Craf?
Just then the secret door opened and Rhin walked back in, shadowed by Conall. She marched to the pot and threw something in. A herbal smell wafted out, and an acrid steam rose.
‘Hold the pot close to him,’ she ordered Conall and Braith. They carried it by an iron spit and held it close. He tried to kick at it but his shackles stopped him. The steam floated about his face, curling into his mouth, his nose, stinging his eyes. He clamped his mouth shut and held his breath.
‘He’s stubborn,’ Rhin said, a smile twitching her lips.
Corban’s lungs started to burn, the beating of his heart growing louder in his head. Eventually he took a breath, throwing his head around, trying to disperse the steam. It didn’t work. He had a bitter taste at the back of his throat, closely followed by a sense of warmth radiating from his chest, seeping through his body. He felt more relaxed than he could remember.
‘There we are,’ Rhin said. ‘Take the pot away. Corban, look at me.’
He felt his head swing up and stared at her.
‘Good boy,’ Rhin said. ‘Now, tell me. Where is Edana?’
He clamped his mouth shut, resolving to tell her nothing. He had taken Conall’s beating before, concentrating as Gar had taught him in the sword dance, clearing his mind. He would take it again, and tell Rhin nothing.
‘In Domhain, with Rath’s warband,’ he heard a voice say. His own. Rhin chuckled.
She asked him question after question, and each time he heard his own voice respond, like a betrayer wrapped within his own body. She went through his family, asked about his friends. He heard himself speak of Gar, tell of his curved sword, his skill in combat, of Dath and Farrell, finally of Coralen.
Rhin paused from her questioning, just studied him long moments. ‘All very nice, but what makes you so interesting to Nathair. Why are you considered so special?’ she mused.
‘Gar says I’m the Seren Disglair,’ he heard himself say.
Rhin grabbed his chin, her grip surprisingly strong, and looked into his eyes, studying him. ‘Repeat that,’ she ordered.
He did.
Her eyes grew wide and she released him. ‘Can it be?’ she murmured, excited. She looked scared as well.
She paced the room, looking in heavy thought. ‘There is only one way to know for certain,’ she said to herself. She ordered the pot hung over the fire again and left the room. By the time the water was bubbling she was back. She threw something else in, the steam turned black and smelled of sweet rot.
‘Hold the pot close to him,’ she said, dragging a chair over to Corban. ‘Make sure that we both receive the fumes.’ She drew a knife from her belt and cut Corban, a red line on his arm. Then she licked his blood, smeared it over her lips and whispered words unrecognizable to him.
‘We shall both sleep – see that nothing wakes us.’
Then the pot was boiling, steam hissing from it, swirling about them both. Again Corban tried to hold his breath, to turn away, but he could not avoid the steam as it snaked its way inside him. Then his vision was dimming, darkness closing in.
Corban looked around. A world of grey surrounded him, the ground, coated in mist, the sky, thick iron-coloured cloud.
I have been here before. In my dreams. He felt a shiver of fear as the memory of those dreams flooded his mind: a kaleidoscope of images, mist-shrouded landscapes, fierce-eyed warriors.
Something tugged at his arm, a scarlet cord. Someone held it, a woman, fierce and beautiful, black hair cascading like a dark river about her shoulders. She smiled at him and he recognized the twist of her lips.
Rhin.
‘This way,’ she said, tugging at the cord again. He went after her, the mist parting around their feet. He tried to resist, but found that he couldn’t.
They followed a river, its waters black, its course straight. Occasionally something moved in it, broad and sinuous, intimating a great mass hidden beneath the surface.
In the distance a shape appeared, materializing out of the mist. A mountain, casting a long shadow. Something was hidden in the darkness: the outline of a great building built into its embrace.