Armored Heart: Dark Seduction. Chapter 4

Mara smiled as she and Ithella led the way towards the stables near one of the city’s gates with Abbot Du Bois, Willsham, Vicky, and Sarah in tow. Aside from Du Bois, they were each carrying a big bag of luggage, and knew the supplies they would need for their journey were already piled into one of the wagons they’d rented.

She had elected to pack her armor in her bag. The bands of leather and metal weighed it down tremendously, making the strap dig into her shoulder. But she really didn’t mind that too much. Soon that too would be packed away, and they’d begin their two-week overland trek due west before they’d eventually reach the river Torine, and be able to cover the rest by barge or boat.

The city was lovely as they walked, with the occasional tree a vibrant green, and the weather more than warm enough. They’d all shed most of their clerical robes, instead wearing sleeveless tunics in the same general style as the heavier attire they usually chose.

A pleasant breeze blew from the south, occasionally fluttering the light clothing they all wore. Her amulet was a pleasant weight on her chest, resting against the bare skin left open by the tunics’ rather generous necklines.

They attracted some looks as they wove between the various markets of the city’s main thoroughfares, ranging from respectful smiles and nods from the city guards to resentful scowls by the madams and workers of the city’s many brothels, who were all as displeased by them as always.

“They’re awfully judgmental for prostitutes,” Mara huffed.

“Pay them no mind, Mara,” the abbot advised. “I’ve invited all of them to the monastery to talk about their brothels being sanctified more times than you can count. They’re not interested.”

“Kind of hard to pay them no mind when they look at me like that,” Mara mumbled.

“I know,” he said. “But that’s hardly—”

“Mara!” a familiar, masculine voice suddenly cut in. It made her stomach sink slightly just to hear it, and she dearly wished she’d be able to just ignore it this time. But, no such luck. Her head had already snapped up to look in the direction it came from, and she spotted him in the crowds instantly. Her father.

She let out a soft sigh that hardly reflected just how much she did not care to talk to this man. But then, she didn’t actually need to tell anyone about that. Everyone in her party knew exactly why she didn’t like him, as did most of the city guard, and it was precisely because of that that he was one of the few people in Cerene that were barred from the monastery.

Mara hadn’t seen him since she’d helped put on the baron’s spring equinox feast a few months ago, and even that had been a mercifully brief encounter. So, she supposed she was overdue to be harassed by him again, but she’d really hoped he’d manage to hold it in until after their trip to the Convocation.

“Mara!” he yelped again, as he moved through the crowds and towards their little procession of priests. They didn’t stop for his benefit, instead continuing to walk towards the stables. Of course the pushy man didn’t let that discourage him, and instead he moved to walk alongside them, as if he were a peer. He was a rather overweight type, a hair taller than Mara, with her pale skin and blue eyes, but darker hair.

“Hello,” said Mara, forcing herself to keep her voice flat.

“You’re going away again?” he asked, awkwardly. “I… uhm… I noticed we delivered a lot of feed to the monastery’s stables today, and you and your… friends are carrying heavy bags.”

“We are,” answered Mara, coldly. “We’re going to Cornon, to attend the confirmation of the new pontifex.”

“Oh, really?” He asked. “Isn’t that… Isn’t that kind of important work for an acolyte?”

Mara rolled her eyes and scoffed. “An acolyte. Is that what you think I am, Dad?” she asked. At least he wasn’t accusing her of being a perverted aspiring prostitute again, like he’d done when she first came to the monastery.

“Well, yeah. You’ve only—”

Mara stopped and dropped her bag as she turned to look at him. “Well, no,” she cut him off. “For someone who so blatantly disapproves of my path in life, someone who tried to make me turn my back on my calling since I was a teenager, you’re awfully poorly informed about what it actually entails,” she said, then took a hold of her amulet and held it up for him to look at. “Have you ever seen an acolyte wear one of these, Dad?!”

His eyes widened, though Mara could tell it was at the frustrated tone, not the amulet itself. “Well, no, I—”

“You just want to admonish me some more,” Mara cut in. “You want to tell me I’m wrong to worship, want to tell me I shouldn’t have faith in my Lady despite knowing all my life that I should. But you’ll never convince me of that again, Dad, because she’s repaid my faith, already.”

