Elana jumped as the vile face thrust close to hers. The Seer’s blackness pressed the advantage as she ducked her head, eyes squeezing shut again. The blackness cracked across her shoulders, but the Captain’s brutal fingers pulled her back by the nape of her neck, preventing her fall.
“Yesss….” The Maltar’s hiss brought her eyes open again, but her resolve was steadied. The black cloud once again could only hover, waiting.
His eyes were shadowed by the Seer’s dimness, a tempting bait for her to snatch at — so close. He grinned as he realized she would not play that game. Yes, she would mother a fine stock of Blue Sights for him.
His hand flicked and the Captain released her. The Maltar circled slowly.
“You are quite a catch. Bedfellow… blue eyes… Council prize… quite a catch.” His smile carried a sickened, heady lust in it, and Elana’s stomach cringed as she pushed the amarin of madness outward again.
“Don’t feel too betrayed by my old friend there.” He pointed idly at his Seer, pausing beside her and watching her unfocused gaze, waiting for it to waver. “He had very little to say about it, I assure you.” The Maltar’s words were slow, taunting. His gesture was lazy as he opened his hand and the Captain’s dagger was laid in it. “You see, he was not merely faced with death — but with madness…”
This was not making sense. Elana felt her mouth go dry, despairing in her effort not to think — not to grasp at his amarin for understanding.
“…though the threat of death itself can be quite a persuasive thing…” The silver point danced before her nose. “…can it not?”
Anticipation rippled through the men behind her. A tremor began within the pit of her stomach as she felt her control slipping.
No! Throw it back! Make him control it! Make him absorb it!
“Death…” The dagger pressed flat against her cheek, and the king leered as she flinched. “…what is death? Hmmm?”
The blade scraped down over bone, grazing a reddened trail — a rough burn across dark skin. But he was not drawing blood, not quite yet. He chuckled, twisting the wicked point at the base of her throat. “Death is so very enticing to some…”
She caught her fear rising.
“…to some,” he repeated, savoring the words. The blade withdrew a fraction of an inch. “But only to the very ignorant, don’t you think? Because… there are so many ways to die.”
Her legs shook beneath her, and she ground her teeth shut — pummeling that hovering blackness into retreat. Fear would be her tool. Not her master! She would die at his hand — yes! But she would die silent!
“Doubtless you wish a quick death here, hmm?” The knife snagged the top strands of her black knit bodice and flicked. The yarn sliced cleanly. “But truly — you may find dying a very, very slow thing indeed…”
A few more strands were cut.
The air was icy against her sweating skin. Kill and be done! Her mind shrieked.
“…a lifetime even.”
No — it must be now! Despair mixed with fury.
She felt something snap inside and that black wall staggered back another inch.
“Note with our friend there… how very long a lifetime can be.” The dagger paused, its inviting tip at her sternum… her breasts bared to its steel.
May the Old Mistress forgive her — Elana gulped for air and the Seer blinked, suddenly disconcerted for an instant.
She lunged at the blade.
But the knife turned away as he laughed, side-stepping her. The Captain jumped, his massive hands grabbing her shoulders. She twisted and her feet kicked, knocking his boots out from under him, and they fell together.
Her head cracked against the flagstones. Lungs gasped — and swallowed the Seer’s blackness. The suffocating, airless void of nothingness tore into her mind but her scream died as her failing body carried her the last step beyond their reach.
The Maltar’s screech pierced the chamber.
His face blackened in blistering fury as he rolled the captain’s bulk from her. His nostrils flared at her stillness. “Bitch!” He kicked her unconscious form, then turned toward the Seer. The dagger flew, whisking past the Seer to strike his own throne. “Witless puppet! The Fates should lose your cellar key, old man! She was to be kept conscious! Imbecile!!”
He shouted, “Take her…!” The Captain started as the Maltar spun back to him. “…out of my sight. Now! — now!!”
