Part 2 – The Black Brand

Chapter 7 – She Had Sworn

There was actual, real hot water in the head… her head… at least for now. It was a small, closet-like cubicle, but it had a shower, and she didn't have to share it. It was a huge step up from the bucket in the far corner of her old cell in solitary confinement. That was where she had been earlier: where he had taken – rescued – her from.

It was where they put the powerful, dangerous psykers. She hadn't thought – didn't think – that she was either, really, but then she hadn't even known that there was a sixth sense. It was probably her stupidity that was most dangerous. Of course, it was probably that same stupidity that had saved her from being trampled, frozen, starved, or beaten to death in the holds.

It would have been a waste.

Even if her master hadn't picked her out, even if he had come in and callously informed her that they had decided that she was fit for no more than death, even if no one had said anything and she'd been led to the Throne without a word, it would have been worth something. She would have burned – still could, she knew – but she would have done it gladly. Gladly, she knew, because after a week alone she would have run out of memories, and the probability (or certainty) that she would be sacrificed would have settled.

And if it meant she wouldn't be able to hurt people, if it meant service, she would have burned for the Emperor with serenity, as bright as six suns for as long as her soul could bear, knowing that her life wasn't meaningless. And if she failed her master, if he sent her to the holds, she would fight to keep that privilege.

The hot water sluiced wonderfully into her face as she scrubbed her hair; it felt like it had been a week since she'd washed it, grimy with sweat from her interrogation, oil from the two days in her cell, ratted from thrashing about from that awful dream and real, restful sleep. Lathering her hair had always made for a good time to think. She wondered if it was because rubbing her head brought more blood to her brain.

The new lavatory was attached to her new room, which was about the same size as her old one (but with a cot and overhead lights) and attached to her new master's. 'He,' her mind mimicked his tone from the gangway without a trace of mockery, 'was a Lord among Inquisitors.'

She had had no idea what that meant, and must have stared at him like a simpleton before he explained: the Inquisition was a little like the Imperial Navy, not in their purpose or protocol, but in structure. Each Inquisitor was like the captain of his own ship. People worked for him doing various tasks to generate progress in the direction the Inquisitor wanted. Sometimes Inquisitors would work together in formation, sometimes they would share information, but most of the time they performed their tasks sufficiently alone. If an Inquisitor was a Captain, an Inquisitor Lord was an Admiral. Like an Admiral, the Inquisitor Lord had more authority, more responsibility, more resources, and much more experience.

She wasn't sure how that last part worked, because her master didn't seem at all old. As far as she could tell, he was older than her father but not as old as her father's father; perhaps forty or so. It was difficult to tell because his head was completely shaved and while he had noticeable scars (namely at his augmentic eye and a huge tear across his throat, which made her wonder if his voice had always been so gravelly), his demeanor rarely changed, and so wrinkles hadn't formed at the corners of his eyes and mouth as they were wont with age on someone with expressive features.

To the contrary, she had seen his mouth move to speak and one or both of his strong brows to shift in lieu of speaking, and nothing more. He was also, as she had realized at first glance, much, much bigger than anyone else she'd seen: taller and more heavily muscled and (so far as she'd seen) always in power armor. With age, men tended to wither or soften; he had the look of a man in his prime. She had meant it: he was impressive and particularly intense. And good: she had meant that, too; his work was service to the Emperor, and he would make her safe. He would teach her. There was nothing else she could ask for.

"I asked you to do one, simple thing." His voice was laced with contempt; not louder, not harder, just disgusted. "One thing." He towered over her, his eyes, one violet and one augmentic red, looking down the straight line of his nose at her with scorn as he growled, "It is… insufferably disappointing to have been so wrong. No control, no skill…"

She was weeping openly. "Please-" she begged.

He snorted in derision, "No dignity." He called in a guard from the hall.

"I'll try harder, I swear, I'm sorry-"

"Take her to the holds," he ordered. He hadn't even heard her.

