the light here is brighter

Her arm shot out, clamped his throat and shoved him back into the cold stone wall. “We are not playing here, worm. I am not your friend or your priest. I am not here for your last request.” Her words were fiery, not at all like the demure, playful Misha Itaul she had been for so long.

After all, why should this man be afforded a merciful death, hissed the voice from deep inside her. He could die in agony, like so many others had, and it would be something like justice. “A man in a black hood may be my hand,” she whispered, and the words grated. “But make no mistake. I am your executioner.” 

Then, Misha squeezed. It was a light, effortless press for her—but she was a demoness, after all, and the bones in the neck were fragile on nearly any race of beings. Her nails dug deep, breaking the skin slowly. 

She held him there, just watching the blood pool around her fingertips as he struggled uselessly for breath. Then, a minute or two later, she let him go, easy as you please. 

Having that power over him, even for a short while, had been enough to remind her why she stayed away from the violence, kept her hands clean. She didn’t want to become the same as the monsters, and in some clearer part of her mind she’d drawn that line. It took her some effort, but she forced herself to step back over, returned from being the woman she could be to the woman she wanted to be. Wiping her fingers on the front of the prisoner’s filthy shirt, Misha rose, slowly. It had been exhilarating, momentarily, but now she was pensive again. 

All he could do was stand there, his legs weak and getting even weaker the longer she cut off his breath.  Not saying anything, not able to get any words out besides a weak, almost voiceless "let go."  But of course she didn't let go, only squeezing tighter.  His own blood running down his neck was a feeling he never thought he'd have to experience, and now that it was happening, he had other things to worry about.  Lack of breath.  His throat slowly getting crushed, bones and cartilage squishing together, moving against it each other in a way they had no right to.

He could very well die right here.  Misha could just keep on squeezing and he would die, and--and Calat did not care.  His hands, halfway up to her arm, fell back down.  A bitter smile wormed its way onto his face.  He'd rather die here with no one else to see, let her kill him, come one come on please--and then she let go.  No longer forced upright by her hands, Calat slumped down the wall, hands going to his neck in a useless attempt at protection.   Breathing properly again was difficult at first, the air catching in his throat.  He coughed, the sound little more than weak rasp.

To know that Misha could have easily killed him, that nobody would have raised an eyebrow at it, either, and that the only reason he was still sitting there and staring at wide-eyed was because she had chosen not to kill him--it was a sobering thought.  Admitting to himself that he would have welcomed a death like that was even worse, and he did not dwell too long on it.  There would be time for that later, when he was alone again, when it was back to waiting for the executioner.

Seeing that Misha had already made her way back towards the door, Calat felt the great need to say something.  To not let her have the last word in this, to show her that . . . what?  What was he even trying to accomplish anymore?  Calat no longer knew.  Misha, it seemed, had been right.  All he was was a ghost who hadn't yet realized that he was already in the grave.  And this particular ghost had no words left to say.

Instead, she got a specified, almost detailed account of their friendship. If he had truly been thinking like a spy, when it came to bragging about the trust he had earned, he would not speak of Simone. He would speak of Tarac surely, maybe even Varamadras, someone worth bragging about. No, he was definitely protecting her. Which left Misha the decision of how she would use that knowledge. She didn’t fault the girl for falling for an endearing bookworm, especially when that bookworm turned out to be manipulative and devious. For her it basically fulfilled the “opposites attract” and the “perfect match” ideals simultaneously.

Besides, any spy who thought getting to know a Yellow was a good plan had Jewantes naiveté all over him. Be friendly, yes. Friends, certainly not. If they taught him that, it was a miracle that he’d made it as far as he had. Misha felt a spark of excitement. She’d decided exactly what she wanted to do now. What would hurt most. And she did want to see him hurt. Like she had, every day since Varamadras collapsed at the gates of Grumberg.

She had been thinking, so she let it show on her face for a second, frowned, and remarked to Calat, “Now that you mention it, though… she is a Yellow Magician. If she had so little aptitude, such poor instincts, as to befriend a spy… or perhaps, she had some affection for you, even if you did not feel the same way.” Misha nodded, with a note of finality. “No, that will not do. I will have to speak with her superiors about this.” She gave Rast a wry smile. “You may get your wish after all. The Minister is not known for her leniency with her officers. And if anyone knows how to efficiently interrogate a Yellow Magician, it will be her.”

