David Wells - Cursed Bones

She was in a dark room with only a sliver of dim light cutting through the black. She steadied herself with one hand while rubbing her eyes with the other until she could keep them open long enough to look around. In the dim light, she could see that she was in a small room formed from a natural cave. A stout wooden wall and door occupied one side.

Fighting to clear her head, she began to assess her situation. Her weapons and armor were gone. Her pack was missing as well. She was sitting on a pallet covered with straw. The only other items she could see were two buckets, one on either side of the door. She crawled to one, jerking her head back from the foul smell, then to the other. Cautiously she dipped her hand into the dark bucket and felt the cool touch of water. Slowly, deliberately, she slaked her thirst, taking care to remain silent lest her captors become aware that she was awake.

She sat back and closed her eyes, linking her mind with Slyder. He was perched atop a tree in the jungle looking down into a little village secreted in a box canyon. Several cave entrances surrounded the dozen or so huts at the center of the hidden community. Men were coming and going, many looked and acted like soldiers, though few wore uniforms.

She withdrew from Slyder and spent several minutes just breathing in an effort to quiet the hammering in her head. She assumed that the poison darts that had rendered her unconscious were responsible for the pain and dehydration she was feeling. After a few minutes, her head began to clear.

Muffled voices filtered through the door. She stood carefully, testing her legs and balance before attempting to take the few steps to the little slit in the door that was the room’s sole source of light. Beyond was another cave, larger and occupied by three men, all armed and wearing armor.

She stepped back and started whispering the words to her shield spell, calling on her anger and focusing her mind the way she’d done countless times in the past … but this time, something was different.

The rage wasn’t there.

She forced the spell and made a connection with the firmament, opening herself to the source of creation, but only for the briefest moment. The firmament called to her, beckoning with the promise of infinite possibility, and she wasn’t angry enough to resist.

It felt like she was falling.

She slammed the link shut, staggered by the implications of what had just happened. Without rage, she couldn’t defend herself against the pull of the firmament, couldn’t cast her spells.

She sat down and recalled all of the hardships that had been inflicted on her and her loved ones over the past several months. Worked at bringing them to the front of her mind so she could feel the injustices done to her, but try as she might, the anger wouldn’t come.

Her mind was clear but her emotional intensity was somehow blunted. She could understand the rightness of feeling anger for the things that had been done to her, to Alexander, to the world, but she couldn’t feel the anger the way she needed to. Without that emotional control, she was powerless as a witch.

She swallowed hard. First she’d been deprived of her connection to the realm of light, a gift of such magnitude that she considered it her greatest power, valued it above all things save Alexander’s love. Now her emotional control, necessary for a witch to access the firmament, was gone. The things she valued most were being taken from her, one by one. She felt Azugorath scratching at the edge of her psyche, promising power and purpose.

She calmed herself and thought of Alexander, thought of her love for him … but it too was blunted. Losing the anger was one thing, but losing her ability to feel the deep and abiding joy that her love for Alexander created within her was too much. She thought she would cry, but the tears didn’t come either. The pain of her loss was blunted as well.

She could still feel … just not intensely. Her eyes narrowed. This was too specific to be an accident. Either it was a side effect of the poison or she’d been drugged. If she’d been drugged, then her captors knew about her magic and had the means to counter it.

She carefully searched the little room for a weapon but found nothing except the two buckets. After drinking again, she stood and pounded on the door, then stepped back and waited. There was some commotion from beyond, then the door opened. A swarthy-looking man, muscles toned from routine exertion, stood in the doorway and appraised her.

“You’re a prisoner of the House of Karth,” he said. “If you try to escape, you’ll be killed. Otherwise, we’ll treat you honorably.”

Isabel quickly assessed her options and decided that attempting escape right now was unwise. She needed more information about her captors before she chose a course of action.

“Very well,” she said. “I wouldn’t know which way to run anyway.”

The guard cocked his head quizzically, as if he hadn’t expected her response.

“Can I have something to eat?” she asked.

He nodded, motioning to the table occupying the center of the guard chamber. A tray with a variety of tubers, berries, and fruits sat on the table, the remnants of the guards’ meal.

Isabel wasn’t bashful. From the grumbling in her stomach, she suspected she’d been unconscious for days rather than hours. The food was surprisingly good, but before she’d eaten her fill, another man entered, followed by the third guard.

This man was tall, easily over six feet, but not muscular like the guards. He was lithe and wiry as if he’d spent his days moving through the jungle. His hair was jet black, his complexion golden brown, and his eyes were dark and brooding. With a gesture, he dismissed the guards and sat down opposite Isabel, absentmindedly selecting a piece of fruit from the tray as he scrutinized his prisoner.

She held his gaze for a moment and then went back to eating. For several moments neither said a word, they simply shared a meal in silence. Once he’d finished his piece of fruit, he took a drink from a nearby flagon and sat forward.

“I am Trajan Karth. My father has summoned you. It will be a journey of several days. If you attempt to escape, you will be killed.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Isabel said around a mouthful of food.

He smiled curiously. “I would know why you have been summoned.”

Isabel shrugged as she took another tuber from the plate. It had the texture of a sweet potato but wasn’t quite as rich.

“Perhaps if you told me your name, it would shed some light on my father’s interest in you.”

This time it was Isabel’s turn to smile, though without any hint of humor. “I’m Isabel Reishi,” she said, punctuating her statement by taking a big bite of tuber.

Trajan’s eyes narrowed and he tensed ever so slightly, like a cat preparing to pounce. “I wasn’t aware that Phane had taken a woman,” he said.

“Oh, he hasn’t, or at least he certainly hasn’t taken me,” Isabel said, washing her mouthful down with a long drink of warm ale from the nearest flagon. “My husband is Alexander Reishi, formerly Alexander Ruatha. From the looks of things, your father didn’t get the warning Alexander sent him in his dreams.”

Trajan had been listening intently, clearly trying to discern the veracity of her words. His eyes went wide.

“My father did receive a warning,” he said, “but he chose not to heed it until it was too late. My mother, two brothers, and a sister were lost in that attack, an attack that my father said could never happen. Fortunately, Erastus, our house man-at-arms, was paranoid enough to make preparations, and my father, sister, and I survived.”

Isabel looked down at the table and nodded sadly. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she whispered. “There’s been too much suffering since Phane woke.”