Keren’s response was barely a flinch, but her questioner’s wide eyes spotted it as if he’d been watching for it.
“Does that bother you, my lady, that Aroden’s former handmaiden, the original patron of your very order, now exists to serve and pleasure the king of Geb?”
He paused, waiting for her to rise to the bait and give her protest voice, but she said nothing.
“I’ve never met my queen. I’m hoping I’ll get the chance to travel along and present you to her in person, but I assure you my loyalties are with Geb and I’m very well versed in my faith. Her Majesty has fully embraced her role. Can you imagine having the full glory of being a demigod of justice, getting lured to your death by your own servants, and then being brought back to life as a king’s whore?” He trailed his blade down the side of her throat, tracing around her collar. He let it bite in, but only where the bleeding out would be slow. “Oh, it might take you a few centuries to fully forget your former self. A few centuries of your lord and master whispering through your bones that your knights, your people, called you to your doom. And then imagine this: as if to spit upon your memory, your knights steal your very organs—all that remains of your living body, your humanity. Not enough to kill you once, no. Now they want you to suffer for eternity and never again be whole.”
Keren breathed slowly. In for the count of five, out for five. She refused to respond to him. What angered her most was the title, the Harlot Queen. Arazni was not a whore or a harlot. She was a slave. A whore held the power; a whore chose what to do with her own body. A harlot was just a woman who enjoyed pleasure and wasn’t ashamed of it. No, what upset her the most was that Arazni had not been given that choice. Her body had been raised and then claimed as property and used without her consent. She had been demeaned and degraded so that some undead husk of a king could make himself feel important.
She knew there was no point to trying to educate her captor on the finer subtleties of consent. Instead, she held her silence and dug fingernail crescents into her palms behind her back.
Her interrogator lifted his gaze above her head, then looked directly at her and smiled. She’d forgotten about the man behind her; he must have given his companion some sign indicating her anger, and now he would mock her all the more for it. If only she could strike them down with power, like Zae might. She tried to open herself to holy light, to offer her body as a beacon. She felt a brief lightness in her chest, but couldn’t be sure it was anything other than her imagination. Nothing happened.
“If you struggle, you’ll fall over. If you fall to the floor, I will continue … and leave you as you land.”
With effort, Keren relaxed her shoulders and let her hands rest limply. Her interrogator wasn’t a novice, and wasn’t fooled, but he nodded anyway. “As obedient as your patron—well, your former patron. Though, Iomedae kneeling at Geb’s feet … Now there’s a thought. I can only imagine the pleasure he’d take from breaking her. Who would step up to the Starstone then? Would it be you, lady knight? Would you be next in the cycle?”
Keren’s vision misted over, but she refused to blink her eyes and let him see the tears fall. They were frustration and rage building up in her and overflowing through her eyes, but he would think them sadness, or fear, and read in them his victory. He leaned closer to her, practically nose to nose, but just out of reach. A little closer, and she could bash his forehead with her own. As it was, to do so would be to fall to the floor as easy prey. And from his triumphant grin, he knew it.
His breath smelled like ash. “You will die for Her Majesty’s pleasure. You’re beyond avoiding that fate now. She’ll bestow favor on me for bringing her a Knight of Ozem. If you’re respectful, perhaps she’ll choose to raise you. What a grand graveknight you would make.”
And now she saw it: He knew that she had no answers for him, and had probably known for a while now. He was toying with her, taunting her for no greater purpose than his own enjoyment. Don’t give him the pleasure of a response, she told herself, repeating it silently like a mantra.
He stood back, exchanged glances with his colleague behind her, and started again. “Why did the Knights of Ozem send you to Absalom?”
At least he asked the wrong questions.
“To train at the Tempering Hall.”
Del growled with frustration, raising his fist but pulling his punch just before her cheekbone. She had tensed for the blow, and when she relaxed from the feint was when the real punch came, sending a burst of heat across her cut cheek and a shower of white sparks across her vision. From some detached, fuzzy place, she thought only that it was going to make an ugly bruise.
