I wanted nothing more than to stay just as we were, to let him kiss me and hold me and whisper words of love into my ears. I could drown in his voice, so silky smooth, like butter. But far away in a corner of my mind, something nagged at me. I’d come here to warn him the Bennamorians were bent on war, and I hadn’t yet done that. And he was so open, all of a sudden. All the barriers between us were down, he was prepared to confide in me without reservation. It was foolish to waste the opportunity.
“The mage…” I croaked. I tried again. “Hestaria. Why… why keep her prisoner?”
He cocked his head, eyes narrowed in mock annoyance. “You are determined to interrogate me. Well, you are right, there should be no secrets between us, my love.”
My love! How I gloried in that. Yet at the same time he shifted so that there was more distance between us.
“It was the High Commander’s idea.”
“The – what?”
“You remember. The man from Bennamore who brought his army here last year. He was a mage, and he had the most amazing powers. His voice! You would not believe his power, and he chose me – me! – to put his plans into action, with his help, of course. With his magic. But then he got himself killed, so we needed another mage to replace him, but—”
We were so engrossed we heard nothing. I became aware of perfume, a heady, musky scent. Ish started and his eyes widened, sliding to something – someone – behind me.
A woman’s voice. “By the Nine, Ishmarsol! How can you be so stupid!”
I spun round, but too late.
Something heavy collided with my head. A whump, then an explosion of pain and I was falling, spinning into oblivion.
21: Dungeon
I woke to darkness. Darkness and pain. Goddess, how it hurt! I whimpered, as it raged through my skull as if it would devour me.
Something cold and rough scratched at my cheek as I lay crumpled. A stone floor. One arm was bent beneath me, but when I tried to move it, the pain speared through me even worse than before. I lay still, my breathing ragged, not daring to move, wondering if I was going to die here in this dank, black place.
I supposed I slid back into unconsciousness, because the next time I was aware of anything, there were lights flickering and moving. Lamps, perhaps. They hurt my eyes, and I quickly shut them again. There were sounds, no voices, but heavy breathing and the slow scraping sounds of something heavy being dragged along. Scrape. Pause. Scrape. Pause. Then metallic noises, a clanging and jingling, followed by ponderous footsteps. Then silence.
Later – I supposed it was later, it was hard to tell – there were voices murmuring above my head, very close.
“She hasn’t moved. If she dies—”
“Still breathing, en’t she? Anyways, not our problem.”
“He wants to know if she sleeps too long, though. Should we tell him?”
A silence. “Nah. Giver ‘er bit longer. No point panickin’.”
When I next opened my eyes it was light, or at least less dark. It seemed to me that the pain in my head was lessened, a violent throbbing but not quite so agonising. I tried to move to a more comfortable position. It took me three attempts, but eventually I succeeded in rolling onto my back and releasing the arm that had been trapped under me. My head was still horribly painful, and my arm was numb, but the rest of me felt better.
It was too gloomy to see much, but even with my eyes closed I could sense a great deal of metal around me. To one side were bars taller than I was, vertical and horizontal in a lattice pattern, a little rusty but solid. A whole wall of them, with a metal door, secured with a simple lock. On the other side, some struts supporting a low shelf, or perhaps a bed. In one corner a bucket. From the smell, there was no doubt of its function. The other prevailing smell was dampness, a mouldy, mildewy atmosphere. Probably a cellar, given how cool it was. What light there was came from a couple of narrow slits in one wall.
I couldn’t work out where I was. It wasn’t even obvious whether I was still somewhere in the Hold, or had been taken elsewhere. No Hold had cells like these, dark, miserable and comfortless. The holding and punishment cells were austere, but they were fitted out with rushes on the floor and painted walls and lamps at night. Not like this bare stone dungeon.