Shaking with rage, the king went back to his chair as they scrambled to remove the limp figure to a prepared dungeon. A page tentatively offered him wine. He downed the goblet and gestured for more. His breath steadied, but he finished the second as quickly as the first, flinging the empty chalice aside, and the boy scrambled after it. Very well, what had he lost?
Nothing.
The Maltar pursed his lips and stroked his beard. Truly nothing… all had witnessed this moron’s Blue Sighted clumsiness. There was naught to blame himself for. No one with any sanity could slight him. It had been the Seer.
And as for the Council?
Bah. He settled back on his throne. Those old misers were so predictable he did not need to be told what they were doing. They weren’t paying the ransom, that much had always been clear. So, in a ten-day he’d have the idle gossip of that bloody Keep but probably not much else. After all, she was a woman — a Blue Sight… she was a carrier of visions, not a thinker. The perfect sort to send as a spy, but of use for little else. So — he’d have what? Nothing at all?
Except, he would have the girl — a strong, young Seer with which to replace this dwindling fool — a woman, not an impotent male like the slave beside him. No, she would be a strong, young breeder of more Seers.
His dark gaze flickered across the silent old Seer. Yes, he would have much, much more than nothing.
† † †
Elana awoke with a start, blinking in the utter darkness. Then memory rushed in, and she covered her face and head in her arms.
Concentrate!
Fierceness — defiance echoed about her.
But that was different.
She paused, lifting her head cautiously as she listened.
A trickling echo of falling water surrounded her. Cold crept into her, icy as it touched her clammy skin.
Of men — of Maltar — there was no feeling, no sound.
Her body uncurled slowly, mistrusting this calm.
There was no scent — no smell at all save for her body’s own fear… and the cold.
Crouching low on hands and knees, she waited. But there was no blow to her back — no yank on her hair.
The stone beneath her palms felt gritty with fine sand, but there was no smell of must or mold. And no sound other than that of the chortling water.
Elana risked opening her eyes.
Gasping at the cruelty of utter oblivion, she curled up into a tight ball.
She shut her eyes, feeling the emptiness swallow her whole — driving down her throat. Cold claw-like fingers were reaching in — groping for her soul… a painful squeezing that wrapped around the racing heartbeats. It would crush the very life from her…!
And mercifully, consciousness left again… for a time.
† † †
She woke herself crying, tears wetting her face and sobs shaking her body. Knowledge had risen unbidden even before she had completely returned. For a timeless moment, she cried.
Fingers rubbed the cold stones beneath her, careful in their fearful touch yet hoping to find mortar in those smooth cracks, and despairing when there was none.
And there was none. These ancient stones were made of bedrock that had never seen foliage to cradle as fossil or vegetable soap to scrub them clean. Cut and wedged together, they held by design, not mortar. Scoured by sand, they offered no food for the crawlers of the dark, damp nights, and the isolation was complete.
She knew that the water trickling in the emptiness would be as lifeless. It would spill from metal pipes, stemming from vats that boiled all life from
the liquid. There would be no algae — no mildew. And there would be a metal basin somewhere, sunk into the rock, with more running water, a latrine that removed even the need for wooden buckets.
Tears subsided, fingers pushed aimlessly at the sparse grains of sand, and Elana prayed for death. But the Mother goes unheard in the very depths of the Fates’ Cellars and in the living pit of a Seer’s Tomb.
A Seer’s Tomb — empty chambers devoid of the coursing rush of life, isolating the ones of Blue Sight. Elana had not thought any still existed. Legendary, they were almost forgotten in the oblivion of time.
Isolated them? For the first time in her entire life, she was utterly, completely — alone… forsaken by the Mother… forsaken even by the mildews!
The Maltar’s laughing, jeering face rose before her mind’s eye and a scream of terror tore from her throat. “Mother!”
Fingers clawed at her face. Fighting the hysteria — fighting the fear that washed through her body. The heels of her hands pressed hard into her eyes, forcing them shut, instinctively protecting her from loosing that swelling panic into this chamber.
