I still don’t know what he was trying to prove.
Anyway, predictably, Corwin and I are convicted and sent to the same prison where former Temple Captain Jacob Harris is doing time. Blackwater Gaol is what it’s called, and it’s about as cozy as the name would suggest. It’s out in the middle of a saltwater swamp where the black oaks hang heavy with moss and reptiles with big appetites live in the water. It stands on a man-made island standing in the middle of the salty water, and it’s tall, dark and imposing. The day we arrive, as our boat is being rowed toward the island where the gaol stands, Corwin catches sight of a black snake that’s longer than a semi-truck. He bumps his shoulder against mine and points it out to me with his chin, his blue eyes wide. He can’t point because of his handcuffs.
I see it. I’m impressed, but I’m not afraid.
Witches have a way with the natural world, and it’s funny how the Brotherhood thinks that putting us out here and trusting big, bad, evil nature to keep us hemmed in is somehow going to work. Witches don’t quiver in the dark and hide when the night birds call. We call back. These snakes and crocodiles were meant to be an added means of keeping us contained.
Heh. Reptiles and me, we have an understanding.
We’re brought through Blackwater Gaol’s water gate. Besides Corwin and me, there’s another convict on our boat, a surly-faced man from another village who’s been convicted of adultery. I don’t know what happened to his lover. I hope she got away. Or maybe it was he? I don’t judge.
The gate opens into a parade ground where a squad of Brothers in black tactical jumpsuits are waiting. There are six of them, wearing visored helmets with the golden sigil of their order big and bold on their chests. They have rifles in their hands and batons at their sides, and they’re led by a monk who could only be the warden, Brother John.
Brother John is heavy-set and fat, with a bulbous nose and a gray monk’s tonsure that probably doesn’t take much work to maintain. A bald man doesn’t have to shave his pate. He’s in brown cowled robes held shut with a rope belt, and he clasps his hands primly beneath the swell of his belly. Our guards push us to stand in a line, Corwin on my left, the adulterer on the right and me in the middle. They take our handcuffs off and hang them on their belts.
Brother John holds out his hand, and one of the guards gives him the condemnation scroll. He unfurls the parchment and reads the contents.
“Corwin Jones. Witch.”
My boy lifts his chin and firms his square jaw, his blond curls sticking to his forehead from the swamp humidity. “Aye,” he answers proudly.
“Kathleen Goode,” he reads, and smiles. “Witch.”
I toss my own blonde hair back and nod. “Here.”
He looks me in the eye for a long moment, staring at me as if he thinks I’ll be intimidated. I stare back. I win, because he blinks first.
Brother John looks down again. “Lucas Mason. Adulterer.”
The man hangs his head and doesn’t answer. That sort of automatic submission makes the warden smile. “I see that you are already repentant. That’s good. It will make your time here pass more swiftly.”
I’m not sure how guilt affects time, but okay.
He tucks the condemnation scroll into his sleeve and looks at us sternly. “You are guilty of heinous betrayals of the faith and of the society in which you live. You are here to be punished for your sins and, in the case of the adulterer, reformed and returned to your village. There is no reformation for witches.”
“Damn right,” I say. Corwin smiles.
The guards aren’t as amused, and one of them hits me with a baton, the blow landing on the backs of my knees. It knocks me forward so I land on my hands and knees in the mud. The guard steps forward and puts his foot on my back, pushing me flat. If we were back in my basement, I’d think a little fun is about to get started, but that’s not what these boys are about.
Not yet, anyway.
Corwin breaks rank and grabs the man, pushing him off me. That brings the rest of the guards down on him with their batons, and the end result is Corwin in the mud, too. I look over at him, and he’s wincing from the abuse, his nose bleeding.
That’s my Corwin. Brave and stupid to the last. Bless his hot little hands.
“Respect,” Brother John intones. “That is what you will show while you are here. We know we cannot save your miserable souls, and if it were up to me, we would just end you and spare the world your darkness. But we are tasked with containing you for the duration of your miserable lives, until the Evil One comes to take you to his fiery home. If you show respect, you will be kept in something similar to comfort. The opposite is also true. The quality of your life is in your hands. You have both just earned a night in solitary confinement.”
“Good,” I grunt. “I like privacy.”
“Laugh while you can,” the warden says. “You won’t be laughing long.”
Solitary confinement is three enclosed spaces in the basement of the main building. The cells are basically holes scratched into the ground, with metal slab doors. dirt floors and cinder block walls. There are puddles where the groundwater has seeped up from the swamp beneath the island, and there are clouds of mosquitoes. I can hear scratching in the walls, probably rats trying to get in.
“See you in the morning,” says the guard who’d brought me here. “Or maybe sooner.”
I turn my back on him as he closes and locks the
