CHAPTER 18
The Tent
It took a while for the servant to return. It wasn’t hard find the right wagon—it was the only black one and had red wheels besides—but likely the girl was dragging her feet again. Most of the time she made the Watcher practically carry her in. Unless she was trying to prove it was not fear that made her unresponsive—then they marched in as fast as she could walk. Ridiculous child. As if it matters whether she was a coward or not, either way she will be broken.
At last the lad scuttled back into the tent. "A'lan and the Wielder, my Lord." He announced, folding himself in half again before he retreated to the wall of the tent. Well, he could stay. There was no reason the word of the Wielder's dressing-down needed to be kept quiet. That was one constant on any shore: servants always talked.
"Good day, A'lan. How is your captive?"
"I am here, dog. You may speak to me." The girl broke in, imperious as ever. That will be stopped. The thought was cold even while the words made his blood hot.
"A'lan? How is our little bird on a leash?" he repeated mockingly.
"She refuses her food still, my Lord Keravel. She is unresponsive, disobedient, and generally troublesome. As always." The man bowed. Keravel wondered if there had been something of sarcasm in that response, but the tone was flat as a frozen pond and the face just as smooth. The girl at the other end of the chain on his wrist was now ignoring them both, or pretending to. She could not stop the splashes of color that flared on her sharp cheekbones. She’s awfully skinny. It annoyed him.
"Ah, she does not yet like her cage. But she will, A'lan, just as all young, pretty things learn to accept their chains, yes?" Even that allusion to another young, pretty thing brought him no reaction from the ashendari. Stone cold Antralians! And this and his brother were the worst of them. Bah! It had been a pleasure to crush them in the Invasion.
"You are dismissed, Watcher. Take your little sparrow with you. Perhaps we will teach her to sing for us one day, but that is enough for now." Color flared in her cheeks. From what Keravel knew of the culture of Amanheld, where this chit had been raised, a woman singing in public was akin to her stripping her clothes off in front of a crowd. He didn't quite grasp why that was, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to use it.
"You are a fool, Firstborn, yet you prance about like a king!” She burst out when she could contain it no longer, “Had you greeted me as an equal you would have had my aid, gladly given. I would have been well pleased to be treated your equal. But I am not your equal, Firstborn Keravel, I am your better. You may be a caster, but I am a Creator."
The words seemed to echo in the stillness as she paused. The servant's eyes looked about to come out of his head, but Keravel did not care about him. The chit has gone too far, now! I will—!
"But no. You wanted power, as you always have, regardless of the good of the Empress, your "brothers" or anyone else. You spin schemes like a spider, and you are just as poisonous. You wanted to be remembered and now you will be," she was as cold and cutting as the icy wind outside.
"You will be remembered as a fool. You never should have touched me, Firstborn, for now you cannot win. Kill me, and your world dies because of you, if your prophesies are true. Let me live and I kill you. It is a double bind. You lose, because I swear I will see you dead."
Her oath was no more binding than any person's in the common language, but Keravel had no doubt that she would keep it if she ever got the chance. The thought of her unchained sent a chill down his spine, but he forced himself to sneer at her.
"The business of the Brothers is none of your concern, leashed one. And you will regret this day for the rest of your long life in chains." She did not react to his threat. Well she will react to this!
"Watcher!" he snapped, "take her to the red tent. I will be there shortly."
With a salute, A'lan began to gather the chains to drag his charge to the desired location. The red tent was where her punishments always took place. It was normally used for the interrogation of captured spies or scouts—the red did not show blood. In the course of their travel, the girl had been sent there often, sometimes to be punished for insolence or disobedience, sometimes for no reason at all, just to make her fearful. After today, I swear she will fear me more than anything alive. She will fear me more than death.
For once, the Wielder led the way out, neither hurrying nor delaying, just walking. A'lan saw the servant's eyebrows rise as he followed her out. No doubt every last person in the camp would know what happened here today and know that Elaina had walked to her own torture like a girl walking through a meadow.
It almost made him smile.
She has the measure of Keravel, certainly, and does everything that will most bother him. But the thought of what was coming removed any amusement. He read the deadened, dejected resignation in her walk and the surges of absolute terror that stole her breath.
Of all the things he had to do, this was the one he hated most: watching Keravel hurt her. It made him think of his sister, the only reason he was here at all. Knowing that Keravel may have ordered the same for Sarina, may have done the same with his own hands, that sick smile on his lips as he did . . .
It made A'lan want to tear the man apart. But if he tried anything, this much and more would be Sarina's without doubt.
Sarina. He had not seen her in four years. She was sixteen then, even more beautiful than their mother, all ready for the balls and suitors of a princess of the Diadem of Storms. It was a thought he shook off quickly. There was nothing he could do but obey, dwelling on it only made it worse.
The walk was not short—the Brothers did not want to be bothered with the screams of the unfortunates unless they so chose. Every man they passed nodded to A'lan and held their weapons tightly with an eye to his captive. Today she paid them no more mind than so many trees.
When they saw where they were headed, men stopped peering after her and went about their business hastily. Many suddenly thought of something to do on the other side of the encampment or beyond. High-pitched screams carried in the cold air.
