The Sword Of Angels eog-3

by John Marco

  The admission left Lukien stunned. He looked at Jahan across the jumping fire, studying his face for any signs of regret. There were none.

  ‘You mean they’ll kill you,’ said Lukien.

  ‘No. I will die of the chilling breath.’ Jahan returned Lukien’s stare. ‘Do you understand?’

  Lukien shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think I do,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand your ways at all, Jahan. First you tell me that the whole village will die when all of you have died, and then you tell me that you’re going to rush that day by killing off your leaders. It’s bizarre.’

  ‘To you, perhaps. To us it is the best way. I am not afraid of my end days, Lukien. I will not be a burden to anyone. I will be allowed to die with great dignity, and let someone who is stronger and more able than me take my place. Is that not a good thing?’

  ‘I don’t think I could ever let people kill me,’ said Lukien. ‘I’m too much of a fighter for that.’

  ‘And that is why you have no peace, my friend, and why you search endlessly for this sword, and why you have no woman to love. Because you fight. Always you fight.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lukien muttered. He didn’t like the way the conversation had turned. ‘But I think I know why you came with me, Jahan.’

  ‘Of course you do. I have told you why.’

  ‘Because I saved your son. Yes, that’s what you told me. But I think you want to live just as much as I do. I think you want to see something besides your village before you die.’

  Jahan set his food aside. A flash of anger crossed his face, but it fled quickly. ‘When we are done and have found your sword, I will return to my village, and I will be glad to do so.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lukien. ‘But in the meantime you’ll have a chance to learn and see things that no one else in your village will ever see. The truth now, Jahan — doesn’t that make you a little bit happy?’

  Jahan scoffed. ‘You should be glad I am with you, Lukien. The way you stagger about, you should wear two eye patches. You need me.’

  ‘You’re not going to confess, are you?’ asked Lukien. ‘You just can’t admit that you came with me to see Torlis and meet the Red Eminence.’

  Looking up to the stars, Jahan smiled but stayed very quiet, ignoring Lukien’s query. Finally he said, ‘I will not live forever. There are things I wish to see before I, too, become a spirit.’

  Lukien nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  The two companions finished their meal, staring up at the stars and wondering what lay ahead.

  13

  In the catacombs of Asher’s prison, time had lost its meaning. The dreary lamplight and the never-ending din of distant, tear-choked voices twisted day into night and back again. Somewhere near Mirage’s cell, a leak dripped water onto the stone floor. Through her bars, she saw spiders building webs in the corner of the murky corridor, the hallway terminating into unseen darkness. The occasional footfalls of a prison guard echoed through the complex, quickening Mirage, sometimes heralding the arrival of her tormentor. At any time of day or night, a whip would crack across bare flesh. Blood-curdling shrieks awoke her when she slept, never deeply, guardedly watching the corridor for shadows. Twice she had awakened to Asher’s ghostly face grinning through the bars of her cell, ready to ply her with questions.

  There were so many questions.

  Mirage sat in the corner of her cell, her head down, her eyes sagging with exhaustion. Thoughts rattled around her skull, scrambled from hunger and lack of sleep. Bedraggled strands of hair fell across her soiled forehead. Her chin nodded upward at a distant sound, then down again against her chest. Her filthy clothes clung to her half-frozen body. Days in the cold prison had turned her skin an unhealthy blue. Her fingernails ached. The toes of her bare feet curled inward for warmth. Water had been supplied in drips, and now her mouth swelled like cotton. A painful knot tied itself in her empty stomach. Hearing the familiar noise of footfalls, her eyes fluttered open to stare outside her silent bars. Waiting had been the worst part of her torment. Not even her interrogations with Asher were as bad. With only fears to fill the endless hours, she imagined every sort of depraved torture, every small pain the gaoler might inflict on her. In front of her, the jeering wooden stool sat near the entrance to her cell, its seat still impaled with Asher’s knife. The edge of the blade stood at attention, waiting for its master. So far, Asher had not used the knife, taunting her with it instead, twirling it between his digits like a baton during their long interrogations. In the days that she had been his captive, Asher had come to her three times. Mirage remembered each episode vividly, but she could not recall how long she had been in the prison. Without a window to tell night from day, she was like a blind woman, completely lost to the passage of time. The lamp outside her barren cell shed the only light on her wretched home.

