Therescales turned to his left and entered the living room. It was sparsely furnishedMaster Haraxius did not do a lot of entertainingand Therescales took long, swift strides with confidence.
Halfway through the room, something smacked Therescales in the shin and he grunted in pain.
"Well, what do we have here?"
A light flared in front of Therescales. He closed his eyes and brought up a hand to further protect them from the sudden brilliance.
"Looks like Lord Jaerios was right." A new voice answered the first from behind Therescales. "The 'prentice 'as returned to 'is master's 'ouse."
Squinting in the light, Therescales could make out a figure sitting in a chair to his right. He held a lantern in one hand, and his legs were propped up on an ottoman. A spear lay across his lap. Therescales had run into the outstretched shaft of the weapon.
Panicking, Therescales dashed for the front door but was grabbed from behind. He struggled but could not break the grip of the arms encircling him. The man in the chair got up and stood in front of him, leering. Something struck Therescales in the stomach, and all the air whooshed out of his lungs. He looked up in time to see the shaft of the spear streaking toward the side of his face.
Therescales awoke stiff and sore. The side of his face throbbed where he had been struck by the spear shaft. His shoulders ached, and he could feel something biting into his wrists. He tried to move his hands, hoping to lessen the pain, only to discover they were bound. Awareness began to creep back through the fog of his mind. He realized he was on his knees, leaning forward with his arms pulled behind him and wrapped around a wooden pole. With effort, he rocked back onto the balls of his feet and tried to rise. His footing was unstablehe was standing on a pile of chopped logsand it took a few attempts before he was standing. He leaned back against the pole, drawing ragged breaths as a result of the exertion.
"Ah, our other guest has finally joined us."
The resonant voice drew Therescales' eyes up and across the room to a balcony where five figures stood, three men and two women. They all wore sleeveless robes of white and gold circlets in their hair.
"Where am I?" Therescales, still a little groggy, asked no one in particular.
"You stand in the Burning Room." The same voice that had first spoken answered. Therescales could see that it belonged to a middle-aged man on the right, the same man he had seen escorting Master Haraxius. It had to be Lord Jaerios Karanok. "You have been found guilty of vile acts of wizardry."
"Bah," spat someone to Therescales' right. He turned to see his master, Haraxius, standing next to him, bound to another pole. "There is nothing vile about the Art. Rather, it is you and this" A guard strode up onto the small stone platform on which Therescales and Haraxius were held and punched the old man in the mouth with a mailed fist, silencing the outburst.
"The sentence for this crime," Lord Jaerios continued, "is death by burning. Guards, bring in the witchweed." Two pairs of guards each carried in a basket of dried leaves between them and began dumping the contents on top of the wood piles then spreading them around the feet of the prisoners.
Therescales struggled against his bonds, desperate to be free, but it was no use. This couldn't be happening to him! His mind raced wildly to find some way of escape, some solution that would save him.
"Wait!" He screamed. "Don't do this. I don't want to die!"
All five faces were as compassionate as stone. "You should have thought of that before you became involved with the arcane, young man."
"If you let me live, I will tell you everything I know!"
"We want nothing to do with your filthy knowledge."
"But I know of a secret group of wizards that meets here in the city!" Therescales blurted out.
"No!" Haraxius gasped, horror on his face. "Don't do it, boy." Therescales ignored him.
The elderly man in the center of the group whispered something to Jaerios. He seemed resistant to the old one's counsel but finally relented with a nod.
"Do you swear to renounce all that is arcane?"
Therescales nodded vigorously, but Jaerios did not appear to notice or care what the answer was. Two guards moved forward and released Therescales then led him away.
"You treacherous snake!" Haraxius screamed as Therescales exited. The crackling of flames joined his old master's shrieks and coughs; then all was consumed in a roaring bonfire.
