Blood of Innocents (Book Two of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (28 page)

Savine Khedevis.

He stepped forward when she noticed him.

“Lady Felicienne. It’s so nice to see you again.” He smiled at her, and she almost smiled back, despite her situation.

He was a remarkably attractive man—almost too attractive. But there was something about Savine that bothered her, which she couldn’t quite put her finger on. An attractive and powerful sorcerer who seemed… wrong, was the best way she could think to describe him. He made her skin crawl for no reason she could fathom.

She rose to her feet as gracefully as she could, groaning with the effort. Her tongue and mouth were dry, and she looked longingly at the empty water jug. “Could I have some water, please?”

“Ah. Thirsty, are you? I’m sure you are. Perhaps later. I’ve a few questions for you. Afterwards, provided your answers satisfy me, you can have all the water you need. Is that fair?”

Felice shook her head weakly. “Not really, no.”

“Well, you don’t have much choice in the matter. So, I’ll call it fair, and we can progress.”

He nodded to the soldiers, and they grabbed her arms. She struggled to no avail. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do against two professional soldiers, but she had never been one to go quietly.

A hand gripped her hair, and she choked as her head was yanked back. Her throat erupted in pain, and she could only take short breaths. Her hands clutched at the soldiers holding her. She wondered what would happen if she dug her nails into their arms. Nothing good. She relaxed as best she could and saw Savine nod as she went limp.

“Do you know what’s going to happen now?” he asked.

“You…” she gasped, “will… torture… me.”

Savine shook his head. “Oh no, nothing as crude as that. You’ll tell me everything you know about the resistance you’ve been running—your men, your locations, what you know of us, and what you know about the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern.”

“I won’t talk.”

“Ah. That’s where you’re wrong. You won’t have a choice.”

“Do your worst,” she spat.

“You wouldn’t like that. My worst is pretty bad. Instead, I’ll settle for taking your thoughts straight from your pretty head. Though I have to warn you, it’s going to hurt.”

Savine laughed as burning needles stabbed into her mind. She cried out in wordless agony, hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. A fresh wave of agony rolled over her, and a welcome darkness descended.

•

Felice woke again. Cold sweat covered her body, and she was shivering. Her pants stuck to her legs, and this time the smell of excrement was her own.

Rolling onto her back with a clinking of chains, she groaned at her pounding head, opened her eyes a slit then squeezed them tight. Even the dim light in the room was too much for her to bear. Her top lip itched, and when she rubbed under her nose, she felt dried blood.

Someone moved close to her, and she flinched, feeling rather than seeing the movement. Another clink of chains, not her own. A man coughed weakly. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed her chain and pulled the slack to her, doubled it on itself and formed a makeshift weapon. Drawing a breath to prepare herself, she opened one eye, squinting around the room.

Another chain had been attached to the bolt in the wall, leading to a figure.

She blinked. It was Avigdor.

Crawling as fast as she could across the gritty stone floor, she reached his side and cradled his head, which lolled limply. “Avigdor. Are you injured?”

No reply. Then she remembered his ankle. His bones had pierced the flesh, as bad a break as she’d ever seen.

A crude bandage covered the injured ankle, but she saw no sign he had been administered to by a physiker. The bandage was too loose, and there were no splints. It was an unnerving sight, which led her to suspect they didn’t have much use for him.

Dried blood also covered Avigdor’s top lip, a trail originating from his nose. Hopefully it was a minor side effect, and no permanent damage had been done. She could only speculate; she needed more information. But most of all, she needed to get her hands around Savine’s neck and squeeze the life out of him, with two of her men holding him down.

The thought warmed her, and she gently laid Avigdor’s head back to the cold floor. Shuffling to her bed, she gathered an armful of straw and made a pillow for his head. Not much comfort, but the best she could do under the circumstances.

The water jug had been refilled, and she poured a trickle into his mouth, carefully, lest she choke him. After a few moments, he swallowed, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She continued until he drank a few mouthfuls. She took a sip herself, to quench her raging thirst, but left the jug half-full. Best to ration what they had, just in case.

