Morana stood in the front of the church, twelve shrouds laid out at her feet. Vladěna. Pavel. Radovan. Dobromila. Drahoslav. Jiřina. Kamil. Liběna. Bohumila. Bořek. Přemysl. Janek. She whispered their names, and back to her, they called, Weak. Failure. Traitor. The words rang out like the peals of a church bell, and she looked down at her boots, a lump in her throat and tears welling in her eyes.

At her boots, which were slowly being surrounded with an oozing puddle of red. Morana shrieked and fell backward, heart hammering in her throat. She scrambled away from the shrouds, but the blood seemed to follow her, trickling along the mortar between the stones in the floor.

Weak. Failure. Traitor. The voices were rasping, thick, wet: darkening lines ran across the throats of the corpses. She screamed again, a raw, broken sound that tore from her own throat and echoed throughout the church. Then the collar of her uniform tightened and she felt rough, calloused fingers against the nape of her neck.

Clawing at her collar, she writhed and thrashed in her attacker's grip, trying to get a glimpse. She threw an elbow back desperately, but hit nothing. Her uniform collar felt like an iron band, digging into soft, vulnerable flesh, and she gagged. Frantically, she kicked out, foot grazing the side of her attacker's leg.

Let me go, let me go, let me go—

With a low snarl, her attacker jerked her back and slammed her against the wall. What little breath was left in her lungs burst out in one harsh gasp— not only from the impact, but also because she recognized the man.

There was Aleksander, teeth bared in a wolf's grin, grey eyes filled with the determination to finish what he had started. Morana stood stock-still, as if a bullet had just torn through her stomach. Her breathing was ragged and loud. Her legs shook like a green soldier's. But she didn't dare run.

How did he get here? The thought was a dim pulse in the back of her mind, almost lost behind the numbness.

Weak, the voices taunted in response. Failure. Traitor.

She shook her head. "I'm not. I'm not."

Head tilted, Aleksander rested his thumb in the hollow of her throat and pressed down. Now each lungful of air came with a price, with a burn like kerosene set aflame, and every attempted breath hitched before she could take it in.

"You're not what?" he said, his voice as rough as a mountain crag. "Not a coward? You ran."

And let Rovnováže condemn her, but that was all she wanted to do now. Run and run and run until she could no longer feel the phantom pressure of his fingers on her, until those eyes no longer seared into her skin. But his thumb only pressed down harder; her lungs were screaming as loudly as her mind and the whole church reverberated with the sound.

Weak. Failure. Traitor.

Morana's thoughts trickled sluggishly through her head, deafened by the noise. She didn't have it in her to fight any more— to move, even— and the only thing she could focus on was the way the light filtered through the glass and shone on Aleksander's face, turning one eye a blazing, feral yellow.

He leaned closer, until his mouth was almost touching her ear. "Weak," he whispered, breath stirring her hair. "Failure. Traitor."

Morana bolted upright with her sheet twisted around her neck, chest heaving and cheeks damp. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in walls covered by maps, icons, and the flag, taking in the polished desk in the corner and the wood slats of the bed below her— not the church at all.

Letting out a sigh, she told herself, It was nothing. Just a dream. Nothing.

With shaking hands, she disentangled the sheet and placed it beside her. She leaned against the headboard, staring straight ahead and letting the icons fade to a blur. She didn't deserve to have them on her wall, not after all of this. Maybe this dream was a sign: all of them crying out to her, reminding her of what a disappointment she was, in the midst of yet another spineless act. Dream or not, she had given up and let Aleksander hurt her rather than avenging those he'd killed. Again.

Tears dripped down her face and onto her nightclothes; it became a torrent that soaked the thin fabric, and she buried her head in her hands. Her chest was racked with sobs, and every time she tried to calm herself, to take a deep breath and let the tears end, it only became worse.

There's not a thing you can do right. Not one.

She bit down hard on her lip to keep herself from screaming.

Not one, she thought. Instead of doing what you said you would, rooting out their secrets, you cry like a newborn.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the day she had become friends with Ivo. It was one of their first training sessions, and Raisa, the one who had been leading the session, had been called away. Within seconds, he had turned to her, eyes gleaming.

"I bet that you can't hit me," he'd said.

Chin raised, she'd told him, "I know I can."

"Do it, I dare you. Raisa isn't here to see you." When she hesitated, he'd laughed. "I think you're just scared of losing."

