Realm Of Light Part 44

The sergeant glanced up from honing his dagger and shot Caelan an appreciative look. "Gladiator, eh? You're big enough."

Mox laughed. "Why, yer lookin' at the champion! Weren't no fighter able to beat 'im, never. Not a single defeat in all the time-"

"Shut up, Mox," Caelan said, furious at the man's chatter. Now they would be more on their guard. He shouldn't have waited this long to strike.

The sergeant sighed and leaned over to put his helmet on the floor. Taking off his cloak, he folded it neatly and efficiently into a square and laid it atop the helmet. He tested the edge of his dagger with his thumb and eyed Caelan.

"Arena bait, or not, he's finished tonight," the sergeant said. "Hold him."

"You were told to wait until the prince left the dungeons," Caelan said.

The sergeant sneered. "What the h.e.l.l's the difference? Me and my men can't go off duty till you're done."

Mox rattled his dice box. "Can we cast lots fer the heart?"

Caelan glared at the gladiator, and severed severed without waiting for the sergeant's answer. To his relief, the swift icy rush of detachment engulfed him, and he went deep into the coldness. without waiting for the sergeant's answer. To his relief, the swift icy rush of detachment engulfed him, and he went deep into the coldness.

With every sense heightened, he gathered his feet beneath him, ready to spring. He watched the guards approach him and saw their threads of life. The sergeant's were gnarled and tough, streaked black from dark deeds. The boy's were spindly. Mox and the fourth man moved behind Caelan, and there was no more time to calculate.

As the unnamed guard gripped Caelan from behind, and the sergeant reached for his hair, Caelan spun on his knees, severing severing as many threads of life as he could reach. as many threads of life as he could reach.

Screams filled the air, but Caelan had no time to count who was down and who was still standing. Sensing a blow from the corner of his eye, he ducked aside, hampered by his chain.

Roaring curses, the sergeant slashed at him with his long dagger, nicking Caelan's shoulder as he dodged again. It was a shallow cut that stung fiercely. But Caelan ignored it. He gripped the chain with both hands and heaved against it with all his strength. His muscles bulged. The linking pin of the chain sheared in half with a shrill ping ping and went sailing across the room. and went sailing across the room.

Links of chain slid through the bolt, and Caelan went staggering off balance just as the sergeant tackled him.

They went sprawling together in a tangle of arms and legs.

Caelan blocked the dagger thrust with his elbow, feeling another slice of the point along his arm, and looped the chain around the sergeant's throat.

Choking and struggling, the sergeant tried to knee Caelan, but Caelan was already hauling himself to his feet, pulling the chain tighter and tighter while the man shuddered and flailed. The dagger fell to the floor. The sergeant's face began to turn scarlet, then purple. Veins bulged in his temple, and his tongue protruded from his open mouth.

Something sharp plunged deep into Caelan's back, catching him just below the rim of his ribs and slamming upward.

He dropped severance severance and staggered to one side, his strength gone, his breath gone, the world dancing in shades of black that flickered in and out of his vision. and staggered to one side, his strength gone, his breath gone, the world dancing in shades of black that flickered in and out of his vision.

The chain slid from his hands, and the sergeant dropped to his knees, making gasping, guttural noises.

Glancing over his shoulder, Caelan saw the hilt of a dagger projecting from his low back, and Mox's fingers whitening on it as he twisted the blade.

Screaming against the agony, Caelan turned and swung both his shackled hands together. His forearm slammed across Mox's face, knocking him back. It was a foolish blow, a good way to break his arm against the hard bones of Mox's skull, but Mox went sprawling awkwardly. He seemed paralyzed on one side, his left arm and leg not working right. But he came crawling back, his scarred face contorted, death in his eyes.

On Caelan's other side, the sergeant was still coughing and gasping, but he had pulled the chain away from his throat and was trying to regain his feet.

Caelan bent, still reeling from shock and pain, and picked the sergeant's dagger off the floor. The world tilted without warning, and Caelan staggered into the wall. The jolt brought a fresh wave of agony from his back that spread up through his chest. He struggled to reach the dagger, but his shackles prevented him. If he strained and twisted with all his might, he could just touch the hilt with his fingertips. But he could not grip it, could not pull it out.

A sound warned him. He turned, his reflexes blunted by pain, and the sergeant hit him across the chest with the heavy chain. The blow crushed the breath from him, breath he couldn't afford to lose.

He had black dots dancing in his vision. He couldn't draw in more air, couldn't move. The weapon wobbled in his slack fingers, and he was barely aware of the sergeant wrenching it away from him.

The dagger felt like a log inside his back, brutal and invasive.

"d.a.m.n you!" the sergeant said hoa.r.s.ely, his voice ruined.

Gripping Caelan by his shirt front, the sergeant slammed him against the wall.

