HANDS

Beryl sat at the small table, gazing at Immerez, who was securely bound to a chair. A Weapon stood on duty just outside the tent’s entrance, alert to her needs. Willis, aside from reassuring himself she was well enough, was not at all averse to her conducting the interrogation. He knew of her skills.

She fiddled with Immerez’s hook on the table, safely detached from his stump. It was sharp enough to rip out a throat. The apparatus included a rigging of leather straps and buckles used to secure the hook to his wrist, which she examined with mild interest. Also on the table lay a hatchet, the one Lord Amberhill said Immerez was going to use to chop off Karigan’s hand.

Beryl just sat there, not speaking, while Immerez glowered in defiance. He’d never been subjected to her questioning before. Lucky him—until now. She’d promised Willis she would not draw this out, but there was a craft to it, a way to go about it that varied with each individual questioned, that simply could not be rushed. She believed Immerez would cave in good time—all that defiance was a facade for his uncertainty. She’d seen it before in her other subjects.

The longer she sat there, the more she played with his hook, making the buckles jingle, the more he glowered. She was patient. She could wait. Soon he would not be able to help himself and would break the silence. Even now he tightened his jaw, setting off a tick in his cheek.

While she waited, she caught herself chanting marching cadences in her mind. It was hard to free herself of them, of their comforting, certain rhythms. They’d saved her when she was bound in golden chains, kept her sane, kept her from breaking.

Even after a good night’s rest and all the food she could eat, she felt wrung out. Tired. She could sleep for days, but she would not let anyone else handle this interrogation. There was unfinished business between her and Immerez.

She set aside the hook, folded her hands on her lap, and gazed steadily at him through her specs. She remained perfectly still, not tapping her foot or fidgeting. Her fight was to keep from falling asleep.

Immerez tested his bonds subtly by flexing his muscles, but she, of course, did not miss a thing. He clenched and unclenched his left hand. The lines of his forehead darkened into furrows. The tick quickened in his cheek. He was growing angrier by the second and she didn’t think she’d have to wait much longer.

Sure enough, he broke the silence. “Are you so pleased with yourself that all you can do is sit there and gloat?”

She did not reply, just waited.

“Should’ve killed you,” he continued, “but Grandmother had to try her little experiment.”

“For how long did you know I was an operative?” she asked.

If he was surprised she finally spoke, he did not show it. “Birch found your return to Mirwellton suspicious, but then he became as convinced as everyone else that you were as you claimed, a loyalist to Mirwell Province. Until summer. Then we knew.”

Summer. Many odd things had gone on and she received word that Rider abilities faltered. Her own ability to assume a role must have failed her as well, and Birch and his compatriots saw through it. It made sense. But it was too late to worry about it now.

“To think you were Lord Mirwell’s favorite,” Immerez said. “After all I did for him.”

Old Lord Mirwell he meant. “Still bitter?” she asked. “Still bitter I got all the promotions and his attention while he treated you like dirt? And it really turns your gut that I was a spy all that time, too, doesn’t it.”

Immerez did not reply and resumed glowering at the tent wall.

Beryl laughed. “Yet you were loyal to a fault. You loved the old fool. In your mind, you were the son he should have had.” Abruptly she rose and paced, allowing her boot heels to click on the tent’s wooden platform. “I, too, am loyal. Loyal to Sacoridia, to my king, to the Green Riders, and most of all, to the province of my birth. That is no lie.”

He turned his glare on her. “How can you say that when you betrayed your lord-governor?”

“I said I was loyal to my province, not necessarily my lord-governor. Tomas Mirwell was a fool.”

“He wanted to restore the province to its glory,” Immerez shouted.

“For what? Endless years of warring among the clans? By replacing King Zachary on the throne with his greedy and cruel brother? The unity between the provinces would have crumbled, not to mention your Eletian friend, Shawdell, meant for chaos to occur so he could destroy the D’Yer Wall and cultivate the power of Blackveil for his own purposes.”

Immerez clenched his jaw and remained silent.

“So now you’ve decided to help Second Empire.”

Immerez shrugged in his bonds. “Would anything I say matter? I will be hanged in the end anyway.”

Beryl smiled. “Your ultimate fate is for the king to decide. Things could be made easier for you if you answer my questions. But in the end, I suppose you’re right—it does not matter whether or not you’ve always been in league with Second Empire. I have other questions.”

“I’m not in an answering mood,” Immerez replied.

“You will be.”

“I’ve been wondering when I’d see the terrible interrogator I heard whispered of in Mirwell Keep. I still don’t see her.”

“Do you remember my brother by any chance?”

“That’s your question?”

