First off, a huge thank you to KallistoG for a lovely review - so glad you enjoyed the first story, and I hope you like this one just as much. As usual, most of the characters and places are not owned by me, though Jaiyan and a handful of supporting characters are. And of course, reviews are always welcome.

Chapter Fourteen – A Blood Debt

The torches still flickered, and Jaiyan did not want to consider how they had stayed alight. Uncounted hours had slipped past, achingly slowly, while they sat amid the silence and waited. For what? She did not want to think about the answer, about what it might entail. She had never shied from a fight, not since she had thumped the boy in her village who had dared say that her sister had bolted out of fear, and likely become a whore in some city somewhere.

But it's not a fight when you're chained to wall. It's not a fight when you have no weapons. It's not a fight when Valen's sitting there and not looking at you.

He had barely spoken, responding to her only with single words or a shake of his head. She looked across the bare space between them, and gritted her teeth. "Valen?"

He did not move, but his eyes flickered. "Yes?"

"The cambion. Do you know him?"

"No," he growled. "I told you that."

"Are you sure?"

His chains snapped as he folded his arms. "Do you think I'm lying to you?"

"No," she said, carefully, gently. "But I wonder if perhaps you did know him, and you don't recall it. Could that be possible?"

"Maybe. I don't know." He sank back against the wall again. "Why don't you ask him?"

She looked away, stung.

"I'm sorry." Valen's head lifted, and he tried for a tentative smile. "I didn't mean…I am worried. Very worried."

"I know." She knotted her hands together. She remembered sitting on Cavallas' boat, and listening to Valen's hushed words as he told her of how he had encountered the Seer. How he had returned to Grimash't's fortress, and how his master had sensed his unwillingness. What was it he had said? Demons know how to torture. She knew every line and curve and edge of the scars on his back, the proof he carried with him.

And now they were here, trapped, and chained, she thought, and gods know what they'll do to us.

The door crashed open, dragging the torches flat with the sudden draught. Jaiyan jerked against the wall as the cambion strode back in. Valen tipped his head back and gave the cambion the same kind of relentless stare that she had seen drow soldiers buckle under.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, Valen." The cambion flashed a blinding smile that was all teeth. "I just want to talk to your little girl. What's her name?"

Valen said nothing.

"Oh, be that way if you want." The cambion reached down, pulled Jaiyan to her feet. His skin against hers felt leathery and tough, and uncomfortably warm. "I'm sorry it has to be this way. It just so happens, though, that your tiefling seems to have forgotten that he is an escaped slave, with the blood of his master on his hands. Such a crime should carry a weighty punishment, don't you think?"

Jaiyan pressed her shoulders into the wall and swallowed.

"Oh, don't be shy, little one. What's your name?"

She shook her head.

"I will hurt you, little one. Why don't you just tell me your name?"

"You'll hurt me anyway," she snapped. "Just get it over with."

The cambion punched her, a full, solid hit to the side of the face. Her head swam, and she clenched her teeth through the horrible, lurching moment of lost focus. The cambion's hand tightened on her shoulder, propping her up.

Valen's chains jerked taut. "Get off her!"

The cambion ignored him, and instead dragged a clawed finger along Jaiyan's cheek. "I think I could hit you all day and you wouldn't tell me." He drove an elbow into her stomach, watched wryly as she doubled over, gasping. "I think you're too stubborn." His fist crashed into her chest. "I think we'll have to think up something different."

Jaiyan sagged back against the wall. She ached everywhere, and she could taste blood. While the cambion stroked her hair, and Valen seethed, she closed her eyes and tried to will the pain away. Get rid of it, she thought grimly. Get rid of it. It's only going to get worse.

"It's just a question, little one. And not a difficult one, at that." The cambion's thick fingers played through her hair again. "What is your name?"

"Don't do this," Valen said, quietly. "Please don't. Do it to me. Don't do it to her."

The cambion wrapped her chains around his hand, and hauled her up onto her toes. "And why should I do it to you? I know you can take it. I could torture you for years and you could take it, tiefling. But this little one…"

He shifted, closed one huge hand around both her wrists and held her. Her heels were off the ground, and the strain already wound through her shoulders. She looked at Valen desperately, and saw him mouth three simple words.

I love you.

She drew in a deep breath and stared at the cambion. You've survived worse. So far, he's done almost nothing to you. Sure, your shoulders are killing, and you're hungry, but you're alive. Got yourself worse bruises falling off a horse. You have to endure this. Valen did.

"Oh, you are brave, little one. Maybe you do not have the imagination to wonder what I can do to you."

