The Great Convergence Part 9

As she thought, a peculiar, somewhat familiar, and terrible sensation was beginning to stir in her mind. It was a subtle pressure that she'd often felt when her mind was at its bleakest. She could not describe it, but somehow she knew that this was far stronger than she had ever felt before. The source seemed to be the fingers at her temples. They were not moving at all, and yet she could feel them digging deeper and deeper. It felt as though they were pressing in not on her skin, but her mind. She began to repeat her mantra more intently. At least it isn't Epidime. At least it isn't Epidime. The sensation grew. At least it isn't Epidime. Where had she felt this before? At least it isn't Epidime. Slowly she realized that there was not one voice chanting in her mind, but two . . . two of her own.

Like a flash of lighting, the burning fear of realization swept through her. The other voice, she'd been haunted by her own voice in her mind before. That was the sensation, the feeling she recognized. It was an intruder in her own mind. Why? How? Her racing mind was further muddled by the second voice. Before long she couldn't tell her own thoughts from those of this intruder. Finally she silenced them all. She did her best to do the mental equivalent of closing her eyes and covering her ears. Silence . . . Stillness . . . At least it isn't Epidime. The thought was not hers.

"You!" she cried, eyes opened. "You are Epidime! You were the one who hounded me every time I was stretched to the limit, whenever my spirit nearly gave out! You were the one who tried to push me to the edge."

She shook his hands away and tried to stand. He grasped her shoulder, wrenched it painfully, and forced her to the seat again. She made a desperate attempt to cast a spell only to be instantly and painfully reminded of the restraint on her neck. With his free hand, her mysterious captor summoned the halberd to him. Once within his grip the gem mounted in its blade shone brightly. Immediately the sensation in her mind intensified. It was almost too much to bear. She shut her eyes tightly again and turned the full power of her mind to the task of keeping the intruder out. The restraint about her neck flared again. She pulled back, gathering her strength deeper within her mind. The burning at her neck decreased, but still tore at her. She retreated farther and farther into her own mind, hiding from this foreign presence. Myranda found that if she pulled all of her strength deep, she could avoid the effect of the collar and still keep the dark, infiltrating force at bay. It was a monumental effort, every bit as taxing as any of the trials she'd faced in Entwell. Time pa.s.sed, though how much was impossible to say. Her mind screamed for relief. As she felt her efforts waver, she began to think to herself in an attempt to keep her mind sharp.

"This was a mistake. I should have known better," she thought, feeling a sudden intense impulse to open her eyes. A brief attempt nearly led her to lose focus. "Keep your eyes shut, Myranda, keep your mind focused. What was I thinking? The Army has brought me nothing but trouble for my entire life. Why did I think I could trust them? Was my a.s.sumption that they would help me even my own? Did he somehow force me into this leap of faith? But he agreed when I said that he wanted the Chosen so that the war could be brought to an end. Maybe there is still hope. Perhaps this is a test of my loyalty. Perhaps I should give in, I have nothing to hide . . . No! Remember what Desmeres said. Epidime is not to be trusted under any circ.u.mstance. He might be one of them, those creatures, like the cloaks that attacked me. But then, Desmeres has lied to me before . . . or has he? No! He was always honest. He wouldn't have warned me about Epidime unless he knew that meeting him could cost me my life. I must resist. Is he weakening? No, no, just keep him out. Don't stop until he does, Myranda, don't take a chance . . . Why do I think he is bad? Desmeres said to watch out for him, but did he say he was bad? No. This man may be reasonable. After all, he could have killed us all if he is as strong as he seems. And he did let me go on his own. He could have easily strangled me to death, but he let go. I wish I could see what is going on. That feeling . . . he has tried this so many times from afar. Trying to warn me. Why didn't I listen? Now I resist. I should just let him into my mind. That would bring this torture to an end. I want to see what is going on. He is an intelligence officer in the Alliance Army. He has been one since the start of the war. He knows what happened to my father. I must see what is going on. There is no reason to keep my eyes closed."

