The Guild

FIFTEEN

Both women alighted gently upon the balcony outside Alonnen’s study, each wrapped in a bubble-shield to keep them from being harmed by either the waters or the magical energies of the Vortex.

Orana looked much the same as ever: a youngish woman in her early twenties, her blonde hair braided and wrapped around her head, with a deep-sleeved robe worn over trousers and a tunic in shades of blue and cut in some foreign but comfortable-looking style. The outer robe was half black and half white, each side marked with a tower keep embroidered in the opposite color; the inner lining, of course, was pitch-black, for it was a Darkhanan Witch-robe, the symbol and possible source of her priestly powers. Alonnen didn’t know and didn’t mind not knowing.

Pelai, on the other hand, had arrived in what she thought was adequate winter clothes, a long-sleeved shirt and vest over a strange, knee-length pleated skirt made from colorfully cross-striped linen. Wool would have been much better, since she had only sandals to cover the rest of her tattoo-covered legs. Seeing the dark-haired woman shiver, Ora tucked her hands up her sleeves and pulled out a bundle of bluish green fabric.

“Here, Pelai,” she stated, her words delivered in flawless Mekhanan. “The colors will clash with the red, gold, and black of your clothes, but these leggings should keep you warm, and that’s the important part. Master Tall . . . I am pleased to meet you again. The Dark informs me that you now have a priesthood you can trust. Does this priesthood have a Guild Master?”

“Yes, but Guild Master Longshanks is in Heiastowne at the moment,” he admitted, turning his back politely so that the Mendhite could slip out of her sandals and struggle into the leggings with a semblance of privacy. He didn’t think the balcony overlooking the Vortex was all that cold, but then he was dressed for winter, with layers of wool over his linens. The scarf and cap had been set aside, leaving his lower face, throat, and carroty curls bare, but he also hadn’t just come from a country located close to the Sun’s Belt region of the world. “Why do you need to know the location of the head of our new Holy Guild, Orana?”

“I have information for the new high priest and for any followers,” Ora explained. “I used the mirror on Nightfall Isle which connected to the Guardian of Koral-tai—bypassing the Fountainways of Nightfall, which were inaccessible due to the Convocation—and asked the nuns there to look up any holy spells or prayers which a true priest could use to banish and remove demons, plus prayer-spells to cleanse Netherhell-fouled ground. Mother Naima in turn passed along my request to Pelai, here, who has done some research of her own.”

The Mendhite spoke up, grunting a little as she struggled into the leggings. “Stupid . . . too short . . . ah, there. Yes, I have a scroll with several such prayer-spells copied onto it, culled from the Great Library. It’s in the blue pack, there . . . and I wish I knew more tailoring spells,” she added under her breath. “I need a handspan more of cloth, or I’ll be forced to waddle the moment these things start to slip . . .”

“Sorry, they were made for Sir Niel, my deceased Guide,” Orana apologized, and held up her hand, palm out toward the woman beyond Alonnen’s field of view. “Basher louzaf cha-nell, k’ko . . . There, that should do it. I’ve had plenty of time to study Fortunai spellweaving techniques. Niel is tall for an Arbran, but not quite as tall as a Mendhite, I’m afraid.”

A soft sigh of happiness from Pelai made Alonnen curious, but he did not turn around. Instead, he waited until the tanned woman walked around him into his line of sight, looking pleased with her borrowed tights. They did clash a bit, but he knew she would be warmer.

“Welcome to Guildara, formerly Mekhana,” he told her. “And welcome to a rather wet and chilly winter.”

“I’ve seen Mekhana on the maps. You’re not that far north,” Pelai stated, folding her arms across her chest. Alonnen had the impression her arms were feeling cold despite the long sleeves of her shirt. “Why is it so cold?”

“We’re not as far north as some kingdoms, true,” Orana told the other woman. “This part of Mekhana is only a couple hundred miles from the northernmost point in Sundara. The land extends almost a thousand miles to the north before hitting the North Sea, where it can get quite cold in winter. However, we are high up in elevation, compared to Mendhi, and the higher one goes, the colder things get.”

