The Atoneress 838
Copyright© 2026 by Farathric
Chapter 2: The Marking
I
I’m surprised to see the city gates closed. It’s well before dusk, so I’m hopeful. Maybe they just want better protection from the monsters? They should let me in. I rub my cold-numbed lips and jaw, trying to warm them enough to speak loudly and clearly, then approach the city walls. A small hatch opens.
Who are you? What do you want? Asks a young brown-haired man with a large moustache. His voice is harsh and unpleasant.
Please let me inside the city, good Sir. I lost my coat, so I need shelter. I still shiver from the cold. I’m hungry and exhausted. But I try not to show him how desperate I am. I don’t need another Henry.
We don’t need beggars here, and we have enough whores. Do you have money, wench? His voice gets even harsher. He doesn’t seem to believe in a lost coat. I try to convince him that I have no intention to beg; I’ll work and not be a burden to anyone. I can read fluently; I write quickly and beautifully; I calculate easily; my fingers are very nimble, so I can do any manual work with ease. But the conversation keeps circling back to the fact that I don’t belong to any guild. I cannot do laundry, because I do not belong to the washerwomen’s guild; I cannot sew, because I am not a member of the seamstresses’ guild; and I cannot cook for a living, because the innkeepers’ guild holds a monopoly.
We have enough scribes and such. The guilds rarely accept anyone in. Only the Atoneresses’ Guild is bound by the law to accept anyone wanting to join. Do you want to become an atoneress, wench? His smile is very ugly, uglier even than Henry’s. But I see my chance here. I remember Henry’s father saying that an atoneress gets paid “insane amounts of money”. It was a mistake not to ask who exactly an atoneress is and what she does, but whatever it is, I doubt I would be allowed to do it.
I have a faint memory of how guilds work: a minimal price is usually set for things, and no one is allowed to sell anything cheaper; the senior members get a first pick of any commission. If anyone is allowed to join a guild that offers something worth “insane amounts of money”, it means I would probably be a member of the guild in name only, and I doubt it would allow me to earn a single copper. But being a member of a legal guild gives legal protection. No one would be allowed to deny me entry into the city for a start. That’s exactly what I need now.
And I really dislike the moustached guard’s ugly smile and the lust that lurks in his eyes. I need to do something that would prevent me from coercing me into another deeply humiliating situation quickly. So I gather all the strength I have in my throat and numb lips to say very loudly: yes, I do want to join the Atoneresses’ Guild. Please let me inside the city so I may do so.
I hoped that someone else would hear my raised voice, so that he could not deny that I had demanded what I had a right to. It seems it worked, but the laughters I hear from the inside do not bode well.
II
The main gate stays closed, but a postern opens, and I’m let inside a small guard post. There are three guards inside. I dislike their mocking smiles and the lust I see in their eyes. I’ve already accepted the humiliating possibility of having to sell my body to survive, but I need to put myself in a good enough position that I may bargain. As long as it’s obvious that I’m a desperate little girl dancing on the edge of death, no one will offer me anything more than what I need to survive till the next dawn - they will know they don’t have to. Once I look like someone who may reject an offer, I’ll be able to get a reasonable price.
The protection of a legal guild is my first step toward not looking as desperate as I really am. So I try to make my voice sound strong, determined, and confident as I say: The dusk is nigh. I really wish to be done with all the formalities today, so could you please hurry up with the taxes, good Sirs? I don’t bring anything for sale, and I came during daylight.
Their search of me is very unpleasant, but quick indeed. They don’t find my pendant, but are ruthless in demanding three coppers of the customs duty for my writing utensils despite my profuse assurances that I have absolutely no intention of selling them. The thought of working as a scribe somehow doesn’t feel all that humiliating, and I hope with all my heart that’s my future. I’m not going to get rid of the tools of trade that may allow me to get a half-decent job. Finally, they agree to take my dagger in pledge, with payment due within a week. I don’t like this either; now I’m left without any protection if I decide to leave the safe city walls. But I dislike the other choice even less.
The moustached guard grabs me by the arm and pulls me along the streets. I look around for anything that would provide me with some information about the world. I notice that most women that I pass wear coifs underneath their hoods. Only a young girl, surely not older than 15, accompanied by a man who looks like her father, has her hair uncovered. My own uncovered hair seems to attract a lot of attention. Perhaps coifs are for married women? I can’t recall seeing any women outside her own house before reaching the city to verify that. Henry didn’t know that I was unmarried until I told him, but he believed in my lack of husband very quickly. Maybe it’s a city-only custom? I don’t know.
