The thought of the brutal head cook was enough to spur Zanna into action once more. Levering herself away from the wall, she turned to her right and made for the corner, where an elegant spiral of open wooden steps curled round a carven pillar and led up to the minstrels’ gallery. There was just no way to get up those steps silently—and the Great Hall had been designed to carry sound. Zanna froze, horrified and startled, as the hollow shuffle of her footsteps was magnified into sibilant echoes that whispered around the massive chamber. She had to take herself sternly in hand and remind herself that she was the only one there, before she could find the courage to continue.
Luckily, the gallery itself was carpeted for the comfort of the visiting musicians. Zanna finally gave in to her wild urge to run. Holding the knife carefully away from herself at arm’s length, she pelted down the long side of the hall, through the flickering patches of dark and light made by the line of windows. Turning left at the bottom, she found the curtained upper door that led to a short corridor and thence through another, plainer door into the quarters of the household servants.
Had Zanna but known it, she was lucky. In Elewin’s day, both doors had been securely locked, except when the hall was in use, to prevent the servants taking a shortcut through the hallowed chamber from their quarters to the kitchen. Now, however, the Magefolk had so few servants that such traditions had been permitted to slide. The second door opened for Zanna, as she had been confident that it would, and she permitted herself a sigh of relief at last. Nothing could stop her now! Because of the two closed doors and the stretch of corridor between, she didn’t hear the sound of the kitchen door opening into the Great Hall, and softly closing again.
On a shelf at a convenient height beside the door, Zanna found a tinderbox and candlestick. Laying her knife down on the shelf, she lit the candle after several shaky attempts—then cursed her own stupidity. What if someone—even the Archmage, she thought with a terrified shudder—should be crossing the courtyard, and see the gleam? Shielding the flame with her cupped hand, she ran to quickly close the curtains across the three windows that were spaced at regular intervals down the length of the dormitory. Once that was done, Zanna felt much more secure. Lifting her candle high, she passed the lonely row of neat and unused beds and crossed back to the corner near the door, where the rack of twinkling crystals glittered with cold fire as they caught her tiny flame. Holding her light close to the gems, she moved her hand along the rack until she found a glimmer of green.
At last! Vannor’s daughter replaced the candle on the shelf and was reaching out to take the crystal—when the door burst open with a crash.
“Got you, you little bitch!” Rough hands spun her and grabbed her arms with bruising force, making Zanna cry out with pain. Struggling was useless against that enormous strength. The candlelight made red reflected gleams in Janok’s eyes, giving him the look of some brutish wild beast. Zanna’s mind went blank with terror. It was all over now. He had caught her—here in this deserted place, where there were no witnesses and no one would even hear her screams.
Janok chuckled, enjoying her fear. His hands tightened around the tender flesh of her arms, making her whimper. “Well?” he said. “And why are we creeping around the servants’ dormitory in the darkness, I wonder? Were you trying to find a lover, by any chance? I’ll wager you’ve never had one, such a plain little thing as you are, but you’re a year too late, my girl. All those fine, handsome young men have left or been slain, and there’s no one in this place to bed you. No one but me, that is.”
What would anger him worse? To reply or not? Yet Zanna had little time to reflect on the decision. His hand lashed out—hitting her—hurting her. Zanna felt a warm trickle of blood crawl down her chin. He was pressing his weight against her, pinning her body against the wall. Janok’s hairy arms encompassed her; his sweaty body was pressed against her flesh. She could feel the moisture, warm and clammy, seeping through the thin fabric of her blouse, and swallowed down the acid nausea that came boiling into her throat. His foul breath, and the greasy stench of his unwashed body, made her retch.
Janok pushed at her lower body, hard and excited. Zanna tugged one hand free and jabbed at his eyes with rigid fingers, but he caught her wrist in a merciless grip and hem her hand, helpless, above her head. Holding her in place with one arm and his knee, he ripped at her clothing, pulling her blouse away in tatters. Zanna felt cold air wash over her breasts and turned her head away, aghast as his rough fingers squeezed her flesh. Then the hand was fumbling lower, lifting up her skirts and feeling underneath. She knew what would happen to her now: had she not seen it happen, many times, to helpless, shrieking, weeping kitchen maids?
It was far beyond too much. Zanna wriggled helplessly, desperate to escape. It was the only thought in her mind, the whole core of her being. Against his size and strength her efforts were hopeless, but they irritated him, nonetheless. Angry now, he slammed the back of her head against the wall, and from the corner of her eye she saw the crystals tumble from the rack. Their fiery glitter in the shivering candlelight matched the dazzling dark-bright pain that shot through her skull. Aurian, she thought desperately—but the Mage was far too far away to help. It would all be up to Zanna now—and what could she do against a man so much bigger and stronger than herself?
Again Janok hit her—first with his open hand across her face, then, when that failed to cow her, two or three lower blows with his fist. That stopped the fight in her. Zanna sagged against the wall, gasping for breath, his strong grasp all that kept her from doubling over in agony. Briefly, she was gone beyond all conscious thought.
“Now!” With an iron grip on one arm, Janok dragged her toward the nearest row of beds. An odd, dizzy, disconnected thought shot through Zanna’s innocent mind: after all his brutality, why was he being so particular now? He might as well have thrown her to the floor, and taken her, and had done with it. Then Janok threw her facedown on the bed, keeping her pinned down with one hand while his other groped to free himself from his fetters of clothing.
This momentary distraction was all that Zanna had been waiting for. She had gone beyond all reason now; she was merely working on pure instinct—and it was all the more unexpected to Janok, for he thought he had her cowed beyond resistance. Writhing away from the palm that pressed her down, she managed to turn herself half-around and, with all her might, bit into the arm that pinned her.
Now the tables were turned. Janok howled, cursing, flailing at her with his free hand, making her vision explode into stars. Zanna held on grimly. Coarse black hairs tickled her throat, and the salt-metallic taste of blood made her retch, but she still hung on, biting deeper and deeper. Though he beat at her and hurt her, he had hurt her already—and this was her only chance to escape him. What had she to lose? It took a surprisingly short time before Janok relaxed his grip and she slid out from underneath.
Tripping over the tatters of her skirt, Zanna scrambled, half-stumbling, across the room, the head cook’s grasping hands and bruising fists snatching at the air an instant behind her. She had only one thought in her mind as she shot toward the door and the shelf nearby. In the moment of hesitation that it took to haul herself up by the smooth, slippery edge, Janok had laid hands on her again—but though Zanna’s groping fingers knocked down the tinderbox, she found the knife she had laid down only moments before.