“Whatchoo doin’ up this ’igh?”
“I got lost,” Aidan said, remembering on the second word to keep up the lower class accent.
The two women looked at each other. “Well,” said the second, smaller woman, “don’t let mistress know you was lost. She’ll think you was stealing stuff.”
Aidan shook his head. “Thank you much.” And with that reprimanding, he trotted down the remainder of the staircase, wound round the corner, and took the one returning to the kitchen. Too late did he notice the iron repelling him, marring and twisting Slaíne’s Pull. He looked up with a start.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” she sobbed before Lady Dewhurst could stop her, the dagger pressing against Slaíne’s throat.
Chapter Fourteen
For one calculating moment, Aidan stood there, keenly aware that he needed to do something and fast. But his thoughts were so muddied, his mind was so tired, that the only thing he could think to do was Dismiss more. Nothing he could Dismiss, however, would do them one lick of good. Lady Dewhurst could not be Dismissed, neither could Slaíne nor the iron blade digging into her porcelain throat. He could Dismiss the chair Slaíne sat in, giving her captor a surprise that might work in his favor…if not for the blasted blade! Any surprise movement could cause the instrument to dig deeper into her flesh, causing damage that Aidan did not want to think about.
“Think carefully, Mr. Ingledark. This blade is sharp, and her skin is only so thick just there.”
He glared at the odious woman. And it occurred to him, a cruel, ugly thought: he could dash out of there right that moment, leaving Slaíne to her fate. Did he really owe her anything? Yet as soon as the idea formed in his mind, it died and vanished. He could not leave her. As an alarm was taken up by Lady Dewhurst and he remained where he stood, unflinching and unmoving, he flattered himself that it was Slaíne’s stupid Pull that rooted him to the spot. He could not be honest with himself; he would not.
As the house was surrounded with human Pulls armed with iron, and shouts were taken up, and the pig on the spit was allowed to burn and perfume the air with its acridity, something that had been wriggling loose inside Aidan gave way entirely. Whatever control he possessed over his ability was gone. Blood pounding in his head, Aidan Dismissed. Aidan Dismissed the table at which Slaíne sat, her face a blur from behind the film over his glazed eyes. The pig vanished, then rematerialized on the counter, splattering boiling hot juices and fat onto those standing too close. A scream, feral, primal filled the room. Every last piece of non-iron cutlery vanished. A dozen kitchen knives were Called, soared across the room inches from Aidan’s breast before shooting out from him and planting themselves in several different human Pulls that he could find. The scream became a roar of rage, as the Pulls lessened in vitality. Someone was openly weeping, and clarity returned at last to Aidan. The screaming ceased.
The film cleared from his eyes. Slaíne was the one crying, her eyes full of remorse and…. Goodness, she was terrified of him. And that was the last impression he had before something repulsive and hard hit him over the head. The rest was stars and darkness.
* * *
“This ain’t goin’ so well,” said a familiar voice. Aidan knew he was in the dream world because he found himself back on his former estate and the barn was whole and not an ash heap. He blinked his mind’s eye and beheld four stooped forms covered in rags. Aidan groaned.
“Not you four.”
“Least he hasn’t lost the whole of his mind.”
“Quiet, Reek,” said the elf who called herself Treevain.
“What are you doing in my head?” Aidan demanded. “How did you get here?”
The four exchanged crafty looks before the fattest one said, “We’re dead, that’s why we’re here. What is you doin’ here?”
“That question was of a rhetorical nature,” said the tall one helpfully.
Aidan sighed. “It’s my head.”
The four elves’ heads bobbed as if he were very smart and wise to have realized this obvious fact.
Shoulder prickling and cold, Aidan shook himself. He needed to wake up; something told him that he was in dire straits in the conscious realm.
Reek seemed to realize he was trying to rouse himself, because she shook her head and put her hands on his arms to keep him from jerking around. “Wait. Wait! We’ve been trying to reach yous.”
“You’ve got what is ourn!”
“Aye,” shouted two of the four.
Treevain told them to do something rather rude, and they quieted. “Do not give Meraude the Goblets, Aidan Ingledark. She’s got the Warring Goblet now and will soon try to possess more. Give her nothing she requires.”
