Page 4 of Aubade Rising
“That’s none of your concern. I would worry less over her fate and more over your own.” His voice is harsh and unyielding, with the clipped aristocratic accent I’d grown up hating. Contempt fills the lines in his face as it turns into a sneer, ageing him substantially.
“Tell me who helped you organise the attacks on Athnavar,” he commands.
“What?” I pull against the manacles in shock, a rabbit caught in a snare, my whole body resisting the accusation.
“I don’t ask twice.” Each word punctuated with barely concealed hatred, the old man leans forward, hard lines drawn around his narrowed eyes. I back into the wooden chair, bruising my spine to increase the distance between us.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I smother my rising panic. When he doesn’t relent, the panic takes over. “My name is Sage Dewnam. I’m a researcher at Athnavar Academy. I work for Dervla.”
When he doesn’t react, his mouth still sneering at me, I can’t help looking around desperately to see if there is anyone else to hear my pleas.
“You are an Aubade,” he says, as if that is a crime by itself. To him I am a waste, a pointless burden on society with my useless magic.
“And that automatically makes me guilty of the attacks on Athnavar? I haven’t done anything.” I shout, hoping the guards at the door will come to my aid.
“What do you know of pain, Sage?” he whispers, leaning towards me, his hot breath on my face turning my body to ice.I’m trapped down here, utterly at his mercy.
The cell door opens, a silhouette of a tall figure slips into the room. They remain shrouded in darkness and stand, unmoving, in the corner. Any hope I have of them coming to my rescue is cruelly slashed when the old man looks over his shoulder and says, “Begin.”
For a moment nothing happens and I pause in expectation, body tense and my focus split between the known danger in front of me and the shadow lurking in my periphery. Then I’m hit with a fire from within. Every fibre of my body is forced into an agonising vice. It goes on and on. Never-ending. My head pounds, and blood trickles from my mangled wrists where the metal of the restraint bites through my skin. Then, the awful pressure recedes. I’m left panting, forehead leaning on the table.
“Good. Good.” A guttural rasp, almost a laugh, comes from the old man watching me squirm in fear. “Again.”
The shadow obeys and my body is wracked with agony.
“Confess you were behind the attack!” his eyes are alight, gleaming with relish.
I press my lips together, locking my jaw so I don’t bite my tongue. I remain silent.
My muscles cramp and burn as the vice tightens, the largerones in my thighs spasm whilst the smaller ones in my hands and feet sting like I’ve plunged them into an ants’ nest. I hear my throat shatter with the cry that is ripped from it.
“Go gently now, ease off a little. That’s it.” He coaxes with pleasure, at ease with my agony. The silent shadow obeys.
“Why did you bomb Athnavar?” His glee is evident now I’m being punished in a way he clearly believes I deserve. I summon enough energy to open my eyes and see a grim smile pulling back to reveal pearly white, perfect teeth.
I couldn’t reply even if I wanted to. My brain can’t focus on anything other than pain.
They repeat the process: pain then relief, questions then more pain. Waiting for the next wave, anticipating the wracking spasms throughout my body, is worse. The pauses in between feel like I’m dreaming, the ghosts of torment linger in my fried skin, so over-sensitive that the sensation from the cold metal manacles feels agonising.
The person in the shadows never wavers, nor reacts to my screams, only applies the pressure again and again.
I know when I’ve reached my limit: the blackness of the cell turns to welcome me and my vision dims and goes black.
Vaguely, I hear the scrape of his chair against the stone floor, “Very well. We will resume tomorrow.” and then I drift into blissful nothingness.
The same procedure follows the next day, the shadow in the corner burning my muscles and organs without leaving a mark and the old man questioning me about the attacks until my brain is ready to give out. I resent my old self for hating the cold, quiet loneliness of the cell and I wish I could return to the isolation and be left alone in the darkness. I never speak; my voice is onlyused for screaming until eventually that too gives up.
A distant banging and shouts infiltrate my fading consciousness. I don’t dare move, desperate not to bring attention to myself in case it triggers another wave of pain. I’m not ready for more torture.
My eyes are loosely closed, the side of my head rests on the cool, iron table.
A violent slam of the door reverberates through me, the unexpected noise piercing the haze of pain, ricocheting around my brain.
“Get out! You have no authority here!” The old man lambasts against the intrusion, infuriated by someone interrupting his enjoyment.
A welcome voice, full of fury, penetrates my cloudy mind. “Does the King know you’ve hidden her in the darkness and tortured her? When I demanded that she be protected.”
She came. She’s alive. I can feel Dervla press her cool hand gently against my forehead, tilting my gaze up to her. I feel a small wave of relief at seeing her. That’s about all my poor broken body can manage before I slump back on the table. I keep my gaze locked on her though; I don’t dare to blink in case she disappears.
