by J D Bowens
“I threatened to leave the School of Truth. At the time there were so few of us with a True Eye.” Altin regretted making Margaret hide Dandrea’s curse. It was his fault she was dead. “If I had known she’d kill Margaret, I would have reported her a long time ago.”
“Altin, you both should have known better.” Valderma’s face was grave and red. “We used to kill necromancers.”
“That’s why we told no one,” he said with a pang of guilt straining his voice. “I was blinded by my friendship with her. This is my fault.”
“I will send guards for Dandrea at once, and we will decide the matter later.” Valderma put a hand on the young mage’s shoulder. The anger in his voice abated at the sight of Altin’s sullen face. “For now, this cover-up stays between us. The most important thing right now is to restore the wards and disarm the spell in the Deep Vault.”
“We will need to unlock the Deep Vault first to dispel the ward eater. That will require all the deans to be present, will it not?” Altin asked.
Valderma nodded. “I’ll send for Psarikt as well. We’ll take the opportunity to discover what really happened in the Repository and what Dandrea is after. First, I want a word with Dandrea.”
*****
Bal Grish, the prison of Anidrack, was as dark in appearance as the twisted minds that were imprisoned within it. The black windowless stone walls and secretive aura were an ominous reminder that few who entered ever left. The solitary multi-story square structure stood in a far away corner of Anidrack. There were no other buildings for half a mile, and none of the city residents ever approached it. The entrance of Bal Grish was a tall narrow doorway covered by a curtain of gold light.
Several steel golems patrolled outside and halted as Archmage Valderma and Altin approached. “Halt,” said one golem. “State your business or turn back now.”
Valderma held up his staff that gave off a pale white glow. “I am Archmage Valderma, Keeper of Arcana, Headmaster of the College of Anidrack. I demand access to Bal Grish.”
The golem acknowledged the staff and nodded. “You may enter.” He continued to lead the patrol around the building.
Valderma walked through the light of the doorway and waved for Altin to follow. He did so with great trepidation. Altin feared the shady souls that were imprisoned here: mages who had committed terrible crimes, others that were possessed by demonic souls, and necromancers. He felt no guilt that Dandrea would now call this place home, only sorrow that he had not brought her here sooner.
Inside the prison, building was cool and dry but comfortable. The humidity and heat did not reach inside the building. His eyes adjusted to the dim torchlight which exposed minimal details of his surroundings. Men in black robes, mages trained as jail keepers, walked up and down the long hallway. Altin’s eyes were drawn to the multitude of cells in the hall.
“Have you been to Bal Grish, Altin?” Valderma asked.
“No, I’ve only read about it.”
“There are forty cells on the east and west walls, twenty on the first floor and twenty more on the second.”
“They’re nearly all filled,” Altin said.
Valderma nodded. “There’s been an uptick in the darkness spreading in arcana.”
Altin observed the iron bars that guarded the cells. Though torches stood outside by every cell, the light did little to brighten the dark residence, and the lack of windows made it impossible to know the time of day. A fiery red rune was imprinted on each of the cell doors. Altin recognized it as a symbol that kept the prisoners from casting spells.
A thin man garbed in black robes with long silver hair descended the staircase, a ring of keys jingling at his side. “Hello, Archmage,” he said. “You’re here for Dandrea I assume?”
“Yes, Warden. Where is she being kept?”
“She’s just arrived. Waiting in her cell to be interrogated,” the Warden said. “I have her separated from the rest of the population. Follow me.”
Prisoners appeared out of the shadows of their cells and leaned against the bars. “It’s Valderma,” one of them yelled. A barrage of insults and pleas spewed out of the cells and Altin could not discern one voice from the other. They reverberated against the cold black stone and grew louder.
“Isn’t there a ward for silence on these cells?” Valderma snarled. His voice was almost lost among the others.