Unwilling to let him get a word in edgewise, Mara quickly raised a hand, and intoned “éclair,” as she pictured a bright flash of light that might stun him into silence. When the flash manifested, a brilliant pink and gold light that stood out even in the summer sun, she felt only the slightest drain on her ragira reserves and a comforting tingle on back, a feeling of peace and solidarity from her Lady.

Mara took a deep breath to center herself, keenly satisfied by the slack-jawed expression on her father’s face. “Lady Ishara has accepted me, and my devotion with it. I’m a Touched priestess, not some girl going through a phase, and certainly not someone you can talk into leaving that behind.”

“Good,” he eventually said. He looked unsteady about it, but sounded sincere, which confused Mara at first.

“Good?” she asked.

“Good,” he repeated. “There’s a war on, Mara. I’d rather have you playing priestess in the south than be a guard when the Adampora get here.”

“Your daughter is not playing anything, Dardan,” Abbot Du Bois cut in. “The spell she cast is all the proof that anyone could want or need. She is every bit as legitimate a priestess as—”

“Don’t you mention her name, Du Bois,” growled her father, his eyes briefly angrier than she’d ever seen, before he too took a series of deep breaths, which left Mara wondering who the abbot was about to mention. “I… I do not approve of this, Mara. I… I can’t. But between you staying here to fight off the Adampora, and you going off to do this, it’s obvious what the lesser evil is.”

The word evil echoed through Mara’s mind, banishing all other thoughts, and leaving her stunned that this man had dared to say that. “My Lady is not the lesser evil, you fucking heretic,” Mara spat at him, before she picked up her bag, and started to walk off. “You should pray for her forgiveness before those Adampora get here. I certainly will.”

Mara had calmed considerably by the time they got to the stables, mostly thanks to Ithella’s comforting hand on her shoulder, and words of reassurance and approval from the other Isharans.

The others were packing their bags into either Du Bois’ coach, or the cart full of their provisions, leaving Mara and Ithella to the task of actually retrieving their horses. They followed a stable girl through the rows of horses, until eventually, they got to theirs. Mara smiled at the sight of them.

“Salut, Maréchale! Salut, Peanut!” she said, eagerly hurrying closer to them. They’d had these horses for years at this point, and Mara was terribly fond of both of them. Ithella’s horse, Maréchale, was a large hulking draft horse with a gray coat, black mane, and the temperament of an Aldressan Redwood tree. She was as calm as she was large, which made her an ideal mount for a tall elf like her.

The other horse, Peanut, was far smaller, with a brown and white pinto coat. She wasn’t nearly the same stoic heroine as Maréchale, nor had she been a gift from Her Grace like Ithella’s. But Mara still loved the goofy girl, whom she had ironically never been able to convince to actually eat even a single peanut. She ruffled both of the horses’ ears fondly for a moment, then stepped to where the stablegirl had laid out Peanut’s saddle, and set about the process of putting it on as Ithella did the same to Maréchale. Meanwhile, the stablehands started to lead the hired draft horses to their loads.

Only a few minutes later, the horses had been hitched and saddled, lined up just inside of the city gates. They were wide open, guarded by a handful of men and women, with the fields beyond the city all covered in grain.

As they rode out through those gates, Mara noticed one of the guards was carrying a sword rather than a glaive, but had no knots or braids decorating his armor. The pointy ears completed the look to tell her it was Dathan, still a sergeant, just as Dira had said.

Delightful,” Mara thought, not quite able to stop herself from smiling in satisfaction at his misfortune, unpriestly of her though that might be. That man had a stick up his ass he only liked to take out when he could use it to beat people who didn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t be a guard at all, let alone a sergeant, and it would be a terrible day indeed when he made it to a high enough rank to make policy.

But, thankfully, he was out of mind not a moment later than he was out of sight, freeing Mara to let her mind wander a bit. Their little convoy was compact. Mara and Ithella were riding at the front, with Wilsham driving the abbot’s coach just behind them, and Vicky and Sarah chatting to each other on the bench of their dedicated freight cart at the back.

