Chapter 8 - I’m Not A Princess

The conversation with the Magistrate had felt like hours even though it had lasted mere minutes. She’d never spoken with someone of such a high rank before, but mindful of the good manners her parents and village had drilled into her, the shell-shocked young woman kept her gaze lowered respectfully.

Lyla was eminently cognizant of the fact that she was not to look directly at individuals of importance until the Magistrate threw his hands up in exasperation in the middle of the discussion.

“By the absent Gods, girl, I’m not going to bite you.” His exclamation was one of frustration and disgust. At first, she thought it had been at her, but no, his ire was directed at the customs of her people which Lyla realized with instant clarity was not the way civilized people outside of the High Passes behaved.

“I hate the way the men of the mountains teach their women to not look people in the eye. How am I to sufficiently judge your character or honor if I can’t see into your eyes? Makes you look to the rest of the world like every mountain woman is a conniving sneak thief trying to hide the truth from everyone. Please just look at me.”

It had been unexpected and made Lyla jump guiltily. She was telling him the truth. She was telling him everything she knew. Every question she had answered to the best of her abilities. Never in her life had she been instructed to look a man in the eyes.

Hesitantly, Lyla lifted her bowed head to glance up at the Magistrate. Then she remembered the way she had brazenly gazed into the eyes of the soldier who had given her The Kiss of Life and flushed violently with embarrassment. Her whole face reddened as she remembered that she had wondered if maybe the young man had gotten the wrong idea about her because she’d met his eyes so unabashedly.

Not for the first time since those moments, Lyla felt a phantasmic touch of a mouth brushing gently against her own. Her lips trembled with the memory and the Magistrate sighed and she was startled out of the remembrance as his hand reached for her face. She leaned back as he paused to explain.

“Forgive me girl, Lyla…,” he amended kindly, “…but I must look directly into your eyes to use the truth scrying spell correctly. I understand that cultural conditional can be strong, so let me help you.” He placed one thin clammy hand on her chin and turned her face up towards him. “Now look me in the eye, and answer this question. Does anyone in your village know who or has suspicions of who may have harmed the caravan?”

Looking the man in the eye was just about the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. Harder than the run through the mountains. Harder than fighting with the men who had attacked her. It was harder than looking at the dead bodies of friends and family. Her eyes slowly, very slowly it felt like, focused on the huge pore of his damp flesh clogged with makeup.

Time felt like it slowed as her vision flew over the landscape of moles and pimples covered with powders and creams. His breath smelled like brandy. His skin smelled like nervous sweat sweetened with perfumed toilet water. And eventually, her eyes had traversed, what felt like, the great distance from his cheeks to the Magistrate’s hollow eyes and answered his question.

“Not as far as I know, My Lord Magistrate.” Her words brought a pleased predatory smile to his lips. It was nasty and thin.

“That’s all I needed to know.” He clapped his hands and stood quickly. The room was suddenly flourishing with movement as servants entered and came and went and Lyla was ushered to the soldiers who were hard at work themselves preparing for their journey.