Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  Tristan glared at her and said nothing.

  Ankara sighed and smacked her palms against the chair’s arms. “Unless you have any further surprises in store, I am afraid you do not have long left in this world. Your breaking of the rishka was quite unanticipated. Not once in the seven hundred years has anyone slipped its bonds so spectacularly. It loses its effectiveness over time, but never with the suddenness you managed.”

  “Then kill me, if that is what you intend to do.”

  “Not quite yet,” she said, enunciating each word with a wag of her forefinger. “You may still have some use. You see, you were an interesting tool in determining Sathra willingness to betray me. I was certain it would take her longer to work up the nerve to defy me and visit you, but I was mistaken. Do you recall how I said little escapes my attention in the whole of Anahar? I am aware of what occurred in the textile markets, you see. I arranged for it to happen – not so much the place and time, but the encounter itself. Can you guess what prompted my kinswoman to act rashly?”

  Tristan strained against his manacles but remained silent.

  “Gwistain was quite right to suspect that Anahar and Merid have an alliance of sorts. Just as I owed Gwistain’s family a debt of honor, I owed something similar to Seban Terador – much to my regret. Had your prince arrived but a few days earlier...” Ankara rolled her shoulder in another shrug. “The accounts must balance, you see. The debt remaining to Terador was minor. Anahar will not involve itself directly in the wars to come.”

  “Then why hold us?”

  “Welcome to the conversation. It is far more pleasant to talk with you than listen to your blustering,” Ankara said, lips curling in a wry smirk. “I said I would not directly involve Anahar in the conflicts to come; holding the prince is a minor delay in his return home. He suspects I am not telling him the truth of my intentions – which, incidentally, I am. The Hegemony of Ravvos will not interfere with Terador’s attacks in Troppenheim or Caledorn, too worried about an invasion from the east and too entrenched in their dislike of the Troppenheim to stir themselves. By the time they do, Merid’s armies will have crushed the defiance of their satellite states. High King Mathonis and his four lesser kings will face an enemy without allies.”

  “Are you torturing Gwistain as you are me?”

  “Much as I might like to, no. Royal blood is so much more satisfying, but his use of my watchword keeps him safe. I have, however, regaled him with tales about what is being done to the animal he brought with him.” Her right eyebrow rose as her smirk expanded to a lopsided grin. “Then, of course, there is what I have done to the Hillffolk.”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes as the meaning of her words came clear. “So Groush is still alive.”

  “The Dushken have enjoyed entertaining their cousin. There is not much love between their people.”

  “You are responsible for that.”

  “Of course. The huntsmen are impressive, would you not agree? They are the perfect predator, their natural senses sharpened through centuries of breeding and manipulation through magic and coupled to a human’s intellect. Unfortunately, their savagery keeps their numbers low; some traits and failings cannot be bred out. It is a lesson my people have proven time and again.

  “You, however, are quite resilient, in a way I did not expect from an orphan. It is a shame your family proved so weak a lineage,” Ankara said, tilting her head. “I fear Anahari bloodlines have become flawed through overbreeding. Perhaps it is time to begin selecting outside my people for new traits to incorporate.”

  Tristan’s skin grew cold, and his gaze dropped to her belly.

  The sorceress gave a slow laugh at the horror on his face. “Worry not. The field may be plowed, but the soil became infertile long ago. Even if I were fertile, I would never sully my bloodline with your seed.”

  She rose then, her hips swaying as she undid the fastenings of her robe and approached him. The fabric dropped away, leaving her naked save for the emerald smoldering on her breast. Her hands rose, her fingertips caressing his temples with surprising delicacy. “Now then, shall we explore this new facet of who and what you are, now that the beast within no longer needs the lure of rishka?”

