every last one of your secrets. But it doesn’t need to be too painful. Cooperate, and I’ll make your wife comfortable. We’ll need a little agony, but I’m sure this arm,” the Skir Master prodded just below the break, sending pain shooting through Argoth’s body, “would feel better set and splinted. Tell me who killed Lumen, and I’ll help you.”
Lumen? “I know nothing of Lumen’s death.”
“Oh, come.”
“We know only what his servants claimed: that he lost himself to the call of the warrens.”
“You’re talking about the stone-wights, aren’t you? What’s in those caves?”
Argoth hesitated. He realized there was leverage here, something he could do with this information.
The Skir Master sighed. “I suppose you must fight. But it doesn’t matter.” He held up the thrall. “The Trolumbay patterns were crude and slow, yet for all their clumsiness they were still effective. I estimate this one will take two or three days. Two or three days and you will beg to tell me all.”
He placed the thrall about Argoth’s neck, lifting his head and clasping it at the back.
“I’m going to remove the king’s collar. It interferes with the working of the thrall. But do not think of escape. Your bonds are woven with wire. You will not be able to break them. Not even one as powerful as Leaf can do so.”
Then he released the collar. Immediately Argoth felt a change and began to build his Fire.
The Skir Master smiled. “Multiplying yourself will only multiply the effect of the thrall, Clansman. Of course, it would please me if you’d do so.”
Argoth paused. Was he lying? He didn’t know. And that realization struck him like a hammer: the Order didn’t know.
“Do you know how to quicken a thrall, Clansman?”
Argoth said nothing.
“Come, come,” said the Skir Master. “Do not be modest.”
Argoth ignored the Skir Master. All he could think of was the fact that Nettle had given most of his life for nothing, to support a hero who had no skill.
The Skir Master grabbed his face with two fingers and turned it so Argoth was looking at him. “Speak to me. How do you quicken a thrall?”
“You can’t feel it thrumming?” asked Argoth.
“Thrumming?” said the Skir Master. “You soul-eaters are so sloppy with your terminology. Weaves do not ‘thrum’; I told you before, they sing. ‘Sing’ is the right word. But that’s not quite all there is to it.” The Skir Master paused. “You haven’t ever used this, have you?”
Argoth looked the Skir Master in the eye. He’d read the old texts. He’d quickened a variety of other weaves. This couldn’t be so very different.
The Skir Master shook his head. He reached back and took Argoth by the nape of the neck. “It’s appalling, such ignorance.”
Then a giddiness washed through Argoth and a door opened in his mind. Behind it stood the Skir Master. Beyond him another door opened, and Argoth perceived the Glory of Mokad. But yet another door opened behind the Glory, and Argoth perceived . . . something luminous, something so beautiful it took his breath away. A woman who consumed all thought. Then she turned and noticed him, and fear mingled with his adoration. He wanted to join her, but didn’t dare. She regarded him for one more delicious and terrible moment, then all the doors between her and him slammed shut and the force of it made him gasp.
“And so it wakens,” said the Skir Master. He released his hold upon the thrall. “Two days to work its way into the fiber of your being.” He stood and grabbed the pincers from the wall. “We’ve found that a bit of pain in the very beginning speeds the process. Is that because it distracts the mind or stresses and weakens the body? We don’t know. All we know is that it works.” Then he wedged the large pincers under the break in Argoth’s arm and turned them so they pressed upwards.
White flashed in Argoth’s mind. He arched his back and gritted his teeth against the pain until he could no longer contain his cries. But by that time the Skir Master had walked out and shut the door.
______
For some time Argoth fought just to control himself. He moaned, panted, lost consciousness twice. And in the pain one thought rose and kept him from losing all hope: the barrels still sat below. Somehow he had to get to them. He had to get to them and then give the liquid inside one sweet kiss of fire.