The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III (38 page)

CHAPTER TEN

I had not known it was possible to hurt so much.
T’fyrr had always thought that when you were injured, you lost track of the lesser pains in the face of the greater.
Evidently, I was mistaken,
he thought, far back in the fog of pain and background fear. Odd how it was possible to think rationally in the midst of the most irrational circumstances. Probably that ironic little mental voice would go right on commenting up until the moment he died, since it seemed more likely that he would die of his many wounds rather than maddening hunger.

So T’fyrr cataloged every pain, every injury, working inch by inch over his abused flesh in his mind. He had to; it was the only way he could keep himself sane. As long as he had something to concentrate on in the face of darkness, fear and the absolute certainty that not only did he not know where he was, no one else did either, he could stay marginally sane.

Whoever had plucked him out of the sky at the height of his climb had known exactly what they were doing. They were ready for him the moment he tumbled, sick and disoriented, onto the floor of the room they had brought him to. He had not been able to raise so much as a single talon in his own defense.

Magic. They caught me in a magic net and dragged me down to their hiding place. And to think I was laughing in my heart at Nightingale’s “irrational” fear. Magic could do nothing to me, of course. It has no power over the physical world. I wonder if I will get a chance to apologize to her?

Before he could move, four burly men had swarmed over him, trussing him up like a dinner fowl. But they had more surprises in store for him.

They hooded me. They hooded me like an unruly falcon!
The hood
had
to have been made to order, as well; there were no hunting birds out there with heads as large as T’fyrr’s. Maybe they were willing to kidnap him by magic, but they weren’t counting on magic to keep him docile.

And someone, somewhere, made them a hood to fit a Haspur. Not them, I think. They do not strike me as the sort to be falconers, or they would know that hooding a raptor does not make him deaf or unconscious. So someone, somewhere, probably in this city, made them a hood. That someone will know who they are. If I can get free. If I can pursue justice against them . . .

Then to add insult to injury, they had put some sort of contraption over his beak that kept him from opening or closing it completely.
A bit,
he thought,
combined with a muzzle.
It was somewhat difficult to be sure, since they had put it on him after they hooded him.

Padrik’s people only starved and beat me. At least they didn’t torture me like this . . .

They had already pulled all of his primaries; the feather sockets ached any time he moved his wings. They were working on the secondaries. They’d clipped his talons until blood flowed in order to collect that as well. This in addition to bruises and aching bones.

Correction. They weren’t exactly
torturing
him, technically, since that wasn’t their intention.

Whoever they are.

In fact, he wasn’t supposed to be alive at all. The mages hired to steal him from the sky had been ordered to kill him on the spot. They’d had a little argument about it while he lay there bound and hooded and helpless. One of them had been in favor of carrying out their orders as stated, but the rest had overruled him.

Thank the winds for temptation, and those unable to resist it.

He had heard them talking, every word; they might have been under the impression that he couldn’t understand them, rather than thinking that he was like a falcon and would “go to sleep” when deprived of light. It seemed he was very useful to these mages, and a source of much profit.
My blood and feathers—and the talon bits too, I suppose—are valuable, but only when taken from a living creature; and therefore, I am more valuable alive than dead. I doubt their employer knows of this little trade on the side.

Why bits of
him
should be useful to a mage, he had no notion—but then again, this situation was frighteningly similar to a rumor circulating about human mages who were capturing nonhumans and “sacrificing” them. What if there
were
human mages who were capturing nonhumans, but using bits of them for magic? The idea would have made him sick, if he’d had the leisure to be sick.

Do they do this to their own kind, I wonder? Or is this reserved for
“lower creatures”
?
They were so indifferent to the amount of pain and damage they inflicted as they collected their trophies that he could well imagine they were not above kidnapping fellow humans and treating them the same way.

Which might account for the rumors of nonhumans who captured
humans
and sacrificed them . . . and would certainly account for the expertise with which he’d been trussed up.

Why was it that humans were inclined to spawn both the best “saints” and the worst “villains” among their numbers? Was it just that humans were inclined to the extremes?

His mind was wandering, ignoring his urgent need to find a way out of his bindings and escape, and meandering down philosophical paths that had nothing to do with what he wanted it to think about.

How long have I been here?
He wasn’t certain. They never took off the hood, and although they hadn’t been feeding him, he had “heard” the music of Magic near him several times, as if they were nourishing him that way instead of by conventional means. He wasn’t thirsty or hungry, at any rate, which was different from his captivity at the hands of Padrik’s men.

But closed inside the hood, his body racked with pain, there was no way of telling how much time had passed. It could have been hours . . . or days.

There was an escape open to him; a realm of illusion and hallucination that would at least take him out of his pain and current fear. All he had to do would be to give in to the beckoning, grinning specter of madness, as he had when the Church had held him, and
—

I will not go mad. I will not lose heart.

Nightingale was out there, somewhere; he sensed her, a tugging in his soul that actually had a physical direction. She was as racked with grief for his loss as he was with pain, but she had not given up to despair. Yet. He could not tell what she was doing, but he knew that much at least

She is trying to find me, trying to find a way to free me. I must believe that. She has those damned Deliambrens to help her, and maybe more help than that. She must come; she
will
come.
But it was hard to hold on to hope when his strength drained away steadily.

I
have made some difference in the world,
he told himself defiantly.
I have redeemed myself—and I have had love. Even if I die—

No, that was the way of despair! He shied away from the thought with violence.
I will not die!
he shouted against the darkness.
I will not! I will fight every step of the way, with everything at my command!

Which at the moment was not a great deal . . .

Voices, muffled by a wall, grew nearer. They were coming again. He waited, wild with rage at his own helplessness, as a door opened and two men entered, still talking.

