The Chronicles of Nir

7 | A Cold Cell

Pain pulsed through Ben's skull, following the drumbeat rhythm of his heart. Cracking open crusty lids, darkness greeted him. He fought to remember where he was and what had happened, but a haze obscured his memory. All he could tell was that he lay on his back, some place cold and dark, and that his whole body hurt. Muffled and indistinct voices spoke nearby, but he couldn't make out what they said. Gradually, the pain receded enough that his senses cleared, and the sounds coalesced into words he understood.

"You are certain?" a cold, female voice asked.

"Aye, madam, sure as I stand here now. I'm tellin' you—magic like nothing I've seen before. He'd have torn us to shreds, if Burk hadn't darted him."

"He doesn't look like much now. Pretty, though; I'll give you that."

"Look—believe me or not, I lost good men over this. Karl's dead. Burk's prob'ly dead, Len's not looking good—can't sit down, poor chap—and I've got a game shoulder now. I expect compensation."

Ben held his breath as flashes of memory returned, like disjointed pieces of a half-remembered dream: a gigantic tree, a strange elf, a sudden fear, the forest's rage flooding his mind, and then nothing.

Something told him he wasn't in Erianthus' treehouse any more, and he wasn't among friends.

Carefully, Ben sat up. The only light came through a small grill set in a heavy door and did little to illuminate the dark cell. Feeling about himself with chilled hands, his fingers brushed rough, cold stone, not particularly clean to the touch, and he withdrew when he touched something that felt suspiciously like a wet bone. The smell did little to improve his impression, carrying a damp scent of mildew, excrement, and rotten flesh that made his stomach turn.

"Once I ascertain his worth, if any, you will be paid accordingly," the female voice said. There was a steel edge to the sound, and Ben shivered.

"Well, someone was sure sore to lose him, an' I'm no liar," the second voice declared. "He's fae, and he'll fetch you a fortune, or I'm a dog's turd."

"Hmmm. Well, that last point is arguable. I'll pay you half a knot for now, and an entire knot if your claims of magic prove true. You won't get a better deal, and you know it. Here—take this note of receipt to Zaryn. He'll see you're paid."

More grumbling ensued, and then the owner of the gruff male voice departed. As the heavy, booted footsteps receded, the rustle of fabric and the grind of a key turning in a lock came through the door, making Ben shrink away from the sound. The door opened, creaking on reluctant hinges, and Ben held up a hand to shield his eyes as the glare of a lantern blinded him. When his vision cleared, he saw a woman with gray streaking her light brown hair smiling down at him—an expression that didn't reach her steely eyes. "Hello, child. I imagine you must be confused. How do you feel?"

Despite the warmer tone, the false inflection made Ben's skin crawl. This was not someone who cared about his well-being.

"Where...? Who are...?" Ben struggled to form words as he looked up at the woman's face. Light wrinkles lining her skin did nothing to diminish her timeless, chilling beauty. Fierce, hawklike eyes shone with shrewd malice.

Sudden nausea roiled his guts, and before Ben could utter another syllable, he rolled to the side, curled into a ball, and puked.

Kneeling at his side, the woman rubbed his back in gentle circles, appearing unbothered by the vomit. "An unfortunate side effect of the tranquilizer," she assured him in a low voice. "It will pass."

Slowly, Ben's memory returned in full, sparking alarm like lines of fire through his nerves. He sat upright, ignoring the pain and dizziness, and gazed about with wild eyes.