Salem's Witches (Neitherlands Book 1), page 18
“But what about the baby?” Both women yelled in unison, while the guards restrained them for their trip to the dungeons.
“Oh, yes, the baby.” The Dominatrix had forgotten about the kid. “He will be taken and raised by the Dominion Guards, who will teach him how to lead a decent life in the service of his Dominatrix. He will not see either of the women fighting over him again, for one will be dead and the other will be wishing she was dead. His name isn’t Julius, and it isn’t Caesar. The boy will be called Gaius.” She motioned for one of the guards to remove the baby. “Now, please take these women away. I can’t stand the sight of criminals.”
The women were rapidly removed by the guards, screaming and trying to fight each other on the way out. The Dominatrix took a sip from her goblet, congratulating herself on a job well done. She waited for the next audience to start, which she knew would happen at any minute. There was no such thing as a break during audience days.
A woman and a man entered the throne room after Mr. Gupita announced a new audience was to begin. The man wore a suit and a top hat, while the woman wore a long skirt and a long-sleeved shirt. She also carried a parasol, for unknown reasons since they were indoors. The man had brought with him a suitcase while the woman held a bunch of pamphlets. They approached her and made the customary salute to the Dominatrix.
“Good afternoon, people,” said the Dominatrix. It was customary that she spoke first in meetings, with everyone else waiting until her voice had been heard.
“Good afternoon, your Highness,” said the man, kneeling in front of her once more for an instant.
“We are sorry to bother you in this important day, and we feel really lucky that two poor peasants like us could be granted an audience with a woman of such beautiful manners and high class such as yourself,” the woman added.
The Dominatrix said nothing, staring at them silently. It wasn’t customary for her to say thanks for any compliments received, for if she did, she would be unable to get anything done during the day. “I’ll be glad to assist you in any way I can. But first, pray tell, where’s the ball and why haven’t I been invited?”
The peasants exchanged stares of confusion and more than a little bit of fear. Usually when the Dominatrix asked why something hadn’t been done, a death sentence followed. “There is no ball, your Highness,” said the man, giving her a pleading stare. “We just believe one must always dress properly, to keep up with the high moral standards our city should have. We’re sorry if our attire has misled you, and we will make it a note to have you invited to any soirees we might plan in the future.”
The Dominatrix smiled at them. Their faces immediately became even more fear than before.
“We came to ask if you have a minute to talk about Xianuu,” said the woman.
Madame Xantiplam gave her a puzzled stare. “Excuse me? Who is this Xianuu you speak of? I believe I have never heard of them. Is he a criminal? If so, rest assured we’ll have him in shackles in no time.”
“Many people haven’t heard of him, I fear,” said the woman. “We are representatives from the Church of Quackology.”
The Dominatrix nodded. She recalled seeing a few posters advertising that church, and there was something else… Yes, the witches, of course. Those little criminals had made it their task to destroy this particular church. In her eyes, the church couldn’t be that bad if such horrible women were their enemies.
“And we are trying to warn people about him for, indeed, he is a criminal of the highest order.” The woman went on, while the Dominatrix pondered on the deep hatred those three witches inspired in her. “By now a good chunk of the city knows of him and his dangers, but we spend our days looking for people who still ignore this.”
“What has he done? This is a job for the guard, you know. Catching criminals and all that. It’s illegal to come up to the Dominatrix for such things, for I deal with more…stately matters. Still, do go on. You have piqued my interest.”
The woman handed her a pamphlet.
She grabbed it. “What is this about?” she said, staring at the cover of The Moat. “How does this provide any insight or proof into who this Shanu is?”
“Xianuu is an evil dictator,” said the man. “He rules over Everything That Is, you and I included. We are trying to warn people who might not know about him, to then help them break free from his influence.”
