High Druid's Blade

THIRTEEN

CHRYSALLIN LEAH WOKE TO A ROOM FILLED WITH SHADOWS and emptiness, the only light seeping in through narrow cracks in a tightly shuttered window, the only sounds those she made when she stirred far enough to discover she was chained to the bed she was lying on. Her head was filled with cotton and her mouth was dry, but there was no cure on hand for either condition. She tested her limbs against the chains and found the former drained of strength and the latter secure. She was not going to change either condition right away no matter what she tried.

She lay back reluctantly, stretching her long legs and torso and waiting for her lethargy to fade, wondering where she was.

Or how she had gotten there, for that matter.

The events leading up to her present situation were far from clear. She remembered going to the Brew Tide to help Jayet. That had been later in the afternoon, when the tavern was just starting to fill up. The crowd had been boisterous and impatient. Everyone wanted to get served at once, and no one was prepared to wait. She was flying around the room, caught up in the excitement and laughter of the drinkers, smiling and joking with them, and loving every minute. Later that night, she and Jayet would go down to the river for a private swim. The cool water would wash away the sweat and the smoke and the tavern smells, and the day would come to a pleasant, relaxing close.

But the swim had never happened. What had? She had been serving the customers, carrying trays with tankards of ale and bowls of soup and plates of bread, and then …

She had gone outside. Just for a moment, to get a breath of fresh air, to escape the din.

And that was the last thing she could remember.

Now she was a prisoner in a dark room, snatched away from her friends and home without explanation, brought here for no apparent reason, chained to a bed in this dark room.

Except that right away she thought of Arcannen and the last time this had happened. Even if it had happened in a slightly different way, it still felt the same and she could not help thinking that once again this was the sorcerer’s doing. She pondered the idea for long minutes. If it was Arcannen, was this still about the gambling debt she hadn’t settled? Or was this an attempt to get at her brother? Was the sorcerer using her to get revenge on Paxon for what had happened at Dark House? She still wasn’t sure what it was all about the first time. Had the sorcerer been after her for making a bet she couldn’t pay and wanting to teach her a lesson, or was he after Paxon for reasons that were never made clear?

Whatever the case, she was beginning to grow steadily more certain that it was the sorcerer who had snatched her away.

She glanced down at herself in dismay, aware suddenly of a chill she hadn’t noticed before. Sure enough, beneath the thin sheet that covered her, she was naked. Every last stitch of clothing had been removed. She gritted her teeth. Very likely she was back in Dark House, and whatever Arcannen’s intentions, it would be a lot more difficult for Paxon to come to her rescue this time.

Chrysallin might have been only fifteen, but she was tough–minded and confident, more a young woman than a girl. She had grown up wild and reckless, and there wasn’t much she hadn’t tried. Constantly in trouble for one thing or another, she had learned much of what she knew the hard way. She had taught herself how to stand up to anyone, how to behave when she was threatened, and how to accept punishment when it was unavoidable. So she was not about to start panicking now. She was less than pleased that her clothes had been removed, but it was not cause for losing control.

Not yet, at least.

She took a deep breath and released it with a shudder. Someone was fumbling with the door handle. A key was being fitted into a lock and turning. She heard the lock release and watched the door open.

Sure enough, Arcannen stood in the opening, wrapped in his black robes and backlit by the hall light. He studied her momentarily in a casual, indifferent way and then came into the room, closing the door behind him. A quick touch to smokeless lamps on either side of the door chased the darkness away sufficiently that he and his prisoner could see each other.

“You seem to be doing fine,” he observed. There was a touch of humor in his voice. “For someone chained naked to a bed.”

“My brother will come for you,” she said quietly, keeping her gaze locked on his.

“I certainly hope so. That’s been my intention all along.”

“So you were never really interested in collecting that gambling debt? That was just an excuse for luring my brother to Wayford?”

He crossed the room and sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, then reached out and ran his hand over her leg and up her thigh to her breast. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Having you here promises to be lots of fun.”

She felt a chill sweep through her, but managed to keep from showing what she was feeling. “You made that threat before. This is probably the best someone like you can do. A girl chained to the bed is the only way you’ll ever get close to any woman.”

He pursed his lips, a sneer forming. “Or in your case, any girl. But don’t worry. I won’t do anything to you. I won’t make you work in the pleasure stalls or scrub the floors or service my guards. That’s not for you. I want you in perfect shape for when your brother comes to trade for you.”

She stared at him, the pieces suddenly coming together. “You want his sword. That’s what you were after before, but you didn’t get it. So you are still trying, aren’t you? Me for the sword–that’s the bargain you’re hoping to make.”

