Water still dripped somewhere nearby, and there were voices.
“That was a harpy,” an Elven male said. “And I don’t know what the man was, but he wasn’t human.”
“That was Quentin,” a light, female Elven voice said. Relief flooded Quentin as he recognized Linwe’s voice. “At least I think it was. He’s part Elf. And if that was Quentin, I bet the harpy was the sentinel Aryal. She looked bad.”
“I wonder when they’ll wake up,” said a third Elf, another male. That was Caerreth, the bookish male.
“I’m awake,” Quentin said hoarsely. He rolled onto his stomach with difficulty and sat up. “Linwe?”
“Yes, it’s me,” said Linwe. “Oh thank the gods. I mean, not that you’re here locked up too, but that you’re you and awake. It’s good to hear your voice. Are you all right?”
He inspected himself. The worst wounds were the bites on his biceps and his thigh, and as he probed at them, he discovered they hadn’t yet closed. He frowned. Given his Wyr abilities, they should have closed over by now. “I think so,” he said. “I’ve got a few wounds, but they aren’t too bad. You?”
“I’m okay—there’s three of us, and we’re okay. We’re really hungry though.”
“There were four in your party,” he said. He eased off his T-shirt and tore it into strips. Then he used the strips to bind his wounded thigh tightly and, with considerable more clumsiness, the bite on his upper arm. “What happened to the fourth?”
There was a small silence. Then Linwe said bleakly, “She didn’t make it.”
Linwe said “she,” which meant it would have been Cemalla. Damn. He closed his eyes. He was getting tired of hearing about Elves dying. He said, “I’m sorry. How long have you been here—and do you know where here is?”
One of the male Elves answered him. “We’re in the prison underneath the palace in Numenlaur. We’ve been here for almost two weeks.”
Elves could survive a long time without food and almost as long without water, but if they hadn’t had any liquid or nourishment in all that time, they had to be feeling poorly. He asked, “How long has it been since you’ve eaten or drank anything?”
“The witch who imprisoned us has been bringing us wayfarer bread and water every three days,” Linwe said. “But the last time was three days ago, and she didn’t leave any food or water when she brought you and the harpy in. We’re wondering if that means she’s decided to stop feeding us.”
“I met the witch,” he growled.
“Of course you did.” She sounded dispirited and listless. “I’m not thinking very clearly.”
“Don’t worry about it, Linwe. If I were you, I wouldn’t be thinking clearly either.”
Getting food and water every few days was barely sustainable. The thought of them imprisoned for almost two weeks, getting hungrier and thirstier as they listened to that water drip, infuriated him.
He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the bars. He wasn’t familiar with the exact spell that had been smelted into the metal, but it would be something to contain dangerous prisoners with a possible proficiency in magic. Every Elder Races prison had something of the same, some sort of way to dampen a prisoner’s magic.
He tried touching the metal, and whatever magic it held stayed inert, so he grasped two bars and looked at the crumpled figure across the way. Aryal hadn’t moved yet, although if she had been hit with the same spell as he had, she should be awake by now.
“Hey,” he said quietly to her. The sight of her ruined wings made him feel slightly crazed. He remembered the sound of her bone snapping. “Time to wake up, sunshine.”
She didn’t move or give any sign that she heard him. His throat tightened. She might be unconscious. The witch wouldn’t have locked her up if she had been dead.
Or at least she wouldn’t have been dead at the time she was locked up. If his wounds were still open, so were hers. She had been quietly bleeding all this time. Was the dampening magic on the bars interfering with their Wyr abilities to heal?
“Say something, Aryal,” he said.
Goddamn it. Come on.
She said in quiet, broken voice, “I’m not healing.”
After that, she didn’t speak again for a long time.
“I’m not healing either,” he told her.
She didn’t respond.
He started to pace. It made the wound in his thigh ache worse than before, but he ignored it. From down the hall, Linwe said, “That’s how Cemalla died. She got injured pretty badly when the witch’s wolf shadows attacked us. Her wounds wouldn’t clot. She bled out a couple of days after we were brought here.”
Caerreth, the bookish Elf, said, “I could have saved her if my magic had been working.”
“You’re a healer?” Quentin asked.
“I’m not very advanced yet,” he said. “But none of us sustained any injuries that would have required complicated healing spells or surgeries.”
Quentin was no healer, but he thought Aryal’s wings might call for some complicated healing or surgeries. He resisted the urge to smash his fist into the wall, as any possible damage he might do to his fist might not heal. He muttered, “We need to get the hell away from these damn bars.”
Caerreth said somewhat pedantically, “Yes, we do, but in regards to healing, we’ve had a long time to think about things, and we don’t think that the dampening spell in the bars down here had anything to do with Cemalla bleeding out. After all, healing is a natural physical process, not a magical one. We think it has something to do with the wolf shadows themselves.”
The younger Elf made a good point. It sounded like they had used their imprisonment to try to think things through.
“Have you seen anything like them before?” Quentin asked.
“No, so we don’t know anything for sure.” Caerreth sounded like Linwe did, very tired. “All we have is supposition. Have you seen anything like them before?”
“No. Do you think their bites are poison?” Quentin didn’t feel poisoned. He just felt in pain. He stalked back and forth, pacing laps.
“The wounds haven’t acted as though they were poisoned,” said Caerreth. “I think it has more to do with the nature of the creatures themselves.”
“I thought they were spirits, or ghosts,” Quentin said. He completed another lap and spun. How much blood had Aryal lost? Was she close to bleeding out?
“If they are,” Caerreth said, “and they can still affect the physical world, what if the wounds they inflict are spiritual in nature?”
Quentin thought about that as he prowled every inch of his cage. Spiritual, the way that Caerreth meant it, didn’t mean feelings or emotions, or some kind of religious experience. Instead it meant of the soul, or the incorporeal, as opposed to the physical. Magic had the same distinction, as it was spiritual in nature—incorporeal —but still had the Power to impact the physical world.
“If you’re right,” he said, “then magical healing might work.”
“Which we can’t do in here,” said Caerreth. He sounded as dispirited and listless as Linwe had.
Quentin wasn’t dispirited or listless. He burned with rage and determination.
He said, “That’s all the more reason why we have to get out of here. But then we already knew that.”
With that, he turned all the considerable force of his attention onto one thing: escape.
To test the dampening spell in the prison bars, he ran through a series of practice spells that were akin to a musician playing scales. The dampening spell activated, and he could feel it acting in counterpart to his. It was more sophisticated than anything he had encountered before. He cast a stronger spell and felt the dampener adjust to the shift, an equal weight of null to his magic.
The one dampening spell that he knew was more simple and oppressive, pressing the null as a dead weight throughout the air of the prison or cage, so that the magic user could not even summon Power to cast a spell in the first place.
That kind of dampener needed to be recast periodically because it expended Power all of the time. The spell on these bars would have been much more difficult to cast, but it would last much longer, perhaps indefinitely, only becoming active when needed and providing only enough Power necessary to block each surge of
