Tanequil

Seventeen

When Grianne Ohmsford regained consciousness, she was surprised to discover that she was still alive. In attempting her escape from Kraal Reach, she had fully expected that if she failed, Tael Riverine would have her put to death. It was what she would have done if their positions were reversed and she were still the Use Witch. Lying on the stone floor of her cell in a wash of pain and despair, she found her earlier assessment of her situation reaffirmed: She was being kept alive because the demon needed her that way.

But that was a dangerous supposition, and she quickly abandoned it for a less pleasant conclusion: The Straken Lord intended to make an example of her. Some form of punishment was to be administered.

When she could sit up again, she made a quick assessment of her situation and found that not everything was as it had been. The conjure collar was in place, but now her hands were shackled behind her back and to her waist and ankles so that while she could shuffle about on her knees, she could not stand upright. She had been moved to a different cell, one in which the front wall had been replaced with iron bars so that a jailer could sit on a chair across from her and watch her every movement. She was still not gagged, but there was little risk in allowing that. She already knew the consequences of attempting to use the magic of the wishsong.

Nevertheless, she began thinking about doing so almost immediately because she knew what was going to happen otherwise.

Still, time passed, and nothing did happen. She was spoon–fed and given water by hand through the bars. At first, she resisted, but in the end, hunger and thirst won out. Besides, after her initial assumption regarding her fate failed to prove out, she grew increasingly curious to find out why this was so. She wasn't being kept alive for no reason, — the Straken Lord didn't admire her pluck. Her escape was in defiance of the rules she had been instructed to obey and a challenge to the demon's authority. She didn't think it likely that it would forgive her for that.

But the hours passed, then the days, and neither Tael Riverine nor its underling, Hobstull, appeared. She saw no one but the guards, cloaked and hooded silhouettes in the faint light of the torches that burned in wall brackets across from where she lay. Now and then, one would rise from its sitting place to feed her or to clean the messes she made when she was forced to relieve herself, but otherwise they ignored her. She spent her time trying to get comfortable, to shift her position often enough to prevent cramping and sores. She was only partially successful. She slept fitfully and for short periods of time, and because she was locked in a windowless cell deep within the rock of Kraal Reach, she never knew for certain what time it was. After a while, it no longer mattered. Nothing did. She felt her hopes sliding away. She felt her courage failing. Her one real chance at escape had failed, and she did not expect she would get another. All that remained for her was to prepare herself for whatever fate the Straken Lord intended.

Then, when sufficient time had lapsed that she had lost all track of it, Hobstull appeared. One moment, the corridor was empty save for the guard, and the next, the Catcher was standing there, staring at her in that peculiar way, head cocked, eyes contemplative. He didn't say or do anything. She stared back at him, as still as he was, waiting him out. A small surge of expectation gave her new strength. Finally, something was going to happen.

When he had satisfied himself, the Catcher opened the cell door and came inside. A pair of wizened Goblins stood crook–legged to either side of him, crossbows armed and pointed at her.Don't move, the sharpened bolts advised wordlessly. She didn't. She waited while Hobstull bent down and released the chains from her waist and ankles, leaving them in place about her wrists until he had helped her to stand. Then he released those, as well, moved her hands in front of her, and refastened the chains about her wrists. He stepped back, waiting to see how she would react, his strange eyes fixed on hers, then nodded. Taking the loose end of the chain that bound her wrists, he led her from the cell.

They went down the shadowy corridor to a set of stairs and began to climb, Hobstull leading, the Goblins trailing watchfully. Her mind raced. If they intended to kill her, she would have one final chance at escape when she got to where she was going. If they intended to punish her, she would have the same option. Perhaps she would live long enough to find out why they had kept her alive and left her alone for so long.

At the top of the stairs, she was taken down another corridor, then out through an entry warded by a heavy iron door and into a tiny courtyard walled in by buildings on four sides. The walls rose several dozen feet, leaving the courtyard bathed in cool shadows and resonant with the trapped echoes of voices that drifted in from more open places. She stood in the courtyard as Hobstull once again removed the chains from her wrists and this time left them off. The Catcher studied her in wordless appraisal, then went back through the door with the Goblins, leaving her alone.

