Cold Magics (10 page)

The priest turned to go. “Leave him there.”

The guards let him go and stepped away. Thomas, now truly desperate, called out, “Stop!”

The priest turned back. Thomas did his best to straighten up against the pain. “I am a student of the Royal Academy of Learning. My arrest was illegal, my detainment is illegal. A representative of the king will come for me.”

“We have had students here before,” said the priest. “It takes a long time before one of them rates notice from the king.”

“He will be here in a day,” said Thomas. “And it would not look good on you if, during my illegal detainment, you allowed me to soil myself.”

“Ah,” said the priest. “Tell me something truthful and I will let you go.”

“I have said nothing but the truth,” said Thomas, keeping as much desperation out of his voice as possible.

The little priest shrugged and turned away. The guards followed him out and closed the door. Night had fallen, and Thomas was left standing, chained to the middle of the floor, in the pitch darkness.

***

The sound of footsteps in the hallway woke Thomas.

He had no idea what time it was, save that there was some light once more. He guessed the ground level window outside would not see direct sunlight until later in the morning, and that it would take a long time before the light was strong enough to break the gloom of Thomas’s cell.

Thomas lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the footsteps come closer. His feet were still chained to the ring, his arms crushed underneath him. He had tried to hold his bladder, but his body’s need for release had won out in the end. Now he lay, wet and cold and stinking, hoping someone would come and get him before his bowels gave way as well.

It had been a tactic, Thomas knew. By making him lose control of his body, they hoped to humiliate him and make him break down. It had worked partially. He was certainly feeling humiliated and very sorry for himself, but he was not going to break down. Not from this.

He wondered if they were going to torture him.

The footsteps stopped outside his cell. The door opened a moment later and two church guards entered. They each took a side and grabbed his arms. Pain ripped through limbs that Thomas had thought were numb, and he cried out. The guards said nothing as they pulled him to his feet, catching him when his legs buckled and holding him in place until he was steady. Two more guards brought in the same desk and chair, followed by the same priest holding his lamp and a sheaf of papers. The two holding Thomas released him, then all four guards lined up behind the priest, staring at Thomas. The priest sat down at the desk and began leafing through the pile of papers—his notes from the day before. He took a long time, perusing each page slowly.

Thomas’s mouth was dry. His belly was rumbling loudly, and lower in his guts he felt stirring.

“Give him water,” said the priest.

One of the guards stepped out of the cell and came back with a pitcher of water. Two guards held Thomas in place, while a third stepped behind him and held his head.

“You will drink every drop,” said the priest without looking up from his papers. “If you do not, they will hold your nose shut until you do.”

Thomas, still chained to the ring in the floor and with no way to fight, did as he was told. He would wet himself again, he knew; like an infant, unable to do anything about it. The humiliation set his cheeks on fire.

When the pitcher was empty, all four guards lined up behind the priest again, staring at him.

They’re here to watch me lose control of my water again,
Thomas realized,
and my bowels.
He hoped he would not, prayed he would not, but knew he was not likely to manage.
I won’t let them win. I won’t. I won’t tell them what they want.

Someone will come for me.

The priest kept reading and the moments stretched by. Thomas kept himself still, listening to his breath and all the other sounds around him. He could hear the breathing of the guards and of the priest. The rattling of the papers became as loud as thunder to his ears.

“Name,” said the priest, and the whole thing began again.

***

The first question about Bishop Malloy didn’t come until after Thomas had soiled himself. No one said anything when it happened. The guards maintained blank expressions, watching him cramp and cry out until his body betrayed him. Thomas found himself crouched on the floor, crying with pain and shame.

The priest asked something. Thomas ignored it. A moment later, two of the guards stepped forward and pulled him upright again. Thomas felt the tears flowing down his face and brushed his cheeks against his shoulders to wipe them dry. It only partially worked and it made the pain flare in his arms.

“Why did you kill Bishop Malloy?” said the priest.

Thomas glared at the man, wondering just how much lightning he could summon.

“Why did you kill Bishop Malloy?”

He could probably kill the priest, but it was unlikely he could kill the guards. Even if he did manage to kill all five, it would be proof of magic, which they would call proof of witchcraft.

“Why did you kill Bishop Malloy?”

Not worth it. Not yet.
Thomas took a deep breath, shoved his feelings inside, and said, “He was killing children.”

“How did Bishop Malloy die?”

“Badly.”

The priest paused, looked up. The guards suddenly looked more attentive, and Thomas instantly regretted his answer. It had been a petty act, but he had wanted to lash out and it was all he had. Now the guards’ stares had changed, taken on a much darker meaning. Their feet shifted, and Thomas saw hands tightening into fists.

They can beat me to death,
thought Thomas.
I can’t do anything to stop them.

The priest wrote for a moment. “How did you kill Bishop Malloy?”

Thomas’s knees nearly buckled in relief. “I stabbed him.”

“Was it then that Alexander used witchcraft?”

“Alexander never used witchcraft.”

“When did George use witchcraft?”

“George never used witchcraft.”

“Who used witchcraft?”

“Bishop Malloy.”

“Who used it against Bishop Malloy’s men?”

“No one used witchcraft against Bishop Malloy’s men.”

There was another pause. The priest wrote a long note on his paper, then asked, “What is your name?”

Thomas forced himself not to scream. The priest took him through all the questions again, then again, adding new and different ones with each repetition of the series, and constantly going back to Bishop Malloy’s death.

The man never once used the word magic.

It probably never occurred to him that it’s different than witchcraft.
And because the man had only asked about witchcraft and not magic, Thomas could honestly answer that he’d never used it.
Thank the Four for small mercies.

