The silver fire pulsed in his eyes and veins. I swore I heard a faint thrumming sound as it did.
“A lie,” said Arvalaeon.
I felt a chill that didn’t come from the cold metal chair beneath me.
He was right. The first time I could remember stealing something was when I was five years old, right before my father returned from the Shadowlands with frostfever. My mother had made cookies for one of the neighbors, and I had stolen and eaten two of them without asking. I had felt horribly, horribly guilty after, and resolved to confess, but then my father returned and got sick, and everything went to hell.
“Lucky guess,” I said.
“No,” said Arvalaeon.
“Then how old was I when I first stole something?” I said.
“I don’t know,” said Arvalaeon. “Speak the age, and I will tell you if you speak the truth or not.”
“I was seventeen years old when I first stole something,” I said.
The silver fire pulsed. “Lie.”
“I was fourteen years old when I first stole something,” I said.
The silver fire pulsed once more. “Still a lie.”
“I was five years old when I first stole something,” I said, thinking of those cookies, of how disappointed my mother would have been if she had ever known.
“Truth,” said Arvalaeon.
My chill got worse, and so did the fear.
I had gotten out of bad situations before because I was an excellent liar. And I’m not lying about that. Lying is an art, and the trick is to mix just enough truth into the lies to make them believable. Granted, I was sitting helpless in an Inquisition base somewhere, so I was probably dead no matter what I did.
“You’re just a living lie detector, huh?” I said.
The silver fire thrummed. “You are still not convinced.”
He was right.
“Not entirely.”
“So, Nadia Moran,” said Arvalaeon. “Let us convince you. How old were you when you were first kissed?”
“Eighteen,” I said.
“A lie,” said Arvalaeon.
He was right. I had been fifteen, and on a job for Morvilind. I had let a security guard kiss me to distract him as I drugged him, and I hadn’t enjoyed the experience. The first kiss I had ever enjoyed had been at eighteen, when I met Nicholas Connor.
“Do you know a man named Armand Boccand?” said Arvalaeon.
“No,” I said.
“A lie,” he said, the silver fire burning beneath his skin. “Do you know the name of Boccand’s fiancée?”
Was all this about Armand? If Arvalaeon wanted to track down Armand, he surely wouldn’t need my help to do it.
“I don’t,” I said.
“Another lie,” he said. “Do you love your brother?”
“What the hell business is that of yours?” I said. “Yes.”
“Truth,” said Arvalaeon. “What would you do to save him?”
“Whatever necessary,” I said. “That’s how I ended up here, moron.”
“Whatever necessary,” said Arvalaeon. He leaned forward a little, his eyes like green knives. “Would you kill an innocent person in cold blood to save your brother?”
I didn’t say anything. I remembered Alexandra Ross weeping in the Shadowlands, how I had almost killed her because her crying would draw the anthrophages to us.
“No,” I croaked.
I had to look away from those terrible eyes.
“A lie,” said the Lord Inquisitor, the silver fire reflecting off the mirrors on the wall. He waited until the silver fire had dimmed before speaking again. Maybe it caused him pain. “Do you believe me now?”
It took a little while to work moisture back into my throat. “I do.”
“You cannot lie to me,” said Arvalaeon. “But I in turn cannot lie to you. Ask me questions. Whatever you will, and I will answer.”
A smart remark was the first thing that came to my mind. “If you really are a walking, talking lie detector, I bet that makes you real popular at parties.”
He almost smiled. “It does not. In fact, among all the Elves in exile here, the only man more hated and feared than I am is Kaethran Morvilind.”
“Yeah, if you kidnap people off the street, I bet that makes you real popular,” I said.
“No,” said Arvalaeon. “It is simpler than that. Already you are frightened of me.”
I snorted. “Are you stupid? You had your thugs beat me up and leave me in this freezing room for hours. Of course I’m afraid of you.”
“You’re more intelligent than that,” said Arvalaeon.
“Guess not. Else how did I end up here?”