She said nothing, and bit back a cry as his talons sliced through her tunic and shirt. Methodically, the cambion peeled the fabric back, baring pale skin, beaded with sweat. He leaned forward, and she shuddered as his tongue licked across her collarbone.

Valen growled, and his chains jangled as he stood up.

"Oh, tiefling. Perhaps I understand why you like your women mortal and frail." The cambion's tongue tracked along her throat. "She tastes delectable. Does she taste quite as good elsewhere?"

Valen slammed his fist into the wall.

Jaiyan shook her head at him. Don't react. He wants you to react. Don't react.

The cambion's hand moved, and the long talons cut into her skin. Jaiyan caught her lip between her teeth, felt blood run hot and slick down her shirt. She looked past the cambion's folded wings to where Valen stood, visibly shaking all over. Don't react. Don't.

"You are stubborn, aren't you?" There was something very like pleased amusement in the cambion's voice. He dipped the tip of one finger into the blood, smiled. "Your tiefling was stubborn once, as well. Do you know, it was months before he screamed properly, even once?" The cambion stepped away, let her slump helplessly against the wall. "Do you remember, tiefling?"

Valen stayed silent, and Jaiyan saw the quivering in his hands where they were locked around his shackles.

The cambion laughed. "Maybe a few days without food will remind you."

He waved again, that flickering of his clawed fingers that made Jaiyan seethe. Calm down, she thought. He leaves you with a gash the length of your collarbone, and you're angry because he waves? Yes, that's very sane, that is. She waited until the door closed and locked before yanking furiously at her chains. "I am going to hack his hands off and then feed them to him, after waving them at him."

Valen laughed, but she heard the sour note underneath. "Are you alright?"

She glanced down, saw a liberal patch of blood on the front of her shirt. "Yes, just soaked." A quick exploration showed the gash to be thin and shallow. "It stings, but I think I'll live."

"You'd better," Valen muttered.

"I will, if only to have the satisfaction of seeing you cave his head in after we get out of here."

"And how exactly am I going to manage that?"

"By helping me figure out a way to get out of here." She sat back against the wall, clasped her hands in her lap.

"We're chained to the walls," he said acidly.

"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed." She glared before shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I just think…there has to be a way out of here somewhere. There's always a way out of everything."

"Not this."

"Oh, aren't you a happy ray of sunshine in this dismal dungeon?" She swept her hair back over her shoulders, winced when she caught a thick lock against the cut on her collarbone. "Valen, I am going to go stark raving mad if I sit here thinking about what he's going to think up next to do to us." She dug her fingers against her temples. "Are your shackles on properly?"

"Yes."

"Can you break them?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She glowered at him. "Don't snarl at me. You're just…you're very strong. I was thinking if maybe the metal was rusting, or…"

He gave his chains a fierce tug. "It's not."

Jaiyan sat still and silent for a few moments, her thoughts whirling horribly. Her shirt felt sticky and damp, and her stomach was rumbling. "What do you think Deekin's doing?"

Valen snorted. "He's probably got that tiefling innkeeper up against the wall demanding to know where you are."

"Where we are." She shot him an arch look. "He does actually think a great deal of you."

His mouth crooked into a cynical smile. "Yes, because I do all these wonderful things for you, like get you captured and hurt."

"Oh, stop it." She drew down a deep breath, pushed aside the urge to snap something else at him. She stared down at the manacles on her wrists. They were rough and cold, and the bolts in them were huge and heavy. She tried pushing one of them against her hand, and winced when then edge of it dug into her skin. "I suppose scraping all the skin off my hands to get these off would be a silly idea."

"Yes, and not really worth the result, since you'd be useless afterwards." Valen leaned back against the wall and sighed. "Same goes for chewing your hands off, so don't bother suggesting that."

She grinned. "You know me so well."

"Jaiyan?"

"Yes?"

"I am so sorry." He shifted, looked at her from beneath tumbled red hair. "About this."

"I know. And that's the last time you're allowed to say that, understand?"

"Say what?"

"That you're sorry." She picked at a flake of rust on one of her manacles. "Gods, I could do with a drink."

"Oh, yes, why not?" Valen laughed helplessly. "After all, what goes better with imprisonment and torture than a nice tankard of the innkeeper's best?"

Her smile widened, and something fluttered in her chest when he returned it tentatively. "See? Not everything's bad."

"Really?" he said heavily. "You'll have to enlighten me on that point."

"Well, you still have your nasty, understated sense of humour."

He scowled. "My sense of humour is not nasty."

