The strange, flowing scar that stretched across Inera’s forehead was matched by another on her chest, dipping down between her breasts from one collarbone to the other. Her arms and shoulders were also covered by smaller scars—runes he didn’t recognize. He was disgusted by the sight of her, and yet somehow aroused at the same time, as if her ghastly appearance still conjured the memory of the way she had been before. Her eyes locked onto his, and he could feel the weight of something alien behind them.
“Things have…changed…since you left me to die,” she said, looking his naked body up and down. She stretched like a cat as she regarded him, the look of fond memories playing across her face.
“I begged you to leave! I wanted you to come home with me, back to Ishamael,” he coughed, his spasms sending tendrils of pain over his chest.
“And what? Become your wife? Join the Conclave? Become a slave to their machinations? No, Dormael, that life was never meant for me. But reconciliation—or revenge—is not why I’m here.”
“Then why?” he asked, his heart pounding.
“Answers. If you tell me what I wish to know, then this will go considerably easier for you. It ends the same way no matter what happens, my love, so don’t hold on to any hope of escape.” Her dead eyes stared into his, unyielding.
“You mean to torture me.” It was a statement. He knew it to be true, and could feel the dread creeping into his body.
“Torture is such a narrow word. It simply can’t contain the description of what will happen to you if you resist me, dear one. You will know pain, surely, but on a completely different level than you ever have, and in the end you will serve me, regardless. I do not wish to cause you pain, love, so why don’t you just make this easier on the both of us? Join me. Pledge your allegiance to me. Things can go back to the way they used to be. Do you remember the time we spent together? The nights we laid under the stars making love, talking about the future? Do you remember how it felt to be together? It could be that way again.”
Dormael did remember. He remembered the way she used to be, he remembered her laugh and her carefree attitude. He remembered her determination and her independence. This creature standing before him was not that woman. She was a remnant, a ghost. She was a puppet made of lifeless parts, animated with darkness.
Inera is dead. He repeated that to himself over and over again.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
It came out quieter than he had intended. Something inside him was screaming with grief, with disbelief. It wanted to reach out to her, to see if anything of the woman he’d known could be inside this pale creature before him. Something inside of him hoped.
Her eyes twitched just for a second, and Dormael saw her pain in that instant. Then, that alien coldness and hardened resolve was back. Her expression never wavered.
“Where is the armlet? Where is the girl?” she asked, her eyes wooden, like a doll’s.
“Fuck yourself.”
Inera gave a dramatic sigh, turning her back on him and reaching onto that small table behind her. She turned back to him, holding a small, jagged knife. She looked to one of the quiet men standing behind her, and tossed the blade to him.
“Cut him. Do it slowly.”
***
D’Jenn placed the palm of his hand on the stones of the sewer wall. He and Allen had come to an intersection, a place where the water, flowing in the deep trenches in the center of the tunnel, met before draining into the lower levels of the sewer. He pushed his awareness into the stone, trying to sense something within the magic, anything to help the two of them find Dormael. There was nothing, just as there had been nothing since they’d entered the sewer system.
“Anything?” Allen asked, squinting into the dark tunnels around them.
“No.”
“There has to be a better way to seek him out. We’ve been running around blind down here,” Allen cursed, pounding his hand against the wall in frustration.
“Let me think for a bit,” D’Jenn spat, frustration welling through his facade. “I can’t do it with you stomping around and snarling at the stones.”
Allen grew quiet, and stepped away from D’Jenn, inspecting the different intersections around them. His armor clinked as he moved, his weapons shifting and rattling in their sheaths. D’Jenn wondered how he moved around with all those blades and such hanging from his body.
Ishamael’s sewer system was a sprawling maze of tunnels that had been cut from the ground during the city’s founding. It was another of Indalvian’s wonders, providing a self-sustaining system of waste disposal that no other city had—not even wondrous Tauravon. D’Jenn had studied it during his training at the Conclave.
It worked upon a basic filtering principle, powered by magic built on a scale the size of the city itself. The top level of the sewers was a collection level, where the city’s waste water was washed down into giant filtering reservoirs, where magical spells kept the water spinning at great speed, keeping the heavier—and nastier—things from settling. The water was then filtered through magical barriers, where it was then washed lower and the process repeated. Eventually the water reached the lowest level, where it was boiled sterile, again through magic, and washed back upwards to fountains within the city, where any citizen could come and obtain clean water for their home. The waste, moved through pipes to an area outside the city, was collected and given to outlying farmers to use as fertilizer. It was one of Indalvian’s few wonders, and nothing like it had been attempted since his time.
The problem for Allen and D’Jenn was that the system wound through more ground than the city itself covered, and the sewers weren’t the only tunnels under the city. They’d never been fully explored, and the dangerous magic, still not understood by many wizards, kept many people from venturing into the tunnels. One could spend seasons down here, and never cross the same tunnel twice. D’Jenn cursed, trying to think of their options.
“D’Jenn!” Allen called, his voice echoing in the underground passage. “There’s blood over here!”
