There are ten fundamental emotions: fear, anger, shame, contempt, disgust, guilt, distress, interest, surprise, and joy—emotions that cannot be broken down into simpler forms, yet can combine to evoke other feelings.
(According to Carroll Izard)
Guilt. Strike 1
The bodice of the dress kept slipping down, and I kept tugging it back up, though it was a losing battle. This neckline, which could hardly be called a neckline and was more like a “gaping hole down to my navel,” was driving me up the wall. I’m not exactly shy—I’ll wear something revealing if I feel like it. But this? This was next-level exposed! Still, Oska had insisted, “It’s for the mission!” and dragged out this dress where everything was far too on display, my not-so-subtle assets front and center for all to see.
Of course, I’d come to this little restaurant bundled up in a coat. No way was I parading through the city streets in something this scandalous. But now, my friend had yanked the coat off me and barked:
- Go on! Stop stalling! Act natural! And remember! Tadek’s life is in your hands! Or, well, more literally, in your... uh... neckline...
She gave my dress a pointed, dramatic once-over, nodded with satisfaction, and turned toward the restaurant. Pushing aside a branch of the bush blocking our view, she whispered conspiratorially:
- There he is, - Oska tugged at my sleeve to get my attention as I fussed with the ridiculous bodice. – Just like we planned. Sit at the nearest table, act bored, accidentally drop a fork or something off the table, lean over so your... ahem... assets are in full view... Oh, come on, do I even need to coach you? – She shot me a look with her huge green eyes and winked. – Don’t worry, it’ll be fine! Remember, your fiancé’s fate is in your hands!
- Fine, fine, - I yanked my sleeve free from her grip. - But why all this charade? Couldn’t we just go to the royal office and submit the paperwork officially? I’m the best in my class! They’d definitely take me!
- Are you kidding me? – Oska stared at me, genuinely shocked, as if I’d lost my mind. – There are over a hundred candidates vying for this position! All of them have stellar recommendations and top honors! It’s all about who you know! Those with money are probably already slipping Del Cartan bribes in hefty amounts! He’s just sitting there, weighing which offer to take without losing face!
- Then what’s the point of all this? – I shrugged. – Even if I pull this off and catch his eye, he still won’t agree. Money always wins in these situations.
- Iritka, you’re denser than a brick! – My friend glanced again at the cozy restaurant terrace where our target for the day sat at a table: the chief royal mage, Sir Del Cartan.
- The prince is on the brink of collapse! The dragon throne is about to lose its heir! His Majesty’s father still hasn’t returned from the Island Lands. And who knows if he ever will! If they can’t pull the prince out of this, it’s over—the kingdom will fall to the Gray Hounds. They’re already dreaming of their king on our throne! So, of course, Del Cartan will pick the worst candidate! Everyone knows he’s in league with the Gray Hounds.
- I’m not the worst! I’m the best! – I insisted stubbornly.
- Forget it! Del Cartan needs to think you’re a complete airhead! And those good grades on your Academy records? Pfft, nonsense! Maybe you bought them or charmed the right people! Air-head! Got it? – Oska pierced me with a sharp look. – That’s exactly why he’ll hire you! He doesn’t want a dragon on the throne. But we do! And you, once you get the position, will figure out the lay of the land! You have to...
- Enough! – I cut Oska off. – First, I need to land the job, then we’ll talk about the rest. I hope we’re doing the right thing because this plan is so absurd it just might work. And yes, – I nodded resignedly. – I remember. Only a dragon king can free Tadek...
I sighed, adjusted the bodice one last time, lifted my chin proudly, put on a mysterious expression, and headed toward a table on the open terrace. I had to do this. Otherwise, my fiancé Tadek would be in serious trouble. He already was. I’d save him, no matter the cost.
The chief royal mage, Del Cartan, was chewing on something, probably a piece of meat. He popped it into his mouth, scooped up some soup with a spoon, and then I strutted past his table. He nearly choked! He started coughing and spluttering behind me so badly that I almost turned back to thump him on the back, just in case he really did choke! After all, we were banking on him, and it’d be just my luck if he keeled over, struck dead by my otherworldly beauty. Ahem. The beauty of my neckline.