  Asher had been remarkably patient with her. Over and over, he asked the same uncomplicated questions, making her repeat herself again and again. Though he had promised to harm her, he had so far declined to even touch her, using only his voice to wear her down. She had told him things she had never intended to, like how Baron Glass loved her and how much time they had spent together. Intrigued, Asher continued to press her on this, compelling stories out of her, circling her with his arguments until she surrendered shreds of dignity. Now, Asher knew almost everything, but she had yet to tell him the most important thing. No matter the time she spent with Asher, no matter the torture, she would not reveal her knowledge of Grimhold or the magic she possessed. She had promised herself that. She was proud of her resolve.

  ‘You can burn in all the hells of eternity,’ she sputtered. ‘That I’ll never tell you.’

  Her voice rasped against her ears. Just using her voice made her throat ache. But hearing it strengthened her, too, and she knew that if only she could speak, she could keep herself sane. To keep her promise, she needed her wits with her.

  ‘Kirsil?’ she whispered. ‘Are you here?’

  The comforting flutter of her Akari entered her mind. Kirsil, the young spirit who had given her beauty again, dithered nervously just within her grasp. Mirage seized the sense of her, clinging to her hopefully. Kirsil had been precious little use to her, providing solace but no good ideas. They were both trapped, and the Akari seemed to know it. Mirage half expected the spirit to abandon her.

  No, said Kirsil, appalled at the thought. Never. We are together. We will always be together.

  Mirage closed her eyes, but somehow managed to keep from crying. ‘Thank you, Kirsil. Thank you for everything you’ve given me.’

  The Akari hesitated, reading her feelings as well as her thoughts. Do you wish Sarlvarian was here?

  The question surprised Mirage. It was true that she had thought of Sarlvarian — her old Akari — many times since her capture. With his help, she might be able to escape Asher, burning her way past him and his many underlings with his magic fire. But she had traded Sarlvarian for Kirsil, and for beauty.

  ‘No,’ said Mirage, shaking her head. She kept her voice low so that no one else could hear. ‘I’ve never been sorry you are my Akari, Kirsil.’

  Then you must hold on, said the spirit. You must stay strong, just as strong as you have been.

  Mirage leaned her head back against the unyielding wall. ‘I don’t know how much more I can last. My body hurts, Kirsil.’

  You must protect Grimhold, Mirage.

  ‘I’m trying.’

  I will help you. Take strength from me.

  The sentiment nearly broke Mirage’s resolve. Drawing her legs closer to her body, she wrapped her hands around them for warmth, rubbing her knees. She studied the flame dancing on the wall outside her cell, willing it to warm her the way she could when Sarlvarian had been with her. It was not so long ago that she had power over flame. With only a thought, she could have made that lamplight explode.

  ‘I’m so cold,’ she said, then broke into a chorus of coughs. Without water to calm it, she coughed until the pain o
f it seared her lungs, then stopped abruptly. More footfalls sounded in the corridor, this time coming toward her. ‘Oh, no. .’

  Mirage could barely bring herself to stand, but stand she did, determined to face Asher on her feet. Her captor had always been impressed by her strength, maybe even vexed by it. Mirage rose unsteadily, ignoring the icy floor as she squared her shoulders. Soon the sounds grew louder, then the shadows crept around the corner. Two men — both of whom she recognized — appeared outside her cell. She did not know their names, but the pair always accompanied Asher when he came to question her. This time, though, the inquisitor had not come. Puzzled, Mirage glared at the guards.

  ‘Good, you’re up,’ grunted one of the men. Dressed in his dark uniform, he was the larger of the muscular pair, with eyes like burning coals that undressed Mirage when he stared. He fit the key into the stout lock and turned the tumbler, then pulled the iron door open with a screech. ‘Come with us,’ he commanded.

  Mirage fought to control her terror. Short of breath, she gasped, ‘Where?’