  Tristan cringed as her fingertips grew increasingly warm against his skin as she summoned her magic with a low-voiced chant. Shadows made tangible and edged in agony flowed from the corners of the cell and coiled around the sorceress in response to a low-voiced chant and wormed beneath his skin to pierce the bone hidden beneath. Pressure built inside his skull as the sorceress used her magic to scrape the surface of his thoughts. Images rose in his mind; he had the impression that his memories were held between the sorceress’s fingertips to be examined and discarded.

  His throat raw, he threw his head back and screamed.

  “YOU ARE GOING TO DIE here.”

  Reluctant to return to consciousness, Tristan stirred. Sleep was a rare thing, as it left him vulnerable; Ankara’s magic was able to burrow into his mind with greater ease than if he were wakeful or unconscious. The sorceress claimed she could grasp the thoughts at the surface of his mind without causing him irreparable harm, but the process was excruciating. He did not think he had surrendered any information of worth, not that he knew anything of value. When she attempted to extract his memories, he forced himself to think only the most hateful thoughts to frustrate her efforts.

  “I said, you are going to die here.” The voice was higher pitched and softer than either Ankara or Sathra’s.

  “I heard you,” he said as he opened his eyes. Though the torches had been extinguished, the blackness was not as thick as he expected. The cell’s walls and ceiling were indistinct in shades of gray, the burned torches in their iron sconces black slashes in the gloom. The light came from below and to his right.

  He twisted his head as much as the steel band around his neck allowed. A small, weak flame burned in a battered tin cup in the cell’s corner, backlighting a sylphlike figure. An oversized shirt hung to the middle of the girl’s thighs, cinched around a thin waist with an oversized belt. The ill-fitting fabric, gray with ground-in dirt, had been patched many times; its open neck plunged to the bottom of the girl’s breastbone.

  “Who are you?”

  “Most people give up when they realize they can’t escape,” the girl – young woman, he corrected himself – said, the words clipped with the guttural Anahari accent. Her voice was a papery whisper, as though not often used. “You have lasted longer than anyone else I’ve seen. Why do you keep fighting?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  Tristan licked his lips, trying to moisten them as he studied the young woman. Her eyes were somewhere between Ankara’s sapphire and Sathra’s ice. She might have been comely, but her face was pinched and filthy beneath a wild tangle of short-cropped, ragged black hair. High, broad cheekbones seemed almost too wide over sunken cheeks. Her lips were surprisingly full over her pointed chin, though the lower was raw from being gnawed bloody. A long, straight nose sloped upward at the tip.

  They stared at each other in silence. There was something familiar about her, but he could not think how. “How long have I been locked in this cell?”

  “A month, maybe two,” the young woman whispered back, holding her finger to her lips. She flicked a nervous glance toward the door. “You must speak softer. There are Dushken in the halls, and if they hear us...”

  “So long?”

  “The days grow shorter, the nights colder. Summer falters, and autumn comes.”

  Eyebrows knotting, he fixed her with a suspicious gaze. “How do you know? And how did you get into this cell?”

  “The castle holds many secrets, and there are even more beneath it. I know things Ankara does not.” She held her silence for a moment. “Why do you cling to life so hard?”

  “Don’t you mean Anasha?” he asked, using the false name Ankara ruled under.

  “Not everyone in Anahar believes the lie s
he puts about as truth. We’re not stupid.” She gnawed on her lower lip as she stared at him. “You almost killed Sathra.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “I saw it happen.”

  “Impossible. There was no one in that room but her and I.”

  “Urzgeth as well.” The young woman lifted her eyebrows. “I watched him drag you from Sathra’s chambers. It took me some time to find you, though.”

  Tristan frowned. “Who are you?”

  “Not yet,” she said, hesitant. “You recognize me, though you know not how. I was the girl in the storeroom where you fought the huntsman.”

  “I thought you were a delusion, a trick of the light. You disappeared.”

  “You didn’t expect me to stay, did you?” she asked wryly. “You cost me one of my candles.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “The same way I got into a locked cell,” she said cryptically. “Please answer my question. Why do you struggle so hard? I know what is done to you, and I see you weakening. You will break, or Ankara will grow bored and kill you.”

