by Spurrier, Jo
‘The girl is secured?’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
‘Good. Go and open the door.’
Scowling, Rasten took the heavy iron key from its hook. The lock on the entrance was entirely mundane — keeping enchantments intact around Sierra was difficult. Renewing the shields that prevented those living in the fortress from feeding her power was taking most of the power they raised each day.
Rasten grimaced as he shouldered open the door in a swirl of ice and biting air. Outside, a dozen soldiers stood around a chained prisoner with a sack pulled over his head. At the head of the rank stood Osebian Angessovar.
Rasten narrowed his eyes. After forcing Sierra to turn the implements on him, it was only a matter of time before Kell made her try her hand on an innocent stranger, but he hadn’t anticipated it quite so soon. ‘Your grace? What’s a man of your rank doing delivering a common prisoner?’
Osebian swept past him with his men at his heels, shoving the prisoner before them.
Rasten hauled the door closed again, blasting the doorway clear with a flicker of power, and the men scrambled aside as he stalked past them to the duke. Osebian had hesitated at the inner door, but as Kell emerged, his uncertain expression smoothed, and he stepped across the threshold. ‘Lord magister? Your prisoner is here.’
‘Excellent. Bring him through, your grace, but it would be best if most of your men remained behind the threshold.’ Kell waved a hand at the ceiling. ‘Shields, you understand. I’m sure my boy explained what manner of creature we have in here.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’ Osebian signalled to two of his men to follow him, bringing the prisoner. The rest clustered together in the chilly antechamber, and when Rasten closed the door in their faces they seemed relieved.
When he turned back, Kell was smiling. ‘Remove the hood, my boy. Let’s take a look at the prize our duke has brought us.’
Deeply suspicious now, Rasten grasped a corner of the sack and pulled it free.
It was Cammarian, bound, gagged and swaying on his feet. His face was bruised and, from the slump of his head and shoulders, he’d been thoroughly drugged as well as beaten. Rasten took a handful of the prince’s fair hair and pulled his head back to peer into the vacant eyes. There was no recognition there. ‘What did you dose him with?’
Osebian shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea: I had my man see to it.’
Rasten let Cam’s head fall and turned to his master. ‘Sir, are you certain this is a good idea? The girl will sense him —’
‘Through her aching back and yours? I doubt it.’ Kell raised his cane and prodded Cam in the chest. ‘Utterly insensible. I want him alert in the morning, but we’ve something in the cabinet to rouse him if it hasn’t worn off.’
Rasten drew a sharp breath and raked his hands through his hair. ‘Master, if she learns he’s here —’
‘She’ll find out soon enough,’ Kell said. ‘But for now, put him out of sight. You know the place, boy: see to it, and watch your cursed manners. I won’t stand for you to be so rude to our liege’s closest kin.’
Kell looked Cammarian up and down, and turned to the duke with a faint leer. ‘I’ve heard how closely you resemble your cousin, your grace, but in person it’s truly remarkable. If it weren’t for that hint around the eyes, I’d think him a full-blooded Mesentreian.’ He turned to Rasten with bright, lust-filled eyes. ‘Do you know what I intend to do with him, boy? Tomorrow, you will bring him to the chamber for our next session. The girl will choose who spends the first hour in the stocks, you or him. If she chooses you, then afterwards it’s the prince in the stocks and you’ll have free rein, but if she chooses him first, then after an hour of obedience she may take his place. Tell me, my boy, which will she choose?’
‘She’ll refuse, sir.’
‘You think so?’ Kell smiled. ‘Well, in that case, the pleasure will be mine. Here I was just lamenting that in all my years I’ve never had a prince; I’ll be pleased to remedy the situation. Now, as I recall, you had his foster-brother back in the winter, didn’t you? I’ll want to hear you compare them, once I’ve had my turn.’
Rasten kept his expression neutral, but he could see that Osebian was struggling to control himself. The duke’s face was mottled with anger, equal parts of disgust and outrage.
Kell read him perfectly, and chuckled. ‘See him settled, my boy, and then attend upon me in my chambers.’ With that, Kell turned and limped away, leaving Rasten silently cursing as he watched his master’s retreating back.
