“And I say years, because I know you are stubborn. I know you will resist. Much time, much effort, but I have little else to do at my age. You wear the wrappings of your order, but in your heart, you blaspheme against Karak. You expose your face to the world, and in doing so, spit in the eye of our god.”
He withdrew the dagger and walked over to the door. Beside it was a small bag, and he pulled out a set of sewing needles. When he turned back to her, his pale blue eyes were feverish.
“Whatever you came here for, you failed. Think on that as I do my needlework.”
The chains held her as he took her hand in his and uncurled her fist. She tried to tense, but he held her firm with surprising strength. Struggling anymore would press her arms against the inner barbs of the manacles, only hurting her further. Taking a needle into his mouth, he softly ran a finger along her fingertip.
“Even old as I am, it is never too old to learn,” he said. “I spent time with Stephen’s gentle touchers not so long ago, did you know that? You will soon. They are masters, artists. I hope my needle work can begin to compare.”
There were many hooks along the wall, and he looped the chains holding her arm through one so that it held her tight. Teeth grit, she tried not to let out a cry, even when he jammed the first needle underneath the fingernail of her forefinger.
“Karak is not my god,” she said, struggling to keep her voice firm. “I will not repent.”
He smiled at her.
“Perhaps. But I have many needles.”
One after another they jammed into her skin. Each was worse than the one before, and she cried out in agony after the seventh. Leaving them in, he moved on to her other hand. Even more slender needles pierced underneath her fingernails, bleeding and tearing the soft skin. Tears ran down her face, but he asked no questions, and made no demands. Time became meaningless. All she could think of was Alyssa, and Nathaniel, but their memories were poison, for she was doomed in a prison, which meant they would soon suffer death, or, even worse, join her there in the pits of the temple.
“The gentle touchers are artists,” Vrashka said, sitting back to observe his work. “So careful, so clever. They view whips and daggers as crude toys for children. It is a mark of disdain for any of them to leave a bruise.”
Zusa kept her head low, not caring to look at him or acknowledge his words. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and she felt her blood trickling down her wrists. As he crept closer, she shut her eyes, tried to imagine herself far, far away. His rough hands grabbed her face, forced her to look up at him.
“Such beautiful eyes,” he said, staring into them. “But you do not need them anymore, just a tongue to pray, and knees to confess upon.”
He was reaching for another needle when the door opened, and Daverik stepped inside.
“I would have a word with her,” he said.
Vrashka stepped back, bowing low.
“Of course,” he said. “She is yours to convert. But it will take time, and I have only started to break her.”
“She might see reason,” Daverik said, not looking at her. Vrashka bowed again, then stepped out. As the door closed, the priest noticed the needles still in her fingers and frowned.
“I warned you,” he said. “Now keep still.”
“Not sure I can,” she said. She felt his hand close around hers, pinning it to the wall. One by one he removed the needles, dropping them into a bloody pail Vrashka had brought with him. Switching to the other hand, he worked in silence. Zusa kept her eyes downcast, let her mind focus on the pain as the needles slid out from within her fingertips. When he was done, he sat opposite her and pushed aside Vrashka’s bag. Tension filled the room, broken only by the soft trickle of water.
“You set a trap for me,” Zusa said.
“I thought you’d come, yes.”
She shook her head, feeling like a stupid child. Her warning had been clear, so of course Daverik had planned for her arrival. Eyes still downcast, she wondered if she had anything to say to him, but found herself strangely empty inside.
“They want you executed,” Daverik said. He paused a moment, as if waiting to see if she would respond. She didn’t.
“I’m not sure I can stop them,” he continued. “You killed two of my Faceless, and you have blasphemed against Karak many years now by showing your face. When your order went rogue, you also fought against one of our paladins sent to retrieve you.”
“His name was Ethric,” she said. “I killed him in a river, cut out his throat, and then left him there so the fish could eat his flesh. He’d been sent to kill me, not return me to the temple. Someone is telling you lies. We did as we were told, as we have always done, and were branded outcasts for it. But that’s what Karak does, isn’t it? He finds ways to punish his faithful should they ever be an inconvenience to his temple. Our lives are nothing to him.”