Chapter 597: Dark and Light

A gash was torn on the back of the ragdoll. The witcher pulled out its insides like it was a chicken ready to be gutted. A big patch of colored, stench-filled tatters and cotton sat on the patch of grass beside the campfire. The witchers did a little search and realized that this insignificant patch of trash hid great secrets.

The gray tatters were connected by a thread, and once unraveled, it revealed a big page of words scrawled in charcoal. The handwriting lacked beauty, obviously a product of a child's doodles and records. With the aid of the campfire's light, the witchers saw the name written on the first piece of cloth.

Pamela.

This was probably the owner of the doll and one of the girls who died. The message read, 'Pamela's doll.'

The second piece read:

'First of January, 1264.

By Lebioda, I was chosen. It was a nightmare, that experience. There was pain and blood and tears. My head almost exploded. Grandma Sinny laughed happily, though. She praised my bravery and gave me this doll, Odonna.

I fear that this torture might continue. Someday, I might die. I've decided to start recording things from today on. I'm going to share this with my friends.'

***

"She was chosen. What's with the mention of pain and blood?" Acamuthorm frowned. A gust of a chilly breeze cut through his skin, sending chills down his spines. "Some sort of evil experiment?"

"This happened about two years ago. She mentioned Sinny, the real priestess. That means Daisy hadn't joined the temple yet." Carl warmed his freezing hands by the fire. He said, "Before the priestess of the god came, there were no evil experiments in the temple."

"Could it be some sort of difficult training regime? Like the ones we went through?" Acamuthom guessed.

"Do you think those kids look like they went through a training regime?" Carl shook his head. "And why'd Sinny feel happy when Pamela was tortured?"

The witchers had no good guesses, so they went on to the next piece.

'First of February.

By Lebioda, it's coming again. In its pretty carriage. And it has a new companion. Grandma's grinning from ear to ear, but everyone's terrified. I hid my face behind Odonna, praying for them not to pick me again. Cyria snuck to the kitchen to hide, but she was found and tied. Grandma said if she didn't listen to her orders, she'd starve.'UppTodated from nô/v/e/lb(i)n.c(o)/m

***

"What's Pamela doing, writing a novel? What's with all the mysteries?" Acamuthorm rolled his eyes, complaining. "And what is 'it'? Why were the kids so scared of it? Even hid from it."

"What we know now is that it will pick an orphan every time it comes to the temple," Carl said. "And its actions struck fear into the kids' hearts."

The witchers kept on reading. The following records were just regular ones. They mostly were just days of Pamela's boring life and lively imagination written down on paper.

For example, some of them read like these:

'The sun's out today. I feel a bit sunnier.'

'I played skipping rope and hide-and-seek with Cyria and Angouleme in the courtyard.'

'I had a weird dream.'

And then there were records about her dinner. Most of the time, she only had potatoes, turnips, and carrots. Meat only came once a month. Eventually, the witcher could imagine the kind of girl Pamela was. She had black hair, bright eyes, and a melancholic air around her, but she would have a strong heart. And she'd be holding a ragdoll.

More importantly, Pamela never started her records with 'By Lebioda' anymore. She would talk about 'them' every time it was the first day of the month. Pamela's records about them were filled with fear and disgust. Eventually, she called them pigs. It was derogatory.

The pigs would come to the temple on the first day of every month and pick a few children for something. The children who were chosen would go through a nightmare of a day. Pamela's records described the pain and suffering the kids went through. It was as if they'd gone through some kind of abuse. Pamela was chosen the most out of the kids. Fortunately, she was a tough and rational girl.

Ironically, it was also on the first day of every month the kids could get to have some meat. This was akin to divine blessing for them.

***

"Notice anything?"

"Yes. On the first day of every month, the pigs come to the temple in carriages. Only on that day do the kids have meat to eat." Acamuthorm took a deep breath. His voice was trailing off. "So these pigs brought necessities for the temple. In other words, the temple didn't manage to survive because of the donations given by the people like Daisy claimed."

Carl nodded solemnly. "Pigs. That's code for the rich fat guys in the city. But they wouldn't support the temple while asking for nothing in return. The pigs provided supplies. Something that made Sinny grin from ear to ear. Think about it, what would the chosen kids have to pay in return?"

What would the rich want from powerless orphans?

"They have no knowledge or survival skills. All they have are their..."

Acamuthorm clenched his fists, arguing adamantly, "Stop. That's just conjecture. We have no proof." The moon shone on his ashen face. He had a guess for that question. The answer was dark and putrid. Despite his young age, Lambert had told him a lot of stories. He knew about stuff teenagers his age shouldn't know. Embarrassing stuff. "Lebioda's priestess would never commit a cardinal sin like that right in front of her own god. It's beastly."