She looked around. The walls were too smooth to be climbed. There were no doors save the one through which she had entered, and no windows at all. There were tiny slits that overlooked the courtyard from high above, too far to reach. Murder holes. She took a deep breath, walked over to one wall, and sat down against it. Overhead, clouds scudded through the gray sky like foam capping a rough sea, yellow–tinged and frothy. She saw a dark shape wing its way past, a Harpy perhaps. She smelled the decay of the land. Everything in this world felt ill used and tarnished. Everything felt as if it were dying.

Long minutes passed, and then the door to the courtyard opened again, and Tael Riverine appeared. It emerged into the pale courtyard light like a wraith risen from its midnight lair, so impenetrably black that its features were indistinguishable. It looked bigger than she remembered, but that might have been because its spikes were raised like the hackles on an angry dog, protruding everywhere in what felt to her like a warning.Stay clear. Keep away. It wore its weapons strapped on like body armor, studs and sharp edges glinting dully.

Its blue eyes fixed on her.

She climbed to her feet, unwilling to give even the appearance of weakness. It required noticeable effort to do so.

«You disobeyed me," it announced.

It gestured languidly, and instantly the familiar pain ripped through her, paralyzing her muscles and dropping her to her knees. She bent her head and clutched her body, trying to breathe.

«Disobedience is an unacceptable response to my commands," the demon continued, and gestured again.

This time, she collapsed altogether, her agony so excruciating she lay curled in a ball, sobbing. Her mind locked down and would not let her think of anything but the pain. She pressed her face in the dirt, feeling broken and helpless.

«Get on your knees," Tael Riverine ordered.

It took her a while to do so, but eventually she managed, still bent over at the waist, her arms wrapped protectively about her body.

«Look at me.»

She did so, lifting her head from the veil of her dark hair, trying to hide the mix of fear and suffering that washed through her as she did so. «Apologize for your disobedience.» «I am sorry, Master," she whispered.

The Straken Lord nodded, cold eyes glittering. «You are only sorry you were caught. I see it in your eyes. You do not respond well to discipline. It is not in your nature to choose obedience when you can avoid doing so.»

It walked over to her, huge and forbidding, and reached down to haul her back to her feet, picking her up like a rag doll and propping her against the courtyard wall. She sagged slightly, but stayed upright, eyes locked on the demon's.

«I would have killed another for what you did," it said softly. «I would have taken my time doing so. I would have made the pain so unbearable that death would have come as a relief. Do you understand this?»

She swallowed. «Yes, Master.» «But you interest me.» It paused, and she waited for more, not yet understanding what that meant. Why would she be of any further interest? Other than the purpose she had already served in switching places with whatever creature the magic had set free from the Forbidding, what reason could the Straken Lord have for taking an interest in her?

«Do you know why you are here, inside the world of the Jarka Ruus?» «No, Master.» The demon gestured angrily, and again the pain ratcheted through her, inducing a wave of nausea that caused her to wretch violently as she dropped to her knees. It was on her at once, hauling her upright and slamming her against the stone wall. «Don't lie to me!» it hissed, fury etched on its flat features, rage mirrored in its strange eyes. «Do you think me such a fool? Speak!»

«I … won't lie again, Master," she gasped. «You are intelligent. You are calculating. You are clever. You can pretend that you are not, but you will be disobeying me if you do and will be punished. Do you understand? Answer me.» «I understand, Master.» Her stomach heaved, but she fought down the urge to empty it. The Straken Lord nodded patiently. «Again, now. Do you know why you are here?» «Yes, Master.»

«Tell me.»

«I was brought here so that something that lives in this world could be transported into my own.»

«Very good. Do you know why I arranged for this?»

She took a deep, quieting breath. «No, Master.»

The demon studied her carefully, then nodded. «Not yet, you don't. But you will, soon enough. You will understand everything, because that inquisitive mind of yours will mull it through until the answer surfaces. If not, I will tell you myself. If you stay alive long enough for me to do so.»

