Bhakir's frown mutated into a smile just as cruel. "We'll see, old woman." He rose and tugged the concealing cloths from the walls.
Jemma's heart spasmed in terror. The room was filled with torture devices.
She recognized a few: the rack, the wheel, the cat-o'-nine. Others were foreign to her, but their cold metal and wood promised exquisite pain. Even as protest caught in her throat, the door opened and four guards entered. They moved deliberately but without haste, knowing that struggle as she would, she was incapable of escaping. Strong hands closed on her, ripping the robes from her thin, wrinkled body. The good food crashed to the floor as they slammed Jemma down on the table and secured her with iron bands that had hitherto been cleverly concealed.
"Lord Bhakir!" she cried, writhing against the strong flesh and stronger iron that held her. "Please, lord, what you ask is evil, and you must know it to be so!"
Bhakir had turned his attention to the brazier, and Jemma watched in horror as he extracted a pincer, the ends glowing orange-hot, from the depths of the coals.
"Oh, of course it's evil," he said in a conversational tone. "That's why it's going to work."
A thought pierced Jemma's haze of panicked terror. "My hands!" she screamed, thinking that Bhakir was going to burn her fingers off one by one—one of the more common tortures whispered about by those who were interested in such things. "You can't hurt them—I wouldn't be able to work the magic!"
"I know that," replied Bhakir, a sharp note of irritation creeping into his modulated voice. "I would never hurt your hands, Lady Healer. Or your tongue. Don't worry. But the rest of your body— " and his gaze swept her ancient, bony frame "—is fair game."
Before she realized what was happening, Jemma felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the big toe of her right foot. She jerked reflexively, but her knee banged against encircling metal. One of the guards had laid open her foot, the gash from ball to heel gaping open and dripping blood. With a curious calmness, she realized that the floor was covered with sawdust rather than rushes to make the task of soaking up blood that much simpler.
Then Bhakir cauterized the wound with the pincers, and her calmness fled.
Vervain cried out once, sharply, wordlessly, and the raw sound of her own scream brought her awake. She bolted upright, gasping and clutching the rumpled pillow protectively to her breasts. Her dark eyes flickered wildly, but nothing was amiss in her room.
All was as it should be. The door was closed and bolted. Moonlight, filtered through shutters, cast a pall over the many plants that filled the Blesser's private sleeping chamber. Vervain took a deep breath, the air fragrant with the scents of herbs and flowers, and calmed herself.
Though she now realized that her fear had come from a dream rather than an actual threat, she did not dismiss the nightmare as others might have. Vervain knew better than that. The Healer who had trained her had taught her to respect her dreams.
"They are the messengers of the night," old Jemma had told her, back when Vervain was just a Tender studying in Mhar. "When you are awake, you trust your five senses for information. And when you sleep, you must trust your dreams in the same way. Pay attention to them!"
Vervain had been lucky to serve under Jemma. Her mother, a Healer herself, had been born in Mhar. It did not take too much effort to arrange for Vervain to study abroad, though it was not usual. Most Tenders were taught by Blessers in their own countries, usually their own cities or towns.
She reached down for the goblet of water she always kept at her side at night, and gulped at it. Her throat hurt from her scream. As she drank, Vervain examined her dream.
A red fox was running swiftly, but not in fear. Its brush was full and proud and its—his— movements strong and bold. A bird—blackbird? Raven? Crow? Hard to tell— dove at the running fox. Now the images blurred. A squirrel, small but full of chatter, scolded from a tree; a rat poked its nose up from its hole—
— The image was swallowed by utter darkness. Then Vervain was walking in the Prayer Room, kneeling before the stone statue of Health, beseeching her aid. Without warning, the plain but friendly features of the goddess contorted, as if the divine being were in terrible agony. Tears of blood streamed down Health's face, and the stone head toppled to the floor—
Vervain blinked. She clutched the empty goblet so hard that her hands ached and her face was dewed with sweat. She had no idea what any of the symbols meant, but if Jemma had been right, the fear they had caused her sleeping self meant that they did not bode well at all.
