"There are many kinds of whips, Ythnel, and it is important to learn the purpose for each and how to use them." The headmistress struck with the whip again, leaving another set of welts on Oredas's back. "It's just as important to know how much pain your subject can take." When the whip hit this time, it broke the skin, eliciting a moan from Oredas. Blood began to seep from the wound. Ythnel felt a flash of heat accompanied by a wave of dizziness. She was sure her knees would buckle at any moment.
Headmistress Yenael returned the whip to its peg and reached for another that hung from a loop at the end of its handle. The stock was braided with leather that divided into nine different tongues at the end. Each strip was punctured with bits of glass, metal, and bone.
"This is a scourge. It is the preferred instrument of suffering for all those who follow Loviatar. It also requires the most skill to use effectively. If you're careless, you can easily kill your subject.''
Ythnel watched with horror as the headmistress slapped the scourge against Oredas's right side then raked it across his back. The glass, metal, and bone caught the flesh and tore chunks of it away, leaving jagged stripes of blood. Oredas could not hold back his cries. She repeated this from the other side then dragged the scourge down his back from shoulder to waist a few times.
"There are signs to watch for in your subject to make sure you don't go too far. The rise and fall of the ribs," the headmistress pointed, "indicates that they are still breathing." Ythnel looked at the limp form of Oredas and felt bile rise in her throat. Was that bone she saw peeking out as his sides expanded with each shallow, labored breath? "Tensing of the muscles as the scourge hits means the subject is conscious." Oredas jerked slightly as Headmistress Yenael lashed him once more.
"When the subject reaches the threshold between life and death, it is time for Loviatar's Mercy. Not for the purpose of relief from pain and suffering, as some gods instruct their lackeys, but so they can endure more." The headmistress chanted a request in the tongue of devils, her free hand moving over Oredas's torn back. As her voice grew stronger, a harsh red glow enveloped her hand. Wherever it passed, blood flowed back into wounds and flesh mended. With each stripe that disappeared, the red glow deepened, until it was black as the Abyss and Oredas's back was whole. Headmistress Yenael ended the chant, and the glow around her hand faded. She stood and faced Ythnel.
"Now it is your turn." She thrust the stock of the scourge at Ythnel.
Ythnel stumbled backward until she pressed against the hard stone wall. "No." Her heart had climbed into her throat, and she could feel knots forming in her stomach.
"What did you say?" The headmistress's eyes narrowed.
"I–I mean, shouldn't we wait? Brother Oredas probably needs more time to recover." Ythnel knew she was walking dangerous ground, but she had to find some way out.
"Brother Oredas is fine. You saw me heal him. Besides, he is serving his goddess. Nothing could make him happier. Right, Oredas?"
"Yes, Headmistress." Oredas turned his head to peer up at the two of them. Ythnel could see the glint of fervor in his eyes. "Please do not be afraid for me, little one. I would suffer a thousand beatings for the name of Loviatar and the advance of her cause. Come, take your turn. I am honored to be your first subject."
"You see. Everything is all right. Now, take the scourge." Headmistress Yenael's voice was stern and insistent.
"No. I can't." Ythnel could feel the tears welling up.
"If you do not beat Oredas, you will take his place," the headmistress said through bared teeth. "I had high hopes for you, Ythnel. Do not make me regret"
Ythnel shook her head then succumbed to the sobs she had been holding back, sliding down the wall to curl into a ball on the floor. Rough hands grabbed her, and she looked up to see Brother Oredas sneering at her. He ripped the shift from her body before pushing her down over the bench and clamping the manacles over her wrists and ankles. Then her sobs became screams.
Awakening with a jerk, Ythnel moaned as fire replaced the dull aches pervading her muscles. She went limp, swaying with the chains that suspended her by wrists and ankles above the floor, her head slightly higher than her feet. The burning died down quickly, though the occasional tug still brought a wince.
How long had she been hanging here? The hours were lost in a haze of pain.
Pain. Yes, the pain could tell her. Ythnel let her thoughts go and stopped trying to mentally overcome the pain. Instead she sought it out, measured and weighed it. Extended exposure to pain dulled the senses, lessened the intensity of the pain. The more sharply pain was felt, the more recent it was.
Pain still screamed down the nerves of her arms every time the chains rubbed against the raw flesh of her wrists. Her shoulder sockets throbbed in time with her heartbeat. There were some minor stings on her stomach, back, and thighs, but they were easy to ignore if she didn't squirm too much.
She hadn't been here more than a day.
Where is here?
The question came right on the heels of her diagnosis. She tried to think back. There had been an incident in the market. Which market? Was she still in Thay, or somewhere else? A local lord had arrested her, accused her of witchcraft, so it wasn't Thay.
Iuna! The girl had gotten her into this. She had been hired as Iuna's governess. In Luthcheq!
Ythnel flailed again, this time in anger as it all came back to her. Pain exploded everywhere, serving only to fuel her rage. The chains rattled violently as she thrashed, but their hold on her remained secure. She screamed in frustration; her parched throat protested the abuse with a racking cough that left flecks of blood on her lips. Her fury spent, Ythnel sagged in defeat.
"My, my, that was quite a display."
Ythnel's head snapped up at the sultry voice. Through pain-blurred vision, she tried to discern who else was in the room. Dark shapes separated themselves from the walls by the orange glow of torchlight. With each blink, the forms distinguished themselves. A long, wooden table with manacles bolted down at each end materialized to her left. An iron box lay several feet in front of her, its lid open to reveal spikes covering the interior surface. Movement on her right caught Ythnel's eye, and she swung her head around, squinting. A young woman, perhaps only a few years older than Ythnel, stood there in a lacy, sleeveless gown of dark purple that accentuated her pale skin and did nothing to hide her voluptuous curves. Luxurious brunette tresses that fell to the small of her back framed a soft face dominated by violet eyes glowing with a light all their own.
"Who are you?" Ythnel croaked. The woman smiled sympathetically and glided over to Ythnel from her place at the base of a staircase that led down into the room. She stopped an arm's length away; the scent of lavender washed over Ythnel.
"I am Saestra." She reached out a slim hand to stroke Ythnel's cheek. Ythnel pulled back, bringing a momentary frown to Saestra's full lips. "I only wish to end your suffering. I know how cruel my brother can be."
"My suffering pleases Loviatar. Accepting your offer would be a sign of weakness in Her eyes. I will not disgrace myself in such a manner."
"Interesting. Then what if I told you I could offer you immortality." Saestra brought her mouth in close to Ythnel's ear. "Just think of having an eternity to bring pain and suffering to the world in your goddess's name," she whispered, her breath tickling Ythnel's neck.
Saestra withdrew, and Ythnel shuddered as those violet orbs locked onto hers. Something was not right. How could this woman make such promises? Why would she even be talking to someone her family had imprisoned? Did she think Ythnel innocent? No, there was more behind Saestra's soft words, a trap that Ythnel was certain would cost her more than any punishment the Karanoks could inflict. Yet the longer she gazed into Saestra's eyes, the harder it became to resist the idea.