Release that amarin of terror in here and it would echo to infinity… she would never be rid of it. It would make her mad.
Pain from the savage pressure against her eyes — from the bruises of her body — invaded her consciousness. Slowly, seeping in past the horror, pain demanded attention. Elana welcomed the distraction. She concentrated, gulping in that ice-like air as she finally allowed herself to breathe. Slowly, she turned her mind inward.
Her shoulders and shins would be black-and-blue, and the swatches of yellow-green across her breasts and ribs would hurt even more. The shafts of spears had been kinder than the soldiers’ boots. Her right hip where she had fallen felt swollen, almost frozen to immobility. Her cheek burned from the scraping friction of his toying knife, but she could move some. Miraculously nothing was broken.
But then, it was her mind — her very identity that the Maltar wanted raped from her soul. Her body was only a secondary concern.
She swallowed hard, her mouth sour from tears and fear. The sound of that mocking water registered again, giving her yet another thing to focus upon. She gathered her courage; she was alive. She did not want to be, but she was. Death was no longer a choice. Now, there was only survival — or madness.
Elana opened her eyes bravely, feeling the darkness taunt her. Mother — she had never been so alone.
Anyone left in such total isolation would know madness given time; but a Blue Sight — a Blue Sight would snatch at the Maltar’s shining face as he walked through those iron doors and bond irrevocably — as if to a Savior! And the Gift would be at that malicious Savior’s disposal. The power of life’s flowing cycles — the power of Aggar’s fiber would be the Maltar’s to command as the Sighted one took refuge in the Maltar’s insanity. Aloneness would be banished, but that terrible insanity — forever; identity would be only in that insanity… a shuddering, horrible eternity.
No, Elana thought grimly. She was alone, but she was not his for the taking. The lifestone in her wrist throbbed faintly, and her hand clasped over the leather band in a desperate grip. Somehow, some way she was still connected to Di’nay. The stone was not like Blue Sight. Neither animate nor inanimate, it survived on either, thriving on both. These cold walls held no power over this bond.
No, hers was not a soul to be raped of its identity! She was Elana, Shadow of Council and Keep. Hers was not a mind to be bent! She was bound to Di’nay; the stone would destroy her before another usurped her chosen shadowmate!
She had a choice. Without Di’nay near her, she could be dead in a ten-day or less. If she could survive, mind intact until then, the Maltar would have nothing.
Nothing!
And if she could not? Then the Seer would rifle through her demented mind and they would learn of Di’nay… and they would begin searching.
She would not let that happen. Whole and sane, she would survive.
If not for the sake of escape, then for the sake of her beloved. She would not take Di’nay with her. She would not!
† † †
Chapter Thirteen
Diana returned to camp at dawn, where the winged-cat was settled comfortably in front of their tent, a fowl limply held beneath its forepaws. But their breakfast went untouched. Diana barely greeted the creature before turning to break camp and bury the tattered tent remains. The eitteh grasped the urgency quickly; it took her longer to realize that the Blue Sighted One was part of the concern.
The eitteh growled a quiet warning and Diana looked up sharply. In the distance she heard voices and, hurrying, she stuffed the last of the gear into the underbrush. The Ma’naur River surged past them barely a dozen feet away; its steady whoosh hid the small noises of her task. But they did risk exposure if she dallied too long.
When she was done the patrols could stand beside the packs and would never see them. Diana’s green satchel slid over her shoulder and settled as comfortably as if it were a quiver of arrows. Elana’s cloak was also folded within. Her own cloak rustled with the sound of leaves as she donned it. The eitteh turned from its vigilance and padded close. “Come then,” Diana whispered. Together the two slipped into the shadows of the great blackpines.
With an uncanny quickness, the animal discerned Diana’s course for the river and urged her around patrolling troops in the foggy morn. Diana remembered Elana’s comment that the eitteh were sentient and found herself glad of the company.
