A Darkness at the End E-Book

Ruth Frances Long

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

The final book in the contemporary fantasy trilogy set in Dublin: and Dubh Linn, the fae world that exists in the cracks and corners of reality. Angels, fae demons and humans are drawn into lethal conflict as the fate of the world hangs in the balance in the final installment in this urban fantasy. Holly, the fae matriarch, tries to sieze the power of heaven for herself, while Izzy has lost her memory and Jinx is dead ... or is he? Confronted with ancient powers, sacrifice and treachery. War is looming within the ranks of the Sidhe. The angels and the demons begin to draw lines, daring each other to transgress and start another war ... 'fantasy lovers will adore the twists and turns … it's wonderful to see Irish mythology in the hands of someone who knows what they're talking about and resists presenting the reader with a twee view of the country' Inis Magazine about A Crack in Everything

Leseprobe

Dedication

To Pat, Diarmuid and Emily.

Acknowledgements

It’s strange to reach the end of a trilogy. So many people have made all this possible and I’m sure I will forget someone (because my brain is a sieve). If you have had anything to do with this book and its predecessors, thank you so much!

To my wonderful agent Sallyanne Sweeney, so many thanks for your continuing support and belief. I’d also like to thank my editor, Helen, and all at The O’Brien Press, especially Emma for her magnificent cover designs.

My YA bookclub people, the Irish SFF community (Dublin2019!) and wonderfully shiny writer friends – you all regularly keep me sane (well sane-ish). And the other people who have to put up with me and my writer-brain, my lovely family. Yes, I am still dragging you around random places, but you love it really. And I expect you to keep telling me that.

Dublin is such a wonderful location for a fantasy trilogy so thanks to all the locations and sites, businesses and cultural institutions I’ve shamelessly used. A special thanks to all at the wonderful National Leprechaun Museum who just ‘got’ what the Dubh Linn books were about and have been amazingly supportive.

I’m so so sorry, guys …

For this is the truth: all things must come into balance.

Order and disorder, light and dark, truth and treachery.

If the seed is sown, the harvest must be gathered in.

As the night falls so the dawn will come.

Where the flower blooms so too will lurk the thorn.

From heaven above to hell beneath,

to the left and right hand sides of the path,

balance is all.

The Grigori stands between them,

keeping that balance.

Once balance is lost,

all is lost.

And chaos reigns.

The Grand Compact,

Volume 13, Chapter 47, verses 12-13

Cross a fae before a Matriarch

Cross a Matriarch before a demon

Cross a demon before an angel

Never cross a Keeper

Fae proverb

Contents

Title PageDedicationAcknowledgements Epigraph Chapter One: Dark Wings Chapter Two: Cheating Chapter Three: Lost at World’s End Chapter Four: Consulting the Oracle Chapter Five: Reckless Chapter Six: From the flames Chapter Seven: Prophecy and Mercy Chapter Eight: The Wild Hunt Chapter Nine: Touchstones Chapter Ten: Dreams and Nightmares Chapter Eleven: Old Deals, New Debts Chapter Twelve: Angelus Chapter Thirteen: Prey Chapter Fourteen: Negotiations Chapter Fifteen: Queen of Ghosts Chapter Sixteen: Puck’s Castle Chapter Seventeen: Holy and Undivided Trinity Chapter Eighteen: Death Howl Chapter Nineteen: Maelstrom Chapter Twenty: Marked Chapter Twenty-One: Gardens and Graves Chapter Twenty-Two: Forsaken Chapter Twenty-Three: Tower of Glass Chapter Twenty-Four: Spark Chapter Twenty-Five: Compulsion Chapter Twenty-Six: Into the Fire Chapter Twenty-Seven: Heaven’s War Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Keeper Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Island Chapter Thirty: Morrígan Chapter Thirty-One: The Thorn Gate  Words & PhrasesAbout the AuthorCopyright

Chapter One

Dark Wings

The black birds arrived with the dawn. On every branch of every tree, perched on the rooftops and chimneys, picking through the bins and scrabbling in the dirt of the pristine lawns, crows of every shape and size gathered. Ravens came too, aloof and judgemental, perching on the pillars marking the driveways of otherwise perfectly normal suburban homes, on electrical boxes and gas meters. They alone stood silent, watching over the raucous morning chorus.