“Excuse me?” Madame Xantiplam stared at the man. There were things she could stand being said—they were very few, but they existed. Having somebody tell her she was under somebody else’s influence was not one of them. “I’m sure there is nobody ruling over me. The Dominion is an independent estate, with total sovereignty over its borders and what happens inside them. As its head, I must assure you we suffer from no outside influence or any such meddling affairs.”
“Miss Xantiplam,” said the woman, her voice soft and quiet. “Do you believe in the gods?”
“Madame Xantiplam,” said the Dominatrix. “And I can’t see how my beliefs should be a part of this conversation. There is freedom of belief in this city, I willed it myself.[23] So you better have a good reason for asking this.”
“It’s a bit complicated, your Highness,” said the man. “The magazine we just gave you should help clear things up, but…Xianuu rules above all the gods.” He grabbed one of the copies of The Moat, opened it, and browsed through it. “There’s a lot of information here to help you understand it. More than a god, he is a meta-god. He created and allows the gods to live so they can distract us from his rule, for that way he can keep us from developing our true power.”
“What true power do you speak of, if I may ask?” The Dominatrix usually had little patience for religious talk. She wasn’t an atheist—in fact, she had come from a deeply religious family and still held some of her convictions—but she didn’t feel comfortable speaking openly about it. She felt that if the leader of the city openly backed a belief, people would feel compelled to join it, when in fact religion was the one thing she wouldn’t dare impose over anyone.
“We all are sources of endless power,” said the woman, almost whispering. “But our daily problems and the lives we lead distract us from it. As Quackologists, it is our task whenever anyone joins us to help them attain Clarity, to help them become Clear. In order to do this, we employ a technique called Scametics.”
The man opened his suitcase, took out a copy of the book, and handed it to the Dominatrix, letting her know it was a gift from the Church of Quackology. “One reaches Clarity when one learns to let go of the issues surrounding oneself, when one learns to stop harboring ill feelings and finds inner peace.”
That didn’t sound too good for Madame Xantiplam. Ill feeling was, for all she knew, what countries lived off. It helped governments thrive too, for capitalizing on the hatred of people as a political move never failed. Getting rid of it seemed like a bad idea, although she would agree that having people also get rid of any ill feelings toward their leaders didn’t seem so bad. “All right,” she said, scanning the little magazine. “What happens once one is Clear?”
“Then you embark on the path to enlightenment. As you embark on it, the higher adherents to the church will teach you new techniques to help you. And among with these techniques come, of course, newer abilities for you. It is not uncommon for a high-ranking Quackologist to be able to read people’s minds, or to levitate. It’s all part of the abilities Xianuu doesn’t want us to develop. The path of enlightenment is one of self-discovery, where the Quackologist learns just how much he is capable of.”
Madame Xantiplam was not entirely convinced by their proposal, yet the prospect of being able to shoot death rays from her eyes was a tempting one. “I see you have gained a lot of traction in the city over the past few months. How have you done it?”
“By letting people know the truth,” said the woman, standing almost proud in front of the Dominatrix. “A few months ago, a lot of people disappeared from the Midwinter Feast. We know it was not made public, but we learned of it since many of those people were Quackologists. They were there trying to teach people about Xianuu, when Xianuu himself decided to evaporate them all in a desperate attempt to keep The Neitherlands shackled under his rule. People have heard our side of the story and joined us to try and find their friends or family who were taken.”
Madame Xantiplam smiled. It was an interesting way to tackle a problem, saying a god nobody knew anything of had caused it. She couldn’t back it, of course not, but if people believed some Xianuu guy made everyone disappear, better for her: People were asking questions and the investigation had produced no real results. She had jailed Salem’s Witches, but even she knew it was just to calm people down a bit. They certainly hadn’t had anything to do with the disappearances.
“So, once people attain enlightening, what do they do?” she asked out of curiosity. This wasn’t the cult for her, and she found it hard to believe people developed magical powers. Were those real, the College of Wizardry of New Wakilork would have made quite the fuss already.
“Then we fight, your Highness.”