  “She will make a mistake. When she does, I will try and break free – or die.”

  The young woman said nothing for a moment. “You would have to be unshackled for that to happen. She will be more careful with you now. Has she ever undone your manacles?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you think she will allow you to free yourself.” The young woman shook her head. “Hope is a dangerous thing if you use it to delude yourself.”

  Suspicion churned his belly. He would not put it past Ankara to devise a disguise to trick him or use someone he had not met. “You say you can get in and out of locked rooms, and that you know secrets about these dungeons. I do not believe you to be a prisoner. If you could escape, you would. Since you have not, you must work for Ankara.”

  The young woman shook her head. “You have no idea of what you speak.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  She gestured at her ragged clothes and appearance. “Where would I go? I would be recognized as a prisoner when I stepped beyond these walls. I am one person, and easily taken.”

  “Can you free me?”

  “Possibly. Why should I risk it?”

  “I have no intention of dying when and how Ankara chooses. If you weren’t thinking about freeing me, why are you talking to me?”

  “Because hope is a dangerous thing.”

  Tristan opened his mouth but closed it as a key rattled in the cell door’s lock. His muscles tensed, fists balling as the torches erupted with golden fire. He cast a wild glance at the young woman, only to find her – and her candle – gone as though she had never been. For a moment, he wondered if he might be going mad, his mind creating people to speak with as it shredded from strain and torment.

  The door creaked open. Ankara swept into the cell, her sheer black robe whispering against the floor. He cringed as she stopped in front of him and caressed the rough stubble downing his cheeks. “I do hope you slept well.”

  “ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?”

  Fresh waves of pain assaulted Tristan’s senses as the familiar voice roused him. The stench of burned skin and hair lingered in his nose. Burst blisters from the application of a torch to his chest and belly leaked clear liquid across his skin. Dozens of fresh cuts on his arms and legs throbbed; his quivering muscles strained the coarse stitches holding them closed. The bones in his arms felt as though they had been laid bare and filled with molten lead.

  Ankara’s magic had driven him to sanity’s edge by igniting every nerve in his body, reducing him to a howling animal thrashing against its restraints. Only then did she slice open his skin to suckle the vitality in his blood, or took his manhood in her mouth to drain his essence.

  A groan crawled from his parched throat, accompanied by the clink of stirring chains. He wanted to weep, uncertain how long the torture lasted. The manacles locked around his wrists and ankles prevented him from curling around his hurt. It was easier to forget himself each time he surrendered to the pain, and he felt weaker when sense returned.

  “I will take that as a yes.” Cool water splashed his parched lips as the young woman tilted a bottle against them. He coughed, trying to swallow as much of the water as he could, but the stranger took the bottle away. “Not too much, or you will get sick.”

  He tried to ignore the lingering aches which swamped his senses and squinted at her. “Who are you? Are you real?”

  “You are not losing your mind,” the young woman assured him as she sipped from the bottle. “My name is Brenna.”

  “I’m Tristan.”

  Brenna gave him a slight, humorless smile. “I know.”

  “Thank you for the water. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or suspicious, but why did you bring it to me? You risk capture by being in this room.”

  “It is not as much risk as you might think. Ankara has returned to the castle, and it is hours yet until dawn.” She hesitated. “It has been five days since we last spoke.”

  “Five days.”

  Brenna nodded, unruly black hair bobbing around her face as she gnawed her lower lip. “You asked if I could free you. If I did, would you take me with you? I don’t care where, as long as it is away from here.”

  Tristan closed his eyes. “I don’t know how to get out of the castle. There is a way out of the dungeons, but I don’t know where I am in them. Until I know that, we’re stuck down here.”

  Brenna tipped the bottle against his lips, allowing him another small mouthful of water. “I know a way out. If I can get you there, will you take me with you?”