So she had struck out at him, fist sinking into his belly. Raisa had walked back in to see Ivo on the floor, clutching his stomach, and immediately turned to Morana. Morana had been prepared to receive the longest lecture of her young life when Ivo had stood and proudly told Raisa that it had been his dare.

Morana smiled, warmth blooming alongside the weight in her chest at the memory. She wiped away her tears and rose to her feet. There could be no more running, not from heretics and not from whatever the commander and Zlatka were keeping hidden— for her country and for the other Vojáci Rovnováhy, she needed to fight, whether they wanted her to or not.

She quickly changed into her uniform and stepped out of her quarters, head held high and smile still on her face. At the sight of two crimson-clad soldiers positioned outside her door, she faltered a little before shaking her head and pushing on. So they didn't trust her. She knew that, and it wasn't going to stop her.

If she was going to do this, she needed to be prepared. The first step was simple: buy herself some time. During the council's meeting, which she knew she would not be invited to, would be the optimal time, but surely there was a way to extend it. An idea emerged, and she grinned. If they were going to insist on mistrusting her, the least she could do was use it properly.

Continuing down the hall, Morana headed toward the dining hall. For the first time since Feirvangen, she had hope; maybe, of all the things in her life at the moment, this could go right. She could unearth these secrets, perhaps give Davor's family, whoever they were, some closure.

And then she saw it, out of the corner of her eye— a flash of dark hair. The blood drained from her face and her chest seized. She turned slowly and let out a sigh of relief. Zlatka. Zlatka had rounded the corner into this hallway. Not that this doesn't have its complications, she thought, but compared to who it could have been...

She shuddered.

Flanking Zlatka were Anděl and Raisa, and Morana's heart clenched at the sight of them: while Raisa's face was perfectly neutral, Zlatka and Anděl both met her with narrowed eyes and lips curled. Zlatka, she'd expected. But Anděl had been the one to take her and Rolan to their first battle; surely he had to know that she would never side with heretics, since he'd shown her the first sight of a burning city. Judging by his expression, he did not. She swallowed hard.

Finally, Zlatka said, "What are you doing here?"

I live here, she wanted to say, but all that came out was a strangled, "I... I'm..." Surreptitiously, she ran her sweating palms down the sides of her uniform pants. Coward rang through her mind again, and she straightened up, raised her chin. "I'm going to the dining hall."

Zlatka and Anděl shared a look before turning their attention back to her. "No, Laniková," said Zlatka. "Why are you here?"

"Why aren't I with heretics, you mean?"

Anděl crossed his arms. "You seemed perfectly happy to leave soldiers with them."

She couldn't help the heat creeping up her neck, even as she looked down and clasped her hands together. What had happened to Virsik and Novotná, the two soldiers captured in the attack on Feirvangen, was entirely her fault— she had gathered up the other soldiers and fled rather than trying to free them. But she certainly hadn't been happy to do it, and the very suggestion of it made her clench her jaw.

"I was not," she breathed, glaring at Anděl. "I was not. I ran, and that was my fault, but don't you dare say that I was happy. Don't you dare, when you have no idea—"

Morana's glare swept across all of them. Raisa's face had softened, but Zlatka and Anděl looked even more incensed than before.

"No idea?" Zlatka said through gritted teeth. "We have all been in danger, Laniková, but we chose to stand our ground and face death rather than leave our soldiers behind."

"Yes, I ran, but I am not the traitor here!" Her hands spasmed, and for one horrible moment, she was tempted to grab Zlatka and slam her into the floor. "I never have been!"

"Well, you'll forgive me if I don't believe you. The last time I was so trusting, twelve people were murdered."

With that, Zlatka pushed past her and the other two followed. Morana pressed the nails of her right hand into the back of her left until she could feel the bones under the skin. A few steps away, Raisa turned her head and mouthed, Give it time, and Morana eased the pressure on her hand.

Raisa had always preached patience in training, saying that while they might be able to run like wind, it took wind years to weather the rock. Morana was glad that someone, at least, seemed to be on her side, but she was not willing to wait years. The commander and Zlatka had lied to all of them and then had the gall to say that she had betrayed them, so why did she owe them her time? No, she was going to get answers and she was going to get them tonight.

Seemingly without a care in the world, she sauntered into the dining hall and took a seat directly across from Rolan, completely ignoring the look of astonishment on his face as she grabbed a sweet roll from a platter and said a quick prayer before biting into it. The strong, nutty flavor of the poppy seed filling sang on her tongue, and she finished off the entire roll in two more bites.

