Maiden of Pain: Forgotten Realms (The Priests)

by Kameron Franklin

  They made their way silently down a flight of steps at the end of the hall. Smoky torches sputtered in black iron sconces every few feet. Even though Ythnel had never been down here, she knew where they were going. Every initiate knew about the lowest level of the manor and what went on in those rooms. Ythnel shivered and not just from the cold stone under her bare feet. She heard the moans and cries echoing up from below before they even reached the bottom of the stairs.

  A floor of packed dirt ran the length of the hallway. There were iron-banded doors of thick, rough wood set every ten feet in damp, rock walls that glistened in the torchlight. Each door had a small, barred window, but Headmistress Yenael kept them moving swiftly enough that Ythnel thankfully couldn’t see inside any of the rooms to discern what was happening or who it was happening to. She had a good idea, nonetheless.

  The headmistress stopped at an open door at the far end of the hall and ushered Ythnel inside. Ythnel bit her lip and hesitated, trying to brace herself for what she might see. Headmistress Yenael’s face darkened, and she grabbed Ythnel’s arm and shoved her in.

  The room was hardly any bigger than Ythnel’s quarters. A torch sat in a sconce on the wall just to the right of the doorway. In the far corner stood a brazier of glowing coals with a poker shoved in amidst them, its tip bright orange. On the wall to Ythnel’s left were several metal pegs bored into the stone. Whips of various kinds hung from them, coiled and waiting. Finally, Ythnel let her eyes stray to the center of the room. There, bent over a bench, his wrists and ankles bound by manacles anchored to the floor, was Oredas, one of the few male clerics serving at the manor. Oredas’s back was exposed. His muscles rippled under sweaty skin as he shifted position slightly. Headmistress Yenael entered, closing the door behind herself.

  “I remember when I was brought down here for the first time on my thirteenth birthday,” the headmistress said fondly. She considered the row of hanging whips for a moment before choosing one that ended in three tongues, each about six inches long. A single small, smooth, steel bead was fastened at the end of each tongue. “There comes a time in every woman’s life when classroom lectures no longer suffice. You must turn theory into application. Loviatar demands service through action, not endless discussion.” She dropped the coil to the floor and lazily twisted the foot-long handle, causing the whip to slither in the dirt.

  “I don’t understand, Headmistress,” Ythnel lied, afraid that she understood all too well. It had been one thing to sit in class and discuss the need for pain and suffering and to study the best ways to inflict it. Ythnel agreed that pain purified the soul, and shielding others from suffering only made them weak and unprepared for the tortures the world would subject them to. Yet, suddenly faced with hurting someone, she doubted she could do it, that she should do it.

  “That’s all right,” Headmistress Yenael reassured. “You have much yet to learn still. Tonight is just your first step toward using what you have been taught.” She smiled and moved behind Oredas. “I will show you how it is done. Then it will be your turn.” The headmistress brought her right forearm up, perpendicular to the floor, the whip handle held loosely in her fist. With a flick of her wrist, the three feet of plaited leather leaped back and snapped forward, connecting with Oredas’s flesh. Ythnel jumped at the sharp crack. Oredas merely grunted.

  “There are many kinds of whips, Ythnel, and it is important to learn the purpose for each and how to use them.” The headmistress struck with the whip again, leaving another set of welts on Oredas’s back. “It’s just as important to know how much pain your subject can take.” When the whip hit this time, it broke the skin, eliciting a moan from Oredas. Blood began to seep from the wound. Ythnel felt a flash of heat accompanied by a wave of dizziness. She was sure her knees would buckle at any moment.

  Headmistress Yenael returned the whip to its peg and reached for another that hung from a loop at the end of its handle. The stock was braided with leather that divided into nine different tongues at the end. Each strip was punctured with bits of glass, metal, and bone.

  “This is a scourge. It is the preferred instrument of suffering for all those who follow Loviatar. It also requires the most skill to use effectively. If you’re careless, you can easily kill your subject.”

  Ythnel watched with horror as the headmistress slapped the scourge against Oredas’s right side then raked it across his back. The glass, metal, and bone caught the flesh and tore chunks of it away, leaving jagged stripes of blood. Oredas could not hold back his cries. She repeated this from the other side then dragged the scourge down his back from shoulder to waist a few times.

