City of Night - Chapter One

Pap. Pap. Pap.

Water dripped off Thislen’s dampened black hair, sliding down the coiled wet waves to land on the back of his hand. Each breath came in a ragged gasp. His head lolled. Beads of water coalesced and ran races down his bare chest, trailing around a mottled mess of bruises. His fingers, curled around the seat’s arms, tightened until they ached. His wrists chafed beneath the thick leather straps that held him fast.

Pap. Pap. Pap.

Lord Soren, Thislen’s captor, sighed heavily from where he leaned against the wall of the ship’s small cabin. His doublet, embroidered in silver thread, glittered in the low light of a single lantern overhead.

“I’m running out of patience, Garridan. Make him talk.”

Garridan Artaith dried his hands with a cloth, studying the heavy iron implements spread on his workbench. “I’m working on it.”

“If you go into another lecture on how torture is an art, I swear—”

“Soren, will you let me work?” Exasperation crept into the edges of Garridan’s words.

Soren lifted his hands with a shrug. He didn’t say another word.

They had argued before. In fact, they argued every night Soren came to watch his friend work. The esteemed Lord Bestant, high-ranking member of the Ruling Council, wanted answers from his cousin. He wanted to know Thislen’s lineage, how much he knew about the Bestants, their secrets, and the Vaim. He was most curious about what the pendants he’d stolen from Thislen and his friends were for. Therefore, wresting answers from the thief was Garridan’s priority.

Thislen hadn’t given them any.

“Now, don’t get me wrong, Thislen,” Garridan said. “I’m impressed you’ve lasted so long. Most people don’t.”

Twenty-seven days, Thislen thought. Nearly a moon passed in captivity in the bowels of Ship Artaith. Every night, the guards dragged him from his cell and Garridan ‘questioned’ him. It started with fists. Once his body was littered with bruises and he remained silent, Garridan stepped it up. He’d burned Thislen with hot irons, the black and red scabs of which cracked and bled on his side. Now, they were on to worse. Over and over, Garridan put clinging cloth over Thislen’s face, holding it tight and pouring water over it until he couldn’t breathe, until he was choking, until his lungs burned. He was drowning on land.

Thislen lived an unending nightmare—and not just of the flesh.

“Hold on, Thislen,” whispered a voice in his ear.

A shudder coursed down his spine. He lifted his dark gaze to the tortures of his mind. In the shadows, made darker by the swinging glow of the single lantern overhead, he could make out the half-formed figures of his personal ghosts. He couldn’t remember when they appeared, but now he saw them all the time.

Percivan Coppermund offered a sympathetic look, his black skin covered in dark red blood that still glittered as if it were wet. A bloom of crimson spread across his chest, staining his finely fitted doublet. More was smeared over his throat.

You died. I watched you die.

The long, claw-like fingers of the Vaim flashed in his memory. Percivan’s hands over the shadowy spirit’s, fingers interlaced like lovers a moment before they sank into his skin. Thislen remembered his eyes, staring sightlessly at the sky the next morning.

You died, so you can’t be here.

“I am.”

Percivan wasn’t alone, either. Vern, the sailor from the Bestant Belle, stood in the corner. He dripped water, soaked through, his hair plastered to his face. His lips and fingertips were blue. His gaze never faltered, accusing and quiet.

Thislen could almost hear his pleading, agonized question. Why?

Why are you even here? Anger warmed his shivering body as he scowled at the ghosts, dropping his head. Neither of them was the spirit he expected to see, the one he waited for.

Mila.

What happened to Mila?

His gaze drifted to his hand. He watched each drop of water burst apart against his skin. It was easier to hold on if he didn’t look at the affable round face of the nobleman before him, easier to stay quiet.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The scent of stale water and wet wood filled the air. The half full barrel beside the table sloshed, the bucket floating inside clunking against the edge; the cloth draped over its lip dripping.

“Garridan,” Soren said, drawing out the word.

“I know, I know.” Garridan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Seems his patience for his friend is running low. Not that it would help Thislen.

Garridan sighed heavily. “I thought you might be like this, Thislen.” He turned to his table.