The only other person in the dining hall was Petr, who sat at the far end of the table and looked far too preoccupied with the platter of rolls in front of him to truly be of use. She could have gone to him, spoken to him, but Rolan would probably give her more time, in the end.

"Morana?"

She looked up then, up at those wide blue eyes so full of hope. Only with significant effort was she able to keep her voice level as she said, "What?"

"You... you're sitting here."

"Yes."

"Does that mean you forgive me?" Rolan's voice rose hopefully, and Morana was glad that there was hardly anyone around to hear him.

"I can't stay mad at you." She gave him a smile, watching the way his eyes lit up. "You were trying to do what was best for me."

"I'm sorry," he said, casting his gaze downward. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I just... I want this over just as much as you do, and I thought that this was the best way."

"No, I'm sorry. I wasn't fair to you." The words burned, but she kept her mask of calm in place. If she was careful, she could use this. "At the council meeting today, could you tell the commander that I'm willing to wait as long as it takes for him to trust me again?"

Rolan's hand tightened on the edge of the table. "Ah... he's not here. He left for Skryžany late last night. I can tell Zlatka, if you'd like."

Morana nodded slowly, as if dejected, but inwardly she was beaming. She'd been hoping for at least a short block of time to act, perhaps lengthened by the argument that her 'plea' for trust would create, but this was even better. The commander was in the capital and would likely remain there for days, maybe a week. Given the state of the war, which remained at an impasse, it was possible that he could be gone longer.

The Grand Council at Červený Palác was notoriously slow at decision-making, so that they could ensure the best chance of success for soldiers and town defenders, and maybe the commander would get tangled up in that. So if she kept out of Zlatka's way, she'd have all the time she needed.

"Morana?"

She blinked. "Sorry. I suppose I was just disappointed. Do you... do you think that you could still tell them?"

"Certainly. All of this suspicion will clear away in no time." He smiled, reaching across the table to take her hands in his. She let him. "They'll know. They'll know that it was never you, and then we can focus on finding who it really is."

And meanwhile I suffer, she wanted to say, because you kept me away. But she kept her mouth shut and stood, pulling her hands back to her sides. "Of course. I think I'm going to pray for it now, if you'll excuse me."

He nodded. "Rovnováže is with you, Morana. The council will see that soon enough."

As she walked away, she couldn't help the two pangs of guilt: one for lying about prayer, which she did intend to do, but not about what the council thought of her. The second was for Rolan. She could have spoken to Petr; her message coming from the children she had been told to stay away from certainly would have sparked debate, but she'd chosen Rolan instead. He would keep that argument going, especially with Ivo there as well. The hope in his eyes... he wanted so badly to fight on her behalf, but there was still bitterness on her part that he'd gone with the commander's decision to bar her from meetings in the first place.

The soldiers were still in front of her quarters, and she offered them a small smile, wondering what they had been told. Image was a fragile thing, and surely the commander wouldn't shatter that of the Vojáci Rovnováhy by divulging the fact that there was possibly a traitor. Both soldiers dipped their heads as she passed. So they didn't know... what did he say? She'd have to figure it out later. Now was the time for preparation.

In her quarters, she gathered all the things she would need: her inkwell, full and stoppered; her steel-pointed pen; a box of matches; and most importantly of all, her journal.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The day had dragged out, sun refusing to touch the horizon, and it was with relief and anxiety mixed that Morana watched the last smears of purple-blue give way to black. This was it. She had stolen the servants' key to the commander's quarters, and now it was only a matter of her working up the nerve to sneak in.

If she were caught, there would be no doubt in anyone's mind that she was a traitor, and even if she wasn't, what she found here could be devastating. The horrible realization rose in her: either way, she would burn a bridge today.

She closed her eyes. You have to.

Steeling herself, she ducked around the corner and headed down the empty hall toward the his quarters. Along the way, she prayed silently, thoughts running through her head like the commander's hunting hounds: Please, give me strength. Strength enough to go through with this. Strength enough to cope with what I find. The mantra repeated again and again until she reached the correct door.

With shaking hands, she inserted the key and unlocked the door, giving it a gentle push. The commander's quarters were almost entirely dark— the gas lights in the hall were the only source of light, and with the door cracked open only wide enough to fit her, all she could see was polished wood flooring. No different from the rest of Pevnost Dukovníka, but she knew there were secrets hidden in there. There had to be.

