The best he had managed so far was
sending men to Corlands to collect the bodies and search for evidence left by Artemi’s captors. Three further groups had been dispatched to scour the area immediately around the estate, and four to examine the recently vacated residences of the gentrytraitors.
It had been tough enough, readjusting to her absence after his argument with her. But now he closed his eyes and thought back to one of his most enduring memories of her. It was a simple thing: she was walking away from him, down one of the castle corridors in her green benay-gosa scarves. At first he’d watched her slender legs and swaying hips, but then the light from a window had ignited her hair into brilliant flames of red. Just as quickly, it was gone, and her hair had returned to its
soft, heated embers and old gold. When she’d moved into the next shaft of light, her hair had come ablaze once more, and was then doused as she stepped out of it. So the bursts of fire had continued as she moved into the distance: flame, embers, flame, embers, flame, embers, until even her light was extinguished by the gloom of the halls. She would not be extinguished this time.
He went to pick up the Blaze-enhanced sword that had remained in his apartments for many years. He had studied it enough times now to begin to understand how it was made. At least two powerful wielders would have been required, together with a very competent blacksmith. A sound at the door broke his thoughts, and he rushed to meet it. An exhausted and muddied courier handed him
two letters, and Morghiad thanked him curtly. One bore Silar’s personal sigil of a deer and hunter; the other was marked with a book emitting rays of light - a crest he did not recognise. He tore open Silar’s letter first. “Artemi has been made captive... numerous bodies at Corlands... trail ended in clearing, which most likely means a Sky Bridge... unsure as to how a group as large as this could have traversed the Bridge by the time I arrived... The nearest wielder with the knowledge to open it is in Cadra... will wait for your reinforcements in the village of Corfields.” Morghiad caught himselfbefore he thrust his fist into the wall. This would set them back days in tracing her captors’ steps! He moved quickly to his desk, where Myrte’s map of Sky Bridges lay. Scanning it quickly, there
was no indication of a Bridge near Corlands at all. Was Silar correct in his assumption? And the general still hadn’t revealed what he’d been doing at Corlands with such convenient coincidence. Silar had always cared deeply for Artemi, but surely he had not become so possessive as to steal her away the moment Morghiad made a mistake with her? His already-knotted innards twisted further at the thought. He would have to meet his friend in person to find out if his trust had been so terribly misplaced.
Morghiad mulled over the problem of fitting many soldiers into a weak Sky Bridge. It was possible they’d engineered some other route of escape or, with Artemi, perhaps they’d managed to strengthen it somehow. Morghiad did not want to arrive at Corfields under
prepared. He would take a full company of men and a number of wielders and kanaala. He cast his eyes to the second letter, and opened it carefully. A bundle of hair fell to the floor as soon as he unfolded the paper, and its colour sent shockwaves through his heart.
He knelt on the cold marble to examine it more closely, not daring to touch it. The fibres were variously red and dark gold, glinting softly in the muted daylight. It took him several seconds before he mustered the courage to place his fingers on the locks, and every muscle in his body tensed as he felt the soft buzz of Blaze tease his skin. Morghiad closed his eyes. Her captors knew exactly what she meant to him, and how to taunt him with it. He rose slowly, cradling the hair in one hand, and slumped at his desk to read the contents of the
letter. It was only three short sentences: “I have your queen of thieves. My demands will follow shortly. Try to find us and we’ll remind her of what she has forgotten.” The initials “F. R.” were scrawled at the bottom.
Morghiad’s worst fears were coming perilously close to manifesting in a cacophony of very real events. Rather than kill her and spare her suffering, this man threatened to send her mad with memories her mind was not yet ready to accept. And then someone else would have to end her life - someone who cared about her. He’d read enough stories of vanhasielu to know that this was a very real threat, and that several of these unfortunate characters in history could well have been her. The madness appeared to come in several forms: anything from babbling nonsensical statements
in long-forgotten languages to tearing their own eyeballs out with their fingernails.
The ones whom Morghiad believed to have been Artemi seemed to follow a pattern of alternating lucidity and unintelligible rants, followed by forming vast Blaze fires and walking into them. But such a threat would not stop the king from trying to find her and those who held her. He stood from his chair, took her sword, and strode from his rooms to begin his preparations to leave.
Biting and damp cold mined deeply into Artemi’s skin through her soaked clothes. The brisk movement of rain-streaked horses’ legs and disturbed earth filled her field of view. Her hair had been loosed from its braid and allowed to hang freely in a bedraggled state to the ground, which it combed rather inefficiently. At least this was better than when she’d awoken on the Sky Bridge, and found herselffloating miles above the forests of Calidell. Being tiedup and thrust upside-down atop a horse was uncomfortable, but after being quenched it felt like a mere inconvenience.