Jaerios Karanok sat in the plush, high-backed chair behind his desk, his fingers drumming on the polished wood of the chair's arm and a scowl darkening his face. Therescales was late. It was bad enough Jaerios had to associate himself with a wizard, but to be kept waiting by one was unacceptable. He shifted in his velvet night robe and let his eyes wander around the study once more: the dark wood-paneled walls, the shelves lined with books containing treatises on various subjects, the lit candelabra that cast a soft yellow glow onto the marble bust sculpted in his likeness. Perhaps the worm needed a reminder of his fate should he fail.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of the spy.
"Come in."
The door swung in, and Therescales entered the study. Jaerios remained silent, sternly staring at Therescales. The man didn't even flinch but moved casually over to the bust, ran his finger along the nose, and pretended to find dust on it.
"Have a seat," Jaerios offered, his voice full of impatience. Normally, he enjoyed these little sparring matches, but today had been a long day, and Jaerios wanted nothing more than to retire to his bedchamber. Perhaps Therescales detected the difference; he quickly accepted one of the two chairs in front of the desk. "You have news? Something good, I hope. Perhaps the identities of the other members of your little society?"
"Now, now, let's not let our greed rush things," Therescales smiled roguishly and waggled his finger. Jaerios snarled. He was in no mood to play. "I thought we agreed that taking them all in one fell swoop would expend fewer resources. Remember the plan?"
"Yes, your plan." Jaerios edged his voice with a hint of warning. He didn't like being reminded that he had agreed to a plan Therescales had come up with. "Have you convinced your friends that they should seek help? Or are they still arguing over the risk of exposing themselves? Such a timid bunch."
"Actually…" Therescales paused, and Jaerios narrowed his eyes at the hesitation. The man was trying to figure out what to say next. Was he hiding something or simply afraid? "It seems they have taken it upon themselves to seek aid. One of the Three has already made contact with a wizard who is willing to help."
"How is this good news?" Jaerios roared. Anger flared red-hot inside of him. Jaerios wanted to reach across the table and throttle the incompetent fool, but the thought of touching something defiled by contact with the arcane was too revolting. "I don't know why I've kept you around. Perhaps I should have the guards prepare the Burning Room." Jaerios fixed Therescales with a look that promised death.
"I thought you might feel that way." Therescales sat there, unmoved by the threat. Was that a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth? "You're overreacting. We can still salvage the situation."
"You presume too much!" Jaerios exploded. He would not be talked to in this way by a wizard! "I have not waited this long, endured this abomination, only to throw it all away because of your ineptitude." Jaerios made his way around the desk to stand over Therescales. "Now I will be forced to raid your society's little hideout, profaning the city with the magic that they will inevitably use in defense."
"I assure you, Lord Jaerios, that will not be necessary." Therescales no longer slouched in the chair but sat upright against the back, the smug smile gone from his face. Jaerios smirked and leaned back on the edge of his desk. This was how these meetings should go.
"We can still proceed with the trap, my lord," Therescales continued. "It seems that this ally wishes to remain anonymous. Contact was made through a third party. As you mentioned, many of the members are leery of someone they do not know. I can still come forward with myour fake
meeting." Therescales visibly relaxed as he finished. Jaerios had to admit the plan still appeared feasible. Damn! He wasn't sure it wouldn't have been more satisfying to finally just burn the treacherous wizard at the stake.
"Very well. I can't say as I'm pleased with your handling of this, though." Jaerios watched Therescales for some sign of doubt or fear. The man was becoming too sure of himself. "Should you fail me again, I will see you burn." Therescales winced and tried to cover it with a small bow. He stood and moved to the study's door but paused before opening it.
"Oh, by the way, there is an informant in the palace. You might want to keep your eye on anyone who's been asking questions about Saestra's nocturnal activities." Flashing a roguish grin, Therescales slipped out of the room.
Jaerios ground his teeth. The man had the nerve to toss that information out as though it were a trifle that had just occurred to him. Jaerios knocked the chair Therescales had been sitting in onto its back.
