to me that I never learned your name. Your true name.”
The scarred man’s chains clinked as he shifted, meeting Vaelin’s gaze with placid indifference.
“The witch who brought you into this world must have named you,” Vaelin prompted. “Even monsters have names.”
He watched the creature’s face closely, hoping his taunts might provoke some betraying reaction. Instead he saw only faint, bitter amusement.
“Gone,” the Messenger said, chains clinking again as he shrugged. “For years I had no urge to recall it, now I couldn’t if I tried. What you see here”—he grimaced with the effort as he raised a manacled wrist to gesture at his face—“is just a remnant.”
“What about her name?” Vaelin asked.
This provoked a twitch of genuine puzzlement. “Who?”
“Your mother. You might have forgotten your own name, but who could forget their mother’s?”
The chains rattled before drawing tight, the Messenger lunging forward in his chair, face abruptly transformed into a reddened mask. “I am not here to talk about my fucking mother!” he snarled. Vaelin saw the power of his gift now, the way his body vibrated, his hands producing a thrum like two giant bees as they blurred fast enough to stir a breeze in the cell.
Vaelin stared into the Messenger’s enraged eyes and smiled. “There are a great many books in the tower library,” he said. “I’ve been collecting them since the war. The role of Tower Lord affords a generous salary but my needs are small, so most of it is spent on books. Especially those that concern the old stories. It shouldn’t surprise you to hear that you crop up here and there in different incarnations. ‘The Tale of the Witch’s Bastard’ is an old one, and it’s changed a good deal over time.”
A trickle of blood emerged from the Messenger’s flared nostrils, tracing over his quivering lips, his entire body straining against the chains now.
“But,” Vaelin went on, “the further back in time I go the simpler the tale becomes. A raped woman gave birth to a child who grew into something vile and murderous. But, sadly, I could never find her name, or yours. Strange to think that people of such importance to history have no testament beyond a tale that changes with every passing year. Whilst you linger on like a stain that never washes out.”
The Messenger’s hands fluttered into stillness and he slumped in his chair, shaking his head as a soft laugh escaped his lips. “Is this all the torment you have for me? I must say, I was expecting more.”
Vaelin sent a meaningful glance towards the door. “There’s a young woman waiting outside who’ll be glad to fulfil your expectations. Shall I invite her in?”
“Ah, yes. My vengeful daughter. Do you really think this is any kind of threat? I know you’ll never allow her to sully her soul with torture, nor do you need to. Ask any question you like and I’ll answer honestly.”
Vaelin stopped himself from exhibiting the sudden anger birthed by a realisation that the power in this meeting had now shifted from him to his prisoner. The Messenger had no fear of pain, no concern at all for what torments Ellese might inflict, even if Vaelin allowed it. It made his hands itch as he fought the urge to bunch them into fists, made him want to summon Dahrena’s face as he beat this creature again and again until its body was nothing but pulped bone and sundered flesh.
“I’m not lying, brother,” the Messenger said, head tilted at an angle that indicated he had no difficulty in reading Vaelin’s change in mood. “Ask and I’ll answer.”
Vaelin clasped his hands together and reclined in his seat. “Very well. How is it you are here? I was told the body you last inhabited died in Alpira years ago. The Beyond is supposed to be a snare for your kind and it died with the Ally at the end of the Liberation War. You were the Ally’s slave, sustained in this world by his will alone. With him destroyed, there should have been nothing to keep you here.”
“The Beyond,” the Messenger repeated, voice coloured by a note that mingled scorn with pity. “You’ve never really understood it, have you? What it is. What it actually means.”
“The Ally told me it was a scab covering a wound.”
“A somewhat colourful description, but he always was a pretentious fucker. Can’t say I miss him much. Oh yes,” he added, seeing the glint of concern in Vaelin’s eye, “unlike me, he is truly