"Let's keep reading."

***

'Fifteenth of July.

Damn pain. Damn the Great Weaver. Damn Grayba the Black.

Angouleme, Cyria, me, and my beloved Odonna are going to sneak out of this place. We're not bringing any of those cowardly brats with us. We're giving everything we have. It'll happen after everyone's asleep. We've sharpened the dining knives we stole. If anyone tries to stop us from leaving, we'll kill them.

In two days, we'll be in another place. It's either Angouleme's home, where there are beaches, the sun, and pretty sceneries, or the big city filled with shops and big ports Cyria told me about. We're working hard to save up coins. I can't wait to start our new lives.

By Lebioda, I pray to you one final time. Please, protect us. For how devout we've been to you. Open your eyes, Lebioda, and grant us protection.'

***

The winds ceased to howl for a moment. Even the horses stopped grazing. The witchers' shadows stretched into the far distance, taken away by the light of their campfire.

"Lebioda's not worth trusting. This evil god is no savior either." Carl stared into the night, clenching his fists. Suppressed rage filled his heart, and a sense of powerlessness engulfed him. Three girls tormented by the wheels of fate, struck down by reality.

"That answers some questions," Acamuthorm muttered, hanging his head low.

"What question?"

"Why Angouleme looked so sad and guilt-stricken when she saw the doll. So she tried to escape too, and she saw her friends..."

The young witcher stopped, and his voice took on a hint of fury. "They're just powerless girls. No match for Cursed Ones. They could never win in a fight. They could never escape."

"And death was the punishment for their attempt," said Carl. Pamela, Cyria, and Odonna, the doll that kept their secrets, were buried under the cellar forever. "Only Angouleme survived. Pity Pamela and Cyria couldn't escape the temple, even though they turned into nightwraiths."

"Did you forget?" Acamuthorm wheeled around and stared at the black cloth covering the skeletons. Gently, he said, "We've taken them away from their prison, but it's not enough. They haven't been purified."

"Calm down, mate. This is beyond us." Carl was solemn. He said, "We can't do anything rash. We have to ask for reinforcements."

"What's the date today?"

"Thirty-first of December, 1265."

"Tomorrow's the special date," said Acamuthorm darkly. "If we go to Lan Exeter for reinforcements first, the pigs will arrive at the temple before we come back. Which means Angouleme and the kids will be tortured again."

"But..."

"But what?" Acamuthorm interrupted, fury flaring in his eyes. "But it doesn't matter if they're tormented one more time, because they're used to it?"

Carl couldn't answer that. A lump was in his throat.

"It's different. Now I know about the ugly truth. Now I know of their sickening act." Acamuthorm held his griffin medallion tightly. Imperiously, he said, "I cannot ignore it when it's right in front of me." He looked at the path they walked, where the temple stood at the end of that path. He looked into the night, his gaze sharp and unyielding as a griffin's. "Look. Angouleme and the children are right there, standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone to help them."

He turned his back on Carl. "Through my actions, I will tell them that this world isn't just filled with people who abandoned them, nor is it just filled with evil, greedy priests, perverted pigs, or manipulative, evil gods. There's still warmth out there." Just like how warmth was shown to them before. He waved his hand. "You can leave for Lan Exeter and ask for reinforcements if you want. I can understand that. Or, you can pull your weapon out and read the inscription on its blade aloud."

The inscription. Carl paused. Back when the apprentices were told of Alzur and the grandmasters' stories, they asked their mentors for a quote for each of them while they were drunk. Carl never put much thought into that, since they only did it on a whim, but now that his mind and heart were at odds, he had to put that quote into the equation.

He unsheathed his weapon. A silver flash of light hurtled across the night, shining on the blade like silvery moonlight. Shining on the flowing pattern and the wavy inscription. Carl had a firm look on his face. He read the inscription out aloud. "Hold tight the blade in your heart, and strike evil where it stands."

Hold tight the blade in your heart, and strike evil where it stands. Carl's voice echoed into the night, crashing like waves.

***

Another blade, thin as a cicada's wing, arced through the air, buzzing like a bee. Acamuthorm held the hilt with his right hand and brushed his left hand across his weapon's inscription. He read his quote out aloud as well.

"My blade will not stop before it comes to glory."

The moonlight and campfire shone on his face. "I don't have the ambition to save the whole world like Alzur did, but right now, my chance at glory is right in front of me."

"I've always wanted to tell you something, Acamuthorm."

"I'm listening."

"Drowners have more brains than you do."

"Thanks for the compliment. You too. And this time, I'll be the vanguard."

***

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