Chapter 5: The Ideal of Discipline

The end of the week came, and Aven was still alive. Not all days were as deadly as the first; only two more of the prisoners had succumbed to the voidspawn since the first day, and their numbers were replenished to a full complement of thirty prisoners. Three more days of hunting voidspawn followed, then on the fifth day came the day of rest. Even out in Hellfrost, it seemed some imperial traditions were still respected.

In Elensvale, the day of rest traditionally meant offerings at the temple and rituals of dedication. The temple in Elensvale was primarily dedicated to the Ideal of Industry, and offering typically comprised some recounting of past work or presentation of the fruits of labor.

The Head Warden had very different ideas as to what constituted rituals of dedication.

“In the Ideal of Discipline, you are reforged,” the priest said.

The crack of the scourge against bare flesh followed.

Ko’jan cursed alongside Aven. Rather than a one-on-one “confessional” like Aven had been subjected to before, this was a very public performance. Aven didn’t know the prisoner currently the object of the priest’s discipline, a woman with strange symbols etched into her skin marking her as a Maledictus, one of the supposedly cursed folk of the west, on the edges of the Darkwood. Some of the prisoners sobbed. Some screamed. Some pled. This particular woman muttered what sounded like prayers in a foreign tongue. It was difficult to tell, since her own gasps of pain garbled her words beyond recognition. Blood stained her back.

“Gods will not save you,” the priest spoke between lashes. “Nor will spirits, or ancestors, or whatever else your barbarian traditions worship.” Another crack, halting the prayers momentarily. “Your gods have abandoned you. You are a wretch, an insect. But even insects may prove their worth.” The whip cracked, tearing into flesh and bringing forth another pained gasp. “In discipline, there is purpose. There is worth. In service to the empire and the Ideals, you will be reborn.”

At the twentieth lash, the priest halted, gesturing to the guards to drag the woman away. She was silent now, blood dripping from her back and from her lips where she’d bitten down to hold back screams. The guards dragged the woman away, her back a mess of bloody wounds and scar tissue.

“Another will be tested,” the priest said. “Another will be reborn. A new chance is given.”

“Do we all get the same treatment?” Aven whispered to Ko’jan.

“All? No,” Ko’jan chuckled. “With more than a hundred prisoners, even our priest would get bored of wielding the whip! He has his favorites, and the guards offer suggestions on who to ‘discipline’. This is why you should not get on the guards’ bad side, yes?”

“Some of ‘em get off easy too,” Veese the ogre muttered. “Old Fox never gets the whip.”

The old veteran grunted from his position behind Ko’jan, conveniently obscured by the beastkin’s bulk.

“Aven Arvanius, step forward,” the priest commanded.

Of course. Aven gave Ko’jan and Veese a shrug and stepped forward. Better not to keep the priest waiting. The guards shoved him forward, as unnecessarily rough as always. Perhaps they were hoping he would struggle more; a poor way to encourage cooperation in Aven’s opinion.

The crowd of both prisoners and guards offered neither sympathy nor malice. Many were looking and whispering to themselves. Torture, it seemed, became as mundane and dull as anything else with sufficient repetition.

Aven’s hands were chained to a wooden beam protruding from the wall. He was positioned to face the crowd, and his shirt was torn from him, baring his chest to the cold air. He was facing a wooden post protruding from the stone of the courtyard wall, and his hands were raised up to the height of the post and shackled.

“You are a child of the empire,” the priest said. “What Ideals have you followed?”

Aven closed his eyes as the memories of his dedication ceremony returned. Kneeling before the statue of the Conqueror, the Paragon of Courage and war. Receiving a sword from his father. The same sword that had pierced Ralius Talone’s chest.

“I swore to follow the Ideal of Courage,” Aven said.

“Courage,” Yvris repeated. “A lesser Ideal. Important for warriors, to be sure. But courage without discipline can lead to foolishness, to pride, to arrogance. Even barbarians can be courageous. Discipline is what forges empires.”

The whip struck. Fire burned across his back. Aven’s jaw tightened. Another lash came, and Aven did not give the priest the satisfaction of a scream. He bit back his pain. Again and again. Blood trickled from his back.

Gasps came from the crowd. Murmurs. Aven glanced down and saw drops of the black blood drip onto the stone tiles.

“Discipline can reforge even a voidtouched into a weapon of the empire,” the priest declared.

The cursed manacles kept the power of the Void and Aven’s own strength repressed, but there were techniques of the Battle Mind that didn’t need vis power to fuel. The Battle Mind was more than just power. It was an awareness of his own body, a control over himself. An ability to separate part of his mind from sensations like pain when they would only be distractions.

