Fires of Torment

Chapter 1: Fear

Zacharias Barnham pummeled the lump of dough on the counter. He was getting to enjoy being a baker, and he was rather good at it, even if Miss Espella inexplicably burst into giggles every time she saw him making something.

In fact, even once he got his present for Lady Darkl—Miss Eve, it might be worth staying on at the bakery, if Ms. Eclaire would have him, of course.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Patty Eclaire walked down the steps and froze. "What are you doing?"

He positioned the dough on the counter, leaned back, and swung his fist down into it. "'Tis called kneading!"

She hurried over and stepped in between him and the counter before he could continue. Her normal cheerful expression was replaced by a glare. "How many times do I have to tell you to respect the bread?"

He drew his sword and held it in front of him. "My respect for the bread is at the core of my work. I treat it as I would any worthy opponent."

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you making that up?"

"Upon my honor, 'tis the truth, milady."

She sighed, but stepped out of the way. As he sheathed his sword and resumed respectful combat with the dough, she said, "I have errands to run in town, and Espella won't be back until evening. Will you be able to mind the bakery by yourself for a few hours?"

All alone, in charge of the bakery? He clapped his fist over his heart in a salute. "I shall perform my duties with integrity and valor."

"Good." She crossed the room and showed him a small box. "Now, we have one advance order. Laura should stop by to pick up her cookies in about an hour, but she already paid for them, so you don't need to worry about anything, all right?"

He held up his hand. "Laura? I do not believe we are acquainted."

Ms. Eclaire smiled. "She'll be the one who comes in and asks for her order of cookies."

"Err, I see." He cleared his throat. "I supposed 'twould be absurd for someone to pretend to be her in order to steal cookies."

She laughed. "You'll be fine, Zacharias. I'll be back in a few hours."

As she left, he frowned. She was probably right, but still . . . 'twas a knight's duty to know the people he protected, and he believed himself knowledgeable of everyone in Labyrinthia. If the hypnosis and brainwashing were indeed at an end—his skin crawled at the thought that his mind was not truly his own over the past ten years—surely he knew this Laura.

He shrugged and beat the dough. No sense in worrying about it until she arrived.

#

There was a definite satisfaction to this sort of work. Barnham opened the oven, waved away the cloud of smoke that emerged, and pulled out his loaf of bread.

When Ms. Eclaire and Espella baked loaves, they weren't black. Nevertheless, it was the taste of the bread that counted, rather than its appearance. He retrieved a knife so he could sample a slice, just to be sure. After he sawed at it for a while, he shook his head at the inferiority of such dull blades, drew his sword, and made short work it.

He took a bite and coughed. Bitter enough to be more ash than bread.

Well, one did not learn to wield a sword without practice, and it seemed the same was true of baking. He grabbed a bowl to make more dough.

The door opened. A customer!

Two women entered, both interested in buying bread. They seemed quite amused when he welcomed them, and a bit shocked when he drew his sword to express his deepest honor at serving them—perhaps that part was a bit much, dealing with customers required a different sort of charm than he was used to—but all in all, the exchange went well.

He improved his technique over the next few visits, until he had it down almost as well as kneading the dough. The current batch of dough was almost ready to become bread. He would take care to not leave it bake for too long, this time.

Another customer opened the bakery door.

"Welcome!" He slammed his fist down and raised a cloud of flour.

"Ms. Eclaire, I'm here for my—"

When the flour cleared, he stepped out from behind the counter and bowed to the light-haired woman in front of him, who appeared speechless. "How may I be of service?" he asked.

Her eyes were huge. Perhaps he'd gone overboard with the welcome. "I'm, um, i-is Ms. Eclaire here?"

"Not presently."

"O-oh, okay . . ." She took a step back with each word, until she had covered the entire distance to the door. "I, um, had an order to pick up from her, but if she isn't here right now, I can just come back later, no problem!"

An order to pick up . . .

"Miss Laura!"

She froze, her hand on the doorknob.

He retrieved the box of cookies Ms. Eclaire has mentioned. "Never fear, I have your order ready for you." He opened it to make sure it was correct, and marched toward her with the box in his hands.

She let out a squeak. "N-no, that's all right, really!"

He reached her as she opened the door, and just as she fled, recognition struck him. She was a witch.

Well, not a witch. There were no witches, 'twas difficult to remember that. Her trial had been years earlier. She must have been amongst the Shades for a very long time. He stood at the door and stared after her, but he didn't see the busy Labyrinthian street or Miss Laura retreating in fear.

Instead, he saw the courtroom, and the worthless defender tasked with defending a woman who was obviously a witch. He remembered how the terror on her face mounted as the trial progressed, and how she collapsed partway through the proceedings. They revived her in time for the verdict: guilty.

He remembered the heat of the flames. Her cries and pleas and promises to never use magic again if they would just give her another chance. Her final scream as the cage slammed shut around her.

His own satisfaction as it plunged into the fire.

He staggered backward and let the bakery door swing shut. The witch trials were over. It wasn't his fault. The Story demanded witches be burned. Everyone believed it was the right thing to do.

Not everyone.

He set the box of cookies back down and imagined what he would have to say to Ms. Eclaire when she returned. "Yes, Miss Laura came by . . . 'tis a pity she remembers me as the man who sent her to her death."

He shook his head. He should have expected it. A Labyrinthian he did not remember—who else could it have been but a longtime Shade? Many of the former witches kept their distance from him, and gave him wary looks when an encounter was unavoidable.

But it was over. There was no cause for her to run from him like that. It wasn't as if he was about to accost her in the middle of the bakery and kill her for being a witch.

Was that what she believed? He felt sick. Was that what she saw when she looked at him, a killer? Someone who would take her life without a second thought?

Was it true?

He slammed his fist into the counter. Of course it wasn't true. He protected people, helped them. The Story may have led him to harm the supposed witches, but it wasn't his fault. He couldn't have fought it, not really. It was just the natural order of things.

You mean you never wondered? It never occurred to you that killing people for something they couldn't help, sending them to be burned alive as they begged for mercy, might be wrong?

No amount of the Storyteller's hypnosis could justify that.

He gritted his teeth. He'd questioned it, he HAD, near the end. It wasn't as bad as it seemed. They all believed it. Almost everyone. There were those who defended the witches and even harbored them, but surely most people believed it was right.

Barnham put his head in his hands.

Maybe he needed to step down from the knighthood for good, despite their many assurances that the people wanted him keeping peace in Labyrinthia. As a baker, he couldn't harm anyone.

His gaze fell upon his ruined loaf from earlier.

Nor, it seemed, could he keep from burning things.