That was how Izzy woke up now, to the cacophony of a host of corvids waiting for her. All kinds, except for magpies. They didn’t come. Just their cousins; the crows and the ravens, rooks and hooded crows, jackdaws, even the occasional choughs with the bright flash of red beak straying far from their coastal homes in the west and the south. All of them black as night, or cowled in grey.

All of them birds of death.

Mum ran out with a broom the first few times which caused the birds to take off in a flurry of wings and indignation. But they just flew around out of her reach and then settled down again.

Izzy knew to expect them now. Every morning, they waited for her. They left presents, little shining trinkets, pretty stones, tin foil and buttons. Forgotten, broken things. Lost things. They left them on the doorsteps and windowsills, spread out like offerings. Gifts.

Izzy didn’t know how to stop them. She was sure she would, if she could figure out how.

This morning, on her windowsill, on top of the layer of gleaming frost, there lay a polished stone, two buttons and a single silver loop earring. It wasn’t big, and it was tarnished and discoloured as if lost some time ago and left to brave the elements. But it was the first thing her hand gravitated towards. Or at least, she started to reach for it but then she froze, her muscles cramping, tendons like wires. Breath caught in her throat and pain like white acid burned through her chest.

She saw him again, in her mind’s eye. The boy with black hair – like crow feathers – skin as white as the snow on the hills, marked with swirling indigo tattoos, his eyes silver, like the piercings he wore. Just like the silver earring.

With a sudden jerk, she pushed the gifts off the sill. The birds took flight, crying their outrage to the heavens and Izzy slammed the window shut, turning around and sinking on to the ground. She huddled there, holding herself in a tight ball, trying to force the terror away, the unknown grief and pain, the holes in her mind and that familiar sense of devastation, always old and always new, a never closing wound. All the maelstrom of emotions she always felt when she saw something that stirred a broken memory of him.

‘Jinx,’ she whispered at last.

There were only fragments of him left in her mind. He was gone, she knew that. Dad said he was dead – everyone said he was dead – but that didn’t feel right. She was missing something. The problem was she had no idea what.

Mum opened the door. She still looked frail though the bruises from her captivity had faded. Something lingered in her eyes, in the sharp lines under her features. ‘Izzy, love?’

Her arms didn’t look strong, but they wrapped her daughter in an impenetrable barrier.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Izzy. ‘Mum, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Once it started she couldn’t stop that litany. Time and again, she said it, over and over, but it didn’t make a difference. It never did.

Mum rocked her, murmured soothing words, and whispered her name until Izzy quietened again. Nothing made sense but until the storm of grief passed there was nothing that could actually be said.

You’ve had a breakdown, Izzy told herself, her voice distant and removed, watching herself from far away. It helped to do this, to tell herself the things she had been told were true when she felt this way, when it all started to crumble around her. You saw your boyfriend die. You killed him.

But she couldn’t remember it. They’d had to tell her. No one really managed to make eye contact when they said that.

She couldn’t remember him. Not really. Just in fragments and moments. Nightmares and impossible horrors drifted up through her sleep, sometimes when she was awake too. But they made no sense. Nothing did.

‘It’s going to be all right, Izzy,’ said Mum. ‘We’re going to make it right, I promise. Dad’s going to fix it.’

Fix it? Dad thought he could fix this? He could barely keep the peace talks between the angels and the demons going, let alone make them include the Sídhe. Mum had more faith in him than Izzy did. How would he even find time to attempt to fix this? And how could it be fixed?

No, it wasn’t this he needed to fix. It was her. She was broken and she didn’t know how or why.

School was intermittent. Most of the time she just couldn’t handle it. They couldn’t exactly go to a regular doctor about her memory loss and depression, not when the cause was magical. Not when there was no way to fix it by normal means. And what did normal even mean anymore? Her whole life was so far from normal. The only friends she had left were Dylan, Clodagh and Ash. And they tried to help, they really did, but they had lives of their own.

And they didn’t understand. They didn’t know about the empty places inside her.

Eventually the tears stopped. She stared at the wall over Mum’s shoulder, wishing it would just vanish, or that, better yet, she could just vanish. Gran knocked on the door and gave Mum one of those meaningful looks.