The happy feeling of a con successfully carried out vanished as soon as Misha leaned in close and continued. Calat once more froze at her words, his whole body going rigid as he listened to her hint at what Simone would have to face in the days to come. Was she serious? Were they really going to interrogate Simone just because of some wild accusations on his part? Gods beyond, he hadn't even sounded convincing to himself, there was no way in all the gate that Misha could have believed it.

Calat looked up, watching Misha carefully and attentively as she knelt down in front of him. There was a part of him that knew exactly what she was doing, and commended her for knowing exactly what to say to set his mind reeling--and then there was another, much larger part that knew, knew that she was playing him and that despite knowing about it he was falling straight for it. This wasn't what he had wanted for Simone; this wasn't what he had been aiming for at all-- The thought of Simone being interrogated by her superiors was absolutely totally horrible, and knowing that it was he who had put her into such a position . . . he bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He wanted to get angry. Knew he should be, by all accounts. But his anger had run dry a long time ago, mumbling, "Is--Is that so? Well. Well! You and your brother are quite welcome, then, and, umm. If Simone really does end up getting interrogated, tell her that it was me who put her there, yes?"

She barely heard his order, didn’t acknowledge it, already sorting through the possibilities of something he’d let slip. Simone. Now that was interesting. Misha had been unaware of the association between the two of them, but now she thought of it, the fiery Yellow Magician had been his assigned interrogator—she recalled seeing the file, briefly, though it had made her stomach churn to think of the prisoner for too long while Varamadras was still in hospital. 

With her eyes sharp to any movement or expression Calat might give, she said, “It is rather unusual to hear a prisoner slated for execution give the name of his interrogator in a list of things he shall miss…” Either Simone was ridiculously good, and had bent the man to her will entirely, or else there was another relationship at play here. And if there was something deeper, then it could be exploited.  Even if Simone had given it her all, even the most talented interrogator could overlook important details or hold back if they felt anything but professional detachment for the prisoner. Misha did not have that issue, in the slightest. It was unlikely that Calat knew anything of actual import, but perhaps he was not the only spy in their ranks—a thought that had granted her many sleepless nights since the attack at Grumberg. 

It was possible that Simone was biased… not overtly disloyal, not given her connection to Loriente her entire life, and her attachment to Lena. Misha would have difficulty imagining two less likely candidates for treachery against Varamadras and the Mancers than those two, and Simone Dealare was a respected Magician, valued highly by the Minister of Intelligence and the rest of the high-ranking officials she had worked with. If she was colluding with the traitor, it would likely only be to assure him some sort of safety, not an attempt to sabotage the DemonLord. Thank the gods for small favours.

What was he going to do?  There was no way he could play this off as just some off-hand remark -- Misha was too smart for that.  Should he tell her some completely outlandish lie in the hopes that she dropped that line of thought?  That wouldn't work either.  Gods, why hadn't he watched his tongue -- a slip like that wouldn't have happened a few weeks ago, he knew.  But the failed escape and Salsia's death had worn him done, so very very close to the bone, and Misha, he realized, knew just what buttons to push.

In the end, went for the explanation Misha had so readily offered him.  He couldn't implicate Simone in this, she didn't deserve it--not when she had been so nice to him, not after everything.  Calat owed her that.  Owed her a great deal more than that, and it was a debt he would never be able to repay.  One more thing on the ledger would not hurt him, now.  Forgive me my words, Simone.  

"Well--Well!  I thought I would try casting at least some suspicion on her, but I guess I was a bit too obvious about her, no?  A pity, really," he said, peering up from where he still sat huddled on the floor.  His hands shook, and he was glad that he had tucked them tight against his chest.  "She was very . . . rough during her interrogations, you would almost think all that time I spent befriending her meant nothing.  You know what I'll miss?  I'll miss not being able to repay her for everything she did."  And that, funnily enough, was the truth, although he would have liked to be able to repay her with something more along the lines of drinks and flowers and--right.  Too late for all that, now.

She nodded along as he continued to posture as though she was hearing a valid argument from a good friend rather than the ravings of a desperate man. What he said amused her, and she met his wooden liar’s smile with a genuinely sweet one of her own, eyes sparkling. “Have you forgotten where you are? We are demons, dear,” she quipped. “What good is human decency to demons? You should be thankful you are not being burnt alive—which would only be fair, considering your own people’s predilections.” 