Once he was gone, Osebian spat on the ground where Kell had stood, while the soldiers stared fixedly ahead. Rasten imagined the tales they’d whisper to their comrades later, and growled under his breath. ‘Bring him this way,’ he snapped.
‘A moment,’ Osebian curtly replied. He was still gazing down the hall after Kell. Then, he seemed to shake himself and waved the guards back. ‘Go wait with the others. Lord Rasten and I can handle the prisoner.’ Once the men retreated, Osebian took hold of Cam’s shirt. ‘Lead on, sorcerer.’
Rasten couldn’t imagine what the man was playing at. His thoughts were too thoroughly occupied with the ordeal tomorrow would bring. Torturing Cammarian would only be the start. At the end of it he had no doubt Kell would make Sierra kill him — the only question was how long it would take, and how much of the prince remained when she dealt the final blow.
It would destroy her. It could only be worse if Balorica was on the rack instead. He knew Sierra too well to imagine she wouldn’t fight, and then Kell would tear her apart.
But what could he do about it? Kell might overlook his disposal of the servant, but he had laid Cam in as a knife against Sierra’s heart — Rasten could not openly interfere.
The best solution would be if he were simply found dead in his cell, but he saw no way to bring that about.
‘Sorcerer?’ Osebian snapped, and Rasten shook himself.
‘This way, your grace,’ he said, and led them into the service-room.
The chamber was strictly utilitarian. There was a stove in one corner, where the needles simmered in the pot, and a hatch in one wall to feed the furnace. A cabinet packed with medicines and herbs stood in the furthest corner from the stove, and the rest of the chamber was lined with shelves holding an array of implements, chains and manacles, all currently in disuse since the cells had been emptied in preparation for Sierra’s arrival.
One of the cabinets concealed a hidden cell, and Rasten did not bother to obscure the catch, which was disguised as a roughly repaired bracket supporting a shelf. The mechanism came loose with a distinct click, and swung away to reveal a small and lightless space.
Rasten summoned a ball of fire and cast it into the air. ‘In here,’ he said.
The chamber was divided by a stout bronze grating. Rasten took the key from a hook and unlocked the cell so Angessovar could shove the prisoner through. The prince was limp, his eyes glazed and unfocussed, his mouth slack. Rasten drew a knife to cut his wrists free, and then sliced his clothing away, methodically stripping him naked.
‘Is that really necessary?’ Osebian said with disgust.
‘Do you have any idea how easy it is to fashion a noose out of a shirt?’ Rasten asked. ‘I’ve seen men do it with their hands bound behind their backs.’
Osebian was silent for a long moment, but Rasten could sense his revulsion. He was used to it. Kell made no secret of his lusts, or that he expected his apprentice to serve him in any way he required. Rasten was used to men like Osebian looking at him with curled lip.
‘Sorcerer, this … this state of affairs is intolerable,’ Osebian said. ‘I cannot imagine why the king endures that creature when you clearly stand ready to succeed him.’
‘Lord Kell was Queen Valeria’s retainer first,’ Rasten said.
‘True, and while I owe her majesty a great debt of gratitude, our liege should have taken this matter in hand long ago. I have always known Lord Kell is a perverted creature, but this is truly revolting. I as
sure you, sorcerer, if that creature is still alive when I accede the throne, you will have my aid to remove him. I will not tolerate such perversion in my kingdom.’
Rasten didn’t look around. He’d heard it all before, usually in whispers when people thought he couldn’t hear them. For every man who sneered at Kell behind his back, Rasten knew as many mocked him for being young and strong and submitting to a crippled old man.
Beneath the shirt Cammarian’s back was a mass of bruises, and Rasten frowned. ‘How long since he was taken?’
‘A pair of weeks,’ Osebian said. ‘But a few nights ago he goaded some of the men into attacking him. I’ve kept him drugged ever since, but if I’d known about this I might have let them kill him. He’s a traitor and an enemy of the crown, but ye Gods … To permit a man of royal blood to be defiled as the sorcerer intends is a serious matter, sorcerer. It cannot help but stain the king’s honour!’
