part0019

I looked the guard over and wiped the sneer curling across my face. So this was a specimen of what they scraped off the streets for their new little government pogrom? Every provincial base prejudice and jealous hate personified, distilled into one vile person. Come hunt and torture mages, boys. They don't deserve your pity. They're not really human. You don't need to skulk in the shadows anymore. We're agents of the empress. Here's your armor. Here's your badge. Go slaughter them all officially in the name of Cordelia I, Lady of the Iron Empire and Protector of the Northern Territories, long may she reign.

He shackled me, locked the door between us and Maven's snoring, and walked me down the hall. The torches were spaced along the walls at regular intervals, as were guards near most of the doors.

I shook my thick, new bracelets and they made a dull, heavy clanking noise. So, you won't bother shackling most of the mages, but you'll clap an old soldier in irons? Is this a mark of respect, a security consideration for my one guard, or does a different fate await me? For that matter, what fate awaited . . . them . . .

The Black Guard leading me down the hallway lingered as we walked past open cells containing scenes of mutilation and bloody ruin of my former mage friends strapped to large, wooden chairs. Some were still gasping and twitching, but their screams had exhausted hours ago. Little gems littered the floor. Some had a red tint. Rubies? Diamonds? I gagged as I recognized one of the closer specimens: fingernails. It was too easy to imagine poor Miranda strapped into one of those awful chairs, her throat raw, her fingers . . .

The cell door guards all refused to look me in the eye as I sauntered down the corridor, head held high. All except one, who quietly, almost shyly defiant, stared without blinking. A single tear fell down his cheek. He might be depressed, but I was happy to see a familiar face, even one in a black uniform.

I swallowed the spit gathering in my throat and made myself look him in the eye. “Sir Nortus? How does it feel to torture old colleagues and innocent army folk? How does it feel holding the knife and pliers in your hands instead of just talking about it?” I smiled, radiating genuine good cheer as I raised my clanking manacles to give the man a flippant little wave .

“If you must know,” Sir Nortus said, taking a deep breath as he stepped out of position and adjusted the new major's tabs on his collar, “I volunteered for these duties. We must all do our part for empress and country. I knew you were never a true Black Guard. You stink too much of mages.”

The man twitched as though the confrontation pained him. “No, their blood stains your soul. Your relationship with the witch is a blight upon your heart. But the question of blood seeps deeper than that, doesn't it?”

Nortus shook his head. His nose twitched and I fought not to grin. “Do you know how to tell the difference between a rat . . . and a mouse?”

He dismissed my answers with a wave. “The differences are deeper than that. Mice are such wholesome, peaceable creatures with their grain-munching and their fluffy, little nests. Rats spread filth, gnaw flesh, and drink blood. They're only similar if you do not bother to examine them closely, and who would bother? They always called me Nortus The Mouse,” he licked his lips, “but I've developed such unwholesome tastes.”

He chuckled as I startled. “You think I didn't know the secret hiding in your blood? Your goals were too large, too grand. Flying around, trying to preserve the regiment, trying to save all the mages. Should have kept closer to the ground. Stuck to the smaller, attainable goal of just saving the one important mage.

“She's still safe,” I whispered. “You may have killed the others, but Maven is still safe.” My heart quailed. But for how much longer?

Nortus twitched again and scowled. “What do I care for that witch? Blood, I said. Your daughter. Your own daughter, Corbin. I could hardly believe it. The great national hero sheltering a dirty mage among his own flesh and blood. The thought of it still sickens me.” My heart froze as his lips pulled back into a toothsome sneer.

“Amazing what a scurrying little rodent will overhear once you let one into your home.” Nortus brushed aside his curls and, laughing, cupped a hand to the side of his head. “We all have such wonderfully large ears.”

“You . . . spied on me? On my family?” I hissed. Did the whole welcoming committee have a second, malicious agenda or just this foul creature?

“A woman with such destructive power at her fingertips has the gall to pretend to be a healer,” Nortus sputtered. “You both pretend to save people, don't you Corbin? Your daughter is as false as her father. Sir Drake may blind himself to the truth, but I see it with clear eyes. The empire must be cured of its disease no matter where it has spread. The empress is the true healer. She will save the entire empire from this mage blight.”

Forget the blood. How long have you been licking the shoes of that crazy empress? “They're not a disease, Nortus. Are these the tools of the Black Guards: spying, bullying, and torturing?”