They had two weeks of travel like this ahead of them, stopping at the various villages along the way for lodgings most nights. The first stop would have been the nearby village of Bodrin, but that had been sacked by bandits years back, and wasn’t quite rebuilt yet. Besides, that was a little too far to the north to be practical, anyways.

When they made it out past the outermost picket lines of Cereni guards, Mara found herself wondering what all they might encounter on their journey. A subversively excitable and romantic part of her hoped they’d encounter all manner of perils and trials to overcome, but that part wasn’t quite enough to overcome the motto of guards everywhere.

A boring day is a good day.

It was a good adage. A boring day meant no weapons drawn in anger. It meant no mourning widowers and no burned-out buildings. It meant the most dangerous thing you’d face was the ire of people who thought there were too many guards like you, rather than a bandit who noticed there weren’t enough.

She’d get her thrills by helping Ithella catch some chickens when they made camp tonight—the bamboo groves in Cerene and the surrounding baronies were riddled with the stupid things. That, and of course, more practice with her new abilities.

Mara smiled at the mere thought. For so long, the best she’d been able to do to defend herself and those she loved was to either slash at wrongdoers with her glaive, or whack them with the weapon’s shaft. Now, though? Now she had her Lady Ishara’s power to wield.

She would learn to paralyze people, stun them, or put them to sleep. With practice, she could enchant people’s minds in a dozen different ways to prevent from having to resort to violence, and if that failed, she’d be able to call upon more destructive powers just as effectively. But… That was all beside the point. She would learn offensive magic spells, of course. Indeed, Ithella had insisted she memorize a ludicrous plenty of them, and she was relatively certain she’d already be able to manage at least a few, if the occasion was dire enough.

But she didn’t want to use them.

She wanted to use the spells that would let her bring love and passion into the world. She wanted to help people find meaning in their lives, wanted to make sure they would partake of her Lady’s gifts. She would perform far more weddings than she would participate in battles, and she would heal more bruises than she would inflict.

“Copper Scale for your thoughts?” Ithella asked, snapping Mara’s attention back to the road. She looked around for a moment, and saw they’d only barely covered half a mile. The giant, Andorf’s lodge was to their right, a building that looked deceptively normal-sized when surrounded by bamboo, with the hilly terrain behind it and no other houses in sight to give it context. Only the cow in a pen built against one of its walls gave away that it was thrice as big as it looked.

“Thinking about this thing,” Mara said, pointing over her shoulder at her glaive. “Whether I should even still have it.”

“Of course you should,” Ithella easily said. “It’s part of who you are. It’s part of how you worship, by following Her Grace’s example.”

Mara smiled at Ithella. “I know, but… Well, it’s awfully big and threatening, isn’t it?” she asked.

“So is Her Grace,” Ithella reminded her, which was true. Her Grace Seeker was a little over six feet tall, and could be damned scary when she wanted to be. “But I believe I understand your meaning, Femme d’Arme. You’re worried your priesthood will be defined by your ability to win fights, rather than prevent them.”

Mara shook her head. “No, not quite,” she said. “I mean, that’s part of it. But… Well, you know how I feel about fighting.”

Ithella smiled as she nodded. “You adore it, as long as the blades are dull.”

Mara nodded. “I don’t want to hurt people, Ithella.”

“Don’t worry about that, Mara,” Ithella soothed. “Have faith in yourself, like Lady Ishara does. Like I do. If you’re forced to use your glaive, that is just another way to serve her will.”

Two days later, early in the morning, they left a village called Shepherd’s Dream behind. It had been a nice enough place to stay, with a comfortable inn, and friendly merchants that made a mean mutton stew they would have happily sold for half of what Du Bois had insisted on paying.

The sun was only just rising behind them, defused by the leafy tops of the bamboo groves that still dominated the landscape so close to Cerene. They all would have preferred to stay in bed for at least another hour, but the itinerary didn’t allow them very much slack, if they wanted to make it to the next village before nightfall.

