Fathoms of Forgiveness (Sacred Breath, Book 2) (26 page)

She turned to look at her hand, and stared at the nail. She imagined Kyrosed’s face, and felt a rush of anger. He had ruined her love. He was the one who had done this to them. How dare he? How dare that man haunt her from beyond the grave? She imagined Kyrosed’s forehead where the palm of her hand was.

Vachlan yelled, an unusual sound of pure madness, before slamming the mallet down onto the nail. Visola sucked in a huge gasp of air, but still did not cry out. Imagining Kyrosed’s face taking the blow had helped—it had even given her a small amount of pleasure. She was becoming numb to the pain. Many of her fingers were already broken in several places, so what more was a nail through her palm going to accomplish?

“I’m going to get you to speak today, Viso,” Vachlan told her. He moved across her body to grab her other arm. “Do you really want to be nailed to this trident? I promise I will free you and let you lie down if you just speak to me. Just tell me what I want to know, and I will be merciful. Otherwise, you’re going to be very uncomfortable for a very long time.”

Visola closed her eyes. She could not look at him. Strange words floated across her fuzzy mind again, and she struggled to keep it clear. 
Submerge yourself until you find fortitude. Swim deep enough to taste prudence in the salt.
She saw a strange woman’s face, and remembered a beach in what was now called Australia.

“Why did you do it, Viso? I loved you.”

She could not listen to this. Those words being in past tense killed her more than anything he could have done. He could have crushed her body with a steamroller, and it would not have stung quite so fiercely. She fought back tears, and silently prayed for him to nail her hand to the trident and be done with it. She needed him to leave so that she could have a good cry. One hand was already nailed. It would be silly not to do the other. 

“Visola, you have three seconds. Tell me now, or you’re going to be crucified.”

She counted them in her mind. She actually made it to five seconds before she felt the nail go through her hand.
Mind over matter,
she thought to herself.
They’re just tiny puncture wounds. The nails were even disinfected, and that was very sweet of him.
The fact that she had had many nightmares about this very act did not make it any easier on her. It was a fear of hers—being held in this vulnerable position and having nails through her palms. It was her ultimate horror enacted in the flesh.

He was still so painfully theatrical. She was surprised when she felt his hand rest on her cheek for a moment. Without really intending to, she leaned against it, drawing all possible tenderness out of the touch to refresh her spirit. She was becoming dependent on her captor. She was far too attached to him. He was the only human being she had seen for weeks, and she could not help it. Even nailed to a trident, reliving a scene from her very worst nightmares, she still wished that he would make love to her. It would somehow all be better if he would only embrace her with warmth again. His hand lifted from her cheek, and left only coldness in its wake. She could hear him toying with his metal tools, and selecting a new instrument to torture her with.

She sighed, feeling very angry with herself. This man had chopped Corallyn into little bits. How could she still appreciate a moment of tenderness from him?

“Visola,” he said angrily. “If you want to keep your eyes closed so much, let me help by blindfolding you.” She felt him fastening a piece of fabric around her head. Somehow, she had liked it better when having her eyes closed had been by choice. Vachlan enjoyed screwing with her mind far too much.

“Now let’s see. Are there any parts of you which aren’t in pain?” Vachlan asked. He placed a hand on her lower abdomen. “Your stomach is probably still sore from when you slashed it open.” He slid his hand higher. “You stabbed yourself in the chest too. Then of course, there’s my abundant handiwork: the highlights of which include your smashed kneecap, broken fingers and nailed palms. What should come next?” She felt his hands encircle her throat. “How about this? If you won’t speak to me, I’ll squeeze your voice out of you.”

The horror of the nightmare intensified as he strangled her. She felt like she was drowning in darkness, blindfolded and nailed upright. It was the most dreadful experience she had…

“Excuse me, sir?” came a young male voice, interrupting them. “Prince Zalcan has returned.”

“Shit,” Vachlan swore, releasing Visola’s neck. “Watch her, I’ll be back.” He moved to leave the room. Visola could hear the young guard moving closer.

