56. Now Spike
NOW: SPIKE
Iwas squealing and flailing when I heard a familiar voice say, “Gods, she won’t be quiet, will she? Shut up, woman.”
“Whiskey is making the rounds in the camp now,” said the man holding me, his voice another familiar one. “We’re far enough away; someone might see us, but no one cares. Folks are too distracted.”
“So, we drown her. We make it look like an accident. It’s a stone’s throw from the river.”
“Between the two of us, we can get her down to the bank. Hold still!” The man’s hand clamped down even harder.
“Here,” said the first voice, and a kerchief of sorts was tied around my eyes before I could make out that man’s face. I was able to kick him in the shin, and he stumbled and swore.
“Why in hell did you blindfold her?” asked the man holding me. “Do you have one for her mouth? She’s going to scream as soon as I remove my hand.”
“No, but then this is an opportunity, not a plan.”
“Put that thing over her mouth and gag her, not her eyes.”
“Witches can use their eyes to cast enchantments.”
“Says who?”
“Every damn guide on witches they made me read in the army? Trust me, half of her power is in her eyes. How do you think she’s evaded getting caught for so long? She’s a mesmer. I’m convinced of it. Godsdamn, she really got me in the leg. I wish I could have had some of our men do this.”
“He says it’s better if it’s us. Suffering gods, she’s a mean one.”
“He tells me it was always this way with her, even as a child.”
“Oh it was.”
The two men had tussled with me while I flung out elbows and knees as far as I could, arranging me so I was held between them by my upper arms. On my left, I could tell the man there wore a scant kind of armor, small spikes jutting out on the breastplate, meaning he was in a higher-ranking office of the army or cavalry.
When the hand came away from my mouth, I gave a pitiful half shout, my breathlessness and surprise making it weak.
“Make one more noise,” said the first man, “and we’ll slit that little mute girl’s throat while she sleeps. Nod if you understand.”
Frightened, unable to see through the kerchief, I nodded.
“Walk,” ordered the second one.
It was Bertram Sheridan and Captain Gerard, Ilsit’s former husband.
They were taking me to the river to drown me.
Louder and louder the Oberlong could be heard.
I was going to drown in a river, held down by two men who despised me and likely delighted in my murder.
Frantically, I had the thought that I should pray to Sister Sea.
Help me, I prayed in my mind. Father and Mother, if you truly bless me, if I am truly your daughter, then help me. All four of you, I beg you to help me. Please. I don’t want to die.
“Should we have let her get drunk first?” asked Bertram. “That way people will think she fell in because of that.”
“It’s hard to get her out of that Vyggian’s sight, and your brother employs him,” Gerard replied.
“I don’t know what that bastard with one eye wants with her, but he is always near her.
I think he’s bedding her. My men say they saw him go into town.
This may be the only time we can get her away from him. ”
“And the father says it should happen before Skow.”
“Yes. He says she best die before Skow. And he says your father and brother cannot know how it happened. I trust in my priest, and though I do not understand his intent, I have a personal grudge against this witch.”
“As do I. I’ve watched her escape punishment since she was a child.”
A low keen came out of me at this pronouncement.
“Shut the hell up,” Bertram growled.
“Sirs!” came a young man’s voice. “Have you need of torchlight?”
“Oh, godsdamn it,” said Bertram. And then he barked, “Stay away, fool!”
“Oh, I—I did not mean to intrude on . . .” The young man’s voice was stammering and sounded closer now. “I wanted to offer you my torch. I saw you here in the dark and I . . . What are you doing with her?”
“Did you just ask the most superior officer of this outfit what he does?” snarled Bertram. “What kind of respect is that to show your captain?”
There was a gasp, and then the soldier said, “Captain, I didn’t know! I didn’t know it was you. I just wanted to help.”
“Of course, lad,” said Gerard. “But note who else you insult. Careful not to tread where you do not know, involving yourself in things you don’t understand. That’s Lord Sheridan the younger you question. That is Lord Bertram.”
The soldier began to apologize profusely, over which Bertram bemoaned his very presence, telling him to go away. Gerard was speaking too, clearly trying to turn the boy’s attention away from what he and Bertram were about and onto his own embarrassment.
My upper arms were still pinned back painfully while my forearms, wrists, and hands dangled limply.
When my left hand—flopping about as I was, jerked slightly by the emphatic movements of both men castigating the boy with the torch—grazed the breastplate Gerard wore, I flinched.
The pad of my ring finger was pierced slightly by one of the spikes that I had only thought of as decorative.
They were actually rather sharp, and I sucked at my teeth as I felt a droplet of blood swell on that fingertip.
Please. I don’t want to die, I prayed again, knowing a pricked finger was nothing compared to the agony of drowning alive—drowning being a particularly awful thing to me as it was the way I had once lost someone beloved.
And then I had an idea. The kerchief had blinded me, but now, because of the torch and its heat, I could make out where the young soldier was standing.
He was still sputtering his apologies while Bertram berated him, Gerard trying to respectfully speak over Bertram and make the boy leave.
I could make out his lifted right arm holding up a large torch.
I had only heartbeats of time to decide, and I reasoned I could very well harm myself. But I was better off scarred and alive than dead with unblemished skin. Besides, I thought, what are a few scars? I already have wrinkles and tattoos.
I turned my wrist so that my left palm faced upward.
My thumb worried at the little slit in my fingertip, pushing more blood out of it.
I squinted behind the kerchief, noting the dull shape made by the iron chamber of the cresset that held the flame.
My aim into one of the cresset openings had to be accurate.
Clumsily, with only the vague rectangular orange outlines of the fire within the cresset, I flicked the blood towards the flame.
All three men started screaming.
I fell slightly backwards, stumbling as Bertram’s and Gerard’s grips loosened.
I nearly fell to my rear, but I leaned into the stumble and kept pumping my legs, back and back, in the most awkward, graceless effort to get not just as far from my captors as possible but also away from the explosion of white- and peach-colored fire from the torch.
It took me a second to right myself, to wrench the blindfold away from my eyes.
When I did, I saw Gerard on his hands and knees, violently coughing.
The torch had fallen to the ground and caught fire to the grass below.
Bertram had wrenched his tunic off and was beating the flames, calling out for water.
And the young officer was clawing at his chest where flames danced.
I could not spare them a second thought, and I ran.