The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition)

by Dusk Peterson

  Dolan's breath grew quicker; his gaze drifted past Quentin-Andrew toward the fire with its brand-irons, but his eyes were unfocussed. Quentin-Andrew, recognizing the signs, momentarily relished the vision of watching Dolan faint in his chains. He put the thought aside and reached into his thigh-pocket for the key to the manacles. He had told the Commander that the boy was too weak in body to endure physical torture; Dolan would undoubtedly die quickly before giving up the secret he was hiding. Quentin-Andrew could only use his special form of questioning, and even there he was constrained by the promise he had made to Dolan at the start that he would be gentle to him.

  Why he had made such a promise was not clear to him now, but it made no difference. "Gentle," as any of Quentin-Andrew's previous prisoners could have borne witness, was a relative term where the Lieutenant was concerned.

  Released from his manacles, Dolan sank to the floor and began gulping in air. In order to give Dolan time to recover from his sickness, without appearing to be merciful, Quentin-Andrew turned and walked over to the bottle of wine on the table. As he poured himself a cup, he reflected that it had taken a long time for his spirit's desire to be granted.

  He had known that this day would come from the moment that he had first seen Dolan watching him with wide and innocent eyes. The boy looked so much like Gareth that Quentin-Andrew had not even needed the exchange of wine to know that their relationship would end this way. What surprised him – what astonished him – was that he was doing this with the blessing of the gods. Or so he must conclude, for the Jackal had told him to follow the Commander's orders, and these were the Commander's orders. For once in Quentin-Andrew's life, perfect pleasure corresponded with perfect duty.

  For eight years he had followed the Commander; for eight years he had done only what he was ordered and no more. It was true that, as the years passed, the Commander's orders had grown harsher, as was natural, given the increased opposition to the Northern Army's conquest of Emor. Yet Quentin-Andrew knew well – and he supposed that the gods knew also – that during those years he had never questioned a prisoner to the degree that he would most have enjoyed. Not until tonight. It made no difference how gentle Quentin-Andrew was tonight. He knew that his very acceptance of this role was the keenest torture he could place upon Dolan.

  He turned his back to the table, with its straps and weights, and began sipping his wine as he looked down at Dolan, who was still crouched, gasping. This had been a heady day for Quentin-Andrew: first the final siege of the Emorian capital, then the sack of the Chara's palace, then the torture of selected prisoners to obtain knowledge of the location of all remaining Emorian law documents, and finally the lengthy and glorious beheading of several dozen lords and palace officials. The Chara, much to Quentin-Andrew's disappointment, had been executed by the Commander himself, but Quentin-Andrew had at least been able to witness the change in Dolan's face when the Commander, after not even the pretense of a trial, had swung the blade against his unarmed prisoner. Quentin-Andrew had known then what Dolan would do, but he had never expected the Commander to punish Dolan like this. Never had Quentin-Andrew expected such bliss.

  Dolan noticed for the first time that Quentin-Andrew was watching him. Always obedient, he struggled to his feet and stood waiting, his face a model for all prisoners on how to frame despair. At any moment now, thought Quentin-Andrew, the boy would reveal the information he had hidden from the Commander, the information that would allow the Northern Army to destroy for all time the memory of what Emor had been. The only wonder was that Dolan had held out as long as he had. All of Quentin-Andrew's experience with Gareth told him that fear drives out love, and now that Dolan's love of Quentin-Andrew was gone, he would have nothing to distract him from the pain he was undergoing.

  It was becoming yet more clear, Quentin-Andrew conceded, that the boy who could not be a warrior nonetheless had certain strengths that went unrecognized by the world. The Lieutenant had broken soldiers in half the time he had already spent with Dolan.

  Dolan was beginning to breathe heavily again. It would not do to have him waste time by falling to the floor unconscious. Stepping forward, Quentin-Andrew handed the cup he had been sipping to Dolan and watched as the boy drank the wild-berry wine. He wondered at what point Dolan would recognize the dark irony of the sharing that was taking place.