“Hey, pretty lady,” said the guard as he approached. Visola immediately began calculating whether she could stand on her good leg and kick with her damaged leg. No—the kneecap was too weak to bend. She considered tearing her hands away from the trident. Would the wider part of the nails rip at her hands too much? If she needed her hands, she would rip through the nails. Her head was free. She could still use it to head-butt, and that would… Visola wondered why she was strategizing for a fight all of a sudden. She had given very little serious thought to fighting off Vachlan, and in the beginning she might have stood a meager chance. Was it because she could tell from the sound of the young guard’s voice that he was inexperienced, and that she could defeat him even in her current state? Or was it because she somehow felt safe with Vachlan, and would not allow anyone else to torture her?

If a victim could afford to exercise favoritism between captors, should that person really be a victim at all? All of this thinking was giving Visola a headache, and that was one thing she could not afford to have, considering all of the other parts that were aching. She just needed a little bit of relaxing action—a little bit of an ego boost, and a little spurt of fighting juice. This young man who was approaching her, and reaching out to touch her with his fingertips, was almost close enough for her to…

“Hey!” Vachlan yelled at the guard. “I changed my mind. I’ll see Zalcan later. You—go get my cot and bring it into this room.”

Visola felt a bit of relief that the boy would not have a chance to harm her, laced with the disappointment that she would not have the chance to harm him. Torture was becoming an intimate activity shared between Vachlan and Visola, and she would feel uncomfortable if someone else participated in causing her pain. It was like inviting someone into their bedroom.

“Yes, sir. You’ll be sleeping in this room from now on?”

“Who the hell are you to question me?” Vachlan sneered.

“Sorry, sir.” When the boy scurried toward the room’s exit to carry out his task, he found Vachlan standing in his way and grabbing his shoulder.

“Are you an idiot, boy?” Vachlan asked, roughly shaking the guard. “Why did you go near the prisoner?”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I wasn’t going to hurt her…”

“Hurt
her
? If you had stepped one inch closer to her, she would have killed you!”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” the boy said.

“You fool! She could smell your weakness. She could smell your stupidity as you underestimated her. Did you not see that muscle in her jaw twitching? She was already prepared to smile as you died.”

Visola was surprised at this analysis. It was true—her cheeks had been anticipating pulling the corners of her first smile in weeks. Did Vachlan really know her so well? Did he remember her so well?

The boy frowned, although he did take a step away from Visola. “She’s all skin and bones, not to mention crucified.”

“Her skin and bones are worth more than you would be on steroids. A real warrior knows how to use their body regardless of its condition. Real power is in the mind, and I haven’t been able to make a scratch on her mind. You’re worthless. Get out of here and bring my cot.”

It had been three days since he had nailed her to the trident. He kept her well-hydrated and adequately-fed while he had continued to torture her. He experimented with new techniques now that she was forced to stand on her one good leg. She shifted on the leg uncomfortably as her body grew tired, sometimes allowing her weight to transfer to the injured bones for brief periods just so she could rest. For some unknown reason, Vachlan had begun sleeping on the cot in her room. He had not removed her blindfold, and she relied on her hearing to gauge her surroundings. She could hear his breathing become rhythmic and slow when he slept. She drifted in and out of sleep fretfully, waking up with a start whenever she heard the slightest noise, or drip of water.

Visola had discovered that the more moribund she looked, the less of a beating she got. Vachlan seemed extremely sensitive to her health, so she began playing dead as much as possible. When he believed she was unconscious, or deeply asleep, he paid careful attention to her wounds and kept them clean. He monitored her blood loss, making sure that although she was kept in constant pain there was no danger of actually killing her. He even bathed her and washed her hair. She sometimes imagined that his touch was gentle, and that he was whispering kind words softly when he believed that she was unconscious.

She could not be sure of this. The problem was that she was becoming such an excellent actress that she was not entirely sure whether or not she was really unconscious, half the time. Visola was in so much pain that she could not really tell the difference between drama and reality—she only knew that pretending things were a few notches worse than they really were could save her life in the event that he went too far. She did not know whether any of the kind words she remembered him saying had actually been said. It did not matter, because she needed their comforting effect to remain internally unscathed. She would clutch to fantasies if they kept her strong. Reality blurred with imagination, and she was so often blinking blood out of her eyes with her swollen, sluggish eyelids that she wondered if her vision would permanently be tinted with a ruby film once she could see again. Would it make her more optimistic to see the world through built-in dyed rose-colored glasses? These were the kinds of thoughts which swam through her mind, disturbing her and making her wonder about her own lucidity.

