Curse her, anyway, curse her. She was the source of all the trouble, all the harm. He was even starting to think that she was the reason for King Joyse’s weakness, even though the King had been walking that path for years before her first appearance. But now Lebbick would get the truth out of her. He would tear her limbs off if necessary to get the truth out of her. He would take the soft flesh of her body in his hands—
He would do anything he wanted to her. He had permission.
Now you’ve done it, woman. You’ve done something so heinous that nobody is going to protect you. That was true. The Tor had tried – and failed. You’ve helped a murderer escape.
Now you are mine.
Even though he had been warned.
Mine.
If only he could control the way he trembled whenever he thought of her.
He answered Master Eremis for no reason at all except to mask what was happening to him, disguise the tremors in his muscles.
But he wasn’t thinking about what he said. He couldn’t. He was too busy remembering the way her arms felt when he ground his fingers into them.
“No,” he heard her whisper. Her protest was like the horror in her soft brown eyes, like the quivering of her delicately cleft chin. She was afraid of him, deeply afraid. His anger touched a sore place in her – he could see that vividly, even though she had stood up to him in the past, had lied to him, forced him to swallow his passion against her time and again. She feared him as if she deserved to be terrified, as if she already knew that anything he might do to her was justified. “No,” she whispered, but it wasn’t his accusations she denied; it was him, the Castellan himself, his authority and violence.
“Yes,” he replied through his teeth, smiling at her fiercely as if she made him happy for the last time in his life.
Holding her as hard as he wished, without regard for her pain – or for the way the Masters and guards looked at him despite the chaos of Nyle’s murder and Geraden’s disappearance – he escorted her to the dungeon himself.
Along the way, she babbled.
“No, you don’t understand, it’s a trick, Geraden didn’t kill Nyle, please listen to me, listen to me, Eremis did this somehow, it’s a trick.”
He liked that. He liked her fear. He wanted her prostrate in front of him. At the same time, however, her reaction disturbed him. For some reason, it reminded him of his wife.
For no good reason, obviously, since his wife hadn’t been a babbler. In fact, she hadn’t been afraid of anything, not since King Joyse had rescued them from the Alend garrison commander who was having her raped so imaginatively. Not since he, Lebbick, had ripped that dogshit Alend apart with his teeth.
But before that she had been afraid. Yes, he remembered her fear as well. She babbled. Yes. He heard her – watched her – was forced to watch her – and couldn’t do anything about it, anything at all. He heard and saw her do every desperate and terrible thing she could think of to try to make those men stop.
Castellan Lebbick wasn’t going to stop. Never. Let her babble to her heart’s content, cry out, scream if she wanted to. She was his.
Yet it disturbed him.
When he thrust her into her cell so that she nearly sprawled on the cot against the far wall, he had no intention of stopping. But he didn’t start right away. Instead, he closed the iron door behind him without bothering to lock it, folded his arms across his chest to keep them from shaking, and faced her past the light of the single lamp. Its wick needed trimming; the flame guttered wildly, making shadows dance fright over her pale features.
Still smiling through his teeth, he demanded, “How?”
“I don’t know.” Babbling. “Somehow. To get rid of Geraden. Geraden is the only one who doesn’t trust him.” Terrified. “Eremis and Gilbur are working together. And Vagel. He lied to the Congery.” Trying to distract him. “Eremis brought Nyle to the meeting of the Congery. He said Nyle would prove Geraden is a traitor, but that was a lie. They set this up together. They planned it.” Trying to create the illusion that she made sense. “It’s a fake. They staged it. They must have.”
Deaf to the illogic of her own defense, she insisted, “Nyle is still alive.”
Watching her, the Castellan wanted to crow for joy. “No, woman.” His jaws throbbed with the effort of not sinking his teeth into her. “Tell me how. How did he escape? How did you help him escape?”
Finally she caught hold of herself, closed her mouth on her panic. Shadows flickered in and out of her eyes; she looked as desirable as an immolation.
“He’s no Imager,” Lebbick went on. “And there isn’t any way he could have left those rooms except by Imagery. So you did it. You translated him somewhere.
“Where is he, woman? I want him.”
She stared at him. Her dismay seemed to become a kind of calm; she was less frantic simply because she was so afraid. “You’ve gone crazy,” she whispered. “You’ve snapped. It’s been too much for you.”
“I won’t hurt him.” The Castellan’s face felt like it was being split apart by the stress of restraint. “It isn’t really his fault. I know that. You seduced him into it. Until you arrived, he was just another son of the Domne – too clumsy for his own good, but a decent boy. Everybody liked him, even though he couldn’t do anything right. You changed that. You involved him in treachery. When I get my hands on him, I won’t even punish him. I just want him to tell me the truth.”
Suddenly, like dry brush on a smoldering blaze, Lebbick yelled at her, “Where IS he?”
She flinched, cowered. Just for a second, he believed that she was going to answer. But then something inside her stiffened. She raised her head and faced him squarely.
“Go to hell.”
At that, he laughed. He couldn’t help himself: he laughed as if his heart were breaking. “You little whore,” he chortled, “don’t try to defy me. You aren’t strong enough.”
At once, he began to speak more precisely, more formally, tapping words into her fear like coffin nails. “I’m going to start by taking off your clothes. I might do it gently, just for fun. Women are especially vulnerable when they don’t have any clothes on.
“Then I’ll begin to hurt you.” He took a step toward her, but didn’t release his arms from his chest. “Just a little at first. One breast or the other. Or perhaps a few barbs across your belly. A rough piece of wood between your legs. Just to get your attention.” He wished she could see what he saw: his wife being stretched out in the dirt by those Alends, her limbs spread-eagled and staked so that she couldn’t move, the delicate things the garrison commander had done to her with small knives. “Then I’ll begin to hurt you in earnest.
“You’ll beg me to stop. You’ll tell me everything I desire, and you’ll beg me to stop. But it will be too late. Your chance will be lost. Once I begin to hurt you, I will never stop. I will never stop.”
She was so vividly appalled – the fright on her face was so stark – that the sight of it cost him his grip on himself. His arms burst out of his control; his hands caught her shoulders. Snatching her to him, he covered her mouth with his and kissed her as hard as a blow, aching to consume her with his passion before it tore him to pieces. Then he hugged her, hugged her so urgently that the muscles in his shoulders stood out like iron.
“Tell me the truth.” His voice shook, feverish with distress. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
She had her arms between them, her hands against his chest. But she didn’t struggle: she surrendered to his embrace as if the resistance had been squeezed out of her. If he had released her without warning, she would have fallen.
Nevertheless when she spoke all she said was, “Please don’t do this. Please.” The way he held her muffled her words in his shoulder, but he could still hear them. “I’ll beg now, if that’s what you want. Please don’t do this to me.”