44
Kyri came slowly awake, aware of lingering traces of horror that, at first, had no clear source. She could not quite remember . . .
Balance and Sword! Thornfalcon!
As though the thought had summoned him, she heard the false Justiciar’s humorous, yet acid-toned, voice say “Ahh, my Lady, I see you are awakening. Welcome to my . . . boudoir.”
Her eyes snapped open.
The room she was in was of moderate size, elaborately decorated with paintings, tapestries, stone and lightsculpt hangings, with soft lighting and a warm, almost rosy glow over everything. The artworks were all romantic scenes, and the overall effect was of the lover, poet, dreamer that was Thornfalcon’s face to most of the world.
But she herself was bound to an articulated framework of metal, crystal, and wood, cushioned softly on every edge, which lay somehow suspended upon a very large bed. To one side of her was a beautiful and elaborate keepsake chest . . . but the devices and tools within glinted cold and sharp, arrayed like wizards’ material and formulae, not what any would expect in such a sentimental container. On her other side, Thornfalcon lay, his shirt already open, his hair unbound, and his smile sharp and eager.
To her surprise, she was still fully dressed. This did not comfort her at all. It took surprising effort to speak; the paralysis of the alchemical glass seemed to have worn off, but the shock and horror of her position was almost impossible to overcome. She knew, though, that if she did not speak—did not distract him—any chance she had (and her chances did not look good) would be gone. “Your . . . reputation.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not the initial reaction I expected.” His smile looked almost genuine for a moment. “Marvelous. I really find the raging ‘what have you done, you’ll pay for this,’ et cetera, almost as predictable and unimaginative as the screaming and pleading. They all certainly have their pleasures, I admit,” and there was a brittle, shaking edge to his voice that made her feel as though something long dead were crawling down her spine, “but new reactions are new thrills.
“And such a compact opening!” He sprang from the bed and walked to the chest, examining the blades, needles, shears, and other devices carefully and with deliberate, cruel ostentation. “You mean, now you understand aspects of my reputation in a new light than before.”
“You’ve always been known as a ladies’ man . . .” she said, trying to keep her voice under control, “but especially for the travellers, the adventurers. The most beautiful you’d entertain—if they were willing—at your house, perhaps for days, before sending them on their way.
“But they never actually left this house, did they?”
“Quite precisely right, my dear.” He put down the tools, and with a gesture caused the suspending framework to rise up. He began—with exquisite delicacy, almost never touching her—to unlace and unfasten the exterior armor. His pale complexion was now touched with a hint of rose, and he ran a hand through his hair at one point, disarranging it. “Naturally, I enjoy the quite ordinary pleasures of womens’ company, but for the more . . . unusual of my appetites, I must carefully choose individuals who won’t be missed. A string of disappearing women in my own neighborhood, or even throughout Evanwyl, would cause talk.”
“I suppose your . . . master approves of this sort of thing, too.”
He laughed. “In truth? Not at all. Well, I don’t think it disapproves of the actions in and of themselves, and surely it approves of most deeds dark and savage in some way, but it finds my interests . . . oh, juvenile, probably a potential weakness, not something that interests it, certainly. It does approve of the fact that I do not waste the material, however.” He continued the slow, sensuously blood-chilling operation as he spoke. “Your words do seem to indicate you labor under one misapprehension. My patron is not, precisely, my master. We are . . . partners. And while I am, admittedly, a junior partner in the greater enterprise, here it is my domain, to do with as I will so long as I do not forget its purposes as well.”
Her body armor was being laid gently, piece by piece, on the floor as he spoke, and his smile grew slightly wider, the tone of his voice subtly more excited, as he removed each one. Inlaid in expensive woods and metals in elaborate form on the floor—revealed only in pieces, even now that his words and actions had drawn attention to it, because many soft rugs were scattered here and there—was a mystic circle, perhaps a pentagram, and some of the symbols she saw brought an even deeper chill to her heart. I knew he was going to torture me to death. The fact that the structure that held her was meant to hold her in various positions on the bed told her that he would be doing . . . other things, as well. But it’s worse, even worse than I thought. This is not just a place to satisfy appetites I can’t even begin to imagine . . . it’s a ritual circle. He’ll use my pain, my fear, my soul in the end, for something even worse!
Myrionar, help me! she thought. Fully awake and undrugged, she knew she had her Balance now, at least for a few moments. But at the same time, she didn’t know exactly what to pray for. She did not have the Phoenix Raiment on—it was within her neverfull pack, up against the far wall, so no true godspower could be sent through her without possibly killing her outright. And even if she had the strength to break free, it would take too long; Thornfalcon’s rapier was still on his hip, and she suspected that even . . . later, he would never be without a weapon close to hand.
He shook his head. “The Balanced Sword is weak, Kyri. And remembering the magnificent strength you showed off to us when moving, I’ve reinforced the bindings.”
“So you’d target adventurers—the women among them, anyway—and especially those who were alone or known to go off on their own.” She returned to the prior subject, trying to buy herself time. “And I’ll bet you’d do it after they’d done whatever they were here to do, so everyone expected them to leave anyway.”
“Or before, sometimes, if they had the mad ambition to enter, say, Rivendream Pass. In that case, I might have been actually more kind to them than they were planning for themselves.” The irony of the word kind was emphasized with another smile. “I know more of what lies beyond that pass then you, or any other in Evanwyl, I assure you. Now, I—”
Faintly, from below, came a sound of someone hammering on the door, and for a moment Kyri’s heart leapt in hope. But then the shouted words came through: “Thornfalcon! Justiciar Thornfalcon! Answer! Are you there? Thornfalcon!”
Thornfalcon closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to wipe away the savage snarl of frustration, and the whipcord-slender, perfectly sculpted muscles tensed and twitched. As the pounding and shouting continued, he opened his eyes, gave a smile as gentle and welcoming as ever he had.
“Tsk, what a shame, my Lady, our private moment is interrupted. Yet . . . momentary reprieves, solitude in anticipation of what is to come, these have their place in the entertainment as well. Fear not . . . or fear greatly, but I shall return . . . shortly.”