She didn't put up a fight. The black glove grabbed her roughly by the arm, dragged her through the gangways faster than she could keep up, tossed her into one of the pens. She bit her lip to stifle her sobs, to avoid drawing attention as she slipped past people to get to the wall. The Torpor hissed from the pipes and the chaos into which she'd been thrown fell asleep, listless corpses crashing down and smothering her. She was so tired, drowning under bodies twice her size, and it took every last effort she had to wriggle away to lay, panting but free. Exhausted and sleepless, she watched for hours as no one moved, and then they began to rouse, some quicker than others, picking over the prone.

The man who had wet himself the last time she was here found her first. His lean fingers and long, dirty nails dug into her cheeks as he dragged her up, and he laughed in her face, stale, rancid spittle flying from his snarling mouth. Another with sharp, cracked teeth grabbed her arm, trying to wrench her from the first's grasp; he didn't seem concerned that if neither let go she would be torn down the middle.

Writhing, she struck at them as hard as she could, but her blows bounced off without a trace of effect. The first's hand slipped, slicing marks into her face, but she didn't care. She jumped at the second, catching him startled and off-balance, and she clawed at his face, tiny fingers ripping at eye sockets that emptied and then filled with welling dark blood far faster than she thought they could. Retching, she stumbled away but someone caught her from behind. Others were slowly surrounding her with madness, with stench, pressing in. He was crushing her ribs.

The Torpor and lack of air made her sluggish, and she couldn't feel the tingle of her extra sense, couldn't feel the dangerous well into which she could dip, into which she could fall, but it didn't matter. She had sworn. She took a huge gulp of air and gasped, "I'll die for the Emperor." And then she clicked. Once, twice, and then the world was on fire, wrapping about her, inside her, pushing out until it consumed everyone around her, their skin turning black and blowing away like paper, and then, sobbing, she dropped to her knees, pinned by the husk of charcoal still holding her.

She bolted upright in her cot, swallowing the scream bubbling up in her chest. Her hands felt around her, making sure that she hadn't burnt up her bed; her eyes frantically searched the walls of her room for any sign that the nightmare had been real. Panting, she rose and turned on the light, shaking so much it took her two tries with the switch. She wrenched the blanket from where it lay tucked, wrapping it around her like armor, and settled with her back to the corner, watching the door for irrational fear that any second he would burst through and send her away.

'A dream,' she firmly told herself, rocking gently, her mouth going so far as to move with the words, though not even a whisper escaped. 'Just a dream.'

He had said that she would begin tomorrow. He had said that he would give her a simple task. He expected her to do as he bid. She was terrified that she would fail him, that whatever he wanted she'd be unable to do. He had told her he was harsh. He had warned her of the consequences. She knew she needed to rest, to think clearly for tomorrow, but that dream…

She would take a night with dripping orange daemon light over that dream.

It took her a long, long time to finally fall asleep, exhaustion lowering her lids over blankly staring eyes, her body still intermittently shivering, and not from cold.

When she woke, he was gazing down at her, surveying the corner in which she'd curled, the blanket taken from the bed, the salty, dried tear-tracts on her cheeks, the overhead light and the hand reaching out toward its switch. His expression was impassive. Finally, he said in his chest-shaking timbre, "Breakfast will be in ten minutes."

He had laid down certain rules last night. He expected a generous degree of facile self-efficacy. She was allowed nowhere but her quarters without him. When in company beyond his, she was to be silent unless given leave. When alone she had permission to speak freely, but, she suspected, anything he found displeasing would be met with another whack to the head – or worse. He seemed, after all, a man of extremes. And so she had summarily determined it would be better to keep her silence but for necessity. So long as he demanded no explanation, this only required, "Yes, Master. Thank you," and so it was uttered in a slightly hoarse voice after wetting her lips. He left, and she scrambled to her feet.

Her new life was waiting.