"By Entropy, how long must I suffer the taint of these mages!" A wave of rage crashed over Jaerios, and he allowed himself to be swept up in it. There was power in such anger, such righteous anger. It was a gift from Entropy for faithful service. That was what his daughter had said when the priests first began to perform wonders and signs during their worship services. He remained skeptical, even after his own ability appeared.
The power continued to build within him. The sensation was still so new. He exalted in it but was frightened as well. It was too much like magic, and he had sworn long ago that he would not replace one form of conniption with another. The ends did not justify the means.
Jaerios's blood boiled in his veins. Pain threatened to eclipse anger. He focused on the tipped chair, envisioning Therescales still sitting in it. A loud, ringing noise filled the room, and the chair shattered into tiny splinters. Jaerios sagged against the desk. His bodyguard peeked his head in but, seeing his master unhurt, quickly ducked back out.
Sighing, Jaerios stood up and brushed the wood flakes from his robe. Feeling somewhat satisfied, he hoped he could now get a good night's sleep. As he left the study, he instructed his bodyguard to fetch a servant to clean up the mess then headed down the hall toward his bedchamber. The rest of it would wait until tomorrow.
CHAPTER FIVE
The knock on the door startled Ythnel. It was late. Her birthday party had lasted longer than expected, but some of the older sisters finally paired off with their male counterparts after most of the wine had been consumed, signaling the end of the public festivities. Ythnel had retreated to her room and prepared for bed. She wasn't expecting any visitors.
Pushing herself up from the kneeling position she had assumed, Ythnel walked the three steps from her bed to the door and opened it up just enough to peek outside. When she saw who it was, she quickly swung it open the rest of the way.
"Headmistress, I thought you were with.. I'm sorry, I was just beginning my evening prayers," Ythnel stammered, her face flushing.
"Follow me," Headmistress Yenael simply said then turned and walked back down the hall. Ythnel wavered for a moment but realized there was no time to put on something over her linen shift and hurried after.
As they passed the closed doors of the other initiates' quarters, Ythnel's mind wandered with the possibilities of where they were going and what would happen once they got there. She was pretty sure she hadn't done anything wrong or at least nothing serious enough to warrant a late-night visit from the headmistress herself.
Maybe this is a surprise birthday present, she thought. Or maybe she was being taken to the ceremony that would ordain her as a handmaiden. It would make her the youngest initiate the manor had ever raised to the position. It was not a likely possibility, given how much Headmistress Yenael was always hounding her, but that didn't mean it couldn't happen. In fact, now that she thought about it, perhaps the headmistress merely saw her potential and was trying to push her toward it as quickly as possible.
They made their way silently down a flight of steps at the end of the hall. Smoky torches sputtered in black iron sconces every few feet. Even though Ythnel had never been down here, she knew where they were going. Every initiate knew about the lowest level of the manor and what went on in those rooms. Ythnel shivered and not just from the cold stone under her bare feet. She heard the moans and cries echoing up from below before they even reached the bottom of the stairs.
A floor of packed dirt ran the length of the hallway.
There were iron-banded doors of thick, rough wood set every ten feet in damp, rock walls that glistened in the torchlight. Each door had a small, barred window, but Headmistress Yenael kept them moving swiftly enough that Ythnel thankfully couldn't see inside any of the rooms to discern what was happening or who it was happening to. She had a good idea, nonetheless.
The headmistress stopped at an open door at the far end of the hall and ushered Ythnel inside. Ythnel bit her lip and hesitated, trying to brace herself for what she might see. Headmistress Yenael's face darkened, and she grabbed Ythnel's arm and shoved her in.
The room was hardly any bigger than Ythnel's quarters. A torch sat in a sconce on the wall just to the right of the doorway. In the far corner stood a brazier of glowing coals with a poker shoved in amidst them, its tip bright orange. On the wall to Ythnel's left were several metal pegs bored into the stone. Whips of various kinds hung from them, coiled and waiting. Finally, Ythnel let her eyes stray to the center of the room. There, bent over a bench, his wrists and ankles bound by manacles anchored to the floor, was Oredas, one of the few male clerics serving at the manor. Oredas's back was exposed. His muscles rippled under sweaty skin as he shifted position slightly. Headmistress Yenael entered, closing the door behind herself.