Not to mention your own, Rasten thought. But then he realised just what an opportunity was staring him in the face, while he’d been too wrapped up in his situation to see it.
Rasten locked a set of manacles around Cammarian’s wrists and tethered them to the wall. ‘Your grace, my master is proposing a dangerous game. Sierra is immensely powerful and, unless she’s handled exactly right, this ridge-top could become another Demon’s Spire. Even if Lord Kell has obtained the king’s permission, I doubt anyone but us understands the risk.’
Osebian frowned at him. ‘You think your master hasn’t told Severian what he intends to do? Or that he can’t control a wilful woman?’
‘Did you see the ruins of Terundel, your grace?’ Rasten asked. ‘As for the former, I couldn’t say. You know his majesty far better than I, your grace. Would he really allow royal blood to be shed so ignominiously?’
‘I spoke to our liege briefly,’ Osebian said. ‘But he was rather in his cups. Is it possible your master misled him?’
‘I couldn’t say, your grace,’ Rasten said again.
‘I can’t believe he’d agree to this. Here, sorcerer, surely there’s something you can do. Don’t you wish to see the old man thwarted?’
‘I’m more concerned with the girl,’ Rasten said. ‘But your grace, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t act against my master.’
‘You said yourself — a scrap of cloth can become a noose —’
‘And Lord Kell knows I’d never make such a foolish mistake.’
Osebian sighed. ‘I suppose so.’ He left the hidden cell, and Rasten returned the key to its hook and followed, closing the door behind him. Osebian stood in the chamber, examining the badly concealed catch. ‘Such a clumsy device. It would be simple enough for an intruder to discover it, don’t you think, Lord Rasten?’
Rasten shook his head. His wits were sluggish — it was taking him far too long to work out what the wretched southerner was talking about.
‘I understand that we have a number of enemy spies in the camp,’ Osebian went on. ‘And given that your master was foolish enough to unmask the prince in front of the men, they could find out we have him.’
‘That’s true,’ Rasten said. ‘Your grace, is it common knowledge these cells are mostly deserted? Our servant died yesterday, and only myself, Sierra and Lord Kell live here. Lord Kell’s chambers are well back beneath the kitchens, and I remain close at hand should he require me. Sierra stays with me, too. If someone crept in here I doubt we’d hear them.’
‘Interesting. Of course, there are guards in the courtyard. I must have a word with their commander, and make sure the entrance is never left unattended … I suppose the locks on those doors are quite new?’
‘Cheaply made and full of rust,’ Rasten said. ‘I’ve mentioned it to my master, but who would creep into a place such as this?’
Osebian nodded, his face thoughtful. ‘By the by, sorcerer, I think I shall ride out this evening to return to my men. Those dogs in the north cannot be left unguarded. I suggest, Lord Rasten, that you ignore any strange noises you may hear during the night.’
When Osebian led his men away, Rasten turned the key in the grinding lock. He didn’t dare feel relief, there was simply too much that could go wrong, but he did permit himself a trace of hope.
If Sierra did learn of Cam’s presence, if she challenged Kell for his sake, she would fail, Rasten was sure of it. It was safer, much safer, for the prince to simply disappear.
Cam held himself still until the muffled voices fell away. He counted silently to a thousand, then he did it again, and then one last time before he finally sat up and wiped the drool from his cheek.
It had taken all his will to remain limp while Rasten stripped and bound him. As the manacles were fastened, Cam had prayed his hands wouldn’t linger long enough to feel his racing pulse.
Sierra was here. That was the important thing. Sierra was here, and that meant he still had hope. He just had to find some way to reach her.
Calling for her was not an option — even if this tiny cell wasn’t insulated against sound, it was vital their captors didn’t know she was aware of his presence. But Cam had had some time to consider this problem and he’d determined the method, even if he lacked the means.
The cell was as black as the caverns beneath Demon’s Spire. The baffles that blocked out sound blocked all light as well, but they let him explore his tiny cell in safety. No one but he would hear the rattling of the chain.
