by Riley Keene
Almost half a bell passed before Ingmar finally came into the room.
He tried to make as dramatic an entrance as possible, flinging the door open to let it slam against the wall next to it. Athala managed not to flinch, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
He stalked into the room, pausing as if appreciating her stretched out on the table. Something was different, but Athala couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He surveyed the room with a slow, careful turn. But as he turned away, Athala realized what changed.
A slow smirk crossed her lips. Ingmar’s once unprofessionally long hair was now cropped close to his head. There was some rippling of the skin around one ear that revealed the truth of a burn that had not been entirely healed. Athala was sure to get her twisted sense joy under control before he got closer.
Ingmar grabbed one of the chairs that sat against the wall of the room and dragged it over next to her. He took a moment to also pull over the small table of various implements. His hands floated over the tools for a moment, taking inventory. He then paid special attention to counting out loud the vials of healing potions on a small rack nearby.
The threat was clear—he was making it painfully obvious that he had more time and materials than during their previous session. Athala forced herself to yawn in response, but he either didn’t notice, or ignored her.
Once he was finished with inventory, he stared at her for a long moment. Athala turned and met his eyes. She wasn’t daring him to start but was instead only waiting for him to initiate the conversation. Her gaze was expectant, not defiant.
Athala let the silence hang, knowing it was just as boring for him as it was for her. Additionally, the more time he wasted on letting the awkward silence stretch, the less time he was spending cutting into her.
She took the opportunity to get a better look at the scarring around his ear. Athala wasn’t entirely sure where the fire had come from, but it had obviously caught him on the side of his face and ignited some amount of his hair. It forced the haircut to keep it even and requiring enough healing that there was still some lingering scar tissue after the fact.
“So,” Ingmar said, finally breaking the silence, “replace the missing runes with the modified light ritual in your spellbook, hm?”
“Which one did you use?” Athala said, tilting her head. “Was it the short one in the red journal, or the longer one in the light brown spellbook?”
“The long one in the light brown spellbook,” he snapped. “The one you told me to use. The one with the right number of symbols.” He leaned forward. “Do you know what happened?”
“No.” Athala gave an innocent smile, but it felt predatory on her lips. “What happened?”
“That stupid ribbon erupted in flames and then shot a ball of fire at my head.” He pointed to the side of his face, where the lingering scarring was worst. “It burned most of my hair off and almost took my ear.”
Athala inspected the damage closer until he pulled away. “Interesting reaction. I suspected that the others ribbons may have been more dangerous traps than simple alarms.”
“And yet you said nothing about them,” Ingmar seethed.
“You didn’t ask about any traps or other hazards,” Athala said, shrugging as best she could. “I just told you what you wanted to know. If you wanted to know more than that, you should have asked.”
“So, we spent much of the evening dealing with the other two ribbons, and then swept the room for other such charms or spells making sure that no more traps remained.” He leaned in, whispering through clenched teeth. “Do you know what happened when we tried again?”
“Yes, I do,” Athala admitted, not flinching as his face came uncomfortably close to hers.
“And what was that?” he snarled impatiently.
“Nothing.”
“Yes. Nothing. Now, either you do, or do not know how to unlock the spell. Which is it?” He leaned back, before standing up from his chair.
“I do know,” Athala said, grateful for the additional space. His anger was almost a palatable thing, a cold, bitter wind that burned the closer he got.
“So, then you are either mistaken about the how, or you lied to me. Which is it?” He pawed at the torture implements blindly, keeping his eyes locked on hers.
“I lied,” Athala admitted.
Ingmar snatched a tool off of the table and slammed it into the back of Athala’s hand.
Whatever unpleasant shape the tool held was irrelevant as it pierced through her entire hand, and dug into the table below. Ingmar’s anger and the weight of the tool’s handle gave the blow the strength to break a few of the small bones in her hand. Athala clenched her teeth to stifle the scream, but it was a scream just the same.
She gasped a few times, focusing on getting control over the pain lancing up her arm. And over the building fear of the pain to come.
“So,” she managed finally, keeping her tone neutral, though she was breathing heavy through gritted teeth. “You seem upset. Something wrong?”
Instead of answering he twisted the implement, the motion calm and natural, as though he were just trying to dislodge it from the table. And then he twisted it again. And again. Every tiny movement forced Athala to close her eyes and regulate her breathing. With a firm yank he removed the item from her hand, bringing fresh tears to Athala’s eyes. He returned the bloody tool to the tray and carefully selected two more.
The tools were placed next to her head, well within her line of sight, but she didn’t turn to look at them. Ingmar lifted her tunic and exposed her bare stomach. He paused to inspect the tools, trying to draw her attention to them.
She didn’t give in. It didn’t matter what he had in store for her. She just had to be patient.
After a moment Ingmar snatched up the tools. There was a pause as if he wanted to do something drastic—the worst Athala could think of was for him to drive them into her eye or some other vital bit—but he got himself under control and returned his focus to her stomach. It was obvious he was frustrated, and Athala secretly enjoyed the thought.