Among those, were the strange phrases she attributed to some old poem or song.
Breach the murky waters of valor.
She could not remember where the words were from, or what they meant, but they came into her mind as they pleased.

Torturing anyone was based on a few simple principles. The ultimate fear that one tried to instill in a victim was the fear of dying. Usually, everyone had a fear of dying. The second element to play with was the victim’s attachment to the world. Most people had love for someone, or someone to live for—someone to take care of. Although Visola had plenty of love in her life, she did not feel like her connection with anyone was so strong that it would crush them if she died. Her daughter had lived a whole lifetime without her, and Alcyone had her sons. Aazuria would probably be the most affected, but Trevain would keep her in check and prevent her from going berserk. Trevain seemed like the kind of person who was very down to earth, and could ground those around him. Sionna never felt strong emotions; she thought about things too much, and she probably already expected her sister’s death. Sionna had even given her the means. She would understand.

Visola’s ability to completely let go of her fear of dying, and completely let go of her attachment to the world, helped to keep her as sane as possible. Many might have made a case for her sanity being questionable to begin with, and she was sure that this also helped. She had experience with torture, and she knew what to expect.

That is why it startled her, when she was playing dead as usual, and she heard an unfamiliar footstep. She did not move or indicate that she had heard it, and she reminded herself that it could just be another fragment of her imagination. That was until she heard the voice.

“Vachlan, my good man!” said the new voice. Visola was surprised at how feminine it sounded, and for a moment she was not sure whether it was a male or a female. She was preparing to become jealous, and preparing to scratch out some eyes before Vachlan even responded.

“Welcome back, Prince Zalcan. How was your campaign?”

This
was Zalcan? Visola wondered in disbelief. Surely not
the
Zalcan Oris who was the leader of the Clan? She was overwhelmed with curiosity to see his face, but as much as she strained, she could not see through the opaque fabric. Was he as small and feminine as he sounded?

“Exhausting,” said the prince in response. “My father works me like I’m some sort of pack animal.”

“Emperor Zalcan has a lot on his plate. He was just demonstrating his faith in you when he delegated the toughest quadrant of the ocean to you.”

“He has great faith in
us
, my brother!” Zalcan said, clapping Vachlan on the back. “You did a splendid job in the Atlantic, especially when you crushed the Rusalka. Father has no doubt that with your guidance I will soon have the Pacific under my thumb.”

Visola could almost hear and imagine the feminine man lifting his thumb into the air as he spoke. The Rusalka had been conquered? They had been allies of Adlivun, and there had not even been a request for assistance. They must have fallen so fast that they had not even had time to send a messenger. This was very bad. She felt a drop of blood rolling down her cheek, very close to her nose. She had to struggle to refrain from twitching her nose and revealing that she was awake.

“So this is your prisoner, Vachlan. The wife who betrayed you?”

“She’s the one, Prince Zalcan.”

“I see. It must have been a real hoot torturing her. I was expecting you to come to me with your report a lot sooner.”

“Forgive me. I wanted to make sure I squeezed as much information as possible out of her before giving you my report.”

“Has she been very chatty? Very cooperative?”

“Very,” Vachlan responded. Visola wanted to frown, curse, and object that this was untrue, but she was worried that it could be considered cooperating.

“Wonderful. Can I play with her?” Zalcan asked, approaching Visola excitedly. The drop of blood was slowly descending and resting just barely on the top of her lip. She had the consuming urge to let her tongue dark out and lick the drop, but she continued playing dead.

“No, you’d better not,” Vachlan said quietly. “I really let her have it earlier. She’s unconscious.”

“You never let me have any fun,” Zalcan complained. He reached out, with the thumb that Visola already despised, and roughly wiped the droplet of blood away from the corner of her lips. She fought the urge to sink her teeth into the appendage. It was a precious opportunity to bite off the thumb which intended to oppress the whole Pacific Ocean beneath it, but she let it pass. Taking his thumb would not stop him. She needed to take his head. Then she needed to take his father’s head. Visola did not know how she could possibly do it, but she knew that she needed to stop Emperor Zalcan Oris.