I settled at a table across from Del Cartan, pretending not to notice him at all, grabbed the menu, and buried my nose in the list of dishes. Suddenly, I heard coughing from the nearby bushes. Oska was clearing her throat pointedly. I straightened up, set the menu aside, and turned as if looking for a waiter. My neckline, clearly, was a lethal weapon. The mage at his table froze like a statue. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the soup dripping slowly from his spoon back into the bowl, never making it to his mouth.
And then I added the final touch to my little performance: I “accidentally” knocked a napkin off the table—conveniently placed there—and bent down to pick it up...
Del Cartan was cross-eyed. And short. I’m pretty tall for a woman, and today Oska had forced me into heels to boot. So when the mage stood to hurry over to my table, I noticed he was quite petite. He also had a small paunch, which he tried to hide under a doublet two sizes too big.
Oh, Blessed Omma, and he was wearing heels too! I nearly snorted with laughter right in his face but managed to hold it in. I had to see this plan through. Preferably to a successful end. For me.
Guilt. Strike 2
- Thank you, - I said as he handed me the napkin. I could feel the mage’s greasy gaze on me, though it was somehow incomplete—one eye kept wandering off to the side. – I’m so clumsy!
- Not at all, - he replied, lingering by my table. – It’s just that everything’s set up wrong on this table! And where’s that waiter?! They shouldn’t keep a charming young lady like you waiting! Waiter! – he screeched, turning toward the restaurant entrance.
The waiter appeared as if by magic. His eyes darted nervously between me and the mage, probably sizing up the situation in his own way, before stammering:
- My apologies, Your Magisterialness, I didn’t know a lady would be joining you! I’ll bring everything right away! Just two seconds!
- I’m appalled by the slow service here! Next time, I’ll think twice about dining in this establishment. And this lady isn’t my...
He probably meant to clarify that I wasn’t his companion, but it worked in my favor that they assumed I was, so I slyly winked at the mage and interrupted his indignation:
- Yes, we’re quite displeased. But if you hurry and bring the same dish you served His Magisterialness today, we might reconsider our opinion!
- Understood! – the waiter exclaimed cheerfully and dashed back to the restaurant.
To seal my little tactical move, I batted my lashes at Del Cartan and flashed a wide smile:
- You don’t mind, do you? I can see they hold you in high regard here. Your Magisterialness, you’re incredible! Though, I suppose a man as distinguished as you couldn’t help but command respect! And perhaps you’d join me at my table? I’m afraid if you leave, there’ll be no one to protect me.
- Not at all, I don’t mind! – The mage swallowed my bait, along with the juicy compliment. He puffed out his chest and added, – I’d be delighted to join you! And really, why is a beauty like you wandering the city alone? Dining alone? If I were your husband...
- I don’t have a husband, - I shook my head, cutting him off again, rather impolitely.
- Well, a fiancé then, - he probed, clearly fishing to see if I was taken.
- Fortunately, I don’t have one of those either, - I denied again. – I’m completely on my own. At least for this chapter of my life. That’s why I dine alone. Anyone could take advantage of me, - I added a touch of vulnerability to my voice. - But now, we’ll be together, won’t we? - I sighed deeply, and my neckline launched another assault.
Del Cartan seemed to stop breathing as he caught sight of my assets in motion. He quickly took a seat across from me, grinned broadly, and struck up a casual conversation, though his eyes kept drifting below my face. His poor right eye couldn’t keep up with the left.
The waiter soon brought my lunch and, on the house, a bottle of wine for us both. I declined to drink, but Del Cartan, likely from a mix of internal excitement—since I’d clearly caught his fancy—and external tension—since I kept breathing deeply and often to keep him on edge—downed quite a bit.
By the end of the meal, he’d allowed me to call him simply Cartan, and he’d learned everything Oska and I had prepared for this conversation. That I was twenty-three, a graduate of the Academy, looking for work, and that I’d taken a vow to Blessed Omma...
