Page 18 of Crucible of Chaos

That was how Estevar divined the identity of the deep-voiced foreigner hiding his ill-health and speaking into the darkness.

‘Is your mind clear?’

He had been talking to himself.

‘No,’ he replied as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

This time, however, he could have sworn the voice asking belonged to someone else.

CHAPTER 13

IS YOUR MIND CLEAR?

The next time Estevar heard that question, he was certain someone other than himself was doing the asking.

‘Wh-what?’ he mumbled groggily. He was flat on his back, but this time lying on something that made the scrapes on his skin itch–a woollen blanket or a rug, protecting him from the rough rock underneath. The air was musty, suggesting a cave, or perhaps a prison cell.

When he tried to prop himself up on his elbows, his head swam and he fell back with a thump that very nearly knocked him out again. Feeling an unexpected coolness over his skin, his hands went to his chest and then his legs in dismay. His shirt and trousers were gone, leaving him naked save for a pair of breeches that he was fairly sure did not belong to him. Running his fingers over the braids of his beard, he found the bristles were dry, suggesting considerable time had passed since the elderly inquisitor half his size had bested him so easily.

I seem to be losing all my duels lately, he thought,even those I was unaware had already begun.

He kept his eyes closed to avoid the nausea that threatened his tenuous hold on consciousness. Time was what was needed now: time to allow his beleaguered body to contend with the multitude of abuses it had recently suffered before facing whatever onslaught awaited him next. His mind, however, was eager to begin.

He didn’t need to inhale that deeply to detect the pungent scent of hay and fresh manure in the dank air.

Someone brought Imperious down here with me. An act of compassion? Or just to get us both out of sight to prevent our deaths being witnessed?

‘Imperious?’ he called out.

An unexpected reply shocked Estevar to an even more acute wakefulness. ‘The mule was very sick,’ said a woman’s voice–thankfully, not Brother Agneta.

Estevar tried to locate the source of the speaker, who sounded neither near nor especially far. His ears picked up the faint hint of an echo that he recognised as reverberations off stone walls.Whoever she is, she is skulking at the far end of a long, cavernous chamber, he reasoned.Out of fear? Unlikely, given my present infirmity. No, she doesn’t want me to see her. Not yet.

‘Where is my mule?’ Estevar asked, the tremulous tone revealing more anxiety than he wanted. ‘Why don’t I hear him breathing?’

‘He’s asleep,’ came the reply. ‘The wound troubles him, and he kept trying to kick through the door. I couldn’t risk him running through the tunnels, braying and attracting attention from those above. That would have been very bad for both of you.’

Which confirms we are still within the abbey’s walls, he thought, not entirely pleased with that discovery,surrounded by armies of fractious monks and at least one cunning and ruthless inquisitor.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, more to make himself sound confused and helpless than out of any expectation of an honest answer. His throat was sore, but not as dry and painful as it ought to be, given his fever. The woman must have given him water. ‘Why do you hide in the shadows?’

When she failed to reply, he rolled onto his right side, reawakening the agony of the wound below his left ribs. He clamped his teeth shut to stop himself screaming but couldn’t keep a groan from escaping his lips. Probing the wound with his fingertips, he found it covered in a thick, gooey substance not unlike tree sap, and beneath that, stitches that were not his own.

‘You sewed up my wound?’ he asked.

Again, he was greeted with silence. Chancing the nausea, he opened his eyes and glanced around what was indeed a dimly lit cavernous room. He took note of the rough-hewn rock slanting inwards towards a curved ceiling, and the crude, archaic engravings depicting Tristia’s six gods adorning the walls. Shadows pooled at the far end of the chamber, where his rescuer no doubt hid from him. The source of illumination came from a single wide-based candle on the floor nearby, set inside a chalk circle surrounded by esoteric symbols, some of which Estevar recognised.

‘Witchcraft?’ he asked. ‘Inside Isola Sombra’s ancient prayer chamber?’

The feminine voice– young, perhaps early twenties, her tone light, almost musical, as if she were amused rather than afraid–mockingly repeated her earlier question. ‘Is your mind clear, Estevar Borros?’

‘Stop asking that!’ he shouted, which set off a fit of coughing and retching.

‘You’re not doing very well,’ she observed. ‘Don’t you think you should answer my question?’

‘Why?’

A breeze of teasing laughter. ‘Because you’ve been mumbling it ever since my man brought you down here, so surely it must be important?’

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