Gaius Avarnius, Aven’s father, was a devotee of Discipline as well. Rather than whips, he used rods. Aven’s training had made pain close as a sibling, one he’d known as long as his sisters.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

The world faded to a dull haze.

The lashes stopped.

Aven allowed his mind to return. The lines of pain burned hot across his back.

“You are no longer Aven nym Avarnius,” the priest intoned, his voice booming through the air with dramatic flair, “You have been reborn as prisoner Aven, servant of the Empire and the Ideals, an instrument in our crusade against the Void. Return.”

Aven was unchained and dragged back into the crowd. Black blood still dripped onto the stone.

None of the other prisoners spoke to Aven. Their eyes stared at the black blood, and they shrank away.

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“That hideous now, am I?” Aven asked, trying for a smile that probably came out a grimace.

“You’re voidtouched,” Ko’jan finally spoke, tone horrified. And enraged. “You’re a godsdamned voidtouched.”

“As you see,” Aven said.

The beastkin spat and turned away. Veese shrugged and winced but also turned away. Camaraderie among prisoners, it seemed, did not extend to the accursed.

* * *

Esharah managed to get away from the courtyard long enough to vomit.

Shit.

This much practice, she ought to have been used to it by now. Every week, the same rituals. The same cloud fear and anger filling the air in a choking cloud. The same edge of sadistic thrill turning the flavor of the emotions even more putrid. Two years and the edge never dulled.

The same powers that let her feel the thoughts and emotions of others, the same Empathy became a curse in a place where she was surrounded by fear and pain. The guards’ cruelty. The prisoners’ anger. The Warden’s madness. And the prisoners’ own emotions. The surge of fear and hatred at the sight of a voidtouched in their midst. And, worst of all, the way a few prisoners were twisted to take a perverse joy in the suffering of the others. And then when the Thorn resonated with the pain of the prisoners...

The Thorn chose that moment to strike, unleashing the pain saved up from the day’s rituals in a wave that blotted out everything else.

Esharah retched until there was nothing left in her stomach.

She didn’t notice the presence behind her until too late.

“So this is where you wandered off to.”

Esharah froze at the presence of Father Yvris’s right-hand ashkari, Zadrine. While technically equals as wardens, Esharah was prisoner just as much as those in chains. Zadrine was not. From the moment Zadrine had arrived at Hellfrost six months ago, she’d revelled in it all.

With most of the soldiers and wardens, Esharah could tell herself they were only doing their duty. Simply following orders. Most had no real passion for the suffering of the prisoners. Most felt no joy from their actions. Even Erdrak held something more in his heart, something beyond sadistic pleasure, something that made the emotions Esharah felt from him slightly less putrid.

But not Zadrine. The askhari’s crimson eyes held only delight when they looked upon Yvris wielding the whip. That same delight now shone when they looked at Esharah. Delight and hunger, like a cat playing with its food.

“Still too weak-stomached for the rituals?” Zadrine chuckled. “Even after all this time, still so soft-hearted.” She stepped closer, “You know, that could be interpreted as disgust with the Father’s actions. But surely a warden wouldn’t harbor such disloyal emotions.”

“I do everything asked of me,” Esharah suppressed her disgust to answer. “I am as loyal as any in Hellfrost.”

“Of course, of course,” the ashkari chuckled. “But, you know, I worry. There are so few here you can call friend, so I must look out for you, my fellow chthonian.” Zadrine stepped closer and placed her hand on Esharah’s shoulder. There was far too much claw in her squeeze for it to be friendly. And far too much heat. Zadrine didn’t use enough of her Flamecaster vis to scorch, but it was enough to serve as a warning. “After all, Vastra isn’t here to look after you.”

The reminder brought an involuntary twitch. Yet Esharah managed to keep a smile painted on her face. “I appreciate the concern.”

Whatever else Zadrine wanted was interrupted when Yvris appeared at the end of the hall, “Wardens. Your duties are not finished. Bring the hellfire girl for confessional.”

Esharah winced. Even now, Yvris still hadn’t given up on finding some way to tame Janaya’s power. Which meant some other poor guard was probably going to die.

“Of course, Sanct-Dis,” Zadrine bowed. Wheedling kiss-ass. “We hear and obey.”

Zadrine kept a hand on Esharah’s shoulder while barking for two guards to join them. Thankfully, Zadrine had her own followers she preferred, and she invariably chose them. The worst scum of Hellfrost. Sycophants of Yvris at best, sadists his equal at worst. These two guards, the canin beastkin Roshar and the ondrar woman Gerta, had been banned from the town bathhouse for mistreating the attendants. Esharah could hope that Janaya’s wrath would befall them. Such fantasies kept Esharah better company on their trip down to the bottom of the prison.