“Fight? What exactly do we fight for or against?”
“We fight against the establishment,” said the woman. “Once we have raised an army of Clear people, said army will be tasked with bringing down Xianuu and his reign. We will lead an uprising the likes of which the Neitherlands has never seen, and we will all be free from the evil dictator.”
The smile on Madame Xantiplam’s face disappeared immediately. This was rebellion talk, and therefore dangerous talk. “Excuse me?” she said, suddenly disliking the church. “You people are teaching others that they can band together and overthrow an established ruler just because?”
“It’s not just because,” said the man. “Xianuu is evil, everyone knows—”
“Is there any proof of this evilness?” she said, growing angrier by the moment. She had tried to be pleasant, and even tried to learn a bit about this little cult. The moment revolution started, however, things got personal. If she so much as allowed people to consider it, somebody would attempt it sooner or later. “Well, is there? Or are you lot just going around smearing the name of some poor guy out of, well, out of jealousy? Do you think it fair to destroy everything somebody has spent their whole life building just because you feel jealous of their power? This is ridiculous!”
“Madame, you need to understand this is the only way to attain freedom,” said the man. “This is a horrible man who has ruled over Everything That Is just because he can, with nobody having elected him to—”
Madame Xantiplam threw her copy of Scametics at the man’s head. She hit the bullseye.
“I’m sorry about that, I totally didn’t mean to,” she said, while the man retched in pain. “This must have been Shanu’s evil mojo, acting through me, for I’m nothing but a simple mortal. One who does not like your proposal at all.” She pointed at the door. “Now, please leave this fortress and never come back. And do consider yourselves so lucky to leave with your heads still glued to your bodies, for better people have met my beehive for smaller crimes. I don’t want any more talk of rebellion in this palace, and the only reason I’m letting you go is because you’re a cult. But listen to me, and give your boss this message: One single phrase, just one phrase that could even make people dream of overthrowing me, and I’ll have you all burned. Understood?”
The peasants didn’t wait. They ran out, leaving behind many copies of their books and magazines. Madame Xantiplam could hear their screams through the halls of the fortress as they tried to leave as fast as they could.
“Release the hounds,” she said to her guards. “Let’s have them run a bit, give them a taste of what will happen if they come here again.” She then grabbed a copy of The Moat and stared at it, then ripped it apart. “Things like these are why I never should have willed that law about freedom of religion,” she said to no one in particular. “It only brings problems in the long run. What a shame.”
She sat back on her throne, knowing there would likely be many more people to condemn through the rest of the day. She tried to calm down, which was almost impossible, even under the best of circumstances. She took a few deep breaths, counted to ten, promised herself she wouldn’t send the next peasant to jail—Who was she kidding? Of course she would!—and then, when she was feeling more or less calm, a single sheet of paper entered the throne room from an open window. Said paper flew all the way to the throne and landed perfectly in her hand.
She grabbed it and read it.
Then hell broke loose.
Leggy was walking leisurely through the halls of Dominion Fortress when the Dominatrix read the suspicious piece of paper and started screaming as if somebody had just died—although nobody had ever seen Madame Xantiplam scream due to somebody’s death. This was fine because, as it happened, she ordered most of the deaths around her. If anything, she screamed to get people killed.
It only followed suit with Leggy’s bad luck that the Dominatrix started her tantrum right as he walked past the door to the throne room. His luck insisted on following suit even further when he turned around to see what happened and was met with her stare.
To make his bad luck worse, he was dealing with the worst hangover ever,[24] making Madame Xantiplam’s screams particularly nasty and hurtful to his ears.
“I saw you there!” yelled the Dominatrix, right as the thought of acting as if nothing was happening crossed Leggy’s mind. Said thought was immediately replaced by dread, anxiety, and thirst.
Leggy entered the throne room slowly, as one condemned. He had never in his years as a secret agent of the Dominion spoken to the Dominatrix, and he had hoped his luck would be such he would never need to face such a trial.