Her thoughts weaved more and more deceptively as her eyes ventured open. Instinctively she braced for a dizzying rush of pressure that would shatter her concentration and end the struggle. None came. The room was dark. Blue light pulsed dimly from her collar and the halberd, illuminating the table beside them. There were the potions, the bandages, the book, the dagger, and a gold glove. The glove . . . had it been in the bag? She searched through her memory and received a very strong yes as a response. Furthermore, something inside of her urged that she put it on. She reached for it . . . when had her hands been freed? The thought dropped away unanswered. She stopped suddenly when she realized that Epidime was staring, albeit through half lidded eyes, directly at her. Surely he would stop her. She questioned why she had even wanted the glove in the first place, and when Epidime had moved from behind her to in front. The answers that came were numerous. She ventured her hand out again but stopped. This wasn't right. She had to stop this fiend from trying to invade her mind. A notion forced its way to the front of her mind. The halberd.

"Yes!" she thought. "He uses it like I use my staff. If I can get it away from him, he won't be nearly as powerful. I may even be able to use it against him!"

She reached out, slowly. As she did, his grip on the weapon visibly loosened. A feeling of alarm in the back of her mind was brushed forcefully aside. Her hand, trembling in a combination of exertion and fear, was nearly upon the weapon when her fingers snapped shut around it of their own will. Her arm quickly pulled the halberd away from Epidime's grip while the gem within it surged powerfully. Myranda tried to drop the halberd, but her hand would not obey. The gold glove she had felt the inexplicable need to put on rose into the air. Now there was no doubt that Epidime had been the source of her confusion. He was much more in control than she was now. Out of desperation she searched her mind for anything that might chase him from it. Her thoughts were swiftly and forcefully torn away as soon as they arose. She could feel the dark influence of Epidime's will slipping past her defenses into the deepest reaches of her thoughts. Finally she pulled together all of the will she had left and forced it to the surface.

There was a brief, unnerving surge inward as she removed her defenses, but immediately after came what she was hoping for. Agonizing pain. By forcing her magic back to the surface, she incurred the collar's effect. She cried out aloud and in her mind, and from deep within her, a second voice cried out as well. She felt the intruder's grip loosen just a bit, but it was enough. She forced him from her mind. Before her she saw the eyes of Epidime brighten back to life. She threw his halberd away and redoubled her defenses. The pressure of his invasion was gone though, in its place a loud grumble halfway between pain and anger.

"Well, that was a new one. Teloran! Get in here!" he cried.

Myranda hesitantly opened her eyes. He was standing, pacing angrily with his halberd in hand. The door swung open and Trigorah entered.

"Take her to a cell, I have had enough of her for today!" he ordered.

"Have you managed to learn anything?" she asked, gripping the wavering girl by her upper arm and hoisting her to her feet.

"TAKE HER TO A CELL!" he repeated viciously as he rubbed his neck. "AND HAVE SOMEONE CHANGE THE CRYSTAL IN THAT COLLAR!"

Myranda was led up the stairs, where she was joined by a pair of torch wielding Elites. She was suddenly acutely aware of just how much effort she had put into her defense when she found that getting her legs to cooperate was just a bit past her mind's ability. The Elites fairly carried the ailing girl to the nearest cell, one floor up. After being dumped inside, the door slammed shut behind her and the jingle of keys followed by the click of a lock could be heard. After sufficient time to gather the strength to do so, Myranda raised her head to look around. The cell was spa.r.s.e, to say the least. A pile of shredded cloth in the corner was likely intended to serve as a bed. The only piece of furniture was a chair, though by the looks of the ankle and wrist shackles attached, it was intended more for restraint than comfort. She tried to stand, stumbling against the bars in the process. The motion was accompanied by a jingle around her neck. She felt at it to find that a chain ran down from either end of the collar she wore and connected to a crystal larger than her fist. Just as before, it hurt when it touched her, only now she could feel it leeching her strength away. There was, at least, one benefit to the larger crystal. It provided more light. Without it, she would have been in almost complete darkness.

She collapsed backward onto the chair, finding that standing was not worth the effort at the moment. A moment later her eyes came to rest on something that most definitely was worth the effort. A bowl. A full bowl. She leapt with a strength she didn't know she had at the food. When she reached it, she found that food was a rather generous word for the contents of the bowl. It was a substance that would have brought dishonor to the word gruel. More correctly, it seemed as though someone had mopped up a kitchen spill with a loaf of bread and wrung it out into a bowl. Of course, neither this, nor the possibility that the stuff was poisoned was enough to keep Myranda from gulping it down without so much as a spoon. The sound of boots clicking upon stone only just penetrated her hunger crazed mind as she finished draining the bowl. When she was satisfied that she had swallowed every last drop of the horrid stuff, she looked up to see who had chosen to witness the spectacle. Standing before her was Trigorah. The General looked down at the girl, forcing her to realize she was still huddled in the corner where she had found the bowl. With great effort Myranda stood, attempting to salvage what little dignity that she might have left.

