Tempest (15 page)

He collected his things and made his way back upstairs, relieved to find the door open and the room vacated. The air still smelled faintly of sex, but Colm was too tired now even to feel jealous. He hung the drawers up to dry, stripped nude again with a sigh of relief and lay down under his softest blanket. He was asleep in moments.

Chapter Eleven

The amount of silver Colm got for his troubles over the moon discs was worth the price of the sting, Megg's subsequent fussing after he woke up later that afternoon and Lew's complaints over the creatures being butchered right there in the boat. According to a jubilant Carroll, the head of the king's own kitchens had come down to view the catch for herself and purchased the lot of them. This made Carroll the envy of all other fishmongers and set tongues to wagging over his exclusive deal with the
Serpent's Tail
, and how unfair it was that Lew and Colm managed to do as well as they did yet didn't spread the largesse around to the rest of them.

It would have all been fine, most likely, a case of envy quickly forgotten in the wake of new gossip, if it hadn't been for Lew's mouth. Colm split the money for the jellies with him. That was the deal, even when Lew had absolutely no hand in doing the work. It was a princely sum and inspired Lew to spend it on some of the finest spirits he could find, in a tavern that catered to members of the clergy and high-ranking military officers.

It wasn't that Lew hadn't drunkenly ranted about Colm's knack before. He had simply never done so in front of the clergy. They, unlike the dock workers and fishermen and sailors, weren't so quick to brush Lew's claims aside.

The consequence for Colm was that on the morning that marked his three-month anniversary in Caithmor, he'd no sooner set foot inside the
Serpent's Tail
than two men, members of the city watch judging by their uniforms, walked over to his berth. They carried thick oak cudgels much like Vernon's in their belts, and their expressions were stern. One of them stepped forward.

“Are you Colm Weathercliff?” he asked.

“I am,” Colm said, looking hesitantly between the two of them. “What can I do for you?”

“By the authority of King Iarra and the Church of the Blessed Four, you are to come with us for questioning in the matter of an illegal use of magic.”

Illegal use of… Colm wanted to smack himself on the head. Even more, he wanted to smack Lew on the head. “Did Lew Gullfoot send you to speak to me?” he asked as he stepped out of the boat. The men flanked him immediately, each one grabbing an arm.

“Accusations have been made about you that need to be verified,” the watchman said.
Verified
, Colm thought with a distracted sort of panic,
not proven false.

“Where are we going?”

“To those who can question you properly.”

“Wait, I have to tell my aunt,” Colm said. The men kept him moving, down the cobblestones and toward the more populated part of the docks. People he knew were looking at him now, and the expressions on their faces ranged from shocked to curious to smugly satisfied. “Wait, please! I need to tell my aunt, she runs the Cove, the inn, it won't take but a moment—”

“Your family will be informed of your arrest later,” the watchman said. “The magistrate may ask them to testify on your behalf at your trial.”

“Trial, what trial?” Colm exclaimed. “I've done nothing wrong, I don't work magic! Please, listen to—”

The watchman stopped in his tracks and yanked Colm around to face him. “You keep up with this ruckus, my lad,” he snarled, the professional distance in his voice completely given way to menace, “and I'll arrange for a stop that's not your aunt's inn but will surely shut you up better before we make our way to the Ardeaglais. Understand me?”

“Yes,” Colm whispered, so frightened that he could barely force his numb lips to speak. The watchman nodded, and the two of them marched him on and on, until the cathedral took shape through the press of the streets.

Why the cathedral? Why not the chambers of a magistrate in the King's Hall of Justice? Colm wanted to ask but didn't dare, and the men hustled him past the milling worshippers and staring priests outside the enormous vaulted prayer room, and into a small stone hallway that was so narrow one of the men had to walk behind him instead of beside. At the end of the hallway was a staircase leading down, where the air was cool instead of hot, but stank of mold.

At the bottom of the stairs was a small round vestibule lit by a smoky torch, with three separate doors leading out from it. Two of them were bolted shut, but one was open, and it was into that room that Colm was pushed, hard enough to send him sprawling, by the watchman.