Aidan sighed. “Why should I listen to anything you four say? You tried to kill me, for the love of all that is—”
“All’s fair when you take someffink that ain’t yourn.” The hideous creature sniffed. “Tea ain’t the same wiffout Slaíne.”
“Oh, aye,” said the fat one mournfully. “But there would be no enjoying tea in this realm, no how.”
“Being dead does have an effect on the tasting and the eating and the drinking,” offered the shortest.
“The point is, Lord Ingledark, you owes us four favors. And you’ll repay that debt by finding the Tower and entering the Seeing Pool.”
“The Seeing Pool?” Aidan repeated.
“Yes, we reckon you know where that is.”
“That is where Meraude is,” Aidan pointed out.
The four nodded. “Oh, we know. So don’t bring no Goblets there.”
“She’ll kill me if I arrive without any Goblets.” For whatever reason, his vision began to grow fuzzy. The four elves blurred, and their anxious voices grew concerned.
“Blasted iron.”
“Ruins all good Scrying missions.”
“Oh aye.”
The pulse in Aidan’s head thrummed a painful tattoo and the world began to fade to black again. He became acutely aware that he was moving toward iron, perhaps an entire room of it, not of his own accord. Yet in this state of limbo, he could still make out the elves’ warnings not to trust Meraude, not to give her the Goblets Immortal, and so forth and so on.
The four said they were dead. That raised many questions, none of which Aidan could form into words coherent enough for the creatures to hear and comprehend. At the same time, wherever his conscious self was being moved, he was no more able to prevent it, such was the state of things. He felt the temperature shift from warm and stuffy to cold and damp. The colder it grew, the harder it was for him to hear the elves’ pleas, and the more Pulls and repulsions he felt.
Aidan attempted to move his fingers, but had no control over any part of himself. Slaíne’s Pull was not too far away, but he could not hear her, just the muffled voices of determined men. He smelled the dampness, and it clung to his skin.
“Is he still breathing?” asked a stout, cheerful voice. Dewhurst.
“Yes, milord.”
“Set him down there, and we’ll see if we can rouse him. You’ve secured the girl upstairs?”
“With difficulty,” said a thin, nasal voice that Aidan did not recognize.
The elves’ faces surged into view and Treevain shouted the last words he would hear before waking: “I held on to the maps. Lot of good they’ll do ya now….” And with that, the pain became at once more than a dull, distant throb; it bloomed into an earth-splitting headache.
“He lives,” said a snake-like voice.
Aidan felt cold iron pressing against his back, repulsing and yet restraining him. Furious, he realized he was manacled to and with the metal. Before opening his eyes and revealing that he was in fact awake, he felt the Pulls around him. There were four of them, including Dewhurst. Slaíne’s Pull, he realized, was farther away than he would have liked, yet it felt as strong as ever.
�
�Rouse him. I want to make sure there’s no permanent damage.” It was Dewhurst who spoke as iron exchanged hands.
A great shudder rippled through Aidan’s body. He’d never felt so many repulsions in his life. It left him feeling as though he was being pushed upward with many icy hands whilst at the same time being pulled down by them.
A wave of water hit him in the face. Sputtering and choking, he gasped for air. The room was as he had imagined it: iron walls, iron floor, but mercifully there was no iron ceiling, which would have made Aidan feel like he was being crushed more so than he already did.
“Dry him off. I don’t want him catching his death.”
Aidan resisted straining against his bonds as a foreign human Pull approached and threw a cloth over his head. For one wild moment, he believed the man meant to suffocate him, and he was prepared to Dismiss the fabric, but there was no need. The man finished absorbing the water and quickly moved away from Aidan.
The thought that he might Dismiss himself into Nothingness was cut short by Dewhurst, who must have guessed what he was planning. The stout man stepped forward – Aidan could feel his Pull, if not see him from his prone position. “I wouldn’t try anything…tricky, Ingledark. We’ve got your traveling companion trussed up nice and tight, as you must be able to tell with that remarkable extra sense of yours.” Dewhurst loomed over him, a smug look of satisfaction painting his features. He had grown old since last Aidan had taken a good look at him. The lord of the land’s brown hair had faded to a dull gray and was thinning in places, and his Pull wasn’t as substantial as it had once been, despite the added bulk of weight. Heavy bags sat under his watery blue eyes, and lines ran from his eyes to his brows and along the edges of his mouth.