It was so early, in fact, that they’d had to leave before their morning prayers. The plan was that they would stop for that the moment they found a spot where direct sunlight hit the soil, which to Mara’s dismay looked like it would be an hour yet, unless they happened upon a clearing.

To Mara’s left, Ithella rode Maréchale without a care in the world. Of course she would—the damned elf only slept every third day, or so. She’d let her reins go, content to let the horse follow the road on her own while she used one of her many knives to hew a branch she’d picked up down into what Mara guessed would become an arrow.

“You just can’t keep your hands still, can you?” Mara teased.

Ithella looked up at her, and smiled. “Fletching is important!” she said, reaching back to tap the bow that hung from Maréchale’s saddle. “I’ve only got fifty arrows, and I’m sure we’ll be plucking enough chickens by the time we get to the ship to make as many again.”

“Only fifty arrows, she says!” Wilsham cut in from the bench of Du Bois’ carriage, before he broke out in a fit of giggles.

“Only fifty,” Ithella reaffirmed, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “And I didn’t even make these myself. I don’t trust I’d hit with much more than half of them.”

Mara could only smile at that, and fondly watched as Ithella hewed away at the stick. Over the course of ten minutes she cut off the gnarls and bark, leaving a relatively smooth shaft. Knowing her, Mara guessed she’d be keeping her eyes open for any stones she could knap down into an arrowhead.

“What’s next?” Mara asked as Ithella dropped the half-finished arrow into one of her quivers.

“Why, finding another stick, of course,” Ithella said with a grin. “That, and finding those chickens so I can—” The priestess cut herself off, and whispered something to Maréchale, raising a hand to signal that they should stop.

Mara brought Peanut to a halt as well, and a few moments later, Wilsham and then Vicky brought their carts to a stop. “Hey, what’s going on?!” called Sarah.

“Quiet,” whispered Ithella. She seemed to be listening for something. Whatever it was, it was lost to Mara under the sounds of the forest. She knew better than to ask, instead watching Ithella keenly. The elf was blankly staring down at the ground, focused purely on what she could hear. “There’s a fight up ahead,” she eventually said.

“A fight?” asked Wilsham.

Ithella nodded. “Far from a fair one, too. Bandits harassing travelers, I think.”

“How many?” asked Du Bois, who was climbing out of his coach.

“Five bandits, I think,” said Ithella.

“Go and put a stop to what they’re doing, then,” Du Bois said. “We’ll come after you as quickly as the horses can pull us.”

Ithella and Mara both nodded back at him. “Courez,” said Ithella, charging the command to both Maréchale and Peanut with her patron god’s power, and inspiring them to take off in a gallop.

Mara had to clutch her saddle’s horn for dear life to prevent her fall, but she managed it. She couldn’t see the trouble up ahead yet, but she’d never once known Ithella to be wrong about these things. Once Mara regained her balance in the saddle, she pulled her glaive off of her back, then unfastened the strap from either end, and stuffed it into her satchel.

She dearly wished she’d had time to put on her armor, but by the time she managed that, whatever villainy they’d encountered would likely be over.

They rode their horses hard, the clop of their hooves kicking up heaps of white dust from the chalked-over road through the bamboo. When they finally rounded the last bend, Mara was nothing short of horrified by what she saw.

Three women and two men were ransacking a camp built in a clearing to the right of the road. They were armed with crossbows, and two of them had their weapons trained on the two half-dressed, green-skinned victims they’d seemingly dragged kicking and screaming from their tents, judging by the frightened howls from one of them.

One of the bandits—the leader, judging by how little she was doing compared to the others—looked up and saw their approach, and wasted no time in aiming her crossbow and firing.

The bolt whizzed past Mara’s head, only narrowly missing, and she heard Ithella let out a hateful growl at that. The warpriest drew her sword with one hand as she flicked Maréchale’s reins, which inspired the horse to pick up the pace just a little more. The bandit leader frantically made to reload her crossbow as they charged at her, and her companions leveled their weapons too, but not in time.

Ithella rode through the camp at a full gallop and swung her sword at the leader’s head, only narrowly missing it. Meanwhile, Mara brought Peanut to a halt on the near side of the camp, and hopped out of the heaving horse’s saddle.

