“A ring? Whatever for?”
“I have no idea.” He immediately tried to remove it, only to discover that it was impossible to move even a fraction of an inch-which was quite curious, because the ring did not otherwise seem unusually tight or fixed to his flesh. “Hmm. I suspect that I will not like what I hear when its purpose is explained, but I cannot remove it.”
The effort to pull off the ring left his temples throbbing, and he leaned back against the wall to rest his head. Giving up for the moment, he considered their predicament. Was Dresimil simply intent on exacting some measure of revenge for their escape of a couple of months past? What form would that take? A return to toil and drudgery? A swift execution? Or-he shuddered at this thought-a more drawn-out and creative one? The drow were nothing if not a cruel and artful people, and no doubt they’d forgotten more interesting ways of putting someone to death than torturers in surface lands had come up with in a thousand years. Time, he reminded himself-the longer Dresimil dithered over just what to do with them, the more likely it was that help could reach them. Then again, if a threat materialized, the drow might decide to hurry things along.
Seila was silent for a long moment. “If it is any consolation, Father probably believes your story about Maldridge now.”
Jack laughed softly in spite of himself. “I can think of better ways to be proven right. Speaking of which, I have reason to hope that help is on the way. Do not despair.”
He started to say more, but then he heard light footfalls in the hall outside his cell. A drow sergeant-a woman, tall and broad-shouldered for a dark elf-appeared in front of his cell. Jack thought it was Sinafae, one of two who had escorted him to the rothe fields when he first arrived in Chumavhraele. The sergeant studied him through the bars with a cruel smile on her face. “I see that you are awake,” the warrior said. “Good. Lady Dresimil has asked for you; best not to keep her waiting.” She walked away, calling to other drow nearby in their soft language.
“If you have any more tricks up your sleeve, Jack, now would be the time to put them to use,” Seila whispered.
The rogue thought quickly. He could already hear more dark elves returning. If they’d only given him a little more time to gain his bearings, he might have had a chance to concoct some sort of ruse or find an appropriate use for his magic … but of course the drow knew their own sleep poison quite well, and likely had a very good idea of just how long its effects would last. With no better plan in mind, he started to work the spell of shadow-jumping he’d learned from the Sarkonagael, figuring that if he slipped out of his cell then more possibilities might make themselves evident-but as he started to murmur the words of his magic, a shooting, burning pain raced up his right arm from the ring to his shoulder. He broke off his spell in mid-word with a sharp cry of pain, cradling his right hand in his left and swearing colorfully.
“Jack, what’s wrong?” Seila hissed.
Before he could answer her, Sinafae and several more guards returned to Jack’s cell. The sergeant looked at Jack holding his aching hand and laughed coldly. “Ah, you tried to work some magic, did you? Well, as you have now discovered, the ring of negation you are wearing will permit no such thing. We remember your talents all too well, Wildhame. Go ahead, try another spell or two, and see if it goes any better.”
Jack stifled a retort about what Sinafae might try and glared at the dark elf. The diabolical part about the ring was that if a spellcaster wearing it became truly desperate and decided to sacrifice a finger to regain his magic, the maiming might be enough to ruin any hope of casting a spell requiring complicated gestures-which, naturally, many spells did. Very well, then; if he could not magic his way out of this predicament, he would have to fall back on his native quickness, agility, wits, and daring. “The dark elves do not have a chance,” he promised himself.
Sinafae motioned to her warriors, then produced the keys to the cells. Jack offered no resistance as two drow jerked him to his feet, bound his hands, and pushed him out into the hallway. Another pair of soldiers brought Seila out of her cell, and then they were marched off together through the echoing corridors of the drow castle. After climbing a staircase of gleaming dark marble and passing through several antechambers, the two captives were brought into a magnificent throne-hall, its walls draped in arrases of scarlet and purple. A dozen dark elf guards stood watch here, but Jack paid them no mind-the Marquise Dresimil Chumavh watched him languidly from her spider-shaped throne, one of her twin brothers standing just a step below her.
The drow noblewoman was every bit as beautiful as Jack remembered, attired in a snugly fitting gown of emerald green that seemed to almost glow against her perfect ebony skin. Jack stared at her in a curious mixture of admiration and horror, until one of the dark elf guards at his side growled, “On your knees!” Seila sank down with a defiant glare, but Jack took too long abasing himself; the guard kicked his feet out from under him, then reached down to grab him by the collar and yank him to a half-upright pose.
In that undignified position, Jack looked up and saw Dresimil gazing down at him and Seila with cold amusement dancing in her eyes. “Welcome, Jack,” she said. “We missed you in Chumavhraele, especially after your very memorable leave-taking from our fields. As you might imagine, we have been very anxious to offer our hospitality again.”
Jack winced in pain, but rallied as best he could. “I disliked the prospects for advancement in my position, and decided to seek other employment,” he replied.
“And here we have Seila Norwood as well, daughter of Lord Marden himself,” Dresimil continued. “Such a pretty girl. I see why you fancied her enough to pluck her out of our grasp, Jack. But I must say that was not well thought out-she was not yours to take. She was bought and paid for by House Chumavh. We do not like to be parted from our property, you know.”
Jack bit back his angry reply. These dark elves were so thrice-cursed unreasonable! He could not imagine the combination of pride, cruelty, and avarice one needed to steal back slaves whose chief offense was successfully escaping. “Your property may think otherwise,” he replied.
Seila was not quite so circumspect in her response. She glared at the drow noblewoman. “I am no one’s property,” she snarled. “You have no right to take me captive, and if you do, you must expect that I will bend every effort to regaining my freedom. What wrong did I ever do to you? You have hundreds of slaves already. What possible reason could you have for kidnapping me again? Or Jack, for that matter? Is this all for spite?”
“You would do well to remember whom you address, slave,” Sinafae hissed in reply. She stepped forward and struck Seila a back-handed slap that knocked the young noblewoman to the ground. Without even thinking about what he was doing, Jack surged to his feet in anger-only to find two bared blades at his neck an instant later.
Dresimil regarded Seila in silence for a moment, with a small cold smile fixed on her perfect features and a gleam of wicked delight in her eye. She rose gracefully and descended from her seat on the dais, motioning for the guards to raise Seila to her feet. “You do not understand us very well, my dear child,” she purred. “Spite is all the reason we need. Although what you term spite I might call a redress of injury-Jack left behind a good deal of damage and brought about a number of deaths when he made his escape, and as I noted before, my house paid good gold to purchase you from Fetterfist. There is a sound purpose in making certain that no one ever deals us a blow without earning retribution threefold at our hands. Your recapture serves as a highly useful lesson to all my slaves that escape is pointless; we will go to any lengths to take back what is ours.”