by John Marco
‘Mine,’ muttered one of the women insanely. She was a small, Norvan woman with jet hair who had positioned herself near the carriage door, the first to leap whenever food was given. The other women – less than a dozen in all – shuffled near to her, to beg for the morsels their captors pressed through the portal. They were all Norvans, Mirage had guessed, captured in Liiria just as she had been. After Chane had taken her to the Reecian camp, she had been shoved into the prison carriage for the long ride to Hes, the Reecian capital. Without explanation, she had learned on her own that there were scores of prisoners, mostly men. Mirage rubbed her red eyes with her dirty hands. The food was always terrible, but hunger made her choke it down. She could barely believe her misery.
She had been having a good dream, and had awoken to a nightmare. For days now she had endured the humiliation of captivity, fighting for scraps and wondering against logic how her life had taken such a turn. At first she had thought it a sick joke, but then Chane had taken her to the camp across the border, and she knew with awful certainty that it was no joke at all, and that she truly was a prisoner. And she had cried. Like the other bewildered women, she had sobbed lonely tears as the carriage bumped toward Hes, away from her old life toward the frightful unknown.
At last she heard the bolts being thrown open and saw the door crack with moonlight. It was still late, and she had no real notion of the hour. The women shouted and crowded toward the door, but before Mirage could make her move the figure of their gaoler appeared, his angry face barking at them to back away. He had no food, this giant Reecian, just a chain of keys around his wrist and a stout stick in his meaty fist. He beat the little Norvan woman back until she yelped like a dog.
‘Norvan sluts,’ he cursed. ‘Get back, the lot of you. We’re here.’
Mirage crept forward to see outside the little door. Were they in Hes? The gaoler stepped away and let a team of his companions into the carriage. One by one they hauled the chained women out, dropping them to the cold earth. When it was Mirage’s turn she tried hard to keep her balance. Suddenly she was tumbling, the fresh air pricking her skin, the hard ground rattling her jaw. With her bound wrists she tried to right herself, looking around in horror. Her body was always in pain, and stretching it now made her wince. A dark city rose up around her, quiet and still. The other prison carriages had also stopped to unload their human cargo. Mirage got to her knees, pausing uncertainly. The big Reecian with the stick knocked the other women into the same position, his thick accent barely understandable. Around them, ancient Hes twinkled with torchlight, its magnificent towers soaring into the black sky. A courtyard spread out around them, full of soldiers and activity. Mirage glanced up to see a forbidding structure blocking her sight, a rambling edifice of grey stone and iron. Her heart iced over, sure that her undoing lay inside.
‘That one,’ said a voice.
Mirage turned toward the voice and saw Corvalos Chane. He was pointing at her, conversing with the gaolers. When their eyes met he smirked. One of Mirage’s captors approached and lifted her roughly to her feet, dragging her toward Chane. Barely able to walk, Mirage struggled not to fall when the Reecian released her. She stood before Chane, filthy and broken, her eyes locked hatefully on his own.
‘I will take her inside myself,’ said Chane.
The big man with the stick backed away, not questioning Chane as he took hold of Mirage and led her away. Mirage’s head swiveled in confusion. Throughout the courtyard, men were tumbling out of prison carriages.
‘My feet,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t . . .’ She paused, nearly falling, coughing up dirty spit. For days she had barely used her voice, and now it failed her.
‘Keep up,’ Chane demanded. ‘Little steps, girl.’
Mirage forced herself to walk, her steps shortened by the chain around her ankles. Chane’s strong hand clamped around her arm guided her painfully away from the others, toward an open, spiked gate and the dark recesses of the keep.
‘This place,’ she rasped. ‘What is it?’
Chane did not answer.
‘Is this Hes?’ she asked angrily. ‘Is this where Asher is?’
The name Asher had haunted her the whole miserable journey. Chane had used the name like a weapon. The nightmarish castle of slimy moss and tangled iron tortured her thinking, making her beg for answers. Before Chane could pull her through the gate, Mirage planted her feet and grit her teeth, refusing to go further.
