Blood of the Underworld (32 page)

Vrashka chuckled, and the sound made her skin crawl.

“You have poor imagination, girl. You do not understand where you are, or what we have. Daverik made this himself. I know what you think, that you will slip into the shadows.”

He reached into his robe, pulled out one of her daggers, and cast it on the floor mere feet away.

“Take it,” he said, smiling. “Slip through the shadows, grab it, and cut my throat. You can do that, can’t you, little doll?”

She smiled back, then pulled in the power, demanded it, stole it with the strength of her soul. Falling backward, she expected the same cold feeling, but instead something grabbed her. She felt like a bird trapped in a thunderstorm. Her body became a distant thing, and lost in horror she watched her vision pulled toward the swirling water. It was so thin, like a single thread of silk. Before her eyes it grew larger, larger, and her whole form was swirling with it, down into the void, a boat doomed into a maelstrom. Colors faded, only the water retaining vibrancy, shining a brighter and brighter blue that made her entire body ache. Panic settled in, and she yearned for her body, to pull out from the shadows.

And then she was back in her manacles, gasping for air. Vrashka knelt down and grabbed her dagger.

“Does she understand now?” he asked. “Your magic will not work here, nor that of any priest. It will be lost into the funnel, the holy water taking in every bit of Karak’s power. You will not escape us, little doll. You are ours now, to be made pure over the crawling years.”

He knelt before her and pressed the dagger against the skin of her breast.

“And I say years, because I know you are stubborn. I know you will resist. Much time, much effort, but I have little else to do at my age. You wear the wrappings of your order, but in your heart, you blaspheme against Karak. You expose your face to the world, and in doing so, spit in the eye of our god.”

He withdrew the dagger and walked over to the door. Beside it was a small bag, and he pulled out a set of sewing needles. When he turned back to her, his pale blue eyes were feverish.

“Whatever you came here for, you failed. Think on that as I do my needlework.”

The chains held her as he took her hand in his and uncurled her fist. She tried to tense, but he held her firm with surprising strength. Struggling anymore would press her arms against the inner barbs of the manacles, only hurting her further. Taking a needle into his mouth, he softly ran a finger along her fingertip.

“Even old as I am, it is never too old to learn,” he said. “I spent time with Stephen’s gentle touchers not so long ago, did you know that? You will soon. They are masters, artists. I hope my needle work can begin to compare.”

There were many hooks along the wall, and he looped the chains holding her arm through one so that it held her tight. Teeth grit, she tried not to let out a cry, even when he jammed the first needle underneath the fingernail of her forefinger.

“Karak is not my god,” she said, struggling to keep her voice firm. “I will not repent.”

He smiled at her.

“Perhaps. But I have many needles.”

One after another they jammed into her skin. Each was worse than the one before, and she cried out in agony after the seventh. Leaving them in, he moved on to her other hand. Even more slender needles pierced underneath her fingernails, bleeding and tearing the soft skin. Tears ran down her face, but he asked no questions, and made no demands. Time became meaningless. All she could think of was Alyssa, and Nathaniel, but their memories were poison, for she was doomed in a prison, which meant they would soon suffer death, or, even worse, join her there in the pits of the temple.

“The gentle touchers are artists,” Vrashka said, sitting back to observe his work. “So careful, so clever. They view whips and daggers as crude toys for children. It is a mark of disdain for any of them to leave a bruise.”

Zusa kept her head low, not caring to look at him or acknowledge his words. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and she felt her blood trickling down her wrists. As he crept closer, she shut her eyes, tried to imagine herself far, far away. His rough hands grabbed her face, forced her to look up at him.

“Such beautiful eyes,” he said, staring into them. “But you do not need them anymore, just a tongue to pray, and knees to confess upon.”

He was reaching for another needle when the door opened, and Daverik stepped inside.

“I would have a word with her,” he said.

Vrashka stepped back, bowing low.

“Of course,” he said. “She is yours to convert. But it will take time, and I have only started to break her.”

“She might see reason,” Daverik said, not looking at her. Vrashka bowed again, then stepped out. As the door closed, the priest noticed the needles still in her fingers and frowned.

“I warned you,” he said. “Now keep still.”

“Not sure I can,” she said. She felt his hand close around hers, pinning it to the wall. One by one he removed the needles, dropping them into a bloody pail Vrashka had brought with him. Switching to the other hand, he worked in silence. Zusa kept her eyes downcast, let her mind focus on the pain as the needles slid out from within her fingertips. When he was done, he sat opposite her and pushed aside Vrashka’s bag. Tension filled the room, broken only by the soft trickle of water.

“You set a trap for me,” Zusa said.

“I thought you’d come, yes.”

She shook her head, feeling like a stupid child. Her warning had been clear, so of course Daverik had planned for her arrival. Eyes still downcast, she wondered if she had anything to say to him, but found herself strangely empty inside.

“They want you executed,” Daverik said. He paused a moment, as if waiting to see if she would respond. She didn’t.

“I’m not sure I can stop them,” he continued. “You killed two of my Faceless, and you have blasphemed against Karak many years now by showing your face. When your order went rogue, you also fought against one of our paladins sent to retrieve you.”

“His name was Ethric,” she said. “I killed him in a river, cut out his throat, and then left him there so the fish could eat his flesh. He’d been sent to kill me, not return me to the temple. Someone is telling you lies. We did as we were told, as we have always done, and were branded outcasts for it. But that’s what Karak does, isn’t it? He finds ways to punish his faithful should they ever be an inconvenience to his temple. Our lives are nothing to him.”