His creeping explorations revealed that the cell had been swept absolutely clean. There was no water, which was a torment when it had been a full day and night since he’d last been given any food or drink, and not even a bucket for waste. The only fixture in the cell was the rough wooden bench that served as a bed, provided to keep the prisoner from being weakened by lying on the cold stone. How many people had occupied this cell and made the same desperate search for something, anything that would help them?
Cam pushed that thought from his mind, and ran his hands over the rough wood. He needed something sharp, something with a point.
There was nothing on the upper surface of the bench, but on the underside he found what he sought — a splinter hanging off a rough-hewn spar.
Cam tore through his fingernails trying to pry it loose, but when it finally came free he chortled with a kind of desperate glee. It was large: a jagged shard of wood as long as his finger. As he tested the tip against his thumb, Cam found himself thinking of Isidro and the fresh scar on his neck. If all else fails, there’s always that, Cam thought.
Sierra pressed her face into the pillow and tried to will herself back to sleep. She’d already dozed for a while — how long, she couldn’t be sure — before the throbbing needle-wounds on her back woke her again.
In some ways these were the hardest hours to deal with. The sessions on the rack or in the stocks were … unpleasant, to say the least, but Rasten’s promise had held true. Her power gave her a shield against even the worst Kell could contrive while still leaving her in one piece. It made little difference whether he chose the needles that punched through skin and muscle, or the Stinger or any of the other myriad tools and implements he had at his disposal; or how he commanded Rasten to use her — so long as anyone derived pleasure from her torment, the rush of power that arose was enough to drown out the howling of her own nerves. Kell did his best to drain her power as swiftly as it came, but he could not cut her off entirely from the beguiling song that streamed through her mind and seemed to make this world and all its concerns fall away.
Afterwards, however, once the deep, numbing exhaustion released her from its grip, the memory of what Rasten had done returned to haunt her, together with the aftermath of battered flesh and tender nerves.
Sierra shifted gingerly on the felt mattress-pad, and hissed in pain as her back began to throb again. It wasn’t only the needle-wounds that made it burn — her skin felt as though Rasten had scored it with a hot iron, instead of just tracing the sigil with her blood once again.
He did it every day once she was secured by
the chains, drawing blood into a bowl and using it to trace the ritual mark on her back. At first it had seemed the sigil wouldn’t take — each day Rasten scored it upon her, and each day her power seemed to burn it away … but not completely. After a week, a shadow of the mark remained. After two weeks, it was defined enough that she could mentally trace its lines over her ribs, her shoulders and her spine. It gave Rasten and Kell a hand-hold carved into her very soul, and when they grasped it, it seemed to suspend her mind and her will, so she couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything at all but follow the instructions they gave her. A few days ago, at Kell’s order, she’d climbed onto the rack herself, her movements stiff and jerky, all while she’d fought hopelessly to take control of herself again.
They hadn’t tried that this morning, though. Yesterday, when Kell had ordered Rasten into the stocks in her place, that part of the ritual had been overlooked, and after just one day of its neglect Sierra had felt the mark fading. Afterwards, however, she’d felt far too ill for what she’d done to be able to gloat over it.
She shifted on the felt pad again, and punched her fist into the dense mat. Rasten had forgiven her. She’d found that hard to comprehend. In the last few weeks she’d loathed him, been disgusted by him, had dreamed longingly of ripping out his throat with her teeth. When she’d stood over him, bound, naked and helpless, relief and fear both warred within her against a sickening, buoyant glee, that here at last was the man who’d tormented and terrified her for so long, powerless and under her complete control.
Even so, she would never have dreamed of doing the things Kell had ordered of her. She’d tried to apologise to Rasten afterwards, but he’d growled her to silence, and the words he’d said still echoed in her head. Did you do it by choice? Then it was Kell’s doing, not yours. Don’t apologise.
Black Sun forgive me, I didn’t want to do it, she thought, squeezing her eyes closed as she pressed her face to the woollen pad. But Kell had promised that anything she refused to do would be done to her instead, up in the king’s hall. Sierra knew better than to call his bluff.