Page 3 of Aubade Rising

The same four walls stare back at me through the unsettling darkness. The incessant sound of racing water highlights the monotony of being imprisoned. I think I’ve been held here for days, left to stew over Dervla’s fate.

I recognised the insignias on the uniforms of our rescuers – they were from the palace. We were separated before Dervla regained consciousness and I was taken underground and escorted to this cell. My nerves were shredded after the first few hours.

Darkness has never been a friend to me and I’m left alone in a stone cell, shivering.

The temptation to reach inside and draw out the tiniest bit of light, of warmth, nags constantly at the edge of my attention.

My magic writhes inside, resisting being imprisoned and wanting to be released.

I don’t dare let it out, not even the smallest fraction.

That’s one way to guarantee I’ll never leave this cell alive.

Other than the echoing footsteps of guards changing shifts, I have no way of knowing how much time has passed.

Initially I tried calling out to them, asking if Dervla survived, begging for food and water.

But I haven’t received a single word of acknowledgement.

A balloon of fear continues to swell in my stomach, compressing my lungs and making my chest ache.

Two guards arrive when I’m barely strong enough to stand.

They fasten heavy, iron restraints to my wrists and secure them to the table that’s brought in behind them.

My magic shrinks inside my chest, cowering at being trapped in this cell.

Neither of them acknowledges me, nor speaks a single word, their actions well practised and efficient.

My legs are left unbound but I don’t even consider trying to escape.

I have barely a fraction of magic compared to everyone else.

It’s not even close to a fair fight. Satisfied that I’m properly incarcerated, they leave.

The heavy door heaves open slowly sometime later, startling me.

An older man, with a thick white streak in his hair, enters with the sort of confidence I’ve found, only occurs in people who are used to being obeyed instantly.

He places a flickering oil lantern onto the table and my eyes take a while to adjust. He’s well dressed and small in stature, but the warmth from the light contrasts with the cruelty around his lips.

He grabs the chains holding my restraints and yanks them towards him, the skin on my wrists ripped away by the motion as I slump forward in forced compliance.

My stomach growls again and reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. I risk a glance up at the man but find no pity in his eyes. I summon my strength to ask if Dervla is okay.

“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 larger ones 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 only used 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.

The old man falters, confidence draining from him in the face of her rage.

When he remains silent, I see her eyes fill briefly with tears she doesn’t let fall.

Two narrow jets of water shoot from her hands into the manacle locks, shattering them violently and the walls echo with the noise.

She pulls me to standing, an action which exhausts me – my legs are too weak.

I lean heavily on her small frame and desperately try not to think about my shaking hands or how broken my body has become.

As we make our way to the door, the old man is frozen in place. Dervla tugs me along, before he can object. The shadow is nowhere to be seen.

Our pace is excruciatingly slow. We climb floor after floor, resting frequently, each pause shorter than I would like before Dervla hauls me to my feet, encouraging me to continue.

Her anger is icy cold and tension radiates through every one of her steps.

Each time she sees me stumble or my muscles spasm in an aftershock, her lips purse threateningly.

She leads me upwards through a beautiful palace I recognise from childhood stories, Chi An Mor, the heart of Pentargon city.

It’s built into a bleached yellow sandstone cliff with the rest of the city separating it from the ocean.

I’ve heard it has over one hundred floors but climbing these stairs feels like a thousand.

We pass through cream sandstone corridors, each with a shallow stream, about a hand-width wide, running along channels carved into the floor. The water is sparkling and clear and it takes everything I have not to fall down and drink from it.

Finally, Dervla pulls me into a suite of rooms and locks the door. A soft futon in front of me tempts me, begging to be slept on.

“Do you need to channel?” Dervla whispers.

I assess the dregs of magic in my chest and nod.

“Quickly then.”

I stumble to the window to replenish the void in my chest. The sun is hidden behind thick clouds, casting a sombre shadow over the city below. No matter – I don’t need much. My aching hands rise and call the daylight to me, replenishing my magic and wiping away some of the exhaustion from the cell.

“Come. We must go,” Dervla snaps the moment my hands stop moving, her posture tense. She unlocks the door and drags my weary body back out into the palace.

The climb is gruelling, each flight of stairs deepens my exhaustion and a glance at Dervla tells me she isn’t faring much better.

“Keep going Sage,” Dervla pants. “Not much further. We have to get to the King first.” Her pace falters as she struggles to bear my weight. I must rest but the resolve in her face tells me it’s not an option.

“What happened to you?” I gasp as we reach the top of another flight of stairs.

“I burnt out.” She pauses and looks around to check we are alone. “My magic got us here but I had nothing left. The waterfall underneath the palace restored me but it took days.”

Days of channelling magic to recover? That’s a staggering amount.

I’ve come close to burnout before but it takes me moments to replenish.

The amount of magic she must be able to store defies all of my preconceptions.

I regard Dervla warily, realising for the first time she might be one of the most powerful Mordros in the Kingdom.

“I came for you as soon as I could. I didn’t realise my message had been misunderstood. They thought I had brought you in for questioning. That I apprehended you when I escaped.” She turns to me, her dark brown eyes wet. “It’s my fault you were tortured.”

“You were the reason we escaped Athnavar and the attacks. You can’t blame yourself for what happened next.” I reach for her hand, clasping it tightly in mine. I don’t blame her.

We stagger upwards, holding hands, ignoring our cramping, weakened legs.