“Apprentice Pelai,” Alonnen began, intending to return the subject to the reasons why both women were here.

“Doma Pelai,” she corrected him. At his blank look, the Mendhite explained. “I am a Disciplinarian; males are called Domo, females are called Doma. It means ‘controlled one’ and the suffix at the end indicates gender. My status as a Doma outranks any apprenticeship. Though I suppose, as we are all working together as near equals, you may simply call me Pelai when titles are not needed.”

“. . . Right. Thank you, Pelai, for the courtesy of informality,” Alonnen said. Regathering his thoughts, he returned to the subject at hand. “I’m afraid Master Rexei Longshanks is in Heiastowne at the moment, but if you like, I can call up the Consulate on the talker-box to see if Rexei is done with the morning’s training sessions.”

“Talker-box?” Pelai asked him.

Moving to the glazed doors, Alonnen murmured a command under his breath, waited until the image of the room beyond filled with a trio of people, then pushed the panel out of his way. “It’s an engineering device that transmits silent aether-signals to a similar machine within a day’s journey—Heiastowne lies well within its range. You listen with the cone on the cord held to your ear, and speak into the one on the metal armature, and the other person on the other end of the connection can do the same. I—”

“Master Tall! Thank goodness, you’re back,” Gabria called out to him. “We just saw something awful on one of the spying roaches. We think we saw Master Longshanks in the temple!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alonnen saw Pelai giving Gabria an interested look. Beyond her, Orana merely lifted a brow, apparently not fazed by much despite not knowing what they were talking about, unlike Pelai. Hurrying forward, he reached the spare mirror and took the crystal tablet Gabria held out to him. She pointed over his shoulder, indicating which roach symbol was the one with the recording.

He had to pause and back up the image to find a good shot . . . but it was her. The sight of Rexei in her gray woolen coat, black scarf and cap, and the brown woolen trousers and darker leather boots from this morning was irrefutable. The curve of her cheek, a lock of thumb-length dark brown hair, the shape of her modest nose . . . and a dull look of horror in her eyes. Dull, that was, until he manipulated the controlling spells in the block of crystal, advancing the magic-captured images painting by painting, and saw her gaze dart around, then flick straight to the roach. She didn’t lift her head, but she did shift her eyes straight to it for two full seconds, before she left its field of view.

That was the roach he had moved to sit in a corner of the curved corridor ceiling on the uppermost of the three imprisonment rings. It was supposed to count the comings and goings of all the temple residents, since it had been relocated from the power room to the hallway and had been angled with a good view of the doorway to the one stairwell that led to the outside. A man Alonnen dimly but imperfectly recognized had his arm tucked around hers, and he seemed to be guiding but not dragging her somewhere.

Orana’s voice, normally smooth and calm, sharpened with anger. “What is that thing doing on her neck?”

“What thing?” Alonnen asked. He wasn’t sure how the Darkhanan Witch knew what Rexei’s gender was, until he realized that after two hundred years, he’d probably be very good at spotting such things, too. Orana’s outrage confused him, however. “The scarf?”

“The control collar!” She pointed at the image on the mirror.

He snapped his gaze back to the mirror, reversing the image until he could see for a brief moment the rune-chased metal band clamped around Rexei’s throat. Alonnen suspected he had blinked at just the wrong moment to have missed it before. “Dammit, they’re not allowed to . . . Wait, that’s right—they’re not allowed. It’s illegal, now!”

Shoving the tablet back into Gabria’s hands, Alonnen strode for the talker-box attached to his office wall. The other two mages, Jenden and Pioton, gave him worried looks. Like many of their kind, both men had had friends and relatives who had vanished into the hands of Mekha’s priesthood, never to be seen again until their body emerged in a black woolen bag, drained of all magic, all hope, and all life.

Not this time, Alonnen silently swore. Setting the resonance level to the one used by the militia, he cranked the handle rapidly and lifted the listening cone to his ear.

