“Attack me, cowards!” she screamed, ignoring the pain it caused. Instead they fell back, and furious, she flung herself toward a group. Her daggers plunged and stabbed, but she could not connect. Lightning and shadow swelled against her, forming a wall she could not penetrate. Its very touch jolted her limbs. The Faceless Women both chose that moment to attack, kicking her with their long legs. One took the air from her lungs, the other connecting with her kidneys. Gasping, Zusa collapsed to the cold floor, unable to stand. A dagger slipped around her neck and pressed against her throat.
“Don’t kill her!”
Through dazed eyes, Zusa looked up to see Daverik pushing through the crowd. He knelt before her, and put a hand against her forehead as whoever held the dagger backed off.
“You poor thing,” he said, letting her go. “You poor, foolish thing. Take her.”
Something hard struck the back of her head, and then came darkness.
The first thing Zusa noticed when she came to was the sound of running water. It was constant, and close, as if a river fell in the same room. The second was how her hands and legs were bound with chains, the metal on the inside sharp and jagged so that the slightest movement drew blood.
“Open your eyes, little doll,” whispered a sweet voice. Zusa did, and saw an older man standing over her. His face was wrinkled, and free of any facial hair. His eyes were a pale blue, and when he smiled his serpent’s smile, it was without teeth. He wore the robes of a priest, but instead of black, they were a deep red.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Does the little doll not remember me? I am Vrashka. I was there when you were banished, and your little boy beaten. I held the whip. Do you not remember?”
Despite the years, she did indeed remember. More so, she remembered the name of Vrashka, Pelorak’s most favorite and ruthless torturer.
“I know you,” Zusa said, looking beyond him to take in her surroundings. She was in a small stone cell, poorly lit. The temple’s prison, of course. She sat on the floor, her arms and legs manacled to the wall. The only thing she did not recognize, nor understand, was that constant sound of water. “Just a sick old man.”
“It’s been a long time,” Vrashka said, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest so he could look down at her. “I have gotten older, yes, I have little doll. But I have also gotten wiser, too. Do you see this?”
He stepped aside, revealing the source of the water. It was a strange sight, as if a stalactite had grown from the stone ceiling. Stretching a foot downward, it stopped, its tip hollow so that water might run out in a constant stream. It fell into a small spiral cut into the floor, causing the water to swirl before dropping into a hole, going how far down below, Zusa did not know. Perhaps to the depths of the world, perhaps all the way into the Abyss where it could trickle on Karak’s head.
“Am I supposed to be afraid of water?” Zusa asked, hoping to keep him talking. She felt her strength returning, and where she was manacled there were many shadows. The chains would not hold her, not for long.
Vrashka chuckled, and the sound made her skin crawl.
“You have poor imagination, girl. You do not understand where you are, or what we have. Daverik made this himself. I know what you think, that you will slip into the shadows.”
He reached into his robe, pulled out one of her daggers, and cast it on the floor mere feet away.
“Take it,” he said, smiling. “Slip through the shadows, grab it, and cut my throat. You can do that, can’t you, little doll?”
She smiled back, then pulled in the power, demanded it, stole it with the strength of her soul. Falling backward, she expected the same cold feeling, but instead something grabbed her. She felt like a bird trapped in a thunderstorm. Her body became a distant thing, and lost in horror she watched her vision pulled toward the swirling water. It was so thin, like a single thread of silk. Before her eyes it grew larger, larger, and her whole form was swirling with it, down into the void, a boat doomed into a maelstrom. Colors faded, only the water retaining vibrancy, shining a brighter and brighter blue that made her entire body ache. Panic settled in, and she yearned for her body, to pull out from the shadows.
And then she was back in her manacles, gasping for air. Vrashka knelt down and grabbed her dagger.
“Does she understand now?” he asked. “Your magic will not work here, nor that of any priest. It will be lost into the funnel, the holy water taking in every bit of Karak’s power. You will not escape us, little doll. You are ours now, to be made pure over the crawling years.”
He knelt before her and pressed the dagger against the skin of her breast.