Muffled voices reached her ears, coming from the opening at the end of the room. Boots scuffed on stone. Armor and weapons clanked. Four Indryallan soldiers emerged from the darkness followed by Savine, whose face lit up when he saw her staring at him. One of the soldiers carried a coarse robe.

“Excellent! I wasn’t sure you’d be conscious by now. But from what I’d heard of your reputation, I was certain you’d have a resilient mind.”

Felice remained silent.

Savine gestured to the soldier holding the robe, and the man flung it at her feet. Another threw a rag at her and slid a bucket of water toward her.

“Clean yourself and get changed. There’s someone who wants to meet you: the man you tried to kill at the docks.”

She looked at the robe lying on the floor. “I didn’t know who he was, just someone important. You want me to get changed here? In front of you?”

“Yes, please. Now, if you don’t mind.”

All four soldiers grinned at her discomfort, while Savine shrugged.

“I can always get them to change you, though it might take longer and be quite distressing.”

Felice looked at the soldiers then raised an eyebrow and bent to retrieve the rag and bucket. Keeping her eyes on Savine, she undressed and wiped herself clean as best she could using the rag which she wet with the water. She shrugged the robe over her head. It was scratchy on her skin, but at least it was clean. With a foot, she shoved her dirty pants and shirt against the wall.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? I have a small demonstration prepared, to show you we mean business. To open your mind.”

She trembled, remembering the pain in her head. “Sorcery?”

“Oh no, something simpler.”

“Avigdor needs help. A physiker to set his ankle, and something for the pain.”

Savine nodded at the soldiers and two approached and grasped her arms in vise-like grips. The other two went to Avigdor. One removed a hatchet from his belt.

She licked her dry lips. “What are you doing?”

“These people don’t like it when someone attacks their God-Emperor. They like to retaliate in a forceful way. To send a message to anyone else with the same idea.”

These people. So Savine wasn’t one of the Indryallans. Then who was he, and how did he fit into the scheme of things?

One of the soldiers grasped the foot with the broken ankle and pulled the leg straight. Avigdor moaned but remained unconscious. The axe rose.

“Don’t you touch him!” screamed Felice.

With a sickening thud, the axe bit into Avigdor’s shin. Bone splintered with a crack. Avigdor whimpered and writhed weakly, but remained insensible.

He must be almost gone already, she thought. A small comfort.

The axe rose again, and the soldier gripping the foot jerked back as it came free.

Felice yelled at them, struggling in vain to escape the iron grip of the soldiers holding her. The soldier slung Avigdor’s foot across the room and grasped his remaining one. Blood pooled across the stones from the stump of Avigdor’s leg.

“No. Please don’t,” she begged. Bile filled her mouth. She almost choked and then spat.

As the axe rose again, she closed her eyes and turned her head away. Sickening sounds reached her ears. She went limp in the soldiers’ grip, sobbing uncontrollably.

Savine’s voice came as if from a distance. “It was his own fault. You’re lucky Kelhak wants to meet you, or I would have left you in these soldiers’ company. But there’s still time for that. They’ll cut off his hands as well then hang him outside for everyone to see. For all their talk about liberating the city, they do have a mean streak, I must say.”

Feet scraping on the stones, she was dragged away. She didn’t dare look back at Avigdor.

•

She didn’t know where she was. It wasn’t the keep, as she had first surmised. The layout of the place was all wrong, and the color of the stone a shade too light. They had dragged her for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been long, up some stairs, down a corridor, a few turns, up more stairs, and eventually left her in a large room, which was vaguely familiar. Perhaps she had heard of it; certainly, she had never been here before.

She squinted in the light of the room, eyes watering and taking time to adjust to the change. A painted ceiling extended two stories above her, and tall, wall-height windows of expensive clear glass allowed sunlight to stream in. Stained glass at the top of each window threw swaths of color across the floor; come sunset, the wall opposite them would be lit, as if by sorcery.

On the ceiling, armies fought over shining objects, blood spilled across battlefields, injured soldiers cried out for help, a pool of inky darkness spread from one man, and sorcerers strode glowing through the carnage. It was a scene from the Shattering, which showed the creation of purified land, where sorcery ceased to function.