“You’ve reached the Heiastowne Militia Precinct,” a female voice stated calmly on the line. He recognized it: Marta Grenspun, best friend of his best assistant, Gabria. “What is your inquiry?”

“Get me the captain, or the leftenant—anyone in charge,” he ordered. He remembered now where he had seen two of those men accompanying Rexei, driving in the caravan of motorcarts yesterday. “Visiting priests from outside the Precinct have kidnapped Guild Master Longshanks with the intent to kill.”

“Gears and Gods! Leftenant!” he heard her hollering. “Leftenant Tallnose!” A clatter accompanied the fading of her voice into the background.

Grimacing, Alonnen turned to face the others. “Dammit. I need to be here to help with the Vortex spells . . . and I need to go help rescue her. The militia has hand-cannons, but they’re going up against well-trained priests, too many of them to get off more than a single volley before the mages start flinging spells—that’s assuming the militia has the advantage of surprise, but I’ll doubt it. Assuming they can get inside, since there’ll be wards . . . but I have to stay here and . . . Dammit!”

“Anyone can apply the spells to the Vortex if they have permission to use its energies,” Pelai pointed out calmly. “Appoint a temporary Guardian—under oath so as to ensure they give it back at the appointed time—and then you can go.”

Alonnen gave her a sharp look. He kept the cone cupped to his ear, but he heard nothing other than the slight aetheric hiss that said the talker-box on the other end was still active. Unsure what to make of the foreigner’s request, he lifted a brow.

She lifted her hand palm up in return, gesturing toward the inactive mirror, the one hung sideways instead of vertically. “Have we not seen over the last year how Guardian Serina exchanged places many times with Guardian Naima, the Mother-Superior of the Temple of Koral-Thai? Select your apprentice to handle the matter, and you can go.”

“I don’t have an apprentice,” he dismissed. “Not one within reach. Storshei, Gavros, and I were apprenticed to Guardian Millanei, but Gavros is up in the far north. Storshei normally works locally with the Hydraulics Guild, but he was sent to a dam a hundred miles north that was experiencing a problem with the sluice gates freezing shut just when they need to be opened to relieve some of the meltwater backing up in the reservoir up there.” He scowled . . . then focused his gaze on Orana. “You. I trust you. I know you’ll hand the Vortex back to me—”

“Whoa!” The Witch-Knight quickly held up both hands. “Not me. I was able to shield myself against the energies of the Fountains in order to travel here, but I cannot be allowed to touch any singularity. The energy contained is too much for me to handle.”

That confused Alonnen. “But . . . you’re the strongest mage we’ve ever heard of! All the stories passed down through the Mages Guild . . . How can a Fountain be too powerful for you to control?”

The blonde shrugged. “It tries to spill its energy straight into me, like a giant waterskin exploding in my grip—no control and too much for me to hold. I’m not the only one with this problem; Morganen of Nightfall also suffers from it. At most, all I could do would be to channel it for someone else. I cannot use it. I would also be of far more use accompanying you to the temple to help rescue Longshanks. There are very, very few spells out there for which I do not know a counter . . . and by myself I am a match for a dozen mages without breaking a sweat.”

“Good. You can go,” Gabria muttered, fingers still curled around the edges of the crystal scrying tablet. “I’m not going anywhere near that place—sorry, Alonnen, but I am not going anywhere near anything related to a God.”

“It’s okay,” he reassured her. Part of him was disappointed she could not get over her fear, but a larger part did understand. He turned to the Painted Warrior in their midst. “You’re Guardian Tipa’thia’s apprentice. You said you’d swear an oath?”

She nodded her head. “I can have one written up in two minutes for your approval.” Lifting a tanned hand, she tapped the side of her equally browned face, where a set of pale blue lines and swirls had been inked from the base of her throat up to her ear and around her right eye. “I have a translation tattoo which will allow me to write it in the local tongue for you.”

“Do it. I’m going to the Vortex armory to get some weapons—Pioton, man the talker-box,” he ordered.