She sighed, steadying herself. Putting the goblet down on the stone floor, she swung her long legs out from under the covers. Naked, she walked over to a table and poured water in a basin. Vervain splashed her face, and the calming, chamomile-scented liquid drove the last residue of terror from her mind. She reached for a cake of soap and a sponge. Though dawn was several hours away, Vervain knew that she had a difficult task ahead of her, and time was running out. There would be no more sleep for her tonight.
Her face set in an unaccustomed grimness, she unbraided her long, thick, brown hair and began to brush it out. I only wish, she thought wryly, that I knew what it was I was supposed to be preparing for. As she brushed, she heard the Godstower bell ring for Vengeance's service.
Freylis's snoring sounded like the growl of a mountain cat, and Marrika bit down hard on an urge to kick the loud sleeper in a delicate area. At last, she wriggled free of the stain-stiff bedding, smelling Freylis's scent on her like a noxious second skin. At least Pedric bathed every day, she thought sourly as she reached for her clothes.
Pedric. The one man she had misjudged in her entire life. Not only had he refused to be upset when she left him, he had taken up with a lady of manners very shortly thereafter. And not just a lady, but the daughter of the Head Councilman! Marrika snorted in disgust, and froze as the sound quieted Freylis for an instant. If he awoke, he'd want her back in bed beside him. And that, Marrika knew, meant another unpleasant bout of sexual activity. The big thief mumbled something, rolled over on his back, and resumed his deafening rumble.
Marrika breathed freely again. Freylis was usually a deep sleeper. Heavy drinking tended to assure that particular habit. Her plan to seduce Freylis and thus avail herself of his rather impressive group of hangers-on was working perfectly, except that she found herself disliking more and more to have to pay the necessary price for such a position. For the last couple of nights, when she was certain Freylis would not awaken, Marrika had taken to slipping off and wandering by herself at night.
She finished tugging on her calf-high, well-worn leather boots, tucked her oversized shirt into tight-fitting black trousers, and walked quietly toward the paneless window. She glanced back at the bed, at the lump that was her present lover, and her gaze swept the small room with intense dislike. Marrika knew better than to expect any thief's dwelling—again, except of course for Pedric's—to be beautiful, or even large. She did, though, wish that Freylis's room wasn't quite so . . . filthy. The sweaty clothes could almost stand by themselves. Freylis would eat off crusted, day-old food rather than clean his dishes, and the chamber pot hadn't been emptied for several days.
She hesitated just long enough to retrieve her leather-covered grappling hook, and stepped boldly onto the window sill. She sat, swung her lithe torso around, and began to ease herself down. Freylis lived in the small room above a candle maker's shop. It wasn't too far off the ground, only a single story, and Marrika had no trouble negotiating toeholds until she could drop safely, silently, to the ground. When her solitary walk was completed, she would return the way she had come with the help of her grappling hook. Such entrances and exits were familiar to Marrika, whose specialty was climbing into the rooms of unsuspecting second-story residents.
Her feet landed with a soft crunch on the gravelly stone. Once down, she crouched, tense, her back flat on the wall until she was confident she had not been observed. She dropped the hook into the sack she had made for it and tied it securely to he
r belt. Then, tossing her mane of curly black hair out of her eyes, she strolled into the darkness.
Marrika never had a destination on these late-night treks. Her only desire was to steal a few hours to herself, a few precious moments when she wasn't "Freylis's woman." Tonight Marrika's aimless wandering brought her to the center of the sleeping town. The temples were closed and dark at this hour, save for the ever-present illumination that spilled from Light's temple and the two lamps that flanked the Godstower.
A movement in the darkness caught her eye, and she tensed, hand on her dagger. But the shape scurrying across the cobblestones, the lantern it carried bobbing as it went, showed no interest in Marrika. It scuttled to the Godstower and was swallowed by shadow. A moment later, the deep, resonant tolling of the bell echoed through the square.
It took Marrika a moment to recall whose time of day it was. Her eyes widened as she remembered, and a slow smile spread across her lips. She sheathed her knife and walked, hips swaying deliberately, over to the Godstower.