“What do you want, Dewhurst?” Aidan said, keeping the venom out of his voice, for he knew it would get him nowhere. His head continued to pound as the lord spoke, his voice of such a timbre and volume it made Aidan’s pain increase doubly.
“Not yet, Ingledark. We’ll get to that soon enough.” He paused here and ran a hand down the collar of his fine linen robe. The man always had been immaculately dressed, and there were few things Aidan disrespected more than a dandy. He drew Aidan’s attention to point above him on the ceiling. “See a door, my lad? Means of escape? Comfort? No, I didn’t think so. Those aren’t the real things that you want, are they? I wonder….”
Aidan rolled his eyes. “Quit with the theatrics, old man. I fear the boards you tread will not hold your girth.”
Of all things, the man laughed an amused laugh. He leaned over Aidan, much to the captive’s discomfiture, his eyes raking in goodness knows what details. “You don’t seem to have aged much. What are you? Twenty-something?”
He looked over at his men, one of whom quickly piped up with,“Three and thirty, milord. If Prewitt is to be believed.”
Dewhurst nodded. “Yes, time has been kind to you. I, on the other hand….” There was another staccato burst of laughter that sounded only half-sincere, and it faded out as the man frowned. “Tell me, Ingledark, what do you want?”
Aidan would not play this game. He felt the Pulls around the room and above the room. Slaíne’s was stationary and it at once felt like it was in the room with him yet separate somehow. He did not know what to make of that, so he moved on to the men. He could Dismiss their clothes, humiliate them, focus hard on their hair and leave only tufts behind. But those pranks would only mentally exhaust him and haze his thinking, and Aidan needed every ounce of mental strength he could muster.
“Don’t look so worried, Ingledark. I’m not planning on killing you.”
“Change of heart?” Aidan snapped.
The man shook his head with a rueful smile that Aidan knew better than to trust. “An increase of knowledge. But you have not answered my question, though I believe I am already in possession of the answer.”
This was going to grow tedious rather quickly. Aidan hated cat and mouse games, treading lightly on words that could be his saving grace or his undoing. He winced involuntarily as a new pain shot up his skull.
Dewhurst let out a sigh. “I see I shall have to put forth your answers for you.”
“Be my guest,” Aidan muttered.
The lord snapped his fingers, and one of his men approached with a goblet made of iron. Aidan’s expression must have betrayed his reaction to Dewhurst, who snorted with derision. “Do not worry, my lad. It is not one of the Immortals. It’s an ordinary iron goblet containing something to relax you…and perhaps your tongue.”
Aidan’s head was lifted, and the goblet was placed to his lips, which he mashed together. He knew what was coming next, though it did not stop him from gasping.
Dewhurst had his nose pinched, and after a minute of holding his breath, Aidan was forced to open his mouth, and the alcohol, ran down his throat before he could Dismiss it.
He was able to cough and spit some of it out, but another chalice was lifted to his lips, and another torrent of tepid liquor slipped down his throat, and then another. Before long, his thoughts were jumbled. Dewhurst’s face swam before his eyes.
“I’ll tell you what you want, Ingledark. You want control. Of your life, of yourself, of your…heart.” His ensuing chuckle was a dark one. “I hold all three in my hands.” He flexed his fingers inches from Aidan’s face, then tightened them into a fist. “Now, I will tell you what I want.” Again Dewhurst snapped his fingers, and more iron was brought forward.
To Aidan’s revulsion, Dewhurst now held an iron dagger the size of his hand, and he was cleaning it off with a rag and more medicinal-smelling alcohol. If the man wasn’t going to kill Aidan, what was left? Was he to be tortured for information that he did not possess? He tried to scheme quickly, to come up with some means of escape, but his thoughts would not clear, and his pulse thrummed in his ears as the dagger was held up to a candle.
“Essence of cloves,” Dewhurst said to the man behind him. They were taking no chances; everything that they did not wear was iron.