“I was about to offer to go with you,” the mage stated. “You’ll need all the mages you can get, even with the Holy Knight’s help.” At his side Jenden nodded, including himself.

“I’ll do that,” Gabria offered immediately. “It’s probably Marta on duty. I’ll let her know you’re on your way with mages to help, then I can go back to scrying for what’s happening in the temple. I won’t go near it, but I will watch what’s happening and send word when I can.”

“I’ll give you a communications Artifact that will allow you to reach me immediately,” Orana offered, moving to the younger woman’s side as Gabria took over the earpiece from Alonnen. Once again, Ora’s hands moved to the deep cuffs of her robes. “I’ve based it on an idea I saw while staying on Nightfall Isle . . .”

“The Vortex?” Pelai prompted Alonnen. “If these are the demon summoners, and you fear for the life of this Master Longshanks, then if we can seal off the ability to cast Portals of any kind, we can prevent the summoning that is the reason for Longshanks’ capture. If nothing else, it should delay them as they check their warding runes to see why the summoning is not working.”

“You know how to summon demons?” Alonnen asked, wary.

The tall woman gave him a pointed look, one hand going to her hip. “I also know exactly where to stab a human so that they bleed to death from one of their major arteries, either at throat, armpit, or groin. Do you see me stabbing anyone? Fetch me pen and paper, and I shall write an oathbinding that forswears my using your Fountain’s powers for anything that would harm anyone you care about. That would limit my use very strictly to just implementing the aether disruptions, as that will not hurt anyone.”

He had to trust her. Alonnen’s older brother was very good at his job, but Rogen was no mage. No one in the militia was a mage. The more of those Alonnen had on his side when riding in to rescue Rexei, the safer everyone would be . . . and that meant leading his guild into battle. Gabria’s reluctance to go anywhere near that temple was not a fear he himself could afford to display. So he had to trust Pelai of Mendhi.

Nodding sharply, he gestured at his desk. “There’s a charcoal pencil on my desk and plenty of paper. Start writing your oath. I’ll be back to witness it as soon as we’ve been to the armory. Pioton, Jenden, I’ll handle the inner circle; the two of you divide up the middle ring and snag any mage willing to come fight.”

“Barclei’s off-duty and more than willing to face down the priests,” Jenden told him. “He’ll know the names of the others who are equally ready.”

“None of us are ready,” Alonnen muttered, grabbing his glasses and scarf from their resting places near the door. “We have less training, incomplete knowledge, limited numbers . . . The one thing we’re good at is shielding and blocking spells. Orana Niel, I’m afraid you’ll have to be our main cannon in this fight. Make every shot count.”

Nodding with that same constant level of calm she had always displayed for as long as he could remember, the Darkhanan Witch followed Alonnen and the other two Guildarans out the door. Behind them, Gabria listened at the talker-box, craning her neck to stare at the mirrors every few seconds, while Pelai crossed to the desk and sat down.

• • •

They left Rexei in one of the cells with the order to, “Sit down,” but no other commands. So she sat on the edge of the cot and waited, bottom still feeling a little sore. The strangers left the cell room first, while Archbishop Elcarei glared down at her. Rexei kept her gaze unfocused and aimed across the room, as if unaware of his presence, though her peripheral vision strained, as did her ears, for any sign she was in immediate danger from the middle-aged man.

Finally, he left, doing nothing more dangerous than closing the door. A key ka-chunked in the lock a few seconds later, and a hint of magic shimmered across the door, sealing her inside. Rexei slowly counted to ten, ears straining for any sounds. There was a bit of muffled talking right outside her door, but she couldn’t make sense of it. After a few moments, the noises went away.

Humming hard in her mind, she tested the spell on the collar. She already knew her legs could move. Her arms could move. She could even twist as she sat on the bed, and she was able to set down the carefully cradled, half-smashed paper cockroach . . . but getting up off the wool-draped pallet was not easy. In fact, it triggered a painful shower of sparks through the backs of her eyes. Dizzy from the moment she reached her feet, she had to brace one hand on the wall. She could move, but only slowly, gingerly feeling her way; the pain interfered with her sense of balance.