  ‘Asher wants to see you,’ said the other, slightly smaller man. In his hands dangled a chain with manacles on both ends. Stepping into the cell, he gestured for Mirage to turn around. ‘Hands behind your back.’

  With no way to resist, Mirage did as he asked, wondering if this — finally — meant the punishment Asher had promised her. The cold iron encircled her wrists, snapping shut. The man grabbed her hair and pushed her roughly toward the door. Her feet scraped across the jagged floor, stubbing her toe as she fell against the bigger man. Shutting the bars loudly behind her, the guard grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her down the corridor.

  It was a long, wordless way through the hall. Mirage had only made the trip once before, when she been brought to her hole-like home. The dim light stabbed at her eyes, illuminating the rows of identical cells, most of them empty, others with huddled prisoners like herself. Mirage looked away, unable to face their vacant stares. At the end of the hall stood a spiral staircase. Vaguely, she remembered descending it, but to her numbed brain it seemed so long ago. She held on to Kirsil, frantically reaching for the Akari through her terror. The spirit coursed through her mind, calming her like a mother’s touch.

  ‘Up,’ said her gaoler, lifting her by the armpit toward the first step. Nearly stumbling, Mirage leaned against his big frame as she struggled up the stairs. The guard dragged her impatiently along, bouncing her up each step, ignoring her cries of pain. The dizzying staircase spiraled endlessly upward, assailing her eyes with torchlight. Days in darkness had turned her vision to mush. She squinted at the growing light, her eyes watering, until at last she spilled out into another stone corridor, falling to her knees.

  ‘Get up,’ commanded the bigger man. Hovering over her, Mirage expected him to strike her, but he did not. Instead he hooked his hand beneath her arm and lifted her effortlessly to her feet. She looked around the giant hall, studying the high ceiling and bare, grey walls. She remembered this place, too, when she had first been taken into the prison. To her great relief, she saw windows at the far end of the hall, and daylight streaming inside. The sight of sunlight made her gasp. Where was Asher? Was she being freed?

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked. ‘Please tell me.’

  But the guards ignored her question. Flanking her, they each grabbed an arm and guided her down the hall toward the sunlit windows. Mirage flailed against their grasp.

  ‘I can walk!’ she hissed, pulling free of their arms. ‘I don’t want your filthy hands on me!’

  The big guard with the dark eyes pointed down the hall. ‘Then walk. Or I will carry you.’

  Mirage did as he commanded, shuffling across the floor, her pride wounded but intact. The men strode next to her, side by side, silently urging her onward. Mirage saw the windows growing ahead of her, looming large in a part of the prison she had not seen before, a place not nearly as dank as the rest of Asher’s home. As they got closer, she rounded a corner to see a pair of open doors. Hardly believing it, she saw grass beyond the threshold. The scent of flowers — of freedom — filled her lungs. She paused, swallowing the fresh air. Looking at her captors in disbelief, they motioned toward the open doors.

  ‘Move,’ said one of them, taking her arm again and guiding her outside.

  Her bare feet touched the carpet of grass. Soft and warm, it tickled her. Mirage looked around, spying the trees that lined the alcove. A ribbon of cobblestones had been preciously laid into the neatly trimmed grass, wandering around a stand of fruit trees. The sun beat down on the gardens, hurting Mirage’s eyes, but she could not bring herself to look away. She squinted through painful tears, wondering where the guards had taken her. They guided her onto the stone path, careful not to let her fall, then stopped abruptly. The smaller one fumbled with her manacles and an unseen key, unlocking her binds.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, pulling off her chains.

  Mirage rubbed her wrists. ‘Where?’

  ‘Follow the path,’said her gaoler.

  Mirage looked at him in confusion. Were they freeing her? Listening, she heard gentle noises just beyond the trees, but could see nothing behind their blossom-laden limbs.

  ‘Go,’ said the larger man impatiently. ‘We’ll wait here.’

