Winter Be My Shield by Jo Spurrier Page A

familiar about it, something she’d felt before. No, it can’t be. He died, surely he died.
    â€˜I know you’re awake,’ the man whispered. ‘There’s nothing to fear here. We know you escaped from the Mesentreians; we won’t try to send you back.’
    Sierra pressed herself against the wall of the tent, her fingers digging into the shaggy fur. ‘How do you know where I came from? Who are you?’
    There was a pause and then he explained patiently, as though speaking to a child. ‘You were wearing a Mesentreian uniform, carrying Mesentreian swords and wearing Mesentreian jewellery.’
    She twisted the coarse fur once more and then let it go. ‘Oh.’ Stupid girl.
    â€˜And as for us … well, we have our own reasons for staying out of the army’s way. Do you have a name?’
    Sierra was a common name, but that was no protection. Rasten would seize upon any clue that might lead him to her. ‘Kasimi,’ she said, picking the name of her next-youngest sister. She’d been a wretched little brat, always stealing and breaking and losing things she ought never to have got her hands on. Sierra would have given almost anything to know if she still lived.
    â€˜Kasimi,’ the man repeated. Sierra bit her lip. She’d hesitated a moment too long, but if there was any doubt in his voice he’d hidden it well. If you’re going to have any chance of surviving you’re going to have tolearn to lie better than that , she told herself. She could still feel the fiery ripples in her arm and the part of her that stored the power was soaking it up like a hearthstone absorbs heat. That could become a problem. The warding-stones kept her power in check. Without them she would have to rely on her own meagre skills to keep it under control. If they found out just what she was …
    â€˜Well, Kasimi, I’m Isidro.’
    Isidro …
    She remembered him. Most of the faces and voices from the dungeons blended together, but he had been different. Making a man spill secrets wasn’t hard, nor was making him confess to something he hadn’t done. After an hour with Rasten they would say whatever Kell wanted. But to make a man give up a loved one — a wife, a child, a brother — under an ordinary torturer, a strong man could take such secrets to the grave.
    Kell was a Blood-Mage, though, and that made all the difference. A Blood-Mage gave his victim no respite. Kell could keep a man conscious through pain that would make anyone faint and keep a man’s heart beating once he lost all will to survive. A Blood-Mage trapped his victims and then slowly tore them to shreds, until they were so delirious with exhaustion and pain they would do anything to make it stop. Oh yes, she remembered this one. The arm had been Kell’s idea, but Rasten’s precision in carrying it out had been a pinnacle of cruelty.
    â€˜Kasimi?’ he whispered again; she felt a faint motion of air, as though he was reaching out for her in the darkness. Sierra recoiled, shrinking back against the wall of the tent. She was already drawing more power from him than she could easily contain. Rasten had warned her not to touch any of the prisoners  — she was too powerful, he said, too uncontrolled. Her touch would drain a man of the strength that kept his heart beating — that was why they always kept her chained during the rituals, because her touch would destroy the victim and turn all their preparation to waste. Sierra wasn’t sure if she believed it, but it was better not to take the chance and find out.
    There was another rustle of movement and she thought she felt his proffered hand withdraw. What was he thinking? She was clearly shaken — her panicked and rapid breath was enough to tell him that. He probably thought her a fugitive like him, panicked to find herself helpless among strangers. Well, that was good enough. She