She almost tripped over the refresher, and she bruised her hip on the sink, but she made a full circuit of the crystal-lit cell. She could see better, and it was getting easier to move with each hummed bar of her warding spell, each second she stood and walked instead of sat, but it did exhaust her. Sinking back onto the bed let the pain fade, but it also made her leg muscles tremble from the effort.

So I can move, though it’s a struggle to fight the spell. Thank the Gods that Mekha isn’t around anymore, she thought, rubbing her hands over her face. I don’t know how many other mages have meditations they could have done—probably not many, beyond my mother—but even without His will enforcing the spell, I can see why those first well-trained mages found it impossible to resist and escape once the drainings had begun.

It was not a pleasant thought; in fact, it churned her stomach. Rexei forced herself off the cot and over to the refresher, bracing one hand on the glazed rim of the sink. That made her think of another need, one starting to grow urgent in spite of the blinding headache the Sit down command had given her. Taking advantage of her moment of privacy taught her that any seat would do, to the point that standing up again was not pleasant on several levels. The bed, however, was a far safer seat to be found at than the porcelain one.

She had no idea when they’d come for her or when they’d discover she was a female not a male. Nor did she know what was involved in a demonic summoning, nor how long she had left to live. But Rexei did know she wasn’t going to wait to be killed. Nor could she be sure that anyone had seen her on her walk through the temple. The first step was to try to get the others to see her, despite being locked in a room without a functional paper roach.

Turning to the crushed, folded bug on the mattress, she picked it up and started gently pulling it back into a puffed-out shape, in the hopes that that was all it would need to work.

How did they know I’d be coming out of the Consulate by the front door and headed that way? she wondered, thinking about her half brother’s note. She pulled it out. Is . . . is this even Lundrei’s handwriting? I don’t remember. I don’t remember what any of their handwriting looked like, save for I think I remember Mum’s handwriting on the jars of preserves we made together.

A sick feeling churned in her gut. Did he do this? Lundrei, my own kin? I’d like to think he wouldn’t have done it of his own free will . . . but there are nearly twelve years between the half brother I knew when I was ten years old and the man I met last night. She swallowed down the uncomfortable thought and felt her throat muscles pressing against the metal circling her neck. Of course, I could be mentally accusing him of the wrong things.

I know the priests had their hands on my cap and coat for a while. Long enough to find hairs. And I’ve heard rumors of mage-kin being tracked down despite changing their names, identities, regions . . . They might have used a location spell on him, something the Hunter Squads use. And if they caught up with him last night and slapped one of these collars around his neck . . . wait, would anyone hunt down one of my kin just to . . . ?

She all but slapped herself on the forehead; only the delicate, half-crumpled paper bug in her fingers kept her from doing so. Of course they would, Rexei thought, wincing. I made a fool of the Archbishop of Heiastowne. And not only did I make a fool of him for two months, and gain a Guild rank elevation out of it, I’m now the head of the Holy Guild, utterly supplanting everything he and his cronies enjoyed, stood for, and gloated about for the whole length of their perverted, power-hungry lives.

I’m more surprised he hasn’t personally carved me up yet, now that I think about it.

The paper roach shimmered and moved. Freaked, Rexei jumped. The good thing was, she confined the urge to scream into a throttled-down squeak. The bad thing was, the enchanted cockroach—which now looked disturbingly real—moved again, making her instinctively fling it away from her. It hit the ground with the faintest papf sound as one of the fluffed-out bits crumpled . . . and the roach stopped moving again, turning back into mere, if colorful, paper.

Panting, she forced herself to calm down. Just a spell . . . just a spell . . . Guildra, she prayed, staring wide-eyed at the enchanted paper on the stone floor, help me to get out of here! I don’t want my nerves to break . . .

It took her a few more moments to calm her racing heart. “Come on, Rexei,” she whispered to herself, knowing that standing up and fetching the paper back would hurt. “Come on . . . stand up and get it back . . .”

