Ms. Fletcher looked away. “Look, let’s just make a deal. Let me get you out, and we can forget about the past for now.”
“And these others?” I asked, nodding toward Sing and Bastille. “If I go free, what happens to them?”
“What do you care?” Ms. Fletcher asked, looking back at me.
I folded my arms.
“You have changed,” Ms. Fletcher said. “And not for the better, I’d say. Is this the same boy who burned down a kitchen yesterday? Since when did you start caring about the people around you?”
The answer to that question was actually “About five minutes ago.” However, I didn’t intend to share that information with Ms. Fletcher.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll have an exchange. You want to know where the old man is? Well, I want to know some things too. Answer my questions, and I’ll answer yours.”
“Fine,” Ms. Fletcher said, folding her arms.
Businesslike as always, I thought. “How did you know about the Sands of Rashid?”
Ms. Fletcher waved an indifferent hand. “Your parents promised them to you at your birth. It’s a custom – to pronounce an inheritance upon a newborn and deliver it on the child’s thirteenth birthday. Everyone knew that you were supposed to get those sands. Some of us are a little surprised that they actually made their way to you, but we were happy to see them nonetheless.”
“Did you know my parents, then?”
“Of course,” Ms. Fletcher said. “Actually, I studied under them. I thought they might be able to train me to be an Oculator.”
I snorted. “That’s not something you can learn.”
“Yes, well,” Ms. Fletcher said, looking a little flustered, “I was young.”
“Did you kill them?” I asked, teeth gritted.
Ms. Fletcher laughed a flat, lifeless laugh. “Of course not. Do I look like a killer?”
“You send a man with a gun after me.”
“That was a mistake,” Ms. Fletcher said. “Besides, your parents were Smedrys. They would be even harder to kill than you.”
“And why do you want Grandpa Smedry?” I asked.
“No, I think I’ve answered enough questions,” Ms. Fletcher said. “Now fulfill your end of the bargain. Where is the old man?”
I smiled. “I forgot.”
“But… our bargain!”
“I lied, Ms. Fletcher,” I said. “I do that sometimes.”
See, I promised you. Life-changing revelation or not, I never was all that good a person.
Ms. Fletcher’s eyes opened wide, and she displayed more emotion that I’d ever seen from her as she began muttering at me under her breath.
“Enough!” a new voice said. A dark-suited arm shoved Ms. Fletcher away, and Blackburn moved over to stand in front of the cell.
“Tell me where the old fool is, boy,” Blackburn said quietly. He stared at me, his monocle glistening with a reddish color. Even without my Oculator’s Lenses, I swear that I could see a little black cloud rising from him.
“If you don’t talk willingly,” Blackburn said, reaching up to take off his monocle, “I will make you.” He pulled another monocle from a vest pocket. It had green and black tints. “This is a Torturer’s Lens. By looking through it and focusing on a part of your body, I can make you feel intense agony. It makes the muscles begin to rip, and while it probably won’t kill you, you will soon start to wish that it would.”
He reached up, putting the monocle in place. “I’ve seen men permanently paralyzed by these things, boy. I’ve seen them break their own bones as they thrash about on the ground, crying out with such pain that they’d have killed themselves to stop it. Does that sound like fun? Well, if not, you should start talking. Now!”
It’s funny what a little taste of leadership can do to someone. A shade of responsibility, a smidgen of self-understanding, and I was ready to stand up to a full-blooded Dark Oculator. I gritted my teeth, jutted out my chin defiantly, and stared him in the eye.
So, of course, I got my heroic little self blasted with a beam of pure pain.
This is supposed to be a book for all ages, so I won’t go into details about how it felt to get hit by a Torturer’s Lens. Just try and remember the worst wound you’ve ever felt. The most agonizing, most terrifying pain in your life. Remember it, hold it in your head.
Then imagine if a shark swam by and bit you in half while you were distracted. That’s a little what it felt like. Only, add in swallowing a few grenades and suffering through a night at the opera too. (And don’t try and tell me I didn’t warn you about the sharks.)
The pain let up. I lay on the floor of the cell, though I didn’t remember falling. Sing was at my side, and even Bastille was moving over to me, her face concerned. My agony faded slowly, and I looked up, seeing Blackburn as a dark shadow standing before the cell.
There was a small twist of pleasure on his lips. “Now, boy, tell me what I want to know.”
And I would have. This is your hero, Free Kingdomers. I broke that easily – I hadn’t ever known pain; I was no soldier. I was just a kid trapped by forces he had no hope of understanding. I would have told Blackburn anything he wanted to know.
However, I didn’t have a chance to spit it out. At that moment, you see, Grandpa Smedry poked his head into the dungeon hallway, smiling happily.
