That journey ended in a large chamber, torchlit, half-full of kneeling worshippers. The guards pulled Paks upright, supporting her between them so that she could see the size of the room and the equipment gathered on a platform at the near end. It was grim enough; Paks had seen such things before. She would never come out of here; she would die of it, and worse than that, she would be watched, taunted, ridiculed, as it happened. She tried to think of something else—anything else—and felt a nudge in her back, warm and soft, as if the red horse had pushed against her. When the priests confronted her, she knew her face showed nothing of her fear.
When they introduced her to the waiting crowd, she heard the reaction, the indrawn breath—half fear, half anticipation. A paladin—would the high gods intrude? But the priests reassured them: the fool had consented. Her gods would not interfere. Paks saw the gloating eyes, the moist-lipped mouths half-open. At the back, a dark woman who might have been Barra gave her a mocking grin. As the priests talked on, she saw more and more slip into the hall, drawn by rumor and held by delight. A sour taste came into her mouth; she swallowed against it, praying.
Unlike her ordeal in Kolobia, most of what happened in the next five days and nights remained clear in her mind.
They began predictably, by ripping her clothes off and scattering the pieces as the worshippers laughed and cheered at the priests’ urging. Paks stared over their heads at the back wall of the chamber. Then one priest handled her roughly all over, squeezing and pinching as if she were a draft horse up for sale. The second one began, slapping her face with his studded gloves, pinching her breasts sharply.
Now they called the worshippers forward, encouraging them all to feel and pry, slap and pinch. It was petty, but not less disturbing for that. The sheer enmity of it—the number of sneering faces, strangers to whom she had never done harm, who snickered and giggled as they ran their dirty fingers over her face, poked her ribs, felt between her thighs. She could not imagine being such a person, taking such pleasure. What could have made them what they were?
One youth reached up and yanked at her hair; that began a round of such antics. One would take a single hair and pull it out; others took a handful and pulled again and again. They pulled other hair, jeering when she flinched, and looking to the priests for approval. She felt the first blood trickle down her face; someone with a jeweled ring had scraped it deliberately across her forehead. But the priests stopped him.
“Not yet,” one of them said. “The Master has plenty of time for this one, slave, and more skill than you know. Draw no blood, slaves, at this time—be obedient, or suffer his punishment.” The man in front of Paks paled, trying to hide his bloodstained ring. The priest laughed. “Do you think to hide from the Master, fool? Yet you share our vision: you are only hasty. You will taste her blood later—be obedient.” He confronted Paks, pushing the spiked visor of his helm into her face. “And you, little paladin? Do you fear yet? Do you begin to regret your bargain?”
“No.” To her surprise, her voice was steadier than her limbs. “I do not regret following the commands of my lord.”
“Then we will instruct you,” he said, and made a sign to the guards. “You have seen the punishments in Phelan’s army. See how you like ours.” As he spoke, the guards forced her back over a small waist-high block, looping her wrist bonds through a hook on the floor of the platform. One of them leaned a fist on her chest, and two others pulled her knees down and apart. Paks felt her back muscles straining. The priest who had been speaking slapped her taut belly and laughed again. “It bothered you when our servants pulled your hair? Then we will ease you this far, paladin: you will have no hair to be pulled. You know the term tinisi turin?” The crowd laughed obediently and the second priest came toward her with a razor. “It may not be as sharp as you would like,” he began, “But it has certain—advantages—for our way—of doing things.” As he spoke, he yanked on her braid and sliced roughly at her thick hair. In a moment or two, it fell free; Paks could feel the ragged ends stirring, the cool air on her scalp. He walked away. When he came back, two assistants were bringing with him the little brazier she had seen, and the razor he held was glowing hot. “It cuts well this way,” he said, laying it lightly along her ribs. Paks tried not to flinch. But by the time he had shaved her head and the rest of her body hair, leaving raw burned patches that the chill air rasped, she was shaking. The watching crowd talked and laughed, like people watching a juggler at a village fair. The priest watching her nodded.
“You will learn despair, little paladin; even now you are finding what you did not expect. And now we will brand you with Liart’s mark, that you feel in your own flesh his Mastery.” One of them seized her ears, bracing her head, and the hot iron came down, its horned circle held before her eyes a moment before it pressed her forehead. For an instant it felt cold, as it hissed, then searing pain bored through her head. Tears burst from her eyes; she choked back a scream. The priest laughed. “Now you are Liart’s. You may stay there, while we attend to other matters that need the Master’s touch.”
Paks could see nothing of what happened next; she fought to keep control of her own reactions. She heard a name called, and someone cried out in the crowd. A flurry—a frightened voice, a boy’s voice, and another one pleading, a man’s voice, older. The priest made some accusation; Paks did not attend to the words, but the tone came through. Then the boy’s voice again, frightened and rising to a scream of pain. She heard blows—a whip, she thought—and more screams, then the man’s voice sobbing. Then the priest—cold, arrogant, demanding, and the man’s voice again, in submission. The priest returned to her, and grabbed her by both ears, holding up her head so that she could see the child who hung from his wrists, bloodstreaked.
“See? If we treat children so, think how much worse it will be for you.”
“Gird’s grace on that boy,” said Paks quietly. “The protector of the helpless grant him peace.”
The priest dropped her head abruptly. After that came several torments, repeated careful blows of a slender rod, cuffs and blows with padded sticks and weighted thongs. Then she was untied and thrown to the floor, kicked and prodded and beaten again, not enough to break bones, but until she was dizzy and sick. All the time the crowd watched, jeering at her whenever she cried out. Paks fixed her mind on Gird and the High Lord, on the magical fire the Kuakgan had raised, on the feel of the red horse’s nose in her back.
Next she was shoved over to the platform where the boy hung, now stirring again and moaning. Blood spattered the floor, streaked his body. The guards untied him, and tossed him aside. Paks winced at the hollow thud his body made, hitting the floor, and muttered another prayer for him. The priest slapped her. “Pray for yourself, fool! Better yet, beg mercy of our Master, who is the only one who can help you now.”
“The High Lord has dominion over all the gods,” said Paks, again to her own surprise. The priest signalled the guards, and Paks was jerked off her feet by a rope from her bound wrists over the crossbar. It nearly took her shoulders out of their sockets. The guards untied her ankles, and spread her legs, tying them to either side of the frame, then hauled on the rope until all her weight came on her wrists.