Reynold snorted. “You appear to think this a game. This is no game to me, Sashandra Lenayin. The survival of my nation is at stake.”
“Mine too.”
Reynold nodded to the bald man, who retreated to the furnace and pulled on a thick glove. Sasha’s heart began to race.
“Unlike Perone, I do not enjoy this, Sashandra,” said Reynold, his blue eyes deeply serious. “But desperate times call for desperate measures. Making revolution is far harder than making cake, it requires far more than the breaking of a few eggs.”
The bald man picked up a steel poker. Its end, resting within the coals, glowed bright orange. Sasha stared at it as the man approached and shook her head in shaking disbelief.
“Oh you’re dead,” she muttered. Her head felt as though it were about to burst, from the pounding in her ears. “I am going to so enjoy killing you.”
“Tell me something useful,” Reynold said reasonably, “and it need not be so.”
“You’re wrong,” said Sasha shakily. “I’m going to kill you regardless.”
The bald man waved the poker close, and Sasha flinched aside, desperately. The chains brought her swinging back, and that was when he laid it across her side.
Sasha screamed and thrashed. It hurt indescribably. The poker pulled away, but the pain did not go. It got worse, burning bone deep. She tried to lash out, reflexively, but only made herself swing some more.
“Tell me something useful, Sashandra. What state is the Lenay artillery in? About what proportion of the cavalry rides lowlands steeds, and what the native Lenay dussieh? What tactics has Prince Koenyg preferred in his previous, if limited Lenay campaigns? I have heard tales that the warriors of Isfayen province are particularly ferocious, shall Koenyg use them in the front, or in the reserve?”
“If you wait long enough,” Sasha gasped, “maybe one of them will fuck you with his spear!”
The poker was applied to her other side. Sasha had no shame in screaming. Screaming helped. When the screaming passed, she reverted to Tullamayne. “
“I know a little Lenay,” said Reynold. “It means…‘blood on the steel,’ yes?”
“
Twelve
SASHA’S LAMP WAS DYING when the cell door creaked open, and new light flooded the cool stone. She lay on her back on a pile of straw, trying to keep her breathing shallow. What was left of her clothes now made for a pillow. Her one relief was that underground, in the dark, the air was neither warm nor cool, and near nakedness suited the temperature. Despite that, her skin flushed hot and then cold, with the onset of what she suspected was fever. The pain was incredible. She wanted to pass out, but had no chance of sleep, and was too strong of constitution to faint. Suicide occurred to her, and was dismissed just as fast. Errollyn needed protecting, and Kessligh helping, and Lenayin saving. And enemies killing.
She closed her eyes against the new glare, trying to keep her wrists still. In the manacles, they chafed something awful, a pain nearly as bad as the burns. There were ten of those, two to each side, two on her back and two on each thigh. The cane had made cuts, and her stomach and ribs were bruised all over. Every breath was agony, though she did not think a rib was broken. Fury was the only thing that made it bearable.
The cell door shut. The owner of the lamp crouched nearby. Sasha slitted her eyes, rolled her head, and looked. Emerald eyes, beautiful and frightening beyond description. Snow white hair. Such unearthly, long-limbed beauty. Memories of loving friendship, all betrayed…fury surged, and she was lunging to her knees, lashing with manacled wrists, whipping the chain toward that long, shapely neck… But it was pointless, and the chains pulled her short, an agony of severed skin, and wounds disturbed.
Rhillian barely moved. She watched as Sasha strained against the chains like a mad thing. And finally collapsed, frothing and gasping. She set the lamp aside.
“Sasha,” she said coolly. “I’ve been to see Errollyn. They would not let me talk to him, but he is well. Alythia too. You are the only one I can talk to. Kessligh is demanding that someone gives him proof you are still alive.” Sasha said nothing.
“Sasha, the Justiciary is heavily defended,” Rhillian continued. “A thousand, I’d guess. I have not seen Sinidane, I don’t know if he lives. There is open war in the city, I have not the forces to contain that and retake the Justiciary. I must prioritise. Council has fallen too. The Civid Sein hope to make a rallying cry, by claiming control of Tracato’s institutions.”
Sasha gave an exhausted, crazed, exasperated laugh. “What do you want me to do about it? Help? You make a fucking mess, Rhillian. You always make a fucking mess. Look at me. I’m a fucking mess.”
The cell was spinning. It was too much, and she slid down on her side, and lay on the straw. Rhillian did not reply.
“I cannot be always attempting to justify myself to you,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet. Strained, almost. “We shall all do what we will, for the best interests of all. It’s all we can do. None of us is wise enough to know all ends.”
“That’s great, Rhillian,” Sasha gasped. “A philosophical excuse. Sorry I fucked everything up, even the wise are fallible. How nice.”
Another, longer pause. Rhillian got up abruptly, and strode to the cell door. Stopped just as abruptly. Came back, and squatted once more. Sasha struggled for focus, through slitted eyes.
“I cannot stop them from hurting you, Sasha,” Rhillian whispered. Her voice trembled. “They are cruel. All sides are cruel. I play them against each other. I will defeat them soon, or they shall defeat themselves, but I cannot stop them from what they do here now. I have not the force.”
“You said that already,” Sasha managed. “What do you want from me? Forgiveness? You won’t get it.”
“There was a time you would have forgiven me anything.”
Petrodor. Sadisi festival, dancing and cook fires on the dockside, reflections gleaming in dark waters. Rhillian, impossibly beautiful, taking a prawn from Sasha’s plate. Laughing, avoiding the inquiries of forward young men, discussing the night with wonder in her eyes.
“Not anything,” Sasha murmured. To her incredulity, there was a lump in her throat. Not now. Revenge required a steely heart, such softness appalled her. “Never anything.”
“Do you recall,” Rhillian said softly, “that once, I insisted you should sleep with Errollyn?”
“I didn’t do it just to please you,” Sasha croaked.
“No.” Rhillian’s lips pursed in a small smile. “I don’t suppose you did. Had I known the trouble it would cause me, I would never have suggested it. Do you recall our discussions with Father Berin?” The North Pier temple on Dockside, near the great shipping docks. Berloni the painter, swathing beautiful, holy images across the ceiling. Spirits she wished she were back there now. “He insisted that if he could convince just one serrin of the holy teachings, he would die a happy man.”
“You used to provoke him.”
“I did. But he was a rare Verenthane, he enjoyed it. I truly think he was more interested in converting you than me.”
Sasha managed a small, breathless laugh. “I’m even more the hopeless case than you.”
“I did tell him,” Rhillian agreed. “I also think he merely enjoyed the company of two pretty girls, whatever his priestly protestations.” She gazed at Sasha in the lamplight, humour fading from her eyes. “Oh, Sasha.” Regarding her wounds. “What have they done to you?”
“You protest yourself innocent of violence now?”