"Come to gloat?" Myranda asked.

"I don't gloat. Particularly at a victory that is not mine. You have been asleep for ten hours. Epidime was beginning to fear you might die rather than wake," she said.

"He was worried I might die?" she said. "I would think he would have preferred it."

"Another perhaps, but not you. Seldom does he encounter a subject that offers a challenge," Trigorah said.

"I am a challenge, am I?" Myranda asked.

"You resisted him for more than six hours. You forced him out in a way that no one had before. For this you have earned his interest," Trigorah informed.

"Well, I am honored," Myranda said defiantly.

"Don't be. It only means that he will continue to try. Harder and harder. And when he does find his way in, I doubt he will take the time to leave your mind as he found it. He might not leave any of it at all. Frankly, you will be lucky if you've enough wits about you to remember to keep breathing when he is through with you," Trigorah said.

Myranda drew in a deep breath.

"Come here. Give me your hand," Trigorah said.

"No. Why?" Myranda resisted. Though she had been drumming it into her head that Trigorah, at least, could be trusted, the events of the day had shaken that belief.

The General held out a loaf of bread and a canteen. Myranda s.n.a.t.c.hed them away. A bowl of glorified water was hardly enough to curb a days old hunger.

"Why are you giving this to me?" she managed between swallows.

"I can't be sure he will feed you . . . you deserve a chance," she whispered, leaning closer. "Listen to me. No one has resisted him. He has been through my mind and a hundred others. Whatever he wants to know, he will know. Just . . . fight him. Do your best. Someone has to show him that . . . that we can resist."

"We . . . what do you mean? It is true? He isn't human or elven or . . . anything like that?" Myranda asked.

Trigorah cast a cautious look in either direction before slipping silently back into the darkness. Once again, Myranda was alone and in danger. It was hardly the first time that such was the case, but this time was different. This time it might be the last. She was in a cell, far below ground, waiting for a fiend to make his next attempt at forcing his way into her mind. She wracked her brain, desperately seeking some shallow hope to cling to. There was one. It was possible that those who held her would make the same mistake they had before, that they would not pay the price on her head. That would bring Lain to rescue her again. It was far from likely. The pair of Generals seemed to agree on nothing but the fact that her previous captors must be paid. That didn't matter. It was hope, a shining light at the end of the tunnel to lock onto. Until then, she had to save her strength. Epidime would be back.

A week pa.s.sed in the most wretched manner possible. She was restrained at all times. Each day she would be fed a thin bowl of food by one of the guards whose faces were hidden behind a mask and submitted to a variety of Epidime's attempts. Most were marathon sessions that pushed each to their limits. Others were short, subversive attempts under the guise of all manner of other things, ranging from attempts to recruit her to offers to release her. In a way, the worst part was that each day she was moved to a different cell. A feeling of safety would have been impossible, but now she was denied even a feeling of familiarity. She was reflecting on this fact and trying to ignore the horrible taste that was clinging to her tongue when Epidime approached for the day's torture. This day promised something new. Epidime had brought a second chair bearing similar restraints into the cell.

"Well, Myranda. I believe the time has come to meet some of your neighbors. You know this one very well. He hasn't stopped cursing your name since we found him," Epidime remarked smugly as he forced a s.h.a.ggy, blindfolded old man into the second chair.

The old man hung his head low. Drooping in the chair, he swayed slowly, almost deliriously. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't place it. A scraggly, gray beard adorned his chin, and wiry gray hair ringed a bald head.

"Well? This is the quietest I've heard you, old man. She is here, in this room. Haven't you anything to say?" Epidime said.

"I am waiting for her to speak," croaked the old man. His voice was raw, as though it had been badly overused. It, too, had a familiarity to it.

"Why?" asked Epidime.

"I want to know where her throat is . . . so I can wrap my hands around it," he said.

The old man raised his head, revealing a worn and soiled priest's collar.