Austere and elegant, Izzy’s grandmother had moved in with them, to help out during their ‘troubles’. They didn’t talk, not really. Generally Izzy just got the impression that she was a dreadful disappointment to Isolde Gregory, who had married one Grigori, and served as his right hand while raising the next one. Duty, knowledge, honour… these were the things that mattered to her grandmother. Not a hysterical, depressed, broken child.

Mum wrapped the throw from Izzy’s bed around her shoulders. It was soft and comforting and smelled of home and sleep. Then she followed Gran outside. They didn’t quite close the door behind them, so their voices, though soft, were still audible.

‘David phoned. They’re going today. Now.’ Gran didn’t sound happy about it. Whatever ‘it’ was. Obviously they weren’t planning to tell Izzy. She didn’t warrant explanations like that.

‘I should be there too.’

‘You’re needed here. With the girl. She’s too fragile now.’

‘Does he really think this will work?’

Gran sighed heavily ‘It’s our last hope. Even her mother couldn’t––’

‘I’m her mother.’ Mum’s voice came out sharp as a blade.

‘Of course you are. You know what I mean.’

‘She didn’t even try.’

‘Yes she did. Rachel, you know she did. She cares for Isabel, as much as any of them can care for one of us. You didn’t give her enough time. You need to send the girl back to her.’

‘No!’ The ferocity in Mum’s voice made Izzy start. ‘No,’ she said again, a little more calmly. ‘Not yet. We’ll find a way. We have to. Since Jinx died …’

Jinx … the name was like a barb inside Izzy’s chest. Jinx was dead, that was what everyone said. But it didn’t feel true. It didn’t feel right. And in the space between what she was told and what she felt – in that place where all the memories were a pile of broken glass – well, that was where she was being torn apart.

‘It’s an unadulterated mess,’ said Isolde, disgust colouring her tone as she marched down the stairs. ‘What was she thinking? Any Grigori who would risk their mind by taking the Storyteller’s book and reading it, to find a boyfriend – and a hound at that! – shouldn’t be surprised to have holes in their recollection. Even if there was something in that mess of stolen memories from all down the ages that might possibly have helped, she should have known so much magic all at once would overwhelm her and backfire. Of all the stupid, childish behaviour – I’ve never seen the like. But this endless moping …’

Her voice faded, but no doubt the tirade continued.

Endless moping. That was what her grandmother thought of her. Probably her father too. An idiot, a fool, who had read the Storyteller’s magical book – the source of her power which stole the memories of countless others – and expected somehow to get away with it. And all for someone she could no longer remember, someone who was nothing more than a gaping chasm in her mind. Because that was what the book did. And she had known that when she took it up. How had she expected to survive unscathed? It seemed idiotic even to her now.

Izzy turned back to the window. The crows were still there, watching her. They were always there. On every tree, every roof, every wall, waiting.

But for what, she didn’t know.

She closed her eyes and wished them gone, but when she looked they were still there. Izzy backed away. Her bag – now a battered, mud- and grass-stained wreck – lay in a heap on the floor by her bed. She never let it out of her sight. She couldn’t.

She sat down again, rolled up her sleeve and took out the knife she had taken from Pie. More correctly, the iron knife she had pulled out of … of a body where Pie had left it. Whose body though? That was the question. The holes in her memory couldn’t tell her that, but she remembered the feel of it in her hand. Cold iron, old iron, with a handle of bone. She’d used it to kill. She knew that. Not who or why. She remembered fire and the hulking shadow of a ruin, of tears scalding her face, of pushing her knife into a living, breathing body and letting the life inside drain out. And this knife. This piece of iron.

Vibrations rippled up its length when she touched it and the fire in her blood answered. The Blade that Cuts swirled through her veins. Not an actual blade, not like the one in her hands. It was magic, powerful and terrible.

She had destroyed Eochaid, King of the Fear with it. She hadn’t meant to but it slipped from her grasp, or maybe she had released it to do its own will. And afterwards – after yet another blank space in her memory she couldn’t fill – she had gone back into the Realm of the Dead. She’d tried to give it back to Donn but he was already dead and it had bonded to her, flowed back inside her. Now it filled her in a way she couldn’t control. Well, almost. Her iron knife could quell the fire of the Blade. At least she had that. Her hand shook, though whether from fear or anticipation, she didn’t know.