Bracing herself with a deep breath, she pushed to her feet . . . and felt no pain. That startled her into freezing—and that was when the pain started to creep into range, pushing her limbs forward. Toward the paper spy on the ground.

Oh! Ohhhh . . . I’m already touching the collar, and my mind isn’t so deeply sunk under the weight of Mekha’s will that I cannot even think . . . so I can give myself orders that the collar forces me to obey? Oh, thank you, Guildra!

For a moment, she thought she heard the faintest whisper of, You’re welcome, but the pain was getting in the way. Letting it go, Rexei stooped and carefully plucked the roach from the ground then returned to the bed. The new order cancelled the compulsion to sit down, but if she didn’t sit, she might get caught not sitting, since there was no telling when the priests would come back.

And if I can think . . . Oh yes. I never apprenticed to the Locksmiths or the Law-Sayers, but I know exactly what to do. Thinking swiftly as she gingerly re-plucked at the corners and curves of the paper bug, she stated aloud, “I am to completely ignore any and all spell-based compulsions forced upon me by this collar, following the completion of this order. I will be free to act in any way I desire, or not act, and I command myself to use the power of any reinforcing spells on any other commands to instead reinforce this order: I will have complete and total free will from this point forward. This is the only order that will apply to me from this point forward.”

There, she thought, smiling. That takes care of that. Now to pick this open again . . . and . . . almost got it . . . eurghh, it’s moving—ick! she thought, wrinkling her nose at the lifelike roach now perched on her hand. From a scrying mirror, they had looked a lot more paperlike, but she supposed that was just the scrying spell’s method of letting a mage know which cockroaches were the paper ones without tipping off the people being spied upon to the reality underlying the carefully folded, mobile illusions. This reminds me of those tenements back when I was in the Cobblers Guild, learning how to repair shoes . . .

I had to get a room in the “young apprentice” building in that town. I appreciated the adults who kept an eye on us, making sure we had food and such, but the other kids didn’t always know how to seal up food inside jars and things to keep the roach population at a minimum. Of course, I’d trade a room infested with roaches and other bugs any day over this priest-infested Netherhell-hole.

Unfortunately, if she couldn’t figure out how to communicate with the mages back at the Vortex via this illusionary bug, she’d find herself quite dead inside a real Netherhell soon.

The sound of a key in the lock gave her a few seconds of warning. Tossing the roach onto the corner of the cot, where it would hopefully pass unnoticed, she quickly shifted into an approximation of the pose Elcarei had last seen her in, with her hands on her thighs and her gaze unfocused across the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the door open, admitting an apprentice with a cup in one hand and a bowl in the other; the handle of a spoon and a bit of steam rose above the rim of the bowl. She hadn’t interacted much with the lattermost male, but she thought his name might be Kurt or something like that.

Behind him entered Archbishop Elcarei, and behind him was the foreign mage, Torven. Stepping up to her, Elcarei leaned over and touched her collar; the other touches had been given by the men holding her arms, outside her field of view. This time, she saw it coming. “When we are done questioning you, you will take this bowl and eat the food in it, drink water to keep yourself hydrated, use the refresher and the sink to ensure you stay clean and healthy, and when you are tired, you will sleep in this bed. You will drink a few sips of the water now, then you will answer our questions.”

The apprentice priest—not the one who had been violating that one woman mage, thankfully—held out the cup. Rexei felt her arm moving before she could even think of doing so deliberately. The moment she instinctively tried to resist, testing the horrible theory racing through her thoughts . . . the pain came back in a prickle that forced her fingers to open, then close around the curve of the ceramic cup. That same spell-command forced her to bring the goblet to her lips and drink.

One, two, three . . . she tried for a fourth sip to stretch out the command and stall for time, but the spell apparently considered that more than the commanded “few” sips and stopped her. Giving up, she held on to the cup and waited. At least I can think . . . and the roach is now repaired. Someone’s bound to see me when the mages Alonnen set to watching the scryings ’round the clock see a new set of images in the mirror in his office. The roach is even pointed the right way, more or less; I’m sure I’m in its field of vision . . .

