Meldi, Twelfth of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel
The cliff face beneath the palace of Reyza concealed a subterranean network of storerooms, kitchens, and servants' quarters. The lowest levels held the dungeons and a tangle of natural seaside passages that stank of rot and mold. In the earliest days of Reyza, when a fortified tower had stood on the site of the palace, the passages had been used as prisons for the fledgling nation's most hated enemies. Dubbed 'salons' by a long-forgotten jailor, the dismal chambers remained as they had hundreds of years ago.
Unlike the cells in the upper dungeon, the salons were crude. Each consisted of a barred door and a single window carved into the cliff face to allow a narrow beam of sunlight to filter through the dank air. The outer walls were scored with cracks wide enough for seawater to flow with the rise and fall of the tide.
At the center of each cell stood a stout wooden pole with a set of manacles bolted at its apex. The chains were long enough to allow the unfortunate captive to stand upon a wooden rung during low tide with their wrists extended above their head. When the sea crept in, discomfort gave way to a fight for survival. The prisoner was forced to cling to the algae-slick pole and keep their head high to avoid drowning until the ebbing of the tide. Crabs, rats and other vermin took advantage of the perch. Through the years many a forlorn soul had chosen a watery death over the fate of a thousand bites.
In the darkness, the wail of a sobbing woman echoed from one of the salons.
"Please," the woman cried, struggling against her bonds. She was soaked to the bone, and her clothes were ripped to shreds.
"Tell me what you know of this Jarle or by the Gods I will rip out your tongue!" Rigo yelled.
"That would be counterproductive, Sire," Neylen said from the shadows. "Why don't you offer our guest some incentive, perhaps a cold glass of water?"
The woman's feet slipped on the wooden rung. She regained her balance, then looked up from under a bedraggled nest of curls. Her eyes looked from one man to the other, yet failed to focus. "I am so thirsty," she croaked, "please have mercy."
Rigo snapped his fingers to the jailer. The man stepped forward, keys jingling, and took up a wooden pitcher. He poured water into a wooden cup and held it to the woman's trembling lips.
The woman drank heartily, draining the cup in one long gulp. Rigo watched with disgust.
"Give her another," commanded Neylen, "and let us hope it brightens her disposition, else I sense less charitable acts in our future."
The jailer did as he was told. Again, the woman drank, nearly choking as she swallowed.
Rigo looked Neylen squarely in the eye. "You must be referring to your future. The ambassadors from A'diel have arrived, and they have their petticoats in a bunch. I don't suppose you want to explain to them why the price of marble is lower in Reyza than it is in A'diel."
"I defer to your mastery of diplomacy, Sire. It is a matter more suited to one with your skills." Neylen bowed. "Please allow me the menial task of debriefing our guest."
Rigo's voice echoed as he stepped out of the cell. "We will discuss the matter later."
Neylen motioned for the jailer to release the woman from her bonds. While the brute unfettered the shackles, Neylen stepped around to face his prisoner. He allowed a genuine smile to light his face. "My apologies, Mejtress Yara. Allow us to begin again on a more proper note." Neylen bowed with a practiced flourish. "I am Lord Neylen J'zab Akkalon of Cartuj."
The woman shivered, rubbing the welts along her arms where the manacles had dug into her flesh. She stumbled backward and slipped on the slick stones. With a thud, she struck the wall. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes as she rubbed the back of her head. "Please," she said, "I don't know anything else. I swear it."
Neylen stepped forward and helped the woman to her feet. He spoke in a soothing tone. "Then you have nothing to fear. Please, do not be afraid. My temper is far cooler than that of our beloved ruler. Indulge me with a moment's conversation before your release."
Yara's eyes were wary. She had been shown naught but misery since she had been brought to the palace. "Conversation?" she asked.
Neylen nodded. "Only if it pleases you."
The woman nodded, sensing a glimmer of hope. "I want to help, of course. I have never broken the law. I mind my own business, I do."
"I am pleased to hear it," Neylen beamed. His genial tone grew effusive, "Loyalty is well rewarded."
"Thank you for your kindness, Majster. Am I free to go now?"
"Certainly! I am sure you wish to be out of those filthy clothes. I shall arrange to have you provided with new attire. Something fine perhaps, a suitable reward for your cooperation. What is your opinion of Dessian silk?"
Yara ran a hand through her matted hair, pushing it back so that she could study her interrogator more closely. "Dessian silk is among the finest in the world, but I live a modest life. Sunlight would be gift enough."
"Nonsense, sunlight is only the beginning of my gratitude for your forthrightness. You shall have both in abundance."
The woman dropped to her knees and wrapped her trembling hands around Neylen's ankles before kissing his muck-encrusted moccasins. "All holy Cel bless you and yours, sir. I have two birds, lovely things from Naraj that will be happy to see me."
"Naraj! Have you been there?"
The woman sobbed. The stress of her incarceration, though brief, had made her question whether she would die in the palace dungeons. "No, sir, but I have heard tales of the Black City."
"Oh, it is exquisite! We call it Naraj ne'Doqua e Dessia. It means Naraj, the Jewel of Dessia. There is no city more fabulous in the world. Her obsidian towers put those of A'diel to shame." Neylen paused, looking around the chamber with disgust. "But this is no place to talk of such magnificence. Come, let us seek sunlight and fairer vistas."
