Previously on Hidden Fragments
Calen returns to Isola’s home under cover of night, burdened by guilt and the news of Marisa’s capture. There, he reveals the truth about Sylvaine’s betrayal and the danger now surrounding them all. Though the mission seems broken and hope nearly lost, Marisa’s quiet wisdom proves greater than anyone expected. When Tobin finally speaks up, a hidden truth comes to light, revealing that the Scrolls were never lost after all, and that faith, courage, and obedience have preserved them against the enemy’s plans.
Chapter 21
Courage and Curses
Oh, Marisa … Calen thought, bowing his head, overwhelmed by emotion.
When he finally lifted his eyes, the mood around him had changed. There was a buzz of excitement in Tobin’s bedroom, now that the Scrolls had been found. Nevertheless, turmoil still churned in Calen’s heart: a whirlwind of conflicting feelings; joy and relief in knowing the scrolls were safe, but the gnawing guilt that Marisa was no longer there to help him, grew almost unbearable.
She had done the right thing. She had sensed something was wrong with Sylvaine Vrax and had refused to trust him with the Scrolls, while he himself had blindly fallen for the traitor’s smooth talk and slick manners. How wise Marisa had been.
She had every right to expose his foolishness and to call him immature, proud, and blind. He had been all those things. Yet she had chosen silence, remained faithful and had quietly prepared for the worst.
Tears welled in his eyes as he clutched the Scrolls to his chest. Dear Marisa. And now she was caught. How could he ever be free from the crushing guilt that pressed upon him? The Scrolls spoke of forgiveness of sins, of promises fulfilled in Jesus, the bearer of burdens. But how could such words be meant for him? How could he be reconciled?
He had been forgiven for his past sins. He had seen and felt it when he stared into the lake and opened his heart to the God of the Scrolls outside the cave. But what about all these new sins? The melody of defeat played constantly in his mind, replayed his miserable attitude a hundred times or more, but it brought no relief. The hopeless certainty of being the greatest failure in the realm of the God of the Scrolls clung to him like a poisonous vine, tightening around a helpless tree.
“By the Whiskers of Saint Gilles, why are you crying, Calen?” Tobin’s voice cut through him. “Aren’t you happy to see that the Scrolls are safe?”
Calen forced a smile and looked away, scolding himself. He had not meant to cry in front of Tobin. How could he lay such a burden on this precious young boy?
“I–I am very happy the Scrolls are safe, Tobin,” he said. “Marisa did a good thing by hiding them under your bed. Did you know what she had done?”
“Not really,” Tobin said. “I told her, the place under my bed was a safe spot. Then Marisa put something there. She made me promise not to look and not to tell anyone. I just did as she said.”
Calen looked at the boy in quiet awe. Tobin had shown better sense than he himself had.
“W–Will Marisa be all right?” Tobin asked, his lip trembling. “Is she in danger?”
Calen did not know what to say. Words failed him.
At that moment, Isola stepped in. “She will be all right, Tobin. Wherever she is right now, God is with her. She is in His mighty hands. He will not let her suffer beyond what she can bear.”
“So… she will suffer?” Tobin said, tears forming in his eyes. His little fists clenched, and all the joy he had expressed at finding the scrolls beneath his bed ebbed away. “It’s not fair.”
Isola gathered her son into her arms and held him close. “It doesn’t seem fair, my son,” she said softly. “But we have to trust God. His ways are higher than ours, even when we don’t understand them.”
“I don’t like God’s ways,” Tobin murmured. “Marisa is nice. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
His words struck Calen as if a cartload of gravel was dumped upon him, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at Isola. Would she rebuke Tobin for speaking so plainly? To be honest, he didn’t much like God’s ways either. Yet how could he explain to a child that this was not God’s doing, but that it was he, Calen, who had failed?
Nevertheless, he could not stay here. Neither could the Scrolls. What if Slink decided to check Isola’s house, as Drenick had done at Angus’s? Sylvaine Vrax had been here, and he had met the other believers. No, he had no choice.
He could not give in to discouragement. Failure or not, he had a mission to fulfill, a mission for which Marisa was now in prison.
He looked at Isola, who pressed Tobin close to her heart, whispering words of motherly comfort to the distraught boy. Calen did not fully understand the ways of God, but that was not his concern. His duty was to act. He was certain Marisa would have said something similar.