“Easy,” the man behind her said. “We’re too close to lose your head now. Remember everything we stand to gain if she’s intact. Status, power, a way out of this city and a new life in Geb…”
A quick knock at the door startled her, and another accomplice peeked his head in. “Del, there’s been a development.”
Her interrogator huddled by the door with the newcomer and exchanged muttered words beyond Keren’s hearing. She strained at the ropes on her wrists again, but couldn’t get them to budge.
She sat straight and still as they reentered the room. The new arrival took a melon-sized crystal orb from a stained leather bag and set it beside the pillar candle, grunting with the effort of handling the heavy solid sphere gently.
“This is a scrying ball, your knightlyship. Very valuable. Our master sent it here, just for you.” Del gestured her attention to it with a flourish of his knife hand. “Apparently, your compatriots are facing down a graveknight. I’m sure you’d love to go to them and help, but that’s not going to be an option. To prepare you for your role in the life to come, we’ve been ordered to let you sit and watch them die.” She could see faint shapes in the ball, and as she watched they resolved into clearer focus.
She could pick out Evandor, in his gleaming armor, and Yenna with her light-colored robes and dark skin, and even the dwarf guard from the church entrance. And a fearsomely tall creature clad in a horned helm and black armor that seemed to bring its own shadows with it. That would be the graveknight, and knowing that it had once been a living knight of her own order made it an even more terrifying sight. Arazni would have the power do this to Keren herself, and all her order, with the Bloodstones restored to her.
The strong guard, still behind her, said, “Go on. I’ll handle things here.” Del nodded to him and left with the man at the door.
Keren expected the guard behind her to come around and taunt her to her face, but he stayed where he was. He leaned in toward Keren’s ear, so close that she could feel his breath. “Ever seen one of those before?”
She shook her head as slightly as she could. She didn’t relish the thought of bringing her skin in contact with his.
“In for a treat, then. Just watch.”
Wielding a greatsword with both gauntleted hands, the dark knight laid about himself in all directions, cutting down one paladin mid-cast and shearing the arm off another. He tore through the soldiers’ armor like paper.
“Ha. Now they’re seeing it. Anything holy is weaker against him. Should be stronger, you’d think, right? But it isn’t.”
While Keren had faith in Yenna’s abilities, and knew that they had successfully defended the city from this graveknight once already and knew how to drive it off, she could feel the guard’s narrative filling her with doubt, and with anger. She was angry at him for making her doubt, and angry at herself for doubting so easily. The common thread through all her training sessions was that she could recognize her doubts and control them. She had to control them now.
Yenna took a step back and switched from calling down holy light to heal the others. Keren knew Yenna to be capable. She tried use what she knew to push out what she was hearing.
“They desecrate the very ground, you know. All you holy folk, you get complacent, thinking your power’s stronger than anything anyone else’s got. But him, he’s stronger than any of
you.”
The graveknight turned his attention to Sula, Sula who moved like water and could run Appleslayer all day without breaking a sweat. He swung, turning her blade aside with enough force to break her arm. Before she could recover he swung again, and great spouts of blood followed as he pulled his blade free. Evandor charged the shadowy assailant, but the graveknight barely seemed to notice the weapon connecting with his armor. Swords and arrows were less than insects to him.
Keren could see Yenna gesturing toward Sula and guessed that she was attempting to heal, but her spells didn’t seem to help. Now she was shouting, beseeching Sula to retreat toward her, but the stubborn fighter refused, instead switching her sword to her good arm.
Sula, Evandor, and the three other defenders suddenly staggered back as one.
“Did we lose you?” The guard kicked one of the legs of Keren’s unbalanced stool, jolting her. “Come on, focus now! You’re missing the good parts.”
Rivulets of bilious green streamed along the ground, acid etching a delta of trails into the stone street. Their point of origin was a pile of corroded leather on the ground where Sula had been standing.
