Plot 409: Confess

Isador | Adviser

After Maude’s questioning, the slaves had been left to sweat and worry, languishing in their captivity and uncertainty. Minutes may have passed as hours, and hours, days, the lie belayed only by the slow progression of light across the stone walls. That, and the muted sounds of mourning, changed to alarm, changed to mourning again. But whatever had occurred, it did not touch the imprisoned equines. They were in a world apart, set away. Passive. Captive. And the world went on, seemingly without them.

Time passed, and still no one came to question them further, or to bring them food, water, any necessities. Until eventually, there was the distant sound of a door opening, and muted voices. Steady, clear hoof beats rang down the corridor. They walked with purpose and authority, but did not stomp, did not hurry. They sounded utterly confident.

In truth, Lord Isador was exhausted, drained both physically and mentally. It had been a very busy day for him. Bad enough that the King had been murdered, but the Advisers could not mourn or collapse like the rest of the city, but rather had to hold that city together, keep it functioning. And Isador regretted Amadeus’ death, but did not regret that Aodh might flourish without the incompetent boy leading it, and that contradiction unsettled the grey stallion. And then of course there had been the dragon- Isador resisted the urge to dwell on that event, dwell on her, at the moment. He got too distracted, too… off balance, when he did. He had raced out of the palace to try and reason with the great beast (for how could such a glorious creation of Ignacio’s fail to be intelligent?) and instead had found… what? He didn’t know. Didn’t have a name for it, for what it made him feel. Isador flicked his immaculate tail, banishing the thoughts. Not here, not now. There was work to be done.

The Adviser halted in front of the massive holding cell, and eyed the miserable collection of slaves. His aristocratic brows furrowed, and he looked away from them, back towards the way he had entered. Maude’s blunt head appeared, and she too fixed the slaves with a look, but hers was resolute and unyielding, compared to Isador’s mild dissatisfaction.

“How long have they been down here?” Isador asked the Commander. She answered, and Isador swept his eyes over the cell again. “Have they received any food? Any water?” A terse negative from Maude made Isador’s ears flick, and his gaze hardened. He turned back to the cell.

“Standard procedure, my Lord, for criminal interrogation,” Maude said brusquely, rolling her great withers in unconcern. Isador shook his head once, sharply, and his bridle chimed as if in condemnation.

“These are not criminals,” he said, and if his voice was quiet, it was laced with steel. “These are terrified scapegoats in the making and it is not right. They are to be released. This day is tragic enough, chaotic enough, without imprisoning our own, on no basis but the illusion of justice.”

“My Lord,” Maude protested, anger and alarm warring against respect as she addressed him, “Many of them were seen near the Palace, last night, and the pit fighter here-” and she jerked her head at Illidis without looking at him, “has tried to shift blame to-”

“To me, yes, I’ve read your report already,” Isador interrupted wearily. “As if being imprisoned and deprived of food, and harassed for hours on end might not contribute to his desire to speak of events he barely understands? He refers to a gathering at my villa, in which the political woes of our nation and late King were discussed at length, and it is no fault of his that he throws it at you in an attempt to earn some relief from your… attentions.” The last word dripped distastefully from Isador’s lips, and he flicked his tail again.

“Even if all of these people were present around the palace last night- which I very much doubt- they certainly wouldn’t have been alone. They were only the most easily rounded up, when the Chevaliers needed to look busy.” Isador fixed Maude with a cool gaze. “They are all pardoned of any suspected wrongdoing, and the Chevaliers would do well to remember that they serve all of Aodh.” Isador turned to the detained cellmates, and dipped his head. Slightly, only slightly, but for the Noble, it was a huge gesture. “I apologize for any inconvenience you have experienced today. We are in uncertain and dangerous times, and fear leads to disorder and mistakes. If you or your masters have any grievances related to today’s affairs, I urge you to come to me. You will be heard. You will be remembered.” And only at these last, mild words, did the Adviser’s eyes flick briefly to the hulking, shadowed form of Brutus. One of Isador’s lips twitched in what might have been construed, to any who did not know him, as a small smile.

Then he had turned and departed, the steady tap of his hooves fading away.