Witch Born(100)

Grendi tapped her lips thoughtfully. “Joshen, Joshen. Ah, yes. The Guardian who refused to tell me all about you, no matter how much we tortured him. It wasn’t until I found the old woman—what was her name? Desni— that I finally learned the secret of your pendant.” Grendi carefully tucked the pendant in her dress pocket. She turned to the soldiers next to her. “Bring her in the other boat. Bound and gagged.”

Rough hands seized her. “What did you do to him?” Senna screamed. “What did you do?”

Grendi slowly turned, her face unreadable. “I offered them forever sleep or more torture. They chose to sleep.”

Senna’s muscles melted and she collapsed, barely feeling the pain as her knees hit the deck. “No.”

Grendi watched her, satisfaction etched in her face. “Torture is a complicated art, Brusenna. The line between pain and death is very thin. And the human body can only take so much.”

Hatred burned in Senna’s chest. Words poured hot from her mouth, seeming to coat her tongue with ash. A song that could set the very world on fire.

Ember to flame

Scorch and burn

To Cinders and ash

“Stop her!” Grendi screamed as smoke rose around her feet. Waves of heat roared up from the ship, hot enough to blister Senna’s knees through the thin fabric of her dress.

A sharp blow to the jaw silenced her song. A gag was shoved in her mouth, her wrists bound with rough cords. As they dragged her away, she cast a glance back at Krissin.

The Head of Sunlight looked away, shame coloring her cheeks.





31. Water Song





Senna was too horrified to cry, too horrified to think. She only knew she wanted to die.

Joshen was dead, and it was her fault. After all, she’d dragged him to Tarten knowing full well how dangerous it was. Her eyes refused to focus, sounds became muddled, and her body lost all feeling. She was so full of pain, her senses were shutting down.





Through the link, Cord kept trying to reach her. She ignored him as she would a fly ramming a window.

Grendi stepped so close Senna could smell her sickly sweet perfume. She watched in satisfaction as they hauled Senna’s hands above her head and tied her waist to the foremast.

“We’ll be in Haven in two days. And then you can watch your people—your home—fall apart around you, as you made me watch mine.”

Senna wet her lips. “You promised Ellesh you’d turn over the survivors. You break that promise, and she’ll sink your ships.”

Grendi leaned in so close her hair tickled Senna’s face. “Let her sink them.” She observed Senna’s sickened expression. “When it is over, we’ll hang you and display your body in Tarten until you crumble to dust with everything else.” She stepped back and addressed the soldiers around her. “No food. No water.” Then she turned and was gone.

Senna closed her eyes, her body racked with sob after sob.

***

For two days and a night Senna was tied to the mizzen mast. During the day, the sun baked her skin. Blisters formed during the night. Her tongue swelled in her mouth. She couldn’t work up any saliva or tears, so she kept her eyes and mouth closed.

Her arms felt like dead weight above her head. She tried to wiggle her fingers, but she couldn’t tell if she succeeded or not. Perhaps her hands were already dead. She couldn’t drudge up enough emotion to care. She couldn’t sit, couldn’t rest. She was thirsty—so thirsty.

She actually took comfort in Cord’s presence, more so the closer he came. She was able to retreat into him just a little. Even though she was sharing her suffering with him, he seemed to take it gladly. She suspected that without the link, she’d be dead already.

She must have dozed, for when she woke again it was night. She was hyperconscious of the waterskin under her tunic. She felt the liquid through the bladder, heard the slightest slosh whenever she shifted.

Under cover of darkness the night before, she’d tried for hours to reach it, until the blisters around her chin had cracked and oozed down her shirt. She had to try again.

She wiggled her chin under her filthy tunic and stretched her tongue under the gag, trying to curl it around the waterskin’s neck. She dropped her body weight, using the pressure of the ropes to force the bladder further up. She worked for hours, until her neck cramped and something wet ran down her neck—more fluid from her blisters, or perhaps blood.

Suddenly, she realized someone was standing in front of her. Her Tarten guard. How long had he been watching her? Surely he knew of the waterskin’s presence by now. He studied her, his face drawn. He looked furtively around before carefully pulling the waterskin free. He held it to her lips.