by A. R. Wilson
“Dragon, how can you be sure I am not leaving my wife for dead?”
“What the Fates have intended for evil, the Eternal can turn around for the good. The Sword of Einiko has power; not even the Fates can defy the magic from the halfling’s sword. Yet the Eternal has power surpassing them both. He alone can and will thwart their plans if you are willing to trust His methods.”
“Are you a servant of the Eternal, too?”
The dragon bowed as though receiving the honor of a great title. “Logan, of the North, at your service.”
Jurren looked to his companions. Both men were staring as though waiting for him to decide what happened next. Shifting his gaze, every feature of the dragons threatened to fill his soul with memories of what was to come.
“We ride south.” But I won’t be riding you.
CHAPTER 12
Tascana sat staring up at the only window in the room. It would be evening soon, which meant Rothar, her caretaker, would come to feed her a crust of bread. A single crust of bread and sip of water to tide her over until the following evening. Like a discarded pet abandoned in a corner pen.
How she longed for a full belly. For the chance to stretch her legs! But the bonds securing her to the chair refused to offer a single ounce of give.
She decided to risk another pull against the ropes holding her hands and feet. A fury of fear swelled, and she stopped. Always that flood came over her when she tried to wriggle free. The harder she pulled, the fiercer the swell of terror until it felt like her chest might burst.
Thankfully, whatever spell keeping her bound in fear also kept her bladder equally restrained. But how long could she survive like this?
Was this how she was going to die? Tears stabbed at her eyes. She hung her head, tightening every muscle in her face to hold back the flood. When the feeling subsided, Tascana lifted her head to the window. It was the only thing in this stone-walled place besides her. Not even a single mouse or spider scurried in this round room. It was as though nothing could get in or out except for Rothar.
Even the words for her magic couldn’t enter this room. Each time she tried to speak a spell her lips would pucker with forgetfulness. Like she had lost all those words from the scrolls. Words she spent years memorizing now lay buried deep in her mind like a vague childhood memory.
And that bizarre panic gripping her whenever she tugged at her bonds. It had to be some kind of spell with magic surpassing what she possessed. And yet no matter how much she convinced herself it wasn’t real, the fear would build until the pounding of her heart was more than she could bear.
Biting her lip, Tascana fought another urge to cry. What was going to happen to her? Why was she kept in this small room? She thought she might go mad with worry. And yet, the fear of not knowing matched her fear of finding out.
A soft creak behind her signaled Rothar’s entry.
That same uneasiness from the first time she saw him clutched at her chest. Being snatched up by a dragon was scary enough. Passing out then waking up tied to a chair was only slightly better. But that first time Rothar opened the door was when life slapped her with the reality this was not some crazy dream.
A short, stout man moved to stand before her. Where his left ear used to be a thick bubble of a scab leered. Something in the way he hunched his shoulders and avoided her gaze suggested the injury was no accident. Whoever kept her here was capable of much more than sending a dragon to kidnap a young woman.
Two evenings in a row he brought her some rations then left her in the silence. Each day she told herself this would be the night she asked him a question. Any question. She would not allow the fist of panic around her heart to stop her from speaking. Yet each time the door closed from Rothar’s parting she hung her head, sobbing in failure. That scar on the side of Rothar’s head bellowed a warning she could not overcome.
Tonight would be different.
Feet shuffled behind Tascana, and she closed her eyes.
Rothar stood behind her, speaking in his usual husky voice. “The Master says you may eat now.”
She begged for the strength to calm the panic welling within her. “Th-thank you.”
“The Master wishes you to eat in the west dining room.”
As Tascana sucked in a breath of surprise, her throat constricted and she choked. Feeling Rothar’s hands work to untie her wrists brought equal amounts of relief and horror. Was this Master going to do something to her like he did to Rothar? Her breath came faster, and she closed her eyes to focus. The last time she passed out from fear she woke up in this room. No way would she let her head spin like that ever again!
Heavy slack filled her arms as they dropped to her sides. Her elbows ached from the strain of remaining twisted behind her back, along with every thread of her being up into her shoulders. She had to lean forward to guide her arms to pull her hands into her lap. More stings and burns screamed along her skin, bellowing their misery at every place where the chair had rubbed into her. Wrapping her arms over each other, she leaned back and hissed against the sting in her joints only to receive another stabbing sensation in her tailbone. How was she supposed to move like this?
Rothar shuffled to stoop in front of her feet. A careless turn of the head and she made eye contact with him. Then she saw it. A demanding cloud of worry loomed behind Rothar’s gaze. Behind the flecks of yellow and green in his hazel eyes, fear and pain brewed like poison in a not-so-careless crumb left out for the rats. It reminded her of the torture she saw in the eyes of the goblin back in Gaulden Forest.
Almost instantly, he raked his gaze to the floor.
Once her feet were free, he helped her to stand. Shards of pain radiated from her knees, and she fell into the chair. Her arms moved to catch herself, hitting Rothar, and more shards raced along her arms.
“You are too weak. I will carry you.” Rothar gripped her waist.
Before she could respond, he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Her stomach lurched. Each shift of her clothing felt like sand grating over her open wounds.
