"You're welcome, though I hardly did it for your sake," Pedric replied. "And by the way, Dev, if you don't return her brush, I'll come looking for it on her behalf."
So that was what the cryptic rhyme about the "fox's brush" meant. He wondered if Pedric had deliberately given him the clue, glanced at the boy's face, and decided that the slip was unintentional. "And how did you know about this?" yelped Deveren in mock outrage. Pedric turned his gaze back to his friend and grinned wickedly.
"Well," he said modestly, "I wrote the damn thing, didn't I?"
CHAPTER FIVE
For my Chosen in this world walk a perilous path: My Sword of Vengeance cuts both ways, protecting the wrongly accused and destroying those who have trespassed.
Those who would be my Blessers must be strong men indeed, to wield so powerful a weapon as this.
There were no windows in Jemma's cell. She was utterly cut off from the world outside, from the green things of nature that for so long had been a daily part of her life. She could not estimate the passage of the hours, nor the rise and set of the sun. The guards, huge and silent, deliberately brought her meager meals at irregular intervals, to further confuse her. As best the aged Healer could guess, she had been in Seacliff s dungeon for five days.
The cell was tiny, with barely enough room for her to stretch out. Old straw that smelled of rot served her for a bed, though moments of sleep were few, as her inflamed joints allowed her little rest. Torches burned in the hallway but not in her cell; the only light Jemma had was what little managed to creep through the small, barred window of the wooden door.
She clutched herself and shivered vainly against the damp cold. The elderly Healer was almost beginning to look forward to the interrogation, which was, no doubt, exactly what her captors intended. Why were they postponing it? One man who had mind magic could have gotten everything from her. She wondered, with a faint burst of hope, if perhaps Bhakir was unaware of her communications with Castyll. Please, gods, let it be so… But that was false hope speaking. Bhakir would have no other reason to have taken her.
She heard the booted footfalls of the guards, and readied herself. The heavy bolt, ludicrously strong against so feeble an inmate, slammed back and the door opened. Jemma winced at the torchlight, even its faint illumination painful to eyes that had grown accustomed to the darkness.
"Come, old woman," one of the big men growled. Jemma tried to rise, but found that her knees would not let her. The guard, impatient, reached out a beefy hand and hauled her to her feet. Despite herself, Jemma cried out as the pain exploded in her knees and elbows.
"Shut your mouth, old bitch, or I'll shut it for you."
Jemma stifled her sounds of agony, for she had no doubt that the man was serious. The ungentle guard half led, half dragged her along the narrow corridor until he reached a much larger room. This door stood open, and several torches illuminated the interior. A brazier glowed invitingly. Jemma noticed that the stone floor was covered with sawdust, rather than the more common rushes, and the room was furnished with a rough-hewn wooden table and stools. Cloths covered items that hung from the walls and made odd-shaped bulges on the floor, but Jemma was not interested in the furnishings. A plate of bread, fruit, and cheese, and a pitcher of milk sat atop the table, and her mouth suddenly flooded with moisture in anticipation of real food.
"Bhakir says eat and get warm," stated the guard, shoving her inside. "Then he'll come talk to you." The door slammed shut behind her, and she heard the bolt being thrown.
Jemma stumbled toward the table. Trembling, she forced her aching hands to tear off a bit of bread and chewed it slowly, washing the bite down with a swallow of milk. It wouldn't do to gorge herself. She'd nursed the ill back to health far too often not to know that it was unwise to foist much food on a stomach unused to it. But oh, the bread was soft and fresh, and the glistening blackberries fairly begged to be devoured. She shifted her stool closer to the brazier, and stretched her empty hand toward it. The warmth calmed her joints, and she closed her eyes in pleasure.
She was about halfway through her repast, eating slowly and carefully, when Bhakir entered. Jemma paused, the food suddenly tasting foul in her mouth. The counselor bowed mockingly and smiled, showing even white teeth.
"Good day, my dear Healer. I'm so pleased you could join me."
Jemma finished chewing and swallowed. "If that is true, then your hospitality is lacking, Bhakir," she said drily.
The man laughed heartily and seated himself opposite the Healer. One soft, manicured hand hovered over the plate of half-eaten food and selected a peach. He bit, chewed.
"Delicious," he proclaimed as he swallowed the mouthful. "Now that you've had something to eat, let us proceed to business. I'm sure you're wondering why I've… er, brought you here." "It had occurred to me. If you needed Healing work, you would have done better to talk to the present Blesser. I can do some, but-"
"It is not curing I'm after." And just that swiftly the pretense was gone. Jemma stared into the true face of Bhakir, a face that she assumed few seldom saw and fewer still wished to see. The dancing eyes had gone cold and piggish. No smile played about the red mouth, and the soft body suddenly seemed as hard and implacable as a boulder.
"Then… how may I be of service to my lord?" Jemma asked, fighting to keep her voice from shaking.
"Those who serve the goddess Health know a great many secrets," said Bhakir. "Secrets about healing, and curing, and restoration. Legend even mentions one or two Healers who brought the dead back to life."
Jemma felt a chill that even the warmth of the brazier could not dispel. "Legends are simply that," she said. "No Healer I have ever met could revive the dead. Only Health herself may do that. That is Lady Death's domain. We would not dare trespass there."
"No, no, you misunderstand me. Let the dead rot in peace." He leaned forward, his gaze boring into Jemma's. "Those who would heal must first understand what it is to harm. Those who can cure," he said slowly, "know how to curse."
You are mad! Jemma wanted to shriek, but the horrible truth was that the man was in fact quite sane. He knew what he was asking her to do. Her mouth, suddenly dry, formed voiceless words. At last, she stammered, "I will not."
Bhakir frowned, and Jemma shrank back slightly. "You know how. Healer. It's part of your training."
"We — we are shown these evils to know where not to tread!"
"And I order you, on pain of your life, to obey me! I need a curse, and you will give me one!"
Frantically, Jemma shook her head. "Kill me, then! I answer to a higher power, and I swear by she whom I serve that I shall never betray that trust!"
Bhakir's frown mutated into a smile just as cruel. "We'll see, old woman." He rose and tugged the concealing cloths from the walls.
Jemma's heart spasmed in terror. The room was filled with torture devices.
She recognized a few: the rack, the wheel, the cat-o'-nine. Others were foreign to her, but their cold metal and wood promised exquisite pain. Even as protest caught in her throat, the door opened and four guards entered. They moved deliberately but without haste, knowing that struggle as she would, she was incapable of escaping. Strong hands closed on her, ripping the robes from her thin, wrinkled body. The good food crashed to the floor as they slammed Jemma down on the table and secured her with iron bands that had hitherto been cleverly concealed.
"Lord Bhakir!" she cried, writhing against the strong flesh and stronger iron that held her. "Please, lord, what you ask is evil, and you must know it to be so!"