“This is where you stay until Honored Srain has time to deal with you,” the watchman said, closing the door and sliding the bolt closed. There was only a small metal grate to let in light. Otherwise, the door was solid iron, and there were no windows this deep underground.

The two men left, and Colm was so scared, he almost called out to them not to leave him here alone, actually opened his mouth to do so, but the words stuck in his dry throat, leaving him coughing and incoherent. The watchmen were gone by then, and Colm stood stock-still in the small square of flickering light that he was allowed, and tried to remember to breathe as spots floated across his vision. Panic. This had to be what panic felt like.

You won't be here long,
he told himself, trying to muster some belief in it.
They wouldn't leave you here forever. Megg and Nichol will be looking for you. They'll hear of it. They'll do something. Jaime's father is a magistrate; surely he can help.
Because truly, magic? From Colm? He didn't even like the feeling it sent through his head when Honored Gherick had blessed him back in Anneslea. There was no way he could tolerate using magic, especially not for something as ridiculously simple as fishing.

The torch seemed to be guttering. The light flicked and flared in one moment, then practically vanished in the next. Colm stared at it with a sense of desperation, willing it silently not to go out. He didn't realize he was biting his lip until the flare almost extinguished, and the sudden pain broke through his paralysis. A trickle of warm blood crawled down his chin, but Colm ignored it, focused on the torch.
No, stay, stay…
but at last there was nothing left to burn. The light went out, the cell was submerged in darkness, and in that moment, Colm felt it as a physical thing, as thick as water and just as likely to drown him.

Colm forced a breath through his lungs, then another, cold and damp and dark, and he shut his eyes. With his eyes shut, it was easier to pretend that he wasn't standing in a pool of blackness so complete he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. From one of the other cells, Colm heard the rattle of a chain and a low, rich burst of laughter. “It doesn't get any better, boy,” a voice said, far too coherent to be real in this hellish place. That was the end of what Colm could take. His lungs froze, his legs collapsed, and Colm's conscious mind simply set, like the blazing sun entering the water. Doused, out, done.

Colm didn't notice the reappearance of the light, or the opening of his cell door. He didn't notice anything until a warm hand touched his face, reigniting his thoughts enough to stir him to open his eyes.

A priest stood above him, his heavy jowls wobbling as he straightened up. “There you are. Had you already given over to despair? Honestly, you were here but four short hours, Colm Weathercliff.” The priest sat down on a padded stool that had been placed in the entryway of his cell. Strong, bright torchlight shone from behind him, turning the priest into a silhouette. A guard stood several feet behind him.

“Sit up,” the priest instructed. Colm pushed himself to a sitting position, half his face feeling rough and chilled after prolonged contact with the floor. He didn't even remember falling. “There, that looks more comfortable. You must be thirsty.” He handed over a pewter chalice filled with water, and Colm drank until it was empty. The priest extended his hand, and Colm passed the chalice back to him.

“Well, now. I hope that together, you and I will be able to get to the heart of this matter quickly,” the priest said. His voice was kind. “I am Honored Srain, the chief inquisitor for our glorious Ardeaglais and the Holy Four in this great city. I find the truth, Colm Weathercliff, the truths that men and women, and even children, try to hide from the sight of the gods. The use of magic for anything other than worship is a vile, savage practice, and I can see that you are no savage.” He folded his hands in his lap and leaned forward slightly. “But there are those who say you do things beyond a normal man's abilities. That you seek to enrich yourself by using vile, illegal magic at the expense of your comrades. And that would be a truly savage thing to do. So tell me, Colm Weathercliff. Are you a savage?”

“No,” Colm whispered, then said more firmly, “No.”

“Then tell me how you, a newcomer to this city and the ways of the sea, can out-fish the rest of your entire industry. You seem to know where to be for the best, the rarest of catches. How do you do it?”

“It's not magic,” Colm said. “I don't know any magic. The fishing, I simply have a knack for it.”

