The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(49)
She passed out over and over, only to awaken in white-hot agony anew. The torture went on and on. The men paused several times to rest themselves, to drink from an aleskin, to throw water in her face, to wake her with slaps and harsh words, to rest arms grown weary with tightening and twisting and pressing and jamming. But mostly they kept at it. Time lost meaning for Chrysallin Leah. She pleaded for someone to tell her what was wanted. She begged to be told if this was punishment or an effort at persuasion. She gritted her teeth and tightened her muscles. She twisted and squirmed and hunched her body against what was being done to her.
She prayed after what must have been hours of suffering that she be allowed to die. Even death would be preferable to this.
When they finally stopped, backing away to admire their work perhaps, a tall figure stepped into view. Arcannen? But this was a woman, one she had never seen, her features arrogant and commanding, her posture rigid and upright. She was Elven, her hair gray, her face lined with age. She studied her captive for perhaps half a minute, made a few strange gestures, talked softly to herself as she did so, then turned and walked away.
Chrysallin was left alone then. The woman and the men departed, and the room was shrouded in darkness. They had thrown the sheet over her once more, and she could feel the blood seep into the cloth and glue it to her skin. Her pain was a red-hot scream that flooded through her. She saw into the darkness through a screen of red, and there was a coppery taste in her mouth. She was certain the bones of toes and fingers were broken, but couldn’t see them and was afraid to move them in any way that would let her know for sure. With this much pain, every brush against the tabletop was agony.
What was worse was the sense of defilement and emotional carnage. She was fifteen years old, and she had been subjected to things she had never imagined she would be forced to endure. Tears flowed down her cheeks at the thought of them. She was shaking with rage and pain and a terrible sense of loss.
Paxon would make them pay, she told herself. Paxon would do to them what they had done to her!
But how long would it be until Paxon reached her? How long before he could come to her rescue? All her plans of escape had vanished in the wake of the day’s punishment. She no longer believed she could get free without Paxon’s help; there was no other way. She had put herself in this situation the way she put herself in so many unfortunate situations—by overestimating her cleverness and skill, by reckless belief in her own ability to avoid anything. She had attempted to do what she had been told not to do, and now she was paying the price.
She thought for long minutes about the Elven woman who had watched it all. What did she have to do with Arcannen and her kidnapping? What did she have to do with any of this? She wanted something, but she seemed in no hurry to tell Chrysallin what it was. Today’s torture had been an object lesson in the nature of control. She was letting Chrys know that she didn’t care when she got what she wanted. What mattered was that Chrysallin understood her captor could have anything she wanted from her, anytime she desired it. What she wanted the Highland girl to know was that she was in complete control.
That Chrysallin’s life was in her hands.
They came for her again sometime later. She could not tell if it was day or night, but she thought it was a new day because she had slept and her pain had lessened marginally. They entered the room as before, the four men lighting the smokeless lamps at the head and foot of her table, and they ripped off the sheet without concern for the wounds that were torn open and the skin that was shredded. The woman slipped in while Chrysallin’s screams were dying into whimpers, and the girl didn’t even know she was there until she spoke.
“Begin,” she said.
They did. All over again. It was a virtual repeat of the previous day, the pain beginning in her toes and working its way up her legs to her torso, and from there to her arms and head. It was a long, relentless assault on her body and mind, and there were times when she was awake that she thought she would go mad. On this second day, she blacked out repeatedly, which forced them to find more creative ways to bring her awake again so they could continue. A few new adaptations were applied, most involving underarms and ears. Burns were added to the repertoire of tortures, some applied with iron rods, some with coals. New damage was inflicted. Chrysallin could smell her own flesh burning. She could smell the stench.
At the end of this day, when the tall woman with the long gray hair and the Elven features came over to study her again, Chrysallin stared back, memorizing every feature, burning the hated features into her memory, wanting to be certain she would know her should she ever get out of this. She hated the woman with every fiber of her being, even more so than she hated the men that were carrying out her instructions. Chrysallin hated her enough that if she could have gotten free, she would have tried to kill her on the spot.
When the woman was gone, taking her creatures with her, Chrysallin was drained of energy and damp with sweat and blood. Her body throbbed and twitched with pain, and there was no relief to be found. Every shift of her limbs, however small, produced fresh agony. Attempts at waiting it out only caused her to be more aware of it. In the darkness, she could not see the damage that had been done, but she could tell it was considerable. She believed she would never look the same when this was over. She would be marked for life, both without and within. She would be rendered a shadow of who and what she had once been.
But she did not cry this night. She refused to cry. She would not let herself. Instead, she channeled her suffering into rage—a white-hot anger that made her want to scream and tear at things. She fed this rage with promises of what she would do to the gray-haired Elven woman once she was free. She gave it direction by thinking how she would inflict on her captor the same pain she was suffering. It was wishful thinking, but it gave her an outlet for her despair and for her need to respond and not feel entirely helpless. It gave her another life outside of the one she was enduring. It gave her a focus and a mission. She wasn’t sure she could survive another day of what was being done to her, but she knew she was going to try if for no other reason than to deprive them of the satisfaction of watching her break apart. And, of course, the possibility of somehow gaining revenge.