When the man emerged, she stepped out of the shadows. "Greetings, Blesser of Vengeance." The little man gasped aloud. Then, his voice trembling, he replied, "And unto you, my good lady. Are you coming to the service, then?"
"Indeed I am, Blesser." She kept her voice soft, pleasantly modulated, as she sized up the Blesser of one of humankind's most feared gods. He wore the robes of his brotherhood, black cloth that almost enveloped him. The moon shining down on his face gave her a good view of his countenance. He was small and slight, a young man to have such sunken, angular features. She couldn't see his eyes clearly, but knew they darted about because the moonlight glittered as they moved.
He's nervous, she thought. Good.
Marrika followed him silently as he hastened back to the shelter of his god's temple. It was a moderate-sized, low stone building, void of the ornate decorations that often adorned other holy houses. Within, the Holy House was dark, and as the Blesser pulled open the massive door, the blackness seemed almost palpable. But Marrika was not afraid. Unlike most of the citizenry of Braedon, she regarded the cloak of darkness as her favorite garment.
The Blesser entered, fussing about as he lit the few torches that provided illumination. The flickering lights seemed to actively struggle with the shadows, which retreated but did not flee. The floor was hard-packed earth. A circle was drawn in the center, made, if Marrika remembered correctly, from the ground bones of Vengeance's animal sacrifices. It was not a complete enclosure, however. The circle would be sealed later, as part of the ceremony. Inside the sacred ring was Vengeance's altar. Marrika couldn't quite identify the items on the altar this far away from them, but could make a good guess as to what they might be.
There were no windows at all.
The Blesser followed her gaze to the altar and started abruptly.
"My apologies," he said, "but I... I truthfully wasn't expecting anyone to attend tonight. It's not one of the High Holy Days, you see, and ... well.. ."
"Vengeance is not honored as he was in earlier times, is he, Blesser?" Marrika's voice was cool, and her dark gaze pierced him. He stared back, like a rabbit caught by a snake.
"No, lady. Sadly, he is not."
"That is a loss to Braedon, not to Vengeance."
The little priest flushed with pleasure, his eyes glowing. "You understand," he breathed. "Have you come to be taught, my dear?" The thought made him breathe harder, and he clutched the folds of his simple black robe so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
Marrika was on her guard at once, although she still felt in control of the game. Should this little man, in the grip of either religious or physical fervor, try to overwhelm her, he would not enjoy the welcome he received.
"Regretfully, no, Blesser," she said softly. "But I am looking forward to the ritual."
"Then by all means, let us proceed!" He turned and went back to the still open door, peering first right, then left. Grunting with the effort, he pulled the door to. "It would seem that you are the only one attending the service tonight, lady. I will be able to grant you my full attention." The words were calm, assured, but the quiver in the man's voice and his rapid breathing betrayed him. He stepped closer, his hands nervously playing with the tassels on his belt.
He indicated the circle. "If you would enter, we may begin." The ritual words seemed to calm him, and some of his high-strung mannerisms began to abate. He stood straighter, though he was still not as tall as his lone parishioner.
Nodding, Marrika stepped into the center of the circle. She could go through the motions well enough, and feigning devotion to a god was more to her liking than soiling sheets with Freylis. She sat down cross-legged on the hard-packed earth and gazed up at the Blesser, waiting.
He followed, moving with surety now. From a pouch that hung at his waist he withdrew a handful of white powder. Muttering words that Marrika could barely hear and could certainly not understand, he sprinkled the ground bone on the earth, closing the circle.
The temperature within the sacred ring plummeted. Marrika inhaled softly, startled. It was like stepping from summer into winter. Fear began to seep through her, ever so subtly. She hadn't bargained on this priest having true power.
For a brief, wild instant, she wondered at the wisdom of the course she had impulsively decided to pursue. Vengeance, like the beautiful Lady Death, was not a deity to be trifled with. But I'm not trifling, she thought, grinding her teeth in an effort to control the trembling engendered by mixed fear and cold. My desire is true—and so is my offering!