“A knack,” Honored Srain said tonelessly. “A
knack
, you say. Where did you learn this knack? Does using it require you to speak words, to offer up invocations?”

“Not at all,” Colm replied. “I was born with the ability, as far as I know. I've always been able to sense the fish.”

“Just fish?”

“Everything on the water,” Colm clarified. “The movements of boats, the swell of the waves… It doesn't extend indefinitely, but it works for a ways out. All I do is put my hand in the water and concentrate.”

“That is quite the
knack
, my son,” Honored Srain said. “Very helpful, I'm sure. And precisely as your master Lew Gullfoot has described what you do, although he himself called it magic.”

“It isn't—”

“I'm more inclined to believe you, though,” Honored Srain broke in smoothly. “A fine young man like you, trying to live his life and make money for his family. Not an old drunk pickling his brains with spirits. Tell me, what does your father do?”

“While he lived he was a farmer, and a fisherman.”

“But not from here.”

“Originally, I think, from here,” Colm said cautiously. “But he raised me in the mountains beyond Isealea.”

“And your mother?”

Colm swallowed. “I never knew her. He never spoke of her.”

“
In
teresting,” Honored Srain said. “Did she leave you, then?”

“She died.” Colm's father had never said that, specifically, but Colm knew it had to be true.

“And you know nothing about her? Not her name, not her origins…nothing?”

“No.”

“Shame. That might have sped things up. Still, your account matches your aunt's.” Honored Srain smiled gently. “You're an honest young man, Colm Weathercliff.”

Colm straightened up anxiously. “You've spoken with Megg?”

“Naturally. She's very concerned about you. But as long as you're not hiding anything from me, you have nothing to fear. Now.” Honored Srain rubbed his hands together. “There is a test we can do, a simple test, to detect whether or not you've used magic. Some mages have ways of getting around this test, but I don't think you're as duplicitous as that.” A blue spark began to play across his palms, spreading like a storm down his fingers. “If all goes well, you'll feel nothing more than a tingle. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Colm kept his eyes on Honored Srain as his glowing blue hands reached for his face. He had nothing to hide. The priest's fingers made contact with Colm's temples—

Lightning spiked through his head, turning his vision white and throwing him backwards. Colm felt himself convulse but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt the hardness of the stone and the way it scraped his skin, he heard Honored Srain shouting at the guard, but all he knew was white heat and pain like a thousand moon disc stings rendering his body rigid and helpless.

Freezing-cold water splashed against his face, snapping Colm out of the cycle of rapid-fire tension and release. He spluttered and gasped, then felt a hard hand twist his face upward.

“It seems that you're a liar after all, Colm Weathercliff,” the priest said grimly. “I shall pry the truth from you, though.” He pressed his fingers into the fresh welt on the side of Colm's head. “What kind of magic do you do?”

“I d-d-don't, I don't know any m-magic,” Colm managed. Honored Srain scowled, and the blue glow began to creep over his free hand again.

“Let us try this again,” he said. “And think carefully about your next answer while you're writhing on the floor.” He touched the base of Colm's neck, and the pain shattered his vocal cords, made his neck stretch so tight that Colm felt sure that the bones would snap before he could recover.

More water splashed down, quelling the pain but bringing him back into Honored Srain's focus. “What kind of magic do you do?”

More pain, this time curling his fingers into claws.

“Where did you learn to do magic?”

Right in the center of his stomach this time, making his guts clench and cramp uncontrollably. Colm vomited the water he'd drunk onto the floor.

“Who is your master in magic?”

The touch to the soles of his feet was somehow the most agonizing yet, needles set on fire and shoved deep, too deep to draw out. Colm screamed and screamed, unable to press them to the cool wall to relieve the burn because the pressure was too excruciating to bear. Finally, it came to an end, and Honored Srain shook his head.

“This will go on for as long as I feel it takes for you to tell me the truth, Colm Weathercliff. Your protestations of innocence… They're meaningless in the face of such obvious proof, do you understand? This spell wouldn't hurt you if you were what you say. Confess, and let it ease the pain of your soul and body. Tell me about your magic.”