When I’d recovered some feeling in the arm that had been trapped, I tried to sit up. Immediately bolts of pain shot through my head, and I gave it up. But the movement had one positive effect. For a moment as I half sat, I could feel the jade pendant swinging heavy on its chain, before the pain forced me back down again. The pendant! I’d forgotten it, and I was absurdly pleased to realise that nobody had bothered to search me and steal it. Because I’d been lying awkwardly, I’d lost contact with its comforting tingle of magic. I reached for it now, feeling for the chain above the neckline of my blouse, then slowly hauling the pendant up until my fingers could grasp it.
At once I felt its magic seep into me. It was only a tiny trickle, nothing like the flood that Losh had controlled, but instantly I felt better. I noticed a slight warmth in my head and the pain began to recede a little.
Perhaps I lay there for an hour, maybe two, while the stone worked its gentle magic on me. By that time, I was able to sit up and look around my new home. It wasn’t inspiring. I discovered a flask of water, however, and half a loaf of bread, pushed through a small hole in the bars at floor level. I drank and ate a little, and that helped me to recover, too. I couldn’t get to the bed, but I shifted along until I could rest my back against the wall. Slowly, the pain in my head drifted to a manageable throb, and otherwise, apart from being stiff from lying on a stone floor, I was in quite good shape.
Some time later two men appeared with a lamp and peered through the bars at me.
“So, you’re feeling better, are you? Good. We wouldn’t want you to die.”
“Not yet, anyways,” the other one added, and they both roared with laughter, a raucous sound that rattled my skull and made me wince. They went away again, still laughing. I couldn’t see much of their faces because of the shadows from the lamp, but I didn’t think I knew them.
Shortly after that, a bent old man came along pushing a trolley with creaking wheels. He collected the empty water flask, and left a full one, some bread and a bowl of thick, dark liquid – soup or stew, it was hard to tell. The prevailing aroma was pig fat. He went on past my cell, and later returned, so I knew there were other prisoners down here. I ate and drank again, struggled to my feet to use the bucket in the corner, and then lay down on the bed. There was a single fusty blanket and no pillow, so I rolled up my waistcoat to rest my head on, wrapped myself in the blanket and slept.
~~~~~
I woke many times over the next few hours, as the dim light gradually faded to full dark. Once I heard footsteps going past, and another time a strange wailing cry, abruptly cut off, like someone being murdered. I had odd, vivid dreams that made no sense, images of sea monsters, of the punishment room where my mother used to lock me, of crabs crawling all over me and biting me with their pincers.
When I woke to grey light again, I decided I had slept long enough. My head still hurt, shooting spikes of pain through me whenever I moved, fading to a constant low hammering the rest of the time. The jade pendant had lost its warmth, so I guessed I’d used up whatever magic it had held. The rest of my healing would have to be natural. Tentatively I felt my head all over under my cap – my hat had gone missing – but I could only feel one patch of hair matted with dried blood. I was too scared to examine my skull for injury in case I made things worse.
I used the bucket again. More bread and water had been left for me, so I ate a modest meal. I hadn’t much appetite, so I kept half the bread for later. I hadn’t yet worked out the routine, but there was no knowing how long it would be until the next meal. Or if there would be one.
Possibly I should have been afraid or angry, but I couldn’t summon the strength. I wasn’t entirely sure who had hit me over the head – the perfume suggested Ish’s w
ife although that seemed improbable – but Ish had been there, he knew what had happened, and he must know where I was. Sooner or later, he would come to rescue me. This was a test, perhaps, or some kind of transient punishment – although for what, I wasn’t sure. Whatever the guards said, I was quite confident I wasn’t going to be killed. No one would bother to give me food and water unless they wanted me to live.
Besides, I knew I could open the door and walk out any time I wanted to. The lock was a simple one, so simple that I didn’t even have to touch it. If I concentrated, I could force the pins to move using my mind alone. But I had no intention of leaving yet. I would bide my time, work out the comings and goings of the guards while my head healed. Then I could pick my time to leave.
So I sat, or lay, on the bed, the blanket under me to give me some feeble protection from the hard wooden shelf. When I got too stiff, I shifted position, or tentatively tried to stand. That made me dizzy, but each time I tried, I could stay on my feet a little longer.