‘No!’
Chane’s free hand shot across her mouth, stunning her.
‘You will have your answers . . . inside.’
He pulled her bodily through the gate, nearly lifting her from her bound feet as he dragged her into the keep. Remarkably strong, he barely broke a sweat as he half-carried her through a sleepy hall, dimly lit with oily lamps and smelling badly of humanity. Mirage gave up her struggle, fighting instead to keep from falling, her booted feet skipping across the stone floor as Chane bounced her along. Soldiers leered, ignored by Chane as he led her deeper into the keep. She heard the cries of other prisoners echoing through the halls, the ghastly music punctuated by the noise of scraping metal. Nausea swam through Mirage’s mind as she imagined the torture the Reecians had arranged for her. Chane’s special interest in her snuffed out the last of her confidence.
‘I don’t know anything,’ she said again, her voice breaking. ‘This is madness. I swear . . .’
Unmoved, Corvalos Chane ignored her pleas. He moved with urgency, and in time took her to a rounded turret overlooking the courtyard. A bank of dingy windows afforded a perfect view of the yard. Though they had not climbed any stairs, the turret stood above ground level, low but imperious. A figure waited near the windows, his body draped in plain grey clothes with an apron wrapped around his mid-section, the kind a butcher might wear. His back turned toward them, he nevertheless raised a hand to bid them forward as he stared intently out the windows, studying the newly arrived prisoners.
‘I saw you come in,’ he said, still not turning. Dread-filled, Mirage watched him, his features obscured in shadows. ‘What have you brought me?’
‘A special captive,’ Chane replied. He pushed Mirage forward. She wobbled on her toes, managing to remain upright. At last the man at the window turned to face them. The first thing Mirage noticed were the blood stains on his apron. The white cloth was soaked with gore. He stepped out of the shadows to reveal his frightful face. The eyes, too far apart, leapt with intrigue when he sighted Mirage. His bent nose leaned to one side and the curve of his mouth turned up in an unnatural grimace. Long, stringy hair writhed down across his bulbous forehead, white like snow. Deep ruts ran down along both cheeks, the scars of some long ago injury. Mirage stared at him, mesmerized by his manic eyes and deformaties. His feet stepped gingerly across the floor as he approached her.
‘A gift,’ he said. ‘For me?’
Mirage shifted back on her chained feet. The man’s blood-caked hand reached to take her collar.
‘Oooh, don’t fall now,’ he cooed, pulling her closer. He cocked his head, inspecting her. A little pink tongue ran across his lips. ‘Beautiful. What is your name, pretty lady?’
Mirage shook under his leer, too afraid to reply. The man put his ear closer to her mouth.
‘What’s that? Speak up, child.’
‘Mirage,’ she managed, forcing herself.
‘Mirage?’ The man’s permanent grimace twisted into a smile. ‘What an exotic name. You are Norvan?’
‘She is from Jador,’ said Chane. ‘I found her in Liiria. She knows Baron Glass.’
‘Really? Now that is interesting. Allow me to introduce myself, pretty Mirage. My name is Asher, and this is my church. I am the lord high god of this keep. I am your master, your saviour, and your only hope. Be warned – if you displease me . . .’ Asher put his hands together as if in prayer. ‘It will be unpleasant for you.’
‘Asher, enough,’ said Chane. ‘You’re scaring her.’
The gaoler raised his heavy brow.
‘Forgive me, pretty Mirage. I have the face for this work, don’t you think?’ He turned toward Chane. ‘Tell me about her.’
‘She wasn’t with the others,’ Chane replied. ‘I followed her myself, from the library at Koth. She spoke of Baron Glass openly. They’re friends.’
Asher looked at Mirage. ‘You admit this?’
Mirage didn’t know what to say. Deciding it better not to lie, she nodded.
‘There is no way for her to deny it, Asher. I saw her, as did hundreds of others. She’s from Jador, as I said. That means she knows about Glass, and probably his plans. Find out for me.’
‘Don’t leave me here!’ begged Mirage.