"Sometimes it is." She shrugged and threw him a quick grin. "That's alright. Mine's downright horrible sometimes."

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Nathyrra locked her fingers around her wine cup and desperately wished she was elsewhere. Out in the practice field, hurling knife after knife at targets. In her rooms, reading. Striding through the armoury, checking supplies. Anywhere but here, in this damnable council chamber, while they all stare at me.

Two seats down from her, a female cleric tipped her head back and said, "Matron Mother, with respect, keeping this stranger alive serves little purpose."

"You would prefer him killed?" Nathyrra kept her face still, though her pulse was thumping wildly. "Why? So we can prove to ourselves we are worse than the drow who attacked this city?"

The cleric did not back down. "Has he sworn himself to Eilistraee?"

"No."

"Then he cannot be trusted, and I am not sure if he is safe to leave alive." The cleric spread her hands against the table. "Matron Mother, would you let a danger to us walk unleashed?"

"Would the Seer have turned him away?"

Silence fell. Further down the table, a male wizard leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Matron Mother, the Seer is no longer with us."

And I do not have half her wisdom. "We keep this city the way she left it, as was agreed," Nathyrra snapped. "That includes not killing helpless strangers when they fall through our gates covered in enough wounds to bring down five scouts."

"Then why, Matron Mother, have you not released him? Let him walk about the city unhindered?" the cleric asked innocently.

Because I just gave him his sword back. Because I don't trust him, or any of you, and you know it. "His wounds are still mending. He is still very thin."

"Has he spoken of why he came here?"

As Matron Mother, she knew she could demand their fealty and refuse to answer their questions. But that would mean a return to those old ways, wouldn't it? A return to the time when all problems were solved with the edge of a knife, and trust was a word that meant nothing except the expectation of betrayal. "Not really," she heard herself say. "His group was attacked. That is all I know."

"And he was under loyalty to who?" the cleric asked.

"I don't know," she lied. The words came easily, despite the falsehood; a childhood spent in Menzoberranzan had taught her too well the ability. Still, they're all drow as well, and they know how easy it is to lie. But you say 'Valsharess' just once and they'll forget that a lot them came from the same place, and they'll have him stretched out and gutted before you can blink.

"Could he be useful?" the wizard inquired. "Once mended, if he stays?"

"He's a scout. He survived to get to us. I'd say he could be useful."

Another cleric folded her arms and grimaced. "I fail to see how one more male carrying weapons in this city would be of more use than him dead and unable to trouble us. We don't know where he came from, what he wants, or what he might do. He's unknown, and that makes him dangerous."

"What he wants?" To calm herself, Nathyrra raised her cup, drained it. The sweet, heady wine hit the back of her throat too fast. "He wanted sanctuary. He wanted to be safe. Half of this city came here seeking sanctuary, and the other half came here to escape something. Or are we all forgetting that?"

The quiet descended again, and Nathyrra found herself wondering what the Seer would do next. Give them some inspiring speech, stay gentle but steely, and have them all convinced with a few words. "I came here seeking sanctuary. Can you – any of you – tell me truly that you do not remember what it was like? Coming to this city and hoping the rumours were true, that you were going to live?"

"The fact remains," the wizard said. "We need to know his intentions, and his ability. Perhaps, Matron Mother, you could take him to the practice fields, and test him?"

"He is not well."

"He's had days, and healing." The wizard looked at her, the challenge bright in his red eyes. "Or would you prefer to see your city fall into danger?"

Gods above and below, this was easier when Imloth and the Seer were here. If someone snapped out of line, Imloth could talk them down, or the Seer could persuade them, or if all else failed, Valen just shouted. "Of course not," she answered coldly. "When, then?"

"Today," the female cleric suggested, still smiling. "Will that please you, Matron Mother?"

Nathyrra smiled, the kind of smile that had made Red Sisters quail. "Of course."

Finally out of the council chamber, and simmering with cold, bone-deep anger, she stalked up the stairs in the temple and wondered if it might have been easier to just kill her entire council. Of course, that would leave a lot of bodies to explain.

She found a spare set of leathers in the chamber that she had turned into a small armoury on the first floor. Still fuming, she kicked Andaryn's door open, and felt slightly perturbed when he did not flinch. Instead, he merely raised his head and gave her a half-smile.

"Put these on." She flung the leathers at him. "And quickly."

He uncoiled from the windowsill, eyebrows arching. "Dare I ask why, mistress?"

