"What in the Nightlands were you doing?" growled Bhakir through his grimace of a smile. Castyll feigned innocence. "I lost my speech, you saw what—"
"I saw you drop the speech, you little ..." Bhakir composed himself with an effort. The guards now had closed in around the young king, and though he still stood taller than most of them they formed an effective barrier between him and the crowd. "Forgive me, Majesty. I am merely distressed that your ... lack of grace at such a crucial moment resulted in such a poor speech. You mentioned none of the things we discussed."
Triumph flared in the youth. Bhakir wasn't ready —yet— to voice his true thoughts in front of the guards. Perhaps some of them were still loyal to the young king, after all. No, he hadn't mentioned the "things we discussed." Not one cursed word. "I'm sorry, Bhakir—I got flustered," Castyll lied. "I tried to think of something appropriate. Something to do with love."
"You said nothing of Lord Zhael's appointment as Commander of the Navy," snapped Bhakir. "Nor did you mention the amnesty we have granted Captain Porbrough and his compatriots. Why didn't you remember to do that when you were speaking so eloquently of love and good relationships? Castyll, this is a seaport. If you don't inform people of changes in the navy immediately, they won't be as quick to accept them!"
Which was, of course, exactly what Castyll wanted. He hung his head, lest Bhakir see the rebellion in the dark Derlian eyes. "I'm sorry. I guess it was because I hadn't done either of those things myself that they just—I don't know— slipped my mind."
Bhakir tensed, and Castyll realized that he had perhaps gone too far. It was a dangerous, delicate game he and Bhakir played with one another. The moment either of them clearly admitted to the other that Castyll was a prisoner, the game would be over. Castyll knew that both stood to lose should that happen. Bhakir would lose an important figurehead, a mouthpiece beyond compare. Castyll was beloved by his people; Bhakir would have a much more difficult time putting his plans into effect without the young king's apparent approval. And Castyll—well, he'd lose what little semblance of freedom he had and, sooner rather than later, he'd lose his life.
His breath caught in his throat. He could not meet Bhakir's eyes.
"Perhaps then, my young majesty," purred Bhakir, "it is time to get you more directly involved."
Inwardly, Castyll shrank back. Bhakir's words were a threat —of closer guard, of harder, more direct manipulation. He began to wonder if, today, all he had done was to delay the inevitable. Suddenly the beauty had gone out of the day, as the young king of Mhar, ostensibly the most powerful man in the land, trudged with his armed escort back toward his prison.
CHAPTER TEN
But take care when working with old wood, for if you bend it too far, it will break.
—Advice from master carpenter to apprentice
Castle Seacliff had been designed with escape from siege in mind. The space below the castle was riddled with tunnels and little rooms where the royal family could be hidden—and where their enemies could be imprisoned. As he descended into one of these dungeons, Bhakir's refrain was simple: At least the little bastard has no magic.
That thought was the only thing that comforted him after Castyll's outrageous performance earlier in the day. It had looked like an accident, and admittedly Castyll couldn't have counted that the wind would be so anxious to snatch up a royal counselor's speech. But it was just too convenient. Bhakir suspected that if the warm summer zephyr hadn't been so obliging, the boy would have ignored the speech and done exactly what he had ended up doing. He'd have come up with some excuse.
Castyll knew he was a prisoner, or at least suspected as much. Whatever else Shahil might have been, the late king of Mhar had not been stupid. Nor was his son, though Bhakir had hoped that simply because of his youth Castyll might be more pliable.
But today he had seen calculation in the boy's actions. He was starting to push, to test the limits, and soon he would become too hard to control.
Puffing with even the simple exertion of walking downstairs, Bhakir narrowed his eyes. But damn it, he still needed Castyll. The people's reaction to the king's speech today proved that. He'd just have to step up security around the youth, that was all there was to it. After Love's Blesser, ugly little thing, had had her way with him, it would be Castyll whom Bhakir would be visiting now, as well as Jemma. Enough of coddling the boy. Time to put him in the dungeon as the prisoner he was.