The inquisitor finally stood. There was no sunlight coming through the tiny window anymore. Thomas’s legs were shaking, his arms numb again. His mouth was dry from talking and from breathing through it to avoid his own smell. The priest stared at him for a bit, his face bland and expressionless. Thomas met the man’s eyes. He pretended there were no tear streaks on his face, no patches of wet or filth in his clothes.

“Tomorrow I will ask you again,” said the priest. “If you do not answer truthfully, I will have George and Alexander arrested.”

“You can’t!” protested Thomas. “They haven’t done anything!”

“Someone in your party used witchcraft. They used it on Bishop Malloy’s guards and they used it on the bishop. If it was not you, it was one of your friends.”

“None of us used witchcraft!”

“Then your friends will say the same.”

“Leave them alone!”

“They will answer all questions truthfully,” said the priest. “If they do not answer truthfully, they will receive the same treatment as you. If they do not answer by the third day, more serious measures will be taken. You will remain here, gagged, to listen.”

“They didn’t do anything! You can’t do this! I am protected by law!”

“Not in matters of witchcraft.”

“In all matters! I am the king’s student and I am under his protection! Everything that you have done is illegal! You can’t arrest my friends!”

The priest shrugged. “Answer the questions truthfully tomorrow, and we will not.” He turned and left, the guards following him out.

“I answered truthfully!” Thomas screamed after them. “I did!”

He swallowed the stream of profanity that he wanted to hurl at the priest; swallowed the lightning he wanted to throw from his fingers. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees. His own smell hung in the cell, nearly unbearable. He was wet and filthy and thoroughly humiliated.

Worse, on top of all his pain and misery, he envisioned George and Eileen under the same scrutiny, getting asked the same questions. They were not law students. They didn’t know how their words could be twisted, how the slightest change in wording could be used against them. The thought of Eileen, alone, scared, and chained to the floor, terrified Thomas beyond anything they could do to him.

He stayed on his knees, determined not to sit or lie down in his own filth. He focused again on his breathing, and on the world around him. For the most part, he could hear nothing. But distantly he caught the sound of footsteps or voices—far-off and unintelligible, but voices nonetheless. Every sound reminded him he was not alone, that he had friends, and that, eventually, someone would come for him.

The cell was pitch black, the last light of the day long-faded, when Thomas heard something new.

The sound grew louder, closer. It was the tread of many feet and the din of many voices. The feet were not marching in a single, locked step, as an army would do. Instead, it was the tread of a hundred or more individuals, all heading in the same direction.

Torchlight, pale and yellow, slipped into his cell as the sounds grew closer. There were too many voices for Thomas to guess at their numbers, but they were growing louder with every passing moment.

A new sound: horses’ hooves striking the paving stones. This time there was a rhythm to them—the synchronized trot of trained cavalry. Shouted commands rose over the noise of the crowd for a moment, but the crowd roared back in a huge cacophony of dissent. There were more shouts, then a chant which began almost indistinguishably and grew louder, until it filled Thomas’s ears.

“Free him! Free him! Free him!”

Me,
Thomas thought, and felt tears on his face again.
They’re talking about me.

A single voice rose up in the crowd, and there were calls of “Quiet!” and “Silence!” until the crowd stilled and that single voice was all he could hear.

Henry
. Thomas started to sob with relief.

“Whereas, by taking this student from his apartments without warrant, by confining him without notice to the authorities of the Academy, or to the authorities of the king, you have grievously and shamefully abused the law. And whereas this is the second outrage committed upon the student body of the Royal Academy of Learning this year, and whereas you have ignored requests from the Principal of the Academy, the Master of Laws, and the Chancellor of his Royal Highness to free this prisoner, we demand his release!”

The crowd roared, and the chants of “Free him!” sounded again, louder and louder. Thomas heard shouted commands and the shifting of horses, but no sound of riot.

Keys rattled. The door of his cell was flung open and four guards came in. Without a word, they seized Thomas’s arms and hauled him to his feet. He cried out in agony. One guard knelt and undid the manacles around Thomas’s ankles. The guard stood and, without a change of expression, hit Thomas hard in the stomach.

All the air whooshed out of Thomas’s lungs and he doubled over. Two of the guards grabbed his arms and forced them high over his head, then marched him out of the cell in that bent position. The pain was excruciating. They took Thomas back up the stairs and through the hall to the front door. Thomas could see only the floor, but the voices grew louder with every step he took.

When the guards stopped and pulled him upright, he was in the foyer of the building. Three rows of guards stood in front of them, facing the shut and barred doors. Before them stood the priest who had interrogated Thomas and a man in the robes of a bishop. Neither looked particularly happy.

The guards pushed Thomas down to his knees.

“This is the one, then?” said the bishop.

“He is,” said the priest.

Thomas forced himself to look up, to meet the bishop’s eyes. The man’s nose crinkled as he caught his first smell of Thomas. His eyes narrowed, looking him up and down. “Are you certain?”

“Bishop Malloy pursued him from Elmvale to the city. He was present at the death of Bishop Malloy and his men. He had books of witchcraft in his apartments.”

Magic, Thomas wanted to say. It was magic, not witchcraft.

“And you believe he used witchcraft against Bishop Malloy?”

“He or his companions,” said the inquisitor. “He did have the books.”

“And who shared this apartment with him?”

“Henry, youngest lord of Frostmire. Currently outside demanding his release. And recently a young man named Alexander. The young man’s father and brother arrived in town two days ago to take Alexander back home. Alexander and the brother were with this one when he killed Bishop Malloy.”

“Do we know where they are now?”

“No, Bishop. They vanished into the city after this one was arrested.”

Thank the Four
, thought Thomas.

The sound of whistles joined the cacophony outside.

The door opened, the noise level rising sharply and then falling once a guard stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “The watch has arrived, Bishop,” he said. “The students are preparing to fight them.”