Sianim 01 - Masques

dungeons made what he was doing to her body seem secondary.
    She wondered if she ought to tell him that if he used iron manacles in the torture chamber as well as in the cell, she would be much more aware of what he was doing. The iron effectively blocked her meager talents from picking up on the twisted magic that a thousand years of magicians had left in the stone of the dungeon.
    A bucket of cold water brought her attention back to her body. It felt good against her hot skin at first, but then the chill made her shake helplessly. In a rational moment, she smiled; the lung fever would take her soon—in a few days—if she could just hide it from him so that he wouldn’t turn her into one of the dead things that hung restlessly in her cell. She’d been grateful when she didn’t have to look at them anymore—if only she could do something about hearing them.
    He wasn’t using magic on her as he had the first time she’d visited his castle. Maybe the dungeon inhibited his magic as well—or maybe he was using all his magic for something else.

    Baffled, the ae’Magi looked at the pathetic figure hanging in front of him. He had seen her smile while he was cutting her, and it bothered him. She wasn’t one of those who enjoyed pain, but she didn’t seem to even feel it. Torture wasn’t working on her.
    She seemed confused sometimes, though. Perhaps stealth could get him what pain could not.
    “Sweetheart, sweetheart, listen to me,” said the ae’Magi in Myr’s voice, his tones gentle, like a young man courting a mate.
    Aralorn jerked in reflex at the voice.
    “Sweetheart, I know that you hurt. I’ve come to get you out of here, but you need to tell me where Cain is. We need him to get you out.”
    She frowned, and said in a puzzled voice, “Cain?”
    “Yes,” asked Myr again, and she heard a touch of anger in the voice now, “where is Cain? Where is Myr’s mage?”

    Myr wouldn’t be angry with her—even though it sounded like Myr, it wasn’t him. The certainty came from somewhere. She should know who Cain was, though, and it bothered her that she didn’t. That didn’t mean that she wanted the person who stole Myr’s voice to know that.
    “Dead,” she said then, with utter certainty in her voice. Somewhere a part of her applauded the edge of melancholy she gave to her voice. “He is dead and gone.”

    That hadn’t occurred to him; it simply hadn’t occurred to him. The ae’Magi paced the length of the chamber. It wasn’t possible. Angrily, he stripped off the gloves he’d fastidiously donned to separate him from her filthy flesh.
    It would ruin everything if his son was dead. All his efforts would be for nothing. He raised the knife to her throat, then thought better of it. She still had information for him; he wouldn’t kill her for spite.
    Turning on his heel, the ae’Magi stalked out of the chamber. As he passed through the guardroom, he left orders to have her moved back into her cell and, as an afterthought, told the dungeon master that if he could find out where the rebels were hiding, he would give him a silver piece.

    The dungeons were among the parts of the ae’Magi’s castle that were very old—the result of those years was not lovely. The smell made Wolf choke as he snuck into them from the hidden entrance. Magic had taken him to the castle, but he’d been forced to use mundane methods to enter. The ae’Magi was in residence, which gave him hope that Aralorn would be, too—but it meant he had to be very careful about the magic he used.
    No one saw him as he emerged into the walkway between the cells. The night guards were in the room that was the only passageway from the main dungeon, other than the hidden ones, of course. There was no need for their presence in the actual dungeon at this time of night, unless they were escorting a captive in or out—or someone was being tortured.
    He stood on a wide stone walkway, in human shape. On one side were seven cells, sunken the depth of a grave, in the old style. On the other side was the torture chamber, also so sunken. It was unoccupied at the moment. The only hint of life came from the smoldering coals in the raised hearth in the center of the cell.
    There was no light in the dungeon other than Wolf’s staff, but it was sufficient. The ring of keys was still kept on its holder near the guardroom door—for convenience’s sake.
    He slid the nearest door open and climbed down the steep, narrow stairs. The prisoners