"Peace with Byrn," he muttered. "Pieces of Byrn, is more like it." The innocent-sounding speech had set Bhakir back several days. He'd have to contrive another official occasion, where Castyll could actually deliver the prepared speech.
Bhakir reached the foot of the stairs and paused to lean up against the cold stone wall, catching his breath. A soft moaning, emanating from the torture room, was sweet to Bhakir's ears. The two guards stationed outside the cell shrewdly averted their eyes from the sight of their master appearing less than perfect. When his breathing had slowed, Bhakir spoke to them.
"Any progress?" he asked.
They snapped to attention. "We believe so, sir. She broke down and begged for us to stop for the first time yesterday. You can hear her now."
"Indeed I do. That is good news. But has she agreed to cooperate?"
"No sir."
"Ah, well, that is unfortunate, but I'm sure it can be remedied. I've saved something special for her."
It had been ten days since he had first ordered her imprisoned; six days since the torture had begun. They had tried almost everything they could think of that would not injure her hands or her speech. Such delicacy in selection ruled out some of Bhakir's favorite tortures, such as the strappado. Hoisting Jemma up by her hands, bound behind her back, and then letting her drop would dislocate her shoulders, thus making arm movements difficult. And the water torture was perforce eliminated as an option as well. Forcing her to swallow a long length of rag and then yanking it back up—well, that could seriously injure her throat.
He nodded to the guards, and they opened the door. Bhakir swept inside. Over at the table, the torturer was busily cleaning bits of the old woman's flesh out of the clogged cat-o'-nine-tails. Jemma, barely recognizable, lay on the floor. She was bound hand and foot and was curled up in a tight ball, whimpering. Welts covered almost every inch of her body. If Bhakir hadn't known better, he'd have thought that the torturer had sliced her up with a knife.
The torturer rose immediately. Grandly, Bhakir waved him back, indicating he should finish his task. He strode over to the weeping heap that had once been a proud woman and kicked her soundly at the base of her spine.
Jemma screamed and flailed. Bhakir waited calmly for her cries to subside, then said, "All you need to do is cooperate. It's not that much to ask."
An incoherent mumbling was his response. He sighed. 'This isn't working."
The torturer, a bulky man stripped to the waist, nodded. Sweat from his exertions gleamed on his torso. "I only hope my lord finds no fault with the methods."
"Good heavens, you've more than proved yourself on past occasions, Garith," Bhakir hastened to reassure him. "You're limited in this one, unfortunately. I can't give you the free rein to which you are accustomed. No, we just have to think of something else."
"How about a variation of pressing?" volunteered Garith, as they both stood gazing at the whimpering, bloody woman. Pressing was a particularly effective form of coercion. Victims were tied faceup and arched upwards, and one by one, stones were placed on their torso, eventually crushing them. "She has muttered about her joints. Anything I've done to them has produced very positive results. It would be very painful, but not necessarily destructive."
Bhakir nodded slowly. "I see what you mean. It sounds like a good suggestion. Here, let me assist you."
Jemma lifted her head as they approached, sensing a progression in her torment, and cried out, "Nay, my lords, have mercy! I am an old woman! Please!"
"Jemma," said Bhakir in a tired, firm voice, as if he were speaki
ng to an errant child, "I have told you what you need to do if you wish to stop this. I'd much rather you cooperate. Garith's talents are very costly." The two men exchanged a chuckle.
The old Healer closed her eyes, sinking into herself. She fell silent.
Bhakir sighed. "As you wish, old woman." Garith jerked her into an upright seated position. She hissed through her teeth as the caked-over welts began to bleed anew, and shrieked as they pushed her bound ankles into her crotch. Working swiftly, Garith tied a short length of rope between ankles and wrists, so that her feet would not slip away from her body.
Wordlessly, the two men began putting stones on the woman's thin legs, forcing them down to the floor. At this, Jemma screamed aloud, a terrible, rasping cry of pure agony. The men exchanged hopeful glances and continued applying stones. Mercilessly, Jemma's thighs pressed toward the floor, tearing the ligaments that bound them to her hips and fanning the fire of her inflamed joints. She wailed constantly, seeming not even to draw breath.