“You are the new Guild Master of the so-called Holy Guild, is this correct?” Elcarei drawled.

Her mouth opened, words forcing their way out of her. She could delay them for a few seconds, but only a few. “That is correct.”

“And your name is Rexei Longshanks?”

“It is,” she admitted. Again, a slight delay before she was forced to speak the truth. Maybe I can adjust what I say—keeping it the truth but only the portion of the truth I want them to know?

“Do you really think your strumpet of a Goddess will ever be able to supplant the rightful place of Mekha in this world?” Elcarei sneered.

“No,” Rexei managed to say. Elcarei’s brows lifted, a look of surprise and delight in those brown eyes. The spell forced her to clarify that no, because without clarification, it could not be true. But she was able to say it in her own way. “Guildra is not a strumpet, and there is no need for Her to strive to supplant the False God in the future, because She has already done so.”

“Bastard!” Elcarei’s hand lashed out, backhanding Rexei. Her body swayed and her cheek throbbed, but the pain wasn’t too bad. It helped that the Aian mage, Torven, snatched at the archbishop’s wrist.

“Do not hurt the sacrifice!” he ordered sternly. “The more powerful a demon is, the more they will want to wreck their prey themselves. That sort of bloodlust can be useful during the binding process. Control your own bloodlust, Archbishop Elcarei.”

A shiver swept over Rexei’s skin. Resisting the urge to rub her arms, she hoped they didn’t notice the goose-prickles. It’s true, they’re going to kill me just to summon a demon. Guildra, I wish I knew how to use my priestly strengths to thwart them. Alonnen and I were waiting for the priests among the other Guardians to pass along what they knew or could find.

“Ask your questions. Learn what you need to know. And be grateful the boy is so easily compelled that he tells you the full truth. Even if it isn’t a truth you want to hear,” Torven added, staring down the slightly older man.

Elcarei stared back, then let out a heavy breath and lowered his arm. Torven released his wrist. “Be glad I am the one doing this interrogation. If Archbishop Gafford were doing it, the boy would be bleeding in seven spots by now.”

“The archbishop has his own assignment. Stick to yours, as we planned last night.”

Planned last night? Planned what? Were the other cockroaches able to spy on them last night, while Alonnen and I were—?

“Tell me about Master Tall,” Elcarei ordered her.

The collar prodded her into speaking, but the pain was weak. Unfocused. Rexei, therefore, said the first thing on her mind. “Master Tall is short. Or at least average in height.”

She fell silent the moment the compulsion to reply ended. Elcarei covered his forehead with one hand, the other bracing his elbow. Dragging his palm down to his mouth, he stared down at her, in her coat, cap, trousers, and boots. One finger tapped the side of his cheek, then he pulled his arm down across his chest. “Is Master Tall the Guild Master of the Mages Guild?”

“I . . . don’t know.” Rexei blinked up at him, feeling a tingle wash through her mind, almost as if the inside of her skull itched. She honestly didn’t know, and she didn’t like the way her answer made the archbishop scowl.

Elcarei glared at her and growled under his breath. “Gods-be-damned amnesia spells . . . You’re lucky I thought of an alternate way to ask. Describe the location or locations you have visited in the last week.”

“Buildings made out of stone, wood, plaster, and tile. Streets and roads covered in snow or damp with winter rains . . .” Outwardly, she strove to give him a blank look. Inwardly, she felt a twinge of fear. The oath I swore . . . I think it made me forget something important, just now. Something very, very important. Guildra, what did I just forget?

He almost lunged forward and slapped her. Checking himself at the last minute just as Torven caught his wrist again, Elcarei dragged in a deep breath. Composing himself, he tried again. “Each time you left the city in the last two weeks, which road or roads did you take?”

“The north and east ones,” she said. Again, her head felt like it was itching deep under her scalp. Rexei felt another surge of fear.