The bandits let fly a volley of crossbow bolts. Three of them were aimed at Ithella, and one at Mara. Mara heard Ithella cast a spell just in time to send the bolts that were meant for her off-course, but she herself had no such protection. The bolt hit her left forearm, cutting a painful gash into it that extracted a stifled yelp from her, and told her these bandits had just lost any hope that Ithella would be willing to take prisoners.

She flicked her glaive just so, sending the scabbard that covered the blade flying off into the road as she charged at the nearest of the bandits. Mara thrust at her with the weapon, and the bandit used her crossbow as a makeshift shield, shoving it far enough to the side to prevent it from skewering her, but not enough to stop the sharp blade from biting into her shoulder.

The woman screamed and cursed, and another of the bandits charged at Mara, wielding one of his crossbow bolts like it was a dagger. Mara raised her bloody left hand at the man as she pulled her glaive free from the woman. The man had murder in his eyes, and mournfully, Mara intoned “flamme de ma déesse,” lacing the spell with her hope that Lady Ishara would put a quick end to his attack.

A ball of brilliant pink and gold fire manifested in her palm and shot out at the man, striking him in the face, and draining much of what little ragira Mara had left. He let out a horrifically pained scream, and dropped his makeshift weapon as he clutched his charring face with both hands.

Mara struck at him with her glaive, unwilling to let him suffer like this, and worried she’d lose the nerve if she waited. The blade cut deeply into his throat, and he dropped limp not a moment later, which extracted a panicked scream from one of his would-be victims.

Across the campsite, Ithella brought her sword down in a series of practiced slashes, cutting down one, then two, then a third of the bandits in rapid succession, which left the one Mara had pegged as their leader to then take off running into the woods.

Ithella paused for a moment, her eyes moving from one body to the next, before finally settling on Mara’s bloodied arm. “I’ll be fine,” she told Ithella, then tilted her head in the direction the leader had run off to. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to take her prisoner?”

The warrior priestess didn’t so much as acknowledge the question, only taking off in a sprint after the bandit and whistling for Maréchale to follow her.

Mara looked at her own arm for a moment, gauging how bad the wound was. It hurt something fierce, and it was bleeding to match, but she’d be fine. She put pressure on the wound for now, and briefly looked at the fallen forms of the bandits. None of them were breathing, much though it pained Mara that they were beyond her capacity to help.

She looked at the travelers, next. A man and a woman, both orcs, dressed only in shorts and a shirt, respectively. They’d scampered back to their tent during the fight, set up against a two-wheeled cart, and the mule that was presumably in charge of pulling it was frantically pulling at the tent spike it had been hitched to.

The woman was sobbing as she leaned against what Mara guessed was her beloved, who himself looked too shocked to be of much use in a conversation. Still, Mara asked, “did they hurt either of you?”

Only when the man shook his head and hoarsely whispered, “a few bruises,” without meeting her eyes did Mara allow herself to tend her wound properly.

She racked her brain for a few moments, trying to recall a basic healing spell as she leaned against the travelers’ cart’s wheel. When she finally recalled it, she closed her eyes, and imagined Lady Ishara herself tending her wound as she whispered “guérez.” She felt another substantial drain on the power she had left, and a tingle akin to someone holding her hand as the bizarre sensation of flesh stitching itself back together replaced the pain, a feeling like her skin was covered in a thick cake of set wax.

When the pain stopped, Mara helped herself to a nearby waterskin, and poured some of its contents out over her arm. All that was left of the wound was a little pink star-shaped scar that would hopefully fade in time.

“Gods,” whispered Mara. She felt a little light-headed from the whole ordeal, and found herself really wanting to perform that prayer to rejuvenate herself some. But that could wait until after she’d helped this couple.

She stepped over to them, and knelt down in front of them. She could hear Ithella and the bandit leader fighting in one direction, and the wheels and horses of their little convoy catching up in the other. As she settled down, she felt something hard press uncomfortably into her shin, and when she pulled it loose, she was horrified to see she was holding a collar that thrummed with magic.

“What in all the hells?” mumbled Mara as she looked at it, then around them. There wasn’t anything in their camp that looked remotely worth stealing, only cookware and worn-out clothes.