At that bit of news, the mage’s mood dampened a little. After all, girls who took a vow to Blessed Omma committed to visiting her temples monthly and preserving their purity until marriage. Oska and I had discussed this deliberately, knowing full well the mage might try to get me into bed. That is, the ditz I was playing in front of him, sitting across from him now, gushing with admiration and enthusiasm over his incredible magical prowess and charisma. I had to protect myself—er, my soul and body, that is. So we decided to make me an acolyte of Blessed Omma. I’ll explain later, when the time comes, what set such girls apart from others, but this kind of shield worked wonders.
At the very least, Del Cartan understood that sleeping with me was off the table, since anyone who meddled with Omma’s acolytes risked divine retribution and could lose a great deal.
So Del Cartan shifted tactics. He still ogled me, but with more restraint. I suspect he started forming other plans for me. Learning that I’d studied at the Academy, he might have considered using me for verbal flattery—a form of intimacy without physical contact. It was an optional course at the Academy. I never took it, but Oska did from time to time. She’d come back flushed from the provocative words and spill every detail to me. So I knew what it entailed. Pure embarrassment! I’m an honest, decent, well-mannered girl! I’d never want to use such tactics in my life. Only, perhaps, with my own husband. Certainly not at work.
Because all of us Academy graduates were empathic attendants. Soul and heart servants, as they called us. Or confessors, male and female alike. The Academy admitted those with a certain gift, people who could get others to open up, to help them shed negative thoughts and emotions.
That’s why, after graduating, I wanted to find work with an empathic service, perhaps in a specialized empathic bureau, or even working with children, where there’s always plenty to do...
And there was another talent people like me possessed. We could take on whatever someone—or some other being—shared with us. If it was pain, by absorbing it, we might fall ill ourselves, as if living through that pain in place of our client. If it was anxiety, it became ours, and the client, relieved of it, could move on peacefully. After all, someone else was worrying for them!
It’s incredibly convenient and valuable to have an empathic confessor who knows exactly what you’re going through at any moment and takes your worries and torments upon themselves. Emotional outbursts in people can last hours, days, sometimes months or even years, causing immense suffering, anxiety, and torment. But we confessors, by taking on those transferred emotions, processed them much faster—that was our unique trait. And that’s what made us so valuable. Faster, though, didn’t mean easier...
Often, confessors were hired by those who’d lost loved ones, who were plunged into deep depression, or who faced other distressing, stressful circumstances. We earned our keep honestly. We suffered, we agonized, but for a price. Every profession has its challenges—ours were no exception.
- So, you’re looking for work? – Finally, after an hour of conversation where I subtly steered Del Cartan to this very question, he asked it.
- Yes! – I exclaimed. – For ages now. No one will hire me anywhere! They say my credentials are fake! But I worked hard, I studied! – I shrugged. – I was top of my class! Though, to be honest, I missed a lot of lectures. Hardly showed up, if I’m being completely candid! – I began crafting the image of a beauty who earned top marks for her pretty... ahem... eyes.
- I’d give top marks to a lovely lady like you too, – the mage purred, clearly forming his opinion of me at last.
Suddenly, he reached out, took my hand, and kissed it.
I giggled like a fool, as if embarrassed. It made me cringe inside. I can’t stand girls like that. But, you know, there’s a saying: you have to be pretty clever to play the fool. There’s something to it. And today, I realized that all the so-called airheads are incredibly smart women!
Meanwhile, Del Cartan continued, still holding my hand and gazing into my eyes:
- I can arrange a job for you. I’m the royal mage and could bring you onto my team. You’d be paid handsomely. We offer quite competitive salaries in the Department. But...
- What? What? – I cried eagerly, shifting in my seat—and my neckline drew his gaze once more.
- There’s one catch. I’m looking for a confessor for our prince. He’s quite unwell. And if you could help...