“Use the pliers,” Soren suggested, leaning in.

“Not yet.”

“I don’t want to waste much more time on this. I have better things to do.” Soren tossed his golden curls.

“Leave me to it, then. I’ll let you know when he’s feeling talkative. I know what I’m doing, Soren.”

Soren folded his arms over his chest and made no move to leave. “Fine. Do it, then.”

Thislen fought a bitter smile. They’d take it the wrong way and redouble their efforts. He learned early the more miserable he looked, the slower things escalated. Every part of him ached or throbbed in time with his racing pulse.

Garridan took his time. The slow rise of panic in Thislen’s chest made the walls lean in, threatening to fall and crush him. His ragged breath caught in his chest, stuck beneath his sternum.

“Breathe, Thislen. Just breathe,” Percivan’s spirit urged softly.

Thislen forced himself to inhale.

“You’re leaving me no choice, you know. I’ve done my best to be kind, but clearly Soren’s patience is running out. Not just for you, either. For both of us.” The torturer held a pair of heavy iron pliers up to the light, inspecting them.

Soren’s eyes gleamed, an eager grin twisting his face into a mad mask.

“As much as I regret it, I’ll have to move on to other methods.”

“What, fists and water not working?” Thislen croaked, the words a hoarse but brazen challenge, “What a surprise. Maybe there’s nothing to learn.”

It was bravado, a desperate bluff—and we both know it. Thislen had precious little left inside him. Little hope. Little strength. He felt he might snap with the slightest push, as if he were a rope breaking one frayed fiber at a time. Another thread gave way with every blow, and he didn’t know how many were left. All it would take was a push in the right place and—

And there was no end in sight. The ship creaked around them, loud in the silence. Garridan savored each tool in his kit, running his fingers over them fondly. Spiked wheels, mallets, pliers, knives, irons in a bowl of coals.

Thislen’s heart pounded, as trapped beneath his ribs as he was in his chair. It was effective, the way Garridan wielded fear as another tool in his arsenal. The waiting, guessing, and anticipation were agonizing.

“At least you found Soren?” The ghost of Percivan crossed the room to study his murderer, who was oblivious to his presence.

He killed you, now he’s killing me. Thislen’s chest was aflame. How much water had he coughed up?

“You can survive. I believe in you.” Percivan forced a weak, worried smile.

Garridan chose his words delicately as he selected a small, round-headed hammer. He hefted it and held it up to the light. “You are being very brave—but it’s time for answers. I’ll ask you one last time before we get…serious.”

Thislen lifted his head. It took monumental effort, but he put on a show as he stuck out his chin and steadied his gaze.

How much longer can I hold out? The question had haunted him for days as he was pushed ever closer to that looming breaking point. He could feel it like a yawning precipice at his feet. How far would he fall?

Garridan sat on the table, foot swinging idly. He toyed with the hammer, spinning it, hefting it, testing his grip. “Did you truly steal a fishing boat with our guests?”

Tamsa and Aften are ‘guests’ the way I’m ‘family.’ The pair were prisoners, locked away, and the only reason they hadn’t been subjected to the same treatment as Thislen was because he hadn’t broken yet. They weren’t fisherfolk, as Tamsa claimed. They were the children of Rendyn Sivivan, head of the Night Council. That Night Council shouldn’t exist, because everyone knew no one could survive on the island of Astera at night. The Vaim would murder anyone left on land after the sun set—or so the stories went.

Thislen couldn’t break. The siblings sharing his cell would be as good as dead. He’d expose the existence of the Nattfolk, and they’d been kind to him and Mila. He couldn’t betray them. He couldn’t fail them.

Garridan leaned forward. “What were you and Mila Ominir trying to steal?”

Thislen stared at his hand. He pulled as much strength from this brief respite as he could. Whatever came next, it would hurt.

The vial. We were trying to steal the vial. A tiny bottle of a plague-like poison concocted by the court mage who created the Vaim hundreds of years ago.

“Your mother was Elena Bestant, my father’s second wife and Soren’s aunt, but I don’t know anything about your father. Tell me about him. What was his name?”

Thislen gritted his teeth. Not a word fell from his lips.

