The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(52)
“Trust me,” Arcannen hissed, smiling.
Caeil made a rude noise. “I trust no one. I wouldn’t be where I am if I trusted people. No offense.”
“None taken. But remember, you have nothing to lose in all this. You are protected against any possibility of discovery. You are safely out of its path. I am the one who must trust you. If I succeed, I must depend on you to fulfill your promise and give me what I want.”
“Oh, there’s no problem with that. Have I ever failed to act on your special requests? That prototypical flier you command? Those weapons no one possesses but the Federation High Command? Access to important figures in the government that would otherwise have been denied you? All freely bestowed. That and more, should you ask it, can be yours. They mean nothing to me. But advancement to Prime Minister and control of the Druid order—now, that is something of real worth. Give me access to power of that sort, Arcannen, and there is nothing I would deny you.”
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out. “But things have changed. We no longer stand in the same place we did yesterday. This new possibility of advancement to First Minister requires that we alter our relationship.” He turned back. “After today, we can no longer meet here. We must find neutral ground where we will not be seen together by anyone. We must make clandestine arrangements. A future First Minister and past Minister of Security cannot be seen in the company of a sorcerer with your unfortunate reputation. You understand, I am sure.”
Arcannen understood perfectly. This self-aggrandizing fool was already marginalizing him. He seethed inwardly as he gave Caeil a reassuring nod. “Whatever pleases you.”
Fashton Caeil came forward, extending his hand in a gesture of false friendship. Arcannen accepted it, held it firmly, and smiled. As he did so, he looked the other man in the eye and held his gaze. “But we are still friends?”
The Minister’s face took on an uncertain look. “Of course we are still friends.”
Arcannen shifted his gaze and released his grip on the other’s hand. He had read Caeil’s eyes, and he knew he was lying. He meant to sever the relationship as soon as it was feasible to do so. Perhaps he even was thinking of doing so in a permanent manner.
“I must be going. I will contact you again soon with further news of our efforts. Congratulations once again on your impending appointment.”
You had better hope I let you live to enjoy it.
[page]FIFTEEN
FOR CHRYSALLIN LEAH, LOCKED IN THE DARKNESS OF HER torture chamber, the madness continued unabated.
She lost track of the number of times she was visited by the gray-haired Elven woman and her henchmen. She lost count of the number of ways they found to hurt her. After a while, everything started to blend together, and it seemed that the torture never stopped for more than a few minutes, and the pain never stopped at all. There were no longer times of relief, not even small ones; the whole of her existence was a single endless wash of agony and humiliation. In the darkness, she felt increasingly alone, abandoned, forgotten. In the hands of her captors, subjected to their terrible ministrations, she began to feel her mind slipping.
In the brief moments when the pain lessened—a marginal reduction, at best—she found herself wondering what had happened to her brother. She began to imagine all sorts of terrible things. He had not come for her, and therefore she knew something had prevented him from doing so. Perhaps he was a prisoner, too, undergoing the same horrible experience she was. Perhaps he was injured and could no longer find the strength to act. Perhaps he was even dead.
She grew steadily more depressed as her hope diminished and her certainty that her fate was determined grew. She began to wish it would end, that everything would be over, that she would be allowed to die.
All the while, her tormentors never spoke to her. She waited for them to tell her what they wanted, but it never happened. She listened for the smallest sound, the briefest whisper, anything that suggested a reason for her captivity. Once there was a hint of laughter, and she felt relief even in that, though it was at her expense. She waited for more, prayed for more, but nothing came.
They fed her a liquid that was not water and not anything else she recognized. It relieved her parched throat, and while at first she was reluctant to drink it, in the end she was grateful for anything that would quench her thirst and did not care what it might be doing to her. They gave her no food. They gave her no chance to move about. She lost all sense of time and space, all ability to think of anything but her agony and its endless reoccurrence.
Then, at some point when she had given up waiting, with no warning and for no discernible reason, the Elven woman appeared, bent close to her, and whispered, “Tell me what you know.”
Chrysallin, her throat and mouth so dry and blood-filled she could not answer back, croaked in a desperate attempt to answer. But immediately a strip of cloth was tied about her mouth to prevent her from speaking. She tried to respond anyway, shrieking and crying into the gag, fighting to make the words take shape. Her efforts failed, and the Elven woman did not speak to her again.
In those few moments when she was left alone and awaiting the next onslaught of pain, she tried to make sense of what was happening. By doing so, she hoped she might find a way to free herself from the uncertainty that was eating at her. If she failed to do so, she knew she was going to continue on the road to madness. She could not survive what was being done to her without being able to imagine a rationale for its cause. Mostly, she thought it was about her brother. Mostly, she believed Arcannen was responsible. But she never knew for sure, and her belief was a slippery, elusive thing that she could never quite hold on to.