  “There are signs to watch for in your subject to make sure you don’t go too far. The rise and fall of the ribs,” the headmistress pointed, “indicates that they are still breathing.” Ythnel looked at the limp form of Oredas and felt bile rise in her throat. Was that bone she saw peeking out as his sides expanded with each shallow, labored breath? “Tensing of the muscles as the scourge hits means the subject is conscious.” Oredas jerked slightly as Headmistress Yenael lashed him once more.

  “When the subject reaches the threshold between life and death, it is time for Loviatar’s Mercy. Not for the purpose of relief from pain and suffering, as some gods instruct their lackeys, but so they can endure more.” The headmistress chanted a request in the tongue of devils, her free hand moving over Oredas’s torn back. As her voice grew stronger, a harsh red glow enveloped her hand. Wherever it passed, blood flowed back into wounds and flesh mended. With each stripe that disappeared, the red glow deepened, until it was black as the Abyss and Oredas’s back was whole. Headmistress Yenael ended the chant, and the glow around her hand faded. She stood and faced Ythnel.

  “Now it is your turn.” She thrust the stock of the scourge at Ythnel.

  Ythnel stumbled backward until she pressed against the hard stone wall. “No.” Her heart had climbed into her throat, and she could feel knots forming in her stomach.

  “What did you say?” The headmistress’s eyes narrowed.

  “I-I mean, shouldn’t we wait? Brother Oredas probably needs more time to recover.” Ythnel knew she was walking dangerous ground, but she had to find some way out.

  “Brother Oredas is fine. You saw me heal him. Besides, he is serving his goddess. Nothing could make him happier. Right, Oredas?”

  “Yes, Headmistress.” Oredas turned his head to peer up at the two of them. Ythnel could see the glint of fervor in his eyes. “Please do not be afraid for me, little one. I would suffer a thousand beatings for the name of Loviatar and the advance of her cause. Come, take your turn. I am honored to be your first subject.”

  “You see. Everything is all right. Now, take the scourge.” Headmistress Yenael’s voice was stern and insistent.

  “No. I can’t.” Ythnel could feel the tears welling up.

  “If you do not beat Oredas, you will take his place,” the headmistress said through bared teeth. “I had high hopes for you, Ythnel. Do not make me regret—”

  Ythnel shook her head then succumbed to the sobs she had been holding back, sliding down the wall to curl into a ball on the floor. Rough hands grabbed her, and she looked up to see Brother Oredas sneering at her. He ripped the shift from her body before pushing her down over the bench and clamping the manacles over her wrists and ankles. Then her sobs became screams.

  Awakening with a jerk, Ythnel moaned as fire replaced the dull aches pervading her muscles. She went limp, swaying with the chains that suspended her by wrists and ankles above the floor, her head slightly higher than her feet. The burning died down quickly, though the occasional tug still brought a wince.

  How long had she been hanging here? The hours were lost in a haze of pain.

  Pain. Yes, the pain could tell her. Ythnel let her thoughts go and stopped trying to mentally overcome the pain. Instead she sought it out, measured and weighed it. Extended exposure to pain dulled the senses, lessened the intensity of the pain. The more sharply pain was felt, the more
recent it was.

  Pain still screamed down the nerves of her arms every time the chains rubbed against the raw flesh of her wrists. Her shoulder sockets throbbed in time with her heartbeat. There were some minor stings on her stomach, back, and thighs, but they were easy to ignore if she didn’t squirm too much.

  She hadn’t been here more than a day.

  Where is here?

  The question came right on the heels of her diagnosis. She tried to think back. There had been an incident in the market. Which market? Was she still in Thay, or somewhere else? A local lord had arrested her, accused her of witchcraft, so it wasn’t Thay.

  Iuna! The girl had gotten her into this. She had been hired as Iuna’s governess. In Luthcheq!

  Ythnel flailed again, this time in anger as it all came back to her. Pain exploded everywhere, serving only to fuel her rage. The chains rattled violently as she thrashed, but their hold on her remained secure. She screamed in frustration; her parched throat protested the abuse with a racking cough that left flecks of blood on her lips. Her fury spent, Ythnel sagged in defeat.

  “My, my, that was quite a display.”

