He paused on the point of leaving. ‘Remember, you’ve brought this on yourself.’
Three men entered as Laffon slipped out. It happened so quickly, Serrah was taken off-guard.
They were muscular, stern-faced individuals. Each held a short length of thick rope with one end knotted. She started to get up.
Without warning, the nearest man swung his rope cosh at her. It cracked hard across her shoulder. She cried out and fell back. He moved in and lashed again, striking her just below the throat. Scrambling away from him, she kicked wildly, catching his shin. He cursed and backed off, hindering the other two.
Serrah rolled from the cot, landing heavily, and snatched the bucket. Ignoring the pain, she rose quickly, swinging it. The bucket raked the second man’s temple as he rushed in, knocking him senseless. But the first man had recovered. He landed a hefty punch to her stomach and she doubled over. The third man joined him and they rained blows on her. Serrah tried to ward them off with the pail, using it as both shield and weapon. A stinging rap across the knuckles broke her grip and sent it flying.
The man she had downed was on his feet again, adding his fury to the beating. She covered her head with her hands and retreated. But only a step or two took her to the tiny cell’s limit. She was trapped in the narrow space between bed and wall. It cramped her attackers and they had to take turns to swing at her. But that didn’t stop them delivering continuous punishment to her arms, legs and body.
Serrah half dived, half pitched sideways, onto the bed. That only made it easier for them. They set to with a will then, bent like men threshing corn, not speaking, dedicated to their work. She curled into a ball and suffered the storm.
When she was sure they would go on until they killed her, the beating stopped.
All she knew was pain. Every inch of her body was ablaze. The battering left her ears ringing and her vision blurred. She was bloodied, sweat-sheened, drifting on the rim of consciousness. Breathing hard, she flopped onto her back.
One of her tormentors loomed over her. He reached down and grasped the hem of her smock. With a violent jerk he yanked it up above her waist.
They laughed, jeered, made lecherous comments. Then they told her plainly and crudely what would happen if they had to come again. At the last, somebody threw the confession down on her.
They left, slamming the door.
Serrah coughed weakly, pain stabbing her ribs. Blood trickled from her nose and a corner of her mouth. It was agony to think, let alone move.
She passed an indefinite period of time immersed in an ocean of misery. Eventually nature took a hand and despite her injuries she fell into an exhausted slumber.
That gave the nightmares their chance to afflict her.
Leering faces and flaying bludgeons. The dungeon shrinking to crush her to pulp between its rigid walls. Her daughter sucked into a pitch black maelstrom, fingertips brushing Serrah’s as she strained to reach her. Dreams of fire and suffering and loss.
She woke with a start.
Blood had crusted on her face and arms, and bruises were already rising. She ached horribly, fit to vomit.
It seemed to her that the cell was even more dimly lit than before. And the silence was oppressive. Then an indefinable but not unfamiliar feeling dawned; that sixth sense which let her know when someone quietly appeared at her back. The tickle up her spine that said she wasn’t alone. Painfully, she struggled to a sitting position and blinked into the gloom.
Somebody else was in the cell. Standing by the door, quite still. Their features hard to make out.
‘Who’s there?’ Serrah called, her voice cracked, hoarse.
There was no answer, and the stranger didn’t move.
‘Show yourself!’
Still nothing. Serrah had a dread that it was her torturers back to do worse. Toying with her first, to heighten her fear or their pleasure. But no assault came, so she began the agony of standing.
She narrowly won the battle to get to her feet. When she moved, she shuffled like an arthritic old woman. As she approached the figure she realised it had its back to her. It wore a dark, full-length cloak, tightly gathered. There was a hint of blonde hair above the upturned collar.
Serrah challenged the intruder again. ‘Who are you?’ This time it was nearly a whisper.
The figure turned.
Reality crumbled. Shocked disbelief hit Serrah like a tidal wave. Her pain was forgotten. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move. What she saw made her distrust her sanity.
The apparition stretched out a hand and lightly touched her arm. Its caress was warm, solid. Real. There was no threat in it. Serrah fought to say something. No words came. She took in the other’s long, golden locks, hazel eyes, slightly plump, puppy-fat features. Her visitor smiled.
‘Mother,’ she said.
5
‘Eithne?’ Serrah whispered.
Her dead daughter’s grin widened.
Serrah had never been the fainting type. Now she felt ready to drop. ‘Eithne?’ she repeated.
‘Yes. Don’t be afraid.’
‘But … how? You’re –’
‘I’m more alive than I’ve ever been, Mother.’ The sunken sockets, the pallor, the drawn features had all gone. She was as she had been, before her descent and the final days. Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve come back to you.’
Serrah was aware that her arm was still being held. She felt the girl’s fingers pressing into her flesh. How could this be a spectre, a deceiving glamour? ‘Is it truly you?’ she asked.
‘It’s me, Mummy.’
Serrah wanted to believe so badly. She moved to embrace her daughter.
‘No,’ Eithne said, letting go of Serrah and stepping back. ‘It’d be painful at the moment, I’m too … delicate. I’ve only just …’ The smile was unwavering. ‘I’m feeling tender. Like you.’
