The guards threw him over the back of a horse—as if he was no more important than a sack of wheat—and set off at a canter. The Vaerli was able to gather from their conversation that the whole of Oriconion had risen up, but from their coarse jests Byre realized it wasn't the first time it had happened. They didn't seem particularly worried.
In a very short space of time they had ridden to Fort Harsen, but Byre got to observe little of the outside. Most of what he caught, as he dropped in and out of unconsciousness, was the dusty road and the cobblestones of the keep. His head rattled about and his whole body ached, yet he sensed there was far worse to come.
He had no chance to get his bearings before they dragged him down to the well-equipped dungeon area. Already there was a considerable resident population. Byre glimpsed wild eyes and grasping hands beyond the bars, and the smell of fear and defecation made him gag. The sounds were a kaleidoscope of panic: soft sobbing, frantic wailing, and hoarse ragged shouting.
Byre was desperately afraid, himself, for he had heard the tales of the Caisah's punishers. His adoptive parents had made him listen, hoping to instill in him such a deep fear that he would never get himself into a situation where he met them. They would have been sorely disappointed today.
Though the prison was stuffed to overflowing, there was still enough room for one more. He even got a cell all to himself. They quickly manacled him to the wall and shut the barred door behind them.
He hung there for a while, enough time for his aches to subside. His people's remaining two Gifts, which the Caisah had not been able to strip them of, healed his bruises and gave him a little more hope than most of these wretches. Byre was no fool. He could be made to feel as much pain as any of them.
The door opened, and he was grateful to be on his feet to meet his captor. He was surprised though, for it was a woman that entered. Her brown hair was tugged back in a ponytail and a thin bead of sweat rolled down her forehead. Dressed in workday pants and shirt, she looked vaguely dirty and harassed, as if she was part of a hard-done-by workforce. She was unremarkable in every way. That was, until she looked directly at him. Her eyes were a startling shade of green and drilled right through him.
Striding toward him with a sigh, she backhanded him. Byre's head rocked back, his jaw snapping with the impact.
The woman was smiling now. “My name is Flyyit, what is yours?”
Tasting blood in his mouth he replied carefully, “Byreniko.”
Her eyebrow rose at how easily he had given it away, but it was not his real name so it was nothing. A stooped figure had arrived at the door and Flyyit gestured him in. With a lurch, Byre saw this newcomer was laden with a tray of instruments whose purpose he need not guess. The newcomer placed it just beyond the range of the manacles and, with a little bow, left.
For a moment, looking at those dreadful implements, Byre felt utterly beyond himself—as if he had stepped into an awful nightmare. He could work out exactly how he had got here though, that was the worst bit. If only he'd paid attention to the Wyrde.
Flyyit was arranging the tools on the tray with all the professional efficiency of a dressmaker at her silks. Her voice was light and chatty. “I have never had the pleasure of working with one of the Vaerli.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
He might as well have saved his breath, because she didn't acknowledge his presence. “I understand those two remaining Gifts of yours will make you resilient to damage. You might think that will help you, but in fact I think soon enough you'll be wishing you weren't Vaerli.”
Byre swallowed and strained against the manacles. “What do you want to know?” he asked, trying to buy himself some time.
Flyyit was tying on a thick leather apron. She waited until she was finished before turning to face him. “Know? Nothing. You are Vaerli—that is all I need to know. The Caisah has given the word that should any of your people be anything but compliant, they are to be tortured as warning to the others. Your pain is all I want from you.”
He gabbled a few incomprehensible sentences, trying to slow her approach, but she was nothing if not dedicated.
She worked him with pincers and red-hot irons at first, before pausing to examine her work and watch his body heal. Byre took long, shuddering breaths through tortured lips, while the smell of his own flesh burning dissipated into the cold room.
Then she got out her knives.
The world narrowed to incredible simplicities: the application of pain, and the blessed relief when it stopped. Byre did not cry out despite it all. His blood boiled and his flesh screamed, but only gasps came out of his throat.