The hawkish features tightened. “The bargain I will make, Chrysallin. Your brother will give anything to get you back in one piece. Only this time I won’t be caught off guard by his promises. And you won’t be taken away quite so easily. This time things will be a little different.”

She gave him a look, her resolve tightening. “Can you hurry it up? Or can you at least give me some clothes and take off these chains? How much trouble do you think a fifteen–year–old girl can be?”

“I’m not sure I want to find out. Chained to this bed and stripped of clothes, I don’t think you can be much trouble at all. Dressed and let loose, perhaps a whole lot.”

She searched her mind for an argument. “I have to eat and bathe and use the chamber pot or things will get really unpleasant. What if I give you my word I won’t try to escape? What if I promise to wait until Paxon has a chance to come get me?”

Arcannen gave her a long, searching look and shrugged. “Not that I think you would keep your word for one minute, but you have a point about personal hygiene. Maybe we can reach a compromise.”

He agreed to give her back her clothes and release all the chains but one clamped about her ankle, which would allow her to move about without leaving the room. Food and drink and water with which to bathe would be supplied. Guards would stand watch, but only come in to bring what she needed to eat and wash. She would give her word to stay put until he heard something from her brother.

She agreed readily–although he was right in supposing she didn’t for one minute intend to keep her word about not trying to escape. He knew it, and she knew it. That wasn’t how this game was played. If he wasn’t putting her into the pleasure stalls or otherwise misusing her, he must consider her well–being important enough not to risk causing her harm.

“Of course, if you misbehave after enjoying my generosity of spirit, I will have to change the way I do things. Your living conditions could take a change for the worse rather quickly.”

“What is it about that old sword?” she asked, ignoring him as he waited for her response to his threat. “Why is it so important to you?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t your brother tell you? He didn’t, I see. So why should I? Ask him when you see him. Ask him why he thinks I have gone to all this trouble to get hold of it. There’s a mystery for you to solve, Chrysallin–of–the–many–questions. Why didn’t I just steal it from you in the first place and have done with it? You don’t have the faintest idea, do you?”

“No,” she admitted.

He grinned wickedly. “If you change your mind about working here, just let the guards know. One of them will be in shortly to bring you clean clothes and release you from your chains. Behave yourself when he does.”

Then he patted her arm, rose from the bed, and went out the door, locking it behind him.

He did not go far. Just down the hall and around the corner. Mischa was waiting in the shadows of an alcove leading to an outside balcony, eyes glittering with anticipation. “Is it done?”

He nodded. “I will tell the guard to bring her clothes and release her chains. All but the one that secures her ankle. Not that it will hold her for long. She will be out of it inside an hour. That girl is smart and determined. Are you sure this will work?”

“She is a better subject with those qualities than if she were slow–witted. She will be molded as you intend. She will become what you wish. A week’s time, no more. Do you leave for Arishaig?”

“Tonight. Make sure you intercept her. Take her where you wish, but take her quickly.” He paused. “And Mischa. Don’t underestimate her.”

The smile Mischa gave him was chilling. “She is no match for me, Arcannen. And you should know that I never underestimate anyone. So don’t forget the terms of our agreement. I would be sad if you did, but you would be even sadder.”

He stared at her a moment. “Threats now, is it? Just be certain you keep your end of the bargain.”

Then he turned from her and continued on his way.

Arcannen had barely finished closing the door before Chrysallin was thinking of ways to escape. A single ankle chain and a lock on the door: Free herself of those and she was on her way home. The sorcerer was so smug, so convinced of his superiority over a fifteen–year–old girl that he believed her cowed. Or at least, he was convinced she would be unable to outwit him. Well, he was in for a surprise. She had no intention of waiting around for Paxon to come get her. She would be out of here and off to find him long before coming for her was necessary.

She lay back, thinking of Arcannen’s face when he found her gone, imagining his rage. It made her want to laugh. It was too bad she couldn’t be there to see it. But she brushed these images aside, reminding herself she wasn’t free yet and that there were still obstacles to be overcome before she could take time to enjoy fantasies of Arcannen’s unhappiness.

It wasn’t long before the door opened again and a guard appeared with her clothes. He dumped them at the foot of her bed, released the locks and chains that bound her wrists–leaving the ankle chain in place–and departed without a word. She sat up and spent several minutes massaging her wrists, then slipped out from under the sheets and started to dress. Right away, she faced a problem. With a chain and cuff still fastened about her ankle, she couldn’t put on her pants. Instead, she had to settle for slipping into her tunic and tying the sheet about her waist to use as a makeshift skirt.