“His name,” Beryl said, “was Riley Spencer, as proud and loyal a Mirwellian you could ever meet. He served as a private in the militia. He was proud of his uniform, and I remember when he came home on his first leave wearing that scarlet uniform with its chevrons and shiny buttons. He was so excited and I looked up to him. I wanted to be like him when I grew up. Twelve years ago you were what? A young sergeant?”

“That’s right,” Immerez said warily. “I was in charge of the house guard then.”

“I know. Tell me, how has it been for you since you lost your hand?”

It took him a moment to catch up with the sudden change of topic. “How do you think?”

“I think it must have been a terrible adjustment for an officer in his prime to lose his sword hand,” she said, displaying her own in front of his face, stretching out her fingers then curling them into a fist. “All those things you were accustomed to doing, actions as natural as breathing, were no longer possible. Scratching an itch, for instance, or eating. You’ve had to retrain your mind to even just remember your hand is not there.”

“So?” Immerez said. “Lots of soldiers lose limbs in combat.”

“I think,” Beryl continued, as if she hadn’t heard him, “it sometimes feels like that hand is still connected to your wrist. You feel it. You can feel yourself flex phantom fingers. Maybe you feel your hand cramp or the palm sweat. But I think where you really feel it is here.” She put her fist to her heart.

Immerez said nothing, but he was taut, almost shaking. Yes, she knew exactly how it had been for him.

“I suppose there are practical matters,” Beryl said, “that became more difficult. Dressing and undressing, caring for your personal needs. Convincing your men you were whole and strong.”

“How would you know?” he demanded. “You’ve got both your hands.”

She picked up the hatchet from the table and weighed it in her palm. “Still don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember? Remember what?” He’d paled when she picked up the hatchet.

“Can you appreciate irony, Immerez?”

He just stared incredulously at her.

“Private Riley Spencer,” she said. “One of yours. New to your unit.”

He paled even more. Yes, he was beginning to remember.

“There was an incident with one of Lord Mirwell’s favorite saddles. It was dropped or some such, and the leather marred. Lord Mirwell was not pleased and demanded justice. Someone claimed it was Private Spencer who committed this terrible act of clumsiness.”

Immerez licked his lips. Perspiration broke out on his temple. Beryl was pleased, and pointed the hatchet at him. “It was you, wasn’t it, who marred the saddle. It was you who reported my brother. He told me this after the incident. Did you know how much he respected his sergeant? How much in awe of him he was? That was you he looked up to. He would have followed you into a fire or a volley of arrows if you so commanded it.

“But you betrayed him. To you he was just another private, young and expendable, but you had ambitions and could not be seen as less than perfect in your lord’s eyes. And in the end, who would the lord-governor listen to? A simple, untried private from the country, or an experienced sergeant he was grooming for greater things?”

“Lies,” Immerez sputtered.

“A dying man usually tells no lies,” Beryl replied. “I, for one should know, considering how many I’ve brought to the brink. And make no mistake, when Mirwell cut off my brother’s hands in punishment and sent him home in disgrace, he was already dying. Dying inside. There is not much a man can do without his hands. He can’t work the land, write, or hold a sword. Truly I can only guess at how it felt to him to have his mother and little sister tend to his every need, no matter how trivial or private. But worst of all, the betrayal broke his heart. Your betrayal.”

She gazed at the hatchet, turned it over in her hand. “Eventually he took his own life; jumped off a cliff because he couldn’t put a knife in his own gut.”

“It was Lord Mirwell who cut off his hands!” Immerez said.

“So it was. And you knew his pleasure at doling out such punishments, which is why you could not do the honorable thing and admit you were the one to scuff the saddle.”

“Would you?” Immerez demanded.

Beryl raised her eyebrow and smiled. “I would not have found myself in that position in the first place. I knew what kind of a lord-governor we were stuck with and I did not serve him. But this is not about me or my choices. It’s not even about my brother or the old Lord Mirwell. This is about you, some questions you can answer, and this hatchet.”

Immerez sweated profusely now, his bald head glistening with droplets.

“I think among those rumors you heard about me circulating the keep,” she continued, “was that I was ruthless, pitiless, and cruel.” She bent down beside his ear and whispered, “The rumors are true.”

She then stepped back and said, “I’ll start with the fingers on your remaining hand, and if I receive no satisfaction, I will cut off the hand and work up your arm in slices. I’ve irons heating over the fire outside to cauterize the wounds.”

True fear finally awakened in Immerez’s eye and he strained against his bonds. “You said the king would decide my fate!”

“And so he will. It does not, however, preclude my use of certain questioning techniques. A pity for you, for you will not be allowed to die, and you will want to by the time I’m through.”

Immerez’s nostrils flared. “Should have killed you!”

“Yes,” Beryl said, “you should have.” She sat in her chair, crossed her legs, and settled the hatchet on her lap. She gave him her most pleasant smile. “Ready to answer some questions?”