It took Keren a few moments to realize what she was seeing. The guard chuckled when it stiffened her spine with dread.
The graveknight turned on Evandor, breathing deeply as if feeding on—no, as if savoring—the man’s grief. Evandor screamed at the horned knight. She couldn’t hear him, but she could see him gesturing.
“Wouldn’t you like that kind of power? Imagine it…” There was a reverent tone to the guard’s voice. “You’d be nearly invincible. Take a whole army to bring you down, and even that wouldn’t be permanent. Unless they knew how to destroy your armor, you’d just resurrect from it and keep on killing.”
“Is this why you took us captive?” Keren meant the question, so the truth spell didn’t stop her, but she tried to make it sound more flippant than she felt. “So that you wouldn’t have to watch the fight alone?”
Keren thought of the little prayers she had worked on with Evandor in her training session, and grasped for one now. Whatever power or slight edge they generally gave her, it was currently beyond her grasp. She envisioned the destination of the bridge, as Evandor had taught her, but the man still gave his discouraging commentary on the scene playing out in the crystal, taunting her for praying; for thinking she could affect the course of battle from afar. But he didn’t move to stop her, so she kept her gaze firmly on the scrying ball while her lips moved in silent prayers.
O Iomedae, goddess of justice, please give these men what’s coming to them for this—and please let me be your hand when you do.
20
STONE AND CLAY
ZAE
Zae listened silently to Keren’s interrogation, using her own anger and fear to redouble her efforts at the rope that bound her hands. She nearly had it now; with each new strand that she broke, she could feel the structure falter. She tested it, twisting her wrist, but couldn’t quite get her hand free. Just a couple more. Just a couple …
And there. It was a tight fit and probably took some skin along with it, but she shifted the base of her thumb out of the frayed rope and the rest of her hand slid easily through. Stretching her arms after the long confinement brought pain, but pain of a welcome sort. She made quick work of the gag and the rope at her ankles, then squirmed to the edge of the net and pushed up onto her hands and knees, raising it with her back. That brought one weighted segment off the ground; it took all her strength and cunning to wriggle herself free from it.
She rested a moment, catching her breath. The interrogation continued, and it seemed no one was the wiser to her partial escape. Still on hands and knees, she crawled to Turis’s net and struggled to peel back a corner.
He was human, sharp-boned, and barely conscious. With the net partially out of the way, Zae rested a hand on his cheek, calling upon Brigh for aid. Warmth spread across her palm from her birthmark, and almost instantly the scholar began to stir.
“Shhh. Welcome back, and be careful. We can hear them, so they can likely hear us if we make too much noise,” she whispered.
Turis frowned. When she freed his hands, he was able to push himself up and sit. Zae untied the rope binding his ankles next, giving him a few moments to gather his wits. By the time she was done, he had composed himself somewhat.
“Thank you. Harnsen Turis at your service. You’re that healer from the corridor, aren’t you? I apologize for Daarek. He gets a little excitable at the end of a shut-in.”
“A little excitable” didn’t quite cover the unprompted verbal attack on Zae and Rowan, but she let it go. “Yes, that’s right. My name is Zae. That’s Keren in there, getting questioned. They don’t seem to be hurting her, at least, but I’m worried for her. Are you all right? Is there any other healing I can do for you?”
Turis rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I feel relatively whole, just fatigued. It’s been a long … I don’t even know how long it’s been.”
She hadn’t thought about it, but Zae realized now that she didn’t know how long it had been either; it had been dark when they’d left the church, she’d been thumped on the head and wasn’t sure how long she’d been unconscious, and there were no windows here. “I’m very sorry about your cognate,” she said instead. “The workers who were in the room with you—none of them survived.”
He lowered his head, sighed, and then deliberately straightened again.
Zae worked at peeling back the net so that she could reach his bound hands. “So, what were you trying to do in there?”