"You are the priest. The one I met just after I found the sword!" Myranda realized.

He lunged forward with all of the strength his feeble body could muster. Epidime easily pushed him back to the chair.

"I am. I knew that you would only bring sorrow. Look at me! Look what you have done to me. You witch! You wretch! Because of you, I will be spending the last years of my life in this stinking, festering hole in the ground. I pray nightly that you meet an end suited to your treachery! I take solace in the fact that you were finally brought here! I hope you never see the light of day again!" the old man spat with disdain. He leapt to attack Myranda again, but Epidime held him back.

"Why is he here!? Why do you have him?" Myranda demanded.

"For the same reason everyone else is here. They may have touched the sword. The prophesy, if properly read, holds that the sword will find its way into the hands of a Chosen One. We will have the Chosen, but to be certain of that, we must capture anyone who may have touched that sword," he said.

"You condemned us! ALL OF US! You carried that sword like a plague and MADE CRIMINALS OF US ALL! CURSE YOU! CURSE YOU, YOU WITCH!" he cried before his voice gave out and he was left wheezing and gasping.

"I will give in. I will give in right now if you will release them," Myranda said.

"Oh no. These captives will never be released," Epidime said flatly.

"But why! Surely you read their minds! You must know that they are of no use to you!" she cried out.

"Indeed," he said.

"Then you could have let them go!" she cried.

"No. You see, we had to keep them here, if for no other reason than the fact that any one of them might have been very important to you, and thus a useful piece of bait, without knowing it. It was a long shot, but it wouldn't have been the first to pay off. As luck would have it, you are one of those poor souls who cares about everyone. I was thinking that we might empty out the nearest village to fill the remaining cells. What do you think? Imagine the pressure that would put on you," he said with a grin.

"Please, I beg of you. Release them and I will let you into my mind," she said.

"If you submit to me now I will kill them all," he said.

"What! Why? You wanted me to give in!" she said.

"On the first day I did. Then you lashed out at me. You injured me. That is rare. Very rare. Unprecedented for your kind. Generally I would kill someone for that, but not you. There was something special about you. You know, I had everything I needed from you after the fourth hour of our first session. Everything I had been asked to learn from you. You have nothing new to offer me that my fellow generals might need to know. I know Lain is Chosen. I know that another Chosen has been summoned. I even know what it looks like. The things you needed to protect were left out in the open, yet, when I had them, you continued to resist. You continued to defend something within your mind. You dared to believe that you could be stronger than me. For that reason, you will be broken. If all I wanted was your mind I would have struck in your sleep. I want to show you that you are not strong enough. I want you to show me how strong you are. You will be tortured, twisted, torn, and shattered. You will try your best, and you will fail. You will be made an example of. And then, when you finally haven't the will to resist me, I will leave just enough of you to watch as I execute each and every one of these people before your eyes," Epidime stated. Chillingly, his voice was plain and calm, as though what he had said was to be expected.

"You are the death of us! You are the death of US ALL!" the priest managed.

Epidime hauled him out of the cell and handed him to a guard to be led away.

"You know, I have managed glimpses at what you've been keeping from me. A flash of your mother's face, a whisper of your father's voice . . . minutia. Trivialities. Pointlessness. Random, worthless events in your life. I have a feeling that, when you are broken, that is all I will find. Memories that you hold dear. Regardless, I will have them. I will see every cherished scene of your mind. Every moment in the garden with your mother, every precious visit from your father. Keep that in mind. And sleep well tonight," Epidime said.

The week before was nothing compared to the week that followed. Every day another of the prisoners was brought before her. She had at least seen, though often in pa.s.sing, each one of them before. Simple town folk, shopkeepers, everyone who might have touched the sword. Some did not remember her. In those cases, Epidime forced her to explain to them that she was the reason that they were locked away. For most of the prisoners, their crime had not been explained to them until that moment. The anger, the sadness, the confusion, all rushed forth in a tearful burst of emotion. At the precise moment that Myranda felt that the heart had been torn from her body, Epidime would make his attempt. It was agony in its purest form. And each day was worse. He would handpick more and more pitiful stories. Sobbing mothers torn from children. Soldiers yet to see their families after returning from the front. Worst of all, she knew that there could be no victory. If she gave in, they would be killed. If she was broken, they would be killed. All she could do was buy more time. All she could do was delay the inevitable.