In the center of the polished stone floor stood a sizeable Dominion board, one of the largest she’d ever seen. Scattered across the boards were knee-high pieces carved from chunks of precious stones and crystals: onyx, turquoise, malachite, amethyst, quartz, lapis lazuli, and some were of gold and silver. Ironwood, blackwood, feathergrain, and burlwood made up the squares of all the tiers. Now she recognized it. Songs had been written about this Dominion set, though she realized they didn’t do it justice. It was twenty paces to a side, and the upper tiers had to be reached by ladders. Small observation platforms were set up on each side to allow opponents a perspective of the whole board. Around the walls of the room, a viewing balcony ran full length, fed by two iron spiral staircases.

She knew where she was now; there could be no doubting it: the House of Luthais, a former major House reduced to minor status a few hundred years ago. Set overlooking the River Stock in Parkside, this building, along with the famous Dominion board and pieces, was all that remained of their former wealth and glory.

She peered at the mural on the ceiling. If I could trick Savine into the purified land a short distance from here, I know what I would do to him. His sorcery would be no use. Still, I would need some help. All in good time. Felice grinned at the thought, then it slipped away. If I can escape from these monsters. Unlikely at the moment; one has to be realistic.

She glanced at the two soldiers guarding the door. They were huge men, and well armored, carrying bared blades almost as tall as they were. Not for show, these ones; they bore signs of knowing hard combat in their poise and watchful eyes. A third, unarmored, soldier, slightly bigger than the other two, stood by the middle window, gazing out at the city. Another trained killer, she assumed, all muscle and no brain, though his lack of armor and weapons struck her as odd.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned to regard her with startling blue eyes. Cold eyes.

She swallowed and forced herself to hold his gaze. The effort drained her will rapidly. He smiled and approached her, moving fluidly like a cat, in spite of his bulk.

A dangerous man. A man to whom killing came naturally, and far, far too easily.

“Lady Felicienne, I presume?” He gestured to a table she hadn’t noticed almost overflowing with fruit, nuts, and small pastries. It also bore crystal flagons of water and wine, and two glasses. “Please, help yourself. I’m sure you could use some sustenance.”

His smooth voice flowed over her, oddly calming, despite her circumstances.

Yes, a dangerous man.

She poured herself a glass of well-watered wine, in order to not dull her senses any more than necessary. Though, what she wanted was to drink the whole flagon and have done with whatever games the Indryallans were playing. When she looked up, the man was still staring at her.

She pulled her gaze from his emotionless eyes to the Dominion pieces. “Who are you?”

“They call me Kelhak, God-Emperor of Indryalla.”

Felice’s mouth went dry, and she fumbled her glass to her lips and gulped at her drink. It tasted of blackberries and spice.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have watered the wine. “To Avigdor,” she said.

“Who?”

“A friend. He was a good man.”

Kelhak blinked once then shrugged. “Eat something. From what I’ve heard, you must be famished. I wouldn’t want you fainting in the middle of our game.”

Felice regarded the Dominion set. Not at all the circumstance in which she had envisioned herself playing on this board, and she was hardly at her best. She took a plum and bit into the fruit.

“I would like to assess your playing, since I’ve been told you are quite accomplished,” continued Kelhak.

“Why should I play you? What’s in it for me?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll have you killed. I have some time to waste before… certain plans come to fruition, and I would prefer to judge you based on your play.”

He stopped and blinked a few times, as if the light in the room had suddenly brightened. He shook his head and cleared his throat.

Wonderful, Felicienne thought. I’m playing a deranged killer for unknown stakes.

•

A tapping of stone on wood woke Felice. She lay slumped in an armchair next to the table of food and wine. Her empty glass was on the edge of the table, though she didn’t remember putting it down. Steam rose from a jug. Someone must have placed it there while she dozed.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around. Kelhak sat perched on the top tier of the Dominion board, legs over the side, regarding her with his cold blue eyes and a self-satisfied grin.