“He and Elena were in love?”

Silence.

“How did they meet?”

Like I’d tell you.

Garridan sighed heavily. “I really hate to do this.”

No, you don’t.

Soren smirked over Garridan’s shoulder as the torturer slid off the table, boots thudding on the wooden floor of the ship. He circled the chair, a thoughtful look on his face. Thislen squirmed.

The first blow came from behind. The round head of the hammer hit Thislen’s hip with a sickening crunch. A hoarse cry rent the air a moment before a wave of agony rolled over him and left him reeling in his seat. His head spun. His ears rang. His chest burned.

His hip was a blaze of pain radiating all the way through him.

“Tell me something, Thislen. At least confirm the story your friends told me. No? I’m sure they’ll be much easier to talk to than you are. Should I ask them?”

No! Cold dread in his stomach warred with the heat of spreading pain up his side and down his leg. Not Tamsa, not Aften. Don’t hurt them, please don’t hurt them.

Thislen failed to save Percivan Coppermund. He murdered Vern. He was helpless when they dragged Mila away. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t fail Tamsa and Aften. The lies Tamsa told when they were captured were the only thing protecting them. Soren Bestant and his two cronies believed they were useless nobodies.

If they were tortured, eventually they’d break and the Nattfolk would suffer. The Nattfolk were innocent and blissfully unaware of the curse of the Vaim, the ghost of Ninian Ominir, the vial, and the plan to steal it. They weren’t part of this. There were children in their underground city. There were elders.

Tamsa lied to protect her people, throwing him and Mila to the wolves in nobles’ clothing. Though Thislen fought not to care, he did.

I care about them because my friends care about them.

Little over a month ago, he didn’t have friends. Now, he would do anything for them. Including enduring weeks of torture.

The hammer came down again, and this time he saw it coming. His knee crackled beneath the metal. Sparks of pain arced through his body like lightning. He shouted hoarsely, leg spasming and only making it worse.

“Anything to say?” Garridan yanked Thislen’s head up by the hair.

The pain made him nauseous. Thislen knew he couldn’t take another blow. Not just for his bones, but for his sanity.

His tormentor let go and lifted the hammer again.

“Wait. Wait!” Thislen clutched at the arms of the chair until the wood bit into his fingers.

Garridan paused, a brow lifting. Without a word, he lowered the hammer and leaned against the table, arms folded. He looked for all the world like he was about to discuss the weather or what to have for tea. Soren, in contrast, leaned forward like a hound on a tether that caught a scent.

Thislen let the silence hang, his mind racing. He had to give something away—but whatever it was, it had to be good enough. Good enough to end this for the night. Good enough to save him.

Soren’s brow furrowed. He was running out of patience. Garridan glanced at his friend. It was perverse how soft and sympathetic his expression could be, as if the torturer actually had a heart. Garridan’s hand rested on the table beside the hammer, fingers stretching toward it in a silent threat.

“Linden. My father’s name was Linden.”

Thislen didn’t know why he chose that. Perhaps because it seemed safest. It was meaningless. Linden was dead, and the Ruling Council couldn’t hurt him. Lord Soren Bestant, Lord Judge Avasten Barnweir, and young Lord Garridan Artaith couldn’t reach him.

“Linden?” Soren scoffed.

“Linden what? What is your surname?” The table creaked as Garridan leaned forward.

The lantern light swung gently back and forth, back and forth with the waves. The ghosts stared intently from the shifting shadows, eyes boring into him. They waited.

Say it, a voice inside him urged.

Thislen’s name hovered on his lips—but that would give away too much of himself. He couldn’t do it.

“I don’t know his surname,” he lied. “My father gave me Elena’s so I could have a better future. He called me Thislen Bestant.”

“He can’t do that,” Soren snapped.

“He did it anyway. What does it matter? I don’t use it. I don’t use any surname.”

“Did he know?” Soren pushed away from the wall, pacing in front of Thislen. “When he met my aunt, did he know who she was?”

Thislen clenched his jaw, hollow gaze following the nobleman’s path. He couldn’t see why it mattered. He weighed his options, eyes fixed on the hammer as Garridan’s fingers played along the handle.

