Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [165]
‘The tragedy is,’ Briana said, ‘that he genuinely believes what he’s saying.’
The prisoner shook his head again.
‘He was part of what the Unmer called their Branch Evaluation and Reintegration Programme,’ Briana said, ‘one of three thousand workers, tasked with altering aberrant “low entropy states”. Ask him how he accomplished this.’
‘There was nothing immoral about it,’ the Unmer man said.
‘Then tell her.’
The man shrugged. ‘We drowned people.’
Ianthe stared at him.
‘Thousands of people,’ Briana said. ‘They were experimenting with brine long before they dumped all those bottles in the seas.’
The man gave a bitter smile. ‘Brine is simply a medium for reworking dangerously retarded entropic states. Would you rather we extinguished you altogether?’ He looked down wistfully at his bound hands and feet. ‘And this is how you reward our restraint? With imprisonment, torture and degradation? That’s the difference between us. You lock up everything that threatens you. We set it free.’
Ianthe felt Briana’s hands on her shoulders. The witch leaned close and whispered, ‘Picture a fork behind his eyes.’
But Ianthe couldn’t. The prisoner’s frank admissions had provoked the anger that Briana had doubtlessly intended, and yet those feelings weren’t directed at him. They were directed at herself. She had allowed herself to pity the young Unmer prince in the palace dungeons, to be fooled by his beauty, to spend so many waking moments thinking about him. And now she felt betrayed and humiliated by a man she’d never even met. She closed her eyes and let the world’s perceptions flood into the darkness around her.
And she could see the dungeons down there through the eyes of the Unmer, the concrete maze under its cruciform catwalk, its starved and naked inmates. She allowed herself to drift down through the unperceived void below it, down to the glass-floored suites where the witches sat on high-chairs. Twelve suites. Ianthe had been foolish not to show herself the extent of it before. She wandered from one Haurstaf mind to another, until she found the chamber Briana had shown her. The prince was sitting at a desk in his library, writing a letter. With a hammering heart, Ianthe slipped into the mind behind his eyes.
Dearest Carella,
This ugly language frustrates me. It lacks the finesse to fully express my feelings. And yet you must not forget that the Haurstaf, by binding us within their petty laws, admit their own weakness. As much as they grub through each other’s minds, they can never peer into ours. They can only see what we choose to let them see.
How can what we show them not shame them?
Your last letter filled me with such despair I felt that I must surely destroy this place or die in the attempt. My rage would carry me through the heart of the world. Only your strength holds me back. Every day I kneel before the gods and beg them to transfer your suffering to me. Every night my dreams bring me to your bedside so that I can hold and kiss you, and mop the sweat from your fevered brow. We lie in each other’s arms and talk about that summer in Forenta: the old dragon cave that father showed us, Mistress Delaine waddling around without her shoe, our lunches in the rose gardens, the field behind the orchard. Have hope, my love, and do not be afraid. My arms are always around you.
‘Ianthe?’
The voice came from a world away. Ianthe opened her eyes and found herself back in the mirrored room. Briana was looking at her strangely. Her thoughts, however, remained with the Unmer prince and his letter. Those had not been the words of a heartless fiend, but of a thoughtful and caring young man. Ianthe couldn’t help but wonder who the real monsters were.
‘Ianthe? What’s wrong? You’re a million miles away.’
Ianthe glared at the witch. ‘I can’t do it,’ she said.
‘It takes time—’ Briana began.
Ianthe rose from her chair. ‘I don’t want to do it!’
‘Ianthe?’
She strode towards the door. ‘Leave me alone.’
Briana hurried after her. ‘Listen . . .’
Ianthe rattled the door handle, but it was locked.