17 KYTHORN (NIGHT)

Myrin awoke in a bare prison cell that smelled of rot, excrement, and worse things she chose not to identify. Her only pillow was stained gray stone, which made most of her body ache when she tried to move. Myrin didn’t remember much after the attack—her mind felt fuzzy and disconnected.

“Hmm.” She climbed to one knee. A sound outside the wood door drew her attention and she crossed to it. “Well met?” she said. “Hail?”

A metal viewing panel slid open in the door. A pair of jaundiced eyes peered in at her, belonging to a grizzled, weedy man of dubious hygiene. “Aye?”

“Where am I?” Myrin asked. “Or possibly some other basic information?”

The man’s nose twitched. “Shut up, you blue-haired wench,” he said.

“Hmm.” Myrin pursed her lips. “In that case, may I please have a cup of water.”

“I’ll say it slower, then,” the man said. “Shut up. You. Blue-haired. Wench.”

“As I thought.” Myrin put her hands on her hips. “You should know that I am a great and powerful wizard. You should do this little thing for me, before I make you—all of you—very sorry for not doing it.”

The man stared at her for a heartbeat, shocked, then roared with laughter. “Heh! That’s rich, lass! Rich!” He shouted down the hall. “Oi! Lads! Come hear this!”

Two more rogues appeared, each of them as ugly as the first. The second had an over-large eye—or perhaps the other had shrunk—while the third had three separate scars across his mouth that looked a bit like red stitches.

“Oi!” the guard said. “This one say she’s to make us all sorry.”

The thieves looked at him, then one another, and then laughed wildly. They slapped each other on the shoulders, bending over in a vain attempt to contain themselves.

“Ha ha!” said the yellow-eyed one. “Whatcha gonna cast your magic with, eh, wench? This?” He drew from the chest pocket of his leathers a long gray stick.

Myrin recognized her wand. “Yes, actually,” she said, extending her hand as though to take it from him, should he offer it.

They paused, then laughed again. “Aye? Aye? And how’s that, you fancy?”

Myrin shrugged. A blue-glowing rune appeared on the back of her right hand.

A flicker of magic and the wand pulled free of the guard’s hand, floated through the viewing window, and set itself in Myrin’s fingers. “Uh,” said the guard.

Thunder cracked. The ratty door exploded off its hinges and crashed against the opposite wall, shattering into a dozen pieces. The three knaves drew steel, shouting for aid.

“Now,” Myrin said, stepping through the cloud of dust, her wand held low. More blue-glowing runes spread across her skin. “Where’s your captain?”