by Clare Smith
Voices penetrated his darkness, voices which perhaps would bring him some relief from his torture. He opened his eyes and blinked away their wetness until he could focus on the three figures before him. The one kneeling on the ground was a stranger to him. He smelled of fear and filth and abuse. A slave then, only slightly better off than he was. The woman, dressed in transparent silk and bangles looked different than the girl he remembered, the look of hate changed to one of triumph. Only the eyes remained the same, the pale green of sea ice, the same as his own. The other one’s features were imprinted on his soul, small and dark with the eyes of a madman. He smelled of perfume but with the sickly smell of rot beneath the cloying scent. Tallison, the one who had taken his hands.
“Welcome to my home, mighty magician, I hope you are finding your accommodation comfortable and to your liking. My friends here will serve you and cater to your every need.” He laughed viciously, put his hand around the back of the girl’s neck and moved her forward slightly. You already know the beautiful Nyte; she was the one who gave you to me in exchange for my favours. She hates your kind, almost as much as I do, so you will forgive her if her attentions are not always of the gentlest kind. This,” he kicked the kneeling man, “Is Rothers, cousin to King Borman and he has been charged with keeping you alive. When you die, he dies.”
Jonderill stared at the man as the words filtered through his pain in a jumble of confusion. His mind was too raw to understand what was being said, but if he asked, the man might set him free. He struggled to clear his thoughts, to put his memories aside and to put the right words together. When he had them all in one place and in a line, he croaked them out through parched lips.
“Set me free.”
Tallison gave a cackling laugh. “Oh no, Callistares, I have waited a long time to have you in my power.”
That didn’t make sense at all, he wasn’t that person, he was someone else; there had been a terrible mistake. He would have shaken his head if it had been possible but the bars prevented even that movement.
“I’m Jonderill.”
Tallison gave another cackling laugh and nodded to the girl. She took a step forward and placed her hand on the prisoner’s exposed arm, just above the blackened stump. Instantly the pain was gone and with it the fear and confusion. It was like the sun coming out after a thunder storm or stepping into daylight after being in dense woodland. Only the memory of Tissian’s bloody body remained.
“I’m not the one you think I am. I am Jonderill,” he repeated again, as much for himself as his tormentor.
Tallison shook his head and chuckled, his eyes bright and piercing. “No boy, you have it wrong. I know who you are and where you come from. Your name is Callistares, son of Coberin the white who died in that cage. You are the one named after Callistares, the great magician who, along with Coberin, murdered my father, and placed my younger brother on the throne instead of me. Now the throne is mine and so are you, and you, Callistares, are going to die.”
“Then kill me,” pleaded Jonderill.
“Oh no, I’m going to watch you die little by little, piece by piece. I will keep you alive just enough so that your spine will crumble to sand, and your bones will scrape the bars of your cage, just enough that your flesh will melt to nothing, and your skin will rot from your body. I am going to watch whilst vermin eat you alive, and I am going to listen to you scream, Callistares, and beg for death.”
He smiled at the girl and Nyte removed her hand.
Jonderill screamed.
* ~ *
If you have enjoyed The White Robe
tell your friends, they might enjoy it too.
Coming Soon: The explosive end to
The Sword and the Spell
Book 3 - The Black Robe.