D’Jenn rushed over to his cousin, crouching down beside him to see. There were blood drops on the ground, red and beginning to dry at the edges, but new enough to still be wet. The humidity had probably helped to preserve it as well. But whose blood was it? Could they take that chance?
“Prick your finger,” D’Jenn told Allen.
“What? Why?”
“Just do it! Quickly! Drop a little of your blood beside the blood on the floor.”
Allen cursed, but drew a dagger from his belt and slashed it over his left forearm. Red blood welled up along the wound, and pattered to the stones near the drops that he’d found. D’Jenn opened his Kai to feed a tiny bit of magic into the blood, and created a link between the two samples. The drying blood drops began to glow, leaking a rose-colored nimbus like fog rising from a swamp. Allen’s blood responded, echoing the glow even as he was wiping the wound clean.
“It’s his!” D’Jenn said, rising to his feet and gazing down the corridor. Sure enough, there were more glowing drops farther down the tunnel, leading off into the darkness.
“How do you know that?” Allen asked, rising to his feet as well.
“Your blood and Dormael’s are linked. You’re brothers, so there is a slight difference between the blood that flows in your veins, but enough of a similarity to cause a reaction with my spell. He came this way, recently enough that this blood is still wet. He can’t be too far.”
“Then what in the Six Hells are we waiting on?” Allen asked. D’Jenn just smiled back at him. The two of them took off at a run down the tunnel, their steps echoing down the lonely corridors around them.
***
Dormael screamed.
He’d always heard stories of honorable men staying silent and strong through torture, never giving in to the pain of it. He’d thought that he could do it, that somehow he’d win out over the agony. He’d been wrong—horribly, painfully wrong.
Inera asked her qu
estions. Where is the girl, she would ask while running cool fingers across his cheeks. Where is the armlet, while walking in a circle around him. What creature made that bruise, while tracing the edges of the same.
In the beginning, Dormael would curse at her, or threaten her, or tell her with absolute surety that someone would be looking for him. Then she’d gesture at the man standing beside her, and he would step inside the circle with that jagged little knife.
He started with his fists, punching Dormael until his mouth bled, and his lips were too swollen to speak. Then he’d drive his fist into Dormael’s stomach, expelling the air from his lungs. When Dormael went to suck in a breath, the man would stab him in the gut.
After that, he would go to work with the knife, lips pursed like a craftsman at a workbench. He cut Dormael across the stomach in long, slow lines. He stabbed him in the belly in quick, shallow punches. He dug the blade under Dormael’s skin, and flayed small sections from the tissue underneath.
The man cut, beat, and kicked Dormael until he was dizzy with the loss of blood. His hands began to go numb. His feet lost the strength to move, until all his weight was dangling by his wrists. His blood was splattered everywhere within the Greater Circle. It ran over his elbows and into his armpits, from his lips and eyes, from the stab wounds in his midsection.
When the torture stopped, Inera would come with her questions—all soft, cool hands, and kisses along his bloody chest. She whispered to him, rubbed him, and rubbed against him. He would have been horrified, but all he felt was pain and nausea.
When he wouldn’t answer, it would start all over again.
Dormael could feel his mind going fuzzy, his hurts fading into a buzz in the background of his thoughts. He could feel his chest filling with his own blood, making it harder and harder to breathe. He began to wheeze, spraying a wisp of his own blood over his lips. The world retreated behind a wall of pain.
Everything went silent. He realized that the beating, the stabbing, the cutting, had stopped. All he could hear was the sound of running water, and hushed conversation. He felt a cool hand on his cheek. He squinted through blurred vision.
Inera wiped blood from his face, thumbing it from under his eyes. Her expression was sad, as if he were a rabid beast that she was sorry she had to put down. In her other hand she held a small glass jar filled with what he thought was water—except there were tiny lights whirling around inside.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” she asked, slipping her bloodied fingers into her mouth and smiling as she tasted them. She took a deep breath, as if his blood were the most delicious ambrosia. “I can make it all stop. You want that, don’t you? To feel no more pain, to be whole again? I know you do. Just say it—say that you’ll pledge your life to me. Tell me that you will serve me, and be mine forever. Tell me what I wish to know. It wouldn’t be so bad, you know. We could lie under the stars again. We could be together again, Dormael. I know you want that as much as I do. I know that you want me again.”
She pressed her mouth to his chest, began giving him light kisses as if they were about to make love. Though desire was the furthest thing from his mind, Inera’s lips felt cool and wonderful against the heat of his tortured flesh. Every bit of him hurt, and her kisses stayed on his skin once her lips were gone, like cold fingerprints.
He knew he was dying. He welcomed it. No one would come for him. He’d been here for quite some time, unconscious, then being tortured. He’d gone through multiple rounds of the questioning, though he couldn’t remember just how many. A feeling of acceptance came over him, a strange sort of peace. He had revealed nothing to her—he’d screamed and cried and sobbed like a wounded beast, but he had told her nothing.