Don't invoke the gods to justify your butchery. “I wonder if the temple priests would agree with you?” I growled. The manacles shook as I reached for his throat, but the guard pulled me back. “If you so much as glance at my daughter again, I will—”

“You will do nothing but die as a traitor to the empire, sir!” The man's face hardened as he stepped back into position, eyes front, back against the wall. “It shall be my painful duty to inform your daughter that you were regrettably assaulted by rogue mages on the road home. I will allow the woman a moment to grieve before I arrest her.”

His eyes widened as he stared past me to the empty cells stained with the blood, bile, and shit of the former Mage Corps. “Why, magic of course. She is a traitor by virtue of the darkness in her blood. They were all traitors.”

I glared. “The men and women you slaughtered in this dungeon were truer sons and daughters to the ideals this empire used to represent than you will ever be, rat.”

“Perhaps. But we live in a new empire now. It was an honor to have known the legendary Sir Corbin. I regret that you're not the patriotic hero of your legend. Still, I should salute the glorious man you once were despite the rebel sympathizer you've become.” He half raised his arm, then glanced at the scowling Black Crow beside me and dropped it back at his side.

Spineless to the end, Nortus. The army is well rid of you. May the gods cast lots for the tattered remains of your fetid, tiny soul.

I strode forward, yanking The Crow off balance. The man stumbled and then surged ahead, half dragging me to an empty cell containing a chair and brazier full of glowing coals. I glanced at the tools lodged in the coals as the guard strapped me into my very own large, stained wooden chair. The lout was none too gentle with those leather straps.

I tilted my head back to snap his fingers He cursed, pulling his hand away. The Black Crow was missing some teeth, but sadly, he still had all his fingers. I sat waiting for whatever surprise was coming. The old fear started rising from my gut, but I stamped it down.

They're going to kill me. Then they're going to kill Miranda. My death is nothing, but I need to live to save Miranda. I flexed my fingers. So I must answer this lout's questions as best I can. I thought of Private Loral. I wonder if The Black Crow likes stories?

I let my senses dull as The Crow started asking questions for which I had no answer and began exploring my face with his knuckles. I closed my eyes and let the darkness overwhelm me.

The next thing I knew, someone was leaning over me, breathing heavily. I glanced around the room through half-lidded eyes. The door was closed. We were alone. A brazier still burned quietly in the corner. All sorts of fascinating little knives were glowing in those coals. I could smell . . . burnt hair?

A set of dark eyes peered into mine, set above a grizzled, familiar face and smile. The faint, stale whiff of dragon rum assaulted my nose .

“Please accept my apologies. We've treated you very harshly. With the empress driving us to greatness, we've all gotten a touch . . . overzealous.”

“I see.” I nodded, testing the rough, leather restraints against my wrists and ankles. “I was shown the results of that zeal on my stroll over here. Your new friends seemed very proud of themselves and their collection of fingernails from all your old friends.”

Drake clutched my chair, his fingers shaking. “Old friends are the hardest. They look just like people you used to know. Their eyes beg you to remember long after the screaming has torn their throat to ribbons. Those harsh, pleading eyes.”

Do you get your own hands dirty or do you merely watch? You couldn't have had many friends among the mages. Did you bastards torture cavalrymen, too? “At least the blood splatters matched their uniforms . . .”

Drake leaned over me with a manic grin. “True. Just like the battles in the good old days. When we all fought side by side. Better not to think about that. Once you strap someone into one of these chairs, you can't trust your memories of them, can you? Because they're not really people anymore, are they?”

I tugged against my restraints again as he turned away for a moment, striving to keep my voice low and calm as my mind screamed. “Aren't they? We never dehumanized our prisoners in the army, nor our enemies. We sometimes questioned their hearts, their motives, or their principles, but never their humanity.”

“Didn't we?” Drake winced. “I suppose we do things differently here. The guards are a ruder lot than you'd find in the old regiment.”

I nodded and sneered. “Quite all right to torture somebody so long as you're polite about it. Tell me, did you snare anyone else into this fiasco besides Sir Nortus? That idiot has the . . . craziest theories about my daughter.”

“I know. The idiot thinks she's a mage. That little man has big delusions. A proper cavalryman's daughter and a pillar of her community, a lowly magic user? Can you imagine?” Drake scoffed and waved his hand. “Never mind that. It's been five days. What have you learned?”

“Learned?” I echoed, eyes unfocusing as my mind filled with images of Miranda screaming in one of these filthy chairs.