  Ythnel’s head snapped up at the sultry voice. Through pain-blurred vision, she tried to discern who else was in the room. Dark shapes separated themselves from the walls by the orange glow of torchlight. With each blink, the forms distinguished themselves. A long, wooden table with manacles bolted down at each end materialized to her left. An iron box lay several feet in front of her, its lid open to reveal spikes covering the interior surface. Movement on her right caught Ythnel’s eye, and she swung her head around, squinting. A young woman, perhaps only a few years older than Ythnel, stood there in a lacy, sleeveless gown of dark purple that accentuated her pale skin and did nothing to hide her voluptuous curves. Luxurious brunette tresses that fell to the small of her back framed a soft face dominated by violet eyes glowing with a light all their own.

  “Who are you?” Ythnel croaked. The woman smiled sympathetically and glided over to Ythnel from her place at the base of a staircase that led down into the room. She stopped an arm’s length away; the scent of lavender washed over Ythnel.

  “I am Saestra.” She reached out a slim hand to stroke Ythnel’s cheek. Ythnel pulled back, bringing a momentary frown to Saestra’s full lips. “I only wish to end your suffering. I know how cruel my brother can be.”

  “My suffering pleases Loviatar. Accepting your offer would be a sign of weakness in Her eyes. I will not disgrace myself in such a manner.”

  “Interesting. Then what if I told you I could offer you immortality.” Saestra brought her mouth in close to Ythnel’s ear. “Just think of having an eternity to bring pain and suffering to the world in your goddess’s name,” she whispered, her breath tickling Ythnel’s neck.

  Saestra withdrew, and Ythnel shuddered as those violet orbs locked onto hers. Something was not right. How could this woman make such promises? Why would she even be talking to someone her family had imprisoned? Did she think Ythnel innocent? No, there was more behind Saestra’s soft words, a trap that Ythnel was certain would cost her more than any punishment the Karanoks could inflict. Yet the longer she gazed into Saestra’s eyes, the harder it became to resist the idea.

  “I-I am not interested in your gift.” Ythnel sighed, finally finding the will to look away.

  “Very well.” Disappointment was heavy in Saestra’s voice. A smooth scraping sound brought Ythnel’s head back up to see Saestra drawing a long, thin dagger from a sheath at her belt. “I suppose I will just take what I need and send your soul to meet its fate in the afterlife.” Saestra lunged at Ythnel with the dagger. Ythnel twisted to her left, dipping her right shoulder to protect her chest. The dagger plunged into her back, sinking into the shoulder blade before Saestra yanked it out.

  “What are you doing?”

  Saestra whirled, hissing like some feral beast, to face the source of the booming voice. Ythnel could barely lift her head to see a figure descending the stairs. The wound on her back was suspiciously numb, and the lack of sensation seemed to be spreading. It was getting harder to move; the muscles in her arms and back felt like jelly.

  “I was simply introducing myself to your guest, Naeros, my dear.” Saestra had regained her composure. She brought the dagger up to her lips, licked the blood from its tip, and returned it to its sheath with a casual smile. Naeros raised a questioning eyebrow but said nothing.

  “If the introductions are finished, I suggest you leave,” he said finally. “She is my prisoner. I do not need you interfering.”

  “She is all yours.” Saestra glided past Naeros to the foot of the stairs and paused. “Oh,” she said, turning back to her brother, “it might interest you to know that your new plaything is a Loviatan. Have a good night.” With a lilting laugh, she floated up the steps and disappeared.

  “I apologize for that.” A pair of dark leather boots came into view on the floor in front of Ythnel. Her head had become too heavy for her to lift any higher. The numbness had nearly spread throughout her entire body. “If anyone around here is to be inflicting pain upon you, it is me. My, my, but she did leave a nasty little mark, didn’t she.”

  Ythnel felt a tug on her scalp, and her head suddenly jerked up.

  “You will look at me when I speak to you!” The snarl on Naeros’s face quickly calmed to a mocking smile. “So, you are a Loviatan? You know, I considered joining the church. I’ve been told I have a knack for making others suffer. Father would have nothing of the sort, of course. What do you think?” He swept his arm out to encompass the room and its various devices of torture.