"Will you do what I ask?" demanded Bhakir.
She opened her eyes. For a second, it was as though she didn't see him. "I Heal," was all she said.
Bhakir growled in angry frustration. Was the whole world trying to thwart him today? First Castyll, with his impromptu speeches and lies, and now this tiny, wasted woman with a body seemingly too frail to house her rebellious spirit. Unable to contain himself, he placed one booted foot on her knee and stamped down.
Her agony was rewarding. He turned to Garith. "The spider," he said shortly.
Garith frowned. "The injuries that causes are very severe," he reminded his lord. "She might not survive them. I suggest sending her back to her cell, letting her stiffen up in solitary confinement, and then resuming. That often works better than straight torture. Something about having the time to think clearheaded about what's to come often breaks them."
He spoke calmly, with the authority of a man who knew what he was talking about. Bhakir was certain he did.
"But I am running out of time," he replied. "I need her help soon. The boy will before long be of no use, and unless I have something special—" he broke off. He had the utmost confidence in Garith's trustworthiness. The two men had worked together in this capacity for years, in secret, and Garith had never yet betrayed him. But what Bhakir was planning was of great import, and he wished to trust no one, not even his torturer, with all of the facts.
"I am running out of time," he repeated. "She must cooperate soon or she is of no use to me." Garith bowed. "You are my lord and commander, and I am sworn to obey you. But I think we might kill her."
"I'm willing to take the risk," snapped Bhakir. "Something about this particular method seems to break women swiftly."
"That is true enough," conceeded Garith. "Many who can withstand abuse to other parts of the body cannot deal with targeted attacks on their sex."
Bhakir suddenly had a dreadful mental picture of his maleness trapped within a cold, sharptoothed device, and he suppressed a shudder. He knew that he would talk in such a situation. He could only hope that Jemma would, too.
"Proceed," he said, banishing the mental image.
"As you will, my lord." Reluctantly, the torturer went to the stone wall and yanked the coverings off a previously unrevealed instrument. It appeared simple enough; nothing more than a series of bars, eight in all, affixed vertically to the wall with claws running along their lengths. Bhakir reached and yanked Jemma to her feet. She crumpled, her broken legs unable to support her, and he held her with one strong arm about her waist. With the other, he seized a clump of gray hair and yanked her head back, forcing her gaze upon the metal bars.
"This is the spider," he hissed in her ear. "This won't hurt your hands or your tongue, Healer. But this is specially designed for your sex. We'll hoist you and drag you along those eight claws. You are an old woman, but you are a woman still, and though your breasts have long since dried, I would think you'd still like to keep them intact."
Jemma did not respond. Bhakir tasted despair. Suppose the torture had unhinged her mind? He might as well toss her in the ocean right now, for all the good she would do him. He swore violently and began to half drag, half carry the injured old woman toward the torture instrument.
Garith waited, and together they lifted her, brought her unresisting, aged body up, placed her in the correct position. Cold metal came into contact with warm flesh.
Suddenly the limp body sprang to life. Jemma began to writhe and scream. "Mercy, lord! Mercy!" Bhakir, caught up in his anger, almost missed the opportunity he had been waiting for. It was Garith who paused and said, "Milord, I haven't seen her like this. Ask her again."
Startled, Bhakir paused. Jemma's body was inches away from mutilation. "You wish me to stop?" Incoherent with fear and pain, Jemma only nodded.
"Will you do as I ask? Will you help me?"
Her head lolled back, resembling a heavy blossom on a delicate stalk. Her eyes fixed on his. "One last time," she breathed, "I beg you, don't ask this of me."
Irritation roiled in Bhakir's brain, and he lifted her toward the spider again. "I care not if your withered old teats are shredded. Do you?"
She twisted in his grasp. "No, lord, no! I—gods save me!—I will do what you want, only spare me this!"
