by Rick Field
He followed her easily, either more used to not being able to use arms or hands, or else, his highly trained muscles allowed him to compensate. She didn't care which. He sat down opposite her. “You are in a defenseless and shameful situation, and horrible insinuations were made at your address. I would be a horrible friend if I did not say anything.”
Liane sighed, looking at the bowl of goop. It was still the same goop as before. Looked the same, smelled the same, would more than likely taste the same, too. Amy sat down last, and spooned some of the goop into smaller bowls, distributing the substance in three equal parts. To Liane's surprise, the young girl ate her portion.
“I am attempting to grow up, Proctor,” Amy whispered sadly. Her body shook, and Liane pretended not to notice the tears in her young Assistant's eyes. Just as the girl had ignored her weakness earlier, Liane would now ignore the girl's. It was only proper. “I must apologize once more for my horrible and unforgivable conduct.”
Liane just nodded, accepting the apology once more. “Of course, Assistant.”
“My Lord, Proctor has not eaten in quite some time...” the girl said to Milor, who nodded.
“I can wait, Assistant. Thank you for your help.”
She smiled faintly, then turned to Liane, spooned some of the goop and held it out. Humiliation at being hand-fed warred with the emptiness of her stomach. Liane finally succumbed to her body's weakness, and ate. “My apologies for the necessity, Assistant.”
The girl smiled faintly, and scooped up the next spoonful. “You did not hesitate, and took a horrible spell for me, Proctor.” Amy frowned slightly. “I will be assisting you with far less enjoyable duties shortly.”
Liane glanced at the pail that had been left as their 'bathroom', and shuddered. A small frown appeared on her face as she thought about it. “My Lord Milor has been trying for days to find an alternative, Proctor,” the girl replied to Liane's thoughts. The meal portion finished, she held out some of the stale water, drawn from the same earthwork pitcher that had been there on their first visit.
“And I will be forever in your debt for it, Assistant,” Milor said, sounding embarrassed. “It is humiliating for me, and it is shameful for you. I will not speak of this after this situation is resolved.”
The girl looked grateful. “Thank you, My Lord. Although it is not my duty to provide, I do not believe we have any other choice.”
“Indeed we do not, Assistant,” Milor grumbled as Liane finished the last spoonful of indescribable goop. “Indeed we do not,” he repeated when the girl shifted to help him with his own meal.
They dropped into silence once more. Liane started pacing, futilely tugging on the restraints in a vain attempt to ease some of the strain off her shoulders. The effort proved fruitless; her shoulders escalated from a dull ache to a piercing, sharp pain. She wondered how much longer she would be able to tolerate the restriction.
When her shoulders gave an especially strong spasm, a mirroring jab came from her magic toward the restraints. The pain of the backlash from the cuffs interrupted her pacing rhythm and nearly drove her to her knees.
As it was, she was able to recover herself before she did more than stumble, but it did drive the situation home for her. Not only was she cut off from her magic, so close yet so very far away, her body had been similarly restricted, into a particularly uncomfortable situation.
She had been stripped of her clothes, stripped of her magic, and stripped of the use of her arms and hands. She was thankful that she had been, at least, allowed to keep the mobility of her legs.
Angrily, she sunk down onto the bed, and closed her eyes, trying to gain some sort of balance. Dimly, at the back of her mind, she was aware of her magic tentatively reaching out to the restraints once more, still trying to somehow determine its secrets despite the painful feedback from the cuffs.
She had to admit to herself, even if she could not do so out loud, that Milor's uncle really had them restrained, shackled, and unable to escape this time. What had happened previously would not be allowed to be repeated, and all the loopholes they had exploited had been closed.
First, they had all been stripped. Second, they had all been restrained from using magic. Third, both herself and Milor had been restricted from using their arms and hands, forcing Amy, the young Assistant, to care for them, care for them in ways that were both deeply personal and highly offensive.
“My Lady?” Milor asked, making her open her eyes and focus on him.