If you stay alive. She closed her eyes and exhaled softly. What were the odds of that? She blinked, feeling the weight of his gaze on her, shifting from place to place, contemplative, curious. She was aware of how ragged and dirty she was, unwashed and uncombed, a used–up plaything. For an instant, she saw herself as worthless, of so little value that she deserved to be discarded without further consideration.

«You are a specimen," the Straken Lord said, as if reading her mind. «Hobstull finds you as interesting as I do. He makes more of a study of such things, so his opinion carries weight. He wishes to find out more about you, but I have forbidden him to use his knives just yet. Still, we both deserve an opportunity to see what sort of magic you wield. You do have magic, I know. It resides in you—a demon trait. His interest lies in that. He thinks you might be one of us.»

She cringed at the idea. She was nothing like them. She was human. No matter what they thought or did to make her seem otherwise, she was human. But she said nothing, keeping what she was thinking hidden away inside.

«I intend to test you, Grianne Ohmsford, Ard–Rhys–that–was, my specimen of such promise.» Its voice had turned oddly soft and soothing. «I intend to test you in a way that no one has ever been tested before. I want to see what you can do. I want to see how strong your survival instincts are.»

As it spoke, its spikes lowered against its body, changing its look entirely. She stared in spite of herself, wondering what it was seeking from her that it didn't already have.

«This afternoon," it continued in the same compelling voice, «I will test you then. I will see how you respond.»

Then it turned and disappeared through the door, leaving her breathless and pressed hard against the courtyard wall.

Hobstull returned with the Goblin guards moments later, and she was taken back to her cell. Although the chains were not put on again, three guards were stationed across from her cell with crossbows pointed in her direction at all times. She sat quietly on the floor of her little room and thought about what the Straken Lord had told her. She would be tested. But what did that mean? Tested how? She did not think the answer would please her. She wished she could find some reassurance in still being alive, but her instincts told her that she would be foolish to do so.

Hobstull reappeared after a while with a basin of hot water, a clear indication that she was to clean herself up for whatever was going to happen next. He deposited sandals and a shift at her feet as well. She waited for him to leave, then turned her back on the Goblin guards, stripped off her rags, and used them to wash her aching body. Then she dressed in the sandals and shift and sat back down again to wait.

The wait was longer than she had expected. She had no accurate way of measuring, but she thought afterwards that it must have been several hours. When Hobstull led her back up the stairs and out of the tower and into the light, the day was edging rapidly toward nightfall, the gray of the sky gone darker and the endless clouds and mist dropped lower against the heights. The Catcher replaced the chains about her wrists, and a phalanx of Goblins surrounded her. She was taken across the courtyard through an outer wall to where a rolling cage similar to the one that had brought her to Kraal Reach was waiting. She was placed inside, and the chain that bound her was fastened to the bars. The Goblins formed ranks to either side of the cage, and Hobstull climbed onto the seat next to the driver. The driver snapped his whip over the heads of the massive horned creatures hitched up front, and the wheels began to roll.

They went out through a set of bigger, bulkier gates, heavy oak toughened with pitch and bound with iron plates. There demon–wolves joined the procession, panting and slavering, yellow eyes shifting to find her, their muzzles drawing back. She felt their hatred for her, read the warning in their snarls.

Down through the buildings of the fortress they wound, heading east into the growing darkness, toward the mountains against which the keep was backed. The earlier crowds had thinned to a wary–eyed few, some of them Goblins, some of them Gormies and kobolds, and some of them creatures she could not identify. When they were outside the walls, they turned south, bending with the land toward a vast depression that dipped into the flats overlooking the countryside beyond. Scrubby and desolate, the depression was rippled by a maze of deep gullies and sharp ridges born out of massive erosion. They followed a cart path marked by wagon wheels and animal tracks, the dust rising in heavy clouds, the air hazy and gritty.

