“Burning will not make you free.”
“A curse on you! Bastion warned me of your kind. Examine your soul, Father, before Satan devours you.”
Bastion appeared with Iris on his arm, her father and mother trotting after him, joyful expressions on their faces. Bastion released Iris back to her parents and bowed low to them before turning for the church.
When he saw Stefan talking with the witch, his hand went to his side. Stefan’s stomach lurched as Bastion pulled out a long, thin whip from his belt. The witch cried out, rushing to one corner of her cage, scooping up the straw, attempting to cover herself in it, hiding herself from view.
“Talking with the witch, Stefan?” Bastion called. “You should know better than to put your soul in danger. You already lost an ear to her.”
“She tells interesting tales,” Stefan replied, willing his legs to stay planted and firm.
“Aye, as do all women,” Bastion laughed. “You must excuse me now, Father. There is a punishment for talking to others, and she knows it well.”
Stefan didn’t move.
“I cannot allow it,” he said. “Not on church grounds.” That last part sounded like a concession.
“I am too lazy to move her,” Bastion said, replacing the whip after a moment’s thought. “I will show you mercy,” he said to her, “though you deserve none. Pray to God that He will make you worthy of it.”
Bastion put his arm around Stefan and began walking toward the dormitory. “Come, brother,” Bastion said. “We both had long nights. We must sleep while we can, for tonight God will do an amazing work among these people.”
“You speak as if you know God’s mind.”
Bastion laughed. “My friend, when you have served God as long as I have, you can anticipate His movements.”
Stefan chewed the inside of his lip, ignoring the growing sore. He didn’t follow. Bastion was not like the Inquisitor he had envisioned. Bastion kept walking. Stefan watched him disappear inside, then looked back. No one paid attention. Stefan jogged to catch up to him.
“Who is the witch you caught?” Stefan asked. Inside the dormitory, they faced each other alone.
Bastion grabbed him by his robes and jerked Stefan’s face closer to his.
“Do not ever challenge me again in front of others or I will have you sent to a parish so poor the people will skip communion and want to eat you.”
Stefan swatted at Bastion’s hands. Bastion released him and yawned. “You interfered with my work, but I have forgiven you.”
“I thought you did God’s work.”
“Is there a difference?” Bastion sighed, kicking off his boots. “Do not question my authority, Father. It is not good for your mind.”
“What’s in the bag?”
Bastion glanced at the bag, shrugging. “If you’re curious, open it.”
“I’m not curious.”
Bastion laughed. “You’re really moody this morning. I’d say your faith is wavering. Get some sleep and you’ll feel better.” He stood and walked to the bag, untying it. The mouth of the bag flopped open, revealing a tangle of metal contraptions.
Bastion pulled back the cover on his bed and stretched out, crossing his legs at the ankle, tucking his hands behind his head.
Stefan gave in. He went over to the bag and reached in a hand, grabbing a hard, cold object, shaking it loose from the pile. He pulled it out and held it up. It appeared to be a vise, made of two metal planks no bigger than a man’s hand, with thick, rusted screws driven down between the planks.
“What is it?” Stefan ran a finger along the rust. He held his finger up to wipe it clean across his pant leg.
“It’s a thumb screw.” Bastion sounded sleepy.
The stain on Stefan’s hand, and now his pants, was blood. Dried blood covered the device. Stefan dropped it, stumbling back.
“Show some respect!” Bastion grumbled, snatching it off the floor, thrusting it back in the bag.
“What else is in there?” Stefan threw the bag open again and began pulling out every device his hand fell to.
Bastion turned on his side this time on the bed, his eyelids getting heavier. He named the objects as Stefan held them up, like Adam naming the animals.
A helmet of metal with screws to tighten the band.
“Skull crusher.”
A mask that clamped round the jaws, with an iron pig’s nose.
“Scold’s bridle.”
A metal stake no bigger than a small dagger, with a blunted end.
“Fire poker. If Satan gives a woman a mole or freckle as a sign of their pact, I burn it off.”
Tongs.
“Good for holding a tongue when you need to cleanse it with fire.”