“You’re wrong,” Daverik said. “Karak showed you forgiveness. He gave you a chance to repent, to make right the wrongs...”

“What wrongs?” She laughed. “Our love wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t sin. It was just against the rules. It complicated things, made people worry. But you were lashed, and I imprisoned, and now you come here, to remake the order that took me from you. You’re a disgrace.”

“They didn’t take you from me,” he said.

It felt as if a fever had overcome her, and she laughed again. Her hands were giant throbs of pain, and she could not feel her individual fingers.

“They didn’t? Then who?”

“It was me,” Daverik said, and he looked away as if ashamed. “I told them of our affair.”

The last words he’d spoken to her echoed in her head.

I’m sorry...

“You bastard,” she whispered. “You damn, stupid bastard. Why? Why would you do that to us?”

“Because we would have been caught,” Daverik said, standing so he might pace. His eyes never met hers. “Because it was only a matter of time. And because it was wrong. I neglected prayers, I stopped paying attention in services. I only thought about you, cared about you. When I should have been meditating, I was thinking of seeing you, imagining what I might do the next time we...”

He stopped himself. Frustrated, he struck the wall with his fist. Zusa wanted to feel fury, to feel betrayal, but instead she saw the torment deep within her former lover, and suddenly she knew what brought him back.

“You came to Veldaren for me,” she said. “Just for me.”

He looked to the door, nodded his head.

“I’ve felt guilt every single night I lay down to bed. I thought it would get better. I thought the certainty of my faith would prove what really mattered, and that in time, with separation, I’d know without a doubt I’d been right. But it never happened. That I am to train the new Faceless is a cruel joke, Zusa, but I did it for you. You can come back. We can be together. Perhaps not as we were, but I’d still see you, still be able to hear your voice.”

He breathed in deep, then let it out in a sigh.

“My decision cost you your faith in Karak. I have committed no greater a crime than that.”

Zusa’s anger had been softening, but those last words were like Vrashka’s needles, only this time piercing her heart.

“Are you really still so blind?” she asked. “You carry guilt not for my torment, but because I turned my back on Karak?”

“What could be worse a crime?” he asked. “To see you lost to the fires of the Abyss...”

He approached her, knelt before her so they might see eye to eye. His hand gently stroked her cheek, brushing away tears.

“Come back to me,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you, not again, and not forever.”

He looked so young then, so much like the boy she’d loved. His face was leaning ever closer. She knew what he wanted to do, but could not stop him. As his lips closed around hers, she felt her insides twist and curl with turmoil. She felt fury at his foolishness, yet hope that he might free her. She felt sick at his desires, that he could find beauty in her while captive and tortured, yet at the same time it was so easy to slip back into the past, to escape from her cell into memories of him and her, young, foolish, and clumsy. She felt pain, sorrow, and betrayal.

Her lips did not kiss him back. When he tried to kiss her again, she turned to the side and steeled her gaze at the wall.

“You’re a cruel, evil man,” she whispered.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. You were a fool, a naive child to have done what you did. But that was then. For you to still think it now, to kiss my naked face while begging me to have it covered, shows just how sick your soul has become.”

His whole body tensed, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. But he did not, only stood and went to the door so he could lean his back against it.

“I warned you to stay away from Alyssa,” he said. “That she still lives is a miracle, but it won’t be long before her death. It’s inevitable, Zusa. You should know that. We are the servants of Karak, and we will not be swayed.”

“What has she done to you?”

“It’s not what she’s done, but what she represents. The world is changing, and we are paving the way for the end times. The order has been given to take her life, and bring the Trifect crumbling down.”

“Who?” Zusa asked. Despite her situation, she had to know. If she was to die, at least she could know who desired it. “Who gave the order?”

Daverik stared at her for a moment, thinking.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I cannot speak his name. Good night, Zusa. I’ll buy you some time before Vrashka returns, claim that I’m giving you a day or two to think on my request. Come back to the order, and all will be forgiven.”

“They won’t let me come back,” Zusa said as he opened the door. “You know that. What would stop me from leaving once I am free of the temple? What would keep me chained and bound to the Faceless? The moment I accept myself into the Faceless is the moment I die. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? At least my soul would be saved.”

She could not deny the hurt she saw in Daverik’s eyes at her words.

“Someone will bring you food in a few hours,” he said. “Rest well.”

The door closed, plummeting her into darkness. The water glowed a soft blue, yet it cast no light about the room. The sight of it sickened her, so she closed her eyes, shifted her arms as much as she could given the constraint of the manacles, and tried to sleep.

23

O
ne after another died to the executioner’s axe, and the sight slowly calmed Victor’s nerves. The deal he’d made with the thief, Alan, had left a bad taste in his mouth. The results, however, were undeniable. The Spider Guild was all but crushed, except for one niggling detail that kept Victor pacing everywhere he went. Somehow, Thren Felhorn had escaped. The one person that mattered, and he had gotten through their lines.

“It’s been a good day,” said Sef, joining him there in the shadow of the castle as the sun began to fall.

“Could have gone better,” Victor said, nodding toward the executioner’s block. “Thren could be up there, bound and gagged.”

“We’ll have his head hanging from the city gates soon enough,” Sef said. “But the whole city’s buzzing about it. Our men are reporting people far more willing to talk now, their lips loosening. I think after last night, everyone expected a war, for something like what happened before. But instead they got a bunch of dead thieves, and their symbolic leader broken and in hiding.”

“So what you’re saying,” Victor said, finally cracking a smile, “is that it was a good day?”