She sat quietly in the center of the cage, rocking back and forth to its uneven sway, one sleeve of her tunic held across her mouth to help keep the dust from her breathing passages. They had advanced far enough that when she looked back at the keep, its walls and towers had shrunk to the size of a child's toy. She watched as the image grew smaller and less distinct and finally vanished entirely.

As they arrived on the valley floor, the roadway straightened and the landscape opened up again. The denizens of Kraal Reach, absent before, were now clustered everywhere she looked, fingers pointing, eyes and faces bright and eager, their conversations animated as they watched her pass. They understood more about what was going to happen than she did, — that much was clear from their behavior. It was not a stretch to think that most of the city had come out to watch.

An embankment rose in front of them, a wall of earth more than thirty feet high. A pair of tall gates opened through the wall, and when the cage reached the other side, she found that the embankment wrapped around a bowl of earth and rocks that was perhaps a quarter mile wide from end to end. Seated atop the embankment were thousands of Kraal Reach's denizens, sharp–faced and gimlet–eyed, hunched over in their robes as they cheered and gestured in greeting. It was not a comforting welcome; it was a welcome of dark expectation and impatience, the kind reserved for those who would provide a form of blood sport. Certain that her testing was to take the form of combat against a carefully chosen opponent, she did not like what she felt in that moment.

The wagon rolled to an unsteady stop in front of a set of tall risers formed of an iron framework and wooden slat seats. In the center of a group of unidentifiable creatures hidden within robes and hoods sat the Straken Lord. As the cage ceased its forward movement, the demon rose and walked down to greet Hobstull. Heads lowered and hackles raised, the wolves slunk away at his approach. The Goblin guards stepped back and bowed low. Only Hobstull made no overt movement of submission, his angular body unbent, his expressionless oval face lifted watchfully. The Straken Lord spoke softly to him, then nodded at Grianne.

She took a deep, steadying breath as the Catcher approached her, keys in hand. If she was going to attempt another escape, she would have to do so now.

But she fought down the urge, telling herself to wait, to be patient. A wrong move would mean the end of her. She stayed quite still while Hobstull opened the cage door and stepped inside, then walked over to unlock the chains that bound her wrists. He stepped back, beckoning her outside. She did as she was told, rising gingerly to exit the cage and stand on the floor of the arena, facing the Straken Lord.

«Bow to me," it ordered quietly.

She did so, deeply and slowly. It cost her nothing. She felt no respect for the creature, only a deep–seated wariness. She would do what was required of her until the time was right. She was good at waiting.

«Are you washed and rested?» the demon asked.

«Yes, Master.»

«It is the time of your testing. Are you ready?»

«Yes, Master.»

«The Jarka Ruus that are my subjects have come to watch. If you disappoint them by showing fear or cowardice, I will give you over to them to be killed. If you try to escape, I will kill you myself. You have only one choice. Complete the test successfully. Demonstrate that you are worthy of being kept alive.»

She waited. She knew better than to speak without being spoken to, better than to ask questions. She held herself erect, her hands clasped before her, her fingers working slowly over her wrists, where the manacles had numbed the nerves.

The Straken Lord gestured, and the rolling cage was pulled away. With it went the Goblin guards and the demonwolves. Only Hobstull remained, bright eyes fixed on her. His specimen, awaiting her trial. She did not look at him. She would not give him the satisfaction.

«Walk out into the center of the arena," the Straken Lord ordered. The blue eyes glittered with an excitement she had not seen before. «There, you will find your opponent waiting. You may use any magic you possess to defeat it. You may call on any of your skills to protect yourself. So long as you do not attempt to escape this arena, the conjure collar will not be used against you. Your sole responsibility while you are here is to yourself. Your obligation is to survive. If you do, Ard–Rhys–that–was, your future is assured. There will be no need for further punishment. You will be given a place among us, one I shall choose for you, and it will be a place of honor. Now go.»