Serrah remained with her arms outstretched, stunned at not being able to hold her child. For a moment, her grip on sanity seemed just as elusive. ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said.
‘All you have to understand is that I’m here. They brought me back.’
‘Who? How?’
‘The sorcerers of the imperial court, no less. You’ve no idea the kind of magic they command. Wonderful magic.’
‘You said you were in pain.’
‘Just some discomfort. It’ll pass. The coming back … it was like waking up, that’s all.’
Serrah had never heard of such a thing. ‘But they can’t –’
‘They can. They did.’
‘Why?’
‘For you. Us.’
‘Why would the highest-ranking concern themselves with us?’
‘Because of this situation you’ve got yourself into. They’re showing you a way out.’
‘I must be blind not to see it.’
‘Then look on me as a kind of reward.’
‘For what?’
‘For something you haven’t done yet.’
Serrah was sure she knew what that was, but asked anyway. ‘What do they expect from me?’
‘You have to do as they say, Mother. You have to confess.’
‘Eithne,’ Serrah replied, still feeling strange at mouthing the name after so long, ‘I have nothing to confess to. I didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes.’
‘But does it matter if it means I can be reunited with you, that I can live out the life I lost?’
‘There wouldn’t be a life together if I confessed. I’d be locked away, or worse.’
‘They promised me they’d be merciful.’
‘You believe them?’
‘The fact that I’m here proves they’re serious about their side of the bargain.’
‘And if I don’t confess?’
Eithne’s expression grew troubled. ‘That would be bad for me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The spell they used to raise me is temporary. Unless they
cast another that makes my state permanent, and soon …’
‘How soon?’
‘Hours.’
To have her back only to lose her again. Serrah felt her eyes filling. ‘That’s what they’re offering in exchange for my confession?’
‘Yes. They’ll let me live again.’
‘Doing it this way, it’s … beyond cruel.’
‘No, Mother! It’s a miracle. Don’t you see? They told me that at worst you’ll spend a short time in prison or a reeducation camp. Then we can be together again.’
A small part of Serrah’s mind marvelled at how she had so readily accepted talking with the dead. Her dead. If this wasn’t madness it would pass for it. ‘Eithne, I –’
‘I forgive you.’
‘Forgive me?’
‘For when I was … ill. When you weren’t there for me.’
It was all the more wounding for being stated so matter-of-factly. Guilt knifed Serrah in the ribs. Her eyes were welling again. ‘I’m … I’m so sorry. I did my best. I tried so very hard to –’
Eithne raised a hand to still her. ‘I said I forgive you. But I don’t think I could again. Not if you don’t do this. Sign that confession, Mother.’
Serrah was taken aback by the severe tone in her daughter’s voice. It seemed out of character. Even in those terrible final weeks Eithne had been secretive rather than manipulative. Could her personality have been altered in some way? By the experience of death and rebirth? By some design on the Council’s part? ‘I need to gather myself, Eithne. I have to think about what you’re saying.’
‘What’s there to think about? My time’s running out, Mummy. You always did seesaw.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Just do it. Or do you want me to face death again?’
Something had been nagging Serrah, just beyond thought. It surfaced. ‘If resurrection really is possible,’ she said, ‘why haven’t they used it on Phosian? I mean, they couldn’t have, could they? Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Eithne replied after a pause. She sounded defensive. ‘I think it might have something to do with the way a person died,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘A lethal wound, too much ramp; what’s the difference? Dead’s dead, isn’t it?’
‘I’m no expert on magic. I don’t care how they did it.’
Serrah played her hunch. ‘What do you think Rohan would have to say about this?’
‘What?’
‘Rohan. He’d have something to say, wouldn’t he?’
Eithne was obviously perplexed but trying to hide it. ‘I don’t –’
‘You do remember Rohan?’
‘Of course! But what’s he got to do with this?’
Serrah’s heart was sinking. But she would see it through. ‘I think his opinion’s important, don’t you? Humour me.’
Her daughter sighed. ‘I suppose … I suppose I’d expect him to say you were behaving foolishly by being so stubborn, and that you should do what’s best for both of us.’
‘And I’d expect you to say, “Don’t be half-witted, Mother; real dogs can’t talk. And Rohan’s a she, not a he.”’ She glared at whatever was calling itself her child.
‘You’re confused.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’re doubting me just because I couldn’t remember the name of a dog?’
‘An animal you were inseparable from all your childhood. Or rather, Eithne was. I don’t know what you are, but you’re not my daughter.’
‘That’s ridiculous. The beating’s affected you. You’re not seeing things straight.’
‘You mean I’m not supposed to.’
‘Look at me; I’m your daughter. How can you disown me, Mother?’
‘Don’t call me that. All I see is a fraud.’
‘Sign the confession. Save us both.’
Serrah had ceased to believe in the illusion. ‘I deny you,’ she hissed.
The girl saw her expression. She began edging away. Serrah noticed that the door was slightly ajar.
They moved at the same time. Despite her aches, Serrah was faster. She caught the pretender by her arms. They struggled. Serrah loosed a hand, drew it back and delivered a hard slap across the girl’s face. A tingling sensation suffused her hand, like transient pins and needles.
