Authors: Darlene Bolesny
“Yes, m’lord.” The servant hastily repacked Morticai’s bag and left them.
“Perhaps it is time for ‘Sir Ellenwood’ to drop out of sight,” Ellenwood said.
“Perhaps,” Luthekar replied. “Perhaps not. Let us not jump too quickly. We know that we have at least an hour, perhaps longer. Let us learn what we may and then decide.”
The nobleman moved to a section of wall behind the desk and opened yet another secret panel. Morticai was aware of Luthekar’s cold stare, but he concentrated on Ellenwood, who withdrew a red Droken robe, broidered in black and gold, from the secret closet and slipped it over his head.
Red?
Morticai wondered. All the Droken he’d ever seen wore black robes.
“Do you really think we can get useful information in such a short time?” Ellenwood asked Luthekar.
Luthekar caught Morticai under the chin and forced the Northmarcher to meet his eyes. Morticai stared into the ice blue eyes and found his fear oddly subsiding as his mind filled with hatred.
“I think we shall need the
jevano
, but yes, I think we can learn a few things,” Luthekar said, releasing his hold.
The jevano?
Morticai thought, briefly closing his eyes again. When he reopened them he found Luthekar still standing in front of him, still smiling coldly. Once again, Morticai shoved the fear aside, allowing his hatred to take its place.
Guards reappeared and hauled Morticai roughly to his feet. They took him into the passageway, which traveled only a few feet before ending in a flight of stairs, going down. Morticai looked down the stairs and suddenly found his head spinning and his legs giving way. He felt himself pulled back by his collar, and then a brief cry of pain escaped him as he was lifted off the ground by his numbed arms.
“It shan’t end that easily,” Luthekar whispered to him. The Dark Prince had slipped an arm under Morticai’s bound arms and now carried him, like a shield, down the stairs. At the bottom, Luthekar released him. Morticai promptly sank to his knees and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain as his arms relocated themselves.
He was hauled up by his collar and pushed ahead. The tunnel seemed to go on forever; Morticai felt that his unsteady legs would desert him at any moment. They finally stopped before an oaken door, and he was shoved through the doorway—into an office. Morticai looked around at the oddly normal room. He had expected a dungeon, something sinister. But an
office
? It soon became apparent, however, that the office was merely on the path to wherever they were going.
They shoved him through another doorway on the opposite side of the room, into a small entrance foyer of some type. Despite the knot of fear in his stomach, Morticai found himself looking at the doors, wondering how easy they might prove to unlock, and memorizing how many doors stood in each room, in each wall. They pushed him through yet another door—and the small hope he had begun to build vanished.
Morticai surveyed the large, octagonal room, and saw the large golden idol to Droka, the black walls covered with some type of carvings, and the gold candelabrums, whose light danced off of gold that wrapped around the carvings. But it was the center of the room that held the Arluthian frozen, which caused him to pull in a ragged breath, not caring if Luthekar was watching—it was the platform that dashed all hopes and affirmed all fears.
The guards moved on both sides of him, and though Morticai knew he could not hope to escape, he could not help but struggle as they pulled him toward the blood-covered platform and the chains which hung down to it. It wasn’t until they had dragged him onto it that he saw the symbol of Droka that was graven into it.
“No!” The cry escaped his lips even as the other two guards joined in, holding him face down, on the platform.
They pulled him to his knees and released him, but he found that he could not move. He lay there, panting like a trapped animal, as the armored shapes moved around him. He discovered that it was his legs that he could not move—the irons he had glimpsed as he had been dragged onto the platform now securely held his lower legs, just below the knees, and at the ankles.
He managed to turn his head from right to left, but he immediately turned it back from the pain Luthekar backhanded blow had left behind. He felt the guards unfastening the ropes from about his arms; fleeting thoughts of escape danced uselessly through his head. Even if his legs had been free and usable, his arms were so numb as to be useless in a fight, or even to open a door.