After another week, Epidime approached alone, but Myranda was not so naive as to a.s.sume that today would be any easier. He carried a black cloth bundle. On his face was a smile of pure delight. Myranda didn't waste the strength to imagine what sort of torture he'd come up with this time. She merely prepared herself.

"Well, Myranda. What do you suppose I received today? It will interest you greatly, I am quite sure," he said.

Myranda did not speak. She pulled together her mind, ready for anything he might try. Slowly he dropped away just a hint of the cloth. He touched the thick black covering carefully, as though it was an animal that might bite. Myranda's thoughts flashed to Myn, and a prayer pa.s.sed through her mind that the creature was not inside the bundle. That prayer was answered, but the truth could hardly have been worse. The top of the cloth dropped free to reveal a splendid, bejeweled, engraved hilt. The hilt of a sword. The sword.

"Here it is. The source of your sorrow. I suppose you may still harbor some illusions that you have some sort of value. That you might be important, and that is why we wanted you. No. It was all for this. The trials of your life of late have all been due to your a.s.sociation with this piece of metal. You could have been anyone. Anyone at all. This weapon means more than you ever will. And now it is mine. You do know what this means, don't you? Don't think I haven't seen it. That slim thread of hope weaving through your mind. That Lain might come, that he might somehow vanquish me and rescue you and perhaps even all of these others. That will not happen. They have been paid. They have accepted. You are now as worthless to them as you are to everyone else," he said, venom fairly dripping from his words.

Myranda turned all of her strength to keeping the hopelessness from showing through. He would not have the pleasure of seeing her pain.

"Unfortunately, this little prize means that I shall have to leave you for a while. I am under orders to aid a colleague with a few projects he has been working on, and this may just come in handy. However, lest you forget me, let me leave you with this to torture you in my absence. There is a moment which, despite my recent additions, remains the most devastating of your life. The ma.s.sacre. It has come to your mind often recently, hasn't it? You've wondered, how could it happen? The leaked intelligence that would have allowed the attack was never delivered. Even if it had been, how could the attack have been so successful, the destruction so complete? Kenvard was a capital, and close to the front. It was fortified. It could have held off a force a dozen times the size of the one that had swept through on that day. It had before. How could it happen? . . . It was our men. There was no southern force. I handed down the orders from General Bagu personally. Leave no one alive. The leaked information was to cover it up, to provide loose ends that would tie up nicely in the minds of the people. Of course, I cannot say for sure precisely the names of every soldier involved, but I can tell you this. They were skilled, loyal, obedient, and trustworthy. They all came from the very top . . . Your father was at the top, wasn't he?" Epidime said, lowering his voice as he spoke so that his last words were a whisper.

With that, he stepped into the darkness, only the gem of his halberd visible, staring at her though the black like a mocking eye until he was out of sight. She waited until the distant grind of heavy doors signaled the monster's exit. When she was certain he was gone, her head dropped, her mind burned. Anger, fear, frustration, hate, desperation, and more battled for control over her mind. Had he not truly slipped away, Epidime would have found no challenge at all in defeating her now. Her cries echoed through the halls. The pair of guards at her door had no reaction. She didn't take the care to bury her magic inside of her, and spurred on by the intense emotion, the crystal at her neck was burning at her viciously. She didn't care. Nothing could match the pain in her heart.

The torrent of emotions did not abate until she pa.s.sed out from exhaustion. She slept a dreamless few hours and awoke in the same pale blue tinged darkness she had lived in for the past two weeks. The rest had done little to restore her strength, or else she likely would have begun the entire process over again. Instead she sat weakly. Her temples had a dull, constant ache. As her head hung low, she realized something. The crystal that hung down from her neck had changed. Even from the little of it that she could see it was clear that the surface had begun to fracture. She shook her head, hoping to clear the cobwebs a bit, and looked around her. There were other things that had changed. Here and there she could see scorches on the walls. She faintly remembered turning her mind to flame spells in attempts to spill off some of the anger. The force she had put into them would have been enough to reduce the bars to little more than bubbling pools, but the crystal had done its job for the most part. Myranda's clouded mind slowly began to clear. As it did, the possibilities presented by this new knowledge began to develop. A pair of the masked guards approached the door of the cell. She sat still as one replaced the damaged crystal and the other administered the daily swill.