Flyyit paused, mainly to wipe her brow and take some water. She eyed Byre speculatively even as his body healed. “Why do you not scream? People have told me it releases some of the pain.”
Byre smiled, though his jaw was still half broken. “Have you not heard the story of Ellyria?” His voice came out slightly slurred. “The Kindred tested and tormented the first Vaerli. She went through the fire and said nothing. What can you do to me that my kind has not already suffered?”
She smiled at that and strode across the room. Her kiss forced open broken lips and jaw and nearly shattered his fragile control. Flyyit pulled back, grinning. “Foolish, very foolish to lay down such a challenge like that. Believe me, I am only getting warmed up. I like to find the most effective places lightly at first. Men are like a lute to me, but I think I have found your sweet spots.”
While he was still reeling, she unchained him from the wall and knocked him roughly down. Then she manacled his neck to a ring set in the stone floor. Gasping for breath, Byre was only just able to turn his head, as she bound his arms at his sides and against the flagstone.
He could feel a change in the atmosphere: a ripple that he knew signaled only one thing. The two Kindred in etheric form were watching him again, red eyes narrowed.
Flyyit had picked up a heavy mallet. She rested it near his head before bending down to stroke his wet hair out of his eyes. “I have a theory.”
“How nice,” he whispered into the dust.
“If I break your arm and tie it tightly enough so that your body cannot heal it properly, I believe the pain will be…exquisite.”
She got to her feet and took up the mallet.
Byre squeezed his jaw tight. The first blow made the world explode into brightness, but—terribly—not unconsciousness.
“Impressive,” Flyyit muttered behind him, winding herself up for another blow.
Byre tasted blood in his mouth once again, but this time it was because he had bitten through his own lip. He prayed for darkness and death, though what gods might be listening he could not imagine. The Vaerli had never owned any before.
Through the pain, he kept his eyes locked on the impassive Kindred who watched his agonies and yet did nothing. They had helped him before and now, when he was at his greatest need, they did not move in his defense.
As Flyyit worked and sweated over this most unsatisfactory of victims, she could only take some small measure of victory. The Vaerli, when she paused, could be heard whispering against the stone, “Why? Why?” over and over again, while his eyes remained locked on the corner of the room. She gave him no answer and instead set herself to the task at hand.
If there was one place of peace remaining in V'nae Rae, it was the temple to the Lady of Wings. As Talyn knelt in the stone coolness of it she tried to let the turmoil of the previous night pass over her.
The tall vaulted ceilings with their vast honeycomb of nests running right up to the ceiling echoed with only the sound of birds. Though it was a temple to a Scion of Right, Talyn felt herself calm in such a place. Everything was blue-gray and serene. Even the occasional bird dropping was hastily swept away by a small army of acolytes.
Talyn sat at the far end of the temple near to the only other decoration required in such a place, an image of the Lady herself. The simple statue showed her with wings outspread, a beatific smile on her face, as she prepared to lift in
to sky and transform into a bird. Above the image in letters deep, yet blurred with time, were words of praise.
O Lady, exalted creature of the air, thou art the hawk in the sky, avenger of man, and the judge of all words.
If only that were still true. The Lady was the scion of the Refae clan of Manesto. It was she who had found the way through the White Void for them. So perhaps Talyn rightly should have harbored some resentment toward her.
The Lady's Swoop had always been a force for good in the days before the Caisah. It was not their fault that—like all of Conhaero—they had to bow to him.
Few birds remained in the roosts. They were a symbol that most people obeyed, but when called upon the Swoop could be a dreadful enemy indeed. Still, looking up into the beautiful gold eyes of a sleepy owl, Talyn could only find peace here.
She heard the sound of boots against stone. Talyn kept her head bent in the hope that whoever it was would pass on by. All chance of that vanished when she glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw Azrul smiling back at her.