Still, Esharah had appearances to keep. Much as she would have liked to let fate run its course, she instead reached out an arm to forestall the guards just before a splinter wreathed in sulfurous flame shot out from Janaya’s cell.

“That one was wood,” Esharah noted. “Are you smashing your chamber box for weapons now?”

Janaya growled, gripping the bars tightly and glaring at them, “You hellspawn were born in shit, and you’ll die the same.”

“Time for confessional, dear,” Esharah kept the same smile and conversational tone. “I trust you will come without a struggle?”

Guilt twisted as Esharah reached out with her mind. Her domains combined: Empathy to feel others’ emotions, and the Mind Speaker to influence their minds. Esharah felt the fires of Janaya’s rage. A burning sense far stronger than Zadrine’s claws. Hate, fury, pain all fueling each other endlessly. Too powerful emotions for a subtle touch. Instead, Esharah threw her power into Jayanay’s soul to snuff out those fires entirely.

Janaya responded with a shriek, “Out of my head, demon! Get out!”

The fire roared stronger, turned inward as if Janaya intended to burn herself alive with Esharah mind inside her. Even as Esharah withdrew, Janaya’s self-inflicted pain crested into a raw-throated scream.

“You’re only hurting yourself,” Esharah whispered.

Exhausted, Janaya’s strength faltered, and Esharah managed to quell the flames. The woman went limp in her chains, and at Zadrine’s nod the guards moved in to seize Janaya’s limbs. For most prisoners, the cursed manacles were enough to stifle their power. Janaya had extra precautions: two additional sets of chains binding her to the wall.

Janaya was dragged out of the cell. Esharah had done her work too well. Janaya didn’t so much as put up a token resistance. That didn’t stop the guards from giving her extra strikes with their batons.

“Resist and I’ll kill you,” Roshar growled.

Esharah might have laughed at that. If killing Janaya was an option, they would have done it months ago. As it was, the sight of Roshar beating a half-unconscious woman was too brutal to take any humor. Esharah glanced away, stomach churning. Her eyes met the voidtouched boy’s in the neighboring cell. Like always, he watched without any apparent fear or hatred or any of the other emotions common amongst the prisoners.

Esharah couldn’t meet that gaze for long, not when Zadrine’s tug pulled Esharah back to the attention of the other prisoner. The guards dragged Janaya along, back up to the top floors where Yvris awaited in the smaller confessional room. Yvris was already there, preparing the spiked chains to connect two minds.

“Thank you, Wardens,” Yvris nodded. “Zadrine, you are dismissed. Esharah, please stay and-”

Janaya chose that moment to strike. With a roar, she broke from the guards’ grips and rushed towards Yvris. Zadrine was in the way in an instant, flames gathering in one hand while the other lashed out with her arcsteel baton. The blow smashed into Janaya’s head, but the enraged prisoner kept going. Even when Zadrine’s soul-born flames blasted her back, she was up in an instant. The guards were on her in an instant, blows falling heavily on her head and chest.

A primal scream, and the guards staggered back, screaming as hellfire wreathed Janaya’s body, tongues of flame rushing along her arms to scorch the guards with fire hotter by far than Zadrine’s.

The moment ended when Yvris opened his Book of Souls. The handprint taken from Janaya’s blood, itself still spitting hellfire, burned bright on the page. When the light shone forth from the book, the flames wreathing Janaya snuffed out. She fell to the ground, muscles spasming in pain. Already, the hellfire raced along her injuries. The burns from Zadrine’s vis, the bleeding head wound from the guards’ batons. Hellfire scorched the injuries, and when it faded, the injuries were closed, though the smell of sulfur lingered on the red, raw scars left behind.

“Enough,” Yvris spat. He took a deep breath. Then he nodded to the guards, who hurriedly shackled the still twitching woman to the table.

“I’ll...I’ll kill you,” Janaya spoke through gritted teeth, “you’ll all burn!”

“Warden Esharah, you failed to keep the prisoner suppressed,” Yvris’s gaze turned to Esharah.

She closed her eyes. Any hope that Janaya might have burned through her captors had vanished.

“Forgive me,” Esharah bowed. “I have failed in my duty.”

“Forgiveness requires penance,” the priest said. He held out the spiked chain, “You will take yours along with this one.”

Esharah nodded, resigned to fate. Zadrine and the guards stumbled out of the room, nursing their hellfire burns. Zadrine glanced back, burning eyes meeting Esharah’s in a look of abject hatred.

Esharah closed her eyes. She stabbed the spiked chain into her arm, and her pain joined with Janaya’s to feed the Thorn.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *