“Do you see information too? Your husband says he’s interested in knowledge he thinks I have. He may overestimate me. I spent more than twenty years on Farside, and I’ve only been back about sixteen months, most of it as his prisoner or the Dynast’s. It may not take long to learn all I know of the Sisterhood, beyond what I suppose you know already.”
“Indeed. That’s the least of my interest.” She turned to Cyncaidh. “Raien, I have questions to ask you. Before we talk to A’duaill. You’ll want lunch first, though, I suppose.”
“That’s right. I’ll come again afterward.”
Kissing Mariil’s dry lips then, he left with Varia, neither of them saying anything, and took her to a study, where he rang a bell. A half-ylf answered, the second steward, and Cyncaidh told him to guide his guest through the book shelves which covered one wall. “I’ll be back for you when lunch is ready,” he told her. “I need to be sure my men are properly settled.”
Varia watched him leave. Don’t try to figure it out, girl, she told herself. There’s too much you don’t know. Just pay attention. It’ll sort out for you.
After lunch, Varia was taken to Connir A’duaill, who stood as they entered. The interrogator?, she wondered. A’duaill looked as young as most ylver—yet didn’t, the difference lying in his aura, and in eyes that felt as if they’d seen everything, or near enough. She had no doubt he was a master magician like Sarkia; it fitted both his aura and eyes. Though he could hardly be as old as the Dynast.
The room had no window; that troubled Varia at once. Light came from a skylight shaft and several oil lamps. And the doors were thick; she could scream herself hoarse without anyone hearing.
On the other hand, the appointments were more or less aesthetic, not threatening at all. There were no straps or ties on the table, no whips or tongs or pan of coals, no Xader or Corgan. Besides herself there were only A’duaill and Cyncaidh, and an ylvin scribe with stacked vellum, and a row of sharpened graphite sticks wrapped in paper—effectively pencils.
Musing, she’d hardly heard Cyncaidh’s introductions; hadn’t even caught the scribe’s name. When he’d finished, he looked at A’duaill. “I presume I’m to go now.”
“If you please, Your Excellency.” A’duaill turned to Varia as if he’d sensed the flash of fear that came despite herself. And said the right thing: “You’ll not be harmed, physically or in spirit. That’s not something we do here, and in any case we value you for much more than whatever knowledge you may have.”
That again. She peered closely at him. “Then why no windows? I could scream myself to death in here without being heard.”
“Ah. It’s not to keep sounds in, but out. Sounds and more than sounds would hamper what I do here.” He turned to Cyncaidh, who hadn’t left yet. “Your Excellency.”
Cyncaidh nodded to A’duaill, then to Varia, and left. When the door had closed, A’duaill motioned to an upholstered chair across the table from himself. “If you please, my lady.” When she was seated, he took the plain wooden chair across from her.
“Why do you call me ‘my lady’?” Varia asked.
“It’s a matter of status and courtesy. You’re the Cyncaidh’s guest.”
“Why am I his guest? Beyond whatever information you may get from me.”
“My lady, much will be made clear to you after this interrogation’s over, I’m sure. I hope to complete it this afternoon,” he added pointedly. “And when I’ve questioned you, I promise to receive your questions in turn. Tomorrow, if you’d like. Now, was your lunch adequate?”
She looked curiously at him. “More than adequate.”
“Good. And I believe no ale or wine or spirits were served?”
“Nothing stronger than a tea of some sort.”
“Fine. Have you relieved yourself since eating?”
“Just before I came here. What . . . ?”
“When we’ve begun, it’s much better if no interruption is necessary. Now. Do you have anything on your mind? Anything pressing?”
She peered at him quizzically. “Right now I want very much to know what you’re going to do.”