His luck disagreed with his hopes, as often happened. There are many types of luck that get assigned to people at birth, and he’d had the bad luck of getting a contrarian one.
As he neared the Dominatrix, Leggy had the chance to see at the throne room for the first time in his life. It was the most luxurious place he had ever beheld, that was a given. However, it wasn’t that pretty. There was too much gold and too many jewels, and what kind of a person would order what seemed to be a thousand paintings of themselves? Where did all that money even come from? With all that money one could throw a party that would last years. It was ridiculous to spend it on paintings and decorations, and then there was the golden elephant sitting to the right of the throne. Why have animals made of gold? And were those rubies the thing had for eyes?
Perhaps the most amazing thing was how the place still managed to look gloomy. For all its luxuries, it had only one window, and it was right behind the throne.
He only stopped his critique when he was close enough to see the Dominatrix in person for the first time: Indeed, as he had heard, she looked way too young for somebody who had been in power for almost forty years. She also looked way too scary for, well, anything that ever existed.
Then again, she didn’t really look scary. There was nothing inherently scary about her looks. It was her…demeanor, was it? Perhaps her aura. She had an aura that made you want to cower in fear.
Leggy cowered in fear before talking to the Dominatrix.
“Yes, mistr—”
“Do not speak unless spoken to!” yelled the Dominatrix, her shrill voice like knives against Leggy’s aching head. He wondered if there was a way to skip to the inevitable execution. Surely getting his head chopped off for one reason or another wouldn’t hurt as much as the Dominatrix’s yells. “Now, tell me, what is this!”
The Dominatrix gave him a piece of paper. That was it, the woman was screaming bloody murder over a piece of paper. He wasn’t one to judge, but that was exactly the kind of thing maniacs did once they finally became unhinged. Not that anyone would ever admit that perhaps the Dominatrix spent some of her time taking excursions to the outskirts of rational thinking and, often, beyond. Nobody would ever say that, not if they valued their life.
It’s a piece of paper. Can I go now?, Leggy thought of saying. However, at the very last moment his survival instinct kicked in. He was living a life of self-destruction at the hands of about every hallucinogen in the world, but at least that destruction happened on his own terms and in a rather pleasurable way. The Dominatrix probably wouldn’t be that nice regarding his fate. Instead of talking back to the one person he had been taught nobody should ever talk back to, he read the paper.
Only he wasn’t very good at reading, so it took him a while.
TRUE BELIEVERS, COME TO DOMINION PARK.
THE TRUTH WILL BE UNVEILED REGARDING THE ONE TRUE GOD AND HIS ONE CHAMPION.
WE WILL UNMASK QUACKOLOGY’S FARCE AND SHOW YOU THE RIGHT WAY.
THIS FRIDAY AT 8PM.
THERE WILL BE COOKIES.
He finished reading the paper, almost sure Madame Xantiplam would have him beheaded for taking too long to read. “It looks like a pamphlet calling for a meeting…” he said. What had started with a loud, almost confident voice, ended in a whisper.
“I know that,” said the Dominatrix. She didn’t look pleased, but then again she rarely ever did. There was no reading that woman. “What I want to know is, where it came from, who wrote it, why are they calling for a meeting, and why is that goddamn quackery cult everywhere these days?”
“I… I don’t know,” said Leggy. In truth, he did know the answer to one of those questions. He had a guess where the papers had come from, but he didn’t feel confident telling the Dominatrix a woman with black wings had been sighted flying around and littering the city. She’d probably think he was drunk on the job and have him hanged.
“Then who knows, if not my own guards? Please tell me, who are you?” The Dominatrix smiled. Leggy felt like running for the hills.
“I- I’m—” Leggy took a deep breath. He tried to look the Dominatrix in the eyes, but found her stare impossible to hold for long. That woman could make you feel ashamed of being alive with that stare. “I’m Leggy, from the Secret Service, Madame.”
