“Why don't you ask–” I bit my tongue.
Loral glanced up at the heavy cell door and sighed. “Too late for that, sir,” she said quietly,“but they still live in me memories and stories, sir. I'll keep them alive as long as I can.”
I rolled my cape into a seat on the cold stone. “Why don't you sit down and tell me another story then, Private Loral? Lives deserve to be celebrated.”
She grinned and eased herself onto the velvet cushion. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”
Private Loral told me all the stories she knew over the next three days: humorous, stories, quaint stories, sad stories, and inspiring stories. Then the stories ended. When I woke up the fourth morning, Loral was gone.
Our numbers kept dwindling. Soon, only Maven and I remained, staring across the void of the cell in bleak silence. The woman had talked less and less during the day as her friends were taken. But during the night, in fitful bouts of sleep, she would always cry and reach out for Minerva. Her sister, I remembered: the Red Dragon Warrior. The one in the portrait with the long, blonde hair who looked like Kelsa. Every night, I draped my cloak over her slumbering form when her cries awoke me from my dreams. She would not accept my help otherwise.
I tucked the edges of the cape under her shivering body. Her face had grown stretched, her skin pale, and her frame gaunt from worry and starvation. They gave us food. She wasn't eating it. I toyed with the idea of taking the ring off and revealing the young woman underneath, but I was too much of a coward. Would the shock of seeing her 'sister' lift her from the depths of this sullen, apathetic state or send her deeper into the abyss?
I sighed and curled up next to the pit latrine. It was the warmest spot in the room if you could ignore the stench. Ah, the peaceful silence. For the first time in many nights, there was no screaming, only the soft, gentle sound of rain falling outside the high window. I fell back asleep.
I dreamed of the large, oval mirror for the last time that night. On the outside, I was Sir Corbin, as it should be, but the image in the mirror was a young woman with perky breasts and long, luxurious hair. The mirror rippled like silver water as though one of us had just stepped through it. I raised my arm and she in turn raised hers. I waved and the woman waved back. I . . . ahem, scratched myself and she did likewise. We grinned at each other across the liquid void.
I stared, not at her breasts, but her face. She looked like someone I used to know, the name on the tip of my tongue, but I could not recall. One of us smiled. One of us reached for the other. Our fingers touched and entwined in the icy, liquid surface of the mirror, one more ripple against a cascade of ripples. The coolness started traveling up, prickling the hairs on my arm. It soaked across my neck, then came creeping across my face . . .
I awoke, gasping. Huddled on the floor, I had rolled over in my sleep into a foul puddle. I spat, wiping my face, the dream forgotten. I glanced around the cell in the wan morning light. Maven was still asleep, or pretending. Those snores felt too loud to be real. The massive door opened with a loud creak. A guard entered and pointed to me, grinning like a manic beast. I sighed and grabbed my cloak, holding up my hand with an imperious gesture to stall the guard while I worked the clasp with stiff fingers.
The bestial-looking Black Guard reached for me while I was still fumbling with my cloak. His hair was wild and his uniform splattered with blood. The cold, damp wall and something more primal sent shivers up my spine. I took a deep breath and found refuge in my heroic persona. Kelsa was a huddling wreck of a prisoner, but Sir Corbin was a knight without peer.
How would Granfa react in this situation?
I forced myself to stare at my jailer and a mask of haughty serenity slipped over my face. I looked past the blood stains. His black uniform was dirty and rumpled. His hair wasn't wild, it was unkempt. This man dared to call himself a soldier? I read the insignia on his wrinkled sleeves and glared. They sent a lowly private to collect me? Outrageous!
I swallowed and stood to face my torturer. I resisted the urge to spit and boot the sorry little black crow out on his ass. The man rattled his filthy manacles at me with a dull, bovine look stamped across his face. His default expression , I surmised. I stepped forward, red cloak swishing around my ankles, and offered the puling tit my wrists.
