The rumbling screech of metal echoed in the pit as unseen gates opened.

Then came the scrabble of claws against stone… and the bloodcurdling howls of the darrokken.

“The High Mage sent me with food for the prisoner.” Melliandra clutched the handle of the food cart in both hands.

The guard standing beside the door examined her with cold eyes. “I received no such order,” he declared, and his meaty fingers tightened around the spiked staff in his grip. “The healer just left, but the High Mage usually saves food until the prisoners are returned to their cells.”

Melliandra kept her expression blank and unemotional. “The High Mage is entertaining a special guest. He wants these two strong enough to survive a long time.” When the guard still showed no sign of stepping aside, she added, “Or I can return to the kitchens and inform my mistress that you kept me from fulfilling the Great One’s commands. I’m sure he will understand why his orders were overridden.”

As she expected, just the hint of an ill report to the High Mage was enough to give the guard pause. His brows furrowed and he poked the tip of his staff in the direction of her cart.

“Lift the cloth on that tray.”

Melliandra obeyed, revealing two bowls of fatted porridge, a pitcher of water, and a hammered-metal goblet. Simple fare. Nothing out of the ordinary for a prisoner.

After a brief inspection, the guard grunted and stepped aside. “Go on then, but be quick about it.”

She murmured an assent and pushed the cart through the doorway.

Lord Shan, silent and still as the dead, lay strapped to the table at the center of the room. Pools of blood glistened on the dark stone floor and still dripped from the table, but Melliandra could see no obvious wounds. The healer had done her job well.

Vadim Maur’s new torture master stood beside a table set with a variety of knives, hooks, and vises. Tools of the torturer’s trade. He was sharpening his curved disemboweling knife. At the sight of Melliandra, he scowled. “What do you want? The healer has come and gone. Get out.”

“Master Maur commanded me to feed the prisoner,” she said. “He wants him kept strong, to make him last longer.”

After some grumbling about interruptions, the new torture master set down his implements and moved aside.

Melliandra pushed her cart towards the table. She flicked a quick, searching glance around the room, noting the three guards who stood in the corners of the stone chamber, barbed sel’dor pikestaffs in hand. Four armed men. Worse than she’d hoped for.

“He can’t eat like that.” She gestured to the sel’dor straps that kept the Fey immobilized on the table. “He needs his hands to feed himself.”

The torture master snorted. “I know what happened to Goram, and I’ve heard all the tales about how Lord Death can gut a man with his little finger. Feed him yourself. Because he stays where he lies, bound and strapped.”

Melliandra ground her teeth. There was no way even Lord Death could defeat four armed men while restrained so securely he could barely move a finger.

“I’m not putting my fingers in his mouth. He’d bite them off for sure! Just one hand,” she pressed. “Surely between the four of you, you could skewer him if he so much as twitches.” When they still didn’t budge, she offered a bribe few umagi could resist. “I’ll bring you all hot stew from the Mage Hall kitchens for a week.”

That did the trick. With a muttered oath, the torture master unhooked a ring of keys from his belt and tossed them to one of the guards. “Left arm only. The rest of you, look sharp. If he moves, spit him like a roast pig.” He narrowed his eyes at Melliandra. “I like extra meat in my stew. Don’t forget.”

“Won’t,” she vowed.

Two of the guards held the barbed points of their pikes pressed against the Fey’s throat while the third unlocked the restraining straps at his left wrist and elbow and jumped back. Melliandra watched their twitchy nervousness with a curious mix of satisfaction and trepidation. They feared him so much. She only hoped Lord Death’s abilities lived up to his reputation.

The Fey flexed his arm with slow deliberation, curling and uncurling his fingers to return circulation, rotating his wrist, elbow, and shoulder. All the while, his slitted green gaze made careful note of the guards’ reactions and the shifts in their location.

“Enough,” the torture master declared. “Feed him and be done with it.”

With a curt bob of her head, Melliandra took one of the bowls and approached the table. She held the congealing porridge close enough that he could scoop it into his mouth with his fingers. She knew the moment he touched the crystal she’d put at the bottom of the bowl. With casual deliberation, his eyes met hers. She glanced down at her right arm, where the cuff of her ragged sleeve gaped beneath her skinny wrist, and lifted her hand just enough to show him the redhandled blade sheathed at her wrist. His breath caught for an instant, the response so faint she only noticed because she was looking for a reaction. He’d seen the distinctive name mark etched into the pommel. His crystal, his blades. He’d nearly killed the High Mage last time, even without them. This time, she prayed whatever extra power his own weapons provided would give him the edge he needed to succeed.

Lord Shan stuffed the last of his porridge in his mouth, then pretended to cough, as if he’d swallowed some of the food the wrong way.

Torn between suspicion and alarm—the High Mage would definitely not be pleased if his prized prisoner escaped him by choking to death—the torture master took a step towards him.