The old man came again with bread and water. I didn’t have the strength to talk to him, but I heard other voices, far away in a distant part of the dungeon. Later, the two men with the lamp, who stopped and looked at me as I lay on the bed, then moved off without a word. Later still, the old man again, with a bowl of something as well as bread and water. The stew smelt more appealing today. My stomach growled in hunger but I forced myself to eat only half of it, with a little bread. I didn’t want to eat too much and have it end up in the bucket. It was still slightly warm. Time had no meaning here, so I had no idea if it was intended as the noon or evening table.
I practised standing again, and when I could manage without the cell spinning around me, I tried a few steps, to the wall and back. Then again, and a third time. Exhaustion overtook me then, so I ate the rest of the stew, stone cold though it was, and slept for a while.
I was aware of shouting. “Hoy! You! Wake up!”
It was still light, or as light as it ever got in this Goddess-forsaken underworld. I struggled to sit up, my eyes painfully dazzled by a couple of lamps. Three men this time and one of them I knew.
“Commander Kestimar.” My voice was hoarse, grainy. I struggled to string together a complete sentence. “How nice of you… to call. You have come… to set me free… I trust.”
The other two smirked, although glancing at Kestimar as if for approval. On his face there was not a flicker of response.
“I need you to sign this.”
“Sign what?”
“An apology. Then we release you. Here.” His accent was stronger today, as if he wasn’t bothering to conceal it.
He held a paper between his fingers, pushing it halfway through the bars. I struggled across the cell to take it, barely five paces but every one made me bite my lip to stop myself from crying out with the pain. I leaned against the metal bars and unfolded the paper and read.
‘I, Mistress Recorder Fen of Carrinshar, apologise for my behaviour towards Very Honourable Dristomar on the third day of the fourth quarter of the seventh moon of the year two hundred and fifteen after investment.’
“What behaviour?”
His face was impassive, as blank as a puppet. “Intimacy,” he said without emotion.
What did that mean? The kiss we’d shared? I wasn’t going to apologise for that, not when Ish had instigated it.
“So – I sign… you let me go?”
“Yes.”
“No repercussions?”
“None.”
He was a very good liar, but I didn’t believe him for a second. Someone had clubbed me over the head hard enough to knock me out for hours, and I still had the blood in my hair to prove it. Then I’d been locked up in this hole in the ground, instead of being taken to the infirmary. Whenever I got out of here, I was not going to keep quiet about all that, and Kestimar knew it perfectly well. He didn’t even attempt to bargain for my silence. There was no intention to release me.
So why ask me to sign this spurious apology? I’d seen hundreds of official and semi-official documents and letters over the years, and I’d never seen one as vague as this. It wasn’t even written in formal script, by a secretary or one of the family, just the casual style that any half-educated business owner could get.
It was a strategy to get my signature, that was obvious. They were going to write some sort of letter – to the mages probably – with my signature on it, explaining that I’d gone away, back to Carrinshar or even to Shannamar. Urgent family business. My father had got word of my location, perhaps, and had sent for me. How plausible. Not that I would ever do that, but to someone who didn’t know me very well, it would seem quite a likely event.
There was one way to find out if it was genuine.
“I will sign…” I said. “If the Holder asks…”
Just for a second, Kestimar’s face was suffused with rage. He reached through the bars and snatched the paper from my fingers. Spinning on his heels, he stomped off, his minions chasing after him.
That answered the question all too clearly.
I wobbled away from the bars, one hand on the wall to support me, and collapsed onto the bed. It was a long time before I stirred again.
I’d thought I might be punished for my intransigence over the signature, but no, the food trolley came round again a while time later. It was just more bread and water, but I was too grateful to quibble, and this time there was a big chunk of cheese too. It was plain cottager’s cheese, pungent and with a hard rind, but it tasted wonderful to me. For the first time my stomach felt almost full.