16. CORBIN, YEAR 198
I looked the guard over and wiped the sneer curling across my face. So this was a specimen of what they scraped off the streets for their new little government pogrom? Every provincial base prejudice and jealous hate personified, distilled into one vile person. Come hunt and torture mages, boys. They don't deserve your pity. They're not really human. You don't need to skulk in the shadows anymore. We're agents of the empress. Here's your armor. Here's your badge. Go slaughter them all officially in the name of Cordelia I, Lady of the Iron Empire and Protector of the Northern Territories, long may she reign.
He shackled me, locked the door between us and Maven's snoring, and walked me down the hall. The torches were spaced along the walls at regular intervals, as were guards near most of the doors.
I shook my thick, new bracelets and they made a dull, heavy clanking noise. So, you won't bother shackling most of the mages, but you'll clap an old soldier in irons? Is this a mark of respect, a security consideration for my one guard, or does a different fate await me? For that matter, what fate awaited . . . them . . .
The Black Guard leading me down the hallway lingered as we walked past open cells containing scenes of mutilation and bloody ruin of my former mage friends strapped to large, wooden chairs. Some were still gasping and twitching, but their screams had exhausted hours ago. Little gems littered the floor. Some had a red tint. Rubies? Diamonds? I gagged as I recognized one of the closer specimens: fingernails. It was too easy to imagine poor Miranda strapped into one of those awful chairs, her throat raw, her fingers . . .
I shook my head. It will not come to that .
The cell door guards all refused to look me in the eye as I sauntered down the corridor, head held high. All except one, who quietly, almost shyly defiant, stared without blinking. A single tear fell down his cheek. He might be depressed, but I was happy to see a familiar face, even one in a black uniform.
I swallowed the spit gathering in my throat and made myself look him in the eye. “Sir Nortus? How does it feel to torture old colleagues and innocent army folk? How does it feel holding the knife and pliers in your hands instead of just talking about it?” I smiled, radiating genuine good cheer as I raised my clanking manacles to give the man a flippant little wave .
“If you must know,” Sir Nortus said, taking a deep breath as he stepped out of position and adjusted the new major's tabs on his collar, “I volunteered for these duties. We must all do our part for empress and country. I knew you were never a true Black Guard. You stink too much of mages.”
I raised my manacled hands and wiggled my fingers. “At least, I don't have their blood staining my hands.”
The man twitched as though the confrontation pained him. “No, their blood stains your soul. Your relationship with the witch is a blight upon your heart. But the question of blood seeps deeper than that, doesn't it?”
“Blood?” I asked, gesturing to the dark smudges on the floor.
Nortus shook his head. His nose twitched and I fought not to grin. “Do you know how to tell the difference between a rat . . . and a mouse?”
“Size? Diet?” I shrugged and the manacles clanked again.
He dismissed my answers with a wave. “The differences are deeper than that. Mice are such wholesome, peaceable creatures with their grain-munching and their fluffy, little nests. Rats spread filth, gnaw flesh, and drink blood. They're only similar if you do not bother to examine them closely, and who would bother? They always called me Nortus The Mouse,” he licked his lips, “but I've developed such unwholesome tastes.”
He chuckled as I startled. “You think I didn't know the secret hiding in your blood? Your goals were too large, too grand. Flying around, trying to
preserve the regiment, trying to save all the mages. Should have kept closer to the ground. Stuck to the smaller, attainable goal of just saving the one important mage.
“She's still safe,” I whispered. “You may have killed the others, but Maven is still safe.” My heart quailed. But for how much longer?
Nortus twitched again and scowled. “What do I care for that witch? Blood, I said. Your daughter. Your own daughter, Corbin. I could hardly believe it. The great national hero sheltering a dirty mage among his own flesh and blood. The thought of it still sickens me.” My heart froze as his lips pulled back into a toothsome sneer.
“Miranda? How could you possibly . . .”
“Amazing what a scurrying little rodent will overhear once you let one into your home.” Nortus brushed aside his curls and, laughing, cupped a hand to the side of his head. “We all have such wonderfully large ears.”