If he was to die here, then so be it. At least he’d won. She could kill him, but she’d never get what she wanted out of him. Release beckoned, and he let himself go deeper, listening to his laboring heart as he went. It faded into the background.
So mote it be, he thought. No one else would say the words for him, no one would speak over his pyre. No one would get the chance.
Inera was saying something again, but her voice was hazy and indistinct. Dormael’s vision faded to blackness, and he was floating. He felt weightless, cool, and comfortable. His pains were still there, somewhere in his consciousness, but they were unimportant. He could hear his heartbeat begin to stutter, failing in his last moments.
You are here. How have you come to this place again?
Dormael realized with a start that the alien presence he’d met in his dreams was with him in the darkness. The power touched his mind, and he felt that strange stretching sensation in his thoughts again, as if his mind was connected with eons of awareness. His consciousness felt like a piece of fabric being stretched to its limit.
I am dying, he thought, pushing the words out to the alien power.
No. Life still beats in your flesh. I can feel it.
Then how—, he began, but something wrenched him from that peaceful darkness. He felt an odd pull against his consciousness, as if the presence were trying to hold on to him while something else, something far away, pulled him from its grasp. His head spun.
Dormael coughed, spluttered, and choked. He felt the pain slam back into him as he awakened. Inera was forcing water into his mouth from a jar, spilling it over his face and into his throat. He felt something enter his mouth from the jar, like he’d swallowed a bug made of electric flame.
Dormael went rigid as every muscle in his body stiffened. The chain snapped back and forth as his body was wracked with spasms, the clatter filling the room. He felt as if lightning were crawling over his skin, into his wounds, leaving a tingling sensation behind. His heart beat in his ears with a vengeance.
He felt his wounds knitting together, his skin and muscle and innards twisting back into place with an unnatural tingle. Dormael’s wits cleared as he sucked in a chestful of air. He could almost taste the stench of the room—sewage, blood, sweat, and rust. His pain faded and his muscles went slack, leaving him feeling oddly refreshed.
Dormael stared open-mouthed at Inera. She smiled, one side of her mouth ticking up with a knowing expression. Turning, she glided back to the table and set the glass jar atop it. When she turned back to regard him, the triumph in her expression made him want to scream.
“Now,” she said. “Where is the armlet?”
***
Bethany watched Shawna as the woman slipped in and out of her opponent’s reach like a cat, easily knocking aside attacks and making attacks of her own. Bethany held her own knife, stroking the flat side of the blade with her thumb. She sat on the edge of a fountain, drawn deep within her cloak. Thunder rumbled overhead as the students on the Bruising Stretch continued their lessons—though most of them were watching Shawna.
That was why it had been so easy to give the boy Dormael had sent with her the slip. He had been staring at Shawna, watching her spin and fight. Bethany had only turned a corner—it had been the easiest thing in the world. The boy had been nice, and she hoped he didn’t get in trouble.
But it was his own stupid fault—Bethany had put forth little effort to ditch him.
Shawna had seen her earlier in the day, but Bethany had ducked out of sight not long after. She felt safer watching from a distance. Big people had so many concerns at eye level that it was easy to get lost beneath their gaze. They rarely looked down.
The Conclave grounds spread out around her, manicured rows of grass and stone, bushes and fountains. The Bruising Stretch was a vast area covered with paving stones, twin armories at the end, and a covered gazebo for resting. The Conclave Proper rose up behind her, the vast tower stark against the overcast sky. Thunder cracked the day again, and Bethany could smell the storm brewing, like a quickening in the air.
She watched a group of Initiates walk by, trailing in a single file behind an old woman who was speaking at length in matter-of-fact tones. They all wore blue tunics, and lately some of them had taken to wearing bands of color on their arm
s. These children, though, were younger even than her. She wondered if she would be like them, in a class with others like them.
Was Dormael going to leave her alone here?
She wondered if she would make any friends. Would she still be able to steal into the dining hall whenever she wanted, and grab something from the cooks? Would she be made to do scullery duty?
The thought of washing out pots wasn’t pleasant, but she thought she could handle it. Grease and soap and threatening ladles were a far sight better than what she had seen. Besides—it would probably be easy to ditch scullery duty. After all, big people never looked down.
Bethany wondered again if she would make any friends. Something inside of her ached for a friend. Something else, though, told her it was useless.
She closed her eyes then, and opened her Kai. Bethany knew she wasn’t supposed to, she had been forbidden to do it when she was all alone. She couldn’t help it.
The world sang when she was listening through her Kai.
The grass had its own music, which harmonized with the wind and the bushes. The endless clanging of steel-on-steel, and clacking of practice swords, filled the world with a beat. The thunder above her sounded as if it should shake the entire world—maybe it did. Bethany closed her eyes and let her Kai sing to her in low tones, floating on a bubble of peace.
She had never dreamed such a thing would be possible. She never thought that she would come to a place like this, where higher concerns existed than what you were going to eat the next day, or where you could sleep without someone stealing your stuff, or trying other things. Nastier things.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 67