“Yes,” the Warden said, “but wards are being repaired. They do tend to age.” They came to the other end of the hall to a simple red cedar door. The Warden opened it with one of his many keys and waved them through. Once the door closed behind them, the voices were silenced. The Warden cracked a devious smiled at Altin and Valderma. “This room is soundproof.”
The room was better lit than the hall outside and just as wide, but sparse. A square cage sat in the center of the room alongside a table bearing cruel surgical tools and curious glowing objects. Dandrea sat inside the cage, a red chain wrapped around her wrists and ankles. Her gloom face was partially covered by her long black hair.
“I’d stand to greet you,” she said, “but that’s a bit difficult.” The cage was short and tight, fit only for a dog; it left no room to stand or lie down. All the prisoner could do was sit.
Torture of the Warden’s design, I’m sure. Seeing her, Altin felt no pity, only betrayal. How can she be so calm? Does she feel no remorse for what she’s done?
The Warden stood before the cell and brought his palms together. He whispered to his hands and then stretched them apart slowly as though he were pulling a rope between them. The cage grew and expanded. The bars pushed out and upward, and Dandrea stood up with them. The Warden stopped stretching his hands, and the cage ceased to grow. Dandrea bumped her head on the ceiling but could stand, her shoulders hunched.
“Why did you do it?” Altin asked as he stepped forward. “Why did you kill Margaret?”
“She found out I was breaking into the Deep Vault.” Her tone calm and even. “I only meant to take something from the vault. She got in the way.”
“And what is that?” Valderma asked. “Speak up now, and leniency may be considered in your sentencing.”
Dandrea smirked at him. “You mean you’ll execute me quickly rather than leave me to rot in this cell? How kind of you. I think I’ll take my chances with the rot. You’ll find out soon enough anyway.” She turned her back on them and faced away.
Valderma was not deterred. “What about Psarikt? Is he your accomplice?”
Dandrea laughed, loud and dry, a laugh Altin had never heard from her before. “Psarikt is as much of an accomplice of mine as you are, Archmage.” She waved a dismissive hand, shaking the chains. “I tire of these questions. I’ve nothing left to say.”
Altin stared at the back of her head. Who was this person? What had become of the quirky girl he’d known as a child? He felt Valderma tap his shoulder.
“Come now, Altin,” he said. “We need to investigate the vault. The deans are on their way there now. The Warden will pull her thoughts from her head and divine what’s in her twisted mind.”
Altin saw the Warden pick up a curious golden wand. The cage stretched and changed in shape once more so that Dandrea was forced to stand with her hands at her side. There was no way for her to move away from the Warden as he brought the wand up to her ear. Her screams did not make it past the red cedar door as Valderma closed it behind them.
Chapter 39
Synara stood by Zamari, watching the jailkeeper drag something down the hallway of the dungeon, the hilt of some sort of weapon. No, it was the staff Consus had when they met. But why was he dragging it?
“I don’t know how that scrawny brat was able to heft this,” the jailkeeper muttered. “Didn’t seem like much of a fighter to me.” His nose was still crooked, but Synara did not feel all that compelled to heal him.
Zamari touched the staff and examined it in detail, tracing her fingers over the carved gryphons. “My, what an interesting tool,” she said. “Synara, you said the boy wi
elded this relic when you saw him?”
“Yes, he came from the tree with it,” Synara replied.
“This is an ancient training tool, a Warrior Staff,” Zamari said. “The enchantment on this staff collects experience from previous owners and teaches its current user how to wield it. It would only take a few days for a divina spellcaster to become a master using this weapon.”
The jailkeeper crossed his bulky arms. “Don’t explain why it’s heavy.”
“It’s only meant for those gifted with divina magic. Any lesser fool would feel a ton of bricks.”
“Do you think he knows how to use it?” Synara asked.
