Master Smith’s desert-parched mouth woke him. He worked to get his tongue cleaved from the roof of his mouth. Pain clouded his mind. His eyes burned. He was uncertain how many days had passed since the quasi-botched mission or what time of day or night it was now. All he knew was misery. He turned his head painfully to the left then to the right, scanning his surroundings. He still laid in a cell. He winced. His Master intended more pain.
Boots traversed the hall. For a fleeting moment, he hoped they didn’t belong to one of the Comhairles but quickly returned to his senses. He clenched his teeth, breathed deeply, and prayed to the Four. The door to his cell opened with a gravelly grind against the floor. Light poured in behind his punisher, and he didn’t attempt to hold a hand to shelter his eyes. That would be cause for harsher, longer punishment. He saw the Slatan draoidheachd in his punisher’s hand and quivered.
Master Smith tried to look into the eyes of his castigator to determine what type of punishment and perhaps how long it would last, but he couldn’t see past the blinding light. He resigned himself to the fact that he would find out shortly anyway.
The Comhairle raised the Slatan, and his world eventually went black.
Master Smith woke again, this time feeling sick in his stomach. He tried not to move a hair in any direction.
I have to gather myself.
The world tilted and swayed. Slowly, he opened one eye and then the other. A dull light filtered into the room. He breathed a sigh of relief. He lived through his Master’s wrath and was back in a dormitory room.. Perhaps he had not fallen too far from the Master’s esteem. He tried to move his head to the left, lurched forward off the bed, and vomited. He leaned back against the wall, shaking, attempting to stabilize himself.
There’s internal damage. I’ll have to go easy for a few days if they’ll let me.
He took stock of his situation.
The door opened and Master Billows entered. His eyes immediately went to the pile of vomit on the floor. “Couldn’t hold it in?”
Master Smith shook his head.
Master Billows sidestepped the vomit. “We’re moving.”
Master Smith swallowed hard. “When?”
“Now. Master wants to be up in the Middle Castle. Half the Elite have already started.”
He furrowed his brow and his stomach roiled.
Master Billows smoothly lifted a bucket off the floor for him. Master Smith leaned over it and vomited forcefully.
“I’m gonna fix you up,” Master Billows said.
“I can’t have you do that,” Master Smith protested.
Master Billows snorted. “I’m to keep your punishment going as we walk. Fixing you up will make my job easier. You need to be able to walk without boaking.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Am I to be kept there?”
Master Billows shook his head. “You’ll go back to your outpost. You’ll keep your pets.”
Master Smith breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank fuck.”
Master Billows laughed. “Aye. Don’t make this harder for both of us then. You know I can’t go light on you.”
Master Smith nodded. He knew all too well the difficult position his comrade was in. “Do you get to tuck me in?”
Master Billows laughed again. “If we’re both so fortunate.”
“I’m sure it’d be a nice reprieve from the confines of the castle,” he said.
Master Billows nodded. “Sure as fuck.”
He placed a hand to Master Smith’s middle and opened up his gift. Small tendrils of orange and green meandered their way to his insides and mended them. His middle warmed up like a stone in the sun, a rather pleasant sensation after all the pain he’d been given.
“Up,” Master Billows commanded.
After fifteen days of walking punishment, and forced to endure injuries that wouldn’t render Master Smith incapable of moving, Master Billows escorted him to his home. An MT in this outpost was extremely rare, so there’d definitely be talk, which Master Smith did not relish. Everyone did their best to rush out of the way. No one dared raise their gaze above knee-level. Master Billows took no notice of the peoples’ discomfiture. He didn’t bother to knock at Master Smith’s home either, and Master Smith’s stomach flopped. He didn’t want his prisoners frightened out of their wits, but he also didn’t have a choice.
Rebecca’s steely grey eyes widened at the sight of them. She pressed herself against the wall of the hall and cast her eyes to the floor, her arms visibly shaking.
“Up the stairs,” Master Billows stated more than asked.
Master Smith nodded and led the way to his room. He turned to face Master Billows once inside, unsure if there’d be a final punishment or if he’d be released.
Master Billows closed the door and took a quick glance around the room. “Keep prepared.”
Another tingle spread across the base of his skull. “Did you have another vision?”
Master Billows pressed his lips together. “I told you it’s not the same thing.”
He flicked a hand in dismissal. “Did you?”
Master Billows sighed. “Just keep ready. If I get anything else, I’ll send it through Master Butcher or Master Glass.”
“Are you done with me then?”
“Aye. Back to the cells I go,” Master Billows said.
A pang spread through Master Smith’s sternum for Master Billows. MT’s rarely left the Torture Corridor, and if they did, it was only to fulfill a mission or fight in battle. The fact Master Billows was allowed to continue Master Smith’s punishment to his outpost was considered a treat by the Master.
“Thank you, Master Billows,” he said.
Master Billows dipped his head to him and took his leave.
“Rebecca!” Master Smith’s voice was harsh, his throat burned.
The door opened tentatively. First a delicate hand peeked through, then a slippered foot and skirt. Her eyes were downcast as was proper of a prisoner in the presence of her keeper.
“Yes, sir.”
“Water.”
“Yes, sir,” she turned and quietly closed the door behind her.
Master Smith wondered how well his prisoners had managed without him. If he didn’t earn a living, they didn’t receive money to purchase food and cloth. He cringed at the thought of it. How long was I in the cell?
Rebecca returned with a pitcher of water and a glass. She placed them on the table beside his bed and waited patiently for any other request he might make. His pride swelled at the sight of her. She had a lot of fire when she first came to him, but after a few months of correction, she softened and now took commands easily.
“How is the household?” he asked.
“The truth or buttered truth, sir?”
“Truth.”
“The household is in disrepair. We will run out of money in a few days, sir,” she revealed.
Master Smith regarded her calmly while turmoil roiled inside him. It was his duty to provide for his household and keep it in good working condition. He could not lose that much face in front of everyone. He took in a deep breath, registered the fact that his ribs were in much pain, and looked into her eyes.
“How many days have I been absent?”
“Eighty, sir.”
He almost gasped at her reply. It had taken him twenty days for the assassination, fifteen to travel to the Southern Palace, eleven to get to Brookton, Zehr, one day staying there, and eleven days to get back to the Southern Palace. This meant he had spent seven days in the cell. He recovered quickly.
“I will work tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Do you require anything else?”
“Just sleep. I’m not to be disturbed unless it’s an emergency.”
“Yes, sir,” she bowed to him once and left the room.
Seven days!
“How did he look?” Nina, head prisoner, was always worried about their keeper. She was in her forties by Rebecca’s estimation, and she was very matronly toward their keeper even though he didn’t need nor want a mother. In fact, as all Elite members do, he had murdered his parents when he was a boy.
“Tired,” Rebecca said flatly.
“Tired? That’s all?” Nina placed her hands on her hips and sternly eyed Rebecca. “He was gone for months, and all he looks is tired? Tell me all, girl!”
“He looked tired. Maybe a little ragged. He might have been in pain.” Rebecca didn’t dare let on how concerned she was for Master Smith’s well-being. Anxiety gnawed her gut incessantly those eighty days, and while she should have been plotting attempts of escape, she couldn’t find it in her to follow through with it.
“Pain? I would think so,” Nina muttered, more to herself.
“What?” Rebecca asked loudly.
“Don’t play stupid with me, girl. He’s gone for months and returns with an MT. His punishment must have been severe.”
"I don’t care.” Rebecca replied nonchalantly, keeping her gaze away from Nina.
“You don’t mean that. If he had died, we’d be in a very difficult way now, wouldn’t we? We have it good here. You don’t know how good you have it. You’ve never had another keeper. We’re very lucky. I’ve had keepers who would just as soon kill you for spilling a little salt or breathing too heavily in their presence.” Nina rubbed the back of her neck and shook her head.
Nina’s previous keeper had been terribly cruel. He used to beat her daily for the slightest provocation. He violated her intermittently just to keep her pliable, or so Nina said. While Rebecca knew Nina told the truth, she remained stubbornly obstinate.
Rebecca snorted.
“You keep yourself out of mischief, Becca. Haven’t you learned anything since you came here?” Nina asked.
“No blasphemy, no looking directly at them, don’t burn or undercook their food, respect the plants, keep the household clean at all times, don’t talk to men. I know all of the rules,” Rebecca scoffed and raised her chin.
“Just see that you stick to them. Wouldn’t that make him angry if you came home carrying a bastard,” Nina grabbed Rebecca’s belly.
Rebecca backed away, “I haven’t spoken to a single man since that first time, and how was I to know?”
“Just stick to them.” Nina warned.
Rebecca stormed out. Sometimes Nina treated Rebecca like a dolt who didn’t know any better. She learned very painfully how to behave in her captive situation. Sometimes, she dreamed of a day when she’d be free again. She would go home to her mother and never leave again.