The floorboards passed in twitching jolts from the rhythm of Rothar’s stride as he carried her out of the room. Stone steps led away from the door in a spiral. He made several descending circles as he followed the staircase to another door. They passed into an echoing hallway. She turned her head to the side. A window revealed a view of halls, towers, and walled gardens stretching into the horizon.
This place is larger than the Fortress of Erudition!
After Rothar passed the window, she saw glass objects, vases, and statues lining the walls at regular intervals. Rothar turned, walked down a hallway, made another turn, and stopped.
A deep, charismatic voice spoke. “I am so glad you decided to join me this evening.”
Hot drops of nausea trickled along Tascana’s throat. Rothar took a few steps forward then lowered her onto a chair. Her skin barely registered the feeling of soft cushioning beneath her legs. Cold prickling clawed up her face, and she lowered her head. She breathed in slowly, willing herself not to vomit.
“I trust you are feeling well.” The voice of her host seemed to calm some of the ache in her stomach and joints.
Tascana lifted her eyes and saw a long table resting between her and a man dressed in black. His long, dark-brown hair draped neatly past his shoulders. His sharply chiseled features matched the coldness of the room.
“I regret that the past few days have had to be so unpleasant for you.” The dark-haired man took a drink from his cup. “The Master has only now decided you may be released from the tower.”
More than ten feet of space separated them and yet he seemed to fill the room.
“Why did you bring me here?” Tascana leaned forward a little as the words blurted past her tongue.
“I thought you might enjoy your evening meal in here rather than your standard rations.” He took another sip from his cup. “Was I incorrect in assuming this?”
“I didn’t mean this room. Why am I h
ere? Why did you take me away?”
Her mouth threatened to speak every word in her head, and she had to take a few breaths to calm her jaw. What was happening? For two days she scarcely managed to form the phrase ‘thank you’ and now words were spilling out before she had a chance to think.
“My dear lady, it is not I who has wronged you.” The dark-haired man pushed his cup to the side, folding his hands together on the table.
“Who are you?”
“I am called Jerricoh, and you are...?”
“I just want to go home.”
The man chuckled softly, leaning in his chair. “My dear lady, I am no freer to leave than you are. Contrary to what you may think, I am just as much a prisoner in these walls as yourself. If you cooperate, as I have learned to do, you will be given the same privileges I enjoy.” He paused a few moments then held out his hand. “Your name, if you please.”
“You don’t look like a prisoner.”
Every feature on his face hardened as he slammed his fist on the table, causing his cup to overturn. “Your name!”
She flinched, her joints singing their misery as she moved. “T-Tascana. It’s Tascana.”
Comfort melted into his features as his cheeks spread into a smile. “See? Learn to cooperate.”
Her arms tried to wrap around her middle, and again she had to lean to aid the movement. Every thread of sinew in her joints throbbed, singing in rhythm with the cries of her back and hips.
“Where are you from, Tascana?”
“Bondurant, in the village of Hess Bren.”
“Good, you’re doing excellent.”
Jerricoh pointed to his cup. A servant appeared from behind her, cleaned up the spill, then replaced the cup and refilled it. The man moved so quickly Tascana scarcely had time to register his existence before he was gone.
“Now, Tascana from Hess Bren, what is your father’s name?” The dark-haired man placed his hand on the table next to his cup.
“Jurren.”
His eyebrows rose as though this was exactly what he wanted to hear. “Jurren of what?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are Tascana of Hess Bren. What are your father’s origins?”
She shook her head. “He never told me.”
Jerricoh’s eyes narrowed. “What are your father’s origins?”
Pain jabbed through her arms and legs as she tried to lean forward to stress her point. “No one knows. He never speaks about it.”
Something about that statement amused Jerricoh, and he started to smile again. “Very good. You chose to be honest.”
The dark-haired man moved his hand as though catching a fly midair. As his fingers tightened, soft warmth filled Tascana’s shoulders and radiated down her arms and back. Soothing bliss soaked into her knees, tingling into her toes. Within moments, the strain from her confinement was gone.
“You are learning to cooperate more quickly than I anticipated. That is a good thing.” He took a sip from his cup. “It means you will be allowed to practice your magic soon.”
“How do you know about that?” She rubbed her palms together, waiting for a hint of discomfort to return.
“I know more than you could possibly imagine, apprentice.”
Her hands clenched until her nails dug into her palms. It was a coincidence, nothing more. So what if the goblin that spoke to her in the ghostwoods called her an apprentice? It’s not like it actually saw her.
“So, Tascana of Hess Bren, daughter of Jurren from somewhere else, are you hungry?”
She managed a nod. Her stomach sank when she noticed Rothar taking a step back.
Jerricoh clapped his hands twice. A procession of servers came from behind Tascana, setting down tray after tray of varying sizes. Someone placed a covered dish directly before her with two empty plates off to the side. Several other serving dishes, all overflowing with food, filled the length of the table between them. The servants then stepped back, lining the walls while staring straight ahead.
Pausing his hand over the cover of the tray in front of him, Jerricoh lifted his gaze toward her. Tascana followed his lead and lifted her lid.
