When my awareness of my surroundings returned, all I could hear was the crackling and snapping of the flames in the fireplace. Our guards must be asleep now. From outside came sounds of snuffling and the occasional stamp of horses’ hoofs. Inside, I identified six distinct breathing patterns: four slept, one was awake and alert—that must be the watch—and one shallow and labored: Traz.
I wanted to sleep, but the discomfort was too great. My shoulders and thighs ached, while I lost the feeling in my fingers, ears, and nose.
Then someone was fumbling with my bindings, and the jerks and tugs sent spasms of agony through my body. I must finally have dozed off, and I could have wished for a kinder awakening.
The tension on my legs eased. I tried to straighten them, but could barely move. Two of the women pulled me to my feet, but my legs couldn’t take the sudden strain and I collapsed right back down. My head cracked painfully on the floor.
“Oh, just carry her,” came the sharp command from the leader.
“Shall I give her some water?” asked a voice next to me.
The leader snorted. “A day without water isn’t going to be killing anyone.”
One of my captors shoved a shoulder into my stomach and lifted me. As she carried me away, colors that seemed to emanate from where my head had struck the floor flashed across the insides of my eyelids with each step.
Outside, she dumped me on the ground. After forcing me into a sitting position, she untied my hands from behind my back and retied them in front of me.
“I suppose you’ll be needing to relieve yourself. And you’d better, because I’m not wanting to smell your stink later.” She tugged down my trousers, and when I was finished, pulled them up again.
Then, with no more regard than if I were a sack of grain, she picked me up and tossed me across an unsaddled horse, my legs dangling down one side, my head and arms down the other. Just like Traz a few days ago, except, of course, that I was conscious. Another guard helped her to secure me in place with a harness while the others saddled the remaining horses.
The blood rushed to my head and I had to suppress the urge to vomit.
Someone shouted that breakfast was ready, and I was left to worry what would happen next, how long the ordeal ahead would last, and how badly they’d hurt Traz.
The meal seemed to drag on; with no points of reference, I couldn’t really tell the passage of time. I was all alone in my uncomfortable little world. The horse stamped impatiently several times, sending shudders through my frame.
After an interminable time, the guards came out, joking and laughing. They mounted up, and we all began to move. Each step sent a judder of pain through me. When, once the horses were warmed up for their day’s exercise, the leader sang out the order to trot, I wanted to scream. Instead, I passed out.
All day, I slipped in and out of consciousness. Each awakening was worse than the one before. My bones screamed in agony, my muscles froze into knots, and my tendons burned. But worst of all was the thirst. My lips felt cracked, and I was sure they must be bleeding. My whole body ached for water.
Early on, though I knew it would be useless, I tried to speak with the horse. If only I could make enough contact to get it to smooth its gait. That alone would be a triumph. Alas, the stone did exactly the job it was meant to.
The group stopped for the midday meal. Before we started again, one of the women tested the straps holding me to the horse, but she needn’t have bothered. I hadn’t moved an inch on the first part of the journey, and I doubted I’d ever move again.
The afternoon lasted an eternity. When I was conscious, I turned all my attention in on myself, trying to strengthen my body to withstand this ordeal, trying to ignore where the straps seemed to be cutting into my flesh. I focused my mind on transcending the pain. This would surely be over some day, and when that day arrived, I wanted to be strong—in mind, if not in body—to face whatever came next.
Then finally, after twenty lifetimes, it was over. The women called out and were answered by male voices. The women’s voices went off in one direction while my horse was led in another. My feet crashed painfully against something, which I concluded was a doorframe when the air changed from feeling open and chill to being enclosed and warm. I guessed it must be a stable.
Several pairs of hands loosed me from the horse. They slid me off one side and I fell in a heap, unable to stand or even to move.
“All right, then,” a loud male voice said, hurting my ears, “I’m not supposing you can walk.” He laughed at his own joke. “I guess I’ll be having to carry you.”
He picked me up as if I weighed nothing and tossed me over his shoulder. Someone made weak little groaning noises with every step the man took, and I realized it was me.
Out into the open again, then back indoors. His footsteps rang out on a stone floor. After a little while, he stopped. Another man made a strange grunting noise, then I heard a metallic rattle, a loud click, and the creak of door hinges.
The man carrying me stepped through and, as the door closed and locked behind us, began descending a staircase that went on and on, turn after turn, forever.
We finally stopped at what must be the bottom. Another voice made a series of unintelligible grunts, after which the man carried me a little farther. More key rattling, another lock turning, and a door scraped open. I was dumped onto a damp stone floor. The man untied my wrists, making me want to weep for joy, only to secure them behind me again.
“That’ll be doing you for awhile,” he said. The door closed, the lock clicked into place, and I was all alone.
I didn’t even try to move; I just lay there like a dead thing. I’d been without eyesight for almost a full day now, and my hearing had grown keen when I cared to listen. I did now, but heard nothing—no footsteps, no keys, no locks, no doors. Was there simply no noise beyond the door, or was it so heavy that it blocked outside sound?
