So T'fyrr cataloged every pain, every injury, working inch by inch over his abused flesh in his mind. He had to; it was the only way he could keep himself sane. As long as he had something to concentrate on in the face of darkness, fear and the absolute certainty that not only did he not know where he was, no one else did either, he could stay marginally sane.
Whoever had plucked him out of the sky at the height of his climb had known exactly what they were doing. They were ready for him the moment he tumbled, sick and disoriented, onto the floor of the room they had brought him to. He had not been able to raise so much as a single talon in his own defense.
Magic. They caught me in a magic net and dragged me down to their hiding place. And to think I was laughing in my heart at Nightingale's "irrational" fear. Magic could do nothing to me, of course. It has no power over the physical world. I wonder if I will get a chance to apologize to her?
Before he could move, four burly men had swarmed over him, trussing him up like a dinner-fowl. But they had more surprises in store for him.
They hooded me. They hooded me like an unruly falcon! The hood had to have been made to order, as well; there were no hunting birds out there with heads as large as T'fyrr's. Maybe they were willing to kidnap him by magic, but they weren't counting on magic to keep him docile.
And someone, somewhere, made them a hood to fit a Haspur. Not them, I think. They do not strike me as the sort to be falconers, or they would know that hooding a raptor does not make him deaf or unconscious. So someone, somewhere, probably in this city, made them a hood. That someone will know who they are. If I can get free. If I can pursue justice against them....
Then to add insult to injury, they had put some sort of contraption over his beak that kept him from opening or closing it completely. A bit, he thought, combined with a muzzle. It was somewhat difficult to be sure, since they had put it on him after they hooded him.
Padrik's people only starved and beat me. At least they didn't torture me like this....
They had already pulled all of his primaries; the feather sockets ached any time he moved his wings. They were working on the secondaries. They'd clipped his talons until blood flowed in order to collect that as well. This in addition to bruises and aching bones.
Correction. They weren't exactly torturing him, technically, since that wasn't their intention.
Whoever they are.
In fact, he wasn't supposed to be alive at all. The mages hired to steal him from the sky had been ordered to kill him on the spot. They'd had a little argument about it while he lay there bound and hooded and helpless. One of them had been in favor of carrying out their orders as stated, but the rest had overruled him.
Thank the winds for temptation, and those unable to resist it.
He had heard them talking, every word; they might have been under the impression that he couldn't understand them, rather than thinking that he was like a falcon and would "go to sleep" when deprived of light. It seemed he was very useful to these mages, and a source of much profit. My blood and feathers_and the talon bits too, I suppose_are valuable, but only when taken from a living creature; and therefore I am more valuable alive than dead. I doubt their employer knows of this little trade on the side.
Why bits of him should be useful to a mage, he had no notion_but then again, this situation was frighteningly similar to a rumor circulating about human mages who were capturing nonhumans and "sacrificing" them. What if there were human mages who were capturing nonhumans, but using bits of them for magic? The idea would have made him sick, if he'd had the leisure to be sick.
Do they do this to their own kind, I wonder? Or is this reserved for "lower creatures"? They were so indifferent to the amount of pain and damage they inflicted as they collected their trophies that he could well imagine they were not above kidnapping fellow humans and treating them the same way.
Which might account for the rumors of nonhumans who captured humans and sacrificed them... and would certainly account for the expertise with which he'd been trussed up.
Why was it that humans were inclined to spawn both the best "saints" and the worst villains among their numbers? Was it just that humans were inclined to the extremes?
His mind was wandering, ignoring his urgent need to find a way out of his bindings and escape, and meandering down philosophical paths that had nothing to do with what he wanted it to think about.
How long have I been here? He wasn't certain. They never took off the hood, and although they hadn't been feeding him, he had "heard" the music of magic near him several times, as if they were nourishing him that way instead of by conventional means. He wasn't thirsty or hungry, at any rate, which was different from his captivity at the hands of Padrik's men.
But closed inside the hood, with his body racked with pain, there was no way of telling how much time had passed. It could have been hours... or days.
There was an escape open to him; a realm of illusion and hallucination that would at least take him out of his pain and current fear. All he had to do would be to give in to the beckoning, grinning specter of madness, as he had when the Church had held him, and_
I will not go mad. I will not lose heart.
Nightingale was out there, somewhere; he sensed her, a tugging in his soul that actually had a physical direction. She was as racked with grief for his loss as he was with pain, but she had not given up to despair. Yet. He could not tell what she was doing, but he knew that much at least
She is trying to find me, trying to find a way to free me. I must believe that. She has those damned Deliambrens to help her, and maybe more help than that. She must come; she will come. But it was hard to hold on to hope when his strength drained away steadily.
I have made some difference in the world, he told himself defiantly. I have redeemed myself_and I have had love. Even if I die_
No, that was the way of despair! He shied away from the thought with violence. I will not die! he shouted against the darkness. I will not! I will fight every step of the way, with everything at my command!
Which at the moment was not a great deal....
Voices, muffled by a wall, grew nearer. They were coming again. He waited, wild with rage at his own helplessness, as a door opened and two men entered, still talking.
"_probably another week or so," one was saying. "I don't know how these creatures replace blood loss, but we're draining him fairly quickly."
He felt hands fumbling at his restraints. This time they didn't seem to have brought any of their bravos with them. Could he_?