Zamari twirled the staff betwixt her fingers like a baton, a horrid smile slithering across her face. “I believe his Blessing is knowledge. I’ve seen his kind before. They can learn the use of most any magical object by just holding it, not unlike our dear Cassian.” Synara flinched at the memory. “He could be a very useful tool for us. There are many things in the Obsidian Temple that I have not learned to use.” She handed the staff back to the jailkeeper. “Synara, you should tend to him. Show him how kind we can be.”
*****
When Consus awoke again, it was to the touch of a cold, wet cloth against his forehead. He was kneeling on the floor, once more bound in chains.
“Hush and be still,” a voice said.
He recognized Synara, the fire-haired girl, wiping his brow. “Get away from me,” he said and propped himself up against the stone wall. “Keep your hands off me.”
Synara looked at him as if puzzled by his reaction. “I am only here to help you, not hurt you.”
“If you want to help me then let me out of here,” he replied.
“I am not stupid,” she said genuinely offended. “But perhaps you are. You cannot leave.”
Consus looked down at the tattoos on his arms. The snakeheads were very near his elbows now. “What could you want from me? You already have everything you need.”
The door to the cell opened and the miserable jailkeeper entered with Zamari just behind him. “What I want,” Zamari said, “is your will. But I think we’ve had enough civility today. I shouldn’t expect a clever boy like you to be coerced so easily. Not without encouragement anyway. Synara, bring me the Elhein’ Kul.”
Consus caught Synara’s grimace. She disappeared from the cell, her boot heels clicking down the hall. She returned in only a few short moments with a black box in her arms and presented it to Zamari.
“We are going to test something, my pet,” Zamari said. She pulled a long and dreadful whip from the box. As she held it in the air, its tip glided along the floor. “Do you know what this does?” She waved it at him so that the end of it just barely touched his face.
A wave of cold and a sense of death washed over him. He had to gasp for air before he spoke.
“It steals life,” Consus said.
“My, you are a clever boy,” Zamari said. “It is as I suspected.” She withdrew the tail of the whip to herself. “Your Blessing is quite rare, almost as rare as Synara’s. You know how to use divina relics just from touching them. What a marvelous gift. You will be quite useful to me.”
“I’d rather die than help you,” Consus said.
“I would think twice if I were you,” she said. “Your brothers’ lives depend upon your obedience.”
Consus bit his lip, hoping that by not saying anything he wouldn’t be admitting defeat.
“Good boy. Now stand and put your hands against the wall.” He complied and pressed his hands against the stone, cold to his touch.
CRACK
The lash tore across his back, igniting a wave of pain. He cried out as a terrible welt formed along his upper back. His skin split open, and a chill crawled up his spine as blood trickled down his back. Over his shoulder, he saw a dark shadow leave his body and get sucked into the whip.
“Not only does it take your life force,” she said, “It drains you of the magic you carry. In time you will learn that with your gift.”
Consus turned around from the wall to face her, his hands balled into fists. He reached out to the divina magic within himself and tried to summon a ray of light. Instead, he felt only the pain from the snakes on his arms. He fell to his knees gasping for air. He let go of his hold on the magic and the pain dissipated.
Zamari stood over him clicking her tongue. “I thought I told you what would happen if you had those bad thoughts. Did you forget already?”
An icy wave of helplessness washed over him. How can I escape if even my thoughts provoke the spell?
“Nevermind, I suppose I cannot blame you. Anger is an instinctual response to pain. How can we change that?” She appeared to pause in mock consideration. “Perhaps if you were to thank me for every lash.”
Consus burst into laughter and wept as he did. What’s happening to me? This must all be some absurd nightmare. I’ll wake up from this and tell my brothers about it. We’ll all have a good laugh.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Consus knew he should shut his mouth, but her request was ludicrous. His whole body ached with every inhalation. Still he could not stop himself from speaking. “No normal person would ask for such a thing.”
Zamari’s eyes were wide with outrage and her face red. She backhanded him, her abnormal strength flinging his body across the cell.
He crashed into the stone floor and for several moments could not breath. This was a living nightmare. He stared up into the black ceiling as his lungs remembered how to breath. A booted heel pressed itself into his chest like a slow stomp.
