Burn Like Cold Iron

Chapter 7: Spoiler Alert

The book was in Saruman's hands before I could blink. Dimly I realized I had grabbed it and held it out to him without a second thought, and I shook myself angrily. What are you doing, Bee? Focus!

"At last," Saruman said, the eagerness in his voice making me shudder. He held the book up to the light from my window, studying it closely. "The Fellowship of the Ring."

"Wait," I said, trying unsuccessfully to force down my panic. "How can you read it? It's in English." Saruman sent a withering glare in my direction, and I felt myself flush. Translation spell, of course, I surmised, wondering when such things had started to seem so normal.

The wizard ignored me, admiring the book's thin pages and the neat, even print; I supposed for a world that didn't even have the printing press yet, the book was pretty remarkable. "A Fellowship," he mused, examining the cover and then flipping through the prologue. "Interesting. Now, come with me, Beatrice."

"What? Why?" I demanded, even as I found myself slinging my violin case over my shoulder and heading out the cell door obediently. I shook my head again to clear it, but it was no use.

"I will not examine this book while standing in a prison cell," the wizard replied loftily, sweeping off down the hall.

I followed reluctantly, glaring as I watched Tarbyn skulk away down the hall in the opposite direction. Slimy scumbag, thanks for ratting me out. "Why d'you need me, then?" I asked the wizard. "I already told you, I don't know anything about those stupid books."

"Books?" Saruman repeated sharply. "There are more than one?"

I winced. Nice going, you idiot. "There's three," I said reluctantly.

"This is precisely why you are going to help me, girl. I underestimated you once, but it will not happen again. You clearly know a great deal more than you claim, even if you have not read the text itself. And if you refuse to aid me willingly, there are other ways of discerning your secrets."

I swallowed with some difficultly, my limbs turning to lead as I walked. He didn't mean torture, did he? But I didn't know anything! "How long are you going to keep me here?" I managed.

Saruman didn't spare me a glance, walking even faster now. I had to jog to keep up, my sandals slapping ominously against the stone floor. "For the rest of your days, perhaps, short as they may be," he said dismissively, as if there was no point in lying to me any longer. "At the very least, until your usefulness has run its course."

I stopped in my tracks. "But you said," I stammered, "you said you'd send me home if I helped you. Down in the storerooms. You said..." I bit back a panicked sob. "Please, can't you send me back? You have your precious book, just let me go!"

"It is not simply a matter of letting you go," the wizard snapped. "Such a spell is immensely difficult to create; it took me years of effort to bring you here. I am not about to lay aside my other works merely to return a lost little girl to her homeland, especially for one as useful as you. No, Beatrice Smith, you will not be going back."

Oh, God. The hall seemed to spin suddenly. I snapped my eyes shut, willing myself to calm down without success. It had never once occurred to me that I couldn't get home from here in Isengard, that the wizard would outright refuse; what was I going to do?

"Beatrice!" The wizard's voice shook me out of my thoughts. "Keep moving."

No...no, no, please...Tears were welling in my eyes despite myself. With immense difficultly, I moved my feet forward again, a wave of horror threatening to consume me. If my stomach hadn't been so painfully empty, I might have gotten sick in the middle of the hall.