III
We pass the main square and enter a building that feels weird to me. The building is shaped like a U, with two upper floors rising above a slightly elevated ground floor. Its two wings stretch out on either side, enclosing a narrow courtyard. But when I get pushed through a door, I find myself in a small, poorly furnished room. There are no doors, stairs, hallways - nothing that would allow anyone to enter another part of the large building. I guess there must be another door leading from the courtyard inside, but why? The elevated ground floor makes me guess there must also be something underneath, some basement. Maybe a dungeon?
I dislike this thought now that I’m in this small room with a moustached guard, a man around 30 who looks like a clerk or a scribe, sitting behind a writing desk and two weird-looking women. Both have tattoos on their faces, identical on either cheek. Each tattoo depicts a sword pointing downward. The blade is split by a small gap, and a number is placed in the space between the two halves. The woman on the left has 835 tattooed on her cheeks. The other has 837. Neither of them wears a coif. I start to wonder. The face tattoos feel like criminal markings to me. They seem to be unmarried. Perhaps an atoneress must be unmarried, so only criminals who can’t find a husband because of their past take the job? I need to find out, but without letting anyone realise how little I know about this world.
The guard tells the scribe that I wish to join the guild. The reaction of the two women is immediate and intense. They trip over themselves trying to assure me that it’s a terrible idea. The most repeated argument is that there is no return once I tell the Justice Priest that I’m decided. I should think about it twice and thrice; I can always join later, but leaving the guild is hard and the work is terrible. Ignoring the women, the scribe goes to speak with the Priest. The guard argues over them that by the law and custom I have the right to join and they shouldn’t influence my decision, and they also have no reason to: I’ll be the last to pick any work, so what do they care if I join? I dislike the way he says “work” just as much as I dislike his lustful smile.
I don’t speak. The less people know that I’m on the edge of freezing to death, the easier it will be for me. And what else could I say to those women? The scribe returns quickly and says I’m to go to the Temple. So the guard pulls me outside. Didn’t come to the city to beg, huh? he whispers into my ear. I could bet my week’s wages that not even one year will pass until you beg me to fuck you in the most brutal and painful way I am able to. I try with all my heart not to believe him.
IV
The guard escorts me to the Temple of Paraxionthelios as if my joining the Atoneresses’ Guild was a matter of public safety. To my pleasure, the Temple is nearby, so I’m spared another long walk in this thrice-damned cold, and the inside of the Temple is pleasantly warm. It’s also so richly decorated that it feels almost unreal in the middle of this poor, dirty world that I’ve seen so far. It’s divided into three sections, separated by narrow passages. The further from the entrance, the richer and more elaborate the decorations become.
The first section is the plainest. It has rows of simple wooden benches, all facing the main altar and lectern in the third section. Its side aisles contain small wooden reading desks.
The second section has more comfortable benches, with backrests and cushions. Its side aisles contain smaller altars and gilded, jewel-encrusted stone statues. Silver censers hang beside them, intricately crafted with delicate openwork and elaborate details. They are still smouldering, filling the air with pleasant-smelling incense even though no service is taking place. Silk banners hang along the walls. Hundreds of candles made from real beeswax make the whole section surprisingly bright.
The third section is separated from the second by another narrow passage. It is the most richly decorated part of the Temple and appears to be reserved for the priests. The largest altar and the main lectern stand here, surrounded by marble columns and enormous stained-glass windows. Beneath the altar, charcoal embers mixed with various fragrant substances smoulder in a large stone basin. The stone statues are larger and more lavishly gilded, with larger precious stones set into them. The silk banners, dyed in expensive colours, including deep purple and saffron yellow, shimmer in the light of even more candles.
I don’t recognise the scenes depicted in the elaborate stained-glass windows and frescoes, but I notice that nearly everything here is decorated with an image of a sword pointing upward. Pure water also seems to hold some symbolic importance.
A grey-haired, slim man in elaborate silk robes resembling the banners awaits us at the lectern. His face is stern and dignified. He must be the Priest everyone speaks of with such respect. Three stairs below him stands a young, black-haired, clean-shaven man in similar, but much less decorated robes. Acolyte, I guess. He tries to have the same stern and dignified expression, and he may fool someone less observant, but I notice he’s a little bit nervous.
I’m much more nervous, but determined. I need the legal protection of a legal guild to be allowed to stay in the city and to look less desperate than I really am. The guard that leads me stops just after we enter the second section of the Temple. He drops to one knee and raises both hands above his bowed head, palms facing upward, toward the stone statue in the left aisle. After a heartbeat, he lifts his head and meets the statue’s gaze, then crosses his hands over his heart. I don’t fully understand the meaning of the gesture, but it seems to have something to do with a clear conscience, so I repeat it. Don’t forget proper forms when speaking to His Reverence, and don’t forget to thank him when the ceremony is over, the guard whispers as we stand up.