“Yes. He knew.”

Soren’s pacing stopped. He crossed the room and planted his hands over Thislen’s wrists, leaning in until his cloying perfume threatened to choke him. “How did they meet?”

“He never told me.”

Garridan dragged the metal head of the hammer across the table as he picked it up. Soren gave him room.

A spike of icy panic lanced through Thislen like a blow. “I swear, he never told me!”

Garridan tapped the head of the hammer on his palm thoughtfully, then nodded. “I believe him, Soren.”

Soren waved a hand dismissively. “Fine, then. Where is Linden now?”

This isn’t fair. He shifted in his seat, regretting it immediately as his hip and knee made their agony known again. He could still picture his father’s back as the man walked away, never to be seen again. He heard his own thin, reedy voice as a child calling after him. He didn’t want to tell these people about his pain, his loss.

He didn’t have a choice.

“Dead.” The word was empty and faint.

At least I still have the ring. He felt it, tucked into the heel of his boot, pressing into his skin. It was his treasure, the only thing his father left him. He’d been lucky they hadn’t taken off his shoes—yet. I should give it to Tamsa before they do.

“That seems like enough for one night, hm?” Garridan dropped the hammer among his tools with a clatter and a heavy clunk.

“I have more questions,” Soren said.

“You said if I told you something, we would stop. I told you plenty. This isn’t what you promised!” Thislen hated the desperate, pleading edge to his words. His stomach twisted in knots. I can’t take any more. I can’t do this.

Garridan shrugged, picking up a small knife. “Go ahead, Soren. Try something gentle now that he’s talking. One little question at a time, yes?”

Thislen’s breathing grew unsteady, a shudder running through him. After everything Garridan did with a cloth and a hammer, he didn’t want that knife anywhere near him.

Soren looked imperiously down his nose at his cousin, a brow raised. “Who told you about Percivan Coppermund?”

Percivan’s head shot up, staring at Soren’s back in surprise. The question summoned forth a sliver of memory. Thislen knew the nobleman for mere minutes. He lifted the other end of a rowboat, standing sweat-drenched in his fine clothes. “It’s getting dark, and I’ve missed my boat,” Percivan whispered in the back of Thislen’s mind.

Another memory—his hand wrapped around Thislen’s like a vice, hard enough to bruise. They stood at the water’s edge, one foot on the lip of the tiny vessel that would save them. The ghosts rose from the ground, boiling to life, and they knew. They knew it was too late.

Dark hands pressed into Percivan’s chest and throat while the black malformed shadow with its glowing red eyes cradled him close. Blood flowed dark and fast.

“Find Soren, he—” The words echoed in Thislen’s head.

Percivan’s ghost reached out, resting his hand on Thislen’s arm. It weighed nothing. He couldn’t feel it.

Thislen jerked away from the phantom, turning his gaze to the wall. He was trembling. You wanted me to find him, and I did. That’s how I got into this mess. What did you want? Did you think I could bring him to justice? Look how well that turned out.

“I’m sorry,” Percivan whispered. His presence didn’t diminish.

What else can I do?

Pressure drew along his side, followed by the sensation of warm, sticky liquid running down his skin. The searing pain came after. Thislen shouted, twisting in his bonds as much as they allowed.

Garridan held up the knife, the edge now stained with blood. “Who told you about Percivan Coppermund?” he repeated.

“Percivan,” Thislen gasped. “Percivan told me himself, before the Vaim killed him. He told me about Soren.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. A pang of guilt ran through him. The truth was, he had snuck aboard Soren’s ship, the Bestant Belle, in the night and listened as he bragged about the murder with his co-conspirators.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Garridan smiled, leaning in to pat his prisoner’s cheek.

Thislen’s chest heaved. He turned and vomited water and bile. No more, please. Ancestors, save me.

His silent prayer was answered by a knock at the door. Garridan frowned, setting the knife down to open it.

“Are you two done yet?” Thislen recognized the oil-slick voice of Avasten Barnweir. He hadn’t come to watch the proceedings often, but he always came to end them.

It was over.

For tonight.