The Unfinished Song - Book 6: Blood (24 page)

Just keep fighting.

“Do you think you are protecting someone? The Traitor who tried to help you, perhaps. You think you owe that person a lifedebt. You’re a monster, but not even a monster would repay a lifedebt with betrayal. I respect that; how could I not? But you’re wrong on two counts.

“First, we’ve already caught the Traitor. It wasn’t that hard, actually. Second, we’ve already interrogated the Traitor. Even that wasn’t hard. Do you think we needed to torture the Traitor?” He laughed. “Hardly. The Traitor was eager to tell us how to find you, to earn our mercy. That’s how I knew you had fled into the caves. So you don’t owe the Traitor a lifedebt at all, because you were betrayed first.”

Impossible. Lady Death would not have betrayed me.

Unless…

Unless she found out I could have killed Dindi, and didn’t. Maybe she was angry. Maybe she wanted me to be punished.

Or maybe Finnadro was playing the oldest trick in the game.

“I think you’re lying, Finn. I think you very much want to know the identity of the Traitor. And I’m the only one who can tell you. There’s no other reason to keep me alive. You might still torture me, for the joy of it, but you wouldn’t bother gossiping with me first.”

“You assume I’m like you” said Finnadro. “A monster. Unlike you, I take no pleasure in hurting others. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to kill you. I want to find out who you really are. A man or a beast? If there is a man still left in there somewhere, I want to save him.”

Umbral’s throat was dry again. This was…unexpected. He should take advantage of it, but he wasn’t sure how. Maybe Finnadro could become his ally—as Dindi had. The three of them together might actually have a chance to defeat the Bone Whistler. If he told Finnadro everything he knew, even what Kavio remembered…

And then what? Explain how he killed Kavio? That would certainly bind their new alliance, wouldn’t it?

Idiot,
he mocked himself.
It’s just a trick, anyway. Finnadro hates me. There’s too much already between us. Man or monster—was that even a question? You can’t be a man, Umbral, he reminded himself, so you might as well be a monster. Yours is not the night that ends at dawn. There’s no return from the far shore once you cross that river.

“The Ice Snake.” Vio spit out the name as if trying to free a wound of venom. “I hate this river.”

Danumoro rode on the large nanny-goat beside him. As little as Danu cared for riding horses, he was even more awkward on the back of a goat. He hadn’t ceased to complain about it the whole time, though he had begrudgingly allowed that the goats
were
swift and sure-footed on the treacherous mountain paths.

“Are you sure about this?” Danu asked. “Once we cross this ford, there’s no going back. The War Chief of Orange Canyon has this river patrolled regularly by Raptor Riders.”

“I’m well aware of the habits and history of the War Chief of Orange Canyon,” Vio said dryly. “The only thing I regret is that we’ll have to send the goats back. I promised the Hidden Crater clan I wouldn’t lead them into battle.”

“Fortunate goats.” Danu patted the head of his nanny-goat. She turned and tried to chew his sleeve. He yanked his arm back. “I’ll miss them
terribly
.”

Vio chuckled. He raised his staff and waved out the signal to all the great-septs to dismount and free the goats. When his war leaders further down the mountain waved their banners back at him, indicating it was done, he and Danumoro led the army across the river.

For a moment, Finnadro dared hope that Umbral would fall for the bait that they had already found the Traitor. The Deathsworn wanted an excuse to surrender.

It lasted only a sliver of a sigh, and then the prisoner drew contempt back over his face like a mask. He was frightened, but not enough. He still thought himself superior to Finnadro and had no intention of humbling himself before someone whom he held in contempt.

Time to shake his arrogance.

“You’ve probably already sensed that this is no ordinary place,” said Finnadro. “You may have heard it called the Blood House. But it’s much older than the human building you see around us now. Long ago, Aelfae lived here. They were spinners of threads, and they had three places here where they worked: the Place of Whirling the Threads, the Place of Spanning the Threads, and the Place of Cutting the Threads. This was the Place of Cutting. They spun wool, but they also spun magic. During the War, this is the place they killed their human prisoners.”