At once Garith took over, as professional now in his compassion as he was in his torture. He swung the broken, naked body into his arms and carried her gently to a corner, where he wrapped her in blankets that were there for just such an occasion.
"There, you see, Jemma?" he said gently, using her name for the first time. "All you had to do was cooperate." He glanced over at the counselor. "Tell the guards to bring hot, nourishing food, wine, and clothes suitable for her," he told Bhakir. "Give me a few hours to tend her hurts and she will do as you ask."
Bhakir wasn't so sure. He stalked over to the Healer and stared down at her. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and tears escaped from beneath her closed lids. They were not the strained sobs of a panicked, pain-filled prisoner. These were quiet tears, tears that mourned, not protested.
"The spider waits, if you change your mind," he told her.
She nodded, her eyes still closed. "Aye, lord, I know. I will not." Her voice was dead, empty, devoid of emotion. Her tongue crept out to lick dry lips. At the gesture, Garith was quick to ladle some water into her mouth. She gulped thirstily, then continued. "Listen ... you must get me ... these materials."
* * *
Bhakir could barely restrain himself. For the first time, he could truly see his plan coming together. He'd been able to maneuver here and there, such as working on Zhael's behalf and negotiating the treaty with Captain Cutter; and, of course, keeping a sharp eye and heavy hand on the troublesome king. But those were each separate pieces of a vast, complicated puzzle. Now, finally, Jemma was going to give him the tool to hamstring his enemies and emerge triumphant.
Garith had asked for a Healer, but Bhakir had deemed it too great a risk. The torturer would have to content himself with what healing he himself knew. Still, when Bhakir returned a few hours later bearing all the strange and mysterious items Jemma had requested, he was surprised at the change in the old woman.
She had been transferred to another, more comfortable cell, though this one was still subject to the dampness and vermin that were common to all the prison cells. But at least there was a small brazier now to cut the cold, and a bed that was adequate if not much more. Jemma was dressed and her wounds tended. She sat erect on the bed, her useless lower extremities covered with the blankets, and regarded Bhakir steadily as the guard opened the door to let him enter. The counselor realized with a start that if he had set out to break Jemma's spirit, he had failed. It was of no matter, he told himself; as long as she was willing to cooperate, she could keep her precious dignity.
"I have the items you requested," he said without preamble, indicating the bag he carried. "You will have to be my assistant," she said with equal coolness. "Your torturer left me my hands
and voice, but neither you nor he remembered that I must be able to walk to cast a circle."
Bhakir broke out in a cold sweat. Jemma was about to embark on a ritual that, he of all people know, called upon some of the darkest, most evil powers in existence. He had planned to reap the fruits of her labor, not assist her—and thus perhaps be subjected to danger. He licked thick lips with a moist tongue.
"I will assist where I can, but this is your ritual, Blesser."
Now she cringed, as if with his words he had hurt her as badly as Garith had with his instruments. "Do not call me by that title," she said. "By what I am about to do I am proving myself no Blesser— nor a Healer. I am Jemma. That was the name given me, and that is all I have left now. As for the limits of your assistance," and fire seemed to return to her, "it would be meet and right for you to suffer for the evil thing you demand. But I accept that this is my burden, my debt to the gods for the blasphemy I have agreed to perform."
Bhakir was, for once, at a loss for words. Instead, he plopped the bag on the straw and began emptying it. Though he was confused by the strange assortment Jemma had instructed he obtain, he had managed to get, through a variety of means, every item on her list. A map of Byrn. A sharp knife. A stoppered jug full of milk. A handful of wheat. A small, but fresh, cut of raw meat. A small ceramic bowl. A sack of ground bone powder. And an intimidating amount of herbs and other bizarre items: hemlock, nightshade, bat's blood, sheep's fat, monk's hood, lily of the valley, soot, mugwort. A mortar and pestle, presumably for grinding the ingredients.
Jemma watched him in silence. At last she spoke. "You are mad," she said in a conversational tone, "to think the gods will let you curse an entire country of innocents."
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