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| Chapter 69. The Brother's Fate | |
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ristan awakened to the tramp of heavy boots and the grinding rattle of keys in the lock of his cell. For weeks he had languished alone in squalor, his drafty cage open on all sides except for the gritty rock that formed the outer ring of the tower. A rusty grate formed both his ceiling and floor. His fellow prisoners were stacked above him like animals while the sea seethed far below. It was upon a narrow ledge of stone that he made his nest from a single tattered blanket. Tucked against the outer wall, it was the only shelter from the rain of filth from the cells above. Warily he raised his head, immediately recognizing the burly figure of Inquisitor Lathor standing behind one of the nameless wardens. “Prisoner, you will come with us,” said the warden evenly. Tristan shuddered when the inquisitor’s hard gaze fell upon him. It was into that cruel face he had first gazed when he had been delivered to the citadel. It was his low, unrelenting voice that had demanded answers and those hands that had applied the scourge to Tristan’s back when he had failed to provide them. It was Lathor who had sealed the enchantment on the collar locked around his throat, silencing him so that he could neither cry out nor use magic. Resigned to his fate, he rose stiffly and shuffled toward his captors, the chains of his shackles jingling loudly over the open grate of the floor. Once he reached the entrance to his cell, the inquisitor gestured for him to follow the warden. It was his first time out of the horrible cell since his arrival weeks perhaps months before. Tristan had quickly lost track of time. They marched down the narrow corridor that followed the inner curve of the tower. At the end of the line of cells, the warden unlocked a heavy door and nudged Tristan ahead of him. He stumbled, nearly falling over, only to be righted when the warden clutched his upper arm. The inquisitor departed through another thick door on the opposite side of the small chamber as the warden guided Tristan to a trestle bench perched in front of a moldering desk. He sat down clumsily. His shackles nearly tripped him over again. The warden’s grubby fingers flipped through the pages of a thick ledger distractedly. It was only then Tristan realized one of the White Mantle was standing in the corner watching. The grim figure was clad in flowing robes of scarlet, his face all but concealed behind a cruel mask. “Elementalist?” “Mesmer, Sir. At least that’s what the log says. Sign here,” the warden said as if he were discussing the settling of a debt rather than the fate of a human being. Tristan looked on blearily as the scarlet-robed man dipped the goose quill into the ink and made a few swift marks in the tome beside the warden’s finger. “I’ll send a servant for him,” the red-robed man said and slammed the door behind him. Cold in his nakedness, Tristan shivered and waited, shifting occasionally as his body protested its lack of care and the cruelty of the bonds. The warden studiously ignored him until a burly man arrived to take Tristan away. No one spoke to him, not while he was being scrubbed of the filth of captivity in an empty yard, nor when a razor was taken to his matted, lice-infested beard and hair. As the sun began sinking westward, he was led up a long flight of stairs to a squat tower that jutted out over the sea. The heavy portal was drawn aside by a pair of White Mantle warriors. He toppled painfully to his knees as the chains entangled his legs. His escort abandoned him and the door boomed closed behind him, leaving Tristan to blink uncomprehending in the oppressive gloom. “Is this the best you can do?” rasped a dry voice somewhere to Tristan’s left. Robbed of his natural talents by the collar, he stared into the shadows, unable to sense anything, “Why were these held if only to be allowed to waste, Gascon?” “Resources are thin,” replied the deep timbre of a man’s voice. Its vibrancy and warmth was in stark contrast to the lifeless hiss of the other, “These were considered expendable.” “They are too weak to endure what I must do.” “I will find others if these perish.” “Your demands increase but you have yet to deliver on a single promise.” “I have nothing to gain by breaking my word,” said the man, but a faint quaver in his voice betrayed his unease. Tristan made out a hunched figure standing some ten paces away. The other speaker, however, resisted his attempts to find him. “You have a great deal more to lose than you realize,” hissed the other menacingly. “The island will be returned to you,” Gascon replied firmly, “The beacons were placed as instructed. We were able to find them before, we will locate them again.” “I will return when the hour is darkest,” the other hissed with a hateful sigh, “Make this one ready like the others.” Something shifted in the dimness, a shadow fluttering soundlessly between the sharp outlines of slabs. Briefly he saw two motes of ghost light -- eyes gazing at him from beyond the veil of death. His nape bristled and his heart raced within the brittle shell of his flesh. The hunched shape of Gascon drew closer, resolving into a pallid face with cloudy eyes. A scowl was etched upon the gaunt man’s face, as indelible as the scars that marked him for a necromancer. Tristan shuddered away from the man’s cold grasp only to be jerked forward when Gascon seized the chain that dangled between his collar and manacles. He was weak after months of surviving on meager rations and confined like an animal to his cage. His knees dragged on the hard stone of the floor and finally he staggered to his feet. Still the necromancer said nothing to him, only pulled on the chain until Tristan followed. By then his eyes had adjusted to the interminable gloom of that place and he saw the gleam of glass jars and tubing crowding the workbenches that lined the curved walls. Brine and distilled spirits vied with the odor of sweat and moldering filth. A row of slabs emerged from the shadows, revealing two that were occupied by supine figures pinned in place by thick bands of leather bolted to the stone. Nearest him lay a man and though his cheeks were hollowed and his hair had been shaved away, the jagged ridge of a once broken nose revealed that he was his old friend, Daniel Broinn. The man’s once powerful body was a mockery of itself, pallid and bony, his bare chest a nightmare of staring bones and brutal punishment. “No!” Tristan mouthed silently as Gascon thrust him toward an empty slab. Daniel and the mysterious woman on the far table lay as unmoving as corpses. In a frenzy of panic, Tristan spun around and tried to pound his captor with a manacled wrist, but it was as if he inhabited a body unfamiliar to him. His reflexes were slow and his arm lacked its old strength. Gascon easily ducked aside and laughed cruelly, his scarred visage hideous in the gloom. The necromancer hissed an incantation and what little strength remained to Tristan faded instantly. Cold inhabited his limbs, dragging him to the ground. He could not move; he could do nothing as the vile man drew his helpless body onto the slab, laying Tristan out on his back and flattening him to the stone. “Pray to your gods now if you must,” Gascon said when he had finished securing Tristan to the table, “It may well be your last chance.” Then, without another word Gascon departed. |