“Thought I might find you here.” The Commander of the Swoop tugged her honey-brown hair out of its braid and pulled herself up to perch by the statue of her Lady. She sat there, grinning at the Hunter and swinging her winged helmet in one hand. “I only just got back and already I hear you have been causing quite a stir.”
The number of people who would have greeted Talyn the Dark with such familiarity could be easily counted on the fingers of one hand, and yet despite that the Hunter could not dislike the young commander. It was not just that she was an efficient and capable officer. It was the ease with which she did everything. Her brown eyes were honest and unfettered by any dark motivations. Talyn had more than once found herself close to unburdening on the young commander.
“I'm sure you have heard many things,” the Hunter replied, getting up and giving Azrul a chilly look, “but not even half of them are true.”
“You mean not even the bit where the Caisah nearly kissed you?”
“That, however, could be,” Talyn admitted with a shrug. “He only did it to show everyone I am his. At least, that is what I am hoping it was.”
Azrul examined her toes. Any mention of the Caisah always made her flinch, so it made for difficult conversations. Deftly, she managed to move the subject from their lord and master. “And what about this suicidal talespinner? I've heard so much already…”
Talyn stared at her blankly. “It was a good story, that is all.”
“More than that.” Azrul took her arm without any sign of fear and guided her into one of the side chapels of the hall. “The whole city is buzzing. They are talking of rebellion and how the loss of the Vaerli might have condemned us all. It must have been a real tale!”
Talyn looked up at the lanky commander. “I cannot comment on the truthfulness of it, as it is merely a myth among my people, but his telling of it was…” she paused to choose her words carefully, “very moving.”
Azrul sighed and leaned back against the stone of the chapel for a moment, closing her eyes. “I wish I had been there. I could do with something to take my mind off all of this.” She gestured about her with something verging on desperation.
It was not the first time that Talyn had heard the Commander of the Swoop complain about the Caisah's missions. The Swoop, once the symbol of fortitude and religion, was now relegated to no more than a force of tyranny: another cog in their master's machine of domination.
For Azrul, there remained little choice. The tribes had few groups like the Swoop but, in the absence of an actual scion, they were ultimately ruled over by the leader of the Manesto. It was more than just tradition. It was a binding of the highest magic, and once this link had kept the tribes together in the maelstrom of the White Void. It was only Azrul's misfortune that had born her into a generation where that leader was the Caisah.
Talyn opened her mouth to find some platitudes, but instead found herself screaming in agony. It had been so long since she had shared the Second Gift that she quite forgot herself. The pain of the other swept over her, bringing her to her knees and making the world flair white. Dimly she heard Azrul's voice, her hand touching her shoulder, but she could do nothing but scream mindlessly. Against the back of her eyelids Talyn saw a knife flash, and a woman's hand wielding a huge mallet. The word why battered against her head as if someone was shouting it directly into her ear. All around was such fear and pain that for those moments Talyn's own body dissolved away. She wore another's skin and shared his fear and horror.
When it subsided she found herself sobbing on the floor, while Azrul held her hand and patted her back. She had not cried in centuries, but she did now. Talyn screamed his name, his secret deepest name, and it was not just the pain that made her do that, but also the knowledge that she was powerless to help her brother. Finally, when she had spent all the tears she felt her body had ever owned, she rolled over and stared at the beautiful vaulted ceiling.
“Please forget what you have seen and heard today, Azrul,” she finally said through a torn throat.
The commander sat back on her heels. “Only if you tell me what it was. If it is some affliction…”
“None that a healer can mend,” Talyn replied, getting to her feet. She staggered, and Azrul helped her to sit on the pedestal next to the Lady of Wings. “It is my brother. Somewhere out there, he is in terrible pain. I have not felt that connection for many, many years.”
Azrul frowned. “Then why now?”
“I do not know. It was not one of the Gifts returned to me by the Caisah. The Harrowing only left us the ability to sense each other, not empathize.” She shook her head. “Now I do not know what to do…”
“For if you go to help,” Azrul said softly, “you will both burn for it.”