The agony of having her body torn from the fires was still fresh in her mind; it truly
was a thousand times worse than a pinh-filled wound. She closed her eyes to see the flames burning at the peripheries of her consciousness, but their heat was dulled now. She would never know the intense beauty of Blaze Energy in her body again. It had wrenched at her when she’d seen the doll-like wielder constructing those incredibly intricate forms, full of varying pulses and speeds and shapes. More frustrating, Artemi knew she could have replicated them in an instant, if only with the help of a friendly kanaala. She had so looked forward to her twentieth year, when she would have been free to wield independently. She cursed with Passerid’s name quietly.
Abruptly the horses stopped, and she prayed that her captors had not heard her swearing at one of their cohort’s names. The
men had proven themselves to be rather free with their fists during the journey, and though she did not wish to draw more punishment from them, Artemi knew she would endure. Her tears for the men who’d been as close to her as brothers had almost dried, and now her emotions evolved to anger.
“Let’s get this area cleared and the tents set up,” Febain’s voice said, “Leave the girl there for now. Ghovin, watch her!”
Ghovin’s booted feet came into view, and Artemi played dead so as to avoid any additional beatings. She remained immobile, listening to the sound of tent pegs being hammered home and canvases being pulled over stakes. Eventually, someone came to extract her roughly from the back of the dun mare, and righted her, before dropping her
unceremoniously to the floor. As her vision regained focus, she realised it was Febain. He smiled thinly at her. “Welcome to your new home, your highness. I think it is only fair that you enjoy the beauty of this environment in its entirety, since that is where you have left our comrades. Ghovin, tie her to this tree!”
Artemi thought of Cydia. With any luck he’d survived and would be able to send for help. If he could release himselffrom the bonds she’d used, that was. And if he didn’t despise her enough to leave her to her fate with these men. Cydia had never been as good as Plodia at the bonds game; that soldier had been a genius at escape, and Artemi deeply wished she had him to help her now.
Ghovin, a tea-skinned, burly man with a gut and short black hair, walked to her back
and hauled her up by one arm. With affected ease, he dragged her to the new hitching place, roughly wrapped a length of rope around her body and again round the trunk. Artemi could scarcely breathe in the arrangement, never mind think of escape! Febain sim
ply laughed at the sight of her humiliation, and walked to the comfort of his tent.
The clouds above darkened to unleash yet another heavy bout of rain, and the leafless tree provided no shelter from it. Several hours passed, in which she variously shivered and struggled for air. Just as drowsiness began to ease her pains, a coarse hand tugged her from the tree and towed her into the centre of the clearing. She remained limp on the ground while she attempted to re-gather her strength.
“Lady Artemi,” Febain began, “You
have killed a number of men, once dear to us and our cause. And it has become apparent that your presence at my house led to the wrongful capture and imprisonment of the true kings of Calidell. Therefore, you are to be punished this night and every night of your stay with us. Lads?”
Artemi gained a brief glimpse of his almost-handsome face before the beating began, and the cold look in his eyes frightened her. Boots and sword butts rained down upon her as she struggled not to scream or cry out in pain. The assault felt as if it lasted for most of the night, and by the time they’d finished she was sure every bone in her body had been broken. Artemi was grateful that all her wounds would heal quickly, but she could feel that her energy reserves for it would soon fail her if she
did not eat.
Ghovin was quick to hoist her up and reattach her to her tree, while Passerid approached with a bowl full of foul-looking stuff. He was the only one, Artemi realised, without her blood on his feet or sword hilt. Ghovin sneered, “Does Captain Reduvi approve of that?”
Passerid knelt down and stirred up the food. “We don’t have enough swift liquor for everyone. If she doesn’t get fed, she won’t survive tomorrow’s punishment. Then she won’t be of much use, will she?”
The other soldier merely harrumphed and stalked off to join his cohort for an ale.
Passerid held out a spoonful of the beige slop. “Eat,” he ordered.
Artemi eyed the substance suspiciously. Why had this man subjected her to the worst pain imaginable, and then refused to kick at her with the others? She spat out some of the remnants of broken teeth, confident that most of them had now grown back. “Perhaps I would prefer to die.”
The kanaala clenched his jaw. “This experience will not kill you, and we will not allow you to die until you have fulfilled your purpose. Of that you can be sure.”
“You killed me when you stripped the Blazes from me and murdered my family! What purpose could you possibly have for me now?”
Passerid set down the bowl, its contents looking more appetising by the minute. “Your family? I didn’t see Toryn there. You had to be quenched to keep the rest of us safe. And you are very useful indeed. So long as you are alive, the king will do anything to ensure your safety. I’m sorry it had to be you, Artemi, but you are his greatest weakness.”
She could not stop herself from laughing aloud. These idiots truly had no idea of her relationship with Morghiad. Likely they were doing him a favour. “You are very much mistaken. He will give up nothing for me. In fact, he would probably pay you handsomely to dispose of me entirely! I’ve never encountered so slow-witted a group of plotters!”
Passerid raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead he popped open her jaw by pressing his fingers into her cheeks at the back of her molars, and started spooning the tasteless food into her mouth. Artemi was powerless to do anything but eat it.
