“Look, over there!”

 “What is it, Sister?”

 “There’s something, down by the beach.”

 Picking up the skirts of her dark grey habit, Sister Fialia ran down to towards the rocky shore of the island, the small basket of herbs she’d been collecting with the other Sisters forgotten. She followed the outstretched finger of Sister Poatha until she spotted the odd object, stretching out from the low, rolling surf.

 “It’s a person!” She exclaimed, as she got close enough to distinguish the dark brown tunic and pants, torn and ragged, from the weathered and sun burnt skin and dark black hair. “A man!”

 This brought more exclamations from the other Sisters who followed her. By long tradition, and the ironclad rules of their order, the island on which stood the Convent of the Lady was forbidden to all but those Sisters dedicated to the Goddess’ service and a few lay-women from the mainland who brought supplies. It was unthinkable for any man to violate this taboo. Even the local fishermen would rather risk storm or sea monster then beach their ships on the sacred shoreline.

 But as Fialia got closer, she could see this man was no local. His features were strange, his complexion darker then could be explained to the sun. Despite his ragged appearance, the man looked quite young and handsome in his strange, exotic fashion. Fialia blushed as it sank in he was in fact the first man she’d laid eyes on since she’d been accepted as a novice back when she was but a child with no interest in men. That was almost four or five years ago now…

 Young and handsome he might be, but he was also injured. Quite aside from the near drowning he’d doubtless faced before washing up on the island, one side of his tunic was stained the dark reddish-brown of blood. His face bore an expression of pain and only the low groaning that she heard told her the man was not dead already.

 “Do not touch him, Sister!” Fialia had been just about to examine the wound, for she’d been trained in the healing arts during her time as a novitiate, when the stern voice of Sister Baios sounded, stopping the younger woman cold.

 “But Sister!” Fialia protested. “He is badly hurt, see! Is not one of our duties to the Lady to offer aide to those in need? How can we fail when one such is brought to our very doorstep?”

 “The tenets of our order also strictly forbid any doings with men.” Baios huffed angrily. “And innocent travelers and souls in need may expect our aid, but we are not obligated to give it to thieves and cuthroats. I’d swear to it, here is some pirate or brigand, come to a bad end and well deserved! Leave him be, I said, that’s an order. Let him find what fate the Lady chooses. Come then and prepare for the midday prayers!” Baios rounded up her uncertain Sisters like a sheepdog bringing its flock in and did not let up vigil over them until all were in the chapel, offering their usual benedictions.

But afterword, as dusk was settling over the island, Fialia slipped away from her duties. She crept to the apothecary, finding some herbs and unguents the Sisters had prepared, then to the kitchen where she gathered some bread and cheeses and a small bottle of wine. These she took down to the beach and looked about for the man.

He must have come to, while she was gone, at least long enough to crawl up the length of the beach, clear of the evening tide before flopping once more beneath some scrub growing among the sandy dunes. He was so still, Fialia was worried he’d died as she crept over and knelt beside him, but she found breath, light and ragged, in his chest still. The medicine, applied to his wound and bandaged, did him some good and a mouthful of the wine revived him enough to notice her.

As she’d guessed, the man spoke a dozen or so words in a strange tongue she did not recognize. Fialia spoke back to him, in her own language, telling him her name, how she’d found him and of the Convent and its rules against men. How much, if any, he understood she didn’t know, but the words seemed to calm him down somewhat. After pulling him deeper into the shelter of the thicket, Fialia bid him farewell and crept back to the Convent.

For five days, she slipped down to the beach each evening, bringing him food and drink and changing the bandages of his wound, which swiftly improved. Soon, the man was strong enough to stand and stagger about. Fialia continued to talk, though she had no understanding of what the man said back to her, save possibly that his name was Cardovan.

Then, on the sixth day, she went down again to find him gone. She walked up and down the beach, but found no trace of the man. Perhaps his presence had been noticed by the Abbess who’d gotten rid of him, one way or another. Perhaps he’d recovered enough to attempt to swim to shore. The man had the look of a sailor and the channel between her and the mainland was not rough this time of year. The monthly supply boat with its lay-sisters had come the morning before, perhaps he’d stowed aboard. Whatever his fate was, Fialia soon put it out of her mind and forgot all about the strange man.

Three years later, the raiders came.

The oared raiding galleys, prows carved in the shape of fierce monsters, came sailing in out of the morning mists, beaching silently on the lonely shores of the island. At that early hour, only a handful of Sisters were saying the dawn prayers in the chapel or stoking the coals in the kitchens to prepare breakfast for when the rest of the Convent arose for the new day, little guessing it would be their last here.

Without so much as a cry of alarm being raised, the pirates swarmed over the outer walls. A century or more, the Goddess and local taboos had protected the Convent, but these rough, strange men from distant lands had their own heathen deities and the curses of the Goddess fell impotent upon them. Those Sisters who were out and about were swept up in the rush before they knew what was happening: rough hands seizing them, clamping their mouths shut to stifle their screams. Then ropes appeared, binding them, rags were used to gag them.

Fialia was in her cell in the main dormitory when the outer doors were forced. Screams from the other Sisters roused her from her slumber. Before she could act, the door of her own chambers were thrown open and a pair of pirates rushed to her bedside. With casual disdain for the holy woman, they ripped Fialia from her bed, pulling her to her feet. She struggled but was helpless before two men larger and stronger then she was and obviously accustomed to violence unlike the poor Sister.

Fialia gasped as her flimsy night shift was torn from her body, baring her naked body to the gaze of the men. She tried to cover herself with her hands, only to have them wrenched behind her back and lashed cruelly together with cord. Her frantic prayer to the Goddess for deliverance was silenced by a rag tied between her teeth.

 A rough shove sent the captive woman stumbling out of her cell. In the common room, the other sisters were being pushed from their own bedchambers. Some had been stripped bare, like her, others had their gowns ripped and torn. All had their hands bound and mouths muzzled.

 Outside, the courtyard was a scene of chaos, a nightmare none of them had dreamed could happen. From the other dormitory, the convent’s novitiates were being herded out, stripped and bound, to join the older Sisters. Pirates ran rampant here and there, smashing open doors and windows, hurling out jeweled and gilded treasures with little regard for the sacrilege. From the kitchens, excited cheers and drunken shouting told the raiders had discovered the wine cellar and were making as free with its contents as their comrades above were with the Convents treasures and its Sisters.

 When they had stripped the buildings of all their treasures and rounded up all its helpless occupants, the pirates set out, through the main gate, heading down towards the beach and the islands small docks. Herded along with jeers and blows from their captors, the women and girls sobbed and moaned with fright. They knew all to well what their fate was to be now: taken away from their home and their goddess, doomed to slavery in some distant land.

 With the rest, Fialia stumbled up the gangplank onto one of the pirate ships. As she crossed the deck, a horrid sight met her gaze. Standing at the helm of the ship, watching the line of dejected captives tramp down into the hold was the pirate captain. He stood proud and tall, dressed in a fine coat of scarlet, festooned with trinkets and charms of gold and silver, but the features were unmistakable. Fialia sobbed as she recognized the face of the man she had saved all those years ago. The man who had escaped the island, made his way back to his pirate crew and returned to his wicked, roving ways until he rose to command this small squadron of corsairs and he recalled the convent, its treasures and the women within.

 With a wail of despair, knowing how she had doomed herself and her Sisters to slavery, Fialia stumbled down into the ship’s dark hold...