My thoughts twisted in on themselves, and as time crept past, my imagination began to supply the sensory stimulation that was lacking. Colors swirled before my eyes, resolving into images then dissolving into haze. A mountain reflected perfectly in a still lake. Sunset beyond a field of ripened wheat. Water trickling over stones in a creek. And I even heard the babble, which, as I tried to force my mind away from water, turned into a distant chanting. I strained my ears to catch the words, sure that they would supply the magic to free me.
My senses threatened to take me on a hallucinatory ride, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I could only hope that my sanity would be intact on the other side.
But then a sound—a real sound—chased the imaginary ones away. The door was opening. I lay still, hoping they would think me asleep. Footsteps approached, and someone crouched down next to me. My heart pounded so hard that it sent flashes of light into my brain.
The person held a cloth over my nose.
At this new threat, my body burst into life. I struggled in earnest, not wanting to die, not now, not here, not this way. As I tried to draw air into my lungs, a pungent odor filled my nostrils, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Still, I jerked my head from side to side, but it was no difficult thing for the person to keep the cloth over my nose.
My body began to relax, loosen up, float away. I released my consciousness to follow.
Dear Botellin~
As requested, I’m writing to let you know how things progress with young Xyla.
I’m pleased to report that she does exceedingly well. She fits in with the other younglings as if she were one of their clutch-mates. Indeed, they were all so young when she came to us that I think they have forgotten she is not one of them.
She has not yet explained why she came, beyond saying there was need of her to “grow.” We have not been able to get anything more out of her on that topic.
You asked about her power, and all I
can say is that it is very great. But then, we already knew that, for one as young as she to make the jump between the worlds. To come near her is to sense her power lying hidden just beneath the surface.
In the meantime, she brings us all great pleasure.
~Until our next,
Falana, Sage
I awoke to find myself strapped securely and uncomfortably to a heavy wooden chair. As I grew more aware of my body, I found that I could scarcely move more than my head, with straps at my ankles, knees, waist, elbows, and wrists.
Someone was in the room: I could feel the power of their presence. A rustling sound directly behind me. Then a soft touch on my eyelids, and I could see again.
In front of me was a table and an empty chair. On the table sat a pitcher and glass, several fine tools I didn’t recognize, some small pots, and a single lit candle, beyond the light of which all was darkness. The candlelight hurt my eyes.
“Ah, yes. Yes,” said a quiet male voice, smooth and rich. Rennirt. “I feel you burn.”
From behind, two hands were placed on my head. The fingertips, positioned seemingly with care, were cool and refreshing. They quenched the fire in my soul.
“You will submit to my power. All do, sooner or later.” The voice coated my raw nerves like honey. I wanted to cooperate, to please this man, to give him what he wanted.
His hands moved, and the next thing I knew he was untying the linen strips that bound my mouth. Tenderly, tenderly, he unwound the cloth. Whenever his skin touched mine, a thrill went through me. Then the hateful cloth was gone, but my jaw was stiff, and it was those gentle fingers that removed the stone.
I took great gulps of air. The relief of the release was so intense I began to sob.
“There, there. It’s all right.” The hands stroked my cheeks, my forehead, my hair, comforting me. “You needn’t weep. You just had to be taught.”
I wanted to speak, to ask what he wanted me to learn and why I needed to be taught in such harsh fashion. But my tongue was like a block of wood in my mouth, nor would my lips move.
He must have sensed my desire, for his next words were, “No, you will not speak until I say you may. Disobedience will bring punishment, not merely instruction.”
And under the influence of his voice, this seemed reasonable to me.
Now my eyes caught sight again of the pitcher, and thirst overcame me. I tried to reach for the glass, only for my restraints to remind me that I couldn’t.
Finally, Rennirt came around to where I could see him.
He was tall and slender and beautiful. He wore dark clothes and a rich blue over-robe shot with gold thread. His hair, black and straight, fell past his waist. His skin was even darker than Shandry’s. But his face drew and held my attention. He had mobile, expressive lips, high cheekbones, and a thin, fine nose. His eyes were bright green and twinkled in the candlelight.
With graceful moves, like those of a dancer, he sat in the chair across from me, poured water into the glass, and drank.
I wanted to ask—to beg—for a drink, but his eyes held mine, forbidding me from saying a word.
He drank again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He emptied the glass, and refilled it. “I want to understand your power,” he said, as if he were asking me something as simple as how to tie a knot. He drank again. I couldn’t take my eyes off the glass as he drank from it. “You will tell me of your power. You will give me your power. And you will be mine.”
He set the glass down and clapped his hands together twice.
A door behind me opened and closed, and a moment later a short, dark man came into view. He bowed deferentially. “My lord Rennirt.”
“We are ready,” Rennirt said, setting down the glass and rising to his feet in a fluid movement. I found I couldn’t take my eyes from him, and his lips curved into a satisfied smile. “She’s pretty enough, for all her pale skin.” He reached out a hand and with a fingertip traced a pattern on my cheek. I shivered at his touch. “The Etosian knot, I think.”
