Chapter Fourteen
Critics of the Siphons often called the Sandrathan Prison a temple—here, they argued, the zealous worshippers of Venar demonstrated the most pitiless form of his justice. Thousands of men and women from all across the Republic were detained within, their crimes ranging in severity from treason to infidelity. And all of them served as fuel for the magi caste that was the backbone of Darenthi society.
Kastrius had always been baffled how anyone could oppose such a perfect system. The country was built on a foundation of Venar’s laws and teachings, and this was a completely logical extension. It was the purpose of every man, woman, and child born in Darenthi to serve the Republic and their community, and when they took too much from it, this was their opportunity to give it back.
The opposition was fundamentally political rather than practical. The Edehans saw the Siphons as sacrilege against their patron since it allowed magi to further push the limits of the Flensing—or at least, that’s what they argued publically. In truth, they believed it to be a Balorite ploy for additional power, and they were right. The Siphons and the Faceless had vaulted a once obscure religious sect into power a century ago, but they had also kept Darenthi from becoming an Ebaran colony. The Edehans and their sympathizers should have at least been thankful for that. Besides, the alternative was even less “civilized.”
In the days of the First Empire just after the Sundering, Empress Darenthi herself had forced criminals to become laborers. They toiled away their sentences building monuments or walls or roads. The life of a Siphon was considerably more humane by comparison. They weren’t exposed to the elements or countless hours of back-breaking toil. Instead they were kept perfectly comfortable inside a cell, their minds adrift in a varium-induced haze as they fed their life-force to their betters.
What could be a more appropriate punishment for their crimes?
The prince strode inside the double doors to the prison, his pair of magi underlings closely in tow, and gaped at the majesty of the structure. It had been years since his mother had taken him here to show him what was, to her, an aberration, but the plan had backfired rather dramatically. He had immediately become enamored by its potential. Kastrius dreamed of this place often, and when the Republic was finally his he planned on constructing several more just like it—perhaps even one in Haven itself.
The prison was essentially a giant cylinder with cells evenly spaced throughout all the levels. The genius of the design was that from a central platform, a single warden could easily glimpse into any cell he chose; the prisoners themselves, however, couldn’t quite see the warden. They never knew when they were being watched, and the constant threat of observation had ultimately made them more submissive.
Today, of course, that was little more than an afterthought. The insensate Siphons couldn’t appreciate the glory of the design. It was a shame, really. Perhaps one day he could figure out a way to fix that.
“Good morning, my prince,” the tall, bushy-faced warden said as he approached with a Faceless guardian at his side. “Senator Veltar sends his regards.”
“I’m sure,” Kastrius murmured. “I trust everything is in order?”
The warden smiled. “Yes, Your Highness. In case you have forgotten, the man you’re looking for is on level four, cell thirty-one.”
“I recall, thank you,” Kastrius said, trying not to sound too impatient. Despite Veltar’s assurances about the loyalty of his people, the prince felt incredibly exposed. This would be an easy opportunity for the senator to make him quietly disappear…
But no, Kastrius couldn’t worry about that now. He had come this far, and his freedom was vital to their plans. It was just another step on his long march towards ascension, and he was ready to take it.
“Do you require any assistance?” the warden asked.
“No, thank you. You may return to your duties.”
The man nodded and strode away. His knowing smile was annoying, and Kastrius made a mental note to have him killed as soon as he was done here. It was probably a good idea to have all of Veltar’s people eliminated sooner or later, lest they find themselves in positions of power at some point down the road.
“Come on,” he told the two magi with him, and started towards the metal staircase.
A few minutes later, the three of them were standing in front of the appropriate cell. It was small, probably only six feet wide and eight tall, with conventional bars and a lever that controlled them on the side. A barrier of translucent blue energy hummed faintly in front of it, sealing the prisoner inside.
Kastrius studied the haggard captive. He was a murderer or some such, convicted to a lifetime of servitude here rather than execution. The prince didn’t even know his name, but his skin tingled as he approached the cell. He remembered a similar sensation when their link had been forged all those years ago. He wondered dimly if it was a normal sensation when a host stood this close to his Siphon or if he was just imagining it. Either way, it didn’t matter. It was all about to come to an end.
“Open it,” he ordered.
The two magi stepped forward and released the locking mechanism. No keys were necessary here; the seals were created and maintained with magic. The magi each wove a spell into the barrier, and after a brief flash of light the humming from the cell faded.
Kastrius grunted softly. To think his entire life was right there, suspended in chains. A knife to the gullet would kill both of them in a heartbeat. He had always wondered why the more important magi—certainly royalty, perhaps even senators or high-ranking officers—didn’t have their own complex for much more heavily-guarded Siphons. But aside from the absurd expense of maintaining another facility, the belief was that keeping all of them here anonymously was actually safer than separating the most important ones. It had taken him a nauseating amount of bribes and favors to get the location of his own Siphon, so if he, the crown prince, had struggled that much, it was probably impossible for anyone else. There were far easier ways to assassinate someone.
