Kelfor (The Orthomancers)

Chapter 2

My voice now comes out as a squeak: "Me?"

"Hush!"

The shadow has gone. There is silence for a long, long time. I hear footsteps approach slowly. They are not those of the outcast girl, of that I am sure. She would never walk in that weighty, self-satisfied sort of way. I hold my tongue, but hope has almost overpowered me. My heart is screaming silently: Yes! Steal me!

There is a long wait. The bindings dig into my wrists and my ankles. My arms are trembling with the strain. At last the measured footsteps continue past the building. I can breathe again.

It is some time before I hear a small noise. The door to the reception facility is opening slowly, just far enough for a shape to slip through. Then it closes again.

I peer into the dark, now seeing two shapes instead of one. They are advancing toward the bars. She has come with her son.

Zivan seems able to tell him what to do without speaking. She points to one of the bars. They each lift a small bottle of liquid, and begin to let drop after drop fall onto one particular bar, just above a crossbar about a foot from the floor.

"Why me?" I ask her.

She shrugs. "Because you are special."

"Special? Why?"

She seems surprised. "They didn't tell you?"

I shake my head.

"You are the last of the orthomancers. You are one of the timeworn."

I am timeworn? Me? My mother didn't tell me that. I don't know what being an orthomancer means. It must have something to do with the amulet. Last night my mother had called it the orthomancer amulet.

She is still hostile. "Don't let it go to your head. It isn't only you who is special. We are all special. My son is special too."

"Doesn't he speak?"

She shakes her head. "No, Remeny, he doesn't speak." Her lips are tight. "He doesn't have to."

They continue to drop the valuable liquid onto the bar. Now it seems to be going faster, for the liquid is making a small indentation in the smooth surface. It is easier to attack one particular spot. Less is falling to the ground.

I blink. Sure enough, the liquid is eating into the metal.

"Why can't you open that lock like you did the other one?"

Zivan pauses, tongue slightly out, as she delicately introduces more drops into the bar. Then she answers me. "The outer door has a normal lock. For thieves – good thieves – it presents little challenge. And we are singularly good thieves, my son and I. But the lock on this cell is different. It cannot be forced. I know that well."

I catch my breath. "You were held here?"

Her face darkens. I can see it even in the bad light. "I was. Six weeks. There is not a lot I couldn't tell you about this place." She looks around, her face suddenly grim. "About their customs."

I am staring. "Were you shackled to the wall all the time?"

"At night. For the first month."

I lick my lips. How did she survive?

She answers my unspoken question. "We all survived it," she says. "They know exactly how to ensure that we do. They have had plenty of practice. Luck – in the shape of my son – was what got me out of here. Nothing else has got any of us out of here. Until now. You will be the first."