“Were you on foot, or did you take a vehicle of some sort, and if so, what kind?”

“A . . . a motorhorse . . . and a motorcart . . .” Since she hadn’t been forbidden from moving her arms, she lifted the one not holding the cup and scratched, dislodging the cap perched on her short, dark locks. She wanted to unbutton her coat, too, since she was now growing a bit warm down here, out of the cold, damp winter air.

“How far would you say you traveled each time, in terms of either distance or time?”

“I . . . don’t remember.” She didn’t, and that worried her.

Growling, he grabbed her by the upper arms, pulling her up off the bed. “Where is the Mages Guild located?!”

“I d-don’t know!” she stammered as he shook her. “I don’t know of any Mages Guild!”

“Bah!” Thrusting her away from him, he let her drop back down onto the thin, wool-stuffed pallet that served as the cot’s mattress. “You’re pistoning useless—you’re not even good for a pistoning, you useless little pile of goat manure—sit here, eat your food, and obey the rest of my orders from earlier,” Elcarei snapped, gesturing for the silently watching apprentice to hand her the bowl. “You will keep yourself healthy and well until we’re ready to sacrifice you. Stupid Gods-be-damned renegade mages . . .”

Forced to accept the bowl, Rexei watched the archbishop storm out of the cell. With a heavy sigh, Torven followed, and the dark-haired apprentice, the one whose name she couldn’t remember, followed. She remembered her time in the Servers Guild spying on these priests, but not all of them had served in the public areas where guildmembers were allowed to go . . . and she couldn’t remember why she had gotten a job cleaning the temple.

She couldn’t remember why she couldn’t remember, either, which was unnerving. Rexei remembered most of her life in great detail, but this? There were now gaps in her brain and an ache in her heart. And in her bottom. She didn’t know why she had a sore bottom, yet could not remember being violated in any way by the priests, beyond being captured, dragged down here, and slapped by the ex–Archbishop of Heiastowne.

Why is my bottom feeling a little tender? Did I eat the wrong food at some point? That thought brought her back to the compulsion laid upon her. Stooping, she set the cup on the ground, then gripped the handle of the spoon and dug into what she thought was a stew. It wasn’t, at least not in the traditional sense. Stews had vegetables and gravy, sometimes some grain, and meat. This glop, from what she could tell, was all meat in a bit of rich gravy. That’s odd. Why would they serve me something as expensive as meat? I’d think the mage-prisoners would be fed on cheap grain and vegetable pottage with only a little bit of meat now and then, not pure meat. Why would they feed a demonic sacrifice meat?

There were too many things about the world, about magic, and about monsters which she simply did not know, but the collar compelled her to put the first spoonful into her mouth and chew anyway. Rexei was hungry; she remembered she hadn’t had her midday meal yet. Doing what Archbishop Elcarei wanted did not make her happy, though at least it was something she could do.

There was nothing in this room to distract her from her predicament but the cot, a chair directly under the suncrystals in the corner—she didn’t remember where she had learned what they were called, but that was what they were—the refresher, the sink, and her cup and bowl. And a cockroach sitting on the corner of her current bed.

It wiggled an antenna at her. She resisted the urge to squish it, feeling surprisingly sympathetic toward the repulsive little scavenger. Mainly because she would have traded just about anything to have been a Cobblers Guild apprentice once again, dealing with roaches by the dozens. Resolving to ignore the bug, she kept feeding herself what tasted like a mix of beef and ham stew. There were hints of pepper for seasoning, but mostly it was a rich reduced broth coating fall-apart-tender meat.

Her thoughts whirled with the need to figure out how to escape and regret she hadn’t brought someone else along to meet her brother, or at least had them follow at a discreet distance since she would not have wished a second capture on anyone else. And despite the flavorful, expensive-for-a-captive meal, her stomach felt sour with the sinking feeling she had forgotten something very, very important just now. Something very specific, because there were fuzzy spots in her memory of the archbishop’s interrogation and of several other points in her recent past. That worried her deeply.