FERRIN SPAT THE REMNANTS of blood collecting between his teeth and lower lip.
He was secured hand and foot across the wire-bound rack. Apart from a few noticeable differences—like the torch holder being fastened to the right side of the door instead of the left, and the rack being offset to one side of
the entrance as opposed to the other—the interrogation rooms were exactly the same. Ferrin would have sworn the large blood stain on the floor even had a similar design to it.
I’m still alive, he kept telling himself, a chant of hope to ward off the desperation threatening to consume him. The strong fecal smell emanating from where the previous victims had lost their bowels under the pain of the inquisitor’s cruelty overpowered the burnt pitch of the nearby torches.
Cheeks had graciously spared him the wiggler during this session, probably due to the intense reaction of nearly dying during the previous one. Ferrin knew it wouldn’t be his last encounter with the rather horrific device, though.
Not letting his disappointment of refraining from the wiggler get to him, Cheeks had instead decided to move on to Ferrin’s reaction to heat. His experiment consisted of testing the length at which he could maintain Ferrin’s hand over a torch’s flames before Ferrin either passed out from the agony or his hand melted through. With Ferrin’s unfortunate luck, he hadn’t passed out.
After the demonstration was over, Cheeks had Rae fix the damage while he packed his tools and moved on to the next victim.
Ferrin grimaced as two of the guards hefted his aching body from the rack. They took a moment to grab his worn tunic from where it had been tossed on the floor in readiness for Cheek’s work, and quickly pulled it over his head. His sweat-soaked red hair was plastered to his face by the time they finished.
Flanking him on either side, they each took an arm. “Looks like they couldn’t get you to talk again,” said the guard on his left. “I told them not to bet against the smith, but would they listen? No.”
“Give it time,” the other guard cut in. “They all talk eventually.” “Yeah,” Ferrin said, “I’ve got them right where I want them.”
The guard’s laughter held an edge of pity.
Too weak and battered to move his legs, Ferrin let his feet drag across
the stone flooring of the dimly lit passageways as the Tower guards carried him toward his new accommodations. Several times he found himself shivering on an outside battlement as they moved him from one building to the next.
“So . . .” he began, his breath coming in shallow rasps against the lingering pain in his chest. “What shall I . . . be dining on . . . this evening?” Rae’s gift of healing did wonders for the outward afflictions to the body, but did little to affect the inward soreness of fatigue and hunger. “A few
hours . . . on the rack can really . . . work up a man’s appetite.”
The light from their one torch danced across the walls as the guard in front turned his head. “You’ve got a sense of humor, smith, I’ll give you that. How long you keep it, well, that’ll be a different matter altogether.”
From the silhouette of the torchlight, Ferrin had to admire the captain’s rather bulbous nose. It was a snout of indescribable proportions. It was an incredible work of art. The masters would have charged double to paint such a portrayal. It would have taken a rather difficult amount of work to bring it back to some form of normalcy. Why Ferrin was wasting his time dwelling on his captor’s nose was beyond him, but alas, what else did he have to think about. Nostrils. Hmm, that sounds like a good fit. He played
around with the idea a moment longer before coming to an agreement. Yep, Nostrils it is.
The higher they ascended, the more his teeth quivered. The temperature continued to drop the further they climbed. “Maybe this time I’ll get a room with a view.”
Since his arrival, he had occupied four separate cells, each one a mirror image of the last—cold, dark, and damp. He remembered his first impression of the mountain fortress known as the White Tower—a solitary pillar of stone protruding straight out of the ground and nearly touching the sky. It was a monument to another age, an age of wonders, an age of true power, an age of magic.
Surrounding the central pier was a vast network of crenulated walls,
stone parapets, towers, and halls, each connected to the other by long open walkways. Most of which had been built right into the side of the mountain. The construct was both ancient and unnerving.
There was an overall strength to the design that had given him the impression of dragons. He wasn’t sure why, considering the mythical creatures were just that: mythical.
