Terry Brooks - High Druid's Blade

“I must be going. I will contact you again soon with further news of our efforts. Congratulations once again on your impending appointment.”

You had better hope I let you live to enjoy it.

FOR CHRYSALLIN LEAH, LOCKED IN THE DARKNESS OF HER torture chamber, the madness continued unabated.

She lost track of the number of times she was visited by the gray–haired Elven woman and her henchmen. She lost count of the number of ways they found to hurt her. After a while, everything started to blend together, and it seemed that the torture never stopped for more than a few minutes, and the pain never stopped at all. There were no longer times of relief, not even small ones; the whole of her existence was a single endless wash of agony and humiliation. In the darkness, she felt increasingly alone, abandoned, forgotten. In the hands of her captors, subjected to their terrible ministrations, she began to feel her mind slipping.

In the brief moments when the pain lessened–a marginal reduction, at best–she found herself wondering what had happened to her brother. She began to imagine all sorts of terrible things. He had not come for her, and therefore she knew something had prevented him from doing so. Perhaps he was a prisoner, too, undergoing the same horrible experience she was. Perhaps he was injured and could no longer find the strength to act. Perhaps he was even dead.

She grew steadily more depressed as her hope diminished and her certainty that her fate was determined grew. She began to wish it would end, that everything would be over, that she would be allowed to die.

All the while, her tormentors never spoke to her. She waited for them to tell her what they wanted, but it never happened. She listened for the smallest sound, the briefest whisper, anything that suggested a reason for her captivity. Once there was a hint of laughter, and she felt relief even in that, though it was at her expense. She waited for more, prayed for more, but nothing came.

They fed her a liquid that was not water and not anything else she recognized. It relieved her parched throat, and while at first she was reluctant to drink it, in the end she was grateful for anything that would quench her thirst and did not care what it might be doing to her. They gave her no food. They gave her no chance to move about. She lost all sense of time and space, all ability to think of anything but her agony and its endless reoccurrence.

Then, at some point when she had given up waiting, with no warning and for no discernible reason, the Elven woman appeared, bent close to her, and whispered, “Tell me what you know.”

Chrysallin, her throat and mouth so dry and blood–filled she could not answer back, croaked in a desperate attempt to answer. But immediately a strip of cloth was tied about her mouth to prevent her from speaking. She tried to respond anyway, shrieking and crying into the gag, fighting to make the words take shape. Her efforts failed, and the Elven woman did not speak to her again.

In those few moments when she was left alone and awaiting the next onslaught of pain, she tried to make sense of what was happening. By doing so, she hoped she might find a way to free herself from the uncertainty that was eating at her. If she failed to do so, she knew she was going to continue on the road to madness. She could not survive what was being done to her without being able to imagine a rationale for its cause. Mostly, she thought it was about her brother. Mostly, she believed Arcannen was responsible. But she never knew for sure, and her belief was a slippery, elusive thing that she could never quite hold on to.

She was on the verge of losing her grip entirely when the door to her prison opened and a shadowy figure slipped into the room and came over to stand next to her. Although no sounds issued from the newcomer’s mouth, Chrysallin knew right away that this was not one of her tormentors, but someone new. Hands touched her gently, moving to her wrists and ankles, releasing her bonds. Arms came around her shoulders and gently helped her into a sitting position.

“I would have come sooner,” Mischa whispered, holding the girl close. “I tried. But they watch you so closely.”

Chrysallin tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. She nodded instead, hugging the old woman back.

“There, there,” the other cooed, stroking her back, patting her softly. “Let’s get you out of here. Can you stand?”

Chrysallin shook her head. “Can’t … don’t look at me, please.”

Mischa made a titching sound. “They’ve gone too far. This is beyond reason. Here, I’ve brought you some clothes. Let’s get you dressed. You’ll be fine now. I’m here to help.”

Chrysallin was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks as she slipped into the clothes Mischa had brought, trying not to look at herself and at the same time to shield her battered, bloodied body from the old woman, ashamed of what had been done to her. She was so grateful she could barely manage to keep from breaking down completely, the emotions she had kept bottled up during her imprisonment now threatening to undo her.

“Shhh, shhh. It’s all right. I’m taking you out of here to somewhere safe. Just dress yourself. Hang on to me, if you need to.”

Chrys was shaking as she pulled on the clothes, the pain of her open wounds and damaged body causing her to gasp aloud. She eased herself carefully into the confines of the cloth, biting her lip against the rawness of the pain. It took her several long minutes, but Mischa never asked her to hurry.

“Lean on me,” Mischa told her. “Just stay with me.”

They moved toward the door, Chrysallin hobbling on feet and legs too damaged for anything more, supported by the surprisingly strong old woman. She managed to keep from crying out when her movements caused sharp stabs of agony, although she could not contain small gasps and groans.

“You know what they want, don’t you?” the old woman whispered as they slipped through the doorway and started down the empty hall beyond.

Chrysallin shook her head no. Her eyes scanned the shadows ahead, searching for the gray–haired Elven woman.

“They didn’t tell you?”

Another shake of her head.

“You don’t know anything? All that time they tortured you, and they didn’t tell you anything?”

Chrysallin was crying again, unable to respond.

“Then I will tell you!” Mischa hissed, “as soon as we are safely away. I will tell you what these monsters want!”

She guided Chrysallin ahead, moving at a steady pace, not rushing her, helping her to stand, speaking to her in low, hushed tones, reassuring her that everything was going to be all right. The girl listened, clinging to the words as she would to a lifeline thrown in a violent dark sea, desperate to believe that this was the chance she had prayed for, a way out of her misery, a way back to her home and family. She forced herself to ignore her pain and her fear, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, telling herself that each step brought her that much closer to freedom.

They went out of the building and onto a street, but this was not a place Chrysallin recognized. The avenue was narrow and dark, the surrounding buildings crowded close, shadows cast everywhere, the sun shut away. It was barely daylight, the air gray and damp. The stones on which she walked were wet with a recent rainfall, and she had to be careful not to slip and fall.

They went only a short distance before Mischa turned her into the doorway of another building, and they went inside. From there they followed a hallway to a set of stairs that took them up one floor, then down another hall a short distance to where Mischa lived. Once inside her rooms, the old woman helped Chrys into a comfortable chair and brought her hot tea to drink. Mischa’s home was a living space, kitchen, and two back rooms the girl assumed were bedrooms. She couldn’t see beyond that. She sipped at the tea and waited for her rescuer to seat herself on the couch across from her.