A Ragged Magic (2 page)

Chapter Two

I
don’t know how long it has been. My hands burn, my feet shoot pain up through my body, my throat is raw. The questions make no sense, and they will not take no for an answer.

But I didn’t say no, not after they skinned the first hand. I stopped saying words after my feet.

“She cannot sign the confession, my Lord Bishop.”

“It doesn’t matter. Witness it and go.”

“Shall I have her brought to a cell?”

“No! No, I will summon a guard to do that. Go back to the town, and tell that guildsman it is done. And tell him I expect his report by tomorrow.”

“I can —”

“Go.”

“Yes, my Lord Bishop.”

I shudder and try not to whimper at the voices. I don’t allow myself relief. I am not dead, yet.

Bishop Gantry moves around the chamber. I can hear him when I can’t see him. I can’t keep my eyes shut — they keep opening to find him, seek out the danger. But there’s no way to avoid him, no way out. His face looms suddenly over mine, and I flinch, cry out.

Without comment or notice, he uses a knife to slice off the remains of my gown. I gasp, sure this is it, not ready, ready, not ready — but he just rips and tears away the cloth, careful not to cut my skin. I weep and shake.

He lights candles that smell acrid and strange, traces symbols in the air. He chants sharp, biting words, hissing words. I do not know this spell, but the air feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

There is a knife. I see it descend. I feel the bite and pull of it on my leg, the sting, the pain. I am screaming, but there is no sound. A throbbing burn kindles deep in my bones. I can’t move, I can’t speak, I can only weep and suck air in and out.

Out of the air, the symbols he traced begin to glow a pale purple. A kind of smoky fire fills the chamber, shapes writhe and hiss in the air, whispering words it hurts to hear. Gantry’s chanting has not stopped, and the shapes surround me, the cuts he is making on my body. Evil eyes glitter, mouths lap at my blood.

I cannot move, I want out, out — why can’t I pass out?

He moves me when he needs to, rearranging my body, cutting careful shapes, and I feel my soul leaving me, draining into the growing monsters. Demons, I think and try to jerk, try to do anything.

The knife carves up my skin, all my skin, and I am not yet dead. I cannot stay here, cannot live here. I struggle to move, to die.

My body shudders as the demons come closer to my face. Gantry curses, the ghostly flames surge and I gasp, gulp in bael-fire, choke.

I cannot breathe, I cannot see. I am afraid to die, now — what happens to my soul? But I don’t want to stay here.

Gantry curses and shouts. Ruined! I have ruined something.

A small coal of triumph burns bitterly under my fear. Good, I managed something, anyway.

Gantry rips at my bonds, shaking me.

Bright pain burns everywhere, and still choking, rushing in my ears, I spin away into the dark.

～

My wrists burn, I am panting, pulling, shackled to a stone wall to await further questioning or death.

But there weren’t any questions before, only pain, and screeching, and chanting. The knife cutting deep in my body, carving and twisting my skin for an eternity. Gibbering cries fill my mind again and I remember the bishop’s curses, see his blue eyes glow purple as I gasp, inhale the demon bael-fire.

The bael-fire burns, it breaks me. I breathe in screams without noise. My heels drum against the wall as I shudder, remembering, and I pull harder against the shackles.

The iron burns; I feel it in my wrists so aching and cold, the only specific pain. All else melts into a roar of river-rushing blindness. Through the roar I hear the tapping blap of water on stone, the scuttling of small things, and my own gasping.

I twist my wrists, egged on by stabs and jumbles of pain from my body. I know I am dying, but I can’t just let go. I try to cry out, try to escape, try to live.

Cold water splashes over me, shocks me quiet. I hang from my wrists, wheezing, staring into the flare of torchlight beyond the bars. Bars. A cell. No demons anymore. Just the pain, and death on its way.

“Shut up, witch!” A broad face with a scowl, broken teeth, a face that warps into whispering demons; dread fills my stomach.

I twist my wrists harder, blood leaking down to my armpits.

The guard laughs, then chokes, his eyes wide and white, twists back from the cell and smashes into the wall, hard. He grunts only once as he slides to the floor.

A gleam of blond hair, a woman’s alto voice. “Connor, quick, give me the keys.”

“My lady, are you sure this is wise?” A dark figure, a deep tone.

“You threw the guard against the wall. It’s a little late to be asking that now.”

I cannot see them, not clearly. Shivering, I search the shadows while my hair drips, sticks to my weeping wounds.

The woman steps quickly into the cell as the door clangs softly open. The wavering flames pick out elaborately braided hair, a dark cape. Blue gems dance at her throat.

“Don’t just stand there, Connor. Undo her arms, will you?”

