Rendall sank his teeth into the peach's soft flesh, letting the juice roll over his fingers as he walked down the long stone stairwell. The Beronan dungeons had been the perfect location for the Inquisition headquarters in the city. So far beneath the ground, the cool chill that emanated from the walls helped to balance out the sweltering heat that came with being so close to the Burnt Lands.
Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, he dropped the carcass of the fruit on the ground and continued towards the interrogation halls. It was a little quieter than usual, but then again, that was to be expected with the rising number of Urak attacks across the empire. Many of the Inquisition had been dispatched to aid the Battlemages and to ensure order in the outer villages. After all, they were more than a match for those self-important black cloaks.
It didn't matter much either way. Rendall knew where he was going, and he knew what he would do once he got there. His initiate should be there already. The young man had potential. He did not possess the Spark, but that was not a problem; they could assign him a Seeker. The Inquisition was different to the rest of the Circle in that way. It was not the Spark that made an Inquisitor. A person could be capable of touching the Spark but be completely incapable of doing what needed to be done. That was what separated the Inquisitors from the others: the ability to do what needed to be done, in the name of the empire.
The initiate had arrived by boat from Falstide in the South only days before, after the little expedition Farda had seen fit to send him on. As far as Rendall was concerned, Farda was more than a little odd. He rarely spoke, seemed to always be distracted by nothing in particular, and had an irritating insistence on following that coin of his. Justicar or not, the man was a nuisance, and Rendall was entirely sure the man had sent his initiate on a wild goose chase simply to make a point.
The Beronan dungeons were a maze – they had been designed that way intentionally. Anyone who escaped their cell would then have to find their way through the haphazard web of corridors and hallways. More than a few escapees had been found as rotting corpses a month or so after their attempted escapes. But Rendall knew every turn like he did the freckles on his daughter's face. Every Inquisitor, and everyone who worked in the dungeons, was required to memorise the entire thing, lest they, too, be found shrivelled and rotting.
A right, followed by twenty feet straight, then a left, then the third hallway on the left, through the low archway, two lefts followed by three rights, up a staircase, and then the third corridor on the right.
He found his initiate just where he had expected to find him: sitting on the small wooden chair set outside interrogation room one-four-seven. Good, you have memorised the map already. Rendall reached out to the Spark, drawing on threads of Spirit, weaving them into his voice, adding a touch of intimidation. "Initiate."
The young man leapt to his feet, keeping his arms straight down by his sides. "Inquisitor Rendall. Fritz Netly, sir. It is good to see you again, sir."
"Your name is not yet relevant, initiate. Nor will it be until you have earned your colours. You have brought what I asked for in the note?"
The young man gulped, and there was a slight shake in his hands, but all in all he seemed decidedly unperturbed. Good.
"Yes, sir, I have it here." The young man reached down on the other side of the wooden chair and produced a large leather satchel that Rendall knew well.
"Give it here," Rendall said, reaching out his hand and taking the red leather satchel by the strap at the top. "Now, come. It is time for your first lesson."
Rendall turned towards the thick wooden door set into the stone wall beside the chair, the numbers one, four, and seven nailed onto its front. He pulled a heavy iron key from his pocket, slotted it into the lock that sat midway down the door, and turned it until he felt the click. The door creaked as it opened just a fraction, with Rendall pushing against it to open it fully.
The heat hit him as soon as he opened the door. The warm smell of damp, sweat, blood, and excrement filled the air, that familiar metallic taste settling on Rendall's tongue. He had long since grown used to the putrid smells of the interrogation rooms, though the gagging noise that came from his initiate showed that it was not an easily acquired tolerance. The interrogation rooms were the only places in the dungeon that retained heat – again, they were designed that way. It ensured that anyone held in the interrogation rooms would not experience even a moment's respite.
The oil lamps on the corridor walls outside carved a wedge of light through the darkness that filled the room.
Gesturing for his initiate to follow, Rendall stepped into the dark room, allowing the heavy air to roll over his face. "Close the door behind you."
There was a moment's hesitation, but then the door creaked, and the already sparse light retreated from the room. A thud followed by a distinctive click signalled that the door was now securely closed.
"Well then, how are we?" Rendall said, as if to no one in particular, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing through the room. The sound of clinking chains was the only response.
Rendall reached out to the Spark, drawing in threads of Fire, feeling their heat lick his skin. Holding the threads, he lit the candles that sat in the alcoves about the chamber, bathing the room in a warm, but dim, orange light.
The interrogation rooms were simple. They were square in shape – ten feet long by ten feet wide. There were no windows or gutters, layers of insulation were stacked between the walls, and the only ventilation was through the cracks in the wooden door. Each room was equipped with a small metal table with foldable wheels and a long wooden bench big enough for a person to lie on.
Two panels were set into the stone floor at the centre of the room and two more into the ceiling directly above. The prisoners were kept in place by a set of manacles around their wrists that were linked by chains to the two panels on the floor.
"Wake up." Rendall flicked a thread of Fire across the back of the crumpled heap that lay in the centre of the room, eliciting only a stifled grunt. Good, don't you lose that stubbornness just yet. Rendall gestured to the table that sat in the corner of the room with foldable wheels. "Initiate, bring me that table."
While the initiate moved to fetch the table, audibly gagging as he did, Rendall cast his eyes over the prisoner. Thick scars laced the elf's back and shoulders, and the hardening skin still looked raw where Rendall had taken the nails from its fingers and toes. He had not truly expected that to break the elf – removing nails was fairly basic – but it had been convenient during the journey from Belduar.