They quickly pulled his arms above his head. Two guards pinned each arm as the shackles that hung from the ceiling were lowered. Another cry escaped him as the shackles were affixed. Pain burst through the numbness to run down his arms as the short spikes affixed within the shackles pierced his wrists. The room momentarily blackened. Small rivulets of blood trickled slowly down his arms.
When his dizziness had subsided, he found himself completely immobile. His knees, on the platform, were about a foot apart, and his lower legs were securely fastened to the platform. His arms stretched taut, up and out toward the ceiling, with his wrists about three feet apart. He tried to look up at his wrists, but the dizziness rushed in until he had to close his eyes to stop it.
When he reopened his eyes, he found himself looking into Luthekar’s cold gaze. Other people moved behind the prince. Morticai realized that they all wore Droken robes. Although some wore the usual black he was familiar with, others wore solid red, and yet others had one color or another embroidered about the hem of their robes.
A red-robed figure came to stand next to Luthekar. When he spoke, Morticai remembered that it was Ellenwood who wore the red robe with the black and gold trim.
“Cwena has arrived,” Ellenwood said to Luthekar.
Looking away from Morticai, Luthekar replied, “Good. Bring her in.” Luthekar turned back to Morticai. “I have someone for you to meet.”
A green eyed, red haired woman came into Morticai’s field of vision.
“Is this he?” she asked, demurely.
“Yes, Cwena,” Luthekar said. “I’d like to introduce you to our Northmarch thief, Morticai. Thief, I’d like you to meet Cwena, one of our most faithful, if young,
jevanos
.”
She smiled seductively at him. Morticai felt his stomach knot up in fear.
“He’s kinda’ cute,” she said. “Wearing him might be fun … for a while.”
“Remember, Cwena,” Luthekar admonished gently, “that it is very important that we keep all of his information intact, so you must leave his soul in place. I want you to feed, but do so carefully. Did the High Priest tell you what information we are seeking?”
The redhead sighed. “Yes, he told me. You want me to feed now?”
“Yes. The entire temple could be in danger, and we do not know how much time we have. So be quick, but be careful.”
Morticai’s breath came in quick, shallow gulps. Despite his immobility, he found that his arms could still tremble, and as she slowly approached him, he fought back the urge to scream.
Stupid, stupid
, he reproached himself.
Oh, Glawres, why didn’t I send a note to Nelerek, as well?
She came up close, in front of him and caught his head between her hands with an unnatural strength. Morticai felt a sickly warmth gather about him, followed by a strange, revolting alien thought that wormed its way in to touch his inner self. He couldn’t hold back the scream that exploded from deep within him.
* * *
Morticai’s eyes slowly unglazed. He was still shackled in place upon the platform. His body was drenched in sweat—or was it blood? He didn’t know. At first, he couldn’t hold his head up. Sounds began to filter into his consciousness. Finally, he found the strength to look up.
A few feet away, Luthekar held Cwena in his arms, and the red-robed Ellenwood knelt before her. Could her assault on his mind have somehow hurt the wicked thing? Luthekar looked over at Morticai and studied him with an odd look of curiosity in his eyes. Cwena stirred, as though she was awakening from sleep. The
jevano
sat up and looked at Luthekar, then at Morticai. After a moment’s study, she spat at the Northmarcher.
“Did you learn anything?” Luthekar asked.
She looked down and closed her eyes a moment before replying. “Yes, but very little. His mind is fear, chaos, madness.”
“What did you learn?” Ellenwood demanded.
When she looked back at Morticai, he could see the hatred that burned in her eyes. “He is working with the Inquisition, but no one knew his whereabouts tonight.”
“Thank Droka!” Ellenwood exclaimed.
Morticai blinked in surprise. He had hoped that he could hide the truth from her and had concentrated on the fact that, as far as he knew, Rylan still hadn’t received word of where he was. Apparently, his gambit had worked. The only
problem was that it
was
true—he didn’t know why Rylan wasn’t here yet. If Rylan didn’t show up soon, it probably wouldn’t matter. There was nothing left for him to do.