Perhaps there was not a clear path, but at least she was not to be alone in the madness of this desperate moment.
† † †
Darkness shrieked with the silence, startling Elana into wakefulness. Time had no meaning here. Minutes might have been days or days, hours. Mother, please — she wanted only that the waiting be done.
Reluctantly, she rolled onto her back and stared at nothingness. The stone was cold beneath her bare shoulders and she shivered. The emptiness would be harder to fight if she became ill; humorlessly she almost laughed. She doubted if there was a single germ within the cell.
Besides — she stretched carefully, palms reaching out across the chilled floor — the cold kept the insanity at bay. Its insistent touch confined her mind to her body, just as these walls confined her body to this blackness.
Still, it was time to move again.
Gingerly she raised her knees and felt the muscles begin to protest. She tempered the stretching, and gradually, the knots loosened a bit. Mechanically she forced her body through the morning routine she had led the trainees in for so many seasons. Having no concept of time, she did this each wakening now. She knew from logic and lessons that she would be sleeping more from the shock and trauma than from the day’s cycles, so she did not attempt to estimate a day’s time. The exercise was only to distract. Yes, she needed to create structure in emptiness, to create mythical purpose even here in this emptiness.
Not entirely mythical, she reminded herself gently. There was reason to her movements. Her body would stay more flexible if she carefully worked out the stiffness. She would need her body’s strength if she was to survive — or escape. She must be able to trust her abilities.
She stood, feeling unbalanced between the blackness and her soreness. But her feet held her, and the ringing in her head from earlier trials had faded. Cautiously, she continued her regimen.
The air seemed warm after the stone, and she thought the rock must be very thick to resist warming from her body’s heat.
In the corner the rags of her knit undergarment lay discarded. It was a mixed blessing now, still glowing from the savage touch of her captors, mingled with the familiarity of her own body, though too shredded to don again after her washing. The soft leather of her breeches had been torn by a spear’s point and the seam was unraveling, but they were still comfortingly warm. She had drawn strands from the knits to mend the torn waist seam and with her belt it promised to hold.
She had been surprised th
at they had not taken her boots from her, but then they were not the fashion most women would wear, and undoubtedly they would be too small for her captors. The men, too, did not strike her as the type to take an interest in a growing boy, if any were about to give boots to. They had left her with her leather lacings, and she might very well be able to make use of those.
Or perhaps…?
She looked again at the knits piled off to the side. The strands were soft but tenaciously spun. A dozen or so braided together might make a small rope… the size of a man’s throat.
A bolt slid with an echoing clang, and she looked to where she knew the iron door to be. A blinding whiteness streaked through the doorjamb, and she covered her eyes with the sudden pain, dropping to a crouch as the door swung open with a violent bang.
Later she would remember two hulking figures; the torches they carried fueled to burn more fiercely than safety warranted. She would shred the bread they left, moisten it, washing as much of the Seer’s touch — the Maltar’s touch — from it as possible. How carefully coaxed in the ancient lore of Blue Sights this Maltar was.
She would remember their jeering coarseness as they threatened but never quite touched her before leaving again. Their errand was to bring the metal plate with the Seer’s fresh baked bread. They sought only to intimidate, not to punish physically. Later she would understand that the Maltar had forbidden the touching; any physical contact would have prolonged her sanity within this dim tomb. The Maltar was not foolish enough to risk her inadvertently bonding with any other than himself.
But in the stinging brightness of their torches and the overwhelming assault of their amarin, she froze. After such emptiness, the onslaught was too great. Like a stunned animal, she hid her head, losing a true consciousness. Long after they had left she still lay curled, shivering in a bodily terror. Struggling, she refused to open her eyes… her only sane thought was not to loosen that horrifyingly helpless fear into this chamber. Somewhere, in the middle of that silent, inner terror, consciousness did leave her — as if the Mother had reached in gently and said, enough!
Shadows of Aggar (Amazons of Aggar) Page 35