  Dolan's hand grew suddenly still. His head was bent forward, and Quentin-Andrew idly made wagers with himself as to what the boy's expression would be when he raised his face. Bitterness? No, Dolan would never look bitter. He took with deference what was given to him, caresses or blows. Anger? Dolan was capable of anger, but Quentin-Andrew doubted he would see that emotion now. Anger, if it was present, should have manifested itself long before this. Anguish? Yes, that was the only answer. Filled with hopelessness as Dolan was, the memory of their friendship could be nothing to him now but a torment.

  Dolan lifted his head. He was smiling.

  It was a weak smile, to be sure – the tentative smile given by a child who expects no smile in return, but who cannot keep from showing what he is feeling. For one moment, Quentin-Andrew searched Dolan's face for signs of renewed hope, but none existed. Dolan knew that Quentin-Andrew would continue the torture, he knew that the fear and pain and despair would continue, and that made no difference. The love was still there. To his dying moment, Dolan would regard Quentin-Andrew as his friend.

  It was then that Quentin-Andrew perceived how formidable an opponent he faced, and it was then that Quentin-Andrew began to suspect that he would not obtain the information for which he was searching. It was then too that Quentin-Andrew realized that the unarmed boy before him had been fighting him all along, in ways that neither Dolan nor Quentin-Andrew had recognized.

  For a moment, Quentin-Andrew thought that he heard someone sob, and that person was not Dolan.

  Then darkness penetrated his spirit once more, and he considered the boy in a cool manner. It made no difference whether the boy yielded his information or not. Dolan's death was certain. Once dead, the boy would have no chance to pass on his secret to others, and the last law documents in Emor, wherever they might be hidden, would rot away and be forgotten. It touched Quentin-Andrew's professional pride, certainly, that for the first time in his career he might not succeed in breaking a prisoner, but this would mar neither his duty nor his pleasure. Dolan would die, and Quentin-Andrew would be the one to kill him.

  And all this, Quentin-Andrew thought in astonishment again, was in accordance with the will of the gods. The thought touched him lightly that perhaps he had been wrong in thinking that he would spend all eternity under the curse of the gods. Perhaps, after all, he could remain as he was and yet be granted the gods' mercy.

  It was the last time in his life that he would hold this hope.

  Bard of Pain 2

  THE FIRE

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Quentin-Andrew was on fire.

  He had always feared fire the most. It had taken Randal half a day to realize this before he had taken hold of the brand with a smile – an apologetic smile, because the young torturer had not yet mastered Quentin-Andrew's technique of knowing immediately which instrument the prisoner most dreaded. Quentin-Andrew could feel the marks left by the brand, but that was not the fire that tormented him. This fire was inside: the fire of taut muscles, strained tissues, throbbing blood-tunnels – the fire most of all of a spirit that was stretched as tight as a lathe-reed, about to snap.

  Aside from the soft hiss of the cell's fire, Quentin-Andrew could hear nothing. Earlier, as the palace trumpets sounded the midnight call for the final time in Koretia's history, the rumble of fighting had filled the corridor, and at one point soldiers had hammered at the cell door. Randal had done nothing, though, except to place his hand firmly over Quentin-Andrew's mouth. The Northern Army soldiers had gone away, apparently unwilling to take the time to force the iron door. From that time on, all noise had faded until nothing filled the cell now except the sound of fi
re and iron and screams. Especially fire.

  Something cool touched Quentin-Andrew's eyelids: Randal's wet fingers, gently wiping away the blood that gummed his eyes shut. A moment later, Randal pried his eyelids open. It would have taken more strength than Quentin-Andrew possessed to free his eyelids from Randal's tender touch. He stared up at his torturer's face, dim in the growing shadows. A part of Quentin-Andrew that still lived and moved wondered whether the cell's fire was dead but for the coals or whether he was growing blind, as prisoners sometimes did toward the end.

