Page 71 of Of Blood and Fire
We headed across the courtyard to the inconspicuous door that led into the tanks. They were a collection of holding cells situated in caverns deep under the second wall. There was no light and no creature comforts, not even a proper privy, just a long-drop pit in the cell’s corner. The tanks had only ever been used for Mareritten prisoners, and, given the Mareritten code of honor that demanded suicide over capture, the nature of the hard black stone had been altered to absorb any sort of impact toprevent self-harming while maintaining enough strength to stop it being clawed away and used to injure or even suffocate.
The guard stationed at the door saluted, then slid back the heavy wooden lock and hauled the door open. Inside, there was a small landing that led on to the spiral steps, which were narrow and carved from the same black stone as the walls. Light tubes came to life as we walked down, briefly highlighting the immediate area and blinking out as we left. No voices rose from the depths below us, but I could hear footsteps, and they sounded impatient.
The air was still and heavy, and the closer we got to the tanks, the more imbued it became with the thick scents of musk and sulfur. While we hadn’t held any Mareritt in this place over my father’s time, his ancestors certainly had, and the stench of their presence seemed to have leached into the very stone itself. Which was probably nothing more than imagination on my part, but that didn’t alter the unpleasantness of it.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t Garran who paced but rather a small but fierce-looking woman I’d never met before. With her was a much older, somewhat stooped man with eyes that were completely white—his pupils, iris and sclera simply melded into each other, suggesting he might be blind. I had the strangest feeling, though, that he probably saw far more than most of us sighted folks did.
He was also holding a rather sturdy-looking stepladder that was only about three feet high, if that, which was rather odd.
“Bryn, Damon, this is Herron, our cipher, and Gisele, his empiric. She’ll also translate what he sees and hears.”
Both acknowledged us with the briefest of nods. Garran motioned to the two guards, who immediately manned the winch handles and began turning them. Inch by inch, the solid stone door was lifted, revealing the blackness of a small square cell. The Rayabar stood in the center, his hands and feetshackled despite the thick ropes of magic that contained him. He was a good foot taller than any of us, and much broader of shoulder and girth than regular Mareritten soldiers. His dark eyes were... well, crazed. If he got loose, we were all dead, no matter what flames or magic did to him.
Garran and Damon followed Herron and Gisele into the cell. I leaned a shoulder against the door’s frame. Aside from the fact I didn’t want to get any closer to the Rayabar than necessary, the scent rolling out from the cell was stomach-churningly awful—and I’d smelled some pretty foul things over the years. Breathing through my mouth rather than my nose wasnothelping.
Garran stopped mere feet away from the Rayabar. Damon stopped beside him, while Herron and Gisele circled around to the back. Heron unfolded the small ladder he carried and placed it behind the Rayabar; Gisele stopped to his right, enabling us to see her.
“How does this work?” Garran asked.
“The blood mage should undo enough of his magic to allow the Mareritt to speak but not move his neck, and then you shall question him,” the empiric said. “Herron will chase the thoughts and memories related to that question rather than his answers. I shall translate what he finds.”
“You both speak Mareritten?” I asked, surprised.
Her gaze flicked to mine; her brown eyes were coldly amused. “We do not.”
Meaning the magic that allowed their connection and his ability to chase the thoughts of another’s mind also translated what they were hearing, in much the same manner as the magic that made me a strega had translated the thoughts and replies of animals.
Garran nodded and glanced at Damon. “Can you remove enough of his shackles to allow speech?”
Damon immediately peeled the threads of magic away from the Rayabar’s eyes, nose, jawline, and mouth.Hespat in response. Damon stepped back before the globule could land on his boots.
“Are we good to start?” Garran asked, also taking several steps back.
“Yes,” Damon replied.
Herron immediately clambered up the ladder and placed his hands on either side of the Rayabar’s head. The Mareritt’s gaze narrowed in concentration, and the threads of magic clustered around his neck brightened, suggesting they were reacting to whatever he was doing—which was no doubt an attempt to shake free of the unwanted touch.
“Proceed with your questions,” Gisele said. “While Herron is connected, he will understand exactly what you say, no matter what level of understanding he has of our language.”
Garran immediately said, “What does the fog moving down from the Ghost Forest toward the Mareritten encampment at our gates hide?”
The Rayabar’s reply very much sounded like swearing to me. After a few long seconds, Gisele said, “It hides the mages, fire-protected acid tubes, and several carts containing the acid.”
Was that all? Something within doubted it. The fog stream bleeding down was just too large to be concealing only a few carts and mages. Unless, of course, his version of several meant hundreds rather than a couple.
“What about the acidic globes?” Garran asked.
The Rayabar snarled. Gisele said, “They have no globes. The riders keep them.”
“Why is that?” Damon asked.
A pause, then: “They wished us to test their viability against our stone walls. They offer no more.”
“But they have more?” Garran asked.
The Rayabar didn’t reply, but Gisele nevertheless said, “Yes, but he knows not what they plan. He cares not what they plan. He wishes to kill with hand and weapon, not magic or from a distance.”
AllMareritt had that mentality, though most of their “general” warriors were not against a bit of magical help—we’d seen the evidence ofthatmultiple times.