“Focus.” Drake waved his hand in my face, snapping his fingers. I had expected they would smell of blood and other nasty human fluids, but they were curiously clean. “I vouched for you after the stunt you pulled with that speech. I told the empress it was a clever ruse concocted between the two of us. A way to get one of our own men on the inside. That woman was ready to have you executed. Are you insane?”

I curled my fingers and buffed my nails on the edge of the leather strap. “Only an insane strategy would have worked. The mages aren't idiots. Had to make it look real, didn't I? Riling the empress was merely bait for the trap.” I glared and rattled against my restrains. “Which succeeded.” What dark, scheming mind would gleefully assume I would betray the regiment to gain favor with that high born bitch?

Drake chuckled and began unbuckling my straps. “They shouldn't have tied you down and hit you, but we must maintain appearances for the lower ranks, eh? The gods curse your twisted mind. Why didn't you tell me you had planned to incite an uprising? And embroil the entire regiment of mage sympathizers to boot. That was a masterstroke, old friend.”

Is he being genuine? Did he really think I accepted those major's pips with a clear conscience? He did, or has convinced himself that he did. I glanced at the red marks on my wrists. For the first time in days, I saw a narrow, dangerous path to freedom like a half-hidden dirt trail in a field of tall grass. I must tread carefully. There are still traps set along that path.

I coughed. “Figured it would provide the empress with a legal excuse to do . . . what must be done. That woman was making a mockery of imperial law, sovereign or no.”

“You want my pity after the shit you just put me through? As long as you were going to kill them all, you could have kept us better fed.” I sat up, rubbing my wrists. “New job not what you thought it would be, Drake? Harder to murder old friends than you were expecting?”

“No harder than languishing in a dank cell pretending to be their boon companion and savior. At least my treachery is honest. I don't weep for the mages. A friend of magic is no friend of mine. As for the others caught in this mess . . .” Drake's black cloak twitched as he shivered. “Still, torturing people is the whim of our empress. ”

“A crazy empress,” I murmured. “This larger plan of hers—a plan I joined on faith without your sharing any of the details, I remind you—had better work.”

“Well, the policy has certainly not provided any amazing wealth of information. Though our enthusiastic interrogation methods have yielded one interesting fact.” He grinned. “There was a traitor in our midst the whole time. An actual low-ranking member of the rebel cabal.”

“Oh?” I leaned back in the large wooden chair, struggling with a sense of perverse guilt. It seemed wrong to luxuriate in such a horrible device, and stretch my legs in an instrument of torture. Without the straps and restraints, it was really quite cozy.

“My men interrogated the mage for hours before she broke. Does it bother you, the thought of them pulling her nails off one by one? Subjecting her to little, burning knives?”

I wondered which of my faceless magic companions in that tiny cell had betrayed their friends and my expectations by actually being affiliated with the rebels. “I knew some of the mages, Drake. I was hardly on a first name basis with all of them. Who was it?”

He snickered. “The lads said they felt cheated: she only had fifteen nails to pull. I'm told the sensitive, broken nerves under her callused stump were very—”

Drake sighed and fished a scrap of paper from his pocket. He scanned it, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it on my lap. “A Private Bella Loral. ”

I stared at the paper. Bella. Poor Bella. All those intimate little stories, but of course she had never shared her first name with a superior officer.

I felt like the fists of the gods had plunged into my stomach as I made myself ignore the scrap of paper. “I was hardly on a first name basis with the woman.” Loral, a rebel? I should have realized. I shook my head as Loral's voice echoed in my mind.

“Don't tell me you pity these wretches! The rebel told us a single name before she died, nothing more: Gordius,” Drake hissed. “It's sent the empress into a frenzy. She's going to tear through the countryside, endangering real people in her hunt for mages.”

Had she mentioned a 'Gordius' in any of her tales? I searched my memories of the young woman even as I cleared all trace of grief from my face. “Shouldn't have left the army, Drake. Are you chafing under Cordelia's cold, marble thumb? I swear that woman doesn't even need to pose for a sculptor. She could just strip and step on a pedestal.”

Drake clasped my hand. His fingers were quivering. “Give me something so I can call them off and pacify the empress. This is going to spread from the capital and ravage the entire empire. You must have heard another name, their hideout, anything. Some of the lads are starting to see mages everywhere. One of them even suspects your daughter, by the five gods. We need a swift, surgical strike to quell the rebellion before this spirals into chaos. The mages must have told you something!”

