She moved closer to the slave-elite, her eyes scanning him from head to toe in critical appraisal. “Brother Harlick tells me these creatures have no will of their own, it’s driven from them through torment, drugs and, according to Aspect Caenis, various Dark means that stink of the Ally’s influence. Much as your will was driven from you, I imagine. What would he do if we were to free him, I wonder?”
“I would strongly advise against it, Highness,” Frentis said.
She turned to him with the same look of examination still in place, her eyes going to a particular spot on his chest. “Lady Davoka tells me the wound I gave you festered, that you have her to thank for your life.”
Frentis glanced at Davoka, finding her more ill at ease than he could remember, her forehead beaded with sweat. He saw she held a small glass bottle, the contents seeming to shimmer a little and he noted her hand was actually trembling. “That is correct, Highness,” he said, his unease deepening.
“Yes.” Her gaze returned to the prisoner and she held out her hand to Davoka, speaking in Lonak. The queen accepted the bottle from her and held it up to the dim light, the dark liquid inside producing a foul odour as she removed the stopper. “The blade that freed you was coated with this,” she told Frentis. “A gift from our Lonak friends. One I suspect may prove highly useful to our purpose.” She moved closer to the Kuritai, speaking to him softly in Volarian, “I take no pleasure in this.”
She lifted the bottle to a spot at the top of his chest, tipping it to allow a single drop of the liquid to fall onto the slave’s scars. The result was immediate, the scream that erupted from the Kuritai’s throat enough to pain the ears as he convulsed, collapsing in his chains to writhe on the stones. The queen stepped back from him, her face grim, eyes bright as she stoppered the bottle. Frentis saw how she stiffened her back and forced herself to watch the slave’s torment. After a few seconds his screams abated to agonised whimpers, his back-straining writhes diminishing to gasping shudders. Finally, he lay still, panting and bathed in sweat.
Lyrna took a cautious step forward but Frentis raised a hand. “If I may, Highness?” She gave a nod of assent and he went to the Kuritai’s side, crouching to peer into his face, finding life returning to pain-dulled eyes.
“Can you talk?” he asked in Volarian.
The eyes blinked, finding focus, the response a croaking cough from a throat unused to speech. “Yesss.”
“What is your name?”
The eyes narrowed a fraction, the answer coming in rough, harshly accented Volarian. “I . . . began as Five Hundred. Now . . . I am Twenty . . . Seven.”
“No.” Frentis leaned closer. “Your real name. Do you know it?”
The eyes wandered a little, his brow creasing at a rush of memory. “Lekran,” he said, his voice faint then turning to a snarl. “Lekran . . . My father . . . was Hirkran, of the red axe.”
“You are far from home, my friend.”
Lekran jerked, his chains snapping tight. “Then . . . get this fucking metal off me . . . so I can go back there. For time on this earth is short, and I have many men to kill.”
• • •
“It truly prevents dreams?” Frentis gave the contents of the flask a dubious sniff, finding the scent less than inviting, like mildew mixed with stewed tea.
“It renders a sleep deep enough to prevent them,” Brother Kehlan replied. “I first concocted it in the aftermath of the Ice Horde. There were many in the Reaches troubled by nightmares when the killing was done, myself included. It will stop your dreams, brother. Though the aching head you’ll have come the morning may make you pine for the dreams.”
