“Yes, Master,” the minder answered meekly.
The wintry gaze shifted to Kirisin and settled on him like a great weight. There was the promise of suffering and death in that gaze, of agonizing hours of traveling from the first to the second, hours that would steal his sanity and leave him a mindless husk. The boy wanted badly to look away, but the other’s eyes held him in shackles he could not break.
One cloaked arm gestured slightly, beckoning him.
— Rise—Though Kirisin had no intention of doing so, though he wasn’t even sure his legs would let him, he jerked to his feet obediently, a puppet dangling from invisible strings, trembling in the specter’s presence.
— What of Culph, boy-
“Dead,” Kirisin answered at once, unable to help himself.
— The Tracker, Tragen — “Dead.”
— Delloreen, too- Kirisin hesitated.
— The one who tracked the female Knight of the Word — “Dead,” Kirisin replied.
There was a long silence as the old man studied him, a shadowy image that had something of the substance and presence of flesh and blood. Power radiated from the specter, power born of experience gained, skill acquired, battles survived, and enemies overcome. Power born of years of staying alive while others died.
The gaze shifted back to the minder. A smile twisted the old man’s mouth, cold and frightening.
— That wasn’t so hard, was it, Calyx? Simple answers to simple questions. An understanding reached by a meeting of eyes and minds. You should try it-He turned back again to Kirisin, the smile still in place.
— You’ve done well, boy. Another few moments of your time and you may sit down again. You are the boy who retrieved the Elfstone that they call the Loden—Kirisin fought back the urge to scream his frustration. “Yes.”
— What have you done with it-
“I dropped it when the skrails took me.”
Another long silence, and then all at once a terrible vise closed about the boy, a slow crushing force that threatened to break his bones and explode his flesh. He tried to scream out his pain and found he couldn’t. He could only stand where he was; he could only endure.
Then the vise was released, and he crumpled to the ground in a quaking heap, gasping for air, fighting for consciousness.
The old man’s voice was a whisper in the ensuing silence.
— You dropped it-The question hung like a blade above Kirisin’s neck. A wrong answer and it would fall and his head would be severed from his body. But he had answered truthfully, and giving another answer now would do him no good.
“I dropped it,” he repeated, his voice dry and hoarse.
He waited for the end, but the old man turned away from him and looked once more at the minder.
— Keep him safe until I reach you. Do not question him further. Do not harm him in any way. But watch him carefully. I will speak with him again when I arrive-The old man’s image hung within the flames a moment longer, and then in a sharp burst of sparks it was gone. The fire fizzled and went out.
In the aftermath of its disappearance, Kirisin huddled by the cooling ashes and fought to stay calm.
THEY LEFT HIM WHERE HE WAS, and he slept for a time, exhausted from his ordeal, happy to find any escape from his waking nightmare. But his nightmare followed him, a series of sharp images and frightening sequences that had him running and being caught and hiding and being found, always by things that were intent on his destruction.
He awoke in a sweat, curled into a ball on the hard earth, his hands and wrists aching and stiff from their binding. The heat from the leavings of the fire that had summoned the old man washed over him in suffocating waves. Using what strength he could muster, he rolled over so that he was facing out into the cooling darkness. He lay without moving for a time, letting his eyes adjust to the night, taking deep breaths of air to clear his lungs and mind. He was still traumatized by what the demon had done to him, how it had crushed him mercilessly with little more than a thought. He had been so helpless, unable to protect himself, a plaything for his enemy.
He closed his eyes as rage and shame washed through him. He would do anything to prevent a recurrence of such abject subjugation.
When his eyes reopened, he was thinking of only one thing. If he stayed where he was, that old man–that demon–would arrive and do much worse things to him in person than it had done through its avatar if it meant finding out exactly what he had done with the Loden. And Kirisin would tell because he wouldn’t be able to help himself.
He knew he had to escape before that happened.
He tested his bonds. To his surprise, the skrails hadn’t retied his ankles in the aftermath of the demon’s appearance. Cautiously, he tried moving his legs. The feeling was back; he thought he could stand if he needed to, and if he could stand he could walk. Maybe he could run.
He took a deep, steadying breath. If he could slip away now, if he could disappear before they realized he was gone, he might be able to elude them. He might have a chance after all.
A fresh wave of determination hardened into resolve. He tested the bonds that secured his wrists. They were still intact, but not quite so tight as before. Heat and sweat had dampened and stretched the leather. He twisted his wrists experimentally. He pulled hard against the tough cords in an effort to gain a little more space. The leather cut deep into his wrists, but gave slightly. He worked his hands back and forth, gritting his teeth with the effort.
Then he stopped and went still, peering out into the darkness, searching for movement, listening to the night. Had he heard something? He couldn’t see anything of the skrails or their minder. But wouldn’t someone be keeping watch over him? Didn’t someone have to be on guard to prevent his escape?
It took him a long time, but eventually he found what he was looking for: a bulky shape settled back within the shadows, hunched over and unmoving. Kirisin studied the skrail carefully, waiting for it to do something. But it seemed chiseled from stone; it simply sat there, a motionless lump.
Then he heard it snore, a low, guttural, but unmistakable sound. He waited, and it snored again.
He renewed his efforts to get free, twisting and turning his wrists, working the bonds to loosen them. The leather stretched a little more, and he redoubled his efforts, slowly working the leather bindings down over his wrists to his hands.
And then all at once the cords dropped away, and he was free.
He stayed where he was for a long time after that, resting himself, listening to the snoring of the guard, to the night, to the silence. He waited as he gathered his strength and his courage. He would have to move quickly and quietly to get clear of the camp and its inhabitants. He would have only one chance, and he would have to make the most of it. He thought again of the old man, and the dryness in his mouth intensified.
A careful scanning of the stars told him which direction was north. He would head back toward Logan Tom and the others, retracing his steps, following the path they were certain to take to reach Redonnelin Deep and Angel Perez. He would use his skill as an Elf to hide his passage, to remain hidden while he traveled, to prevent an almost certain pursuit from finding him. He could do this, he told himself. He was free, and he could do this.
Then, in a single smooth motion, he rolled to his feet, crouching momentarily as he watched the dark shape of the skrail guard, and began creeping across the clearing, away from the ashes of the dead fire. He went quickly and silently, hardly daring to breathe, looking all around him as he went for any sign of other skrails, for any indication of danger. His wounds from the skrail talons ached, and his wrists were cut and bloodied from the cords, but he barely paid attention to them, his concentration centered on his escape.