After taking a two year break from writing novels, I have decided to take up my pen again and start a new project. With no further adieu, here is my story, though I have to say I am a little nervous... seeing as this is my first time with this sort of thing.
I hate this part of the job. I always have, and I suspect, I always will. I am imprisoned in a black robe; the white wig on my head reeks of expensive perfume. As I stand before a mirror; my haggard face looked extremely out of place behind the wall of blushes and powders my attendant Cayenne placed skillfully on my face. Although she was an expert on such matters, my face would never fully comply with her good intentions. I suppose it would be prudent of me to describe myself.
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. My lips were thin, but not overbearingly so. I looked back into the mirror; my reflection stared incredulously back at me. I frowned slightly as I turned away from myself in disgust.
“Something the matter?” Cayenne asked sardonically from behind me. Cayenne, as I have said before, is my personal attendant. She has been in my services for almost five years now. 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. I believe she was four years younger than I, though I can’t be certain due to my own personal background.
“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, obviously agitated at my complaint. Before she could say anything, the door opened to reveal the sniveling form of a robed servant named Jacques.
“My Lord Inquisitor,” he groveled, “the others are ready.” I nodded curtly to Cayenne and took one last look in the mirror before striding out of my room. Jacques lead me down the stairs of the crowded inn where a crowd had gathered. As I descended the 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 presence before he got me. “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 that 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. I am sure none of the assembled men had ever heard of our secret order; the less they knew the better. If they had known the horrors of this world that I knew, I doubt they would have been terrified of me. They would have welcomed me with open arms. 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.
That particular day, 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, 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. It was a brisk day, though what day in England isn’t during the winter season? The sanctuary itself was tiny in comparison to the giants I have seen in dozens of other countries. It was an extremely 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 that seemed to be a great spike rising ominously out of the wooden floor. That is 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 inquisitor’s around me seemed to be of the same mindset; all grim and stoic. As I sat down, I saluted them with the Mark, simply crossing one’s arms over each other and gripping each forearm, but no one returned it. As I suspected, none of my order were present at the hearing.
I sat there, bitterly complaining to myself about my misfortune. For the past three years I had been chasing the trail of a Spanish warlock named Mincho Moreno. Mincho Moreno, rapist, heretic, murder… mass murder. Even as I sat behind the bench, trying to listen intently to the typical witchcraft foolery, my blood started to cool at the very thought of the monster that was loose. Over the past three years he has left a bloody path for me to follow. His gory footprints first showed up in Turin, Italy, where he single handedly demolished a citadel, killing ten priests and forty civilians. I had just finished a trip to Milan to check on my masters when I was called by Inquisitor Arbisher on “an errand of utmost importance.” A sudden physical shock brought my thoughts back to the trial before me. Mincho would have to wait. I stared at the woman in front of me with more interest.
“I am no witch,” she scoffed at the words of the Lord Interrogator. She said her words evenly, although she looked like a broken and defeated thing at the center of the sanctuary; shackled like a wild animal to the floor. Her dress had been torn in many places; a testament to her harsh treatment. She reeked of witchcraft.
There is always a very distinct odor that follows the damned around. I suppose it tastes like vinegar mixed with lemon; not a pleasant smell or taste at all. The problem is, normal people are unable to read the taint because they have not trained themselves to notice it. It is not a smell you literally smell, but something you smell in your mouth; like spicy Persian food except more disgusting and less filling. In my ten years of serving the inquisition, I have yet to find a suitable food to describe the taste. I was sure none of my fellow inquisitors knew this. They probably had never executed a real servant of evil before in their lives; I must say that I was impressed they managed to catch a real one.
I am not conceited; I just speak the truth in this matter. For centuries the inquisition has been a ploy to find “witches” and instead has worked hard to destroy those who they find to be guilty of being individuals. I am a devote follower of the Church mind you, but I cannot stand to see such innocence bled to death under the banner of uniform. That is why I am a member of the Sacred Mark. I fight real witches and daemons that those outside our order would be horrified to even see from afar.
