torch silently to his trailing colleague, approaching the runaway boy. Selriph shot a glance at the beggar, who had curled up into a nervous hunch, his countenance a strange mix of fear but also a subtle hint of anticipatory amusement, accentuated by the dancing, approaching flame.

  By the time Selriph refocused his gaze in front of him, the figure had come within sword length; the light illuminated his weathered features. Hard, cold, unyielding eyes bore into Selriph.

  Selriph’s eyes narrowed, his heart now drumming against his ribs as his gaze fell upon the man. There, hung on the front of his cloak just above the left breastbone, was the insignia—the silver cross, and a gryphon adorned in the centre. The metal was devoid of all sheen, likely eroded by years of service.

  The mark of a Knight Templar.

  His face indicated age. A broadsword lay at the man’s hip, the mulled gold hilt adorned with intricate designs. The leather belt that it hung from held several pouches and vials, likely potions or divine reagents, unheard of in the possession of the unranked.

  This was no common soldier; he was almost certainly a veteran Templar Knight, possibly a commander or of a special station.

  This is bad… if they recognise me. I am done for.

  “You there, boy?” he barked, eyes transfixed on Selriph.

  The voice echoed, fading in the tunnels.

  Selriph eyed the beggar for a second, as if seeking his reassurance, before landing back on the knight.

  “Me…?” Selriph muttered, his finger pointed at himself.

  “Yes, you, and your… friend,” the Templar said, spitting the last word that betrayed his hardly concealed disdain.

  “We are here on official business. There is a fugitive loose in the city, and we are here to bring that person to justice.” His facade, now a constructed blend of aplomb and authority.

  So he doesn’t recognise me? Or is this just an act…? Best to pretend otherwise first…

  “You are… going to need to be more specific. There are a lot of wanted people running about,” Selriph replied, his voice intoned into a casual lilt—one that sought to fit his appearance, mirrored by the shrug in his shoulder.

  The knight’s eyes narrowed further, scrutinising Selriph with an unnerving intensity. “He is a fugitive who abandoned his oath to the Empire. Word is, he might also dabble in the arcane, which even a sod like you will know is blasphemy.”

  Blasphemy? Hypocrites, I have seen holy mages dabble in the same flames in holy rites; it’s the damnable crest that separates heresy from divinity.

  Selriph withheld his protest, taking a silent breath as he willed his facial muscles to remain relaxed—any hint of tension, anger, or fear from the statement could give them cause to pounce.

  Devoid of any easy hint of guilt, the lead knight gestured to his other companion, who stepped forward, unfurling a fresh scroll with his gloved hand.

  “We have descriptions,” the younger knight said.

  Selriph, keeping his voice level, asked, “And…?”

  The younger knight showed a trace of eagerness showing through his eyes. “A young man. Late teens. Thin build.”

  Selriph’s mind raced; The descriptors were general, but the age, the build—a result of inadequate sustenance relative to his daily physical toll—along with the potential use of magic, all pointed to a simple conclusion: they were looking for him.

  The only saving grace was that they, in all likelihood, were from a different attachment, brought in to aid the manhunt in the lower districts.

  However, that did little to insulate the volatility of the situation.

  Stay calm … as long as I don’t give them a reason to suspect me…. They will leave me alone. Just play the act.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have seen him? Anyone practising magic? Of the forbidden kind?”

  Selriph shook his head. “No, I know nothing. It’s late now. I’d rather return to the squalor where I came. Have seen no magic-wielding deserter or whatever.”

  The Templar’s brow lifted, his expression sharpening. “Squalor, you say? An interesting choice of words. You almost speak with such … eloquence.”

  Damn, keep the words simple. Remember, you are a tramp. Nothing more…

  “When you’ve lived on the streets as long as I have,” Selriph said carefully, “you hear a few words.”

  The knight took another slow step forward. His gaze never wavered, never blinked. “Convincing…”

  Then he paused, as if noticing something. “Yet, your eyes betray the truth beneath.”

  Selriph kept his tone steady. “Truth? What truth are you referring to?”

  The Templar’s eyes flared wide open as he jutted his neck forward towards the boy. “The truth of your guilt,” he said, his voice low and heavy, the breath hot against Selriph’s cheeks. “You changed your garb, your appearance, but you cannot hide the stain of your sins from my eyes.”