The other man nodded. “Very good, my lord.”
“Do not worry,” Rennirt said to me. “Master Ganwin is a fine artist, as long as you don’t move.”
My mind, still muddled and slow from the previous day’s ordeal, grasped for meaning of these words. Etosian knot? Artist?
Rennirt moved behind my chair again while Ganwin examined the tools on the table, repositioning several. Rennirt took my head in his hands again and turned it to the right, firmly and irresistibly. At a word of command, the room blazed with light from torches on the wall. I blinked my eyes against this new pain.
I felt more than saw Ganwin come near. He brushed my left cheek gently, softly, as tenderly as a mother touching her newborn babe. Something glittered near my eye, and the next thing I knew, he cut into my face.
I gasped. Had it been possible, I would’ve jerked my head away. But there I was, pinned in place with Rennirt holding fast to my head and now squeezing my skull painfully between his hands.
“I warned you against moving,” he said, his voice harsh and bitter now. “Do not think to do so again. If you spoil the design, I will make sure you regret it.”
Ganwin made fast work of a number of sweeping curves. Blood ran down, but he wiped it away with a piece of fine cotton. My hands clenched and my muscles tightened in resistance. Stars of yellow pain flashed in my mind, and I almost stopped breathing. If only I could pass out! But even as consciousness began to flee, Rennirt’s power drew it back. He actually wanted me to feel this pain and would allow no relief.
After the shock of the first few cuts, my face began to go numb, as if my body were reacting to the pain by making me not feel it.
Rennirt said, “Use the silver. Subtle, but clear.”
Ganwin picked up one of the several pots that sat on the table. He opened it where I could see, and it contained a shimmery powder that glinted where the light caught it. With another tool, he inserted the powder into the cuts on my face.
I bit my lower lip to keep from crying out at this new agony. Bit by bit, he pressed the powder in, while I tried to take deep, relaxing breaths and send my mind far away. When Ganwin set the pot back on the table, I breathed a sigh of relief, only to find him picking up the knife again.
I don’t know how long it took to finish the job. When it was finally done, my left cheek burned.
Rennirt let my head go and came around to look at Ganwin’s handiwork. I didn’t move.
“As beautiful as ever. A masterful job.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
The small man shuffled away, and again, I heard the door open and close.
Rennirt sat back down, poured himself some more water and drank. “You took that well, all in all,” he said.
As if I had a choice, I thought.
And Rennirt laughed. “I suppose you had no choice at all. Now, I rather suspect you’re thirsty.” He poured more water, leaned across the table, and held the glass to my lips. Had my thirst been less, I might have had the will to refuse, but I gulped the water, grateful for it and shamed by my gratitude.
He let me have only a few mouthfuls, though. “Now, the important thing is that you let it heal properly. The cuts are thin and not very deep, for all that it must feel otherwise. They should heal nicely. If you pick at them, though, the scars will thicken and turn ugly. That would displease me. If I find that you pick at them, I’ll have your hands bound behind you until the healing is finished. Do you understand?”
I nodded, and the motion sent fresh waves of pain through me.
Rennirt clapped his hands, and someone entered. “Take her away. And see that she’s fed and watered.”
Without a word, a large man dressed in a military-looking uniform unbound me from the chair. He gestured toward the door with his head. I looked to Rennirt
for permission, and he smiled again in obvious satisfaction. “Begone.”
I rose cautiously to my feet. Lightheadedness forced me to move slowly. The guard led me to the door, held it open to let me pass through, then led me on. It was a long way, or at least it seemed so to me. Another guard opened a door and locked it behind us once we passed through. Just beyond was a staircase leading down. I knew now where we were. Tears began to trickle from my eyes. The salt from them stung my left cheek, but I dared not touch that side of my face.
Going down, I tried to count the steps to keep my mind off myself, but I lost count sometime after one hundred. Down, down we went, with nothing but a torch at each turning of the stair to light the way.
There was a last torch at the bottom, where corridors stretched away both right and left. Unlit, it was impossible to tell how far they went. Another guard stood watch. Without a word, he took the torch from its holder, nodded to the left, and gestured for me to follow. The guard who’d brought me here started back up the stairs. We passed a number of cells, and I wondered which one held Traz.
We stopped at a door, which the guard unlocked and pushed open. He shoved me inside. I stood frozen as he shut the door behind me, leaving me in the dark once again.
After awhile, I got down on my hands and knees and explored the cell. In one corner was a thin layer of straw, in another a bucket. Nothing else but rough-cut stone floor and walls.
As I sat huddled on the straw, there was a strange sliding noise. A faint light gleamed for a moment from the general direction of the door while something was shoved into my cell. Then it went dark again.
I inched forward, feeling my way. On the floor just in front of the door my seeking hands found a chunk of bread, a bit of something rubbery that might be cheese, and, to my intense relief, a metallic cup filled with liquid. I sipped. Yes, it was water. Stale, dank water that I could only hope wouldn’t make me ill, but water all the same.
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