“And then you’re going to cut his heart out.” Terisa couldn’t bear any more. He made her want to shriek. With an effort of will, she let go of his shirt, drew back from him. “Get out of here,” she muttered. “I don’t want to hear this.” The image of what had happened to Nyle sucked at her concentration. She thrust it away with both hands. “Just get out of here.”
Then the sight of him – fierce and in pain on his knees against her bars – touched her, and she relented a little. “You really ought to be in bed. You aren’t going to be hunting anybody for a while. If the Castellan doesn’t tear it out of me – and if he lets me live – I promise I’ll tell you everything I can when you’re well enough to do something about it.”
He didn’t raise his head for a long time. When he finally looked up, the light had gone out of his gaze.
Tortuously, like an old man whose joints had begun to betray him, he pulled himself up the bars, regained his feet. “I always trusted him,” he murmured as if he were alone, deaf and blind to her presence. “More than Nyle or any of the others. He was so clumsy and decent. And smarter than I am. I can’t figure it out.
“You came along, and I thought that was good because it gave him something to fight for. It gave him a reason to stop letting those Masters humiliate him. So then he kills Nyle, kills” – Artagel shuddered, his eyes focused on nothing – “and you’re the only explanation I can think of, you must be evil in some terrible way I don’t understand, but you want me to go on trusting him. I can’t figure it out.
“I saw his body.” Like an old man, he turned from the door and began shuffling down the corridor. “I picked it up and held it.” Brushing at the dried stains on his nightshirt, he passed beyond Terisa’s range of vision. His boots scuffed along the floor until she couldn’t hear them anymore.
She stood rigidly and watched the empty passage for a while, as erect as a witness testifying to what she believed. Like the Tor, he said that Nyle was dead. And he could hardly be wrong. He ought to be able to identify his own brother’s body. And yet she didn’t recant. Unexpectedly, she found that she was supported by a lifetime’s anger. A childhood of punishment and neglect had taught her many things – and she was only now starting to realize what some of those things were.
Her hands shook. She steadied them as well as she could and began to eat the bread and stew she had been brought, pacing back and forth across the cell as she ate. She needed strength, needed to pull all her resources together. King Joyse had told her to think, to reason. Now more than at any other time in her life, she needed the stamina and determination to think clearly.
To the extent that it was possible for anyone to do so, she intended to defy the Castellan.
When he came at last – several hours and another meal later – she was almost glad to see him. Waiting was no doubt much easier to bear than rape or torture, but it was harder than defiance. Solitude eroded courage. Half a dozen times during those hours, she quailed, and her resolution ran out of her. Once she panicked so badly that afterward she found herself on the floor in the corner with her knees hugged against her chest and no idea how she got there.
But she was brought back from failure of nerve by the fact that she knew how to survive waiting alone in a cold, ill-lit cell. She had recovered her ability to blank out the dark and the fear. Paradoxically, the decision to meet her danger head on restored her capacity for escape. And when she surrendered to fading, she rediscovered the safety hidden in it and felt better.
For this she didn’t need a mirror. Mirrors helped her fight the erosion of her existence; they weren’t necessary if she wanted to let go. And it was letting go, not desperate clinging, which had kept her sane when her parents had locked her in the closet.
Nevertheless the time and the waiting, the cold and the inadequate food exacted their toll. There were limits to how far she could stretch her determination. She was almost glad to see him when the stamp of boots announced his coming and Castellan Lebbick appeared past the stone edge of her cell.
Now he would hurt her as much as he could. And she would find out what she was good for.
But the sight of him shocked her: it wasn’t what she had expected. She was braced for rage and violence, for the intensity like hate in his glare and his knotted jaws, for the potential murder tightly coiled in all his muscles. She wasn’t ready for the distracted man, noticeably shorter than she was, who entered her cell with no swagger in his shoulders and no authority on his face.
The Castellan looked like someone who had suffered an essential defeat.
Dully, he let himself into the cell. Again, he didn’t bother to lock the door behind him. He was enough of a bar to her escape. And if she got past him and out of her cell, where could she go? She could run the corridors like a trapped rat, but she couldn’t get out of the dungeon without passing through the guardroom. Castellan Lebbick didn’t need to lock the door.
For a moment, he didn’t meet her gaze; he glanced around the cell, glanced up and down her body without quite looking at her face. Then he murmured as if he were speaking primarily to himself, “You’re better. The last time I saw you, you were about to fall apart. Now you look like you want to fight.” Without sarcasm, he commented, “I had no idea being thrown in the dungeon was going to be good for you.”
Terisa shrugged, studying him hard. “I’ve had time to think.”
At last, he raised his eyes to hers. The smolder she was accustomed to seeing in them had been extinguished – or tamped down, at any rate. He seemed almost calm, almost stable – almost lost. “Does that mean,” he asked quietly, “you’re going to tell me where he is?”
She shook her head.
In the same tone, the Castellan continued, “Are you going to tell me what you’ve been plotting? Are you going to tell me why he did it?”
Once more, she shook her head. For some reason, her throat had gone dry. Lebbick’s uncharacteristic demeanor began to frighten her.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” He seemed to have no sarcasm left. Turning away, he started to walk back and forth in front of the bars. His manner was almost casual; he might have been out for a stroll. “King Joyse told me to push you. He wants you to declare yourself. Does that surprise you?” The question was rhetorical. “It should. It isn’t like him. He was always able to get what he wanted without beating up women.
“I’ve been looking forward to it all day.
“But now—” He spread his hands in a way that almost gave the impression he was asking her for help. “Everything is inside out. Clumsy, decent, loyal Geraden has turned rotten. Crazy Adept Havelock spent most of the day protecting us from catapults. Master Eremis is busy refilling the reservoir.” Apparently, he didn’t know that she had been visited by both the Tor and Artagel, that she was already aware of the things he told her. “And King Joyse wants me to hurt you. He wants me to find out who you are – what you are.”
A suggestion of yearning came into Lebbick’s voice, a hint of wistfulness. “Sometimes – a long time ago – he used to let me get even with his enemies. Sometimes. Men like that garrison commander—But he’s never given me permission to hurt someone like you.”
Then the Castellan faced her – and still he seemed almost casual, almost lost. “He must be afraid of you. He must be more afraid of you than he’s ever been of Margonal or Festten or Gart or even Vagel.
“Why is that? What are you?”
Meeting his extinguished, unreadable gaze, Terisa swallowed roughly. She didn’t understand what had happened to him, what had taken the fire out of him or stifled his hate; but this was the best chance she would ever get to distract him, deflect his intentions against her.
“I don’t know,” she said as steadily as she could. “You’re asking the wrong questions.”