Neylen helped the woman to her feet. He led her out of the cell through a low stone arch and into a hall lit by oil lamps. The woman walked before the Dessian, not knowing where she was being guided. Behind her, Neylen followed. They passed vaulted stone cells. Most were empty. The ones that were occupied were silent.
At the end of the hall, Neylen extended his hand, urging the woman to climb a mossy stairway. "Rigo is holding court," Neylen explained. "We cannot have you pass through the halls looking like a pauper. It would cause a scandal. I'm afraid we'll have to exit through the upper dungeons to the back garden."
They climbed several flights before arriving at a landing where Neylen knocked upon a barred door with a peculiar rhythm. When it swung open, a gush of fetid air rushed into the stairwell, bearing with it groans and agonized screams.
"My apologies, we are quite full at the moment. I ask that you steel your nerves."
A shiver ran down the woman's back at the sight of the sprawling dungeon. Low stone arches joined thick pillars, creating an arcade that cut through the heart of the dark prison. Branching off from the main corridor were smaller passages, each harboring a theater of pain. The first chamber they passed housed several suspended man-shaped cages, heavy with their sorrowful burdens.
Neylen ushered Yara past the prisoners' outstretched arms, deaf to their pleas for mercy. The dank stench of sweat and feces mingled with smoke and burned meat. "Come, let us not linger here. These sorry wretches do not understand the value of cooperation like you do, my dear. Fresh air awaits just ahead, do you see it?" Neylen pointed to the far end of the main corridor, where a jailer stood by a bright doorway. Through the archway the sun shone bright—a promise of Cel on the far side of Hel.
Yara nodded, squeezing her palms to her ears to block out the screams. She cursed the names Tulot and Jarle a thousand times over in her mind. "Yes," she said, "can we go now, please?"
The sound of torment appeared to set Neylen at ease as if he were listening to a concerto. He placed a hand upon the woman's shoulder and guided her past the bloody scenes being enacted along their path.
The variety of torments went far beyond expediency; they were the artistic creations of sadistic genius. On a stone bench, a man was slowly pulled apart by hooked chains and pulleys. Not far from the wretch two screaming women were being sewn together with rats between their bodies.
They paused at the entrance of a vaulted chamber where a man wearing an elaborate gag sat at a table. One of his arms was outstretched and bare, pinned down by bored-looking thugs. A muscular man with hawkish eyes stood across from the wretch, his intense gaze focused on the man's flesh.
Neylen leaned over to whisper into Yara's ear. "Observe. This requires great skill. I have heard this is how the Sullosians fashion gloves for their nobles."
Without a word, the torturer seized a thin knife and began to slice around the man's exposed forearm. A ribbon of dark red blood spilled onto the grooved table top. The man groaned horribly through the leather strap that covered his mouth. Heedless of his victim's cries, the torturer dropped the knife and took up a pair of rusted pincers. As if performing on a stage, the torturer clipped the forceps onto the severed edge of the man's flesh, then yanked, hissing with exertion. The man's skin rolled off his hand with a wet rip followed by muffled screams.
"There!" Neylen clapped his hands as the torturer held up the flayed, dripping skin that quivered like a jellyfish. "Perfection. I warrant that it is fit for the hand of a Sullosian Thurikha."
Yara put a hand to her mouth, holding back the urge to retch. The door was near. She could see the greenery thriving in the golden sunshine. A few more steps and she would be free. She moved toward it but was stopped by the Dessian.
"Before we part, there is something that I would have you clarify," he said.
Yara looked past the man's shoulder to the brilliant sunlight and wrung her hands. Neylen's smug expression worried her. He was savoring her wretchedness with the gusto of a gourmand enjoying an excellent meal. "Yes?"
"You told the jailer that you had not seen your son Jarle in over ten years and didn't know where he could be found. Is that correct?"
"Yes, I have not seen my boy since he was very young. I abandoned him to the streets," she admitted. "I don't know where he is, sir, I swear. Last I heard he was in Reyza. Why am I being held? Has my son committed a crime?"
Neylen put his arm around her shoulder and shook his head with feigned shock. "You mean to tell me that no one has told you why you've been brought here?"
Yara's body trembled like a reed in the wind beneath Neylen's touch. "No, sir," she croaked.
"Your son stands accused of murdering esteemed Tan'os Ensther, the Vise, and savior of Reyza. He is also wanted for theft, rape, and kidnapping of the Vise's young daughter."
Yara began to sob and dropped to her knees. "Why punish me? He is a stranger to me! I have done nothing wrong."
Neylen looked down at the sobbing woman without pity. "Mejtress Yara, I don't believe you have entirely told me the truth."
"I have told you everything! I have nothing more to say."
"Then kindly explain why an estranged son you haven't seen in a decade provides you with a monthly stipend."
"What?" Yara looked up. Confusion danced in her eyes before a thread of recognition blossomed on her face. "Majster, I—"
"You lied." The Dessian bent down and grabbed the woman's arm, hoisting her to her feet.
Yara took one last look through the open door, realizing that she would never set foot in the palace gardens. She would die in a stagnant hole with no one to mourn her. She shook her head and tried to pry herself free from the Dessian's vise-like grip. "I didn't know that the money came from him! Please, you have to believe me."
"In light of this revelation, I think it best that we continue our conversation until I am satisfied you have told me everything." Neylen's black eyes shone in the light of the braziers as he led the woman away from the sunlight.
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