The Eagle And The Nightingales

seemed he was very useful to these mages, and a source of much profit. My blood and feathers_and the talon bits too, I suppose_are valuable, but only when taken from a living creature; and therefore I am more valuable alive than dead. I doubt their employer knows of this little trade on the side.

Why bits of him should be useful to a mage, he had no notion_but then again, this situation was frighteningly similar to a rumor circulating about human mages who were capturing nonhumans and 'sacrificing' them. What if there were human mages who were capturing nonhumans, but using bits of them for magic? The idea would have made him sick, if he'd had the leisure to be sick.

Do they do this to their own kind, I wonder? Or is this reserved for 'lower creatures'? They were so indifferent to the amount of pain and damage they inflicted as they collected their trophies that he could well imagine they were not above kidnapping fellow humans and treating them the same way.

Which might account for the rumors of nonhumans who captured humans and sacrificed them... and would certainly account for the expertise with which he'd been trussed up.

Why was it that humans were inclined to spawn both the best 'saints' and the worst villains among their numbers? Was it just that humans were inclined to the extremes?

His mind was wandering, ignoring his urgent need to find a way out of his bindings and escape, and meandering down philosophical paths that had nothing to do with what he wanted it to think about.

How long have I been here? He wasn't certain. They never took off the hood, and although they hadn't been feeding him, he had 'heard' the music of magic near him several times, as if they were nourishing him that way instead of by conventional means. He wasn't thirsty or hungry, at any rate, which was different from his captivity at the hands of Padrik's men.

But closed inside the hood, with his body racked with pain, there was no way of telling how much time had passed. It could have been hours... or days.

There was an escape open to him; a realm of illusion and hallucination that would at least take him out of his pain and current fear. All he had to do would be to give in to the beckoning, grinning specter of madness, as he had when the Church had held him, and_

I will not go mad. I will not lose heart.

Nightingale was out there, somewhere; he sensed her, a tugging in his soul that actually had a physical direction. She was as racked with grief for his loss as he was with pain, but she had not given up to despair. Yet. He could not tell what she was doing, but he knew that much at least

She is trying to find me, trying to find a way to free me. I must believe that. She has those damned Deliambrens to help her, and maybe more help than that. She must come; she will come. But it was hard to hold on to hope when his strength drained away steadily.

I have made some difference in the world, he told himself defiantly. I have redeemed myself_and I have had love. Even if I die_

No, that was the way of despair! He shied away from the thought with violence. I will not die! he shouted against the darkness. I will not! I will fight every step of the way, with everything at my command!

Which at the moment was not a great deal....

Voices, muffled by a wall, grew nearer. They were coming again. He waited, wild with rage at his own helplessness, as a door opened and two men entered, still talking.

'_probably another week or so,' one was saying. 'I don't know how these creatures replace blood loss, but we're draining him fairly quickly.'

He felt hands fumbling at his restraints. This time they didn't seem to have brought any of their bravos with them. Could he_?

He tried to lash out at them as they freed his arms, tried to leap to his feet. If I can injure one, the other will run and I can hold the injured one and make him take off the hood_

Visions of escape flashed across his mind.

He flung out his taloned hands with a strength only slightly less than that of an unfledged eyas; he got as far as his knees before he threw himself off balance and tumbled in an ungainly sprawl across some hard surface.

The men both laughed, as he sought for a reservoir of strength and found it empty. 'I see what you mean,' said the other. 'Still_we can't keep him around for too long, or our client is going to hear about the new artifacts in the market and is going to wonder where all those vials of blood and feathers are coming from.'

'He gave us permission to take what we wanted_' the first man argued.