If he had not found himself so overwhelmed with fear at the time, Ferrin would have been quite impressed. The Tower held no outer defenses, for
none were needed. The entire fortress was completely encased by sheer- sided cliffs with nothing more than a solitary pass leading in or out and a monolithic bridge connecting the two. There was a large garrison stationed on the outskirts, and from the number of new faces appearing each day, Ferrin guessed it was growing.
There were many who said the White Tower was an enigma unto itself.
While it feigned the removal and destruction of magic, it had in turn put that magic to other uses—dark and unspeakable. Ferrin had even heard it rumored by some of the guards that the new Arch Chancellor was a powerful sorcerer in his own right, and used his position as head of the Tower to gain an even greater control over the five kingdoms.
Of course no one had ever been able to prove the legitimacy of that claim. However, as one of those poor unfortunates unlucky enough to claim the White Tower as his permanent place of residence, Ferrin was inclined to agree. He wondered if the High King knew about what was going on here, and if he was sanctioning it. Ferrin figured he must. He had learned long ago never to trust an aristocrat.
Landing hard on the stone floor where the men in white had tossed him,
Ferrin curled into a fetal position and silently prayed in the hope that someone up there was listening.
“As for your meal, it will be along shortly. Hope you have a strong appetite. I heard the cooks are whipping up a special treat for tonight.”
“That does sound delightful, gentlemen. However, could you do me the favor of informing the cooks that they forgot to remove the whiskers on the last one they served?”
“Get some rest. You’ll need it for tomorrow.” The guards left, swinging shut the heavy door behind them. Once again Ferrin found himself alone in the dark with nothing but his memories to keep him company.
For the uninterrupted silence of a single night’s sleep Ferrin would have happily given his right arm. His mind was beginning to crack. He could no longer tell which of the voices were real and which were byproducts of the torture. Death would have been preferable to yet another night in this place where hope had been removed and fear was a permanent state of being.
Struggling to open his eyes, he settled with a mere squint through his left, which was only slightly less swollen than the other. Darkness encased the room, lit by the occasional appearance of the moon through a lone arrow-slit high above any reachable distance. Well, so much for the view.
The stone walls seemed to bleed moisture, keeping the status of its occupant’s health somewhere between sick and dying. A pallet of straw had been strewn across the cold stone floor, allowing for the residents to find a small escape from the damp and thereby stave off their eventual passing long enough to complete their interrogations.
Lifting the bulk of his torso on one thick forearm, he scanned the room.
It was fairly similar to the others. He grunted at the stabbing pain in his lower chest. Broken ribs no doubt. He lifted his torn tunic and carefully prodded the rest of his upper body. “Oy! Yep, they’re broken.” The little healer had expended her magic earlier that day. By the time she had made it around to Ferrin, she only had enough left to tend to the more serious
damage while leaving the injured ribs for another time.
The room came into view as his eye adjusted to the light, or lack of it.
The pungent odor produced from the combination of human waste collecting in the corner and the stink of unwashed bodies was, at first, unbearable. Now it was but a mere irritation, dulled by time.
“What’s your name?”
Ferrin’s head rose with a start. His good eye darted around the room for the origin of the raspy voice. He came to rest on the far corner where a
figure lay buried beneath the shadows. Struggling to focus, he managed to outline the shape of a man shackled to the far wall.
“Ferrin,” he replied, hesitantly.
“Ah, Ferrin.” The old man repeated his name, rolling it around in his mouth as if sampling some new exotic delicacy. “It’s a strong name,” he said, “a name that bears with it a true calling and purpose.” Ferrin cocked his head and snorted his rather obvious doubts as to the legitimacy of the man’s claim. “I see a solitary stone,” the man said, “which if removed will collapse a kingdom. I see a future that rests in balance on a single thread,
tipping one way and then another, never quite revealing its outcome. Hmm, most curious indeed.”
Ferrin strained to get a better glimpse of his cellmate. “Try seeing us a way out of here while you’re at it.” Poor fool, Ferrin mused. He’s obviously lost what little mind he had.
