Chapter Thirty-Three

“Haul her up.” The voice, harsh and merciless, issued from above. A number of shadows moved, obscuring the light, and Tansy heard the sound of metal scraping on metal. The grate opened, sending down a shower of dust motes. She backed up instinctively.

Someone thrust a torch down through the opening, and light flooded the space. Looking around hurriedly, Tansy saw that no one lingered in the corner—she was alone. She saw too the dirt on her hands and clothing; helpless dismay rose and nearly choked her.

The face and torso of a guard appeared, before a rope ladder came dangling down.

“Here, witch—climb.”

Tansy hesitated. At that instant, her life seemed to hang in balance between the known—however terrible—and the possibly more terrifying unknown.

The guard snarled, “Come up on your own, or ’twill be the worse for you.”

No doubt. They would take her out of the pit by force, perhaps beat her, carry her out with broken bones.

She grasped the ladder with shaking hands and began pulling herself up, so weak her feet fumbled on the ropes and her head swam. Before she reached the top, the guard seized her—one hand on her shoulder in a bruising grip, the other on her hair—and pulled her out the rest of the way.

Tansy screamed. Deposited on the stones of the corridor, she scrambled up and found herself facing Latham.

A man transformed. No longer able to stand completely upright, he crouched over a stick, gripped in both hands, and appeared to have aged dreadfully. Lines of pain bracketed his mouth, and a livid mark still showed in the center of his forehead—dark red—where Tansy had hit him with her magic. But the brown eyes looked the same—canny and cruel, full of hate.

Before she could speak, he detached one hand from the stick and, quick as thought, struck her. The blow took her in the side of the jaw, half spun her about, and nearly knocked her back down into the pit. Only the guard’s hand, pinching her elbow, spared her the fall.

“Witch,” Latham hissed. “You will pay for what you ha’ done to me. Bring her.”

Helpless, Tansy was plucked up and carried along the narrow corridor, up the stairs, and through the keep, with faces staring all along the way. They did not pass quickly, for Latham led them at a crab-hop, clearly struggling.

Amid her terror and pain, Tansy felt a thread of satisfaction over that fact. She had hurt him, and aye, she might well pay the price for it. But the bastard would never be the same.

And could she harm him one more time before she died? Had she the strength to accomplish so worthy a task?

Likely not.

Carried straight out of the keep, she squinted, nearly blinded by bright sunlight, the first she’d seen in days. The air, clear and cold, bit at her and swirled her hair like a ragged banner. She blinked dazed eyes and drew a sweet breath deep into her lungs.

The guard tossed her down on the stones in front of the door. In one direction she could see the yawning doorway of the keep, in the other the wooden bridge that led to the watchtower. Directly in front of her she saw Latham’s feet, well within kicking distance of her.

She scrambled a prudent distance backward. She could feel the hate and ugliness pouring from him, and her senses, stunted by the pit, roused.

“Bind her in chains.”

“Master?” Even the guard who had charge of her seemed taken aback. Tansy, visibly weak, must present no appearance of threat.

But Latham roared, “She is a witch, and dangerous. Will you defy me?”

“Nay, Master.”

Seized and hauled up between two men, Tansy felt cold iron cross her breast and wrap around her arms, which were hauled behind her. She bared her teeth at the sensation, even as manacles fastened about her wrists.

“Now load her into the cart. Do it swiftly!”

Before the men could obey, an interruption came in the form of Catha, who ran from the open door of the keep, face white and feet stumbling.

Breathless, Catha cried, “I maun protest!”

Latham turned on her savagely. “But, my lady, ’twas your request, this. I but comply wi’ your wishes. Did I not, I would burn her here, where I could hear her scream and watch her flesh sear.”

If possible, Catha turned paler. She cast one look at Tansy before turning her eyes away. “She needs tending first. Food and water. Look at her!”

Latham did so, turning his hard gaze on Tansy where she half crouched in the grip of the guards like a feral animal, nearly at his feet. For one breathless moment their gazes met—reddish brown and pale gray—in a glare of pure dominance.

And Tansy felt her power—missing for days—rise. Just as before, it seemed as if his hate called and summoned it, perhaps even fueled it, dry tinder to flame. Now she drew strength from the air around her, the sunlight, the stones beneath her, and even Catha’s concern, which she felt flowing to her. Swiftly, swiftly, she shaped it into a ball of fire, one with her own scorching hate behind it.

Latham, believing her powerless, smiled. “Aye so,” he grated. “She is filthy, broken. Bound for her death—the most painful of deaths. She will beg for it.” To the men he began, “Take—”

He got no farther. The ball of hate and loathing struck him—not between the eyes this time, but straight above his heart. Tansy watched his face change, stretch and twist, crumble and collapse like something made of sand.

Many voices cried out as he stumbled, let go of his stick, and fell. Several members of the guard hurried forward to catch at him; for the moment, Tansy was forgotten.

Catha rushed to her side. “Quickly, come!”

But, spent, Tansy remained on her knees, unable to rise. The chains weighing her down felt too heavy, and weakness rushed to replace the expelled power.

“Dead? Is he dead?” More than one voice asked the question. Had Tansy still believed in prayer, she might have whispered one.

But another replied, “Heart still beating, low and slow.” The captain of the guard stepped in swiftly. “Tak’ him inside to the dispenser.”

“What of the witch?” asked one of the men who held Tansy.

“Tak’ her on to Aberdeen. Those were the master’s orders.”

“Nay!” Catha took up a stance before Tansy. “I will no’ let you.”

The men lifted Tansy between them and pushed past Catha. When she whirled and came after them, another of the men laid hold of her, respectfully but firmly.

Tansy, deposited in the back of a rough cart already hitched to a horse, strained to look back at her. “Run, Catha,” she bade. “Run and save yoursel’.”