After that, everything went quiet and eventually the half-light from the window slits faded altogether, leaving me in darkness. Somewhere away to the right of the barred wall I could just make out a soft glow – a lamp left burning, perhaps – but there was no other sign of life, no patrolling guards, no distant voices. I wondered if anyone even bothered to watch the prisoners overnight.
I slept a little, woke a little, slept again. I woke to daylight, or what passed for it here. At this time of year, even outside brightmoon, the hours of darkness were short. There were still no sounds, apart from distant snoring to my left.
Today was my third day of captivity, and I could no longer fool myself that Ish was testing me, and would come at any moment to release me. He had seen me knocked out, yet he allowed me to languish in the dark, injured and weak. Deep inside, all my anger at him still boiled. He’d abandoned me once before, now he’d abandoned me all over again. How could he do that to someone he loved?
Or perhaps – a happier thought – he didn’t know where I was? Kestimar could have told him some story – that I’d gone to one of the Goddess’s temples to be healed, a moon temple, probably, where Ish wouldn’t be allowed. He would fret about it, of course, but he would believe me safe and looked after. Who else would look for me? The mages would be told I’d gone back to Carrinshar or Shannamar, so they wouldn’t worry about me. I had no other friends here. No one was coming for me.
I had never been so alone.
My head still hurt, but the pain was duller than before and I could think more clearly. I set myself to find out everything I could about my prison. By standing on tiptoe on the bed, I could just see through the narrow slit above, enough to see a grey wall opposite, blank and windowless. If ever the bucket was emptied, I could use that as a step to see more, but I wasn’t about to tip the contents out onto the floor of my cell. I hadn’t noticed any external sounds over the previous two days, not even the hour bells. Wherever my prison was, it was far from the Bell Tower, probably close to the southwestern wall or outside the Hold altogether.
The cells themselves were interesting. They had high vaulted ceilings, and there were traces of paint on the walls. Now that I was looking carefully, I noticed that the barred walls were decorated with delicate filigree ironwork, depicting plants of some kind. The light was too low to see, but I guessed vines. This must be an ancient wine cellar, the metal doors there to protect the valuable bar
rels from pilferage. I wouldn’t have minded access to a barrel of wine just then. I remembered wistfully the meal Mal had promised me, tormented by thoughts of succulent flakes of fish, aromatic sauces and the sweet, juicy flesh of peaches dripping down my chin.
It was many hours before I heard any sounds from within the dungeon. Raised voices far off to the right, then the distinctive squeaking wheels of the food trolley. I listened carefully. It stopped once to my right, and there was a murmured voice. Then it came to me, with bread and water, although the bread was less than half the usual amount and hard as iron. Then away to the left. I counted six, possibly seven more stops before the sound faded away altogether, but it was inaudible for a long time before it squeaked back into my hearing range. So perhaps ten or twelve prisoners in all. I heard several voices, probably protesting about the poor food supply.
That was morning table. Later, the two guards came round, then the trolley again with the hot meal, this time an unappetising watery gruel (more protests for that, and I had to agree that it was no substitute for yesterday’s meaty stew). The guards again, with Kestimar, but they said nothing to me. Finally, more water and a tiny piece of inedible bread. I had to soak it to make it soft enough to eat. That was evening table, and the last meal of the day.
By this time, my improvements of the morning had dribbled away. My headache was worse, and I was bone-tired and aching. I thought I might be feverish, and I suspected my head wound was infected. I was pretty sure I’d caught lice from the foul blanket.
There could be no more waiting. I had to leave tonight, or I might never leave at all.
I waited an hour after the last sounds from the old man’s trolley, counting the time by reciting the daily plea to the Goddess under my breath. If said correctly, it lasted precisely one minute.
Then I tied the water flask to my belt and took the five steps to the door. Under my fingers, the pins of the lock slid smoothly aside, with barely a squeak. Well-oiled, despite the external rust. The hinges were less obliging and the wailing as I opened the door seemed to echo from the arched ceiling.
The Mages of Bennamore Page 23