The thumb had lingered on her lips for a second too long before Prince Zalcan withdrew it and turned back to her husband. “So what did you learn from her?” Zalcan asked. “How many men are in Adlivun?”

“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” Vachlan answered. “They have many more warriors than we expected. They have received reinforcements from the Ningyo… and a group of rebel Rusalka warriors also managed to escape to Adlivun.”

Visola kept the surprise away from her face. Was it true? She had only been away for a few weeks, and there had been no Rusalka reinforcements in Adlivun. She had not sent for them, since there had been hardly any communication between the nations in almost a century. Was it possibly that Adlivun’s army had received a huge influx of warriors? This idea made her hopeful, but she was still skeptical. Where was Vachlan getting his information—from Namaka? Was it possible that Namaka was feeding him lies?

“Damnation,” Prince Zalcan cursed. “Father said this was going to be an easy victory. Do you have a precise number, Vachlan?”

Vachlan seemed to pause before responding. “She hasn’t given me a precise figure, but from her descriptions, I gather that there are upwards of fifty thousand warriors protecting the nation.”

“Fifty thousand warriors!” Zalcan exclaimed angrily. “Fifty
thousand
warriors?”

In her mind, Visola was making similar shocked noises of incredulity. Vachlan had hardly questioned her about the army at all! His questions had all been personal, and she certainly had not given him a morsel of information about Adlivun. She felt like her head was going to explode with the effort of remaining still and silent. These farfetched words had cut through the hazy cloud which had surrounded her thoughts, and she began to understand what was happening. Vachlan was lying to Prince Zalcan. Vachlan was betraying yet another employer. But why?

“I was not even expecting them to have ten thousand!” Zalcan was shouting in a shrill, girlish voice. “I thought these northern settlements were less populated, Vachlan!”

“I thought so too,” Vachlan said quietly. Visola could feel that his eyes were on her. Did he know that she was awake and listening?

“We can’t defeat that many!” Zalcan screeched. “No wonder that fool Atargatis failed. But Vachlan, are you sure she’s telling the truth? Is this woman’s word reliable?”

“She’s their general, Prince Zalcan,” Vachlan answered firmly. “Besides, look at her. She’s crucified. She’s completely broken. She’ll tell me anything I want for a piece of cheese, like any filthy rat. Don’t you trust my work?”

Zalcan began sniggering as he moved closer to Visola. He reached out and poked one of her nailed palms. She did not react. “You did do quite a number on the poor girl.” Zalcan ran his hand along Visola’s arm, dragging his fingers along her elbow and bicep. He caressed her neck roughly, examining the bruises that Vachlan’s hands had left there. “I am disappointed that you didn’t save a little bit of fun for me. She’s a pretty little thing, no? I would love to hear her scream.”

“I am sure you will,” Vachlan told the other man quietly, with a strange tone in his voice. “I’ll let you know when she’s awake sometime, and you can join us.”

“Splendid, splendid!” Zalcan said, as he placed both hands on Visola’s hips, aggressively groping what little meat she had left on her. She believed that her leg was healed enough to kick him, but she would save it until she had the opportunity to cause more permanent damage. Zalcan was giggling. “Yes, I can see that you did break her down quite well. Excellent work, as always. If we don’t have enough men to destroy Adlivun as it stands, I will just send to my father for more. The emperor can surely spare a bit more manpower for his favorite son.”

“That’s very wise, Prince Zalcan,” Vachlan told him. “You should dispatch a messenger to him at once.”

“Why don’t you do it for me?” Zalcan asked, without removing his hands from Visola’s body. “Go and dispatch a messenger. I will enjoy your wife’s lovely body in the meantime. Unconscious or not, she’s still warm.”

“Don’t touch her,” Vachlan said in a low voice. Visola held her breath.

“Hey, be nice and share!”

“No,” Vachlan said vehemently.

“Why not?” Prince Zalcan whined with surprise.

“Trust me, you don’t want to do that,” Vachlan said, in a grim tone. “She’s still a bleeding mess down there from the last time I raped her.”

“Ah, why didn’t you just say so? I don’t want your damaged goods.”

Visola could not believe what she was hearing. Was Vachlan lying to protect her? He had never once raped her. Why would he tell the prince all this? Was he just being possessive?