Nothing except the orcs themselves.

“Slavers,” whispered Mara, which extracted a distracted nod from the man. He looked beyond haunted to her, likely horrified by both what the bandits—ney, slavers—had tried to do to them, and what it had taken for Mara and Ithella to prevent it.

“J-just take whatever you want, and go. Please,” managed the woman between sobs.

“Whatever I want?” asked Mara. “I’m not here to gain anything. My friends and I heard the fighting, and we came to help, as our gods would want us to.”

“G-gods?” the woman asked, swallowing as if to stifle what would have been another sob.

“Yes,” said Mara. “My name is Mara De La Cerene. I’m a priestess of Lady Ishara, and I swear to you we’re not here to hurt either of you.” She held out her amulet for them to look at. They both did, but their eyes soon found their way to the dead. “N-no, no,” Mara quickly said. “Don’t look at them, they don’t deserve—” A crack of thunder in the distance told Mara Ithella had likely dispatched the last of the slavers, and she grimaced.

That could not have come at a worse time.

“Just look at me, please,” Mara whispered. She could recall a spell she’d been at the receiving end of a few times, meant to distract people from traumatic experiences. Would that work here? She supposed there was no harm in trying.

She reached out as gently as she could, placing a hand on either of them. She whispered “voyez moi et seulement moi,” charging the spell with her hope that Lady Ishara would help them to pay attention to her, rather than what had happened to them. The drain on her ragira was substantial, taking practically everything she had left.

But it did work. The couple both relaxed visibly. They slumped against each other just a little more, their jaws loosened up a hint, and their eyes stopped wandering. Their full attention was solely on her, and Mara could admit that she rather liked being able to do that to people.

Gods, it was exhausting, though. She held the spell, focusing on it, giving both of them a reassuring smile until she heard the others arrive. Maintaining it took a small, continuous amount of power from her, and she sighed in relief when Willsham took over, and started to lead the pair away.

Mara felt light-headed when she finally released the spell, hungry and fatigued. Despite knowing that just saying her morning prayer would be enough to set her straight, her body made a compelling case that what she really wanted was to scarf down a square meal or two and go to sleep.

“Are you alright, Mara?” asked Du Bois’ voice, as he offered her both her glaive and discarded scabbard. She took both, and fished a rag from her satchel to mindlessly clean the blood off of the weapon.

“Tired,” admitted Mara. “I wish we hadn’t had to do that.”

“I know,” soothed Du Bois, as he urged Mara to stand. She did so, but not without picking up one of the crossbow bolts and enchanted collar, both of them as proof that what she and Ithella had done was necessary. “You can ride in my carriage until we find somewhere more suitable to reflect on what happened here.”

An hour later, they set up alongside a creek in a small clearing. The ride had let Mara stew on whether she and Ithella had done something monstrous by killing those people, and she did not like the answer she was coming to. Mara was eager to get out of the carriage, and wasted very little time in finding a calm spot amongst the wildflowers to finally perform her morning prayer.

In the absence of an idol representing her Lady, Mara took off her amulet first, and set it down on the grass before she made the prayer sign, extending her middle and index finger while folding her thumb under the other two, then ran her extended fingers down her chest before bowing to her amulet.

“Bonjour, Madame,” she said to begin her prayer. Her connection to the goddess made the words resonate in the tones of magic. “Ishara, Blessed Lady of Love and Lust, I ask you to walk with me, bless me, guide me to new passions, shield me from heartbreak, and be a balm on my soul.”

The prayer paid off immediately. Mara could feel the weariness and exhaustion evaporate off of her, and with a pleasant sensation that penetrated her very spine, her reserves of power were restored. “Thank you,” she whispered, relieved that she’d not lost Ishara’s favor. “I… I was worried I’d made a mistake fighting those people like that, my Lady. I still am.”

Mara paused, and despite knowing she was setting herself up for disappointment, asked the question directly. “Was I wrong to help Ithella kill those people, my Lady?” She didn’t try to explain or justify her actions, she only sought her goddess’ judgment.