‘You stupid bitch!’ the impostor wailed. Her voice was changing, dropping to a lower pitch.
Transfixed by what was happening, Serrah let go of her.
It was as though a seething swarm of golden bees covered the girl’s face. Then the myriad glimmering shards dispersed, flying out in all directions and dissolving.
A partial glamour, designed to enfold its host’s face, and in this instance imitate a dead child. Advanced magic, worth a small fortune.
When the dazzle cleared, Serrah was facing a stranger. A plain woman, not a girl, and quite different to her daughter. Only her build matched. She looked frightened.
Serrah lunged at her. She met a blow to the abdomen. It knocked the wind out of her and rekindled the fire of her earlier thrashing. Gasping, she went to her knees.
The woman was through the door in a flash, slamming it behind her. Serrah scrambled to it and started hammering with her fists. She raged and cursed until her hands were bloody and her voice gave out.
At some point her passion spent itself. She had sunk to the floor, and remained there. The door was bloodstained from her pounding.
Now she hugged her knees to her chest and gently rocked. And due to her masters’ deceit, grieved again. Physical brutality she might withstand. She didn’t think she could take much more of their artifice.
For some while she had been staring at the top of the door frame. The cross-beam projected like a narrow shelf. If her smock was torn into strips and wound together, the makeshift rope could be looped over it. Then she just had to tie a noose, haul herself up, wriggle her head in and let go. There wasn’t enough of a drop to snap her neck. It would be a slow choking. But even that seemed preferable to her present state.
Her trance was broken by noises outside the cell. They were coming for her again.
Serrah was halfway to standing when the door flew open. It framed one of the men who had beaten and threatened her. His expression was unreadable. Serrah backed away, meeting the bed.
The man took two faltering steps in her direction. He stopped, swayed, then fell head-first. A dagger jutted between his shoulder-blades.
There were other people outside. Serrah blinked at them, bewildered, as they spilled in. Their faces appeared blank at first. She thought it must be more glamours to cheat her, then saw they wore fabric masks, quite crudely made.
‘Who are you?’ she challenged.
‘Friends,’ one of them responded crisply. ‘Come on! We’ve no time!’
The thought that this might be her unit flashed through her mind. She soon realised it wasn’t. ‘Where are we –’
‘Out of here.’
He took her arm. She winced as they bundled her into the corridor.
There were four of them. One went ahead, one took the rear; the other two stuck by her. They began moving down a long, low-ceilinged passageway. It was badly lit and the men at front and back activated soft illumination glamours.
She asked again, ‘Who are you?’
‘We’ve a way to go before we’re out of here,’ her escort told her, ignoring the question, ‘and likely to meet opposition. Stay with us, keep moving.’
‘Give me a blade,’ she said.
‘You’re in no state.’
‘If I have to defend myself I’ll need it. You want me out of here, don’t you?’
After a brief hesitation he passed her a long-bladed knife. Its cold, firm gravitas reassured her.
‘Use it only if necessary,’ he cautioned. ‘We’re here to do the fighting.’
She shook loose their steadying hands and walked unaided. They said nothing but stayed close to her. Ho
bbling from her pains, Serrah had to work hard to keep pace.
They came to two bodies sprawled in their path; one a warder, the other wearing a paladin’s red tunic. That meant real trouble. If it was possible to be in more.
Stepping over the corpses, they warily approached a corner. Once round it they were in another passage, much like the first but shorter. Three more masked rescuers lurked at the end of it. Serrah’s group hurried to them, and she ached with the effort.
They were guarding the foot of a winding staircase. There was a quick, whispered consultation. Then together they started to ascend, weapons ready, with Serrah in the middle of the pack.
Five or six turns brought them to another level. This proved to be an axis of corridors, each following a point of the compass. All looked empty. The party continued climbing.
The level above saw the end of the stairs and a single passageway. It wasn’t much more than a tunnel. With whispers and signals the one who seemed to be their leader explained that the next stairwell was at its far end. By drawing a finger across his throat he indicated that it was a particularly dangerous stretch. As they began walking, she saw why. Other corridors branched out from theirs, but at oblique angles, meaning the mouths of several were blind to them until they drew parallel. They crept past two such without ambush.
As the stairs came into sight they found another body, lying in a scarlet puddle. He was one of theirs, no doubt left as a lookout. His mask had been pulled up to his hairline and his body bore numerous wounds.
They all glanced around nervously. Serrah gripped the knife tighter, her senses heightened. Twenty or thirty paces ahead were two more side passages, one to their left, one to their right, almost facing each other. There was a flurry of handsignalling among Serrah’s party. Then they quietly spread out and began a slow advance. A pair of her unknown companions shadowed her, not touching but close enough to.
About halfway there, the pathfinder motioned a halt. He knelt and picked up a small piece of stone. This he pitched ahead of him. It landed mid-corridor, clattering.
The echo died. Nothing happened.
They decided on the simplest stratagem: a rush en masse for the stairs. The company readied themselves. Serrah’s escorts looked ready to drag her if necessary. Their fingertips brushed her arms, within grabbing distance.
Quicksilver Rising Page 5