"I remember when I was brought down here for the first time on my thirteenth birthday," the headmistress said fondly. She considered the row of hanging whips for a moment before choosing one that ended in three tongues, each about six inches long. A single small, smooth, steel bead was fastened at the end of each tongue. "There comes a time in every woman's life when classroom lectures no longer suffice. You must turn theory into application. Loviatar demands service through action, not endless discussion." She dropped the coil to the floor and lazily twisted the foot-long handle, causing the whip to slither in the dirt.
"I don't understand, Headmistress," Ythnel lied, afraid that she understood all too well. It had been one thing to sit in class and discuss the need for pain and suffering and to study the best ways to inflict it. Ythnel agreed that pain purified the soul, and shielding others from suffering only made them weak and unprepared for the tortures the world would subject them to. Yet, suddenly faced with hurting someone, she doubted she could do it, that she should do it.
"That's all right," Headmistress Yenael reassured. "You have much yet to learn still. Tonight is just your first step toward using what you have been taught." She smiled and moved behind Oredas. "I will show you how it is done. Then it will be your turn." The headmistress brought her right forearm up, perpendicular to the floor, the whip handle held loosely in her fist. With a flick of her wrist, the three feet of plaited leather leaped back and snapped forward, connecting with Oredas's flesh. Ythnel jumped at the sharp crack. Oredas merely grunted.
"There are many kinds of whips, Ythnel, and it is important to learn the purpose for each and how to use them." The headmistress struck with the whip again, leaving another set of welts on Oredas's back. "It's just as important to know how much pain your subject can take." When the whip hit this time, it broke the skin, eliciting a moan from Oredas. Blood began to seep from the wound. Ythnel felt a flash of heat accompanied by a wave of dizziness. She was sure her knees would buckle at any moment.
Headmistress Yenael returned the whip to its peg and reached for another that hung from a loop at the end of its handle. The stock was braided with leather that divided into nine different tongues at the end. Each strip was punctured with bits of glass, metal, and bone.
"This is a
scourge. It is the preferred instrument of suffering for all those who follow Loviatar. It also requires the most skill to use effectively. If you're careless, you can easily kill your subject.''
Ythnel watched with horror as the headmistress slapped the scourge against Oredas's right side then raked it across his back. The glass, metal, and bone caught the flesh and tore chunks of it away, leaving jagged stripes of blood. Oredas could not hold back his cries. She repeated this from the other side then dragged the scourge down his back from shoulder to waist a few times.
"There are signs to watch for in your subject to make sure you don't go too far. The rise and fall of the ribs," the headmistress pointed, "indicates that they are still breathing." Ythnel looked at the limp form of Oredas and felt bile rise in her throat. Was that bone she saw peeking out as his sides expanded with each shallow, labored breath? "Tensing of the muscles as the scourge hits means the subject is conscious." Oredas jerked slightly as Headmistress Yenael lashed him once more.
"When the subject reaches the threshold between life and death, it is time for Loviatar's Mercy. Not for the purpose of relief from pain and suffering, as some gods instruct their lackeys, but so they can endure more." The headmistress chanted a request in the tongue of devils, her free hand moving over Oredas's torn back. As her voice grew stronger, a harsh red glow enveloped her hand. Wherever it passed, blood flowed back into wounds and flesh mended. With each stripe that disappeared, the red glow deepened, until it was black as the Abyss and Oredas's back was whole. Headmistress Yenael ended the chant, and the glow around her hand faded. She stood and faced Ythnel.
"Now it is your turn." She thrust the stock of the scourge at Ythnel.
Ythnel stumbled backward until she pressed against the hard stone wall. "No." Her heart had climbed into her throat, and she could feel knots forming in her stomach.
"What did you say?" The headmistress's eyes narrowed.
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