Chane sighed, as though he didn’t like the idea of abandoning her, either. ‘You can make this easier on yourself, girl. If you tell us what you know about Baron Glass and his plans, I can spare you from this place.’
‘Oh no, please,’ said Asher. ‘Don’t yield so easily, child. We’ll have fun!’
‘I don’t know anything!’ Mirage cried.
Chane said, ‘Baron Glass has plans for Reec. What are they?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Chane, can’t you see the girl is exhausted?’ said Asher. ‘She needs rest. Leave her with me a little while.’
Mirage looked pleadingly at Corvalos Chane. ‘Please don’t . . .’
Asher glanced hopefully between them, wiping his hands on his dirty apron. ‘You’re wasting my time, Chane. I have a lot of work to do tonight.’
Finally, Chane turned and walked away. ‘Find out what you can,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I will be at Castle Hes.’
The dark hall swallowed him, and as it did the man named Asher sidled closer to Mirage. The deformed flesh of his eyelids closed incompletely as he blinked. ‘I’ll call my gaolers, have them make a place for you,’ he said. Then he pulled at her bindings. ‘Let’s get these chains off you. I want you to be comfortable.’
Only a single lamp swatted back the blackness. Just outside Mirage’s cell, the lamp light wavered as the oil burned away, threatening to leave the hall completely dark. Mirage watched the flame, concentrating on it, gleaning sanity from its feeble warmth. She had arrived at the keep hours ago, dumped into the cell by one of Asher’s rough gaolers. Free of her chains, she had been given water and bread and a pot in which to relieve herself, and that was all. The bars of her freezing chamber rattled as a breeze moved through the dark corridor. Amid the darkness, she could hear the distant shrieks of others like herself, screaming somewhere in the enormous prison, their cries echoing forever through the labyrinthine halls. Mirage wrapped her arms around her shoulders, fighting to keep warm. So far, Asher had left her alone, but she knew the reprieve would be short. She had seen hunger in his eyes, a kind of warped lust that frightened her. Beneath his misshapen flesh he was not like other men, content to merely leer.
Mirage braced herself for the morning, sure of the torture it would bring. She had already told the Reecians all she really knew. She had confessed her friendship with Baron Glass, and in truth she did not know his plans. The secret of the Akari, though, she could never confess, because deep in her soul she was still an Inhuman – one of Minikin’s beloved – and would never betray that trust. But Mirage did not know what kind of torments Asher would deal her, or if she was strong enough to resist them. Under his skilled torture she might crack like an eggshell, she told herself.
‘Pride,’ she muttered. ‘Stupid, stupid pride.’
How clear it was to her now that pride had brought her to this place. How much better her life would have been, if only she had listened to Minikin’s warnings. In Grimhold she had been safe. Now she was trapped in the most unsafe place a woman could imagine, surrounded by bars in a foreign land, in the clutches of a mad and lustful monster. She closed her eyes, wishing someone – anyone – might find her. She called to her Akari, Kirsil. The spirit lilted across her brain, young and as frightened as her host. Together they had already tried to summon help, but Kirsil was not like Sarlvarian, so old and strong, and they were too far away from Jador to make any kind of contact. Even the realm of the dead was off-limits to callow Kirsil. Still, Mirage took comfort in the spirit’s presence. As long as the Akari remained, she would not be completely alone.
Alarmed, Mirage opened her eyes as she suddenly heard footfalls approach. The pit of her stomach lurched. She leaned forward, trying to hide and see down the corridor at the same time. The light from the bare flame stirred in the breeze. Mirage held her breath as the footfalls drew nearer. The outline of Asher appeared before the bars.
‘Good evening.’
His voice trembled with delight. His malformed face remained in shadow. In his hand he held a wooden stool. The pockets of his butcher’s apron bulged with unseen tools. With his free hand he produced a key from his apron, using it to open the padlock on the iron bars. He worked gingerly, as if he’d done the manoeuvre a thousand times, then opened the cell door. When he was inside he placed the stool on the floor, closed the gate behind him and once more locked it closed. Mirage watched, shaking, as Asher took a seat on the stool, staring at her in the dim light. With the lamp behind him, she could barely see his poisoned features.