She didn’t want to know.

She slid the knife along her skin, cutting through it effortlessly until the thin line of blood came and the sting of pain reached a crescendo. Gasping, she let herself breathe through it, let herself feel it as she hadn’t felt anything in days. Not since the last time she had done this. Clarity settled over her, clear and cold as ice, and she watched the glossy blood on her pale skin, adding a new line to those that decorated her arms, some still bright and red, some pale ghostly scars.

Her memories were broken, she was broken, but she knew what she had to do.

Chapter Two

Cheating

Dylan shuffled his feet and turned up the collar of his coat again. Thick wool just wasn’t cutting it in this temperature. He was already wishing for something thermal. And sunglasses just made him look like a git, like some kind of wannabe.

Clodagh elbowed him. ‘Come on.’

They stepped closer to the door in the slowest moving queue in history.

‘We should have pre-booked online,’ he said.

And behind him he heard the now inevitable voices.

‘It is him.’

‘Well, ask then.’

‘No, you ask him. I’m not asking him.’

‘Are you sure sure? Like, what if it isn’t?’

Clodagh stiffened and clenched her teeth.

‘Don’t,’ Dylan murmured.

‘I can tell someone to bog off and mind their own business if I want.’

‘You can, but it confirms what that person is thinking. And it’ll be all over the internet in seconds.’

Then he heard the sound of photos being taken and a wave of poorly suppressed giggles.

‘Hate to tell you this, Dylan but it’s all over the internet already,’ said Clodagh dryly.

Of course it was. It always was. It was only a short step from that to the next thing.

‘Hey mister,’ sad the most brash of those eager voices. ‘Mister, it’s you, isn’t it?’

The others hissed and recoiled in embarrassment, but they didn’t back off. They made a show of it but didn’t actually do it. The sin was breaking that wall between someone in the public eye and everyone else. Not being there to see it happen and benefitting.

What if I said no, he thought. What if I just pretended I wasn’t me for once?

It wouldn’t work. Then he’d be ‘stuck up’ and ‘full of himself’.

Swallowing down a sigh so they’d never see it, Dylan turned around and treated it in exactly the way Silver had taught hm.

Love them, she said. No matter what. No matter if you’re feeling shit, or impatient, or fed up, they don’t need to know that. As far as they’re concerned you’re awesome. So be it. Give them what they want. They’ll love you for it.

Dylan slid the sunglasses down his nose a little so he could peer over them in a shy but sensitive way. And he smiled his most brilliant smile, before lifting a finger to his lips.

The girls, none of whom were over fifteen, grew round-eyed and even more giggly.

‘I’m supposed to be incognito, ladies,’ he teased.

‘Incog-wha?’ said the nearest while her friends laughed and whispered.

‘Undercover,’ he said and the poor thing turned scarlet.

Her words came out in a rush of breathless excitement. ‘Can we get a selfie with you, Dylan?’

Dylan quirked his lips into his most professional smile. ‘Course you can,’ he said. ‘But we need to be quick. I’ve got to go in.’ He nodded towards the door and the impatient Clodagh waiting there, tapping her foot.

They all had their phones in hand in microseconds.

Clodagh watched all this with a blank expression, though he could tell her patience was at its thinnest. He signed autographs on scraps of papers and they were off again.

Grim held the door open for him.

‘You should come in,’ said the bodach. ‘It’s looking dangerous out there.’

Dylan wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.

As they stepped inside the Storyteller’s domain, Dylan felt the shiver in the air which told him they were passing from Dublin and his world, to Dubh Linn and theirs. Or maybe this was his world now. With so much of Silver’s power in his body it was hard to tell. But he couldn’t let that bother him now. He had a job to do.

Grim led them straight through the outer halls, where elements of Dublin’s Leprechaun Museum blended with a place older and more primal by far. Echoes of the Giant’s Causeway lined the passage, stone bleeding into wood and back again. Bronzed walls and ceilings reflected other times, so many lost stories. He reached out and felt Clodagh’s hand slip into his, her fingers very cold and thin, like brittle twigs. He could sense her fear. He just hoped no one else would. Being human made her a target down here all by itself. Being a frightened human would be like setting off a beacon. Mentally, he projected a shield around them both and felt some of the tension in her bleed away. Silver’s lessons were really starting to pay off. Since the magic seemed determined to seep out of him one way or another, she’d told him, it was better that it do so on his own terms. Use it, rather than let it use him. Or God forbid, let someone else use it.