She walked away at once, not daring to look at him another moment, afraid that the incredulity and disgust she was feeling would show through in spite of all that she was doing to hide it. What was the demon talking about? What could it think she would find to be honorable about life in this desolate prison world? All she wanted to do, all she lived for, was escape. The Straken Lord had an overblown opinion of what it could expect of her if it thought anything would change that, and she had no idea what fueled it.

She stared out into the flats as she walked, searching. There was nothing to see, no sign of movement in any quarter, no indication of any life. What sort of opponent had the demon chosen for her that an entire city would come out to see? What manner of creature was she expected to defeat in combat that would indicate she was worthy of keeping her life?

She glanced skyward momentarily, then out onto the horizon, thinking the attack might be coming from outside the arena. Nothing. She was aware that a hush had settled over the assembled denizens of Kraal Reach. They were waiting now, anticipating. All conversation had dropped to a barely audible whisper. Movement had stopped. All eyes were on her.

When the mewling sound began, soft and low, she had almost reached the center of the arena. She knew it for what it was immediately. A chill washed through her, causing her skin to shiver and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to raise. She stopped at once, mouthing a single word voicelessly.

Furies.

She experienced an odd sense of calm. The uncertainty was gone, the waiting over. At least she could derive some small sense of satisfaction from knowing her opponent's identity. What better way to test her than with creatures like this? She breathed slowly, deeply, trying to steady herself. The mewling was rising steadily, building in intensity. She had only moments.

What shall I do?

Hers was the stronger weapon, her magic against their teeth and claws. Hers was the superior skill and cunning, her craft honed in a thousand battles. But the Furies were driven by instincts that did not value safety or self–preservation. A pack mentality ruled them when they found prey, and they would attack and keep attacking until either the enemy or they were destroyed. No quarter would be given and none asked. Furies knew only one way, and that way eschewed any identifiably rational behavior. She had been put into a den of madness, and the source of that madness was a legion of relentless, inexorable killers.

She tested the magic of the wishsong to see if the Straken Lord had told the truth about using it, thinking that if the demon had lied, she would be rendered unconscious fast enough that she wouldn't feel it when the Furies tore her to bits. But the magic blossomed at the end of her fingertips on command, gathering force, taking shape, waiting to be used, and the conjure collar gave no warning. Hope welled up within her at the realization that it would be an even battle. She would have her chance to survive.

A small chance.

She would have to kill all of them, if she was to walk away. Nothing short of that would save her. They would come at her in a rush, and they would keep coming until the life was bled out of them. Once, the task would have been a challenge she would have embraced, a struggle of dark magic against dark intent, the wellspring of the Use Witch's indomitable self–confidence. But she was no longer the Use Witch, and her desire for combat had fallen away with the identity she had shed.

Her strength must come from her life as the Ard Rhys.

What shall I do?

They began to appear, small shadows in the failing light, feline faces and slanted eyes, sinuous forms sliding from holes in the earth and from behind bits of scrub. Like ghosts, they materialized in the gloom, their mewling rising and falling in waves of expectation. They were all around her, perhaps a hundred of them. Too many for her to overcome, no matter how much magic she used, no matter how strong her determination. Like the ogre she had seen on her way to her confrontation with the shade of the Warlock Lord, she would fight with passion and fury, but in the end she would be pulled down.

Instantly, she began to rethink her strategy for surviving the confrontation. Strength alone would not be enough. Cunning was what would save her. Innovation and surprise. The unexpected might turn aside these little terrors. They were inching closer, some of them within twenty yards. She saw the madness glinting in their eyes. She felt the heat of their bloodlust. The longer she took to respond, the bolder they would grow. They were stalking her with a certain amount of caution now, but the testing would be finished all too soon, and then …

The testing.

Of who and what I am.

As swiftly as the thought was completed, she knew what she had to do. She didn't pause to consider the consequences or weigh the risks, — she just did it. She reabsorbed the magic gathered at her fingertips, pulled it back inside, changed its form, and redistributed it throughout her body. The effect was instantaneous and irreversible. She lost control almost immediately, swept away by the magic's implacable response. Gasping in shock, she dropped into a crouch, her appearance changing as she did so, her form altering. The magic burned within her, turning her feverish as it stripped away her look and smell, her thinking, her reasoning, her conscience. She began to mewl like those that stalked her. Like those she confronted. Like a Fury. She made the change in a heartbeat, the magic sweeping across her until Grianne Ohmsford, Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Council, simply vanished from the valley floor.