Talyn's hand clenched; her whole body knotted with frustration. “I love my brother. We were close before the Harrowing, but I do not know what sort of man he has grown to. I know nothing of his foster parents or how he has lived all these years. But I would dearly love to find out.”
“He is not dying?”
“It is hard to kill a Vaerli—but he is in great pain.” With horror she found she was shaking. “He could still be slain, I did not see enough to know.” She turned her head in the direction he lay. The connection still vibrated like a plucked string, but the waves of agony were dimmed. It had been so sudden she did not even know how close he was. Talyn thought she had plumbed the depths of her despair, but she was obviously wrong. To know he was in danger and be unable to do anything about it was the worst torture. Every part of her wanted to find him, save him, but it would be death for both of them.
Azrul must have read it in her face, for she put her arm around the Hunter's shoulder and hugged her. “My brother was killed two years ago, a foolish fall off his horse. I loved him dearly too. If you can do anything…”
“What can I do?” Talyn snapped, pulling away. “I have no friends, no allies to ask for help to search for him.”
“I would think you could ask me,” Azrul replied quietly.
Looking down, the Hunter realized with a start that she had hurt the other woman with ill-thought words. “I would,” she said more gently, “but both of us are tied to the Caisah. We are his creatures, and I fear he might well be the cause of my brother's pain. Neither of us can afford to go against him.”
“Even if it means the death of your kin?”
Talyn couldn't answer that question. She had single-mindedly chased her goal without thought of the consequences, imagining that she had done the worst things possible to achieve it—but she had been wrong. To abandon her brother to death would be the very lowest.
“I must think about this,” she said slowly. “There must be something I can do…”
Azrul nodded, more than aware of the painful choices a minion of the Caisah must often make. “May the Lady of Wings light your way.” She sketched the Lady's Kiss in the air, a swooping gesture like a bird in flight from breast to lip with
the fingertips.
Talyn returned the blessing, though she did not really believe in such nonsense, and quickly left the temple. Her thoughts whirled as they had not for centuries, and it was painful.
She found her way swiftly back to her room and drew the silver carved box once more from under her thin bed. Opening it quickly she removed her mother's sword with reverence and, laying it on the bed, pulled clear the maroon velvet of the lining. The pae atuae protected not only the weapon; underneath the padding of the box were other precious things: her stash of coin, two small carved stone figures of Kindred, some pae atuae poetry, and a silver ring. The money was what she'd come for but the ring drew her eye. It was unaccountably warm and heavy in her hand. She didn't even remember picking it up, though she couldn't forget where she had got it from. Some memories were impossible to shake off.
On impulse she tucked it into her pocket with the coins. Money had never really featured in her life before, but Talyn was glad now that she had considered it might one day. She had squirreled away thick gold coins, some from her bounties, others she had picked up in her many years, for a moment such as this. Though she was not one of them, she knew there were plenty of people who would work hard for gold. Hopefully she would be able to find out about Byre, and then perhaps she could do something to help him. It was not much of a plan, but it was certainly better than waiting for news of her brother's death to reach her.
Byre woke with a cry. Had it all been a horrific nightmare? The coolness of iron on his arms and legs soon put paid to that happy thought. Raising his head with as much care as he could, Byre carefully looked about, but the cell was empty. It was coming toward evening, and Flyyit had worked hard all day. She was hopefully exhausted from her efforts and would let him sleep soundly. Byre could only hope his torturer was not completely dedicated to her job.
His body ached with remembrance but the physical damage she had inflicted on him was already beginning to heal: all but one.
She had been right—the pain was incredible. Breaking his arm, she had bound it tightly at an impossible angle and all day his body had sought to set it right. The fight between the torturer and the Third Gift would have left Byre crippled if he had not used the mastery technique all Vaerli children learned. It was a way of setting aside pain, of going beyond it for a little while. It had been used since ancient times, particularly when dealing with Kindred who had no concept of pain and how much they could inflict on flesh. Tucked in a corner of his mind the agony still lingered, and it would return in greater strength soon enough.
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