Brutal pain exploded inside Caelan as the blow rammed the dagger a little deeper. He tasted blood in his mouth, and knew he was finished. He met the sergeant's eyes just as the sergeant's weapon flashed up.

Glaring with hatred, the sergeant held his dagger up where Caelan could see it. "Get your eyes off mine!" he said. "You'll use no spells on me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Pinned against the wall, Caelan could barely focus on what he was saying. Caelan's whole consciousness had centered on the dagger hilt, jammed between his back and the wall'. Every breath, every movement, every bit of pressure exerted by the sergeant brought fresh torment.

"Mox! Get up and help me, d.a.m.n you!" the sergeant ordered. "Cut open his shirt."

"Watch 'im," Mox said, dragging himself upright with difficulty and staggering over to them. He took the sergeant's dagger and cut open Caelan's linen shirt.

"Going to cut out your heart," the sergeant said, coughing again. He sneered, pushing Caelan harder into the wall until Caelan felt himself suspended on that single pinnacle of pain, unable to move or even cry out.

"Hurry, Mox! d.a.m.n you, be quick!"

Snarling, Mox raised the dagger. "Slit 'is throat," he growled.

"No!" the sergeant said, intervening. "I want him alive while we cut out his heart. I want him to feel it pumping in another man's hands. I want him to know when we rip it out of him."

Caelan rolled his head to one side, gasping for breath, feeling the blood bubbling up where it didn't belong. All he knew was that he had failed. This time, his strength and his gifts hadn't been enough. It didn't seem fair that he should die like this down in the grubby depths of a dungeon room, stabbed in the back, chained like an animal, outnumbered. As a destiny, it was sordid and pathetic. And the prophecies he'd been told were lies.

He thought of Elandra, wondering if she would ever know his fate. He longed for her, wished he could tell her once more how much he loved her.

His only prayer was that she would be safe.

"Make it quick," he said to the sergeant.

The sergeant put his ugly face close to Caelan's. "Do you hurt now? Eh? Does that knife in your back make you want to beg and puke? Well, see how this feels." He grinned. "All right, Mox. Make it clean, and make it slow."

A furious pounding on the door awakened Elandra. Disoriented and groggy, she pulled herself upright on the bed while the jinja jinja hissed and sniffed the air. hissed and sniffed the air.

She looked at the small, golden creature. Its big, luminous eyes met hers. "Safe."

Iaris, who had been asleep in a chair, rose and walked over to the door. Her unpinned hair streamed down her back, making her look younger and more vulnerable. Holding a lamp in her hand, she spoke to whoever was knocking, then glanced at Elandra.

"It is the guard," she said. "He is to escort you to the emp- the prince."

Elandra's eyes widened. "Now?"

"Yes."

Elandra glanced involuntarily at the window, seeing her wan reflection shimmering in the darkness beyond the gla.s.s. "What is the hour?"

Iaris yawned. "It does not matter. Your presence is requested. You will go."

Defiance tightened the skin around Elandra's eyes, but before she could speak, Iaris was striding toward her.

"Don't be a fool!" she snapped. "You are his prisoner, as are we all. Thus far, he has treated you with the greatest courtesy, but that could change in one snap of his fingers." Drawing a gown from Elandra's journey chest, Iaris flung it at her. "Get dressed."

Within the hour, Elandra was beautifully gowned and her auburn hair was sleeked back in a heavy coil at the base of her neck. Her topaz hung in its pouch between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and she kept her hand on it for comfort as she walked through the corridors of Tirhin's villa with her head held high.

Guards were stationed throughout the house. They snapped to attention as she pa.s.sed them. She glanced at their weathered faces, seeing experience and long years of service in every crease and scar. Crimson cloaks hung from their shoulders, proclaiming them as the elite Imperial Guard, but most of them had the rough look of common foot soldiers, as though they had been pulled from the ranks for Tirhin's service.

None of them met her eyes. Elandra kept her expression confident and a.s.sured, as though she was accustomed to being summoned by her sworn enemy in the middle of the night. But her heart was pounding in short, hard jerks. It was one thing to belittle Tirhin and defy him in public. It was another to face him alone, without protectors or allies. She felt as though she were marching to battle, and she went armed with nothing but her wits and a sleeve knife. If she still possessed any courage, it seemed to be in tatters at this moment.

"If you have no bravery, at least pretend to the enemy that you do," her father used to instruct his troops.

Elandra clung to that advice now, wishing her father were walking at her side. But this she must face alone.

She was escorted downstairs to the ground floor. The house was all shadows and golden pools of lamplight, filled with hushed quiet.

Her escort paused at a pair of carved doors and knocked quietly. The doors were opened a crack.

"The empress," her escort said.

