Chapter 27 #4
“Lord Senan, please, you’re hurting me,” she cried out as she stumbled after him.
He closed his hand even tighter around her arm. “You think that’s hurting you? You’ve no idea. I’ll show you what real Channeller flying is, not the prissy floating Ionáin uses to seduce the ladies.”
Pulling her after him, he lifted her into the air, hanging awkwardly by the arm. Out through the window he flew and up higher and higher. Up there it was frighteningly cold, and éadha’s shoulder ached badly, her arm twisted and raw where Senan’s thick fingers dug into it.
“So, Keeper, how do you like it?” he shouted down at her. “If I let go now, just think how long those few moments would be before you hit the water. Just long enough for you to shit yourself before you die.”
And he let go.
éadha started to fall, faster and faster, her skirt tangling her arms and flapping around her face so she couldn’t see, didn’t know how far she was from the towers, from the cliffs underneath.
Panicking, she started to gather her power to stop her fall, then she felt herself caught by the arms once more, the jolt almost pulling them out of their sockets.
It was Senan, laughing hysterically. He flew them both back into the almost empty hall, landing them in one of the Channeller aeries just beneath the domed ceiling.
As soon as he let her go, éadha scrabbled backward away from him in the enclosed space, a small cushioned nook.
Senan jerked the velvet curtain across the opening and turned to her.
In the dim light, she could see his eyes were bloodshot from the long night of drinking, and he was red-faced and panting from the cold and the exertion of dragging her through the air into the aerie, where he seemed to fill the narrow space.
“So where did you really get that dress, hmm?” He reached across and fingered the soft material of the skirt.
“That’s the finest Erisen silk; even the Family heads would think twice before making a whole dress of that material; it takes so much Fodder to grow the crops in this climate.
So don’t tell me Lady úra gave her servant scraps, you little liar. ”
Taking the delicate white sheath in both hands, he ripped it in two so that it slit all the way up to her thigh, to where Ionáin’s fingers had caressed her skin just a few hours ago. éadha let out an involuntary gasp of shock. He wasn’t really doing this, was he? This wasn’t really happening.
But he was still moving, gripping her thigh with one massive hand as she pressed as far back as she could into the cushions, trying desperately to stay out of his grasp.
He caught her chin in his other hand, tipping her head back, examining her face coldly as if he had all the time in the world and she was no more than a piece of meat.
“Just what is it Ionáin sees in you? You’re no more than passably attractive, your power is pitiful, you have no name.
It must be something else. What is it you used to do for the good little lord on those cold northern nights?
Maybe I should find out for myself.” He leaned in, twisting her chin toward him with his hand.
“No, Senan, don’t, you’ll—” she cried, finding her voice at last.
Immediately he lunged forward, clamping his other hand over her mouth.
“Don’t?” he said, tilting his head almost questioningly, staring down at her.
“Don’t? Do you think someone like you gets to tell me what I can or can’t do?
” and he leaned closer, digging his elbow into her shoulder, pinning her down.
“One word, Keeper, one word and I’ll have you thrown in a Fodder Hold for the rest of your worthless life,” he grunted as she began trying once more to squirm away from him.
He dropped his hand back to her thigh, tightening his grip so his fingers seemed to almost reach bone, forcing her leg aside so he could lean in closer. She wanted to scream at the pain of it.
And a part of éadha was wholly terrified now as she shook her head frantically, trying to push him away, to break his grip on her chin, the hard fingers squeezing her jaw, forcing her mouth open as he bent over her.
Knowing he would not stop. But another part was detached, watching herself struggle as if from outside her body, wondering, instant by crawling instant, could she do this, could she bear this, should she submit as she had in so many ways over all the long days and weeks as his Keeper.
Was this another part of the price she had to pay—to pretend to be something he could break?
Dampening down the power she could feel rising within her, all to hide her secret—to protect Ionáin—was it worth this?
And then the two parts of her collapsed into one, and the answer was no.
This was not to be borne. She was light, she was power, and she didn’t have to bear this; she wouldn’t bear this.
As it did all those months before in the face of Magret’s Inquisition, her strength powered up through her in a boiling tsunami of rage, the force wave roaring up at Senan, hurling him back against the wall of the aerie.
In the same instant the curtain was ripped aside and Gry appeared, his face a blaze of fury.
He blasted Senan with a white bolt of furious power just as éadha’s own power flung him away from her.
The two blasts at once knocked Senan unconscious, and he toppled, limp, from the aerie toward the floor of the hall far below.
A fall from that height would kill him instantly.
Gry dived after him, catching him just before his head hit a table and lowering him safely to the floor.
As éadha looked on horror-struck, Channellers began to converge on Gry where he stood by Senan’s unconscious body.
Master Joen appeared, still pulling his robe about him, papers whirling up and empty glasses toppling over in the speed of his arrival.
Gry looked up to where éadha stared down from the aerie and gave the tiniest shake of his head.
Master Joen spoke to him once, too softly for her to hear.
Gry nodded briefly, closing his eyes and rubbing his neck tiredly.
In the next moment Master Joen had marched Gry to the door of the hall, where he was taken away by a group of guards.
It was a long time before anyone noticed éadha stranded in the aerie where she sat, eyes wide and hands wrapped around her knees, holding her torn skirt about her, shivering in the cold air.