“A Lord Inquisitor,” said Arvalaeon, “knows when a lie is spoken to him. And lies are your armor and your shield.”
I said nothing, my throat going dry again. God, I wished I had something to drink. On the other hand, if I had any coffee before leaving the house, I probably would have wet myself by now, so maybe it was just as well.
“They know they can’t lie to you,” I said. “So, they’re frightened.”
“A man jostles a stranger in line at the store,” said Arvalaeon. “He apologizes. But I can hear it is a lie. A man tells his wife that he loves her. But I can hear it is a lie. A man swears his loyalty to the High Queen, but I hear the lies in his words. Humans and Elves both need lies. They are the tissue that keeps us from having to face ourselves without illusions, with all our conceits stripped away.” He leaned forward, the cheap chair creaking. “To know yourself truly is a terrible thing. It can break a man. Or a woman. Do you know yourself truly, Nadia?”
“I know myself just fine,” I said.
The silver fire pulsed in his eyes.
“Not yet,” he said, leaning back. “Not yet. But you will, I am afraid. And I am sorry for that.”
“This is the weirdest damned interrogation I’ve ever been in,” I said.
Arvalaeon blinked, and he actually laughed, a hoarse, dry sound. I don’t think he laughed often.
“This is not an interrogation,” he said. “I already know almost everything necessary about you.”
“Yeah?” I said, some anger pushing in front of the fear. “If this isn’t an interrogation, then why did you have your goons grab me from the parking lot and rip off all my clothes? Why did you leave me in here to stew for hours? What, are you just trying to scare me for kicks? Is that how you get off?”
“Because,” said Arvalaeon, “as I said, a degree of psychological trauma is necessary to begin the process.”
That shut me up. Process? What process? I had been certain I was going to die, but I started to realize I might be in more trouble than that.
“As I said, I need to know only one more thing about you,” said Arvalaeon. “Ask me questions. Anything you want to know, and I will tell you.”
I stared at him. Okay, maybe he had to tell truth. But I knew firsthand that it was possible to deceive someone profoundly while speaking the exact literal truth.
“Fine,” I said. “Guess I’ll play. Where the hell am I?”
I didn’t expect him to answer, but he did.
“Presently, we are in the Port of Milwaukee,” said Arvalaeon. “Specifically, Jones’ Island, in one of the warehouses near Interstate 794. The Inquisition uses it as a secret facility for prisoner interrogation, and my men and I have taken it over for the duration of this operation.”
“But this isn’t an interrogation,” I said.
“No,” said Arvalaeon.
“Then if this isn’t an interrogation,” I said, “why am I here?”
“You and I,” said Arvalaeon, “are going to save the world.”
He looked utterly serious.
“Ooh-kay,” I said. “Sure. Save the world. Kind of hard for me to do that while handcuffed to a chair with no clothes.”
Arvalaeon said nothing. Something else occurred to me.
“Are you going to kill me?” I said.
“It is entirely possi
ble that you, along with many other humans and Elves, are going to die in the next thirty days,” said Arvalaeon, “but you will only die at my hands or the hands of my men if you force us to it in self-defense.”
I blinked.
For the first time since this nightmare had begun, a flicker of hope burned to life in my chest. If Arvalaeon had wanted to kill me, he could have done it with far less effort. If he wanted to use me to screw over Morvilind, he would be recording a confession of my various crimes after his thugs beat it out of me. That meant…
“Oh,” I said.
Arvalaeon waited. He looked like he could sit waiting in that cheap folding chair from now until the sun burned out.
“You want me to do something for you,” I said.
“A more accurate description is that it is necessary for you to perform a task for a great many reasons,” said Arvalaeon.
“You could have just asked,” I said. “Or sent an email. Or a certified letter. Or found some other way to ask that didn’t involve me getting kidnapped!”
My voice had risen to a shout at the end as my anger got the better of me, my wrists and ankles straining at the cuffs. I made myself stop. If I wasn’t careful I would abrade the skin and start bleeding.