Zamari lowered herself and brought her face close to his own and paused, like a viper waiting to strike. For a moment her eyes were red and narrow, serpentine in nature.
“I think you will find that I am no normal person,” she hissed.
A kick to his ribs drove the air from his lungs, and Consus curled into a fetal position, his hands over his head.
CRACK CRACK
Each lash drew blood and left a welt on his back. Each lash pulled a shadow of magic from him. He thought no more of revenge or escape. He prayed for relief.
“Please, stop,” he said. “Stop.”
Zamari cackle with laughter that seemed to grow louder with every crack of the whip. He tried to crawl away, to the door of his cell. She followed, whipping him with every pitiful creeping step. He could no longer feel his back, and Zamari seemed to know this. The whip now bit at his arms, his legs, and even his feet. Blood splattered onto the stones around him, and he ceased to crawl.
“Please stop.” His voice was weary and rattled, his throat dry from screaming. “I’m sorry, please, stop.”
“If you wish me to stop,” she said between whips, “you need only to thank me.”
CRACK CRACK
“Thank you,” he said without hesitation. “Thank you.”
“Again,” she said. The whip nipped at his shoulder. “What do you say?”
“Thank you,” he said. This time he screamed the words. The whip cracked once more. “Thank you.”
“Good boy,” she said. The whip dragged along the floor as she sauntered out of the cell. “It’s not so difficult to be polite. If you continue in this delightful way, I may send a healer to see to your wounds.”
He sighed with relief when she left the room. He lay face down in a puddle of blood and tears, shivering as the air kissed his open wounds. Everything hurt, and there was no relief in sight. His only hope was to be courteous to this mad woman.
Chapter 40
Consus did not sleep but meditated after someone came to heal his wounds. He thanked the healer, a Child of Nemoth, but knew better than to believe it a courtesy from Zamari. She had probably healed him so she could whip him again later.
Alone in his cell, he closed his eyes and imagined the library and the wide arching windows and the thousands of books. He could nearly recall each one he had read through the years. Meditation was a practice he learned in Duenmer.
He imagine
d sitting at a table near the window at noon. The sunlight stretched across his table and over the volumes of books occupying it. He read his favorite book, History of Amarant. He felt relaxed as he flipped through the pages and examined the contents. He looked beside him and saw another book: Denpali’s Medicinal Studies of the Human Body. He picked it up and opened the first few pages.
Of course, it would make sense to be reading this. Given his body’s current state of pain, this would be a very applicable lesson. He turned to the section devoted to treating open wounds. Consus recalled his lessons on the author. While noted as an acclaimed healer, Denpali was also a bit eccentric. He had also written another book on the mind’s tolerance and threshold for pain that had drawn a great deal of scrutiny.
The prison door creaked open, and the jailkeeper walked in carrying a simple chair. Zamari walked in after him with a bowl in her hands. The aroma of spices and beef floated through the air. The jailkeeper placed the chair in the center of the room and left. Zamari sat in the chair and wafted the aroma over to Consus.
“You must be hungry,” she said. “Come here and kneel.”
Consus was hungry. He rose up and stumbled forward to her, his eyes fixed on the bowl of stew. For a moment he forgot that he was in a cell or that she was his captor. He knelt in front of her as he shook with hunger. His stomach gave a low aching growl that hurt his ribs.
Zamari smiled. “My, aren’t we learning to be obedient,” she said. “Very good boy. I think this behavior deserves some stew.” She lifted a spoon up to her own lips and tasted the broth. “It is still quite hot to the tongue. Blow on this.”
She held the spoon before his face. Small chunks of meat and vegetables emitted steam that wafted into his face. Consus blew on the spoon pushing the steam away and stirring up the broth. She brought the spoon to his lips and fed him the food.
“How does it taste?” Zamari asked.
Consus nodded his head, hating himself. “It is good.”