  “It takes more than a room full of toys to make one worthy of serving the Maiden of Pain.” Ythnel’s tongue felt like a lead weight. It was difficult to get the words out. “In Her eyes, you are nothing but a clumsy child playing at—”

  “Silence!” Something struck the side of Ythnel’s face—Naeros’s fist, she guessed. She hardly felt it. He let go of her hair, and her head fell once more. Naeros’s boots moved away, and Ythnel could hear the echo of them crossing the stone floor then swiftly returning. Her head was jerked up again, and she found the glowing tip of a hot iron brand inches from her face.

  “Let’s play.” Naeros’s voice dripped with malevolence. He released Ythnel’s head and slid around to her side. Ythnel heard the sizzle of the hot iron. The smell of burnt flesh soon followed. “I’m going to show you the meaning of pain,” Naeros taunted. “You’re blessed goddess could learn a thing or two from me. Don’t be ashamed to cry, I won’t think less of you.”

  Ythnel started to laugh, a soft, breathy chuckle. She couldn’t feel a thing.

  “What’s so funny?” Naeros demanded. He snatched her by the hair and studied her face. Ythnel couldn’t move her lips to speak, so she just kept laughing. “Stop that!” Naeros struck her in the face. Her head lolled to the side, free of Naeros’s grasp. She could taste blood. She laughed again. Naeros stalked off for a moment. His return was accompanied by a squeaking like old, rusty wagon wheels. Again, Ythnel’s head was raised, allowing her to see a wooden cart next to Naeros, laden with various blades.

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but apparently I’ve acquired a nickname from the fair citizens of this great city. They call me ‘the Marker.’ Do you know why?” He considered the blades on the cart, finally choosing a knife with a jagged, two-inch-long blade. “I suppose it’s because I like to leave my guests with a little something to remember me by. Now all I have to do is decide what would be an appropriate symbol of our relationship.

  “I know, since you won’t cry for me, how about I just make you bleed where those tears should be.” Naeros pressed the knife on the flesh just under Ythnel’s right eye, near the bridge of her nose. “Now don’t scream too loudly, or you’ll mess up my concentration.” Naeros drew the blade down the side of Ythnel’s nose, ending at the edge of the nostril. Ythnel felt only a slight tugging. Naeros’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. His lips pinched, a
nd he made a second cut from the outer edge of Ythnel’s eye, down her cheek, all the way to her jaw.

  Ythnel began to laugh again.

  “Impossible.” Naeros’s face flushed, and he began to tremble. With a bellow, he assailed Ythnel, pummeling her until her vision went black.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ythnel floated in a sea of endless black. There was no horizon, no edge to the blackness. It was all around her, enveloping her, insulating her. Beyond the blackness was pain. It pushed against the buffer, sought to puncture the blackness, to drain the sea away until she was left standing there naked and helpless. Ythnel wished it would go away. She was tired of pain. She was afraid of it.

  Fear intensifies pain, Headmistress Yenael’s voice echoed through the blackness. It creates anticipation, an expectation in the mind. Fear is a tool. Use it.

  Ythnel ignored the words. Pain was beating harder against the barrier. She tried to bury herself deeper in the blackness. Her heart raced with fear.

  Fear.

  A handmaiden was not supposed to fear pain. Pain was the air she breathed, the lover she embraced. Pain was a thing to control, not fear. Fearing pain gave it control.

  Slowly, Ythnel let the black fade away. Light appeared, grew, and brought with it pain. Ythnel opened her arms and welcomed it.

  Calloused hands supported Ythnel and lifted her while other hands removed the manacles from around her wrists and ankles. Her right shoulder stung, and her face throbbed. Her left eye was swollen shut. Two lines of fire ran down her right cheek. Her feet touched the stone floor, but there was no strength in her legs. She sagged against the hands that held her and tried to focus on her surroundings. Her right eye fluttered open, and she saw two people standing before her.

  “You walk a thin line, Naeros. You know Father wants to be notified immediately when one of them is captured.” The woman speaking looked familiar to Ythnel. She wore a sleeveless white tunic over leather breeches. Dark, straight hair, streaked sparingly with white, hung past her shoulders and framed a lean, angular face. The front of the tunic was decorated with a thick, black embroidered circle. Her emphatic gestures drew Ythnel’s attention to the corded muscles flexed along the woman’s arms. “He was very upset when he learned you had one secreted away down here. Entropy demands swift judgment against those who transgress Her will.”