The dark figure moves forward. I am unable to move or speak. The flames jump, casting him into sharp relief. Dark hair curls into dark eyes. He is tall, taller than I am. Even taller than Keenan.

The woman hisses as she catches sight of the carving on my body. The blood and burns conceal the patterns they make.

“Oh, my dear, this is monstrous. So many wounds. I’m afraid those will scar.”

I stare, confused. Scar? I’m dying. I don’t understand the worry.

The lady reaches for me and I flinch, to ward her off. Connor grabs my chin and growls a warning I can’t understand, and my head knocks against stone, rings like a bell.

But I See. I See that in those deep brown eyes lies a flame for this lady. I See he follows her and gives her all in his power and grants her his life, if needed. I See he is terrified this harebrained idea will take that life, and hers with it. I See things that got me named witch to begin with.

“Connor, let her go. She was only afraid. She can hardly stand, much less attack me,” the lady is saying.

Connor’s hand drops slowly from my face. My head vibrates in pain.

“Quickly, Connor. There’s no time!”

Connor shakes his head. He hands the lady the torch, turns keys. The shackles fall away, into his quick, quiet hands. He leans close.

“Not a word, little witch, or we’re all so much kindling. Do you hear?”

My eyes narrow, but even that hurts.

He takes my silence for acquiescence, and tosses his cloak around me.

I stumble to my knees as he pulls me toward the door. I am far too injured to walk. I cradle my hands to my chest and whimper. Connor swings me into his arms, not over his shoulder as I expected, and heads out of the cell.

Out in the corridor he sets me on my feet and leans me against the wall.

I sink slowly sideways, panting and hissing as my torn body cries out in anguish. But I cannot stand any more. I bite back sobs and try to force scorched lungs to open. Coughing into a fold of the cloak, I hear a scraping and open my eyes. Connor drags a bloody bundle wrapped in linen into the cell.

“Connor! What are you doing?” the lady whispers hoarsely. She stands halfway down the corridor, torch held high so the shadow flares out behind her and engulfs her head in fluttering darkness.

“This woman died today of the Wasting, and was carted out for burning. I hid her back here after you made it clear you wouldn’t be dissuaded. The burial detail will be here before dawn to collect bodies. The guardsman there won’t wake before then, and will be assumed drunk. Gantry won’t hear of her death until well after noon.”

His voice is scratchy, and he scrubs his face on his sleeve. “The bishop will notice if she’s missing, my lady. He won’t ask questions if she’s dead.”

He stands from his task and locks the cell door behind him. His shadow looms closer. I’m lifted back into his arms and the world spins as I whimper and shudder. When I can see again, the ceiling shifts jerkily in the light from the flames. Connor strides down the stone corridor and another flight of stairs appears suddenly before us.

My vision shifts as much as the torchlight. Moss on stone, a sprawled guard, and flickering shadows. I think we have descended deeper into the Inquisitor’s dungeon: I hear moaning cries, smell death in the fetid air.

At a dead-end we pause, and the lady grumbles as she appears to wrestle with the wall. Then with a dark wind comes the smell of brine. Connor bangs my feet into the wall and I gasp — bite back a cry, and all is darkness.

～

I am on fire. My skin blackens and my lungs ache, the heat gathers around and inside me and I whimper in fear.

Hands, alternately icy and feverish, touch my face, my arms. Pain blossoms at each spot. I try to brush the hands away but my arms are so heavy. Wavering voices above the roar of flames.

“We have to keep her here, my lady. I can’t risk bringing in anyone else. You must keep her quiet until she can be moved.”

“Connor, I need herbs and things I don’t have here. Torture isn’t something I’ve ever had to Heal before. My mother is coming back —”

As the hands touch my arms, I bite my tongue but cry out, anyway. Harsher hands hold my head still.

“Listen to me, little witch. Hold your tongue. No noise, do you hear me?” I open my eyes and stare up at a familiar face as I struggle to understand.

“Keenan,” I wheeze. “They’ve killed you, I saw it. They made me watch.”

The eyes frown at me.

“I didn’t cry, I swear! Don’t be angry. I didn’t faint or shut my eyes. Just like you said. I was brave for you, Keenan.”

“Be braver still, witch.”

“Her name is Rhiannon, Connor. If you’re going to pretend to be her brother, you should use it,” the other voice whispers.

Keenan’s eyes narrow with frustration.

“Be brave, Rhiannon. Don’t cry out.”

“They’re burning me, Keenan. I’m on fire,” I gasp.

“Be brave, Rhiannon. The flames are already out.”

I stare into my brother’s eyes until I am sure, feel the water flowing. A breeze that smells of spring cools my hot eyes, and I relax into sleep.