“Why, hello, Blackburn,” he said. Then he waved to me, holding up a pair of hands that were manacled together. He wasn’t wearing his Oculator’s Lenses, and a pair of beefy-looking men in dark robes and black sunglasses stood behind him, holding his arms.
“It appears that I’ve been captured,” Grandpa Smedry said, manacle chains clinking. “I hope I’m not too late!”
Chapter 13
We have now spent two complete chapters trapped in the dungeon. We’re about to embark on our third chapter in there, assuming I ever finish with this introduction.
Three chapters, on the other hand, is a very long time. It is a longer time than I spent in my foster home. It is a longer time that I spent visiting the gas station. It’s a longer time than I spent in childhood, which was covered in only about two sentences.
Why so long in prison? At that moment, I was struggling with the same question. Few things are more maddening that forced inactivity, and I had been forced into inactivity for two entire chapters. True, I’d made some good, deep, personal revelations – however, the time for those had passed. I would almost rather have been tied to an altar and sacrificed, as opposed to being forced to sit around and wait while my grandfather was towed off to be tortured.
For, you see, that was what happened in between chapters – a space of time so short that it’s practically nonexistent. During that void of nothingness, Blackburn laughed evilly a couple of times, then pulled Grandpa Smedry off to the “Interrogation Room.” Apparently, the Dark Oculator was overjoyed at the prospect of having a fully trained Smedry to torture.
But then again, who wouldn’t be?
“Come back here!” Bastille screamed, pounding the latrine bucket repeatedly against the bars. I was now even more glad that I hadn’t ended up needing to use it.
“Come back and fight me!” she yelled, slamming the bucket against the bars in one final overhand strike, venting her fury by smashing the wooden container into a dozen different pieces. She stood, puffing for a second, holding a broken handle.
“Well,” Sing whispered, “at least she’s getting back some of her good humor.”
Right, I thought. By then, my agony had faded almost to nothingness. (I later learned that I’d only been subjected to the Torturer’s Lens for a period of three seconds. It takes at least five to do permanent damage.)
I empathized with Bastille – I even felt some of her same rage, even if I didn’t express it by destroying innocent bucketry. The longer I sat, the more ashamed I felt at how quickly I’d broken. Yet remembering those three seconds of pain made me shudder.
And even worse than the memory was the knowledge that my grandfather – a man I barely knew, but one for whom I already felt a sincere affection – had been captured. At that very moment, the old man was probably being subjected to the Torturer’s Lens. And his torture would last far longer than three seconds.
Bastille reached down, picking up a few bucket shards and tossing them in annoyance at the wall outside the cell.
“That isn’t helping, Bastille,” I said.
“Oh?” she snapped. “And what about sitting on the ground, looking stupid? How much good is that doing?”
I blinked, flushing.
“Bastille, lass,” Sing said quietly. “That was harsh, even for you.”
Bastille puffed quietly for a few more moments, the turned away. “Whatever,” she muttered, walking over to kick at the hay pile with a frustrated motion. “It’s just that… Old Smedry… I mean, he’s a fool, but I think of him being tortured…”
She kicked at the hay again, tossing a pile into the air. The way it bounced off the wall and fell back on her might have been comical, had the situation been different.
“We all care for him, Bastille,” Sing said.
“You don’t understand,” Bastille said, picking a few strands of hay out of her silvery hair. “I’m a Knight of Crystallia! I’m sworn to protect the Oculators of the Free Kingdoms. And I was assigned to be his guard. I’m supposed to protect the old Smedry – keep him out of situations like this!”
“Yes, but – “
“No, Sing,” Bastille said. “You really don’t understand. Leavenworth is a fully trained Smedry of the pure line. Not just that, he’s a member of the Oculator Council and is the trusted friend of dozens of kings and rulers. Do you have any idea the kinds of state secrets he knows?”
Sing frowned, and I looked up.
“Why do you think the Council insists that he always keep a Knight of Crystallia around to protect him?” Bastille asked. “He complains – says he doesn’t need a Crystin guard. Well, the Council would have conceded to him long ago, if it were just his life that he endangered. But he knows things, Sing. Important things. That’s why I’m supposed to keep him out of trouble, why I’m supposed to do my best to protect him.” She sighed, slumping downs beside the well. “And I failed.”
And at that moment, I probably said the dumbest thing I ever have.
“Why you?” I asked. “I mean, if he’s so important, why – of all people – did they choose you to protect him?”
Yes, it was very insensitive. No, it wasn’t very helpful. However, it’s what slipped out.
You know you were thinking the same thing anyway.
Bastille’s eyes widened with anger, but she didn’t snap at me. Finally, she just let her head slump against her knees. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “They never told me – they never even explained. I had barely achieved knighthood, but they sent me anyway.”