Myranda knew that these were merely nearmen, and couldn't possibly read her mind as Epidime had been attempting, but she had learned to err on the side of caution and thought only the most innocuous thoughts in their presence. When they had gone, she began to plot. Some of her spells had gotten through. When she poured out all that she had, some tiny effect could be brought about. It would be painful, but she may just have hope of escaping on her own. She would have to focus, despite the pain of the collar, on spells with a concentration she seldom managed without her staff. It wouldn't be easy, but it was hope. Hope would sustain her. Comforted by the fact that her day long outburst had brought no reaction from the nearmen, she set about her task.

Far away, her struggles were viewed by pained eyes. Deacon had felt that if he could only see what Myranda was doing, it would put his mind in order again and he could get back to his work. First, he was plagued by the fact that images were few and far between. Now he had the opposite problem. Night after night he saw her, restrained and tortured. He poured through books for some solution, some way to know precisely what was happening. The images would persist for hours sometimes, but they would waver and twist, leaving Myranda herself as the only solidly recognizable thing, and they were always silent. Sometimes there were others, but recently she was alone. He would focus on the images and try to get more information from them, but he simply lacked the strength. Worse, the other wizards had grown weary of his pleas for help in the matter interrupting their own studies and would no longer even speak with him. Finally only two would listen to him, Solomon and Calypso. Of the two, Deacon found Calypso to be the most helpful, and took to confiding in her almost daily. Disturbed by his latest visions, he took his usual place by the lake and waited for her to appear. A mermaid, long flowing hair and emerald tail shimmering in the sun, surfaced from the lake. The very moment that she did, Deacon began. Calypso had become accustomed to his habit of skipping pleasantries and diving directly into his points.

"From what I was able to see last night, I can say for certain that the crystal around her neck has been changed. Are you certain you have never heard of this practice? A crystal used as some kind of torture? Perhaps I should look through the library for it again," he asked.

"If it wasn't there the third time it won't be there the fourth," she said. "You know what you need to do."

"I need to know what is going on," he said.

"It won't help," she warned.

"What do you mean? Of course it will! I can't get her out of my mind because I am not certain of her place in the prophesy. When I know what has been happening to her, I will be able to study the prophesy in search of elements of these events. I will find them. Then I will know that all will be well and my mind will be at ease," he said as convincingly as possible.

"You know, you really are very creative. If you won't think rationally, at least follow your own rules. Logic says you should follow the clues to the truth, not chose the truth that suits you and cater the evidence to fit," she said. "You are purposely overlooking the real root of your problem because you know it is a sickness for which there is no cure."

"Oh? And what is that?" he asked.

"I won't call it by name. You would only deny it and scurry away to your rationalizations. All I'll say is that I know, and deep down you do too, that you will only find some kind of relief if you find a way to go face to face and-" Calypso began, only to be interrupted.

"Speak to Hollow!" Deacon blurted.

"What?!" Calypso asked, left blinking from the sudden and unjustifiable leap of reason.

"Hollow! I need to find her place solidly in the prophesy to put my mind at ease, and the only man who can do that with absolute certainty is Hollow!" he said, leaping up.

"Deacon, listen to yourself! Hollow only speaks when he has something to say, which is only once in a great while," she said.

"Then I will coax it out of him," he said, running off.

"The man isn't a man at all, he is an empty sh.e.l.l. You would have better luck coaxing an answer from your own echo. You are being foolish, unreasonable, and overly optimistic. Those are all symptoms, you know!" she called after him before shaking her head and whispering to herself. "That boy is going to lose his mind."

Elsewhere, Myranda had spent the majority of two days focusing her mind fully on the task of unlocking the collar from her neck. After having no success, she decided that the restraint likely was specially designed to prevent removal in this fashion. In all likelihood all of the restraints were similarly designed, but she couldn't afford to a.s.sume that. As painful as any attempts to escape were, the pain was preferable to the hopelessness of imprisonment or worse, dwelling on what she had learned of the ma.s.sacre. She turned her attempts to the wrist restraints attached to the chair. Almost immediately she could feel progress. At the end of an hour of intense trial, she heard a click that made her heart jump. The lock hesitantly released and she felt the metal shackle swing lazily open. Her left hand was free! The pair of guards, nearmen, patrolled silently as they always did. It had become clear over the days she had spent under their guard that they could do little more than they were told. They were, however, acutely sensitive to sudden changes, and always offered a look in her direction when the grunts of effort and pain came to an end.