“What else?” Luthekar asked Cwena.
The
jevano
seemed to be thinking, remembering, as though it were a thought from long ago. Finally, she replied. “He did not know about the temple. He did not know that you,” she nodded to Ellenwood, “were the High Priest.”
Ah, that’s what the red robe with the black and gold means,
Morticai thought.
“He worships Glawres,” Cwena spoke the name distastefully. “And he is an Arluthian.”
Morticai said, “She lies!”
“I doubt it,” Luthekar said. His cold smile returned.
Glawres, what did they learn from me?
Morticai thought. He stifled a sob. He knew that he could not deny what she had plucked from his mind, knew that they would believe her.
Luthekar knelt down before Morticai, pulled aside his ripped jacket, and picked up the symbol of Glawres that hung around the Northmarcher’s neck. “So,” he said, “you serve two masters, then.”
“Arluthes is not a god,” Morticai replied.
Luthekar raised an eyebrow. “Truly?” he said. “There are Arluthians who would argue the point.” He broke the talisman’s cord with one quick pull, and then, turning back to Cwena, he asked, “Did you learn what rank he holds?”
Morticai took in a sharp breath.
“No,” she answered.
Morticai released the breath. It was small comfort, but comfort, nonetheless.
“We should let her feed again,” Ellenwood said.
“No!” Cwena cried. She flinched at the look Ellenwood gave her. “I … I am sorry, Your Eminence. I meant no disrespect. I simply doubt that I could learn more.”
“I agree with her,” Luthekar said. “No, you need not feed again, Cwena. You may leave us now.”
Morticai sighed with relief. Cwena left quickly, as though she, too, were relieved.
Luthekar turned to Ellenwood. “You must be gentle with her—she is still very young. When she has been a
jevano
for a few centuries she will become a great asset to us. But until then, her skills must be honed slowly. You took your last
jevano
for granted—now that he’s been killed you must be patient until Cwena can master her abilities. Besides,” the prince added, turning again to Morticai, “now we know that we are not limited to a few hours with our thief, here.”
Ellenwood came over to Luthekar. “I presume you have something in mind?” he asked.
Luthekar walked slowly around Morticai. Morticai reflexively tensed as he passed slowly behind him, out of his view. When he had come full circle, he stood with his hands on his hips, in apparent thought.
Morticai licked his dry lips, wishing they would get it over with.
Luthekar unfastened his dagger and drew it from its sheath. Morticai stiffened; Luthekar casually slipped the dagger under Morticai’s shirt, ran it up the front, and pulled the shirt open.
“This is something I wanted to look at,” Luthekar said, gesturing for Ellenwood. “Hmm. See? You can tell by the scar—they cauterized it.” He pointed at the wound Morticai had received from Ducledha.
“But,” Ellenwood said, “they should not have had time to cauterize it. Correct?”
“Correct. As I suspected, he could not have survived without help.” Luthekar tapped the medallion of Glawres he held in his hand.
“Glawres?” Ellenwood asked, surprised.
The Dark Prince looked at Morticai thoughtfully. “Have you ever performed a Ritual of Retribution?” Luthekar asked Ellenwood.
“No,” Ellenwood replied. “We have never before been able to lay hands on anyone who was worthy of it. The Ritual of Retribution is rather long, isn’t it?”
Morticai blinked and tried to follow their conversation.
Luthekar shrugged. “It lasts three days.” He smiled. “And perhaps, during that time, we might learn some things about the Inquisition, or perhaps, the Arluthians.”
Ellenwood’s red hood nodded, “We might, indeed.”
“I think you will find it good for your congregation. It stirs one’s faith to see what is done to such an anathema.”
“I must read up on it, I fear.”
“Do not worry, I will help you with it. I know this is a rare ritual here, but in Cuthaun at least one is performed each year.”