“My name is Azriel de’ Torsa,” the voice said, ignoring Ferrin’s snide remark while forcing himself into a seated position. His chains clanged heavily on the stones around him, while the glint of the moon divided his upper half in its soft pale light. Ferrin grimaced at the sight of the man’s face. Withered with age, it held a gauntness that presented a clear picture as to the state of malnourishment he suffered. But it was not the skin-wrapped skull, or the scars of prolonged cuttings, or even the patches of hair that had fallen away from disease which drew Ferrin’s attention, it was the emerald reflection emanating from the old man’s eyes. They were the brightest green he’d ever seen, and for reasons unknown to Ferrin, it made him want to turn away, as if they were gazing right into his very soul.
“I am a seer. And I have been waiting for you far longer than I care to admit.”
Ferrin allowed the man’s statement to burrow its way into the back of his mind. “For me? What are you talking about?” His expression tightened, rather unsettled at the old man’s sudden proclamation. He really has lost his mind.
“We all have a destiny to fulfill, my young friend, if we would follow the Creator’s path. My destiny is to guide others like yourself on their way.
There are many who stray from the path to follow their own desires, which in turn leads to their destruction. However—” He pointed out with a single bony forefinger. “—The Creator is not limited to a single path, and instead, might give that person’s destiny to another. One who is willing to accept the role no matter the hardship.”
“There’ll be no further talk of the Creator here, old man. He has abandoned us.” Ferrin was sick and tired of hearing about how the Creator loved them, how the Creator had a plan, how there was some overall grand purpose as to why the Creator had put them there. That was all he had been listening to from the other prisoners for the last three weeks and he’d had enough.
To Ferrin, it was nothing more than a weak man’s attempt at justifying why he was being strapped to a metal bed and his body used as a whetstone
for the inquisitor’s blades. The Creator was having nothing to do with any of them. The reason they were in the White Tower wasn’t because of some divine will. It was because they just happened to be the unlucky dupe
whose neighbor, or wife, or not-so-close friend thought they’d make some easy gold by turning them in, or in Ferrin’s case when the Blacksmith Guild in Rhowynn had grown jealous of his desire to strike out on his own without their explicit permission.
“Nonsense, the Creator is everywhere.”
“Then he has turned his back on us. What kind of benevolent being would subject us to a fate such as this? Answer me that.”
“It is not for us to know His ways, only to believe they are for the best. It wouldn’t be called faith, otherwise.”
“Blind faith you mean.” Ferrin sneered.
“I do not pretend to know why He has put you here, but my journey has already been laid out.”
“To sit here and suffer? Is that the purpose your Creator has for you? I would say you got the short end of the stick there, friend.”
The old man chuckled. “I suppose it might seem that way to those without faith, but we all have free will. We all have choices to make. And remember, every choice comes with a consequence. Make sure your actions are just.”
*My actions?* “What are you implying, old man? That you think I’ve been given some special divine mission by the Creator?” Ferrin would have laughed out loud if his chest didn’t feel like it had been stomped on by a herd of desert sherakin. “I’m nothing but a poor sword-smith who’s now locked up in the White Tower, waiting for the purging chamber… and for what? For nothing more than being born with some worthless gift, which, given the current situation, feels more like a curse.”
He regretted ever using his magic to create those twin blades. *But no! You just had to outdo everyone else, didn’t you?*
Azriel raised a finger again. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking your gift is worthless, son. The Creator doesn’t bestow such blessings without purpose. The outcome of an entire battle might depend on the edge of a single sword, no matter its size or strength. Be patient, my young friend, for I believe your time is coming.”
“Time for what?”
“For your destiny to begin, of course. What have we just been discussing?” The old man shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. “Did you think you were here by accident? Ha! Whether you believe it or not, that’s irrelevant. You’re here for a reason, son. It’s best you start figuring out what it is.”
“Is that something you’ve seen?” Ferrin mocked.
“Possibly.”
“Possibly? How can it be possibly? Either you’ve seen it or you haven’t!”
“I’m a seer,” Azriel replied with a slight shrug, “and what I see can be interpreted in different ways. Sometimes what I perceive isn’t always… accurate.”
Ferrin shook his head in disbelief. *Great, I’m sitting here taking advice from a crazy, inaccurate seer. What could possibly go wrong?*