Umbral pretended not to be listening, but Finnadro knew he hung on the story, alert for its significance to him.

“Then a monster was born to the Aelfae: A daughter with mandibles, a hairy body, and many arms, like a spider. Her name was Lume, and her mind was as twisted as her form. The other Aelfae recoiled, and her mother, Zithra, the Aelfae matriarch, cast her out. Lume went to the humans and offered to join them against her own kind. She showed them the secret path to the summit of the mountain, through the caves. The humans unleashed Death’s Curse and slaughtered all the Aelfae, except Lume’s mother, Zithra, whom she asked them not to harm. The humans, thinking Lume, like any child, wished no ill to the woman who bore her, delivered the Aelfae matriarch to her power. But it was not mercy Lume wanted. It was vengeance. She took the shape of a giant spider and devoured her own mother alive.”

Umbral shrugged. Then grimaced, as even the slight motion hurt his injured shoulder.

Serves you right, you cold-hearted bastard,
thought Finnadro.

“Lume had not finished. She used the cut threads of memories of the humans who had been killed here and her own mother’s cut threads to spin a web that could trap memories. Every aura unwoven here since then has fed that web, magnifying the echoes of pain for all who follow. I am going to hurt you, Umbral. When I do, it won’t be just your own pain you feel, but the pain of every soul torn to pieces here before you.”

“Here I thought you wanted to save me,” Umbral sneered.

“When you are ready, we will leave this terrible place together,” Finnadro promised. He even meant it. “We will sit down, like clan brothers, and share meat. I will not need to take anything from you by force. You will give me everything I ask. You will know it is the right thing to do, if you prove a man and not a monster.”

Umbral laughed. Well, it was more like a dry cough. But his derision showed.

“Unfortunately, before you’ll trust me, you have to be taught to fear me,” said Finnadro. “You don’t fear me yet. Why should you? Before you decided to serve the Black Lady, you had six Chromas. You now have six…what are they called? Penumbras? I have only four Chromas. I told you before: I can’t eat thoughts. I can sense emotions, no more.”

Finnadro paused. Then added: “Anywhere else but here.”

Umbral frowned, not understanding yet.

“The web that Lume built focuses power,” said Finnadro. “It makes an ordinary Tavaedi as strong as a Zavaedi. It gives a Zavaedi with just a few Chromas the ability to see all six. When I stand in this house, I am your equal. I have six Chromas. I can pull your memories from you and experience a
full
Vision. There is nothing you can hide from me.”

Umbral ground his teeth. “You’ll have to rip the memory from me. I won’t give it up to you.”

“And how does one take the thread of one who is unwilling to surrender it? How did they take your memories when you became Deathsworn, Umbral? How did they take your Chromas from your aura? Do you know?”

“
Yes.” Umbral boiled with hate that Finnadro could taste like hot pepper in his mouth.

“Pain.”

Without further warning, Finnadro unleashed the whip he had quietly uncurled by his side. The lash cut Umbral across the chest. He gasped in shock.

A thin line of red traversed his chest.

Four warriors, the strange blind men who served Xerpen, descended the ladder, before Finnadro could call them. It was eerie, but Finnadro tried to take it in his stride.

“Aren’t the Orange Canyon tribesfolk clever,” said Finnadro sardonically. “The wooden frame will keep you nice and snug over this fiery bed. These pylons here,”—he pointed out the four braced stakes, though Umbral was facing away and couldn’t see— “Have notches so that we can raise or lower the level of the frame above the fire. We can make your experience as toasty as we wish.”

The hiss and pop of the fire crackled an undertone to his promise.

“Or it could end now, before it begins,” Finnadro offered, examining Umbral’s blanched face.  “You don’t have to continue your path through the dark. You can return from what you’ve become. Of course, you’d have to prove your willingness to change is real—for instance, by telling me the name of the Traitor. Remember, I already know it, so I will know if you’re lying or telling the truth.”