  “If you know a way out, why not use it?”

  “Again, where would I go? I was a child when I was brought here. All I have are memories of what is outside Feinthresh Castle.”

  Tristan swallowed the bile that soured the back of his tongue. “How long?”

  “Close to nine years,” Brenna said, wrestling with the admission. She winced as he gaped at her. “Once you learn where and how to hide, it is not so difficult. I haven’t been caught in quite some time.”

  “I have never seen you in one of Ankara’s cells.”

  Her eyes hardened as she met his green eyes. “Ankara and I play a different game. I have no desire to speak of it.”

  Tristan nodded his understanding and respected her need to shy away from her own experiences. If he survived this nightmare, he would never tell anyone what he had endured. The set of her features went a reasonable distance in easing his suspicions. “If you can free me from these chains and show me a way out, then yes, I will take you with me. But there are things we will need, and they must be gathered quickly. I’m not sure how much longer I can last.”

  “I have some clothes I have stolen over the years. Boots, and other things the soldiers toss out. Some will fit you.”

  “Can you get a hatchet? What about food?”

  “The food is easy enough. There is a way into the kitchens, but I’m wary of stealing too much. The cooks might grow suspicious.”

  “It’s worth the risk.”

  “I haven’t managed to avoid being caught these last few years by being reckless. I won’t risk a secret revealed so you can fill your belly.”

  Tristan pursed his lips. “We’re going to need food if we manage to escape. Can you get to the storeroom where the drink they feed us?”

  “You mean the shaddash? Yes. I know where they keep the barrels that aren’t laced with rishka.”

  “Get as much as you can. I need you to find some friends of mine as well.”

  “It is going to be difficult enough getting you out.”

  “If you want the best chance of escaping once we are outside the walls, we’ll need their help. Ankara said my friend Groush is locked up down here. Do you know what a Hillffolk is?”

  “I’m a prisoner, not an idiot.” Brenna favored him with a look between annoyed and tolerant as she scratched her cheek. “I know where he is. Freeing him will be difficult.”

>   “Get me an axe, and I’ll get to him.”

  “It won’t be the best quality.”

  “Doesn’t matter, so long as it is sharp. Perhaps you know of my other friend? His name is—”

  “I don’t know many people’s names. The only reason I know yours is because I’ve been watching you for some time due to Ankara’s interest in you. What does your friend look like?”

  “A little shorter than me. Graying hair, and brown eyes.”

  “There are a lot of people in the cells that I have not seen. I can’t be certain I, but I believe I have seen him,” Brenna said after a moment’s thought.

  “Do your best, but do it quickly.” He glanced at his right wrist and flexed his hand against the manacle. “Do you know who has the keys? How are you going to get them?”

  “The less you know, the better. I know Ankara gets into your mind.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “I’ve been here a long time.” She bent to collect the tallow candle. “I should go. I don’t want to risk the Dushken hearing our voices.”

  “You’ll come back?” Tristan hated the hopeful, frightened note in his voice.

  “I will. Don’t die before I do.”

  Brenna tilted the bottle against Tristan’s lips, letting him drink the last of the water. She knelt in the corner of the cell, her fingers finding a small stone sandwiched between two larger ones. She pushed it in with a soft scrape and turned it to the right. A faint click sounded, and a narrow section of the wall near the floor swung inward with a push of her hand.

  The young woman crawled into the blackness beyond the hidden door, and the candle lit her face from below as she swung the stones closed. He shuddered as the light vanished and fought the terrified sob clawing at his throat as darkness pressed in on him once more.

  Chapter 41

  Autumn 1415

  “Are you a religious man, Tristan?” Ankara asked, sprawling in the chair a Dushken had placed in the center of the cell. She wore a loose green robe embroidered in gold and silver thread, her black hair unbound and pulled over her shoulder. The noblewoman’s fingers flipped the ends of her hair as she draped her bare leg over the arm of the chair placed in front of him.