“
—
probably another week or so,” one was saying. “I don’t know how these creatures replace blood loss, but we’re draining him fairly quickly.”

He felt hands fumbling at his restraints. This time they didn’t seem to have brought any of their bravos with them. Could he
—
?

He tried to lash out at them as they freed his arms, tried to leap to his feet.
If I can injure one, the other will run and I can hold the injured one and make him take off the hood—

Visions of escape flashed across his mind.

He flung out his taloned hands with a strength only slightly less than that of an unfledged eyas; he got as far as his knees before he threw himself off balance and tumbled in an ungainly sprawl across some hard surface.

The men both laughed, as he sought for a reservoir of strength and found it empty. “I see what you mean,” said the other. “Still—we can’t keep him around for too long, or our client is going to hear about the new artifacts in the market and is going to wonder where all those vials of blood and feathers are coming from.”

“He gave us permission to take what we wanted
—
” the first man argued.

“But you don’t get fresh blood from a week-old corpse,” the other reminded him.

Artifacts,
T’fyrr thought miserably, as the two men threw him on his stomach, pinned his wing and arms effortlessly, and plucked another handful of secondary feathers.
I am nothing to them but an object, to be used at their pleasure. They harvest me as if I were a berry patch.

Each feather, as it was pulled, invoked a stab of exquisite pain; he squawked involuntarily as his tormenters extracted them. Finally they left him alone.

They were only after feathers this time, not blood. Just as well, every talon ached where they had cut each one to the quick to collect blood.
Now I know how human victims must feel; why they deem having nails pulled out to be such a torment.
If he got free, he would not be able to walk comfortably for weeks.
And I will not fly for months until the feathers grow again.

“Shall we truss it back up again?” the first man asked when they finally left him alone for a moment, and he decided that they were done with him for the nonce. “We’ll be gone all evening, with no one here to watch him.”

The second one prodded him with a toe, and all T’fyrr could do was groan. “I don’t think so,” he said. “He isn’t going anywhere. All those bindings were breaking feathers anyway; we need to get as many perfect feathers from him as we can. Only the perfect feathers are any good, magically. Now that makes me wonder, though—we need to do some research and see if the down and body feathers could be used for anything.”

The sounds of their feet receded. “Considering what we’re getting for feathers and blood, can you imagine what the heart and bones will be worth?” the first one said, greed and awe in his voice. “Not to mention the skull and the talons?”

“We will be able to purchase mansions and titles, at the very least,” the second chuckled over the sound of a door opening. “And as many
—
”

The door closed, cutting off the end of the sentence.

The heart. The skull.
His people did not have much in the way of ceremony to mark one’s passing, but the idea that he would be parceled out in bits to the highest bidder made him so sick to his stomach that he started to gag.

And that was when the despair he had been holding off finally swooped down on him and took him.

I
am going to die here, alone, in the dark, half-mad and utterly forgotten! Nightingale will never find me. I will never see her again—

He couldn’t sit up, he was too weak and dizzy; he could only curl into a shivering ball and clutch his legs to his chest, shaking with despair. No one would ever find him. There was no rescue at hand. Probably no one had even bothered to make the attempt.

No one cared.

No, I can feel her out there; I know she hasn’t forgotten me! If no one else tries, she will! She will come to me by herself if she must!

But it was hopeless. How could one woman, however resourceful, find him hidden away in this hive of a city? How could anyone find him, even with all the resources of the King? Lyonarie was too big, too impersonal, for anyone to search successfully.

Even clever Nightingale. There were too many places even she could not go.

He could not weep, but his beak gaped as much as the muzzle would permit, and he keened his despair into the uncaring darkness.

###

Oh, I would rather that Tyladen were doing this.

The moon shone down on rooftops encrusted with ornamental false towers and crenellations, on chimney pots shaped like toadstools, flowers, trees, tiny castles—anything
but
a chimney pot. Nightingale crouched in the lee of a chimney, bracing herself on the slanted slate roof, and took Harperus’ device off her belt, holding it before her like a hand-crossbow. She braced herself a little more, then cupped her hand around it to shield it, as she would have shielded a lantern, and felt for the little raised bump near where her thumb fell.

Magical guards above and physical guards below.

If this was
not
where T’fyrr was being held, then there was something very peculiar going on in the old mansion upon whose roof she now perched, less like the bird she was named for than a chimney swift.

A square area lit up inside her shielding hand, giving off a dim, red light. It represented a square space, twenty feet on a side, with herself in the middle.

The little bright dot that was supposed to represent T’fyrr was just a little to the left of center—a dot that had
not
appeared on this “screen” the other times she had used the device.

She smiled tightly; he
was
here. Getting him out—well, she would save the rejoicing for the moment that happened. She pressed the thumb-point again, and a set of numbers appeared.

Roughly fifteen feet below her; that would put him in the top floor, just below the attics. That made sense; they were probably thinking of him as a big bird. They wouldn’t want to put him in a basement where he might catch a chill and die of shock. In these town mansions, unlike those in the country, the master and mistress had their private rooms at the top of the house where you might get a breath of a breeze in the summer, and where all the heat rose in the winter. In a town mansion like this, the rooms at street level, next to the kitchens, were ovens themselves in the summer, and in winter, no amount of fuel kept them warm.

Her heart had led her here; it had once been a wealthy district, with huge homes showcasing the wealth of their owners. Now the area was shabby-genteel at best, and whoever lived here was usually out of favor, the tag-end of a once-prosperous family now running out of money or the last of a long line dying out. As the homes were lost to their original owners, they were bought by other, less genteel folk. She knew of at least three brothels here, and more ominously, one of the houses was rumored to belong to a dealer in illegal goods—very illegal, because someone had to die in order for those particular goods to come on the market.