“Interesting, isn’t it, you are to do the same thing for which you condemn me? Where did you acquire your skill at torture, Finnadro?” Umbral twitched his lips into a baiting smile. “Or does it come naturally?  Either way, I would say you have a talent for it.”

Finnadro smacked Umbral across the face. Hard.

“Did that arrow hit too close, Finnadro? What’s wrong, you don’t relish having anything in common with a man like me?”

“I have nothing in common with you,” Finnadro said, regaining his calm with difficulty.  “You spent days tormenting men for the pure pleasure of it.  You raped and killed….” He couldn’t mention Dindi by name. His failure to save her was too fresh. “It’s not too late to change your mind. In fact, how long this must continue is entirely up to you.”

Finnadro scrutinized the Deathsworn for any sign of faltering, but Umbral displayed none…yet.
Every man breaks under enough pressure.

“Lower the loom,” Finnadro instructed the blindmutes.

Without a grunt, they lowered the loom frame over the rectangular fire, resting it on notched pylons at the four corners of the pit.

Terrible as this place was, Finnadro felt strangely giddy. Mystic forces amplified everything; the power invigorated him like drunkenness. So this was what it was like to have six Chromas. He could see such brilliant Patterns, things he had never been able to even imagine before, fuller and richer than anything he’d ever experienced. He felt more alive. He felt more real. He felt he had been blind his whole life and finally opened his eyes.

In the riot of color there were only two black spots. One was the miasma of black vapor seeping out from under the stone at the far end of the room, which covered the oubliette. Zithra-Lume’s Abyss, Xerpen had named it.

The other black stain was the darkness surrounding Umbral himself.

Finnadro circled the captive. Umbral was spread-eagle, face up, over the hot coals; his whole bare backside was exposed by the open rectangular frame.  Finnadro drummed briefly on his chest with playful fingers.

“Let me tell you what is going to happen, so you can look forward to it.

“At first, you will only feel a warm tingling. Don’t worry if it doesn’t hurt right away. These things can’t be rushed. In time, the heat will become bothersome. Your skin will redden like a blushing virgin.  Soon it will be raw and tender. Any slight touch will sting acutely. All this will happen while we have you at the highest notch.

“Should you force me to continue, to lower you to the second notch, closer to the fire, things will get worse.  The pain will turn from merely aggravating to truly excruciating. Your skin will blister and ooze. Skin will slough off. Unless you are healed immediately, you will be scarred for life.”

Umbral’s muscles strained, as if he were trying to climb free. Finnadro kept his banter conversational.

“The third level, I truly hope we will not have to use. Because if we put you down at that level, it will mean you will never dance again. Or walk. Your burns will be past healing. Your flesh will actually cook. It will be dark crimson, crisped with black cinders. You may die from shock…though not, of course, before suffering an infinity of pain. Yet even at that level, you can still save yourself by cooperating. If you are too far gone for healing, we can grant you the mercy of a knife across your throat. If you still do not cooperate with us, however, you will not even receive that charity. We’ll let you linger on for days as the unbearable burns swelter with poisons that finally kill you.”

Finnadro leaned close to Umbral’s ear. “Even that is an act of mercy, Umbral. Because there is something worse. A hole where matricidal insanity rages on forever, trapped in the dark. The oubliette—Zithra-Lume’s Abyss. But I won’t put you there.

“Unless you make me.”

Umbral made an admirable effort to remain stoic. Finnadro knew all the minute signs of fright: the blanched face, tightly clenched mouth, eyes showing too much white as they darted from Finnadro to the fire, now spitting higher in the pit, back to Finnadro again. He touched Umbral on the neck, noting rapid pulse, profuse sweating, and convulsive trembles.

Finnadro traced some of the faint scars on Umbral’s chest.

“You’ve endured thrashings before,” Finnadro observed. “No doubt you think you can endure this as well.  Trust me, this will be much worse. You will break. I think you’re intelligent enough to realize that. No one could expect you to hold out in the face of being roasted like an animal.”