"My council feels that it is time to see how dangerous you are." Viciously, she added, "You're to come with me to the practice field. There, we will give you weapons and see if you're stupid enough to try and attack me, or them, or whether you'll just give us a decent demonstration of your abilities."

"And if I accomplish the latter?"

"Then I assume they'll decide you're the patient kind of assassin, instead." She paced across the floor, tapping at the handles of two daggers.

"Ah, mistress. Do I hear a note of concern in your voice for me?"

"Don't flatter yourself." She looked back at him, watched as he pulled his tunic off. The shirt beneath clung to the lean, muscled planes of his chest. "I will not see them turn this city into anything other than what the Seer meant for it."

"And what is that?" He tugged the leathers on, swiftly yanked the laces tight.

"Somewhere safe." She shrugged. "Somewhere where we don't slaughter people simply because they have the audacity to ask for sanctuary and help."

Andaryn brushed his hair back over his shoulders. "I'm rather glad to hear that," he said. "Now, should I take my sword?"

"No. As far as this test of theirs is concerned, you are a weaponless prisoner."

"Indeed?" His eyebrows lifted again. "Have you been lying on my behalf, Matron Mother?"

She snorted. "Perhaps a little. Are you ready?"

"I have one more question," he said, a little quieter. "What of the things I have told you?"

He meant those terrible words of some scant days ago, when he had spoken of death and blood in the darkness, and no visible enemy. "I have said nothing," she confessed. "Do you think I could go to them and tell them what you have said to me? Your words would be dismissed as fanciful lies, told to string us along before you do whatever it is you are really here for."

"Will you tell them?"

"Only when you have told me the rest. Without that, I have nothing but pretty words and no evidence."

His eyes glittered strangely. "What about my injuries?"

"You could have fallen into a trap, down a cliff, run into a party of duergar and come off worst. You could have been beaten by your mistress. Anything. Wounds alone will not prove anything." She studied him, saw the wary tension in his frame. "Come. We have to go."

She led him down through the temple, and out into the city. He walked beside her, head defiantly up, and she had to hide a smirk at the slight swagger in his step. Out in the practice fields, near the archery targets, she found most of her council members, waiting and silent.

"So." The female cleric crooked an eyebrow. "Your mysterious outsider. He doesn't look quite as near death as I suspected. A quick healer, perhaps?"

Nathyrra shot her a venomous grin. "Perhaps. So. Your test."

"Yes." The cleric gestured to the bow racks nearby. "Does he know how to fire a bow?"

The Seer would have balked at such dismissive words, Nathyrra knew. But the Seer is not here, she's up on the surface doing the gods know what with Imloth. "We shall find out." She motioned to Andaryn. "Choose a bow."

He smirked and inclined his head. "I'm not much of an archer. I am sure the Matron Mother's soldiers would put me to shame."

Even so, he picked the third bow along, ran his hands up and down the gleaming wood. He swung a quiver across his shoulder, and nocked an arrow. He spent a heartbeat lining the shot up, and then the arrow flew, and thunked into the target, an inch away from the centre. Without speaking, he fired the next four arrows, and smiled faintly as he replaced the quiver and handed the bow to Nathyrra.

The cleric smiled. "Your own preference, male?"

"Swords, mistress."

Nathyrra looked past the cleric, to where one of her male, soldier councilors stood, leaning back against a weapon rack. "You, take a sword. Spar."

The male bristled, and glanced at the cleric. She shook her head firmly, so he drew his sword slowly. "As you wish it."

Andaryn glanced at the sword rack. "May I, mistress?"

Nathyrra nodded. "Go ahead."

"Rules?"

"Spar," the cleric said, smiling thinly. "And we will observe."

It was nothing more than a baited trap, Nathyrra knew; he would be pushed to lethally defend himself, and if he succumbed, he would be branded an assassin. She had seen the same sort of dreadful test too many times, in the arena and during her own training.

Andaryn chose a light, slim-blade sword, similar to his own. He exchanged a quick, heavy-lidded look with Nathyrra. "May I begin?"

She nodded again, did not quite trust herself to speak.

He stepped away from the other male, giving himself space. The sword was clasped lightly in his hand, and she noted his deceptively loose stance. It was one she knew well, bred into assassins as they were trained; that graceful, relaxed pose that could be turned in a heartbeat into something far more dangerous.