  Is this a blind thrust to get a reaction out of me…? The best thing for me to do is…

  Selriph shrugged as he maintained his feigned ignorance. “If by guilt you mean the scraps I stole to survive? Then, sure, I’m guilty. But it’s hardly worth nabbing me for that. Plenty of folks out there who do worse.”

  The knight sneered. “Stolen food?” A scoff escaped him. “Oh no, I speak of something graver.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He leant in, his breath hot on Selriph’s face.

  “I accuse you of this,” as the lead knight pointed to the parchment, Selriph’s eyes following his hand like a tamed pup.

  A single word, barely legible in the gloom: desertion.

  His voice came in a mix of feigned confusion and realisation; a brief, prepared chuckle escaped his lips before he spoke. “You think I am the fugitive?” as he pointed towards the now rolled-up object. “Ask anyone in these tunnels. Lived here all my life.” he said, calling the lead knight’s bluff.

  The knight’s palm twitched. Taking another step closer, the distance between them was now barely a dagger’s blade apart.

  “Your words would be convincing, but I can see you are so much more than that, boy.”

  He leaned in, breath hot against Selriph’s face.

  Selriph composed himself. He knew the Knight was attempting to unnerve him, a build-up towards forcing a slip, a confession out of him.

  After all, all they had was the vague description—a boy of slim build, not uncommon among the destitute, something he should resemble.

  And yet, the assuredness of the knight felt real, like he had seen a thread, perhaps evidence that Selriph himself could not perceive.

  Stay calm…. No matter what it is, as long as I conceal any overt signs of unease, they should eventually leave me well enough alone.

  Or rather, that is what he hoped.

  After the long, deliberate pause, the knight said, “See? The boy stays calm when I speak of his crimes. But why? Perhaps I lack proof of your identity? Believe me, you already wear the signs of your guilt. You just don’t know it.”

  Wear the signs? What does he mean? Did I forget to…?

  Selriph’s gaze darted down at his garb: no identifying marks as far as he could discern.

  When his vision landed back on the lead knight, he saw the raised hand, palm facing out.

  Selriph’s eyes caught on the intricate gold design etched into the knight’s skin. This was no ordinary tattoo engraved on skin; it glowed with a golden light, forming a sigil written in holy writ. It pulsed, fading and glowing.

  The knight turned his palm toward Selriph. “You recognise it, don’t you?” His voice dripped with malice. “This is the mark of an inquisitor.”

  Just my luck…

  Selriph scoffed, forcing bravado. “And what does that mean to me? You all have squiggles on your armour. How am I supposed to tell one from the other?”

  The knight’s eyes flashed with amused contempt. “I am sure you know. This is no mere symbol of rank or station. It is a tool bestowed for faith that far outshines yours.” He moved his palm closer, the pulsing light further stirring the shadows along the tunnel walls.

  He moved his palm closer, the light further stirring the shadows along the tunnel walls.

  Met with an imperceptible grin. Recognition? Satisfaction? Realisation?

  “There it is… drawn to you, like a lodestone to steel.” As he stretched his palm, proceeding to the now glowing glyph, like a piece of irrefutable evidence.

  Drawn to me…? Could he somehow…?

  His memory flashed between images of worn parchment and passing conversations in the corridors of the compound—Individuals, able to perceive the whispers of magical energy, an ability endowed by the grace of the divine. Any trace, no matter how faint—a whisper of rot in a bed of roses.

  The only logical explanation for this man’s assuredness and presence in this very moment.

  Damn it all … this is worse than I thought.

  Selriph swallowed hard, then mustered a challenge, his voice holding firm. “Okay … but so what? That thing is just glowing funny; could mean anything!” as he took a step back.

  The knight’s eyes narrowed, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “Oh, I believe you know what it means…”

  Selriph did not indulge him with an answer.

  “Your guilt has frozen your lips. Good. Let me make it plain.” He paused, glancing at his junior colleagues before turning back to Selriph. “You reek not just of foulness, but of the blasphemous magical arts; it flows through your very veins.” As he turned his palm upward, a faint spark escaped the glyph.

  “This proves it.”

  Selriph’s mind drifted towards the blue, gold-embroidered robes of holy mages.

