The Shattered Land_ The Dreaming Dark - Keith Baker [112]
“Tashana,” he said.
Wrapped in her cloak, she seemed more shadow than substance; either she was surrounded by a thin layer of dark mist, or she was only a shade herself. She met Daine’s gaze, and her eyes gleamed. “Your protector grows weaker by the hour, and now that you’re imprisoned it’s only a matter of time before I shatter her defenses and break you.”
She reached out to touch his face, and he found that he couldn’t move. Suddenly it was Lei beside him, and he felt a disturbing thrill as she stroked his cheek. He tried to speak, but he was frozen in place. “But what about our houses?” she said, glancing coyly to the side. She laughed, becoming Tashana again as she pulled her hand away.
“Ah, Lei,” Tashana said as she pulled up her hood. “We’ll have some fun with her, you and I. It was I who killed her betrothed, you know, and I’ll do worse before I’m through with the two of you.”
Daine was burning with fury, but for all his anger, he still couldn’t move.
“Who are you playing with now?”
The voice came from behind him, from further away, and it drew an angry hiss from the woman at his side, but it was a familiar voice—Tashana’s voice. He flung his fury at the force that held him paralyzed, and he felt something give.
Wake up.
And he did.
Daine awoke in darkness.
Again.
“Why couldn’t I get captured by light elves,” he muttered.
At least this time, the darkness felt natural—a simple absence of light, as opposed to some supernatural force or the fading effects of poison. He was lying on a smooth glass floor, and after twitching his fingers and toes he decided that everything was where it should be. He sat up.
“Gaah!”
The ceiling of the cell was less than three feet high, and his forehead slammed against the glass ceiling. He stretched out his hands, tracing the walls of his prison. It was a small hollow, a little over six feet long and about three feet high and three feet wide. Every wall was made of smooth glass, with no trace of a door. There were two small glass bowls lying next to him—one filled with water, and the other with what seemed to be thick gruel.
“‘Oh, trust me, you’ll get your meal and your bed.’” Daine slammed a fist against the wall. “The gray rat just never bothered to mention they’d be in a thrice damned prison cell.”
Silence was the only response.
He patted his clothes. The shirt beneath his chainmail was stiff with sweat and blood, and he could only imagine how bad he must smell. His dagger and the club were gone, but they’d left his belt pouch alone.
Wake up, he thought. Perhaps it was all still a dream.
He reached into his pouch and searched through its contents: a few copper crowns, the keys to the inn and to his trunk back in High Walls, a shard of green crystal, and a small glass vial filled with blue liquid—glowing blue liquid.
He took out the vial and set it on the floor next to him. The light was faint, but in the absolute darkness of the cell, it was a startling change. His earlier suspicions were confirmed: there were no signs of door or window, just smooth black glass all around. With the aid of the glowing vial, he found a few tiny holes in the ceiling, smaller than his smallest finger—air holes, presumably, to prevent him from suffocating.
He examined the two bowls under the blue light. The water seemed clear enough, and the gruel looked lumpy and unappetizing.
“Care for some gruel?” he asked the bottle.
The best thing about dying? Never eating gruel again.
“Sure, but you’re missing out on this great water. I’m sure it’s a fine gnomish vintage.”
Ooh, you’re right. Maybe you could just pour some in the bottle.
It wasn’t Jode, but staring at the vial, with Jode’s dragonmark stamped on the seal, it was comforting to imagine what his old friend would say if he were still around.
I think the elves are just trying to wear you down. After all, you put up such a fierce fight—they’re probably afraid of you.
Daine swallowed a mouthful of porridge. “I didn’t see you lending a hand.”
In truth, the struggle could hardly be called