“No,” said Arvalaeon. “As I said, a measure of psychological torment is necessary to begin the process. Additionally, if I had simply asked you, Lord Morvilind would have known about it, and Lord Morvilind would have killed you on the spot.”
“Well, you had better hurry up and ask, then,” I spat. “Because once he figures out that you have me, he’s going to kill me.”
“Lord Morvilind,” said Arvalaeon, “is otherwise occupied.” He reached into his coat, produced the flat watch-like shape of an aetherometer, glanced at it, and put the instrument away. “He will not think to check your location for a good measure of time. By then, our business will be concluded one way or another.”
“Then what is our business?” I said. “Other than this delightful conversation.”
“The answer to a question,” said Arvalaeon. “But to learn the answer, you must ask me questions.”
“For God’s sake,” I said. “Why me?”
“Because you are Lord Morvilind’s shadow agent,” said Arvalaeon, “and an exceptionally talented one at that. Some of them have been less than competent.”
“You know about Morvilind’s shadow agents?” I said.
“Yes,” said Arvalaeon. “You are, to the best of my knowledge, the seventeenth shadow agent he has recruited since the Conquest.”
“Seventeenth?” I said. “What…happened to the other ones?”
“Most of them were killed carrying out his will,” said Arvalaeon. “A few of them tried to betray him, and he killed them. You have been to Venomhold, so you know what happened to Rosalyn Madero. To the best of my knowledge, you and Madero are Morvilind’s only living shadow agents, though it is safe to say that Madero has thoroughly turned against her former master.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘to the best of your knowledge?’” I said. “You’re the stupid Lord Inquisitor? Aren’t you supposed to know?”
“Lord Morvilind is smarter than I am,” said Arvalaeon.
“What does that have to do with Morvilind’s shadow agents?” I said, my mind still spinning a little. Seventeen? I wondered how many of them had met ends like this, killed by the Inquisition.
“It is likely Morvilind has concealed many of his activities from me,” said Arvalaeon.
“Aren’t you an archmage, too?” I said.
“I am,” said Arvalaeon. “I am Morvilind’s equal in power. I am not, however, his equal in skill and knowledge. No one of our race is, except perhaps for the High Queen herself. The wielding of aetheric forces, commonly called magic, is both an art and a science, and Morvilind is the greatest wizard of the Elves currently living. To employ a metaphor, I am a skilled technician of magic…but Kaethran Morvilind is an artistic genius of magic. So, it is entirely possible he had, or currently has, shadow agents about which I know nothing.”
“You said to ask you questions,” I said. “Fine. Tell me about Morvilind.”
If I was going to die, I suppose I could get my curiosity satisfied along the way.
“Kaethran Morvilind is eleven centuries old,” said Arvalaeon. “He was the only son of a minor noble house of our world, traditionally sworn to the noble lord that became the Duke of Milwaukee. At a young age, Morvilind swore to the High King and fought in his wars. Even as a young man he possessed terrible power, and he destroyed enemy after enemy. After two centuries of battle, he became an advisor to the High King, and then to his son, and then to his granddaughter, who became our High Queen. Morvilind was the one who taught Tarlia the ways of magic, and at her insistence he taught me many spells as well.”
“Guess he wasn’t powerful enough to keep you guys from getting thrown off your world, huh?” I said.
“Had we heeded his counsel,” said Arvalaeon, “we might never have come here.”
“What do you mean?” I said. "I thought Morvilind was the one who found Earth."
“In the early days of the Archon rebellion,” said Arvalaeon, “the Archons were confined to a single continent on our world, a land mass approximately the size of Texas. Morvilind prepared a spell that would have killed every single Archon…but it would also have killed every single Elf on that continent, nearly twenty-five million of our people. The High Queen forbade him from using it, refusing to slaughter that many of her own subjects, and the Archons were able to grow in strength and drive us from Kalvarion.”
“Bet she regretted that,” I said.
“Why do you think she is so ruthless with humans?” said Arvalaeon. “She learned her lesson. Never again would she allow mercy to make her weak. Do you not see it? The constant propaganda and manipulation?”
