The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [25]
“Let me go,” she said, her heart thundering in her chest. “Let me go.”
“Hush.”
“Let me go.”
This time he cuffed her with the hilt of the knife.
“Let me go!”
The words ripped out of her, and the man screamed.
Anne felt the knife in her hand suddenly, gripped in white knuckles, and with terrible desperation she drove it into his throat. In the same instant she felt a strange pain in her own throat and the sensation of something sliding under her tongue. She saw his eyes go wide and black and in those dark mirrors there was the image of a demon coming up from beneath.
Screaming, she wrenched the knife through his windpipe, noticing even as she did so that her hands were empty, that it wasn’t she who was holding the knife at all. And she understood just enough to flee, to run into the gaping darkness where her rage came from, to close her eyes and stop her ears to his gurgling…
The light dimmed, and she found herself back in her chair, facing the other man, the one who had been trying to rape her. The demon was there, stooping over him just as she had come down upon Ernald.
“Oh, no,” she murmured, staring up into the terrible face. “Oh, saints, no.”
She woke on a small mattress, unbound, with her clothes returned to a reasonable state of propriety. Her head throbbed, and she recognized the beginnings of a hangover.
Her captor sat on the floor a few kingsyards away, weeping quietly. Of the demon there was no sign.
Anne started to rise, but a sudden wave of nausea forced her back down. That wasn’t enough, however, and she had to struggle to her hands and knees to vomit.
“I’ll get you some water,” she heard the man say.
“No,” she growled. “I won’t drink anything else you give me.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
She felt the surprise dimly through her sickness and confusion.
“I’m sorry,” he added, and began crying again.
Anne groaned. She was missing time again. The demon hadn’t killed this man as it had killed Ernald, but it had done something.
“Listen to me,” she said. “What’s your name?”
He looked confused.
“Your name?”
“Wist,” he murmured. “Wist. They call me Wist.”
“You saw her, didn’t you, Wist? She was here?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“What did she look like?”
His eyes tried to bug from his head, and he gasped, clutching at his chest.
“I can’t remember,” he said. “It was the worst thing I ever saw. I can’t—I can’t see that again.”
“Did she untie me?”
“No, I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m supposed to,” he whimpered. “I’m supposed to help you.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“She didn’t say anything,” he said. “Not that I can remember. That is, there were words, but I couldn’t make them out, except that they hurt, and they still hurt unless I do what I’m supposed to do.”
“And what else are you supposed to do?” she asked suspiciously.
“Help you,” he said again.
“Help me what?”
He raised his hands helplessly. “Whatever you want.”
“Really,” she said. “Give me your knife, then.”
He clambered to his feet and presented her the weapon, hilt first. She reached for it, expecting him to withdraw it, but instead she grasped the smooth wooden handle.
She gagged, bent double, and began to vomit again.
When she was done, her head hurt as if struck from the inside by a hammer. Her chest felt ripped in two, and her vision was blurry. Her erst-while captor was still whimpering before her, holding out the knife.
She arranged her clothes again and stood, finding the pain in her leg only slightly dulled.
“I’ll take that water now,” she said.
He brought her water and bread, and she had a bit of both. After that she felt better, calmer.
“Wist, where are we?” she asked.
“In the cellar of the beer hall,” he said.
“In Sevoyne?”
“Yes, in Sevoyne.”
“And who knows I’m here?”
“Myself and the captain of the guard. No one else.”
“But others are coming, and they will know where to find us,” she pushed on.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Yes, Majesty,” she corrected gently. That simple act helped her find her center.
“Yes, Majesty.”
“There. And who is coming?