  Not understanding, Mirage took a cautious step along the cobblestones, trying to focus her stinging eyes. To her surprise, the guards did not follow. In the shadow of the tall prison, she could not believe such a quiet place existed, and as she went deeper into the trees she saw a clearing set among the grasses, with a table and two chairs — one occupied by Asher. The table had been set with fine porcelain and silverware. An urn of tea steamed in the breeze. Asher sat with his back to a servant, a man at rapt attention dressed smartly in a kitchen uniform. Bread and fruit and dainty sandwiches dotted the table, and Mirage, who had not seen food in days, gaped at it. She froze on the pretty pathway, watching incredulously as Asher tried to smile with his malformed mouth.

  ‘Sit,’ said the man. It was more like a request than an order. Asher gestured to the empty chair opposite him. He had removed his bloodstained apron, donning a clean, silky shirt and combing back his wild hair. His swollen face twisted in delight. To Mirage, he looked like a child sitting at the table, playing tea party. When she did not come closer, he began to pout. ‘Will you not sit?’ he asked. ‘I am sure you must be hungry.’

  ‘What. . what is this?’ Mirage asked, massaging her frozen hands. She sneered at the man. ‘Now you taunt me? Your knife wasn’t enough?’

  ‘Sit,’ Asher repeated, losing his pleasant demeanour in an instant. ‘Or I will not share any of this with you.’

  ‘I don’t want any,’ spat Mirage.

  ‘Then you can go back to your cell and rot.’ Asher looked at her expectantly. ‘What’s that? You don’t want to go back to your cell? You’d rather sit out here and have a nice meal?’ His smirk grew intolerable. ‘That’s what I thought. Sit down, girl. Right now.’

  Mirage inched closer to the table, terrified by Asher’s tactics. She was not free; she knew that already. She took her seat at the table, feeling ridiculously out of place with her torn clothes and dirty face. A shining plate sat empty in front of her. The servant standing behind Asher twitched, as if waiting to act. Mirage looked at all the food and the hot, delicious smelling tea. She could not help herself. Her mouth and stomach screamed for it.

  ‘Your eyes will adjust in a few minutes,’ said Asher, sitting straight as an icicle in his chair. Mirage, however, could barely keep herself erect. She fought against her weakness, trying hard to be the butcher’s equal.

  ‘Tell me why I’m here,’ she said, her voice scratchy.

  ‘To talk,’ replied Asher. ‘Tea?’

  ‘We have talked. We have done nothing but talk. If you mean to torture me, get on with it.’

  Asher snapped his finger, bringing the servant to life. Soundlessly the man came to the table and poured tea into both their small cups. He selected a
n assortment of morsels from the platters, placing them on Mirage’s plate before gracefully withdrawing. Mirage fought to keep her eyes off the food, locking them on Asher.

  ‘Eat, please,’ said Asher. ‘I know you want to.’

  ‘Of course I want to, you bastard.’

  ‘There is no charge for it, girl. You may eat your fill and owe me nothing for it.’

  Mirage laughed. ‘You’re so merciful.’

  ‘This place is my solace, pretty Mirage. I come here to escape the filth of my prison. Even I need to see the sun and listen to the birds sometimes. Does that surprise you?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To talk.’

  Mirage groaned, maddened by his answer. ‘Tell me!’

  Asher sipped at his tea, unperturbed by her outburst. During his interrogations, his patience had been boundless. When he worked, nothing shook his strange comportment. And he was working now, just as he worked when he sat on his stool in Mirage’s cell, spinning the knife through his fingers. This time, though, his implements were tea cups.

  ‘Mmm, that’s good,’ he sighed, smacking his lips as he set down his cup. ‘Nice and warm. The prison gets so cold. Sometimes I can’t stand being down in those cells. Mirage, have some tea. It will warm you.’

  Mirage felt her body start to tremble.

  ‘Eat,’ said Asher. ‘I can wait.’

  Still Mirage did not touch her food. With some satisfaction, she watched annoyance cross Asher’s face.

  ‘Will you eat if I command it?’ asked the prison lord. ‘Perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps you have been in my charge too long already. You have lost every bit of yourself, is that it? In truth I do not care if you eat or starve. I will eat and be happy, and you will still be miserable. And hungry.’

  ‘I am still my own, Asher,’ gasped Mirage. ‘I am not an animal. I can make my own decisions.’

  Amused, Asher lifted his tea cup. ‘Decide, then,’ he said, and began to slowly sip, studying her.