  This… this must be how they identify the potential for devout mages. But… the magical energy does not warrant my arrest in itself. They’d done so years ago. Perhaps if I feign enthusiasm…

  “Okay, say if I had this… what’s the word … potential?” He paused, forming the words in his mind before letting them pass his lips.

  “Let me use it for the gods. I get to play with golden, shimmery stuff. Better than mucking around here.”

  For a brief moment, the knight’s eyes widened, caught off guard by the crude offer. He leant back, considering. “And what makes you think,” he growled low, “that I would trust your word? Heretic or street bum, your kind evade and deceive like you breathe.”

  Selriph moved in as he attempted to portray the assertive defence of an innocent. “I’ve been straight with you so far!” His head jutted back in exaggerated surprise, taking two clumsy paces back.

  Which was met by the stoic gaze of the inquisitor and his colleagues, their expressions unreadable, unsure if his remark had sold his deceptive persona or worked against it. Either way, a lull permeated the fog of tension.

  As he righted himself after his theatrics, the footfall was the last sound that would pass in the following moments.

  The situation he found himself in was far from ideal. The only saving grace was that this inquisitor, despite his overbearing presence and the inconvenient means of detecting Selriph’s magic potential—a ‘coincidental’ semblance to the deserter they were looking for — had not struck him down where he stood.

  Is the oath stopping him? Perhaps the fear of reprisal because of the Janukas debacle? It is risky… but perhaps I could test it…

  Selriph took a breath, a deliberate pause, partly to convey contemplation, but also hesitation stemming from the audacious remark—provocation—he was about to articulate. Calculated as best it could be under such dire circumstances.

  “Now that I think about it … you are just looking for someone who fits that description.” Selriph gestured to the now-rolled piece of parchment in the younger knight’s hand. “You just want someone to bring in, call it a day, don’t you?”

  The reaction that followed was beyond what he had expected.

  The knight’s face darkened, his grip tightening on his broadsword’s hilt. Somehow, the boy’s remark struck a nerve that tore through the inquisitor’s composure. “You dare question my integrity?” Anger bubbled in his eyes. “I am no common arresting officer. I am an Inquisitor, sworn to purge the corruption you represent!”

  He raised his marked palm; the sigil flared, adding to the dancing shadows in the tunnel. The hum of holy energy, punctuated with faint crackles, built towards an imminent strike of divine force.

  Yet still, a strike did not come, not yet; it simply teetered on the edge of release.

  This lent credence to a single thread of salvation—this was uncomposed posturing. By oath, an inquisitor, or any member of the holy stratum, had no authority to harm civilians without due cause under the Church’s doctrine.

  If oath did not chain them to restraint, the fear of ending up like their impetuous brethren—burnt at the stake for the unsanctioned, unsubstantiated, brutal execution of High Proctor Janukas’ son—would stay their blade.

  Selriph knew that a direct reference to the latter would only work against him, harbouring knowledge far beyond the downtrodden—details only known within the order.

  Thus, he had only one option to diffuse the situation: to appeal to duty.

  “You don’t harm people like us,” Selriph said steadily, voice calm despite the building energy before him and the storm of self-preservation welling in his body.

  “That’s your promise, ain’t it? To protect us, the common or even ragged folk. I am no mage; not a sparkle has escaped these hands.” He paced back, his hands lifted and palms open.

  The inquisitor gradually lowered his palm. His eyes flashed with the briefest hint of a dawning, unsettling awareness, momentarily tinged with what seemed reflective pain.

  “I am downtrodden, a mess. But you protect us, right? The innocent folk? That is what we hear every day.” Selriph’s voice shook, a mix of a heartfelt plea and bitter protest.

  The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed; Selriph couldn’t tell if his remark had offended or convinced him. The man took a step back, his hand balled into a fist as the sigil’s light faded beneath flesh.

  Has this worked…? If I play my next cards right, I might cast enough doubt on my identity.

  The words that followed served as an unnerving dovetail to the boy’s thoughts. “Very well, boy,” he growled. “How about this? I am going to give you a chance to provide proof of your innocence.”

  “And how am I supposed to—”

  The gesture came as a wordless answer and partial mockery, both to the boy’s unfinished query and his assumption of the Inquisitor’s restraint: the unsheathed broadsword with the sound of steel on leather, the polished blade reflecting the torchlight behind him.

  “Draw your weapon, if you have one. If you can best me in combat, I will judge you innocent.”