Then she sat back down on the bed and felt carefully along the waistband of her pants until she found the tiny metal pick. Long and straight except where it curved at one end, it was a tool she always carried with her. Picking locks of one sort or another had become something of a specialty, although in this case it was more important than usual. Arcannen had left the lights on, so boosting her ankle and chain onto the bed provided her with enough light to pick the lock. It took her less than five minutes to free herself. Discarding the sheet, she pulled on her pants and boots, tucked the pick back into her waistband, and walked over to the door.

She stood there listening for a time, then carefully tried the handle.

Locked.

She looked around the room. What she needed was a weapon, but there wasn’t anything at hand that would serve the purpose. She thought momentarily about the chain that had secured her ankle, but it was linked to a ring in the floor–and besides, it was too heavy for her to wield effectively. What she needed was some sort of club.

She looked around. There was not a stick of furniture in the room save for the bed, and the frame was metal.

Her jaw tightened.

She was not giving up.

Walking back to the door, she put her ear against the frame and listened through the crack. Nothing. She waited a moment, and then she knocked and called out, “Hey, can you come here a minute? I need help!”

There was no response. She waited a few minutes and then tried again. Still no response. Good enough.

Retrieving the pick from her waistband, she began working it around in the keyhole. It was harder going this time, the lock larger and less easily maneuvered. But in the end it gave a familiar snick and released.

Pocketing the lock pick, she gently twisted the handle and felt the latch give. Standing where she was, with the door partially cracked, she listened for sounds of someone waiting outside. When she heard nothing, she opened the door farther and took a cautious peek outside, looking first one way and then the other down a long hall. She was not anywhere she had been before. She was not anywhere she recognized. If she was back in Dark House, as she assumed, she had been taken to a different part of the building than where she had been kept before. This area was shadowy and empty feeling, as if no one was anywhere about.

Still, she took her time before she stepped from the room into the hallway and began edging her way carefully along the wall, stopping often to listen for the sounds of movement or voices. But everything was still. She had chosen to turn left, but she had no idea what way she should be going. She needed some sort of indicator to give her a sense of direction so she could figure out how to get free of the building.

When she reached the end of the hallway, she was facing a wall. No stairway led either up or down. She turned around in frustration, her fears heightening, and retraced her steps, working her way toward the other end of the corridor, forcing herself to keep her pace slow and steady. This time, she found that the hallway bent to the left, and in the dimness cast by the passage lights she could just catch sight of stairs leading down.

She was just starting ahead again–freedom in sight–when a door opened in front of her and an old woman emerged. The woman was bent and worn looking, dressed in a skirt and blouse that were stained and old, a scarf tying back her long gray hair, and high–top boots on her feet. She was hauling a bucket and mop, and she carried a collection of rags under one withered arm.

A cleaning woman, Chrys thought, freezing in place. Too late to go back or try to hide. She waited for the old woman to turn the other way, to not notice she was there.

Instead, the old woman turned directly toward her and froze. For long moments, the two just stared at each other.

Then Chrysallin raised a finger to her lips in a universally recognizable plea for silence. The old woman watched her, then nodded in agreement. Chrys moved in front, heading for the stairway. As she angled past, the old woman beckoned her to step close.

Leaning in, the other whispered, “There are guards at the bottom of the stairs. If you want out, there is a better way.”

Chrys hesitated, then nodded. “Can you show me?” she whispered back.

The old woman nodded and wordlessly led her back the way she had come to a door she had already passed, opening it onto a hidden set of narrow steps. Motioning for her to follow, she led Chrys down three flights of stairs into a cellar crammed with boxes and smelling of damp and mildew. What light there was came from slits cut into the stone of the foundation walls, almost at ceiling height, and covered over with a heavy, diffuse glass.

The old woman led her across the cellar floor, winding through the stacks of boxes, avoiding places were water had pooled and cracks in the floor had opened. Once or twice, Chrysallin thought she saw movement in the shadows–quick and furtive. Rats. She stayed close to the old woman, her guide through this gloomy country she did not know. It took them a long time to reach the far end, and then they were at an old ironbound wooden door recessed deep in the stone of the wall. The old woman stopped there, released a series of locks and latches, and pulled the door open to the outside.

Chrys peered past the woman’s stooped shoulders to a twilight in which stars were just beginning to come out in a darkening sky. In front of her, steps led upward to a street lined with houses and streetlamps. She could hear the distant sounds of voices and the movement of carriages and horses.

She could smell the fresh air of the city. She could taste her freedom.

She turned to the old woman who was watching her through rheumy eyes, hands clutched to her breast like a supplicant. “Go on, now,” she hissed. “Run!”

Chrysallin almost bolted, but then she hesitated. “Will you tell me your name?”

The old woman smiled. “It’s Mischa.”