“The Punishment Day videos…” I started.
“That is her genius,” said Arvalaeon.
“Some genius,” I sneered.
“You fail to understand,” said Arvalaeon. “We took apart human civilization and rebuilt it to keep you docile. Everything about your society has been designed to make you obedient to the High Queen, to revere her, to hold it as your patriotic duty to fight in the defense of your families, for the High Queen needs soldiers and supplies to retake Kalvarion. Do you not wonder why your society’s knowledge of computer technology has not advanced at all in the last three hundred years?”
“I never thought about it,” I said. Phones and computers were tools, and I used them with caution, lest the Inquisition find me, which seemed to have been a wasted effort in hindsight.
“Because we have deliberately sabotaged it,” said Arvalaeon. “We took apart your social structures and rebuilt them to inculcate reverence for the High Queen and the Elves from the earliest days of your childhood. We have done the same with your technology, encouraging areas that advantaged us and stifling those that might threaten us. Your medical technology is vastly more advanced than it was in the years before the Conquest, because it benefited the Elves to allow it to advance. Dr. Marney would have died from his wounds had they been inflicted before the Conquest. The High Queen needs soldiers. Healthy men fight longer and harder, and healthy women produce stronger sons.” He shook his head. “When we came here, I thought it would take a vast army to control the humans.”
“You have the Inquisition and Homeland Security,” I said.
“They are not that numerous,” said Arvalaeon. “That is the crux of the High Queen’s genius. She has trained humans to rule themselves in her name. Imagine you were to escape from me and you ran to the nearest restaurant, begging for help. The patrons of the restaurant would hold you prisoner and hand you over back to us, and they would be convinced that they had done the right thing. Tarlia has trained mankind to hold itself in subjection to her.”
“Then what about the Rebels?” I said.
“They were a manageable problem,” said Arvalaeon. “Every fi
fty years or so they would arise, and every fifty years we would exterminate them. Rather like weeds, to use a simplistic metaphor. Then Nicholas Connor was wise enough to forge an alliance with the Knight of Venomhold and the cults of the Dark Ones. Consequently, the Rebels have a haven beyond our reach, and they are growing stronger. They are still weak, but if they are not checked, they will become a serious danger.”
“Ah,” I said. “Is that what this is about? You want Nicholas? You can have him. Last time I saw him he was in Venomhold. You should probably shoot him in the head if you get a chance.”
“We are here because of Mr. Connor’s actions, but only indirectly,” said Arvalaeon.
“Then why are we here?”
“So I can find the answer to one question about you,” said Arvalaeon.
“Then for God’s sake, ask,” I said.
“Not yet,” said Arvalaeon. “Continue to question me.”
I stared at him, incredulous. This will sound absurd, but for a moment I was annoyed. I was the one who had been taken prisoner, not him. I had been snatched off the street, beaten up, stripped naked, and shackled to chair in a freezing room, and I knew all that was supposed to soften me up for interrogation. He should have been the one asking the questions, not me.
“Fine,” I said. “Fine. You want questions, have them. What’s this stupid thing on my neck?”
“It is a feedback collar,” said Arvalaeon. “Whenever you call magical force, the collar overloads your nervous system with a pain stimulus. All Elves have some degree of magical ability, more so than humans, so a means of restraining them is necessary. Of course, for more powerful wizards, it is useless. It is relatively easy to overload the collar.”
“Then why can’t I overload it?” I said.
“You’re not strong enough,” said Arvalaeon. “Should you live long enough, you will gain the strength in time. You are unusually strong with magic for a human, partly from natural talent, partly from Morvilind’s undoubtedly brutal methods of training.”
He fell silent, waiting for me to ask more questions. I took a moment to clear my thoughts, trying to think logically through the fear and pain. Obviously, he wanted me to do something for him. He might have me killed once I fulfilled the task…or he might let me go. There was no conceivable way I was a threat to him, and I might even be useful in the future.
Cloak Games: Truth Chain Page 3