The doors swung inward, and Elandra's guards stepped aside. In unison they saluted as she walked alone into the room beyond. Then the doors were closed behind her.

Elandra found herself in a study. The room was square and small, with a vaulted ceiling. Animal skins lay upon the polished marble floor. A heavy wooden desk had a map spread across its surface. A burning lamp cast soft light. Shelves filled with scroll cases flanked a tall window. Busts of learned philosophers were displayed on pedestals according to an old-fashioned notion that the likenesses of great thinkers could impart wisdom. The room smelled of leather and old parchment.

She drew a deep, steadying breath. This civilized room rea.s.sured her. Although she knew herself to be foolish in thinking so, she felt marginally safer here.

The individual who had admitted her now bowed. It was Agel, the healer.

Recognizing his thin, handsome face and cold eyes, Elandra lost her a.s.surance. She stared at him, feeling suddenly afraid, and did not trust her voice enough to speak.

Agel gave her a perfunctory smile, as though he could read her thoughts. "Please wait here. Sit if you wish."

Elandra glared at him. "How kind of you to give me permission," she said regally.

He flushed, frowning, and left the room through another door behind a tapestry.

As soon as he was gone, Elandra paced over to the window. She stared out into the hostile darkness, sensing the evil that lay within it, feeling the evil here around her. Her fingers rubbed the cold gla.s.s, tracing the tiny bubbles and imperfections within its surface. With every pa.s.sing moment, her agitation grew.

A sound behind her startled her. She whirled around, gasping for breath, her heart like thunder within her breast.

Tirhin came limping into the room, using a carved ebony cane for support. Unlike her, he was attired informally in a linen under-tunic with a long robe of midnight blue silk belted around him. He moved slowly, with great difficulty, making no attempt to mask his pain.

"Elandra," he said, his voice soft and velvety despite an underlying note of strain. "Thank you for coming. I thought we might begin anew in private, where we have no need to act as our rank demands in public."

His face was as white as his undertunic, throwing his black brows and hair into dramatic contrast. His eyes caught the firelight and shimmered for a moment, paler in color than she remembered, almost yellow.

Despite herself, she shivered.

"Come," he said, reaching out his hand to her with a smile. "Let us sit and talk."

Elandra did not move. Her fear was unreasonable, for she could see no threat in his face or manner. Yet she remained afraid.

"Please," he said.

She heard fatigue and pain in his voice and realized he was waiting for her to sit down before he did the same. His knuckles were white where they gripped the top of the cane.

Compa.s.sion touched her then, and she took one of the chairs, sitting erect with her long skirts belled around her, her hands folded in her lap.

Tirhin dropped heavily into his with a grunt of relief and stretched out his bad leg before him.

This close, she could see how much he had changed. Deep lines had been carved around his mouth. A permanent crease between his brows marred his forehead. He looked older by years, and his eyes seemed haunted. Tension radiated from him.

She looked at him, and was glad he suffered. She hoped his guilt consumed him, for no punishment could be more appropriate. Had he sat before her sleek, contented, and fat with his ill-gained riches, she would have thrown her knife at his throat. But this pain-wracked sh.e.l.l of a man, this prince who had lost his youth, vitality, and laughing good looks was someone she could tolerate. Barely.

He met her eyes and gave her a tentative smile, then lifted his forefinger at Agel, who hovered discreetly in the background. "Some wine for the lady, healer. Oh, and bring the box."

In silence Agel brought a tray containing a flagon of amber-colored wine, two goblets of hammered gold, and a small wooden box with an ornate lid.

Elandra watched scornfully as the healer filled the goblets. "And when did this skilled healer become your servant?" she asked.

Agel did not glance up as he finished pouring the wine, but his nostrils flared.

Tirhin chuckled. "The slaves have all been sent to bed. Our conversation is private, not for idle ears. Thank you, Agel. That will suffice."

The healer bowed and left the room. Elandra breathed easier after he was gone. "I thought Lord Sien would be at your side."

"Sien died when Kostimon died," Tirhin said. "Agel has saved my life." He drank thirstily from his goblet, then handed the second goblet to her.

Elandra lifted her hand in refusal. "I am not thirsty."

"At least let us share a toast, Elandra."

She stared at him coldly and made no move to take the goblet, which he still extended to her. "We have nothing to celebrate."

"Not even a mending of a broken friendship?"

Elandra did not relent. "You are premature."

His smile faded, and a shadow crossed his eyes. He set down the goblet with enough force to slosh its contents. "Will you not meet me halfway?"

"Why should I?"

He struggled a moment with himself, as though to keep his patience and his temper. "This hostility from you is most unbecoming. It does nothing to show the people that we are united in-"

"We are not united," Elandra said sharply.

"Let me finish," he said. "I was going to say united in friendship. Why do you fear me? We are family. I mean you no harm."