“You were able to break these last time,” he went on when he saw he had her attention. “Is there no way you can repeat it?”
Liane shook her head, making her hazelnut colored hair bob with the motion. “Unfortunately not, My Lord. I could teach the runic sequence to my Assistant. With my guidance, she would even be able to sharpen a nail and repeat my actions. Writing the runes is not the problem. The fact that none of us can use magic to invoke them is. We need magic to remove the restraints, and we need the restraints removed in order to be able to use magic to remove them. It is maddeningly effective.”
Her shoulders hurt when she instinctively tried to bring her hands in front of her. She'd forgotten again, the sharp pain reminded her. A scowl entered her face. “There are plenty of things I could try to do, including a few rituals which might be able to drain the magic from us, leaving us without sufficient energy to power the permanent enchantments on the bracelets. Unfortunately, the same problem exists... without magic, we cannot activate them.”
Milor nodded. “I thought so,” he muttered.
“It is deeply frustrating. I can feel my magic. I can touch it. But what I cannot do is use it. I am forced to sit here, staring at the solution, yet unable to reach it,” she told him.
“I am at once, hopeful and horrified, My Lady,” Milor said, staring at her. “Neither myself nor the Assistant can feel our magic at all. We cannot touch or feel it, nor even attempt to use it. You, however, are able to interact with it. It is hopeful that you might be able to find a way out of this. I am, however, horrified at the Tantalus torment that has been placed on you.”
Liane blinked. “Tantalus torment, My Lord?” she asked, not recognizing the term.
“Tantalus was a character from the mythological plays from the ancient Greeks, a people from across the ocean,” Milor explained. “He was a horrific man, and was punished in Tartarus, their version of Hell, by being chained to a large tree, where the water would reach to his chest. He was forever hungry and thirsty, yet when he reached to the low hanging branches filled with fruit, the branches receded out of his reach. When he tried to drink, the water did the same. When he stopped reaching, water and branches returned to a distance that was close enough for him to touch, forever out of his reach.”
“Let us hope that this does not remain out of my reach, My Lord,” Liane replied. “I cannot use magic. Had it been merely a question of pain, I would invoke the magic and free us, despite it. The pain is merely a symptom of my magic getting cancelled when I try to use it. I cannot invoke magic by pushing through the pain, I can merely submit to the pain as my magic gets cancelled.”
Milor just nodded. “I wish there were some way I could help, My Lady,” he told her in earnest.
She tried to shrug, but her shoulders had started to go numb with pain and cramp, and all she managed to do was send more pain through her weakened body. “Perhaps you can tell us more about your family, My Lord? So far, you have told us you were from a family that has elaborate succession and inheritance rites, and that you have an uncle who is also a vampire. From this, I have deducted that your family is rich and powerful or there would not be any need for inheritance rites, or it would not have been able to build this prison for your uncle.”
Milor simply stared at her, his face pained. “I cannot tell you more, My Lady,” he finally said.
She sighed deeply. “Even after the risk of the lives of myself and my Assistant, you still adhere to rules and regulations before friendship,” she stated coolly.
“It is frustrating.”
“My Lady-” Milor began, but she cut him off.
“I do not wish to talk to you at this moment in time, My Lord; please remain silent. We are in a small room and are forced to coexist, I do not wish this to deteriorate into an argument. It would make an already intolerable situation only worse and would do your enemies work for him.”
She knew exactly what she said, and Milor flinched when she claimed their jailor as his enemy. It served as a cold reminder that they would not be here if it hadn't been for their friendship and determination to find him.
From the corner of her eye, she could see the guilt flash over his face, before it was replaced by the casual slackness of Decorum. “I understand, My Lady,” he said quietly, retreating to one of the corners and sinking down in it.
Liane folder her legs underneath her, and tried to meditate. Amy must have had similar ideas, as the bed shifted and Liane became aware of the younger girl's breathing.
