Every castle had a dungeon. Damien felt sure it was a rule. He’d never visited one before so he had no idea how Uncle Andy’s compared to someone else’s. In some of the stories he’d read, the authors described dungeons as dank, smelly places filled with torture chambers and hooded guards that entertained themselves by beating the prisoners. By that standard this dungeon was a pleasant spot.

Cool and dry, without a bit of standing water, the dungeon under the royal castle had a dozen cells outfitted with simple cots and mess buckets. A faint odor of sweat and human waste filtered through the halls, but nothing unbearable. In fact, to Damien, the smell offended less than the nobles’ perfume. Steel doors with small view slits kept the prisoners from wandering off. Ten guards in blue-and-sliver uniforms patrolled the halls, heavy truncheons hanging at their belts.

On their way to the interrogation chamber Damien and the archmage passed three guards on patrol. Was “interrogation chamber” a euphemism for “torture chamber”?

When she heard about the attempt on the king’s life his master had about hit the roof. Damien wouldn’t have wanted to be whichever Crimson Legionnaire had let the assassin sneak into the castle.

“You did well to spot and subdue her, Damien,” the archmage said. “Since you took her alive, hopefully we can find out who hired her.”

“Thank you, Master.” Damien allowed himself a moment to bask in his mentor’s praise. “I’ve never seen anyone who used their soul force like she did.”

“I’m not surprised.” They rounded a corner and found three red-robed sorcerers facing into an open room.

Soul force streamed from the sorcerers. Every time the assassin tried to draw power from her core they severed the link and her conjuring collapsed. He wasn't familiar with that technique. Inside the room a fourth sorcerer in identical robes sat at a simple wooden table facing the assassin.

“She’s a member of a group called the Soul Knives,” the archmage said. “Assassins for hire that specialize in creating soul force weapons of great destructive power. They’re based down south in the badlands. Whoever hired her must have a lot of coin as they don’t work cheap.”

They stopped just beyond the interrogation chamber. Someone had removed the assassin’s mask and outer clothes, leaving her wearing nothing but small clothes. Her thin lips were turned down in a sullen frown. Pale, freckled skin covered a lean, wiry body. Several thin scars marred her flat, well-muscled stomach. She might have been attractive but for the flat, emotionless brown eyes; killer’s eyes. Damien’s father had eyes like that when he fought.

The sorcerer in the room slammed his fist on the table. “Who are you working for?”

The assassin’s cool, indifferent gaze raked him over and dismissed him. Damien doubted just asking would be enough to get her to talk. Maybe they’d need a torture chamber after all.

“I don’t think she’s going to tell us anything,” Damien said.

His master smiled, a tiny, evil curl of her lips. “We haven’t begun the interrogation yet. Alden’s just giving her a chance to talk and save herself some pain. I wanted you to see how he proceeds. This isn’t the sort of thing they teach at Sorcery. Pay close attention.”

She whistled two sharp notes. Alden drew a thin stream of power and drove it straight into the assassin’s brain. She tried to conjure a shield to block the probe, but one of the other sorcerers countered her.

The assassin’s back arched and she screamed. Damien recognized the place Alden stabbed: the pain center of the brain. In healing class they’d learned how to block the flow of pain from a wound to that area, like he’d done for Talon last summer. This looked like the exact opposite of that technique. It never occurred to him to do that.

The questioner shifted his probe to another section of her brain and the screaming stopped. “Who hired you?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Damien glanced at his master.

“She’s trying to lie, but Alden’s blocked her access to that area of her brain. If she wishes to speak she can only tell the truth. This part of the technique is more important than the pain. If you can’t keep them from lying, torture does no good.”

Damien winced when Alden switched his probe back to the pain center, drawing another scream. For her sake, killer or not, he hoped she told them what they wanted to know. “Do you think she’ll break?”

“They all break eventually.” Her cold, emotionless tone sent a chill up Damien’s spine.