‘Mirage.’
He crooned the name, and the sound of it brought a smile to his ravaged face. Resting his hands on his dirty apron, he relaxed. Mirage noted the oily stains on his garb, the shining blood of new victims. Gore crusted his fingernails. His shoulders slumped slightly.
‘I’ve been busy tonight,’ he said wearily. ‘I did not mean to keep you waiting so long.’
Should she speak? Mirage didn’t want to plead. That was what he craved.
‘I have a whole prison of people like you to deal with now,’ he continued. ‘I wish I had a twin to share the work with, but alas there is only me. I suppose this interview could have waited till the morning, but I wanted to see you. You’re so . . .’ He searched for the word. ‘Stimulating.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Mirage asked.
‘Talk,’ replied Asher. He grinned, a peculiar expression for someone soaked in blood. ‘So many of the women they brought from Liiria are cows. They’ve spent their lives with mercenaries, eating swill and sleeping on straw. But not you. You’re very beautiful, Mirage. Tell me – how did you come about such a name?’
‘It was given to me,’ said Mirage guardedly.
‘Of course it was. By your parents?’
Mirage hesitated. She knew answering his questions would be like walking a tightrope. ‘No. In Jador.’
‘But you are not from Jador, not originally. You do not have the dark skin of a Jadori woman. So you are from the northern lands?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you found yourself in Jador.’
Mirage nodded. The lord of the prison relaxed, oblivious to the moans rattling the corridor. His head cocked a little as he looked at her, admiring her with his wild eyes, the lids of which sagged with deformity. The scars on his cheeks reminded her of her own.
‘Corvalos Chane thinks much of you,’ said Asher. ‘To have brought you here on his own; you should feel honoured. He is the right hand of Raxor, our king. He would not waste his time with you if he was not sure your skull held secrets. Do you know why he brought you to me, Mirage?’
‘Don’t make me answer that,’ Mirage implored. ‘I already told you what I know.’
‘Stand up.’
Shaken by the order, Mirage got slowly to her feet. She stood before the torturer, her hands at her sides, and could not look at him.
‘Do not look away,’ he ordered. ‘Look at me always. Your eyes will tell me if you lie or not. Now answer me.’
‘What?’
‘Tell me why Chane brought you to me.’
Mirage swallowed hard. ‘To be questioned.’
‘You could have been questioned by anyone. Chane could have questioned you. He brought you to me because I am the best at what I do. I have a gift, you see. Look at all these peop
le on my apron!’ Asher proudly pulled at the garment, showing off its numerous stains. ‘I learned a lot tonight.’
The sickening boast turned Mirage’s legs to rubber. As she began to waver, she steeled herself.
‘I think you are insane,’ she said, ‘to hurt people the way you do.’
‘We all have to make a living, pretty Mirage. That is my answer when someone looks at me the way you do, with such disdain. Do you know, all of Raxor’s men think they are my better. Even Chane, that miserable cutthroat. Why? Because what I do is distasteful? Someone has to bash in the sheep’s brains before the mutton can be served.’
It was a demented argument. Mirage forced herself not to look away.
‘You want to torture me,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop you, because you’ll never listen to reason, will you?’
‘I want the entire truth,’ replied Asher. ‘Please do not make the mistake so many others have about me. We do not choose our gifts in life, girl. Mine were thrust upon me, just as beauty was thrust upon you.’ He leaned closer, examining her face and the curves of her figure. ‘What is it like to be so lovely? In my work, I do not see many pretty young women. It’s my face, you see. They shun me. I want to know what it’s like for you. So easy, I’d wager.’
Mirage didn’t know how to answer the odd question. Mere months ago, she had been as scarred and damaged as Asher.
‘Would I be here if I weren’t beautiful to you?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know if Chane would have paid enough attention to you.’ Asher laughed, delighted at the irony. ‘You see? Beauty is a curse sometimes.’
His laughter angered Mirage. ‘What are you going to do to me?’