For a few moments, Mara felt nothing. Until a gentle breeze picked up, and she felt the faintest hint of something akin to an embrace, and a kiss on the forehead. A sense of mournful but unambiguous approval accompanied it, and Mara smiled. No matter what she had been afraid of, no matter what the others might decide later, her goddess, her Lady Ishara, approved.

“Thank you, my Lady. I pray that you continue to guide me to just deeds,” said Mara before she made the sign again, put her amulet back on, and rose from the ground. She quickly returned to the little convoy, where most of her friends were likewise just returning from their prayers.

She’d left her glaive leaning against Du Bois’ carriage, and now took the time to refasten the strap so she could sling it over her shoulder when it was time to leave. “You did well, Femme d’Arme,” Ithella soothed, as she fed Peanut and Maréchale each a few pears she’d seemingly dipped in molasses.

“You’re spoiling them,” Mara quipped as the horses scarfed the candied fruit down.

“They deserve it, after we rode them so hard,” Ithella said. “You should tend to our passengers, Daughter of Passion.”

Mara sighed. She supposed she should. Still seated in the carriage, the orcs both had distant stares to them that reminded Mara of the victims of Isadora Harper’s—known only as the Bandit Mage at the time—villainy. Mara climbed into the carriage a moment later, and was relieved they’d at least meet her gaze by now.

Part of her wanted to ask them what had happened, to interrogate them like she would have done in the Cereni Guard. But that was not her place, and hadn’t been for a long time. Her place was to comfort these people, and little else.

She wondered how she might best go about that. Whether it would be more effective to give them more time to reflect, as Willsham must have decided was best, or to—

“I can’t believe they tried to do that to us,” the male orc said. “They just… They just walked up, and tried to… Tried to…”

“It’s okay,” said Mara. “I understand.”

“And now they’re dead,” he added. “They tried to do that to us, tried to take us. They said we wouldn’t even want to escape once those damned collars were on, and… And now they’re dead. M-maybe if—”

“No,” said Mara, firmly. “Don’t go down that path. You didn’t hurt those people; they hurt you, and they paid the price for it. It was the will of the gods that they were sent to Tenebor, and you are not to blame.”

The man nodded, even though his eyes held an aspect of reluctance to accept what Mara was saying. She wasn’t quite sure what else to do—she and her friends could hardly keep throwing spells at the pair of them in perpetuity to distract them from what had happened. She supposed there were spells that would be more permanent, but she’d not learned any yet. And she wouldn’t dare to use them even if she had.

No, they would have to process it without the touch of magic on their minds to help them. Although… Mara smiled, inwardly. She couldn’t keep casting spells on them, but she could absolutely make sure they proceeded in a way that would be healthy, and meet with her Lady’s approval.

“What are your names?” she asked.

“I’m Grans, and this is my fiancée, Dahari,” answered the man.

Confirmation that they were already a couple. Perfect. “It’s my Lady’s belief that couples can scarcely bond better than through facing true adversity together. I… I know that what happened here today was awful, but I believe this will bring you two closer together in the long term.”

The couple looked unhappy at that, the first steps on the path of the outraged. They did not seem at all keen about what Mara was suggesting, but she did not let that dissuade her. Before either of them had time to get angry, she said one more thing. “Voulez.” A simple spell that did only one thing. it stoked the passions in others, and made them more susceptible to Lady Ishara’s gifts. Mara charged it as such, imbuing it with her hope that her Lady would help this couple soothe each other’s woes.

It was only the faintest draw on the power Ishara had given her for the day, as all they needed was a nudge. Mara watched with an approving smile as the woman, Dahari, stroked her fiancé’s thigh, her love and lust for the man brought to the forefront by the Lady’s grace.

The gesture was met by a brief look of confusion from Grans that quickly melted into a smitten smile, and before Mara knew it, their lips were pressed together, and their hands were roaming along each other’s bodies.

Mara grinned as she hopped back out of the coach, where she was met by her fellow priests, whose expressions ranged from curious to bemused.

“That was awfully forward of you, wasn’t it?” Vicky asked.

Mara shrugged. “I think our Lady rather likes the straightforward approach.”