That still didn’t mean he had full control of it though. But who did?

The Storyteller waited for them in the dark forest at the heart of her Hollow. Sometimes, he knew, it looked like cutouts of trees and Christmas lights, like the set of a school play. But not today. There was no doubting the reality of these trees, the way they swayed and creaked in a breeze he couldn’t smell or feel, the way they crowded in close as if to steal away the unwary. They were the dark woods in every fairy tale, in every nightmare, where you’d get lost never to find the way home, where monsters lurked in the shadows, where the stories were born. Lights hung between the branches, tangled in the roots, lights that moved and danced and led you so far off the path, the path became a dream of what was. Sheeries, Silver had called them, or will o’ the wisps, drawn to magic, and never to be trusted. Ignore them, she’d said. It was easier said than done. They caught the eye, entrancing, glittering little things.

The chamber thronged with them, blinking in and out of the darkness, like countless glowing eyes. Clodagh moved closer to Dylan and he struggled to keep his face from showing his own nerves.

‘Come closer, Dylan O’Neill,’ said the musical voice of the Storyteller. She sat by her glowing well, hooded and hunched over, her hands folded in her lap. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Although––’ she paused, turning her head slightly towards Clodagh, ‘––not your little friend.’ Dylan was glad he couldn’t see Clodagh’s expression.

‘Clodagh’s with me,’ he replied firmly.

‘So I see. Well, come then, you and Clodagh.’ She said the name as if tasting a fine wine and it sent chills skittering along his spine. Never underestimate her, Silver had said. And he’d just told her Clodagh’s name. ‘Sit down and we’ll talk. That is why Lady Silver sent you, isn’t it? To talk?’

Ah well, that was the problem. Dylan didn’t move.

‘Silver didn’t send me.’ Silver didn’t even know he was here because if she did, Silver would flip out completely. But he couldn’t afford to let the Storyteller know that. ‘We’re here on behalf of a friend.’

‘A friend? Really?’ She purred as she spoke, delighted with the intrigue, as he’d hope she would be. ‘And what friend would that be?’

‘Isabel Gregory.’

Instantly all the sheeries vanished, blinking out in a heartbeat. The only light remaining, the blue glow from the depths of the well, cast the chamber in a dark and terrible light.

‘She is not welcome here. She will never be welcome here again. She’ll enter this Hollow over my dead body!’ The Storyteller surged to her feet, her long cloak and gown billowing out around her.

In the silence that followed, Clodagh opened her bag and took out a box. It was hand painted, pink, with little white flowers.

The Storyteller stared at it, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

‘We have a gift,’ said Clodagh, without even a quiver in her voice. ‘But we need to see the book.’

‘No,’ the Storyteller snarled, though she didn’t move or call for her attendants. All her attention was fixed on the box. Slowly, as if she was teasing a great reveal in a play, Clodagh opened it.

Tinkling music filled the chamber and inside the box a tiny ballerina began to turn in a delicate pirouette. Clodagh said nothing, but smiled.

‘What is it?’ the Matriarch said at last.

‘It’s a music box. And it will be yours if we can just see the book.’

The old Sídhe twitched, clearly torn between her desire for the box and her need to protect her book.

‘Just see it,’ she breathed at last.

‘Yes,’ said Clodagh. ‘See it, perhaps hold it and––’

‘You’ll not read it. You’ll not even open it. And he’ll not even touch it.’ She pointed an abnormally long finger at Dylan. ‘I know about you, about the power inside you. I know what you’re capable of, boy.’

Did she? That was news to Dylan, who wasn’t even sure himself what the power inside him could do, let alone how to fully harness it.

‘This is Clodagh’s show,’ he said calmly, although his heart was hammering in his chest with fear. Clodagh’s show, her idea, her disaster if it all went wrong. No, a disaster for all of them.

‘Izzy’s memory is broken,’ the girl said. ‘We’re looking for a way to help her.’

‘True,’ said the Storyteller smugly. ‘Because she broke faith with me. She read the book, too much of it, took it by force and––’

‘She made a terrible mistake for which she is sorely sorry,’ Dylan interrupted. ‘We’re trying to find a way to make things right.’