A cooked rabbit lay on its side with the head intact. Legs cocked at odd angles as though it were skinned and cooked before it died. Singed claws extended from flexed toes, a charred tongue curled back from burnt teeth, ears charred down to nubs, internal organs partially bubbled away. Every detail seared Tascana’s eyes.
She gagged back her stomach’s attempt to protest. He was not going to get the better of her. Not this way. She might end up with a scar to match Rothar’s, but it would not be because she was a coward.
Her father’s words washed into her mind like a cool spring. “Some fear can be good, if it keeps you from doing something stupid. Any fear is dangerous if it keeps you from doing what must be done.”
Picking up her fork, Tascana looked at Jerricoh. Fear was simultaneously a life preserver and a life choker. Her father had told her that on several occasions. This was not the time to give in to her fear.
“When I was eleven, one of the boys in my village had a crush on me. He pulled a similar stunt with a mole. If you want to impress me, then do it. Don’t copy the mistakes of others who lost my interest.”
Flicking her head to throw her hair behind her shoulders, she stabbed the fork into the hind quarters of the rabbit. She placed her napkin on her lap then twisted the fork to pull up a piece of meat. The bitterness it spread against her tongue was as strong as the sorrow she felt for that pitiful creature.
Looking up, she pointed her fork at him. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I only wanted to be assured you liked your food before we began.”
“It’s fine.”
She stuffed another bite into her mouth, choosing to direct her thoughts at the much needed nourishment. Regardless of how this creature died, at least three days had passed since her last meal. Humane slaughter was no more important at the moment than flavor.
With each bite, she waited for Jerricoh to say something. To snap at her, chide her, or taunt her about magic again. He did none of these things. The only sound was the clink of metal forks against porcelain plates.
A few times, her mind tried to wonder about what might happen next and she pierced the thought with a mental knife. An hour ago, she wanted nothing more than to have her bonds cut and a full belly. Given the circumstances of that wish coming true, she didn’t want to dream about anymore what-ifs.
Jerricoh’s voice jolted her from her thoughts. “I can ask The Master to have a more suitable room prepared for you.”
She looked down the length of the table to find Jerricoh had finished his meal. “What would that mean?”
“You would sleep somewhere other than the chair in the tower tonight.”
Phrases of acceptance and refusal tugged at her mind. Each one came with the warning of what might happen if her response were taken the wrong way. Eventually, she managed a single nod.
“Rothar will take you to the west library while I speak to The Master on your behalf.” Jerricoh stood and walked toward her. “I will come for you when a decision is made.”
Black pants and boots matched the black shirt and cloak he wore. What was it with villains always insisting on dressing the part? When Jerricoh approached, he bowed low then extended a hand to help her up. After she stood, he bent as though to kiss her hand. He paused and crinkled his nose. Of course I stink; I’ve been trapped in that tower for days! Those dark eyes drifted up to meet her gaze. He released her hand and made a motion of grabbing something midair. An unseen force pinned Tascana’s arms to her sides. Her hands balled into unmovable fists. As Jerricoh leaned in close, towering over her by a foot, she held her breath.
“Just a precaution.”
Hot drops of nausea trickled along her throat anew from the feeling of his breath against her cheek. What was he going to do?
Jerricoh snapped his fingers, turning on his heel to leave the roo
m. Rothar came up alongside Tascana and put a hand to her back. She followed his lead out a different door and breathed a short sigh of relief.
This corridor was three times wider than the first hall she saw after leaving the tower. Having the vantage of standing made the castle seem even larger than before. A long window came up to her right. From the shadows cast by the setting sun she knew the window faced south. A high wall at the edge of the gardens cut off all but a thin sliver of the land beyond.
She looked down at the floor, arms still locked at her sides. A single word bounced around her head like a small child chanting a new song. Home... home. For the past few years, home had been an inconvenience. Something she had to endure before returning to the thing she loved. The scrolls nestled away in her secret place, high up in a ghostwood tree, had meant more to her than anything. Now she wanted nothing more than to curl up in the safety of her own bed.
The sting of tears blurred her vision. She was so angry with her father when he suggested she sleep on the floor of her parents’ room that last night in Hess Bren. The only reason she didn’t sneak into her own room after they fell asleep was the house arrest. Mother would have had all day to lecture her and demand to know why she disobeyed a direct order from her father. And yet, if Tascana had gone into her room, perhaps it would be Mother trapped in this castle instead of her. How could she ever look her father in the eye again after such a thing?
Rothar guided Tascana to turn down another hallway then opened the second door on her left. The room on the other side was at least three stories high at the tallest point. Shelves of books lined the walls. Tascana craned her neck, trying to take in as much detail as possible. The dragging thump of Rothar’s feet against the floor filled the room with a muffled echo. He guided her past a tall row of books to a plush, high-backed chair. Her shoulders jarred against the seat due to the spell locking her arms. Scooting to the corner allowed her hands to sit lower than her hips, though she couldn’t lean back.
Rothar glanced at her then looked away.
“How long have you been here?” She was grateful for the chance to speak without a spell pushing the words out of her.