Misha made no comment on his begging for my life melodrama, but did respond with grandmotherly concern to his throw-away line about having no regrets. Dear gods, it was as though the child had swallowed a book of banal cliches, and was spewing them forth out of sheer desperation. “Regrets are not something you ought to let go of easily, Calat Reide. They inform who you are as much as those moments of pride and achievement, and are infinitely more honest. As to why I am here…” Misha took a few steps, from one side of the cell to the other, and cocked her head to one side, considering how she wanted to phrase it.

“You must know the story, or you really are a poor researcher, as well as a mediocre spy,” she began eventually. “You see, once upon a time my brothers were murdered in a cell much like this one… many years ago, but still. I visited once, saw the stains on the stones from where they were beaten bloody and left to struggle through their final breaths…” She was speaking softly, grazing the cold wall with her fingertips. She turned back to him after a moment. “I visited that cell for the same reason I visit you now. To pay my respects to the dead.” 

In a way he was relieved that it would only be a hanging, though--it would be a quick death, and a lot less painful than burning alive.  Or Salsia's fate, and gods, she had held on for so long only to not even be able to escape. His fault, just like the deaths of the men who had been involved in the failed ambush on the Demonlord's life, lungs straining for air, chests heaving but getting nothing and--

"I--" don't need to explain myself to you, he wanted to say.  All he managed was a defeated whimper.  Misha looked at him in much the same way Simone did; and although whereas Simone's gaze held disappointed anger to Misha's cold amusement, they both shared that look of pity whenever their eyes met.  Calat couldn't stand it.  It wasn't that he couldn't understand it--oh, no no no, he got that, more than they knew.  Rast had been a good person, and kind, and he'd had friends--none of those things were true of Calat.  He didn't need Misha to tell him what he already knew.

"You're wasting your breath: only the living are here to hear you," Calat replied, feeling the need to at least say something, to not simply sit there and do nothing.  But he was finished, thoroughly put in his place, and they could both clearly see it.  He had sacrificed so much for the mission Karadas had given him, and now, aside from a motley collection of bruises and the contempt of people he could have been friends with, he had absolutely nothing to show for it.  He might as well have never even done any of it.

A smirk crossed her delicate features then. Looking at him sitting chained to the wall was sweetly bitter satisfaction, and she would savour it. “I assure you, I have more than enough reading material. You forget, I sleep down the hall from the greatest library this side of the Masadur.” His eyes reminded her of a fish’s, after it had been pulled from water—disoriented, not yet understanding, knowing only that it couldn’t breathe… he asked his question, and she nodded, pushed herself back to standing, “It hasn’t been exactly high on his list of priorities, you understand,” she glanced around at the cell, as though there was more to take stock of than could be seen immediately. 

Idly Misha continued, “We needed to find a time when all those who wished to attend could, and that Neren Square was not already booked by some event or other—scheduling is no simple task in a city this size. But yes, two days from now, you will be hanged. Or was it three?” she mused to herself. After a moment she shrugged. She turned back, mildly curious about what sort of reaction this news would be met with.

“I do not know if you have family or not, but we have no inclination to keep your body or humiliate you afterwards.” Misha’s voice was sympathetic, cordial, and then tinged slightly with humour as she added, “The tradition of displaying the corpses of traitors for entertainment has thankfully fallen out of vogue.” It wasn’t the sort of joke you necessarily expected laughter from, but she found herself smiling a little anyway.

"And despite that you're here!"  Spreading his arms as wide as the chains would allow, he gestured first at the small room, then, slowly letting one arm sink down, he pointed a finger at her.  "Forgive me the question, but, judging by the way you're dressed up--Misha, do I rank higher on your list of priorities than a date with your fiance?"

It was a good enough comeback, he thought, and he was actually kind of proud of it -- but the longer Misha talked, the more Calat came to realize that she had him soundly beaten.  A hanging--his hanging--and from her tone she might as well have been talking about what type of cakes they sold at the nearest bakery.  He had underestimated her, he realized, as well as how quickly the Mancers would act.  