“You . . . spied on me? On my family?” I hissed. Did the whole welcoming committee have a second, malicious agenda or just this foul creature?
“A woman with such destructive power at her fingertips has the gall to pretend to be a healer,” Nortus sputtered. “You both pretend to save people, don't you Corbin? Your daughter is as false as her father. Sir Drake may blind himself to the truth, but I see it with clear eyes. The empire must be cured of its disease no matter where it has spread. The empress is the true healer. She will save the entire empire from this mage blight.”
Forget the blood. How long have you been licking the shoes of that crazy empress? “They're not a disease, Nortus. Are these the tools of the Black Guards: spying, bullying, and torturing?”
“I'm not proud of the things I've done, Sir Corbin,” he said stiffly, “but by the five gods, they needed doing.”
Don't invoke the gods to justify your butchery. “I wonder if the temple priests would agree with you?” I growled. The manacles shook as I reached for his throat, but the guard pulled me back. “If you so much as glance at my daughter again, I will—”
“You will do nothing but die as a traitor to the empire, sir!” The man's face hardened as he stepped back into position, eyes front, back against the wall. “It shall be my painful duty to inform your daughter that you were regrettably assaulted by rogue mages on the road home. I will allow the woman a moment to grieve before I arrest her.”
“Arrest her?” I snorted. “On what charge?”
His eyes widened as he stared past me to the empty cells stained with the blood, bile, and shit of the former Mage Corps. “Why, magic of course. She is a traitor by virtue of the darkness in her blood. They were all traitors.”
I glared. “The men and women you slaughtered in this dungeon were truer sons and daughters to the ideals this empire used to represent than you will ever be, rat.”
“Perhaps. But we live in a new empire now. It was an honor to have known the legendary Sir Corbin. I regret that you're not the patriotic hero of your legend. Still, I should salute the glorious man you once were despite the rebel sympathizer you've become.” He half raised his arm, then glanced at the scowling Black Crow beside me and dropped it back at his side.
Spineless to the end, Nortus. The army is well rid of you. May the gods cast lots for the tattered remains of your fetid, tiny soul.
I strode forward, yanking The Crow off balance. The man stumbled and then surged ahead, half dragging me to an empty cell containing a chair and brazier full of glowing coals. I glanced at the tools lodged in the coals as the guard strapped me into my very own large, stained wooden chair. The lout was none too gentle with those leather straps.
“You're just another prisoner to me, mage lover,” the guard said, smirking.
I almost smiled. He meant it as an epithet no doubt, but the accusation was true in every sense.
The Crow patted the top of my head. “I'm going to take my time with you.”
I tilted my head back to snap his fingers He cursed, pulling his hand away. The Black Crow was missing some teeth, but sadly, he still had all his fingers. I sat waiting for whatever surprise was coming. The old fear started rising from my gut, but I stamped it down.
They're going to kill me. Then they're going to kill Miranda. My death is nothing, but I need to live to save Miranda. I flexed my fingers. So I must answer this lout's questions as best I can. I thought of Private Loral. I wonder if The Black Crow likes stories?
I let my senses dull as The Crow started asking questions for which I had no answer and began exploring my face with his knuckles. I closed my eyes and let the darkness overwhelm me.
The next thing I knew, someone was leaning over me, breathing heavily. I glanced around the room through half-lidded eyes. The door was closed. We were alone. A brazier still burned quietly in the corner. All sorts of fascinating little knives were glowing in those coals. I could smell . . . burnt hair?
A set of dark eyes peered into mine, set above a grizzled, familiar face and smile. The faint, stale whiff of dragon rum assaulted my nose .
I blinked as the face blurred in front of me. Drake? Is that you?
“Good. You're awake,” he said, twirling his dark cloak.
I blinked. The bastards gave him a cloak. Looks impressive. Velvet or some such rich fabric. My granddaughter would know.
“Please accept my apologies. We've treated you very harshly. With the empress driving us to greatness, we've all gotten a touch . . . overzealous.”
“I see.” I nodded, testing the rough, leather restraints against my wrists and ankles. “I was shown the results of that zeal on my stroll over here. Your new friends seemed very proud of themselves and their collection of fingernails from all your old friends.”
Drake clutched my chair, his fingers shaking. “Old friends are the hardest. They look just like people you used to know. Their eyes beg you to remember long after the screaming has torn their throat to ribbons. Those harsh, pleading eyes.”
Do you get your own hands dirty or do you merely watch? You couldn't have had many friends among the mages. Did you bastards torture cavalrymen, too? “At least the blood splatters matched their uniforms . . .”
Drake leaned over me with a manic grin. “True. Just like the battles in the good old days. When we all fought side by side. Better not to think about that. Once you strap someone into one of these chairs, you can't trust your memories of them, can you? Because they're not really people anymore, are they?”
I tugged against my restraints again as he turned away for a moment, striving to keep my voice low and calm as my mind screamed. “Aren't they? We never dehumanized our prisoners in the army, nor our enemies. We sometimes questioned their hearts, their motives, or their principles, but never their humanity.”
“Didn't we?” Drake winced. “I suppose we do things differently here. The guards are a ruder lot than you'd find in the old regiment.”
I nodded and sneered. “Quite all right to torture somebody so long as you're polite about it. Tell me, did you snare anyone else into this fiasco besides Sir Nortus? That idiot has the . . . craziest theories about my daughter.”
“I know. The idiot thinks she's a mage. That little man has big delusions. A proper cavalryman's daughter and a pillar of her community, a lowly magic user? Can you imagine?” Drake scoffed and waved his hand. “Never mind that. It's been five days. What have you learned?”
“Learned?” I echoed, eyes unfocusing as my mind filled with images of Miranda screaming in one of these filthy chairs.
“Focus.” Drake waved his hand in my face, snapping his fingers. I had expected they would smell of blood and other nasty human fluids, but they were curiously clean. “I vouched for you after the stunt you pulled with that speech. I told the empress it was a clever ruse concocted between the two of us. A way to get one of our own men on the inside. That woman was ready to have you executed. Are you insane?”
I curled my fingers and buffed my nails on the edge of the leather strap. “Only an insane strategy would have worked. The mages aren't idiots. Had to make it look r
eal, didn't I? Riling the empress was merely bait for the trap.” I glared and rattled against my restrains. “Which succeeded.” What dark, scheming mind would gleefully assume I would betray the regiment to gain favor with that high born bitch?
Drake chuckled and began unbuckling my straps. “They shouldn't have tied you down and hit you, but we must maintain appearances for the lower ranks, eh? The gods curse your twisted mind. Why didn't you tell me you had planned to incite an uprising? And embroil the entire regiment of mage sympathizers to boot. That was a masterstroke, old friend.”
Is he being genuine? Did he really think I accepted those major's pips with a clear conscience? He did, or has convinced himself that he did. I glanced at the red marks on my wrists. For the first time in days, I saw a narrow, dangerous path to freedom like a half-hidden dirt trail in a field of tall grass. I must tread carefully. There are still traps set along that path.
I coughed. “Figured it would provide the empress with a legal excuse to do . . . what must be done. That woman was making a mockery of imperial law, sovereign or no.”
“Did you forget your boyhood civics lessons? The empress,” he gestured from the left to the right, “is the law.”
“You want my pity after the shit you just put me through? As long as you were going to kill them all, you could have kept us better fed.” I sat up, rubbing my wrists. “New job not what you thought it would be, Drake? Harder to murder old friends than you were expecting?”
“No harder than languishing in a dank cell pretending to be their boon companion and savior. At least my treachery is honest. I don't weep for the mages. A friend of magic is no friend of mine. As for the others caught in this mess . . .” Drake's black cloak twitched as he shivered. “Still, torturing people is the whim of our empress. ”
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