He cleared his throat. “I think I need to leave again.”
Isola looked up. “Leave where, Calen?”
“I am going back with the Scrolls, to the hermit in the Grey Mountains. I will do what Marisa would want me to do. This time, I go alone. Just me and God. I will trust no one.”
Isola held his gaze for a long moment. She said nothing, but Calen knew she agreed. Keeping the Scrolls here would be unwise, even dangerous. If soldiers came, they must find nothing. He had to keep Tobin and Isola safe. For now, all he could do was pray for Marisa’s safety and fulfill his part of the mission. His guilt, his longings and his desire for justice would have to be set aside in a locked room of his heart. He would deal with them later. Not now.
“Bye Tobin,” he said, rising to his feet. “You take good care of your mother now, son.”
Tobin looked up, eyes wide with fear. “Are you really going, Calen?”
“The mission, Tobin. Remember?” Calen sighed. “Now that I have the Scrolls again, I need to stick to the plan.”
Tobin wriggled out of Isola’s arms and ran to him. “I don’t want you to go, Calen. What if they catch you too, like they did Marisa?”
Calen caught him in a firm hug. “I will be back when all this is over, Tobin. God will watch over me.”
His own words surprised him, but something stirred deep within. He actually believed them to be true. How it would all work out he had no idea, but he needed to trust, just place his situation in the hands of God and let Him rule. He didn’t need to understand, he just needed to follow. It was almost as if he heard Marisa say the words: “It’s all by faith, Calen. Just by faith.”
***
Captain Droskar groaned and turned onto his other side, the bed creaking in protest. Still, there was no relief. Whatever he tried, rest would not come. For four days now, his entire body had been covered in tiny boils, each one aflame with a strange affliction that had seized him without warning. The itch was nearly unbearable, yet scratching only made it worse.
His physician, Albrecht Pomeroy, had no idea what had caused it and worse, no idea how to cure it.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before, Captain,” he had muttered, before pressing a small jar into Droskar’s hand. Sanctumleaf Unguent. A foul-smelling paste, seemingly as worthless as Pomeroy himself.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” Droskar had demanded.
“It’s obvious, Captain,” Pomeroy replied. “Apply it to every bump and boil.”
The physician refused to touch Droskar’s skin and made a hasty retreat. Fear of the disease outweighed duty.
Strangely enough, the affliction had begun around the same time she had been brought back, the woman who had once refused to spend time with him. This time, however, she was his prisoner.
Droskar had taken cruel pleasure in seeing her again when three of Slink’s soldiers dumped her at his office and, for some reason, ran off.
It didn’t matter. She was in his power now, and he would deal with her accordingly. Those pretty eyes had tricked him once before; they would not do so a second time.
He remembered her promise to drink Ogre Ale with him deep into the night. It had never happened. She had left him waiting like a fool. And yet, here she was, upright, defiant, as stubborn as they come.
He knew how to deal with women like her. Or so he told himself. After all, he was a man of rank, commander of twenty-five soldiers. She had undermined his authority. Word had spread that she had fooled him, making a mockery of his name.
Now, he would have his revenge.
“Well… well … well,” he blurted out sarcastically when they escorted her into his office, “So we meet again.”
She had not said a word and simply stared at the floor. It had frustrated Droskar. Did she truly believe she was beyond his reach? He held the power to do with her as he pleased.
“You know, damsel,” he hissed, “your chances of sharing a pint of Ogre Ale with me grow smaller by the second. Do you truly understand how much trouble you’re in?”
Marisa met his gaze without flinching. “If Ogre Ale is the price of your mercy,” she said evenly, “then I am content to remain thirsty. But understand, Captain, that my safety does not rest in your hands. Whatever happens next is not yours to decide.”
Her bold answer left him unsettled. This girl should be groveling, begging for mercy but she remained steadfast, unafraid. Either she was a fool or she knew something he didn’t.
“Then, who decides?” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
She met his gaze and spoke clearly: “God decides.”
“God doesn’t exist,” he snapped, anger flaring. If she had harbored any hope of mercy, it had just about vanished.
“I am not sure He is all that worried about your opinion of Him,” Marisa said. “Even if the entire country claims He doesn’t exist, He is still there, just as real as ever. He made the heavens and the earth. He is ultimately in control of everything that happens here, and not the council of Twelve.”