The only way you'll pacify the empress is with a blade through the heart. “So you found one rebel among a nest of mages.” I quirked my eyebrow. “Why were you so certain they were all rebels and criminals?”

He shrugged the question aside. “The empress has entrusted me with cracking this conspiracy. They were conspirators.” He smiled at me, pumping his fist. “We'll crush them all. Drake and Corbin together again, defending the empire with songs in our hearts and blood on our hands, and no dragon sisters to ruin it this time. You've truly learned nothing from your time with the witch?”

I crossed my arms and leaned back in the chair. Together again? Like this with 'blood on our hands?' What did Granfa leave out of his old stories? What does Maven know? “She's tight-lipped. The woman won't talk to Corbin Destrus. You've poisoned that well with your stupid posturing. She thinks I'm some kind of spy, by the five gods. However . . .”

I paused, drumming my fingers on the chair. “I have something . . . a disguise that might rattle the witch enough to loosen those lips.”

I smiled and reached toward the ring on the end of my necklace. Finally, a hero's job only Kelsa could do. I stared at Drake and scoffed. “Of course, it's a magic disguise. Some of us aren't afraid to use the tools of the enemy to bring them low.”

“And it will work in this place?” He spread his arms and the black cloak fluttered. “Surrounded by mage detectors to dampen all magic?”

I grinned and placed one hand against my chest. “Whom does she love more than me? Who would shock her enough to break down those emotional defenses?” I removed my necklace and pocketed it. I could feel my flesh, muscle, and bones melting and reforming. I suppressed the pain by focusing on Drake's face. If his eyes widened any more, they'd pop from his skull and roll into the man's gaping mouth.

“How about her dead sister?” Kelsa's mind sprang to the forefront as a young woman sprang from the chair. The old man's clothes started to fall off, but clung to my frame. Transformation leaves a girl sweaty.

“Minerva,” Drake licked his lips and reached out. “Is it really you? My little red rose?” There was a quiet longing in his eyes as he draped his black cloak around my shoulders. He seemed lost in his own fantasy. I could work with that.

I held my hand up, tilting it in the light of the brazier. “Oh my. I broke a nail. Drake, sweety, can I borrow your little knife to trim it?” The soft, high pitched voice sounded strange and foreign in my ears. Drake hesitated. I peeled off my sweaty clothes and stretched, warming my hands over the coals, being careful not to singe my hair as it spilled over my shoulders. His little red rose! Such a delight to have long hair again. I tilted my head back, laughing as the split ends cascaded down my back and tickled my butt.

Drake smiled and unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders and flinging it away. He grinned and passed me his belt knife.

Men! Feh. I lingered over trimming my nails, giving Drake time to leer and admire my body. I moved behind him, coyly, wrapping one hand around his waist while the knife hovered in the other. I pressed my breasts against his back and moaned. His throat, his spine, his kidneys were all there, quivering, waiting. I raised the knife. My grandfather's stories had taught me well. I paused three seconds: one for form, one for poise, and one deep breath. Then, I cracked the back of his skull with the pommel.

I eased Drake to the ground and checked his breathing. This man had meant something to Granfa once. He had betrayed that friendship, spat on the regiment, and killed Private Loral. Death was too merciful.

I stripped the rest of his clothes and strapped him naked to the chair. I worried about positioning his legs as I strapped his ankles, but the helpful Black Guards had shortened the seat and heavily chamfered the leading edge. The resulting wooden ramp led me right to them. I swiped my finger, mimicking the path of the blade. Perfect. I spent time lovingly selecting the dullest, most serrated blade from the brazier. Then I sighed, put it back, and found a sharp one. Torturers lingered over their victims. This was . . . a surgical strike.

“I'm not your little red rose.” I berated the man as I made a swift cut between his legs. He grunted, but did not wake even when I pressed the flat of the blade and singed his wound. “I'm not even the hero. I'm just the mage's daughter. That could have been my mother you bastards were torturing in these cells. Now you'll think twice the next time your stooges strap someone else into one of these chairs, eh?” I tossed his testicles on the brazier. They sizzled and the stench of burnt pork filled the little room.

“Did you watch as your new friends tortured that poor woman? Offer them advice from afar? Cheer at a distance?” I patted his cheek and waved the blood-stained knife in his face. “A real soldier gets their own hands dirty, traitor.”