She just hoped she wouldn’t regret making him angry.
Ingmar brought the implements down against her skin, letting the sharp tips rest against her flesh. Athala flinched and Ingmar smiled up at her. “Do you have anything to say before we begin?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The pain in her hand became a fading thing with the touch of the new tools to her exposed stomach.
“I don’t know why you bother asking,” Athala said after a moment. “We both remember what you were threatening me with when I lied yesterday, and this is nothing compared to that.” She settled herself against the table, laying her head back. “How about you just get started, and we’ll talk once you’ve had a chance to warm up.”
“Well,” Ingmar chuckled, “your reasoning is sound.” He dug the hooked implement into the skin of her stomach as shallowly as possible. He smiled at her hiss of pain, despite the brave face she thought was putting on.
“I don’t want to be too bored though,” Athala added between clenched teeth. “How about you try and convince me that telling you about the spell is the right thing to do? Maybe you can manage with logic what you can’t accomplish with your little knives.”
“If your goal is to anger me to try and get me make a mistake, I should warn you that such a thing may result in your death.” His smile remained as he started cutting, the cut so shallow that Athala could feel the blood welling up in small dots instead of openly flowing. The hook moved up as he went, holding the skin taut and still for the delicate operation. “Why should I try to convince you? You lied to me in a manner that almost led to my death.”
“Yes, but,” she paused to inhale sharply in pain as a bit of the cut went a little deeper. “I’m clearly an educated individual. No one gets as far as I am with the magical arts by abandoning logic and assuming that they’re always right and infallible.”
“That is true. But the reason I need this spell isn
’t out of logical desire, it’s emotional.” He shifted his arms as he took a sharp right turn with the cut, slicing slowly down along her side. “It would be ethical for you to tell me what I need, but you haven’t proven to be an ethical person.”
“What makes you say that?” Athala asked through clenched teeth. “Be careful there. That tickles.”
“My apologies,” he said with a chuckle before he returned to working his way down her side. “But you lied to me before. And you lied to me in a way that put my life in danger. If I were standing a little farther to the left, the flames would have engulfed my head and I would be dead. Tricking me into that position was not an ethical action.”
“To be fair,” she paused, trying to control her breathing carefully to endure the pain of the shallow cut. “I didn’t know the ribbons had different traps on them. I just assumed. It wasn’t my intent to put your life in danger.”
“Oh? So it was your intent for me to return alive and angry?” He chuckled as he tugged the waist of her pants down a rhen out of his way. He took another right turn with his cut, slowing down as he moved across from one hip to the other. “How did you think that would go?”
“Well, to be honest, my intent was just to stall.” Her eyes started to water from the pain. “I wasn’t sure how long you could reasonably hold me here.”
“To put your mind at ease,” he said as he slowed down, making sure the cut was straight as it passed about a hand’s width below her belly button, where the skin was thinnest. He made ample use of the hooked tool to keep the slightly sagging skin under his attentions held taut. “You are here until you tell me what I need to know. I can keep you here forever, if you insist on being so stubborn.”
“Now who’s the unethical one?” She swallowed, feeling a tear leak out of the corner of her eye as she struggled to remain completely still. “I haven’t done anything wrong, and wasn’t planning on doing anything that you’re not doing yourself.”
“I feel certain that my reasons are better than yours.” He reached the other side of her underbelly and took another sharp turn, cutting back up her side towards the initial cut. “If you were after something other than personal gain, I imagine you would have said something.”
“I guess that is the primary reason.” She shut her eyes tight as the sharp pain slid up her side. Athala tried to focus on the feeling of the tear running past her temple and into her hairline above her ear. Anything other than the knife. “I wasn’t going to keep my findings to myself, though. I would have probably published a paper on it if there were any major developments.” She spoke slow, picking her words carefully as the pain welled up stronger. “What are you doing it for?”
“It is, ah, a somewhat complicated matter.” He leaned close as he brought the knife up to meet the initial cut, completing the rectangle on her stomach. “I imagine no matter what I say, all you will hear is that I need money, regardless of the why.”
“Generally speaking, most men don’t need a reason to want money.”
“I do not simply ‘want’ it. I need it.” He turned back to the table of tools, setting down the two he held, and picking through the others. “My daughter is very ill, and the distraction of her care leaves me unable to run my business properly. My debt grows by the day. The money is going to get me back on my feet and keep my daughter alive. It also helps my peace of mind that the cause is good.”
“I’m curious,” Athala said, “who would pay you for this? You’re the one taking the spell, aren’t you? What do they want?”
“That is not for you to know.” Ingmar finally selected a curved blade, about four rhen long. “Why should I tell you?”
“Well, for one thing, we could just do this in silence if you like.” Athala tried not to squirm as he bent over her stomach again with the knife. “But why shouldn’t you? Or are we still pretending that you won’t kill me once you have what you need?”
“Even if I was planning on killing you, I am not so foolish as to tell you the specifics. But in broad strokes, my, ah, employer wants access to the dragon the spell holds.”
