Cléa entered carrying a tray of food. On it lay some bread, a piece of cheese, and a bowl of soup still steaming. Vaunn appeared at once. He caught her before she had time to react and pressed a hand over her mouth.

  “Don’t make a sound.”

  She nodded, and he removed his hand.

  “What is happening here?”

  “Nothing,” the young woman said, lowering her eyes.

  Vaunn released his grip. She collapsed to the floor and began to cry. He knelt beside her and helped her up, guiding her to the bed, where she sat on the edge, still trembling.

  “I have to return to my duties. I’ll be punished if I stay here too long.”

  “We’ll talk tonight, when you bring me dinner.”

  Vaunn held out a handkerchief. She took it, nearly let it slip, blew her nose, then crumpled it in her fingers before standing and heading for the door. She took a few steps, almost stumbled, pressed a hand against the wall, and left the room.

  *****

  Three knocks echoed against the door. It opened, and a man entered. He wore a dark robe cinched at the waist, the hood thrown back to reveal short-cropped brown hair. His pale, gaunt face was lined with deep wrinkles around the mouth, and his dark eyes swept across the room.

  “Good evening. We have some fine goulash.”

  He set the plate down on the table.

  “Is Cléa doing well? I thought she would be serving me.”

  “She was supposed to,” the monk replied. “But she wasn’t feeling well this afternoon. The physician told her to rest.”

  “I see.”

  “She’ll return to duty tomorrow, if she’s feeling better.”

  “I hope it’s nothing serious,” Vaunn said.

  “I hope so too,” the man replied. “Enjoy your meal.”

  He then walked away and closed the door behind him. Vaunn picked up the plate. A sharp, overpowering scent of spices rose from it, stinging his nostrils. He crossed the room and emptied the meal into the sink before pouring a little water over it.

  *****

  Muffled whispers reached him from the corridor. Vaunn rose and glanced toward the entrance; several shadows took shape there. He slipped a hand beneath the pillow and drew out a dagger, then positioned himself in the corner, just behind the door.

  The wood creaked softly as it opened a crack. Seven figures slipped inside, each holding a dagger or a sword.

  One of them whispered:

  “Search the room. With the goulash, he couldn’t have gone far.”

  The monks spread through the chamber, rifling through the bed and the wardrobe. One of them opened a bag set against the wall and pulled out a vial.

  “I found this.”

  Gale snatched it, removed the stopper, and brought it to his nose.

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  “Ryrne blood. Find him. Now.”

  A man grabbed the handle and pushed the door. His gaze met Vaunn’s. He opened his mouth to speak, but the dagger drove into his eye. The man reeled backward and collapsed onto the floor.

  Three monks immediately blocked Vaunn’s path. Vaunn pulled a red vial from his pocket and swallowed it. His heart began to pound violently, hammering against his chest.

  He lunged at the first monk and slit his throat. The other two rushed him. He spun, struck, and one of them went down. The third stumbled in his cloak, and Vaunn kicked him hard in the jaw.

  “Cloaks really aren’t practical for fighting,” he said, looking at Gale.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Gale shouted, furious.

  Gale shoved a monk toward Vaunn. The man screamed and raised his sword above his head. Vaunn drew a knife and threw it; the blade sank straight into the monk’s heart. He collapsed. Vaunn hurled a second blade. It cut through the air, but missed Gale and buried itself in the wall. Gale had already fled; his footsteps were fading down the corridor.

  A sudden heat flooded Vaunn. He turned and saw the hilt of a dagger embedded in his side; a monk stood behind him. The man struck again, driving a blow into Vaunn’s stomach that doubled him over.

  Vaunn reacted at once. He threw his dagger; the blade sank into the man’s hand.

  “Bastard. I’ll tear your throat out.”

  Vaunn plunged a hand into his pocket, pulled out a yellow vial, and swallowed it. His veins immediately began to swell.

  Vaunn slammed the monk’s head with the flat of his palm. It burst with a dull crack, and the body was hurled backward into the wall. Fragments fell against the stone.

  Already, Vaunn was charging down the corridor. He ran until he was out of breath, his lungs burning. He burst onto a staircase.

  Dozens of monks crowded the steps, lined up and motionless for a brief moment. Then, with a sharp clatter, they raised vials to their lips. The liquid vanished down their throats, and they rushed him.

  Vaunn leapt over the railing, and the void opened beneath him. He fell more than three meters before crashing to the ground. A searing pain shot up his leg, followed by a crack. He clenched his teeth, breath ragged, and forced himself to stand. His leg refused to obey, and he struggled not to collapse. He staggered forward, each step sending waves of pain that blurred his vision.

  A sharp whistling suddenly cut through the air. Three arrows struck him almost at the same time, piercing his abdomen. The impact made him reel. He brought a trembling hand to his stomach as the air left his lungs and the world swayed around him.

  *****

  Vaunn opened his eyes. The world was nothing but a blurred mass, drowned in a stifling gloom that made his skull throb. Shapes warped, drawing closer and then drifting away.

  “You’re finally coming around,” Gale said with a smile.

  Vaunn tried to sit up, but a brutal resistance stopped him. He looked down. His wrists were bound in chains, as were his ankles. The slightest movement made them scrape together with a metallic clatter that drilled into his temples.

  He turned his head and then made out a table set against the wall. Upon it lay carefully arranged instruments: thick-jawed pincers, curved hooks, narrow blades still dulled by old dark stains, long, slender needles.

  In one corner of the room, half swallowed by shadow, stood a hunchbacked man. His silhouette was twisted, his face disfigured.

  Gale stepped closer, then his hand struck Vaunn across the face. The blow cracked sharply, snapping his head to the side. A burning heat spread across his cheek as the taste of blood filled his mouth.

  “What did you come here for?”

  “I am a traveler,” Vaunn said.

  Gale lowered his hand. The crippled man left the corner of the room and approached, dragging his leg. As he drew closer, Vaunn saw his face more clearly: one eye gouged out, sunk deep into its socket, and deep scars that twisted his features. He took a whip from the table. The leather slid through his fingers as he positioned himself before Vaunn. Then the whip sliced through the air.

  The first strike lashed across his body with a sharp crack, followed by a second, then a third. Pain exploded with each impact, tearing a cry from Vaunn that he could not suppress.

  Gale watched the scene, impassive, before speaking again.

  “How did you find those vials?” he asked.

  Vaunn did not answer.

  “Dar, I’ll leave him to you.”

  “With pleasure, Master Gale.”

  Gale turned on his heel and left the room. The crippled man turned away, took a pair of pincers from the table, then came back toward Vaunn. He tilted his head to the side and smiled.

  “This is your last chance to tell me everything.”

  Vaunn spat in the cripple’s face. The man burst out laughing as he wiped his cheek.

  “I’m glad. I’ll get to play with you.”

  He seized Vaunn’s hand and set the pincers between the nail of his middle finger and the flesh. A moment later, he pulled. Vaunn screamed, his body wracked with spasms as tears welled despite himself.

  “I hope you don’t die too quickly.”