  "The seventh weight," said Randal quietly. "You know what that means, Lieutenant. There is still time for you to speak before I destroy your body. For your spirit will break after the weight is added, you know."

  Quentin-Andrew did not doubt that Randal was right; he knew the signs himself. Already he could feel the fraying of the fibrous cord that linked his mind to sanity. One more weight . . . No, not even that; the break would come before the weight was ever applied. With detached interest, he watched the fire begin to eat into the slender strand. His body was screaming; his mouth no longer screamed only because he had no power with which to voice his agony. He took a shallow breath and felt a thousand daggers enter his body.

  With his last remaining strength, he closed his eyes.

  Above him, dimly through the darkness of the approaching madness, he heard Randal sigh. "Oh, Lieutenant," said his torturer softly, "I would so much have liked to have worked with you. Even to have been broken by you would have been a privilege." There was no sound for a moment, and then Quentin-Andrew heard a thump as Randal lifted the weight onto the table. Another moment before it would be attached; another moment before the thread snapped and what was left of Quentin-Andrew plummeted into a darkness so black that his spirit would be utterly destroyed.

  Not even the pit of destruction awaited him; only annihilation. The fire began to eat the final strand, and Quentin-Andrew felt his mouth open, felt himself prepare to give Randal the information he wanted.

  The words he spoke, though, caused his spirit to vibrate with shock. "Jackal," he whispered, "help me."

  Even the fire was gone now. He was entirely in blackness, and he wondered at what point the last portion of his spirit would crumble and he would cease to think. Then he felt something – an awareness, a presence – and he opened his eyes again.

  Before him, hovering in the darkness of the cell, was a wild beast: it was snarling at him, its claws tightening in anticipation, its mouth parted in a tooth-bladed smile. Though its fur was blacker than the shadows, a golden glow outlined its form. He could see that it was crouching, ready to pounce.

  Then the beast leapt suddenly high in the air, and in the instant before its forepaws landed upon Quentin-Andrew's chest, it flung its head upward, and its shape began to change. In a moment, the four-footed beast had acquired legs and arms; it stood upright, with claws still shining at the end of its hands. Only the beast's face remained the same.

  In a soft voice, a voice that thundered like a forest burning, the Jackal said, "How dare you call upon my name, you who lie under my curse."

  Quentin-Andrew took a breath and felt the daggers begin to flay his flesh. The fire was now eating his organs. "For the Commander's sake," he whispered. "He is the gods' servant. Help me not to betray him."

  The Jackal continued to smile in his deadly manner. All around him, the fire leapt golden. In a soft voice, the voice a torturer uses when his victim is about to break, the Jackal said, "Eight years ago, the Commander murdered the Chara and placed his own wine-friend, the son of Perry-John, into your hands. Since that day, he has been under the gods' curse."

  For a moment more, the fire licked at Quentin-Andrew's flesh; he could feel it blackening his heart. Then Quentin-Andrew screamed.

  It was a long, hoarse scream that echoed in the far corners of the cell, a cry so deep and reverberant that it drove from Quentin-Andrew all awareness of the killing fire. It was followed by silence. Quentin-Andrew could see nothing and he could feel nothing; he was empty like a husk. In a second, he knew, the fire would return and his spirit would be forever obliterated, but just for the moment he felt only relief.

  It was over – all of his last hopes were mercifully gone. The worst torture was ended: the torment he had felt all his life of believing that he could change his fate if only he tried hard enough. Now he knew that he had been right on the day of Gareth's death. There was nothing he could do, no change he could make, that would bring the gods' mercy. From the day of his birth, he had been doomed to destruction.

  A light began to grow, and with it came warmth. Quentin-Andrew tensed, waiting for the final inferno. Then he became aware of the glow in front of him: the Jackal, with his hand outstretched. "Come," said the god.