The elf had been in room one-four-seven since they arrived in Berona about four days past. Rendall had made sure to have the creature sent straight there without a moment's rest. He found that often it wasn't pain that broke a man. No, it was a lack of hope. A man could endure excruciating pain as long as they held hope in their heart. That was something not all people realised. Interrogation was not about inflicting pain. It was about eradicating hope. And the first step towards eradicating hope was destroying any sense of time. Once time became impossible to determine, hope quickly dwindled.
"How has your day been?" Rendall asked, standing over the elf as it lay on the ground. Angry welts had begun to form on the wretched creature's right wrist where it had pulled tight against the manacle. The manacle on the elf's other arm had been a bit of a bother, considering that only a mottled lump of flesh remained of its left hand. Rendall had contemplated leaving it to just hang free, but he settled on having one of the acolytes fuse the manacle onto the elf's forearm with the Spark. Better safe than sorry.
"I'm going to have to get you to stand up. We simply won't be able to have a proper conversation with you lying down there."
Rendall reached out to the Spark once more, pulling on threads of Fire, Earth, and Air. He pushed the threads of Fire into the bolts that held the prisoner's chains to the two panels in the floor, heating them until they turned to liquid metal. Using threads of Earth and Air, he pulled the molten globs of metal and dragged them towards the two panels set into the ceiling. As they rose, they dragged the prisoner with them. At first, only his arms lifted into the air, and he dangled there like a puppet on a string; but as the chains reached their full length and tightened, they pulled his half-limp body off the floor.
Once the bolts reached the two panels on the ceiling, Rendall used the threads of Fire to cool them back down, pulling the heat into the air, fusing them in place. It was a useful design.
Now the elf hung in front of him, the manacles cutting into his wrists as he dangled there, his dark, greasy hair matted to his face and neck.
"I know you are awake, elf." Rendall nodded to the initiate who had just set the table in front of him. Reaching into the leather satchel that he still clutched in one hand, Rendall pulled out a large canvas wrap. He placed it down on the table and dropped the satchel on the floor. "Some men and women respond well to being broken down physically," Rendall said, pulling at the strings that kept the wrap secure. "Broken bones, beatings. Those kinds of things."
He heard the clinking of metal as the links in the prisoner's chains moved.
"I don't think you are as simple as that." With the knot in the string undone, Rendall proceeded to pull apart the wrap, letting it open across the table, the candlelight glinting off the instruments within. "No, I don't think so. Some people need to be broken down slowly. The layers need to be peeled back, so to speak. I think you're in that group. What do you think?"
The only sound that drifted through the chamber was the elf's slow, heavy breathing followed by the occasional low grunt as it shifted in discomfort.
"I agree," Rendall said, pulling a small steel paring knife from the wrap. He reached down into the satchel, producing a small leather-wrapped journal. "Take this," he said to his initiate, following the journal up with a pen and inkwell. "Take notes."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, back to you," Rendall said, walking over towards the elf. "Did you know I was nearly a healer? I could have been standing here in white robes, tending to your wounds. It's ironic, really, but that's where my talents lie." He shrugged, puffing out his lower lip. "But you know what, they still have a use." Rendall dropped his hand below the elf's chin, tipping it upwards so he could look directly into the elf's eyes. To its credit, it stared right back, delightfully defiant. "You see, no matter how much skin I peel from your back, I can just build it back and start again – it's wondrous what the Spark can do. This will not end, elf. For today though, there will be no questions."
Rendall pulled threads of Air into himself, using them to fix the prisoner in place in case he thrashed about. Slowly, he walked behind the elf, letting his purposeful steps reverberate off the walls. He brought the blade of the paring knife to the nape of the elf's neck, letting the cool steel rest against its skin. Angling the blade, he pulled down, letting it cut into the elf's skin, small streams of blood running down either side.
The elf didn't scream, but it would.
A creak echoed against the stone as the door of interrogation room one-four-seven opened, admitting the Inquisitor and his initiate into the hallway. Pellenor didn't move. His wardings of sight and spirit would keep him unseen so long as he stayed perfectly still, which, over the centuries, was an ability he had honed to mastery.
Pellenor couldn't help but be impressed. The Inquisitor and his initiate had been in the interrogation room for over four hours. That in itself was nothing to sniff at, seeing as most, if not all, the Inquisition interrogation rooms reached sweltering temperatures and reeked of death and shit. But what was most impressive was that by the time the Inquisitor and his apprentice left the interrogation room, Pellenor had not heard a single scream – not even so much as a muffled grunt. Either the elf had the mental fortitude of a god made flesh, or the poor wretch's soul was already broken to a point that pain no longer held the same meaning. Pellenor hoped it was the former and not the latter.
Pellenor watched as the Inquisitor spoke to his initiate then handed the young man a red leather satchel and dismissed him to his daily tasks. On any other occasion, Pellenor would have left, his information gathered. But he could sense something in the Inquisitor, in the way he always could with people. An eager anticipation wafted from the man. Whatever business Rendall had in the interrogation rooms was not yet complete. Sure enough, as the initiate turned the corner at the end of the hallway, Rendall waited a moment, strode across the hall, and slotted a key into the door of interrogation room one-four-eight. A creak signified the opening of the door, followed by a click as the door closed and the latch fell back into place.