The first time around that he had been captured by the Mancers, he had still believed that he would be rescued -- he hadn't given a thought to dying.  But now, with the failed escape attempt . . . maybe he hadn't wanted to face it, to put it in so many words, but deep down Calat had known that this was the end of the line for him.  It scared him.  The prospect of dying scared him more than anything, and he wanted nothing more than to break down crying and screaming, but--but Calat did what he had been trained to do: he pushed down his fear, put on a mask, and smiled.

"I always knew the risks," he said, the shaking in his voice only a bare hint.  "Either your brother died, or I would.  There really weren't all that many ways this could end."

Misha walked down the stone dungeon steps to the cells, her heavy cloak a soft whisper against her legs. It was early evening outside, but in the dungeons there was no way to mark time. Torches lined the corridor, and the windowless rooms were dark except for one. She paused outside of the glowing, ever-lit chamber, pulling out her master key. The guards knew better than to question her apparently, one just uttered a low milady, and another was kind enough to take her cloak from her when she removed it. 

Beneath it, her dress was sea green silk, and a single diamond glittered on a chain about her neck. Her hair was curled elegantly about her neck and shoulders — it had gotten quite long. With all the excitement since Grumberg, she’d neglected to get it cut for some time.

All told, she looked as though she were on her way to a cocktail party — and she was, Se’ref was meeting her there, but at the last second she’d ordered the carriage driver to take her someplace else entirely.

Misha had kept herself from imagining what she would say or do to this man, when she got the chance. Because she did have the chance, every day. That assurance though, that she could plan the perfect words and wait for the right moment, that had been shaken by news of the attempted escape. And so once she felt fully recovered from the attack in Neas several days prior, she found herself back in her own city, and desiring to speak with the man who’d betrayed them.

She entered the cell, and, shutting the door behind her, turned to examine the prisoner where he sat on the floor. Now that she was here, he did not look like she’d imagined, but wraithlike, fragile. His face was all dark hollows and sharp, tortured edges. Misha had only met Rast Grants a handful of times, really, but even with her limited acquaintance she could tell that this was not the same man, not any longer. It could hardly even qualify as a person.

She strode forward, until she was directly in front of the chained man, completely at ease. She knelt, slowly, like she was having a chat with a toddler. Her chin rested on one slim-fingered hand while the other was draped loosely over her knees.

He had to admit that he had no idea what the Mancers were going to do with him, unsuccessful escape and all.  Before, when he had still been in the cell next to Salsia -- Salsia -- he hadn't given his eventual fate at the hands of his enemies any thought.  Because there was absolutely no way at all that the was going to be imprisoned long enough for it to actually matter, right?  Right.  Only now the escape had failed, and he was back in chains, and Salsia was dead, and Calat no longer had the energy to care about what was going to happen to him.  He had failed Salsia, failed Simone, and that was unforgivable.

Now there were voices at his door, though, guards talking, and when the door finally opened a woman strode through.  For a moment -- a foolish foolish moment, and he immediately hated himself for falling for it -- Calat thought that it was Simone.  That hope was squashed as soon as he raised his head to look at his visitor, and Calat once again resigned himself to leaning back against the wall, watching, listening to what she had to say.  

"And you are Misha Itaul," he replied, slowly, his tongue heavy and his mouth dry.  Calat remembered her; they had had a brief few run-ins over the last months.   He hadn't expected to see her again, though, much less alone.  Did she bear a grudge against him for deceiving them and betraying Varamadras?  Probably.  He would, if he were in her place, and besides: there really wasn't any other reason for her to come visit him.  From her attire Calat guessed that she most likely hadn't even planned to end up here with him -- her dress was too nice, her hair was properly done.  She looked nicer than Simone did, and she was the only person who actually visited Calat because she wanted to.

Footsteps, echoing through silent halls. It was a familiar sound, and not in any way comforting. The stares the guards standing in the hallway gave her could only be described as distrusting. They had heard of the investigation then. Hell, by now, everyone had heard about it seemed. It wasn’t surprising, really. The soldiers were like old ladies when it came to gossip. Not that she cared, really. It wasn’t like she had done anything wrong, so they could take all those judging glares and pitying eyes, and shove them back into their pathetic little minds. She had no patience for strangers pretending they knew something about her, about what had gone down between her and Ra-C-him, about what had happened at the cells and she certainly did not need their so called advice and counseling.