He moved his attention to one of the corners of the rectangle he had cut into her stomach, picking at it gently with a fingertip. “Once I sent word to him that it had been found, he dropped everything and raced here.”
“And how do you know him?” Athala asked, her teeth clenched against the stabbing pain of his clumsy fumbling with the cut skin. “Has he been your employer for long? You don’t seem the sort to do well with someone else having authority over you.”
“Employer is a bit of a strong word.” He hesitated in his attentions to the loosening corner of her skin. “Or, perhaps, not strong enough? It’s complicated.”
“Now I’m even more curious.” Athala’s instincts screamed at her to keep him talking, to distract him for as long as possible, but she forced herself to keep an outward facade of calm. “Who is he?”
Ingmar hesitated a moment more. “Why does it matter to you?”
“Well, if I’m going to be giving you access to the spell for his benefit, maybe a little more information would put my mind at ease.”
“I doubt it would.” He bent back to his task, picking at the corner of the cut skin with his finger, heedless of the blood that drooled from the wound. “It might just make you more stubborn about it.”
“And why is that?” She tried not to let her clenched teeth turn the words into a hiss. “Is he some kind of monster? A criminal or a warlord or something?”
“Not at all.” Ingmar’s tone was calm as he finally caught under the corner of the skin. He lifted as much as he could, drawing a squeak of pain from Athala. He brought the knife around to slide into the gap. “But by the company you keep, I would not expect you to react favorably to a cause that is opposed to Ydia.”
“I’m not terribly religious,” Athala managed, her hands and feet trembling with the effort to stay still. “Elise is my friend for herself, not for her religious convictions.”
“Oh? So then how do you feel about the Gods in general?” he asked as he began to cut, shaving a thick layer of skin and fat away from Athala’s torso.
Athala focused all her energy on holding in the scream that threatened to rip from her throat at the intense pain. Her eyes shut tight and her teeth clenched. She held her breath as rhen after rhen was cut away from her. Eventually, Athala made a vague grunting noise, which was the most she could manage.
“My apologies, did you have something to say?” Ingmar paused, still holding the flap of skin. But the knife was still. Athala could feel the blood well up atop the bared muscle.
“I don’t have terribly strong feelings about the Gods,” Athala gasped, trying to ignore the alien sensation of air against her muscles. “They’ve never exactly done anything for me, personally, and my place in the world usually has me thinking about how they always seem to be on their own side.”
Ingmar shrugged, returning to his work to shave away more skin. “Considering your current situation, I’m unable to blame you.” He tilted his head, leaning in close to the wound to keep the layer he peeled the same thickness all the way long. “But you are only half right.”
Athala managed an inquisitive grunt. Her nails cut into her hands as she clenched them tightly, knowing that if she gave in to the urge to flinch or thrash, it would only make it worse.
“It is a topic my employer talks about quite frequently. My sympathy for your situation is why he has my allegiance. The Gods are uncaring towards humanity these days.” He spoke conversationally as he peeled the skin back. “You can see it everywhere. Horrible things happen all the time with no rhyme or reason to it.
“My parents arranged my marriage to someone I hated. Just before we finally had something in common in our daughter, she grew ill and died. My daughter, a constant reminder of the woman who took away my freedoms and dreams, has been ill since birth. She did nothing wrong but she is still sick.”
The rhen by rhen advance of his knife forced Athala to ho
ld her breath again.
“The gods don’t care. They have the power to make things better. Not just my situation, but everyone’s. I assume word would get around if such things were still happening. You never hear about one of them coming down and fixing something. Teaching the cruel a lesson, giving the kind a boon, healing the sick, helping the weak—all the things they do in the stories.”
Athala started to see spots in her eyes, as she’d been holding her breath too long. She let it out slowly in a hiss, and sucked in a new breath carefully. She made a noncommittal noise, but was unable to do much else.
“My employer has a solution. We need to do something to make them care about us.” He slowed down as he approached her bellybutton. “And that’s what he’s all about. That’s why he needs that dragon, and that’s why I’m happy to help him.” Ingmar finally stopped cutting and paused, holding the now large flap of skin. “You know, the bellybutton is always the worst part.”
“What is he planning?” Athala managed to gasp as she tried to catch her breath. The pain was only agonizing instead of debilitating. But every breath hurt more than the last. “How does he expect to get the attention of the Gods without just drawing their wrath?”
Ingmar grinned for a moment, but his face immediately shifted into a scowl. “You are trying to distract me. Interesting tactic. Maybe we should get things back to the matter at hand.”
“I don’t know. Do you think you’re warmed up enough to make me talk?” Athala tried to smile, though she likely looked less nonchalant than she would have liked. She could feel the pinpricks of sweat on her forehead and tears down the sides of her face. “I’m pretty sure you still wouldn’t believe me no matter what I told you.”
His scowl went from her face to the flap of skin he held above bare muscle. “If you told me something right now, would it be a lie?”
“Absolutely,” she confirmed.
“The worst part of the bellybutton,” Ingmar said as he stood, bending at the knees and leaning forward, “is that if I mess up I have to start over again.”