The camp's blacksmiths looked longingly after the men that walked the other way as they worked the bellows or hammered red-hot metal. They couldn't leave their coals, so they'd just have to work that much harder and pretend they could not hear what they heard.
Eventually, the crimson splash of the tent came into view among the wagons, mud, and dirty patches of snow. True to form, Elaina marched right in without hesitation. To another, the set of her jaw may have spoken of determination, but A'lan saw how her chest rose and fell quickly as fear made her heart race. The soldier sitting inside sprang to his feet.
"Good day, Master Leving. I hope you are well?" She greeted him, voice even and smooth. Truth, but she hides it well. They had been there often enough that she knew all the men assigned to the red tent.
"Well enough, I'd say, Mistress. What have you done now?" They were actually almost friendly, with her so polite it was hard for them not to be. Hard men, but they do not quite know what to make of her. A'lan could not fault them for it.
He himself didn't know what to make of the Wielder half the time. It seemed to him that they were torn between happiness and distress when Keravel came to do their task for them. They did not really enjoy harming her, some because they feared of her reprisals, others because she was a woman, but then their lord did a much more thorough job of it.
"I have poked the dog with a sharp stick." She said lightly. "He did not like it."
"The Firstborn coming down here himself, Watcher?" Leving asked. A'lan nodded, face blank.
"Must have been a sharp stick!" He muttered.
"The truth hurts, when you are a fool." She observed in turn. Leving gave a wry smile. "I'll just wait out here for the Firstborn." He nodded to A'lan and slipped outside.
Leaning easily back against the wooden contraption she would soon be strapped to, the Wielder openly considered the tools laid out to the side. Watching her studying th
em, A'lan thought she looked more like a woman choosing ribbons for her hat than one wondering which of the pinchers, brands, and blades would be used on her. A deception, but he could admire the effort.
The tools were all clean, gleaming dully in the weak light. Keravel insisted that not one of their special prisoners die of infection and escape their fate. Even the glass-studded whipcords were cleaned each time, though Keravel avoided those—far too messy for his prize. The whole tent reeked of blood and burnt flesh though. Some things just cannot not be washed out, he thought, turning away while she removed her dress.
When he turned back, she was stepping onto the peculiar stand to which she was bound for these sessions. It had once been a table, he thought, only the legs were sawed off, and the whole thing tipped up on one edge like a very steep ramp. The boards were studded with leather straps that could hold a victim in a variety of positions.
"Would you do the straps, Watcher? I would just as soon not have the dog do it." She stood on two wooden blocks nailed into the boards, leaning back against the tilted surface. Her feet were half a span off the dirt and her head was just below his shoulder. She wore only her camisole, which reached far enough to cover her knees and had straps for sleeves.
If she hadn't taken off the dress, Keravel would have cut it off, and the blue one was her favorite. Without a word, he bound her ankles and wrists to metal hoops driven into the wood, ignoring her blushes; she always blushed that they saw her in her camisole. A'lan adjusted the strap that went around the outside of the Bloodstone collar. When he was finished, she was firmly tied down.
Keravel tended to pull the straps too tight and cut off blood flow. Then they had to stop later to fix it when her hands and feet turned purple.
It was a good thing the collar prevented him from fastening the neck one too tight—she might have died before A'lan could have intervened. As it was, she'd come near to losing a hand the time Keravel had removed the standing blocks in order to peel the skin off the soles of her feet. At least he contains his work what is not covered by the camisole. No doubt the Firstborn hopes to include her in his breeding program once he’s broken her. What an addition she would make to his harem of casters. The thought of those unfortunate women made A'lan flinch.
As if summoned by grim thoughts, the Drethlord swept into the tent. He had not bothered to change from his gold-embroidered grey robes—he seldom did. Blood may not come off easily in soap and water, but the Elements leave nothing behind. There was no need to heat the coals that stood in an iron tray in the corner either, Flame could do that. Only the actual contact with her skin had to be without it, would be without it, no matter what he tried. With the Bloodstone linking her to the ashendari, it would be just as useless as trying anything on him. Not that it slows him down.
Unlike most of these sessions, the Firstborn did not start with the pinpricks and punctures that he often used to build suspense. His anger was colder than that. A'lan had heard that the Brothers had met this morning and wondered what new permission Keravel had wrangled out of them while the man began pummeling his victim.
His lips tightened briefly when Keravel's blow sent her head back against the boards with a crack. He would have to make sure the Firstborn didn't forget himself and kill her. The Firstborn was that sort of man, to lose his head in the pleasure of it. Weak. Weak and twisted. But A'lan kept his opinions to himself.
A'lan watched in silence as the blades came out and the real work began. The inside of her forearms, just above her collarbone, her fingertips and hands—it took only minutes before the Wielder was screaming, no matter how she tried to bite her tongue.
A'lan didn't mind the blood, though he certainly didn't enjoy it. That he was used to after years on battlefields before years of service. He had even gotten used to the smell of seared flesh, Truth help him. It was the blood of a woman that he hated. He didn't think he would ever get used to that. Or the screams.