Still, he felt a flicker of annoyance that his mother had given up her own Siphon several years ago. It might have been worth torching the entire building if it meant he had a chance of taking her down with him.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked sharply. “Let’s get this over with.”
“It will only take a moment to prepare the ritual,” the male mage assured him.
“Fine,” the prince muttered, turning back to the prisoner. The female mage began chanting a second later.
“Blessed Abalor, steward of all life, He who brings light to the darkness cast by Edeh the Betrayer—”
“Is that really necessary?” Kastrius interrupted. “This isn’t a screlling sermon.”
She opened her eyes and frowned at him. “It is part of the ritual, Your Highness.”
The prince sighed. “I don’t care about useless chants. Last time I checked, magi didn’t need to babble and wave their hands in order to weave a spell. Did that change recently?”
The woman swallowed visibly. “No, Your Highness.”
“Good, then skip it and get to the point.”
She nodded hastily, and the two of them pulled out the few actually useful components they needed: a book with the proper spells and formula, a pouch full of varium, and a candle to light the former on fire. Kastrius wasn’t positively sure any of that was truly necessary—he hoped by now they already knew how to weave the spell without staring at a book—but as long as they kept the prattling to a minimum he wasn’t going to complain. He just wanted to get this over with.
He glanced down at his hands as they made final preparations. It wasn’t going to be easy facing the Flensing full bore. As a teenager he had nearly killed himself once in an effort to “correct” a guard who had given him lip. He distinctly remembered staring in horror at the glowing latticework of veins threatening to burst beneath his skin…
But he no longer had a choice. The Em
press couldn’t be held at bay forever, and it was better to just end this now while he still had time. He could always cut back on his weaving and find someone else to heat his bathwater for him. Maybe with all the ambassadors and diplomats in town, Haven actually had some upscale whores with basic krata training he could hire to take care of it.
“We are ready, my prince.”
“Then do it.”
A part of him expected a grandiose display of magical power—surging bolts of energy, a rousing incantation that eventually thundered in his ear, or something else similarly breathtaking. Instead there was only a faint pop and then a flash of light from the skin of the Siphon.
And then there was pain.
Kastrius collapsed to the floor in a ball. Every muscle in his body seemed to contract at once, and it felt like his skin was on fire. His vision blurred; the magi standing behind him became formless red splotches before disappearing altogether.
He wasn’t certain how long he writhed on the floor. He was dimly aware of the magi checking to see if he was all right, but he wasn’t really paying any attention to them. All he could think of was the searing agony boiling in his blood.
Through the crimson haze he eventually made out the glowing lines along his arms. He hadn’t woven a single spell and the Flensing was taking him. Was this Edeh’s petty vengeance for defying her? Had Veltar’s magi betrayed him? He didn’t know, and right now he didn’t really care. He just wanted the pain to end.
Finally his sight returned, and his veins no longer threatened to rupture beneath his skin. The tingling ache remained, however. It was like a migraine of the soul, throbbing in places he didn’t know he had. He finally managed to bring himself to a crouch, and he blinked his vision into focus.
“Are you able to move, my prince?”
He looked up to the mage. “What in Abalor’s name was that?”
“The Flensing, Your Highness,” the man said, glancing furtively to his partner. “It often takes effect just after a breaking.”
“So why didn’t anyone tell me about that?”
“We…assumed you knew, my prince.”
Kastrius swore under his breath. “It still hurts. Can you do something about the pain?”
“I will try, but the effects of the Flensing have no cure.” He leaned down next to Katrius and wove a healing spell. For a few seconds, the ache started to dull, but then, inexplicably, it roared back to life and knocked Kastrius to the ground. The mage mumbled some type of pathetic apology but the prince could barely hear him. It was minutes before he could move again.
“I’m sorry, my prince,” the man said desperately. “It will pass eventually.”
Kastrius roared and brought himself to his feet. He was so dizzy he nearly toppled over, but he managed to right himself against the bars at the edge of the platform.
“Seal the prison cell,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “And let’s get out of here.”
They did as instructed, and a few minutes later they were heading out of the prison. If his mother did come here, she would find his Siphon alive and well—and then be shocked when she realized her son was no longer on a leash. But right now, that freedom hardly seemed worth the price. He was almost tempted to have them restore the link right here and now just to get rid of this pain, if it even worked like that.
Perhaps the gods really were punishing him. Perhaps Abalor himself was enraged that Kastrius hadn’t let the magi blurt out the entire ritual. He wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what these fools tried to tell him later, and then he would have them both executed for being useless.
For now, he ground his teeth together and continued the long walk back to his tower.
The Last Goddess Page 35