Bhakir had turned his attention to the brazier, and Jemma watched in horror as he extracted a pincer, the ends glowing orange-hot, from the depths of the coals.
"Oh, of course it's evil," he said in a conversational tone. "That's why it's going to work."
A thought pierced Jemma's haze of panicked terror. "My hands!" she screamed, thinking that Bhakir was going to burn her fingers off one by one-one of the more common tortures whispered about by those who were interested in such things. "You can't hurt them-I wouldn't be able to work the magic!"
"I know that," replied Bhakir, a sharp note of irritation creeping into his modulated voice. "I would never hurt your hands, Lady Healer. Or your tongue. Don't worry. But the rest of your body- " and his gaze swept her ancient, bony frame "-is fair game."
Before she realized what was happening, Jemma felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the big toe of her right foot. She jerked reflexively, but her knee banged against encircling metal. One of the guards had laid open her foot, the gash from ball to heel gaping open and dripping blood. With a curious calmness, she realized that the floor was covered with sawdust rather than rushes to make the task of soaking up blood that much simpler.
Then Bhakir cauterized the wound with the pincers, and her calmness fled.
Vervain cried out once, sharply, wordlessly, and the raw sound of her own scream brought her awake. She bolted upright, gasping and clutching the rumpled pillow protectively to her breasts. Her dark eyes flickered wildly, but nothing was amiss in her room.
All was as it should be. The door was closed and bolted. Moonlight, filtered through shutters, cast a pall over the many plants that filled the Blesser's private sleeping chamber. Vervain took a deep breath, the air fragrant with the scents of herbs and flowers, and calmed herself.
Though she now realized that her fear had come from a dream rather than an actual threat, she did not dismiss the nightmare as others might have. Vervain knew better than that. The Healer who had trained her had taught her to respect her dreams.
"They are the messengers of the night," old Jemma had told her, back when Vervain was just a Tender studying in Mhar. "When you are awake, you trust your five senses for information. And when you sleep, you must trust your dreams in the same way. Pay attention to them!"
Vervain had been lucky to serve under Jemma. Her mother, a Healer herself, had been born in Mhar. It did not take too much effort to arrange for Vervain to study abroad, though it was not usual. Most Tenders were taught by Blessers in their own countries, usually their own cities or towns.
She reached down for the goblet of water she always kept at her side at night, and gulped at it. Her throat hurt from her scream. As she drank, Vervain examined her dream.
A red fox was running swiftly, but not in fear. Its brush was full and proud and its — his — movements strong and bold. A bird — blackbird? Raven? Crow? Hard to tell — dove at the running fox. Now the images blurred. A squirrel, small but full of chatter, scolded from a tree; a rat poked its nose up from its hole -
— The image was swallowed by utter darkness. Then Vervain was walking in the Prayer Room, kneeling before the stone statue of Health, beseeching her aid. Without warning, the plain but friendly features of the goddess contorted, as if the divine being were in terrible agony. Tears of blood streamed down Health's face, and the stone head toppled to the floor -
Vervain blinked. She clutched the empty goblet so hard that her hands ached and her face was dewed with sweat. She had no idea what any of the symbols meant, but if Jemma had been right, the fear they had caused her sleeping self meant that they did not bode well at all.
She sighed, steadying herself. Putting the goblet down on the stone floor, she swung her long legs out from under the covers. Naked, she walked over to a table and poured water in a basin. Vervain splashed her face, and the calming, chamomile-scented liquid drove the last residue of terror from her mind. She reached for a cake of soap and a sponge. Though dawn was several hours away, Vervain knew that she had a difficult task ahead of her, and time was running out. There would be no more sleep for her tonight.
Her face set in an unaccustomed grimness, she unbraided her long, thick, brown hair and began to brush it out. I only wish, she thought wryly, that I knew what it was I was supposed to be preparing for. As she brushed, she heard the Godstower bell ring for Vengeance's service.
Freylis's snoring sounded like the growl of a mountain cat, and Marrika bit down hard on an urge to kick the loud sleeper in a delicate area. At last, she wriggled free of the stain-stiff bedding, smelling Freylis's scent on her like a noxious second skin. At least Pedric bathed every day, she thought sourly as she reached for her clothes.
Pedric. The one man she had misjudged in her entire life. Not only had he refused to be upset when she left him, he had taken up with a lady of manners very shortly thereafter. And not just a lady, but the daughter of the Head Councilman! Marrika snorted in disgust, and froze as the sound quieted Freylis for an instant. If he awoke, he'd want her back in bed beside him. And that, Marrika knew, meant another unpleasant bout of sexual activity. The big thief mumbled something, rolled over on his back, and resumed his deafening rumble.
Marrika breathed freely again. Freylis was usually a deep sleeper. Heavy drinking tended to assure that particular habit. Her plan to seduce Freylis and thus avail herself of his rather impressive group of hangers-on was working perfectly, except that she found herself disliking more and more to have to pay the necessary price for such a position. For the last couple of nights, when she was certain Freylis would not awaken, Marrika had taken to slipping off and wandering by herself at night.
She finished tugging on her calf-high, well-worn leather boots, tucked her oversized shirt into tight-fitting black trousers, and walked quietly toward the paneless window. She glanced back at the bed, at the lump that was her present lover, and her gaze swept the small room with intense dislike. Marrika knew better than to expect any thief's dwelling-again, except of course for Pedric's-to be beautiful, or even large. She did, though, wish that Freylis's room wasn't quite so… filthy. The sweaty clothes could almost stand by themselves. Freylis would eat off crusted, day-old food rather than clean his dishes, and the chamber pot hadn't been emptied for several days.
She hesitated just long enough to retrieve her leather-covered grappling hook, and stepped boldly onto the window sill. She sat, swung her lithe torso around, and began to ease herself down. Freylis lived in the small room above a candle maker's shop. It wasn't too far off the ground, only a single story, and Marrika had no trouble negotiating toeholds until she could drop safely, silently, to the ground. When her solitary walk was completed, she would return the way she had come with the help of her grappling hook. Such entrances and exits were familiar to Marrika, whose specialty was climbing into the rooms of unsuspecting second-story residents.
Her feet landed with a soft crunch on the gravelly stone. Once down, she crouched, tense, her back flat on the wall until she was confident she had not been observed. She dropped the hook into the sack she had made for it and tied it securely to her belt. Then, tossing her mane of curly black hair out of her eyes, she strolled into the darkness.
Marrika never had a destination on these late-night treks. Her only desire was to steal a few hours to herself, a few precious moments when she wasn't "Freylis's woman." Tonight Marrika's aimless wandering brought her to the center of the sleeping town. The temples were closed and dark at this hour, save for the ever-present illumination that spilled from Light's temple and the two lamps that flanked the Godstower.