All too soon the Firstborn reached for the irons. They were just metal wands, about two hands in length and of varied widths, from narrow as a piece of straw to wide as the palm of his hand. Laying the first in the fire, Keravel fingered a knife thoughtfully.
In silence, he reached out to grab a fistful of her camisole. With one swift motion, the Firstborn made a slice down the middle to her naval, baring a pale strip of skin. Tears overflowed from the girl's eyes, squeezed shut as if to deny the reality of what she couldn't see.
A'lan watched with narrowed eyes. What is the animal doing now? His eyes flicked along the ruined front of her camisole before he jerked them away. Just because Keravel is a twisted vermin of a man doesn’t mean I have to leer at her, too. Reaching for the white-hot brand, Keravel spoke for the first time.
"I have enjoyed watching you struggle, sparrow, but for this you must stay very still. If you thrash about like you usually do, you might do some serious damage. So. Don't. Move." The Wielder's breath came in ragged gasps. A'lan watched with sharp concern. The caster had never done this before, whatever it was.
Keravel laid the glowing metal against the side of her neck just below the collar. The Wielder's cry of agony made A'lan's blood curdle. It was unearthly. The hair on the back of his neck, on his arms stood on end.
But she did not move a muscle. If she had she might have killed herself, destroying and cauterizing her jugular in one jerk. A sick smile of delight lit Keravel's face as he traced his way down her body, leaving a trail of angry red skin that whitened and flaked off as A'lan watched. The wail that ripped from between the Wielder's teeth seemed never to end. Truth, make it stop!
Finally, the brand reached just below her navel. Still she did not move. If she were to arch her back, she would be dead for certain. With a vicious twist, Keravel laid the flat of the brand against her skin, tearing another piercing cry from his victim before he finally lifted it away. Truth! A’lan clenched his fists to stop his hands from trembling.
A stream of tears flowed down the Wielder's cheeks, and she shook as she had in the snowstorm. A low whimper escaped her lips through clenched jaws. Hatred and despair blazed in her eyes. In one instant, determination replaced fear, and a rush of hope eased her breath and brightened her eyes as she looked up at them both for a brief moment. They were the glazed grey of a winter's dawn. Cold, empty, and dead.
Keravel lifted the brand again. With a lingering glance at A'lan, she closed her eyes. The Watcher frowned. There is something familiar about that look, that haunted hope . . .
The brand hovered a hairsbreadth off her skin and Keravel's eyes shone with fervor. A'lan reached forward and grabbed his arm, yanking the man halfway around. Startled, furious grey eyes turned toward him. To touch one of the Brothers that way was an assault; it stripped the Firstborn of the Elements. A'lan wanted his attention and now he had it.
"Not that again, my Lord."
"What?" the word was hissed, soft and sharp. A'lan was not concerned. They both knew what he could do to Keravel, and they both knew what could be done in return. There was no way Keravel could harm him like this. But he still has Sarina . . .
"Do not do that again. She will kill herself before you can stop her. Do something else if you must." A'lan released his arm. For a moment they stood staring at each other while the rage in Keravel’s eyes cooled at the prospect of losing his prize.
I will do what I have to do. I will not let the Wielder die, no matter how far the Firstborn thinks he can go. If he forgets himself . . . perhaps the others will be merciful in light of the Wielder's importance and not harm Sarina.
At last Keravel stepped back from his victim, still eyeing A’lan. He was perfectly aware of what a trained ashendari could do to him at this range.
"I have had enough for now. She will bear that scar forever, to remind her of the cost of rash words." Keravel did not spare her another glance. A'lan bowed silently to Keravel, as if he hadn't just determined to kill him if he tried again. Before he straightened the Firstborn was gone.
&nb
sp; The benefit of the stand in the little red tent was that only one side of her was ever bruised or bloodied. Since she was often secured with her back to the boards it was easy enough to carry her to the wagon. Keravel preferred to work on her front—he liked to watch her face.
This design also made it easier for her to sleep, since there was at least one side she could bear to lie on. A'lan carried her through the camp without care that the wind ruffled back the gaping tear in her camisole.
Getting her back quickly was most important. She couldn't stand to lose blood, skinny as she was, and there was no need to waste time before treating her. Most of the men looked away with flinching relief when they saw her, anyway. It meant an end to those screams.
She was lighter than she had been before, so much so that it was hardly a burden to carry her so far. He imagined it was similar to carrying a child, though of course, he had not ever been close enough to a child to be sure. There were few children in Hurndrith, and those that lived in the Fortress were kept far from the ashendari and everyone else.
A’lan was grateful to see E'dan was waiting for them at the wagon. He had always been better with herbs and bandages, and the girl was going to need all his skill this time. Together they cleaned and bound her many wounds. At least it was not her feet again—that had been inconvenient. Even so, she was unconscious for most of their work.
Once they were finished, E'dan laid her just outside the door. There was a little porch-like area there that served as a wagon seat when they were on the move. The Wielder fit right in between the door and the seat. They could drape a sheet over her from the bench to the doorstep so it didn't touch her, but covered her from the snow and cold and prying eyes while they tidied the wagon.