Interlude 9

I t’s funny, Zahel thought, how many times I’ve been chained to the ceiling.

Zahel hung, naked, in a dark room. Unshaven, unwashed. He thought it had been weeks since that first day—during the invasion—when he’d been taken. The timing wasn’t clear though, because he had to keep erasing his memories to help neutralize his captor’s torture.

Torture. Why did they always default to torture? The research didn’t support its effectiveness, even in people who couldn’t erase memories of the pain to prevent long-term trauma.

But then, he wasn’t a man of research any longer, was he? He wasn’t much of a man, or god, of anything these days. He groaned, pulling himself up a little by his arms to stretch. Beside him, out of reach—if his hands had been free—a sad, sorry parrot hung in her cage. Bright crimson, with shades of cherry, and a maroon on the darker parts of her wings. Very striking. She didn’t look at him, remaining quiet.

It was bad when a parrot grew quiet.

“Hey,” Zahel said, his voice hoarse. “Hey.”

Stupid bird didn’t react. It huddled down in its cage, without a proper perch.

Zahel sagged in his bonds. Blood crusted his naked body. They always knew to take his clothing, so he couldn’t bring it to life. Once in a while, couldn’t he be captured by someone stupid? He bowed his head, his hair—not quite black, more a deep chestnut—curling around his face. Stringy, unwashed.

The brightest splash of color in the circular room—lined in aluminum sheets, preventing even spren from sensing him—was the parrot. Other than that, it was just his dried blood on the floor, a bookcase along one wall, and a mattress on the other side, though it hadn’t been used by his captors in weeks.

Not for the first time, he wondered why he kept struggling. Centuries. Friends failed. Most recently a woman abandoned, when she’d so believed in him …

He had told himself he was retiring.

In truth, he’d simply run.

The bird shuffled, but when Zahel glanced over, it had just lowered its head.

So, with a sigh, Zahel tried something else. “Hey,” he said. He looked away, and looked back quickly. “Peeky time.”

The bird looked up.

Zahel repeated the infant’s game again. “Peeky time. Peeky time.”

Then, slowly, the parrot perked up. “Peeky time …” it said in its avian voice.

“That’s right,” Zahel said. “Hey, it’s not so bad. You’re going to be all right. You …”

He trailed off as the door opened, and Axindweth—rings glittering on her fingers—slipped in. “Playing games, are we, Vasher?” She clicked her tongue, and the bright green Aviar on her shoulder mimicked the sound.

“I have to do something to pass the time. Figure it will take you forty years or so to die.” He met her eyes. “I can outlast you. I’ve done it before.”

She laughed. “Always blustering, Vasher.” She took a box from under her arm and opened it, displaying a fabrial shaped a little like a handgun, only with spikes at the front.

Well, hell. She’d finally gotten a painrial.

“I have found,” Axindweth said, “a more efficient way of making you hurt, Vasher. Would you like a taste?”

He didn’t reply.

“What if we compromised,” Axindweth said. “You give me half your Breaths, and I will let you go.”

Half his power, which was admittedly an incredible wealth of Investiture. Zahel should never have brought so much; he’d known it would draw attention.

He could give her half. He didn’t need those Breaths. Except he knew how that would go. If he gave her half, she—after such a burgundy victory—would demand more. Then more.

It wasn’t a negotiating tactic. It wasn’t a path toward freedom. This was just another attempt to break him down.

So—feeling sorry for the parrot who had to watch—he didn’t say anything further until she made him start screaming.