Essence of cloves was poured on the uppermost part of Aidan’s forearm, almost to the joint. Now Aidan did start to struggle. He strained against his bonds as if he might break them, but he knew it was in vain.
Dewhurst lowered the blade. “Someone hold the boy still. I don’t want to kill him by accident. You, you just there, you’ve the goblet still? Good. Good.”
Realizing what Dewhurst meant to do, Aidan tried Dismissing anything that had a Pull, but he was too sluggish. The blade pierced his arm, drawing a gasp from his lips. He could scarce feel the liquid running from his veins as the men held him down. He felt giddy and lightheaded.
“Yes, very nice.” Dewhurst’s voice was pleased and deadly to Aidan’s ears.
Aidan thought he would go mad as the intermittent ploink, ploink, ploink of his blood dripping into the goblet filled the silence. His vision started to fuzz over, and he gave an involuntary shudder that even the brutes holding him down could scarce withstand.
After an eternity, the bleeding ceased, and he was bandaged up by the lackeys and covered with a scratchy blanket that smelled of earth and rot. Something firm was propped up under his head, and he could see Dewhurst studying the crimson in the cup.
He noticed Aidan staring at him and dipped the glass in a salute. “To your health.” And he drank.
Aidan watched Dewhurst drain the cup without flinching, and thought he might lose consciousness again or the meager contents of his stomach at the very least. But Aidan did not faint. He needed to see if it worked.
Dewhurst dropped the cup as one burned and, hands shaking, he held them up to a light on the wall. “Interesting.” He turned an eye to Aidan and, with a look of utmost concentration on his face, Dewhurst reached out as if he could grasp the air.
Aidan felt a weak Tug at his collar, but he stilled it with a Tug of his own.
Dewhurst frowned and focused on something else
. With a cry of delight from Dewhurst and his men, a candlestick on the wall’s ledge fell over and sizzled out. He looked at Aidan knowingly for a moment, as if he’d just been dealt into a secret that had eluded him for years.
Aidan’s headache worsened tenfold, and his eyes would not quite focus. He kept the expression on his face neutral, but Dewhurst must’ve known what horrors were playing out in Aidan’s mind.
As a boy, Aidan had stumbled upon his abilities by accident. He did not recall the sense of glee that Dewhurst was most obviously experiencing. All he remembered was terror and pain, as he could not prevent objects from flying at him.
The men with Dewhurst applauded their master, who managed to make one of their capes fly out behind them. This feat must seem amazing to them, but it did not seem to impress Dewhurst. His face darkened and he cut off his men’s applause. “Upstairs, all of you.”
The three guards thundered up a staircase that Aidan could not see but could sense. “What do you think of that, m’lad?” When Aidan did not answer, Dewhurst came at him, brandishing another knife. “Well?”
“You’re disgusting and pathetic, but it wasn’t anything I didn’t know already.” The words had no feeling in them; Aidan was exhausted and wished unconsciousness would overtake him then and there. It did not.
With a laugh, Dewhurst brought the blade to rest against Aidan’s jugular. It was cold and repulsive, and Aidan wanted to wrench away, but he knew better. “Tell me your secrets.”
“What secrets?” Aidan asked.
“Don’t play the fool, Aidan Ingledark. Tell me, how do you make things disappear and reappear? Shouldn’t I be able to do that now?” He looked thoughtful for a moment and then increased pressure on the blade. “Do I need more blood?”
Aidan rolled his eyes. “How would I know? I’ve never feasted on another’s lifeblood before like a ruddy vampire.”
That earned him a smart slap upside the head.
Aidan grunted. He’d bitten his tongue by accident.
Dewhurst continued talking as if Aidan had not insulted him. “You drank of one of the Goblets Immortal, then.” It was not a question. So, he did not know as much about Aidan as the seer did. That made Aidan wince; he hadn’t trusted that woman a jot, and yet she hadn’t shared the most important details about his and her abilities to this man. Dewhurst must really be Larkin’s enemy. And if Larkin had been on his side and not Dewhurst’s, perhaps she could have helped them after all.
The Goblets Immortal Page 24