Meditation was difficult and peace of mind didn't come to her, the emotional turmoil of the helplessness and hopelessness preventing her from stilling her mind and heart. She didn't know how long she sat like that, just mindlessly numb and staring at the magic that turmoiled in her chest. It could have been hours, or even dozens of hours. She may even have slept, as she startled slightly to find Amy leaning against her, fast asleep, while she hadn't been aware of her young Assistant doing so.
It didn't matter, the isolated nature of the room, the constant even lighting, and the complete lack of any sort of objective reference made any sort of time measurement impossible. She continued to ignore Milor, angry and frustrated with his unwillingness to finally satisfy her curiosity, now that they were in grave peril; peril from which there was no escape.
Her magic continued to try and touch the binding bracelets, yet failed to do so, occasionally sending shots of pain racing along her nerves.
When the door finally rattled and opened, Liane felt her body cease up, complaining about remaining in the same position for too long a time, and she grimaced when trying to unkink spasming muscles. She was unable to rub life back into her numbed legs, and once again frustration welled up in her heart.
The door opened, and for just a fraction of a moment, Liane was glad to see Yari. Despite his anger toward her, and her anger toward him, he was a familiar face.
Then she remembered how he had threatened her before, how vulgarly he had treated her, and the gladness was replaced by a pleasant coldness that left her emotionless.
“Yari,” she said when he entered, carrying a tray, followed by a guard.
He smirked at her. “It's good to see ya,” he told her, leering at her almost-naked body. She jerked her arms, trying to cover herself, and failed to do so. “Yer skin an' bones, though, 'Anne. Yer not healthy. Looks like ya didna do a day's worth of work in yer life.”
“I'm a Noble, Yari,” she answered. “I do my work with magic. And I'm glad to see that you finally remember my name.”
He smiled and put the tray on the table. “I always remembered yer name, 'Anne. I just didna care before. And yer not gonna use magic like tha', yer not. Mebbe I should take ya now. Ya can't even scratch me now.”
Despite herself, a low growl came from her throat. “One of your... friends... already offered the same thing. You're going to have to wait, I'm afraid, Yari.”
He blinked, and looked at her, anger on his face. “Who said tha'?”
Liane wanted to shrug, but remembered in time not to try. Her shoulders were hurting enough already. “He was the Warlock that brought us food last time,” she answered.
“I'm gonna talk to 'im,” Yari said, half to himself. “Not much I can do, but I'm gonna talk to 'im.”
She blinked; had she misunderstood Yari? “Thank you,” she said, gratefully yet uncertainly.
He shook, seemingly realizing where he was. “Gotta go,” he said, legging it for the door, unable to even meet her eyes.
“Yari!”
He stopped; looked at her. “Can ya at least move these to the front?” she asked in the same Common tongue she had used with him last time, jerking on the restraints behind her back. “My shoulders are killin' me.”
He shook his head. “Nah, canna do tha',” he replied. “Takes one of 'em Warlocks to do tha'. But I'll talk to 'em.” He stared at her. “I'm still mad at ya, 'Anne. Angry as Hell. Y'abandoned us. Yer's why everyone's hurt or hungry or dead. And I wanna see you hurt and hungry. But I don' wanna see you hurt hurt.” He turned, and walked out, the second guard just closing the door without word or gesture.
“That was... interesting, Proctor,” Amy ventured, probing to see what Liane's emotional state may be.
“I doubt he will be able to accomplish much. He is a Commoner. Warlocks won't listen to him,” Liane said. “Although I am glad to see that he is at least starting to remember our old friendship. It is better than nothing.”
“It might surprise you, but the Warlocks might listen, albeit reluctantly, My Lady,” Milor offered. “It would not be good to start fighting among themselves, so they might agree, if for no other reason but to preserve the integrity of their alliance. But yes, in most cases, he will be dismissed out of hand.”
“Very subtle, My Lord,” Liane replied, coolly. “Trying to tell me it is not wise for groups to fight among themselves, if only to make a point about our discussion.” She wasn't about to let him get away with subtle barbs or lessons. Not now. They had done too much, risked too much.