What appeared in her place was another Fury, this one larger and more dangerous than its brethren, but clearly a twin.

The transformation was so unexpected that the other Furies drew back in shock. One moment, their prey was standing helpless before them. The next, it was gone, replaced by another thing, a recognizable presence that somehow wasn't exactly what they were, but close enough that it gave them pause.

She moved forward swiftly, cat–smooth and challenging, all spiky fur and menacing sounds, her eyes sweeping across those smaller replicas of herself, her teeth and claws bared and threatening. She hissed and spit as she swung about in uncontrollable rage. Where was her prey? Where was the human? She went so deep into her assumed form that she could anticipate the taste of blood in her mouth. She was so removed from her human side that she wanted to rip and tear at something — anything — that came within reach. She mewled her need to her cat kind, mirrors of herself, and they hissed and spit in reply.

Down through their midst she stalked, lost to herself, turned killer demon, no visible, recognizable part of her human side in evidence. She was all Fury now, a part of the pack, at one with the madness. If there had been something to attack, she would have done so, shredding it with relish, satisfying her newly minted primal need.

The other Furies rubbed against her as she passed, accepting her presence, her place among them. They circled and sniffed, taking in her smell, marking her as cats would. She responded in kind, moving through the landscape as if in a dream, afloat and not quite grounded by anything. She had a vague sense of things not being right, of seeming out of joint in place and time, — she had a dim memory of having had another life that didn't square with this one. But her Fury self wouldn't give way to that other life, wouldn't let it intrude, and so she felt it slipping farther and farther away.

She cast frequent glances toward the embankment, where creatures she could eat if she could reach them buzzed and whispered among themselves, their voices raw sounding and enticing. She stalked toward them, drawn to them for a reason she couldn't identify. The other Furies ignored her, returning now to their dens, disappearing back into the earth like shadows in sunlight. The excitement was over, the chance for a kill gone. One by one they vanished, the happenings of earlier moments already forgotten.

She walked on, drawn by a craving she could neither understand nor resist. At first, it involved the creatures on the embankment, then only one of them, a singularly tall, dark, spiky being that was descending from its perch into the valley. Her ears pricked in expectation. Fresh prey. A meal. She eased forward, but the creature didn't turn aside or back away like her, it came on. She bared her teeth and flexed her claws. In a moment she would have it and then summon her brethren to the feast.

But all at once the spiky creature gestured at her, and pain ripped through her body, dropping her squirming and spitting on the earth. She tried to rise, and the pain returned, harsher and longer, flooding her with its razors and knives, stealing the last of her strength. She lay gasping as the black thing came over to her and stared down at her expressionlessly.

«Do you know me?» it demanded, blue eyes cold and brittle.

She did. It came back to her instantly, came back as the identity she had assumed fell away and her knowledge of who she was returned.

«Yes, Master," she whispered.

The Straken Lord nodded. «You have excelled in your testing. You have proved your worth. I am pleased.»

The demon picked her up as if she were weightless and bore her from the arena to the thunderous roar of the assembled, to cheers and grunts and stamping of feet, to unmistakable acclaim. Yet she felt no euphoria, — she felt only disgust and an appalling rage at what she had been forced to do. She had survived, as was her intention, but the cost could not be measured. It had taken more than she wanted to acknowledge, her emotional sanity compromised, her carefully constructed integrity destroyed. She had walked into the arena as the Ard Rhys, but she had emerged as something else. She had reverted to the monster she had once been. In the arena she had become the Use Witch again in everything but her heart, and that becoming could not be easily undone, if at all. She was blackened through and through by the change she had wrought in herself, by the adopting of the Fury persona.

She had made herself sick, and although it made her weep inside to acknowledge it, she did not think she would ever be well again.