Myranda kept her hand in the shackles as it had been before. As the wrist shackles were behind her chair and she was facing the bars, the fact that one had opened would not be noticed. After a few moments the guards turned back to their silent patrol. With a free hand it would be possible to hold the crystal away from her chest by the chain and spare herself some of the pain, but she quickly dismissed the thought as far too risky. Instead she attacked the second shackle just the same as she had the first. She was tired, but the freedom dangling tantalizingly before her was enough to keep her going. Eventually a second click signaled the release of her other hand. As she spent a few moments resting, she realized that there was a problem. She was facing the bars, and thus her ankle shackles were plainly visible. If she was to make good her escape, she would have to free both legs without the guards noticing.

The young woman's mind ached from overuse. Weeks of resisting Epidime had forced her to push herself to the limit frequently enough that she had discovered precisely how far she could go before breaking. If she attempted anything as taxing as the shackles had been, she would not have the strength to stand when she was through. Indeed, it had been so long since she had stood without the aid of a cruel hand clutching each shoulder, it was possible that she already lacked the strength. Myranda shook her head. If ever there was a time for desperate acts, it was now. When the plodding footsteps of the guards seemed to be at their quietest, she grasped the chain at either side of the accursed crystal and lifted it away from her chest. The effect was astounding. The fog in her mind cleared noticeably, and she felt a fair amount of her strength return. Two swift spells slipped past the weakened effect of the restraint and popped her final two shackles open. Distantly, the footsteps began to quickly grow louder. They had heard!

Myranda stood on shaky legs. She could not get a good look at the stone around her neck, but she knew that they had changed it before, so there must be a way to release it. She searched with her fingers, but everywhere she touched it burned slightly, robbing her of feeling. The footsteps were nearly upon her now. There was no more time to waste, she would have to be ready. Crouching behind the chair, she smashed the crystal with all of the strength she had against the seat's hard back. It fractured. She smashed again. A piece fell away. With a final attempt the crystal shattered, creating an eye searing flash and cutting her hand badly. Then there was only darkness. Instantly she felt a strength she had not felt in weeks. A month ago she would have counted herself as near death when she felt like this, but at this moment it may as well have been the peak of health.

Without the crystal's glow there was total darkness. That likely meant little to the nearmen, as they had been patrolling without light, but to Myranda it meant that she could not see them and they could see her. She crouched behind the chair and thought feverishly as she heard the steps come to a stop just beyond the bars. What would they do? They would have to secure her and apply a new crystal. That meant they would have to open the door. If that happened she might be able to push past them and out of the cell, but then where would she go? The pair of guards began an exchange in a language that was utterly foreign to Myranda. Finally, one set of footsteps retreated into the distance.

Myranda waited a moment, but there was only silence. One of the guards had likely gone for help or replacement restraints, and the remaining one was clearly not going to open the door. With more opposition on the way, the time to act was now. She lashed out with a sleep spell. She didn't have the strength for anything more powerful. The guard stumbled briefly, but did not fall. The spell simply wasn't strong enough. There were only two things she could think of that might do any good now. She charged out from behind the chair into the darkness, quickly colliding with the bars. She reached through and grasped the unseen guard. At the same time she chanted the words of the sleep spell aloud, quietly but intensely. The physical contact and incantation combined were just barely enough. The guard collapsed to the ground.

The girl quickly turned her mind to the lock on the cell. Almost immediately she found that the larger lock was hopelessly more complex than the shackles had been. With nothing else to do, she fought furiously with it for a moment before collapsing against the bars, sobbing.

"I'm just not strong enough," she sobbed.

After a moment a voice came out of the darkness.

"You stupid girl," taunted the voice. It was the blind priest in a nearby cell. "You stupid, stupid girl. Open the door!"

"I can't. I don't have the strength! I cannot undo the lock!" she replied.

"You learn to run and forget how to walk! The keys! I heard them jingle as the guard fell!" he fairly commanded.

"Of course!" she replied, reaching through the bars and feeling about until her hands came to rest on the keys.

There were only three keys on the ring. The second opened the cell door.