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The dead eyes of the female daemon Ash Nevra had been stroking as if she were some sort of mistreated pet swam across my vision. If torturing this creature was the price of that daemon’s freedom, then so be it. I would be a monster if it meant saving these people from a larger evil.
We reached the bottom of the stairs, and the floating flames that seemed to illuminate the rest of the palace lit our way. I noticed the light emanating here was colder than in the flames that danced down the East Wing's hallways. The cool light gave the shadows in the dungeon a sinister hue. I supposed it was fitting, considering the nature of our visit.
As we turned down a hall lined with cells, I began to notice more and more spiders crawling the walls around us. They started small and sparse. My skin rippled with revulsion at the sight of them. Reflexively, I built a barrier around myself, forcing the temperature of the perimeter to rise in heat so that if any of the arachnids came too close, they would catch fire. Despite my magickal shield, I still imagined I could feel them crawling on my skin.
By the time we came to stand before the widowmaker's cell, there were so many spiders crawling around us it appeared that the wall itself was moving. Every hair on my body stood at attention, and it took all I had not to douse the hallway in fire.
In the center of its cell, the widowmaker hung upside down. It looked like a human child, a young girl with long black hair that hung in strings to the ground. A tattered nightgown I knew had once been white stuck to her spindly body in sticky patches.
The creature’s hands and feet clung to a long inky thread connected to the ceiling. The tar-like strands spread through the rest of the cell, making cobweb homes for the spiders that peppered the damp space.
All my earlier concerns about the ethics of torturing this creature flew from my mind. Every one of my instincts screamed at me to kill it; to throw it into a pit of fire and watch it burn.
“Prince Amon,” It crooned. Black ink shone on its chapped lips as it spoke. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We have come to ask you for a favor,” he drawled. Though his tone implied that the word ask was to be held loosely.
“What incentive is there for me to agree to this favor?” It asked. “After how I’ve been treated, why should I help you at all?” Its body spun slowly on its inky strand, while somehow, its face remained pointed at us as if the bones in its neck did not connect to its shoulders.
“It would be in your best interest to be compliant,” Amon replied as Rycon pulled a metal lighter out of his pocket. The look on his face promised violence. He deftly swiped the lighter against his jean-clad leg, igniting it with a snap.
“Is widowmaker silk flammable?” Rycon asked wryly, holding the lighter up so the flames reflected in his yellow cat-like eyes.
“It is,” Kasha smirked, leaning into Rycon. She whispered in his ear loud enough for the widowmaker to hear. “Burn it for me? I want to see the pretty flames.” Rycon looked at her, his mouth quirking upwards to reveal his pointed canines.
“Say please,” he purred, and she gave him a saccharine grin.
“Please, Rycon. Make the spider dance for me,” she drew out her words. I couldn’t tell if she was just putting on a show or truly wanted to see the fiend burn. Perhaps a little bit of both.
“Since you asked so nicely,” he turned from her, back to the widowmaker. The creature hissed at him, all-black eyes widening. His smile broadened, and he tossed the lighter through the bars of the cell. The result was instantaneous. Kasha hadn’t been kidding. Widowmaker silk was flammable.
The entire cell ignited in a whoosh, hundreds of spiders scuttled out from between the bars, and the widowmaker screamed as the flames licked across its flesh. The rope it had been hanging from caught fire, and it dropped to the ground on all fours, scuttling toward us. The screaming was relentless. I took a few steps back despite myself as it slammed into the iron bars. The creature's unnaturally long fingers reached between them as it spat and hissed at us.
Amon waved his hand, and the flames vanished. Thankfully, the fire had cleared the immediate vicinity of the massive nest of spiders that had gathered. I felt slightly more at ease now that the walls weren't moving. However, we were still faced with the murderous widowmaker. Its white skin was charred now in great black patches. The smell of burnt hair and flesh filled the dungeon, and my stomach roiled.
“Now that we have your attention,” Amon drawled, smirking down his nose at the creature. “Tell us, can you read ancient Sinithian?” The widowmaker froze and narrowed its beetle-like eyes. I noticed that its charred flesh was already beginning to heal.
“That language has been dead for thousands of years,” it spat, “Even if I did speak the ancient tongue, I would never use it to help you.”
“It lies,” Rycon hissed. The evil smirk on his face widened as if he were happy to have another reason to watch the creature burn. If Rycon looked happy, Amon looked positively murderous. He called his shadows to him, and I watched as they circled themselves around the widowmaker's wrists, forcing its arms out wide and pressing its torso against the cell bars.
“My mistress will kill you,” It screamed, pulling back, trying to escape the shadows. Dossidian drew one of his ever-present sabers from the sheaths across his back.
“Tell me,” Amon asked, picking an imaginary piece of lint from his perfectly pressed shirt. “Would you be more motivated to read this to us, with or without your intestines intact? It’s been several years since Dossidian has had the pleasure of gutting someone.” Amon held up the pages of sheet music for the creature to see, and it eyed Dossidian’s saber warily. After several seconds of no response, Amon shrugged.
“Very well. Start with the large intestine, Dossidian. Those are always easiest to remove,” Dossidian nodded, an amused smile playing on his mouth. The widowmaker screamed and pulled against the shadows that held it. I realized then, how much of a curse being truly immortal might be. Just because the widowmaker couldn’t die, didn’t mean it couldn’t feel pain. Try as it might, it could not break free. Dossidian pulled back the saber, and I braced myself for the reek of its stinking blood when it finally gave in.
“I will read it! I will read it for you,” It screeched, and Dossidian immediately halted. Amon looked up from where he had been examining his fingernails, eyebrows raised.
“How kind of you to offer,” he smirked. He slid forward, holding up the pages for the creature to see. He did not release his shadows. Pressing the creature in place, his shadows forced its head to turn towards the parchment. “For each lie the shifter detects, I will remove one finger.” He remarked as if he were simply sharing an interesting fact at a cocktail party. The widowmaker spat and hissed but began to read the notes that spiraled across the first page.
“This one is a melody that, when played, has the power to paralyze and freeze enemies in their tracks.” It informed us. “If you have the instrument necessary to execute these sounds, you play the first note for three breaths, the second for two, and the final for three.” Interesting, that sounded simple enough.
However, it didn’t help us. The Origin was already frozen in stone. We needed to unfreeze him. “The spell can be ended when the instrument is removed from the immediate vicinity of the victims. It appears the range goes only as far as the sound can carry.”
Amon glanced at Rycon, and the shifter nodded. “It speaks the truth.” Amon flipped the page to the next sheet and held it up.
“This sound does the opposite of the first. It will unfreeze things that have been frozen or petrified.” My heart leapt. This was it. This was what we needed. “For this sound, you play the first, second and third note for one breath in quick succession, then the first note again for three.”
