Chapter 4 - Part VIII

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Even after the heaviest of rains, a rose will open up once again to greet the surviving sun. Nought but the jewels of dew drops on her petals will indicate her troubles in the storm.

With the uncertainty of dawn at an end, Anita opened her burned out eyes and saw nothing. She heard the creaking of the floor boards from several rooms away. Over the conversations of two barmaids, dutifully cleaning the floors downstairs, he heard with perfect vividness the barkeep's backhand upon the kitchen keep. She had finally surfaced from Onion's mind, and while the loss of her vision was always a somber reminder to her life, compromised, the acute power of her ears was life. She had sorely missed the ability to see beyond any walls, of the mind or of stone.

Visibly drained from her exploits in the perilous backalleys of that convoluted Nüish mind, she nonetheless fared better than her charge. By pure stubbornness, or perhaps weakness, Onion remained motionless, sprawled as much as she could be on one third of the pallet. Thin, red blankets cascaded from her belly and upon her groin before twisting around her mahogany legs.

Gregor watched from a distance as Anita straightened herself out and resumed her stoic form. Before both feet even lay flat upon the ground, Gregor felt the curiosity of her experiences well up from within him. He was the master, he was the bei'thal and yet, there was still much he could not possibly know about the inner workings of a bei and such naivety he wore as a tunic amongst his peers; plain for all to see. He could suppress his queries no longer.

"What news ser'bei Anita?" he invoked the quality of her compromise, compromise of the senses. Fully erect now, Anita snatched the sheet from the pallet and utilized it to rid herself of the sweat coalescing upon her brow; the evidence of her labors.

"Bei'thal", she responded, using Gregor's formal title in kind, "You are a man wise beyond expectation." From under her blindfold, thin lips curled tightly and her jawline tightened, "You have found us a great source of new understanding. Skinny Selmont will have a dear time with this one. Oh and yes, Dagleth yes," she continued, squealing with glee, "much more to learn from this one than that monkey whelp Yiren."

Gregor felt the fires of rage kindle inside his heart but he used every muscle fiber to suppress it. He was bei'thal and she was bei. In any other organization she would be expected to keep her foul taunting mouth shut in front of her superior, Gregor reflected, but he knew any attempt at discipline would be fruitless. The bei he had heard by a friend in what seemed to be eons ago, lost the larger part of their soul when they became compromised. What remained was a one dimensional shell of their former self. Their personalities trudged on, copying the behavioral patterns of their former life with vigor, though it was questionable as to if they truly understood what they did.

Certainly nothing he said to cut her down or command her respect would make the slightest ripple on her future actions, so he knew he must bear her japes. While he had never met the woman before she became bei, it was well known that Anita had been a caustic woodswalker from the Teeth of the Benge wastelands. He doubted it was possible for the woman to even play at kindness.

To that end, a bei'thal was to be the leash on the bei. The only way to break the bei of the habits of their past life was to keep them in constant motion. To compel them to task was to turn the wolf into a dog. To set them upon prey was the only way to gain their respect. It was the duty of Gregor and Vaughn to unleash the power and skills of the bei when needed, and to muzzle them during the rare times of respite.

"Report your findings," Gregor enunciated once his palatable distaste for the bei's disrespect had subsided.

If the rumors of leeched souls serving as the fuel in the ritual of the compromise were true, Anita was a shining example of evidence to such. Her sneer quickly subsided as a monotone formality crept into her speech.