Botheration! How is this possible? She takes another deep breath and adjusts the firm position of her fingertips a tiny fraction of an inch. Why on earth isn't it working? It should be by all means, she is an expert at this! Not that she has done it that often, nor does she enjoy it like some others do, Philippa Eilhardt, for example. No, it is not in her nature to be cruel. But cruel she must be. This once. For Yennefer's sake. It isn't as if the prisoner doesn't deserve it, either. The memory of the badly burned and screaming Triss and all her fellow mages who died in the battle will forever be imprinted into her mind. And here she has him, the enemy commander, the one responsible for the slaughter, his life and sanity in her hands. Perhaps she does feel some sort of sick satisfaction after all while her strong, slender fingers dig painfully into his temples? While the man, fettered to the stone chair, is screaming his lungs out ...
Still, no matter how she pokes and prods and drills, she has got nothing so far. Squat. Not a single piece of intelligence on the strength of the enemy's forces, on their strategy, on Emhyr var Emreis's masterplan for this continent. What is even more disappointing, nothing at all about Yennefer. Her Yennefer, the sorceress who saved the day, the hero of Sodden Hill. Yennefer who has gone mysteriously missing. Vanished from the face of the earth. She was not among the dead, which is something. Tissaia spent hours searching the battlefield, invading the minds of dying soldiers, calling her favourite student's name through smoke and ash and devastation - in vain. Admittedly, their relationship has not always been easy, as Yennefer is not an easy person to have a relationship with. She herself isn't. However, she has come to care deeply about her, think of the beautiful, black-haired sorceress with the amazing purple eyes as something akin to a daughter. The daughter she has never had. Now Yennefer is gone. And the man writhing in excruciating agony under the touch of her hands must know where she is. Whatever it takes, she will find out, Tissaia swears to herself. Even if she has to push him to the brink of insanity. Rip his mind apart until there is nothing left but darkness.
Tightening her grip on the prisoner's head to the point where her own fingers start to ache, her long and sharp fingernails claw into his scalp drawing blood. Tissaia closes her eyes and concentrates even harder, blocking out his screams. Then she sends another shockwave of magical energy through her fingers and into his brain. She did not think it possible, but the Nilfgaardian's screams grow ever louder at the onslaught of magic, turning into an ear-shattering howl as she digs and digs and digs. However, there is still nothing to find. Nothing but hazy images that change into each other so fast, it is impossible to make out anything but a blur of colours. Impossible to learn anything. This has never happened before. No human has ever been able to withstand the force of her chaos. Maybe the prisoner is not human? But she cannot detect any traces of otherness in him, of that much she is sure. No magic nor anything else that might hint at him being a mutant or doppler or some other kind of non-human creature. The only thing she has detected is something that feels like an impenetrable wall, a wall made of flashes of colours. A magical barrier? Has somebody tempered with the prisoner's mind to make him resistant to magical interrogation? But she is Archmistress Tissaia de Vries! Whatever it is, she will tear this barrier to shreds. No, she will not give up. She owes this to Yennefer.
As Tissaia is ever increasing her efforts, her nose is beginning to bleed. Drops of scarlet fall onto the writhing prisoner's sweat-drenched hair and on his clammy forehead, adding to the blood that is gushing from his nose. And from his ears. Onto the prisoner who is starting to seize, his wide-open eyes rolling backward in their sockets as he spasms violently against his iron restraints and the vice-like grip of the sorceress's hands.
Then, there is only black. In his mind, not in the interrogation room which is dimly lit by torches and the bluish light coming in through the high stained-glass window. No flashing colours anymore, no magical barrier but a black deeper than the darkest night. His body, tight as a bowstring and twitching and jerking, his back arching upward with the seizure just a moment before, has gone slack, collapsed into the ornate interrogation chair. The howling has ceased. Tissaia sighs. Well, this, presumably, is it for today. She sighs again and lets go of the unconscious man whose limbs have begun to shake in unison. Hopefully, she has not yet fried his brains too much for another attempt at extracting information. They will see when he wakes up. Before she tries again, though, she will have to do some research on magical barriers. Maybe speak to one or the other of her fellow mages. Philippa might have an idea on how to break it, however, Tissaia does not trust the owl-lady. Not at all. No, Vilgefortz, she will talk to Vilgefortz about the problem. Together they will come up with something, she is sure of that.
Tissaia produces an elegant, neatly folded handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and dabs at her nose. It has stopped bleeding, although she feels a little dizzy from the exhausting use of concentrated chaos. Nothing a nice glass of wine and a hot bath cannot fix. She will have the servants prepare one this instant. And the prisoner needs to be carried to a cell, he cannot remain fettered to this stone chair until he wakes up. Another task for the servants.
Before the sorceress leaves the interrogation room, she glances back at the Nilfgaardian one more time. His arms and legs have stopped shaking and he does not move, his shallow breathing the only visible sign that he is still alive. Well, soon he might wish he was not ...