Once she’d finished the bowl of swill,
Passerid stalked off in silence. She wasn’t sure yet, but the man seemed to be softer on her than the others. He could be useful if she was to work out some sort of escape plan. As her father had often said, “Find out who your friendliest enemies are and halfthe world is yours.”
She wriggled at her restraints with her renewed energy, but nothing felt as if it would give way. Even Plodia would have had difficulty with these ropes. Artemi closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. Dreams soon came to her, and most of them were pleasant memories of her time in Corlands’ woods. In one reverie she was still a child, walking with Neleum in the dappled light. For so gruff and fearsome a warrior, he’d possessed an incongruous fascination with flowers. He’d
picked a small, yellow one with his heavily inked hands and given it to her. “Sunshine sand-flower. It only grows in dry land as far from rivers as you can get. Can you remember its opposite?”
Artemi could not remember its name, though she had seen it often enough. She sought through the thousands of plants he’d taught her about and all of their properties, but she simply could not recollect what he’d called it. She knew it indicated safe water for horses and game, but that was all.
Her next dream took her forward to her sixteenth birthday, when she and Laothoe had raced against each other through the forests. He’d spent her childhood taunting her with his long-legged speed and agility, but always stopped to show her how she could
match it. Finally, when she’d grown as tall as she could expect, Laothoe had challenged her to beat him at sprinting across every sort of terrain that Corlands had to offer. On that birthday, and much to everyone’s surprise, she’d outpaced him. Perhaps she had not been the most gracious winner, but then, he hadn’t been an altogether noble loser. With nostalgia came the terrible loss of these men; it invaded her consciousness like a tsunami, and she sought comfort against it. Contrary to her true desires, she found herself dreaming of that comfort in the arms of the king. And there she remained for the rest of the night.
An icy bucket of water shook her from her place of security, and she opened her eyes to a grey morning. Every muscle in her body ached from its confinement amongst the ropes.
With any luck, they’d allow her to walk to where she could relieve herself. Febain stood next to the bucket holder, looking very pleased with the situation. “Those clothes of yours are filthy and wet! We shall have to take them off. Wouldn’t you agree, Ocimua?”
The gangly bucket man nodded eagerly.
“Fine. ButI need to use a privy to... you know.” Artemi pulled a grimace.
Febain laughed. “A bush will do for you. And we will watch. I don’t want any thoughts of escape to get into that pretty head of yours.”
That was just what Artemi needed, lecherous and violent captors. She nodded in meek acquiescence, and they partially untied her to begin cutting through her sodden
clothing. Within moments, she was stood in complete humiliation before them, without even a piece of restraining rope to cover her modesty or protect her from the chill air. She tried to think of how Morghiad had stood in his state of undress, utterly unashamed of himself, and she attempted to emulate his attitude. “I need to use that bush now, Febain.”
The man and his soldier sniggered between themselves before the rebel captain spoke: “I don’t see one. Perhaps you can lead the way!” he gestured to the undergrowth behind her.
Artemi turned and harrumphed. As if they’d never seen a woman before! She stamped barefoot through the woodland until she found a relatively pleasant cluster of ferns, and squatted down. Febain and Ocimua
chattered noisily while she relieved herself, frequently commenting on the pertness of her bottom or the arch of her back. When she was done, they led her back to the camp, by which time most of the men had crowded to have a good gawp at her. Artemi felt like she was a museum curiosity for all the world to examine and comment upon. “Don’t any of you have wives?” she thundered at them.
“Not that look like you!” one of the men retorted.
Febain shouted for Passerid. “Kanaala, are you sure she’s not safe to be tasted?”
“The Blazes can still burn you through her, so I wouldn’t try it unless you want to be turned to a cinder.” Fascinatingly, Passerid had his eyes locked to the ground. Was that embarrassment or something else?
Their captain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, my handsome queen – it is time that we decided upon our demands of your king.”
The other men nodded in agreement.
“I suggest that w
e start with his crown and throne. He does not need those things any longer. And what do you say to all of the wealth and lands that he so greedily confiscated from our allies?”
Artemi spat. “He is not a fool. He would never give up the safety of his people to you.”
Passerid answered her, “Many men are fools around women, especially women that look like you. And he risks the safety of his people daily by allowing wielders to roam free.”
The men cheered at that comment.
“Well, we can but try. Let’s allow him some time to worry over your whereabouts, and then we shall ask him if he will be so good as to acquiesce to our terms.”
Artemi had been absent from her home for four days already, and she doubted anyone had even blinked. Once these men discovered her lack of worth, they would undoubtedly kill her. She would have to begin preparing for her death in the event of a failed escape.
A week passed in which she was repeatedly beaten, tortured, paraded around the camp, left to freeze in the cold night and force-fed the disgusting swill of food by Passerid. Throughout, she refused to yell or cry out at the pain which they inflicted upon her. Through every punishment she thought back to
the quenching, and how nothing they did could compare to it. And each night she returned to her dreams of the safety of Corlands and, increasingly, the security of Morghiad’s embrace. She knew her reliance upon him was false. None of his men came to the camp or were reported as having passed close-by; likely he did not consider searching for her a worthy expense.
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