Her defiant stance infuriated him. His heart hammered, his blood boiled. “How dare you—”
An unbearable itch erupted across his back. His arms flew up instinctively, clawing for relief, but he could not reach the spot that tormented him. He groaned and shuddered, but it did change nothing.
That girl. That miserable girl. She simply stood there, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Something wrong, Captain?” she asked. Then, of all the horrible things, she added, “Do you want me to pray for you? God can help.”
“No!” he shouted. “I don’t want prayer. I want relief.”
By now, his frustrated groans were so loud that two servants rushed in to help. He slapped them away.
“Put this woman in prison,” he screamed. “Lock her in the deepest dungeon we have. And just scraps for food. That will teach her. And call Doctor Pomeroy.”
That had been four days ago. … Four days of agony, and still there was no sign of it easing.
A servant quietly slid into his chamber, carrying a chunk of bread and Sablewolf Jerky. “You must eat, sir,” he whispered. “You won’t get — “
“— I don’t want to eat, you fool,” he screamed. “I want to be healed.”
The servant placed the plate next to Droskar’s bed and hesitated.
“What is it, man?” Droskar groaned. “Do you enjoy seeing your captain in agony?”
The servant licked his lips and twiddled his fingers. “It’s just … the woman, sir.”
“What about her?” Droskar hissed.
“Allow me to be bold, sir,” the servant said in a quiet voice. “I do not for a minute believe in the God of the Scrolls, but what if there is something we do not know? What if she … put a curse on you?”
“A curse?” The word sent a chill through him. He had never considered that possibility, but his servant might be right. These enemies of the state were different. Perhaps she did possess some kind of power. Sweat broke out across his skin, causing the itch to burn even more.
“The word is going around,” the servant said, encouraged by the flicker of doubt he saw in his captain’s eyes. “The soldiers are afraid. Your disease is terrible, and no one wants to catch it. Perhaps you should treat her a little better. She has had little to eat and barely any water. She is tied up in a dark cell. If you show mercy, she might lift the curse.”
Droskar grunted. How he despised the thought of appearing weak. But the servant’s words carried more weight than that stupid, foul-smelling jar of Sanctumleaf Unguent.
“Fine,” he said at last. “Get her out of there. Give her something decent to eat. Clean her up and put her in a proper bed. Let her know I am being merciful.”
“Yes, sir,” the servant said, nodding. He made a small bow and withdrew at once.
Not even half an hour later, to Droskar’s great surprise, the itch had lessened. He was not healed, but the constant urge to claw at his skin until it bled had eased.
He called for the servant, who appeared almost instantly.
“Yes, sir?”
“Is the prisoner in another place?”
“Yes, sir,” the servant said. “She is. We gave her some bread.”
“Bread’s not good enough,” Droskar snapped. “Give her a hot meal.”
“Right, sir. What kind of hot meal?”
“The best,” Droskar barked. “Honey-glazed River pheasant with saffron barley and spiced figs. Anything less is unacceptable.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And… eh…” Droskar added, shifting. “Lots of Ogre Ale. As much as she wants.”
The servant hesitated. “I don’t think she likes Ogre Ale, sir.”
“Whatever,” Droskar growled. “Give her whatever it is she wants.”
“As you wish, sir.”
To Droskar’s joy and relief, within the hour his itch stopped completely. Even his boils no longer looked so dark or threatening and were drying up. He was getting better; the worst seemed behind him.
As he finally allowed his weary muscles to relax and fatigue threatened to overtake him, his thoughts returned to the girl. She was now well-fed and in a proper bed. Yes, his servant had been right: she had put a curse on him, and now that he had shown mercy, it appeared to be lifted. She was a witch, plain and simple.
But how does one deal with such a woman? Much caution would be needed.
Now he needed sleep, the first in four days.
But it was not as sweet as he had hoped. Dreams of witches haunting him with terrifying curses plagued him throughout the night. It sure wasn’t easy being a captain in the service of the Council of Twelve.
By dawn, he had decided he’d had enough and climbed out of bed. He soothed his frayed nerves with a few swigs of Ogre Ale. It would give him a spiky headache, but for now, he didn’t care.
By the time morning light peeked through his window, his servant found him snoring loudly on his desk, a half-full mug of Ogre Ale still clutched in his hand. Even as he snored, a shiver ran down his spine, as if invisible eyes were still watching. Somehow he knew, the girl’s influence was far from over.