- Oh, - I feigned fear and sadness. – I probably can’t. Honestly, I barely attended classes. Sure, I know a few ethical guidelines for working with clients. But working with a prince? That’s serious and heavy responsibility. I’m afraid I wouldn’t manage...
- You’ll do wonderfully! – Del Cartan assured me. – You won’t even have to do much! Just go into the prince’s chambers, stay there for the allotted time as his confessor, then leave. You can just sit there, read, draw... do whatever you like. And I’ll pay you handsomely for it!
Now was the moment I had to keep my composure. Because, in essence, the mage and I were agreeing to commit a crime, to allow the prince’s mental breakdown through inaction. A confessor’s negligence harms the client. If I agreed too quickly, it would raise suspicion. So I said:
- But won’t the prince turn human then? Don’t dragons, if they don’t snap out of depression in time, lose their ability to fly? I read about it in the papers! – I added quickly, so the mage wouldn’t think I read books or knew much about my field.
- Not at all! – Del Cartan reassured me. – That’s just tabloid nonsense! The prince himself requested this! – he began to lie. – And I can’t disobey His Highness’s wishes. He ordered me to find a confessor who wouldn’t interfere with his life.
- Oh, how wonderful, - I clapped my hands like a giddy fool. – I’m in! I’m in! After all, being near you, Sir Cartan, is such an honor! I’ve never met a man as brilliant as you! You’re my ideal of a gentleman!
Flattery, let me tell you, works wonders. And, of course, so does a well-chosen dress with a plunging neckline.
Fifteen minutes later, I met Oska behind our covert bush. In my hand, I held a pass to the royal palace for tomorrow. I was to arrive for an official interview with the royal mage Del Cartan in his office. He promised we’d sign a contract then—and I’d become the official confessor to His Highness.
Guilt. Strike 3
This morning, like so many mornings before, I woke up steeped in regret. I wished I’d died in my sleep. The thought had become a constant thorn in my mind: fall asleep, die, cease to exist... Sadly, I couldn’t take my own life. Suicide was a sneaky way out. Everyone knew it would transport you to the in-between, where you could suffer for eternity. And after enduring torments and grief a hundred times worse than anything on earth, you’d be sent back to the exact time and place you’d left life. Forced to live again, to suffer through the same reasons that drove you to end it. That’s the world we live in. Imperfect. Even dying peacefully isn’t an option.
I’d tried hiring a killer through intermediaries to finish me off for real. It didn’t work. The security around me is too tight. Utterly impenetrable. My father made sure of that. Two assassination attempts, on which I spent a fortune, were foiled before they even began. The third assassin was apparently the best of them all. He even managed to bypass my squire-guards* who stand watch at my door, casting some unique magical spell on them, but he couldn’t kill me. My family’s magical protection nearly killed the poor fool instead. He barely recovered from the backlash.
Now, every assassin steers clear of the royal palace, and I’ve given up on trying to die.
But I didn’t want to live either. Before my eyes, I saw the death of my Carri, my beloved dragoness, my true mate, whom I failed to save, to protect. Guilt gnawed at me every second. I let her die. I’d rather it had been me instead of her.
I shook my head, reached for the half-empty bottle on the bedside table. My trembling fingers grasped the neck, and I drank down the last of the strong wine I’d ordered brought up from the castle cellars yesterday. The strongest they had. But the trouble was, it barely affected me. The buzz faded quickly, and sober again, I kept thinking of Carridala, replaying her laughter, her looks, her words, her kisses... Though we hadn’t even kissed much. Just twice, I asked to kiss her on the cheek, and once, she kissed me—on the lips, for my birthday last year. We were already engaged, waiting for my father’s return from the Island Lands to marry... And then she was killed...
- Grassi! Grassi! - I croaked hoarsely.
I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom.
My personal attendant, Del Grassian, held the position of my secretary in the castle. But he’d also become my servant since I refused to let anyone else near me. Everyone irritated me with their pitying looks, their words, their gestures—I wanted to wipe them all off the face of the earth. How it grated on my nerves! Grassi, though, had known Carridala. He was the one who introduced us. And while his presence constantly reminded me of her, it somehow brought a strange comfort. Despite his title, wealth, and skills as a wave-mage, he’d agreed to serve a prince. Del Cartan, who managed the royal castle’s affairs in my father’s absence, had asked him to take on this role.