And what is that, lady?
Now Marrika did gasp aloud, her gaze flying from the floor to meet that of the Blesser. He was sitting across from her with a slight smile on his unattractive face. The bastard had mind magic! Hard on the heels of her startlement was the realization that the priest's talent didn't run very deep, or else he would have known her true thoughts.
Her eyes searched his face, and she relaxed. He enjoyed catching her off-guard, but he'd exhausted his bag of tricks. Marrika, though, was just beginning.
"Tell me what you want."
He spoke the words aloud. It was a lovely phrase to Marrika, and one she had heard often. Utterly cool, Marrika leaned forward. She emphasized her cleavage as she brought her face close to his.
"I want justice. Vengeance's justice."
"What is the offense?"
"Betrayal of my affections. And the usurping of power by one who does not deserve it."
The Blesser clucked his tongue sympathetically. Marrika could actually see sweat on his pale brow. She dared not let her contempt show. For all his training, all his magic, she still had the upper hand. If she played this right, success would be hers.
"Those are grave offenses indeed. How do you wish them to be punished?"
"Death," answered Marrika swiftly. The man went even paler.
"My dear lady, I cannot ask Vengeance to kill for you! That is Lady Death's domain, and she will not murder at a mortal's whim!"
"I know this is not an ordinary request. Therefore, I do not offer an ordinary sacrifice," said Marrika. She rose and moved purposefully toward the dark-enshrouded altar. She heard the Blesser hastening after her, but did not slow. Marrika stopped within a foot of the altar, looking at it coolly. A knife, encrusted with dark red fluid, lay on a black silk pillow. The corpse of a rabbit, recently killed, to judge by its appearance, was suspended from the ceiling. It dripped blood into a small bowl.
"M-my own offering to Lord Vengeance," stammered the priest. "As I said, I didn't really expect anyone ..."
The feeble excuse trailed off. Marrika ignored him, her gaze on the rabbit. It hadn't been quickly and cleanly killed, as was the habit with every other sacrifice she'd seen offered to the god. Its ears, tail, and all four of its small legs had been sliced off and the creature had been permitted to bleed to death. There was blood on the floor a good distance away, mute evidence to its futile struggle.
Two shivers, neither born of the unnatural
cold, shook her body. The first was caused by the realization that Vengeance's Blesser here in Braedon was a man who was excited by pain and suffering. The second was due to the understanding that this little, perverted wretch could perhaps give her absolutely everything she wanted.
She turned around. "I understand," she said gently. "Vengeance does not demand just the blood of his victims. He wants their pain as a sacrifice, too."
"When I was a young Tender, they thought I was wrong," the man said softly. "They didn't see — they didn't understand. But you understand. You must have been sent by Vengeance to me, to show that he approves of my worship of him!"
"Perhaps," Marrika agreed cautiously. "I believe we two think along the same lines, Blesser ...?" "Kannil," he said. "And your name, O favored one?"
"Marrika. And as I have said, I offer no ordinary sacrifice for my favor. I will bring you ... a human sacrifice, Kannil."
The excited color drained from Blesser Kannil's face. "There has been no human sacrifice in Vengeance's temple for... for decades, centuries!" Mixed fear and anticipation was in his voice. "I, I cannot... the laws of Byrn ... it would be murder!"
"Exactly," purred Marrika, moving even closer. She couldn't let him turn back now. If he did, well, she would have no compunctions about sending Vengeance an offer of his own Blesser. "No! " wailed Kannil, whirling away from her, his hand outstretched as if to physically keep her back. "I cannot! They would kill me!"
"Only if they knew," persisted Marrika, laying her strong climber's hands on the man's narrow shoulders and turning him around to face her. "And I won't tell. I'm bringing the sacrifice, remember? I'd be just as guilty of murder as you would be!" She had no intention of telling him that she had performed murder many times before in her young life. "I want this. Vengeance wants it, too—you know he does. You hear the call in your sleep every night, don't you?"
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