“They—it’s not my cognate, I’m just the chronicler—they were going to use a jar of electrical magic to power a construct. It’s been done before, but there were a few proprietary modifications—purely experimental improvements—which I really can’t talk about with the prototype unfinished.”
“What will happen to the project now?”
“It might be reassigned elsewhere within the cognate, perhaps, but that’s just—ah!”
Zae had freed his hands, and now sat back on her heels, watching him push the net off the rest of the way. Like Keren’s, it was just a normal net. Only she had gotten a special anti-magic one.
Turis patted his pockets absently. A nervous tick. He had probably been searched and disarmed as thoroughly as Zae and Keren had. He withdrew a dented pocket watch and frowned at it. “It’s morning,” he observed sourly. “I’m going back to sleep.”
Zae blinked. It made sense, since their capture had happened late in the evening, and she didn’t know how long she’d been out cold after that. But it also meant … “Wait. If it’s a new day, then I can pray for new spells!”
Zae scrambled to her feet and rested her hand against the wall, beside the door. It was very likely made of solid stone, in which case she had a spell she could prepare in order to defeat it.
She would need clay, and clay at its most basic was just wet powdered rocks. She searched on hands and knees for the stress points between the flagstones, and managed to brush together about half a thimble’s worth of stone dust. She conjured a trickle of water and molded it in her hands until it was a sticky gray ball. Not the best, but it would do. Now, with one last ear toward Keren on the other side of the door, she turned her focus inward and prayed. A shortened meditation for now, but it would serve. Brigh would see her intent and her predicament, she was certain of it.
When she was done, the clay in Zae’s open palm had gone slightly hard and powdery, but was still malleable enough. She centered it on her gear-shaped birthmark and closed her other hand over it. Focusing on the clay, she prayed to Brigh for Keren’s safety and a swift escape, and offered herself as a conduit for punishing their captors, who had sabotaged the Clockwork Cathedral and killed talented crafters. She didn’t know how many of those had actually worshiped Brigh, but the Bronze Lady felt affinity for all artificers and machinists, as far as Zae knew, so throwing in that bit couldn’t hurt.
Prayer given, Z
ae turned her attention to the wall. She picked a spot beside the door, close to where the latch was sure to be, pressed the clay to the wall, and then began slowly pressing her hand through. With the spell and the clay, she could give shape to a limited quantity of stone, and now she chose for that stone to be a tunnel.
As if the clay was turning the stone around it as pliable as itself, gradually an indent, then a pocket, then a tube took shape. Zae hadn’t worked out exactly what she was going to do when she broke through to the other side, but she was prepared to send a burst of magical fog through the hole to obscure her actions if she was noticed, or to wait and send the fog after she unlatched the door, if she managed to succeed without attracting attention.
Just a thin barrier remained now. She could feel it with her fingertips. She paused, listening. An androgynous voice murmured quietly in the other room, just barely audible if she strained her ears. Instead of trying to catch the words, she switched her focus to the cadence. The rise and fall could sometimes reveal as much intent as the words themselves, and sometimes even more. There was a taunting lilt to this speaker’s cadence. Zae guessed—hoped—that this was one of their captors, speaking to Keren, and that Keren’s lack of response was of her own choice. If the knight was unconscious, there was no way that Zae could carry her. Zae hadn’t planned for that.
A crash shuddered through the building, freezing the blood in Zae’s veins.
No, it was a door at the other side of the interrogation room. Earlier she had heard it open gently, but this time it was flung with excited force, and it was followed by a shout from a new voice. “The Bloodstone is in play!”
“What do you want me to do about it? I’m supposed to stay here and watch the graveknight with this one.”
“That’s what the thief wants, isn’t it? For us to be all tangled up watching the graveknight and not bother coming after him. Kill the knight and come on, you son of a shambler’s dog! That’s what we left you those preservation spells for. What do you care if Del delivers her alive or dead?”
Pathfinder Tales--Gears of Faith Page 18