  Quentin-Andrew dimly knew the choice he was being offered; it was a choice between two torments. But he did not give himself time to dwell on the balance. As though of its own volition, his hand moved forward. He flinched at the last moment, feeling the approaching heat, and then, with his breath shuddering, he clasped the Jackal's hand.

  In an instant, the light exploded silently around him. He could feel its warmth upon his skin. With a moan, he shielded his eyes, like a night animal that has been driven to the surface during the day. Then the light faded, and he found himself in darkness once more, except for a glow which seemed to emanate from no object except himself.

  It was a dark glow, a bleak grey against the blackness around him, but it caused him to look down at himself, and he felt his heart jerk.

  He could see his hands. He remembered with sickness what his hands had looked like a short time before; now his hands were whole and unmarked. His arms and his legs were as smooth as a babe's skin. The rest of his body he could not see, for it was covered in the uniform he had worn for so long: the undyed cloth of a Northern Army tunic and breeches, the gold honor brooch that the Commander had given him, the thick cloak meant to protect against Marcadian winters, and the hard boots that could travel through ice and snow. Only his thigh-pocket and his blades were missing.

  He swung around, the instinctive move of a patrol guard who has become lost in the night. To all sides, he was encased in darkness, but a body's length below his feet he began to see a figure: a man stretched taut upon a table, his eyes wide and unblinking, his naked body mangled and broken. The seventh weight was not yet attached.

  Quentin-Andrew turned his face slowly away. At his side, the god of death waited, the fire around him now brighter than before. In a flat voice, knowing the answer but requiring the words to be said, Quentin-Andrew asked, "What happens to the god-cursed after they die?"

  "Come and see," said the Jackal. He turned and began walking into the landscape of shadows. For a moment, Quentin-Andrew remained motionless; then he followed the beast's tawny back.

  o—o—o

  They travelled over a flat land. The ground Quentin-Andrew could not see was hard under his boots. The sound of his steps was loud in the stillness but made no echo. He could not see where the horizon ended and where the sky began – the sky was without moon or stars. But he became aware that beyond the Jackal, hidden by the god's body, a light was beginning to grow. And then the light narrowed; it was a rectangular shape now, and Quentin-Andrew felt as though the darkness was narrowing in on him, squeezing his body. His breath had only a moment to quicken, and then he had passed through the rectangle of light. He found himself in a large chamber.

  The chamber was round, like the sun or the moon; it was deep, fringed by tiers of steps; and it was silent, but for the sound of one man speaking. To the south side of the chamber, brown-robed priests sat listening and nodding their heads occasionally. The north side was filled only by the speaker. He was young, and his face was younger still. His voice was almost too low to be heard, but he spoke quickly, and his eyes scanned the audience before him.

  ". . . And then he sheathed his sword and he took me to the gate, and he told me who he was and told me to come here, to
the House of the Unknowable God. He said that you would give me refuge against the Commander. And so I came here, and he must not have told the Commander what he did, because everyone thinks that I'm dead. But I'm alive. I shouldn't be, but I am."

  From where he now stood, in the center of the sanctuary, Quentin-Andrew turned to look up at the priests. Their bodies were motionless, and their faces were hard. From his position near the High Priest, Aiken leaned forward and said, "So he tortured you all night – and then spared your life. And you believe that act weighs more heavily than all else that he did during his lifetime."

  Dolan, wide-eyed, stared without comprehension at the priests for a moment, his hands crossed behind his back. "You don't understand," he said finally in a high voice. "The Lieutenant told me that the Jackal instructed him to follow the Commander's orders. And the Lieutenant wanted the curse to be lifted from him – he never told me that, but I know he did. I think— I know it sounds mad, but I think the Lieutenant believed that, by disobeying the Commander's order to kill me, he was disobeying the gods. He must have thought that, by helping me, he was losing his last chance to be forgiven by the gods." Dolan's voice grew soft. "He did that for me. He was willing to dwell eternally in the pits of destruction for my sake."