In general, an interesting situation was unfolding in the kingdom: with the king away, Del Cartan oversaw the royal castle and everything within it, meddling in kingdom affairs as well, while Delli Vozanna, another official and the First Lady-in-Waiting, also seemed to govern both the palace and the realm in my stead. I’d grown utterly sick of it all! From what I’d heard, the two of them didn’t get along. But I couldn’t care less! If I’d once paid some attention to state matters, now I was completely indifferent. I could feel myself changing. I hoped I’d change entirely, become human, and then, at last, I’d be able to die...
- Good morning, Your Highness, - Grassi entered my chambers as I emerged from the bathroom.
- Order more wine! - I grumbled in response to his greeting. - And have them clear out the empty bottles, - I gestured to the pile of bottles by the bed.
I flopped back onto my unmade bed, intending to lie there all day, drinking, sleeping in a feverish, bitter haze, then drinking again, sleeping, suffering...
- Your Highness, perhaps you’d like me to summon Jettana? - Grassi asked, setting a tray with my breakfast on the table.
He’d been bringing meals to my chambers for a while now since I refused to see anyone, and I lacked the strength to descend to the royal dining hall. It irritated me beyond measure!
- Jetti hasn’t shared a bed with anyone in ages! - Grassi continued, arranging the cutlery on the table. - She’s quite attractive, if I may say so! Any man would want to... Ahem... She’s waiting for you! Ever since she was your favorite, plenty of men have courted her, but she hasn’t been seen with anyone. She’s ready every day! Even today, on my way here, I saw her in the corridor. Wearing a very, very enticing dress, I must say! The neckline defies all standards of decency! You used to like that sort of thing! A woman in your bed might distract you a bit. Drinking all the time is...
- No! - I roared. - I don’t want to see anyone!
Grassi didn’t even flinch at my outburst, just shrank slightly. Hmm. He must be used to it by now.
- As you wish, - he shrugged. - And I also wanted to remind you that today you have a meeting with your... er... confessor. Del Cartan has already hired them. They’ll be here soon, or rather, sh-, - Grassi spoke timidly, and I bristled with irritation, cutting him off.
- I told you I don’t need this! I don’t want it! I’m perfectly fine!
- This is the decision of the entire Dragon Circle! - Grassi said sheepishly. - It’s not up to me. The visit is scheduled in an hour, at ten. I’ll inform Del Cartan that you’ve agreed!
And with that, the sly fox darted out the door, leaving me alone. I hurled an empty bottle I’d just found beside me in bed at the door. But Grassi knew all my habits and quirks by now. He’d fled in time. The bottle smashed hard against the door, shards of glass scattering across half the room...
- Get out! - I shouted at the closed door, striking the pillow in helpless despair with my fist.
I’d completely forgotten. Two days ago, Del Cartan had pushed through a state law mandating my treatment. And all the dragons, the entire Circle, had voted for it. But not me! I was furious when I heard about it. Yet I had to comply because I’d promised my father I’d always follow orders collectively agreed upon by the dragons. And this forced measure was exactly that.
Well, they’d all regret forcing me into this! I had no intention of being treated. Instead, I planned to drive this confessor they were sending me today to the brink of madness! No one could take on what I’m going through right now! This unbearable, indescribable, soul-crushing guilt that gnaws at me from within—a guilt I’d gladly let consume me entirely, turning me from dragon to human, so I could finally die...
_______________
*Squire - Derived from a dialectal term meaning “storm,” “snow with wind,” “blizzard, sudden rain with gusty wind,” and “squall” in the sense of “a small cloud bringing rain with gusty wind.” Some scholars also connect this meaning to a Ukrainian town and river of the same name. The author simply chose a word that appealed to her and vaguely evoked, in her imagination, beings who guard the prince and possess properties akin to wind and various stormy weather.