He waited, circling, while the other male matched him step for step. Turning, eyes pinned on each other, they moved with that coiling, preparing stillness that she recognized so well. Her gaze wandered up and down him, noticing the predatory tilt of his head, and the way his mouth was still twisted into a half-smile. The other male lunged first, his sword sliding against Andaryn's, before snapping up and flicking towards his face. Andaryn melted away, batting the sword aside. He spun, deflected another two strokes. Another swiveling motion took him further away, and the other male glared. He bulled forward, crashing shoulder-first into Andaryn. Who drove an elbow into his stomach and danced away again, leaving him half doubled over and furious.

Watching, Nathyrra smiled. He's good. He's playing with him, working him up into a mighty tantrum.

The other male snarled and hurled himself forward. Again, maddeningly, Andaryn seemed simply to be not there. He slipped aside, snake-quick, and used the flat of his sword to send the other male almost sprawling. He turned, met the next rush with his forearm. His sword hilt snagged against the other male's. Breathing hard, the other male lashed out with one foot, caught Andaryn a glancing blow to his left calf.

Where he'd had that awful injury, Nathyrra realized. She watched him stagger, recover his footing quickly, and duck another sweep of his opponent's sword. He's still on the defensive, but what else is he meant to do? Attack, and injure, and be accused of trying to kill, and he knows it. But stay too defensive, and he'll get skewered.

They traded strokes across the practice field, Andaryn always half an instant ahead, ghosting away from the other male's angry attack. Some part of Nathyrra's mind wondered how he would fight properly, on a real battlefield, or else out in the dark caverns of the Underdark.

The other male leaped again, lifting himself clean off the ground. He thudded into Andaryn's shoulder, driving him back a stumbling three paces. The sword whipped round, screeched against Andaryn's, and sliced a long, shallow cut across the top of his shoulder. Nathyrra saw blood leak through the gash in his leathers, and felt herself seethe. The leathers are new, and I've just had him healed, damn you!

Andaryn whirled, smashed the other drow's sword aside. And stepped back, his blade dropping low, waiting for the other male to pick up his pace. Oh, Lolth and Eilistraee and every goddess in between, Nathyrra thought angrily. Do something! Don't just stand there. He'll have you pinned through the chest and who to blame but you for wanting to be believed?

The other drow growled something, and Andaryn smirked. He did not move, only stood there. The other male launched forward, swept his sword to one side and cannoned into him. Driving him off his feet and onto his back. Nathyrra's hand dropped to her favourite dagger. No, don't. Let go. Help and they'll hate you and have you killed.

She loosened her grip on the dagger hilt, and watched helplessly as the other male pinned him. An elbow to the throat had him gasping, and then the other drow slammed his sword against the ground until his fingers opened. The sword was kicked away. The other male planted his knees on either side of Andaryn's chest, gripped him under the chin with his free hand.

Move, you idiot, Nathyrra thought, entirely powerless. You don't move, you'll find yourself without a head.

The other male lifted his sword above Andaryn's throat, and Nathyrra considered screaming, or maybe gutting the female cleric who stood beside her. The blade moved down, and Andaryn's hands flickered up, locking around the other drow's wrist. The sword hovered, perilously close to his neck. For a long, uncertain moment, the other male glared down at him.

Then Andaryn shifted, ramming both knees up into the small of the other drow's back. While he snarled out a startled curse, Andaryn rolled over to one side, yanking his opponent with him. He drove one knee into the other male's thigh. Slammed his head against the ground when he shuddered. He wrenched the other drow's sword out of his hand, leveled the blade at his throat.

Then, silently, he pushed up to his feet, leaving his opponent gasping behind him. He looked down at the sword in his hand, and quite pointedly dropped it. "Tell me," he said heavily. "Is there anything else I am required to do?"

The cleric smiled, thinly, and looked at Nathyrra. "No, not unless our Matron Mother wishes to add her thoughts?"

"No," Nathyrra said. "I am satisfied."

"As am I," the cleric agreed. "For now, in any case."

While her councilors filed away wordlessly, and the drow male picked himself up and stalked past, Nathyrra waited, not quite able to hide her smile. Fairly certain they were almost alone, she watched as Andaryn swept his hands through his disheveled hair and shrugged ruefully. "Did I perform adequately?"

"You certainly silenced them." She looked at his shoulder, at the thin thread of blood. "Does that hurt?"

"Why, mistress. I was right. You are concerned for me."

She ignored him and said, "Your leg?"

"Fine."

But he was leaning his weight away from that side of his body, and she wondered what it might take to convince him to let her have a healer look at the scar tissue on his calf. "Are you hungry?"

"What have I done to deserve such stellar treatment?" Andaryn grinned, unguarded. "Does this mean I have passed your test?"

Nathyrra gave him a raking, thoughtful look. "For now, I think you have."