“My Lady, please try to understand! I cannot explain!”
She shrugged, and got up. Her legs quivered, struggling to support her. She had been in the same position for far too long, and had not allowed enough time for her legs to recuperate. She stumbled to the table, and fell into a chair. Amy had already taken her seat and was eating her portion of the rations.
Milor slowly made his way over, and sat down in the one remaining chair, as if afraid she wouldn't welcome him at the table.
Amy finished with just three large gulps. “Perhaps you could regale us with your background, My Lady,” Milor returned when Amy turned to her Proctor to help her eat.
“Perhaps I will, My Lord. After you have given the example to this humble Mage on how to best go about revealing one's past,” Liane returned casually, before accepting the food Amy offered.
Milor remained quiet while Liane ate.
The silence stretched for some time, and they did not speak again until the rotation for the use of the bed was discussed between them.
Amy shot her Proctor a worried glance when Liane simply turned on her side, trying to get comfortable on the hard bed and with her hands locked behind her back. Liane ignored her Assistant's look, and simply closed her eyes, trying to get to sleep. She could hear a small sigh come from Milor's throat; yet didn't know whether it was from relief or from guilt. Nor did she care.
They switched positions a few hours, or more than a few hours, later. Just like Milor and Amy had explained, without adequate time keeping or external references to day and night, it was quickly becoming impossible for Liane to keep track of any sort of progress of minutes and hours.
While Milor slept, Amy and Liane kept to themselves, sitting at the table, whispering in an attempt not to wake the sleeping Warlock.
“Lord Milor appears most distressed, Proctor,” the younger girl muttered.
Liane knew better than to shrug; sleep had dulled the ever-present ache in her shoulders and had turned it into a full immobility brought on by stiffness. “We came to his rescue, managed to free him, were recaptured and will likely end up with the same fate that awaits him, Assistant. And yet he refuses to share his background or even the reasons for his situation. What little he has told bring us more questions than it brings answers. It is frustrating to sit here, waiting for death, and not knowing the reason.”
Her young Assistant just looked down at the table. “I know, Proctor,” she whispered. “Perhaps My Lord has a good reason?”
&n
bsp; “Reasons do not matter, Assistant,” Liane sighed in response. “Let us discuss some other subject.”
Amy just shrugged, and Liane envied her the motion. “Decorum, Assistant,” she admonished when it became apparent that the girl was not going to supply a verbal response. “Being kidnapped and imprisoned is no reason to forget who we are.”
Amy looked slightly embarrassed. “My apologies, Proctor,” she offered. She sat upright, back not touching the seat. “What subject would you like to discuss?”
Liane was about to reply when the rattling of keys and the sounds of locks being opened drifted through the door. It opened moments later, a guard accompanying a Warlock bearing a tray. It was one of the six Warlocks that had recaptured her, yet one she hadn't seen up close yet. He utterly ignored the man sleeping, and the two girls sitting at the table.
He was silent and did not glance once at any of the captives as he set the tray down on the table, took the old tray with the empty dishes, turned, and left. For a moment, Liane was glad that he had not spoken, yet felt somewhat disappointed at the same time. At least there had been no threats to her virtue or her health, yet at the same time, there had been no discussion about anything else, either.
She decided it was remarkably strange how her mind worked. With no input, no goal, nothing to do but sit here, she was starting to have decidedly odd thoughts.
She missed the Academy, the lessons, the library, her work. She missed her hard work, her magic, her goals and ambitions.
Liane sighed, feeling an unfamiliar ache spread in her chest. She was going to die; that realization was something that weighed down on her. She was going to die here, her dreams and goals unfulfilled. She swallowed heavily, her throat felt tight and constricted. Her vision blurred when her eyes filled with tears.
She was going to die. Her friend was going to die. And worst of all, her Assistant was going to die. She was responsible for the younger girl, and had foolishly allowed herself to be talked around, and allowed her Assistant to come. Her own decision, her own foolishness, had doomed the girl to death, and there was nothing she could do about it.