I hated this part of the job. I always have, and I suspect, I always will. I was imprisoned in a black robe, wrinkling my nose at the disgusting smell of perfume that my extravagant wig emitted. A blush and powder covered face stared back at me as I looked in the mirror. Although Cayenne was an expert on such matters, my face would never fully comply with her good intentions.
“You should have gone easy on the blush,” I moaned. I looked at myself in the mirror as I suppressed the urge to vomit.
“What was that?” Cayenne called from the other room, “If you are complaining about my job you can do it yourself next time.” I couldn’t help but smile at her quip, even though I knew it was a plausible threat. I turned my attention back to the man in the mirror and ignored her curses from the other room. A cloud of blush fell from my face as my muscles tensed.
In short, I was a thirty year old man with a healthy amount of stubble on my chin. My hair was the color of a pure bred, walnut horse. Inside my skull were two indigo eyes; ever wary, ever vigilant. Throughout my life, I have been accused of having the cruelest eyes on this side of Prussia; however, I have met some Swedes that would put my hard eyes to shame. Frowning slightly, I turned away from myself in disgust.
“Something the matter?” Cayenne asked from behind me. Cayenne was my personal attendant and had been in my services for almost five years. As her name implies, she was a lovely French maiden; though calling her a maiden would be stretch. Scrawny and not overly rounded, Cayenne had long, dark blonde hair with sapphire eyes that always seemed to be a mere second away from lighting up with righteous ferocity.
“No nothing too serious,” I complained bitterly, “just peeved that I have to wear this ridiculous thing.” I pointed accusingly at the white monstrosity that had taken residence on my head. She pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. As she opened her mouth to rebuke me, the door squeaked open, revealing a sniveling figure. My stomach churned with nausea as the robed servant, Jacques, a loathsome man who worshipped the very ground I walked on, approached me.
“My Lord Inquisitor,” he groveled, “the others are ready.” His enthusiastic eyes seemed to jump up and down impatiently at me, almost as if I was the one who was wasting his time. I nodded curtly to Cayenne and took one last look in the mirror before I strode out of the silent sanctuary of my room. Jacques lead me down the stairs of the crowded inn where a multitude of commoners had gathered. As I descended the unsteady stairs, I heard hushed whispers from the assembled guests. I had hoped to keep my presence here a secret, but Jacques had apparently spread the news of my arrival before he had retrieved me from my hiding place.
“Out of the Lord Inquisitor’s way!” Jacques’ voice boomed through the wooden entrance hall, causing many of the spectators to move without hesitation. I reached out to break the little weasel’s neck, but I quickly withdrew my hand. He wasn’t worth the effort.
“That’s one of them inquisitors,” I heard one man say to another; “rumor has it that that man is Cyrus Dominic.” I could not help but notice the fear my name stirred in his voice. It was palatable, even from so far away. Cyrus Dominic, yes that was my name. Not just any inquisitor however, I reminded myself, a sanctioned member of Sacred Mark. Had they known the horrors of this world that I knew, I doubt they would have been terrified of me. The throng of villagers parted as I marched by them; almost as if I carried the black plague with me. They were scared; as they should be. I let out an annoyed sigh, and tried to smile; I failed miserably.
I was called upon by my fellow inquisitors to partake in a trial involving a woman named Eadoin Gilmour. Eadoin had been accused of witchcraft by my fellow inquisitors in England. I say “fellow” inquisitors loosely, because none of them are members of the Sacred Mark. I wanted to turn down their invitation and continue my own investigations, but that would have been severely impolite of me. In order to understand the world of Inquisitors, one must first have a firm grasp of the intricate political world. Had I declined their invitation, I probably would have been investigated by my peers to see if I too carried the taint of witchcraft.
Instead of causing trouble, I sat behind the jury bench, along with half a dozen inquisitors listening to the poor woman’s trial. We assembled in an old Catholic Church about ten past two in the afternoon. The sanctuary itself was tiny in comparison to the giants I have seen in dozens of other countries. It was an exceptionally dark room; all the shutters had been closed for our interrogation. Let me clarify; the four windows had been closed and the drizzling sky blocked out any light that might shine through the stain glass depicting the Virgin Mary. The inquisitorial congregation was set off to the left of the sanctuary.
The right side of the sanctuary was a pulpit, a great spike rising ominously out of the wooden floor. That was where Interrogator Judice stood, his face an ashen shade of grey. I swear I could find more cheer in a graveyard then go to a tavern with him. He was a lanky fellow, which was strange for a man of his standing. His eyes were a dull blue, and his face gaunt with seriousness. Although Judice’s wig was meant to make him seem intimidating, it made him look ridiculous because of his small head. The other inquisitors around me seemed to be of the same mindset; all were grim and stoic. As I sat down, I saluted them with the Mark, crossing one of my arms over the other and gripping each forearm. Not to my surprise, no one returned it. I, as usual, was alone.