‘With my book? Never. She’ll never come into my domain while I live.’

‘But if we could just––’ Clodagh began. The Sídhe Matriarch cut her off.

‘See it? Touch it? Why not, but you shall not open it. It will be of no use to you. But why not let you see how close you are?’

‘Do I have your word?’ Clodagh asked.

‘For that pretty box? Yes, my word. But if you would read the book I’ll need more. Much more.’

Clodagh blinked at her, like a rabbit in headlights. ‘Like what?’

The Storyteller pushed back her hood, revealing her face. Her dark skin contrasted with the glowing gold of her eyes. She smiled and her teeth were sharp and so very white. ‘Your eyes, perhaps? I could steal your sight and leave you permanently in the darkness. The box is yours, is it not? It’s old. A childhood treasure. Did you dream of dancing? I could keep you here to dance for me along with your music box.’

‘Let us see it first.’

This was skirting too close to danger. He couldn’t let her risk this. ‘Clodagh, no!’ Dylan said, but she waved him aside and advanced on the Matriarch. She seemed strangely fearless, as if she didn’t get how dangerous this was. Or she didn’t care.

‘Do we have a deal?’ Clodagh asked.

‘Yes,’ said the Storyteller, her eyes gleaming with greed. ‘Fetch the book,’ she snarled to her waiting servants. ‘Now!’

Clodagh said nothing, waiting now, her expression betraying nothing. She knew not to show fear at least.

‘Clo,’ Dylan said. ‘This is a really bad idea.’

Her lips moved briefly to a smile, one which melted away almost instantly. What was she doing? This wasn’t the plan. She was supposed to leave all this to him. He would do the talking, the convincing. Even if they both knew it would never work.

Before he could say more, the leps arrived in a flurry of activity. The book was pale and threatening, the way the Storyteller ran her hands over the binding deeply disturbing and Dylan felt his own skin crawl with alarm.

Clodagh held out her hands. ‘You promised.’

‘So did you. When you open it––’

The girl took it from her, folding her arms around it and her smile came back, bright and terrible.

‘Oh, I shan’t be opening it.’

‘Him?’ Her gaze zeroed in on Dylan again and the light of greed blazed twice as bright. Oh, she wanted at Dylan all right. All the Aes Sídhe did. They knew the power locked away inside him and they wanted it, the great and the lowly that would be great. It sickened him to the core.

‘Not him either.’

Clodagh raised her eyes to the ceiling, lifted her voice and said five words which shook the entire building. ‘Ash? I’m ready. Come in.’

A hurricane burst through the chamber. The Storyteller shrieked in shock and rage as a figure appeared behind Clodagh and Dylan, bright as an after-image on closed eyelids, her black wings spread wide. The primary feathers, long as his arm, curved around the two humans. With the briefest movement, Ash gripped Dylan’s shoulder with one hand and Clodagh’s with the other and, in the blink of an eye, and a disorienting twist of reality which left his stomach contorting and retching, the Hollow around them was gone.

Dylan stumbled from her grip and crashed against the metal rail. Below him the dark river water swirled and bubbled as it passed. They were on the banks of the Liffey, on the boardwalk just above the Ha’penny Bridge. He pushed himself back, trying to see how far from the Leprechaun Museum they were. Ormond Quay. Not far enough. As he turned he saw the angel sink to her knees on the wooden boards, the wings invisible now. Colour drained from her face and her hands trembled when they hit the ground. Her arms struggled to keep her from falling further. She looked as if she’d throw up, pass out, or possibly both.

‘What did you just do?’ Dylan yelled, outraged, appalled. They’d broken every rule there was, possibly even the Grand Compact itself. They’d broken everything!

‘Got the book,’ said Clodagh, and she had never looked so pleased with herself in all her life.

Chapter Three

Lost at World’s End

There were moments when it was so quiet Jinx could hear nothing but his own breath and the rush of his blood as it surged around his body. His heart beat a strong, implacable rhythm and he hated it for that. It ought to be still. It ought to be dead and him with it. He couldn’t will it to stop. He couldn’t even take matters into his own hands. They saw to that. Silver and iron manacles bound him, metal which burned his skin and a collar which choked him. He had gone hoarse from shouting and screaming.