Morana stepped across the threshold and closed the door so that no one would see her. Taking slow, shuffling steps, she walked around the room until her foot nudged the commander's desk. She ran her hand along its surface, stopping when she felt the cold metal edge of the chamberstick and fumbling for the matchbox in her pocket. Once it was in her hand, she drew a match from the box and struck it against the side, watching the flame burst to life. Under the guide of the firelight, she brought the match to the candlewick and then extinguished the match, tucking it back in the box to avoid leaving evidence behind.

The second drawer of the commander's elegant wood desk held what she was looking for. A stack of worn journals was there; hopefully she would be able to find what she needed in them, because if not, the only other source of information was in his study, which was always locked and had no key available due to the commander always keeping it on his person. There was no way for her to get in without making it obvious that she had been there. This would have to do.

All of the journals were dated by year in his bold, curling script, so she grabbed the one corresponding to the year of her and Davor's birth, set up her pen and inkwell, and opened her journal to the first blank page. A very small part of her was tempted not to open the commander's, to bury this curiosity before it led her places she did not want to go, but the rest of her burned with the desire to know, and she flipped through the journal until she found the month of Davor's birth.

Written on the last page under that month was a list of names. It seemed normal enough to her; of course there were others like her that had been born, but due to their physical deficiencies, they had been sent to churches around Moravsko to perfect their faith and others'. She and Davor had avoided the complications of birth that were so very common, and while there was seldom even one in a year free of that issue, there had managed to be two with the both of them.

The first entrant was Andrej Beneš, and next to that, the commander had written 'age twenty-eight, died of the red plague'. Well, Morana thought, that's not unusual. The difficulties with Kněží Rovnováhy followed them into adulthood, so they often led pious but short lives. Beneš, at least, would spend eternity in never-ending summer, resting on fields of green. The next name was the one to stand out.

'Ljuba Kučerová,' it read, and beside that, 'died after two days due to complications.' Two days? How did they find her in two days? Morana wrote it down, although she could hardly believe it. Her parents had noticed what she was at seven weeks old, when they'd noticed how much faster she grew than other children, and promptly handed her over to the church. To find a child within two days...

Scanning other entries, she wrote down other dates of death— after five days, after twelve, after seventeen. At the end of the page was Davor, and she noticed that the commander had added in his date of death as well as the cause: 'murdered near Brevfjord by Aleksander Jelen'.

A sudden weight as crushing as an avalanche settled in her chest. Her eyes burned, and she shoved her journal away before her tears could hit the pages. She could have avenged him. She could have at least died trying. But she was—

Weak. Failure. Traitor.

Morana covered her mouth with a hand to stifle a sob. No. No, no, no, no, no... She took a deep breath, then another. You aren't. You aren't. The words didn't ring true; she knew that she was everything that those voices said, probably worse.

But you can be more, she thought, furiously wiping away the tears. You have to be.

Grabbing her pen, she dipped the point in the inkwell and finished copying down the information before closing both journals and putting the commander's back where it belonged. She stoppered the inkwell and snuffed out the candle, then stood, picked up what she had brought, and shuffled back toward the door. No sound outside, and no shadows blocking the light coming in through the crack under the door. She opened it cautiously and, seeing no one, stepped outside and quickly shut it behind her.

The council meeting hadn't yet ended, but surely it would soon, so she hurried to the servants' quarters and put the key on its ring. After that, she went directly to her own quarters, smiling at the two guards as she entered. Everything went back on her desk, except for her journal. Holding it steady, she carefully tore out the pages she had just written on and then placed the journal in her desk drawer.

The pages went under her mattress, folded neatly, and even with the layers of mattress and sheet between her and those papers, Morana still felt the immensity of the words there. She did not sleep that night.

Well, okay, it's been a while here too. I apologize for that; it's just that life has gotten busier... or perhaps lack of life, since workload is what's occupying most of my time at the moment. But anyway:

Skryžany (SKREE-zhan-ee): capital city of Moravkso.

Červený Palác (chair-veh-NEE | pah-LAHTZ): 'Red Palace', which holds the center of government here.

Kněží Rovnováhy (nee-YEH-zhee | rohv-nohv-AH-hee): Priests of the Balance, going right along with Soldiers.

The 'red plague' is a historic name for smallpox because of all the red lesions. Uh, I guess if you're interested: matches were invented around this time; there used to be tinderboxes, but no one really used them much after matches.