Shadow War Part 30

"You say he is your cousin?"

Caelan found the emperor's eyes to be more penetrating than ever, as though the man wanted to peel open his skull and peer inside. "Yes," he said bleakly. Unwanted memories of Agel, of racing together through the spruce forests, of stealing apples, flitted through his mind momentarily and were gone, ghost voices laughing merrily before fading behind. "But I can call him kinsman no longer."

"He must have a reason for betraying you, if if he has betrayed you." he has betrayed you."

Caelan frowned. "The reasons are old ones. When jealousy and grief entwine through a man's heart, who can say why he does one thing or another? Our feud does not affect this matter-"

"I think it does. I will know everything."

Caelan sighed. He did not understand why the old man had to probe into matters that were personal. "May I have a drink of water?"

"No," the emperor said in an implacable voice. "Talk."

"We were at school together, to be healers," Caelan said in a low, toneless voice, trying to shut off the pain. "I- my father wished me to be there, although I wanted to be a soldier in your army."

His gaze flicked to the emperor, who watched him impa.s.sively. Caelan shrugged. "A boyish dream. I was rebellious. The elders of the school eventually disrobed me-cast me out. Agel stayed, a model student, but he never forgave me. I had more talent than he did; he considered my actions a waste."

Spoken aloud, it did not seem like much of a motivation. Caelan hesitated a moment, then added, "There is more to it than a boyhood rivalry. Agel is ambitious. He thought this matter would bring him the grat.i.tude of his highness. As a slave, I embarra.s.s him."

The emperor turned away from him, hands clasped at his back. Back and forth he paced, deep in thought. Finally he stopped and faced Caelan again.

"If I had not seen you fight the Madrun, I would not have come down here. My son offered you a magical potion to strengthen you against your opponent, but you refused it. Why?"

Caelan blinked in surprise. Did the emperor know everything? "I-I do not believe in such things, Majesty," he said.

"Yes, you believe," the emperor said, turning the meaning of his remark. "You believe all right, and you're afraid. Why?"

Caelan's heart started pounding. Yet he could not escape. "I will not sip of the shadows, Majesty," he said, gasping a little.

"Hah!" The emperor drew back as though struck. His scowl was fearsome. "Self-righteous b.a.s.t.a.r.d, what do you know of the world? What do you know of shadows? Do you judge me, you piece of dung?"

Caelan dropped his gaze hastily. "No, Majesty," he whispered.

"No," the emperor said more calmly. "No, you do not. So you fought without magic. You fought with valor and courage and skill. You fought like a d.a.m.ned fool. And you used the Dance of Death, you, a mere slave, with no military service behind you. I know it is believed by some that my son taught you that move. But I happen to know that Tirhin is unacquainted with it, except in theory. It was never taught to him. How did you know it, slave?"

Caelan swallowed hard and had no answer.

"How did you know it?" the emperor demanded more harshly, forcing Caelan to look at him. His yellow eyes bored in. "A Traulander, bred to peace, the son of a master healer committed to pacifism."

Caelan's mouth dropped open. "You knew my father?"

"I did," the emperor said grimly. "The proud fool refused my offer of an appointment. How did you learn that sword move?"

Caelan's gaze shifted away, then came back to his. He said nothing.

The emperor leaned closer. "Was it the sword?" he asked in a scratchy whisper. "A blade of many combats. Did it sing to your blood? Did it share its secrets?"

Caelan's eyes widened.

The emperor laughed at him. "Do you think I don't recognize sevaisin sevaisin when I see it? Do you think Sien would not know?" when I see it? Do you think Sien would not know?"

Caelan's mouth was suddenly dry. "It is a great shame in my country."

"So is using severance severance to kill." to kill."

Caelan felt jolted. The denial rose to his lips, but he held it back.

"But, no, you fight fair," the emperor said. "Always you fight fair, although there are no rules in the arena. You have won the championship every time, and by rights my son should have freed you for that. You do not drink excessively. You do not sport with the Haggai. You do not spend the gold my son has given you. Except for being a slave, you conduct yourself with honor and honesty. Rare qualities rarely seen these days."

Caelan had no answer. He waited, hoping for the emperor's mercy.

"What did Tirhin do to destroy your loyalty?" the emperor mused. "Was it treachery alone?"

Hope filled Caelan. "Then your Majesty does believe me?"

"Hah!" Anger returned to the emperor's face. He spun on his heel and strode away, trotting up the steps and sweeping out past the soldier at the door, who stiffened to attention.

Caelan watched him go, chilled with dismay. It was over. His chance had come and gone. He had failed to convince the man, and with him went Caelan's last hope.

His consciousness of his surroundings returned. The wailing sawed on his nerves, and he could once again smell the filth and despair. Like a beetle, the torturer came scuttling forth from the shadows and grimaced in his face.

"Speak plenty now!" he said petulantly, and struck Caelan.

The pain and gray misery swept through him again. He was choking, coughing, balanced halfway between oblivion and agony when he heard the rattle of his shackles. One of them opened, and his right arm dropped to his side.

Fire lanced through him, piercing straight through his shoulder with such intensity he could not find enough breath to scream. His left arm dropped too, borne down by the weight of the shackles and the chain that thumped him a glancing blow on the side of his face. He tumbled to the floor, unable to catch himself, lost in the fire of his wrenched shoulder sockets.

The torturer kicked him, grunted, and scuttled away. After a moment the intense pain abated slightly, only to flare again when a pair of turnkeys grabbed him by his elbows and lifted him.

Caelan bit off a cry, sweating and unable to walk. They propelled him forward, shoving him across the chamber and up the steps into the hands of some soldiers.

Barely conscious, Caelan glimpsed their cold eyes and taut mouths and knew they were taking him to execution. He'd been a fool all his life. He would die a fool. He should never have spoken the truth, not even to the emperor. What good had it done him but bring him to this misery and shame?

"Come on, get on your feet," one of the soldiers snarled at him. "If you can't get to barracks on your own strength, you don't deserve to be a member of the guard."

Caelan didn't understand at first. He stumbled, found himself jerked up, and broke out in a cold sweat. One of them slammed him against the wall, and he managed to brace himself there.

"What?" he asked in bewilderment, not certain he had heard right.

"Gault, but you stink," one of them said, wrinkling his nose.

"He'll be crawling with lice. Watch him," another warned.

"Arena sc.u.m-"

"No, no, Zoma," a man said. "He's a champion. I won money on you, Giant. But you'll have to change your ways now."

Caelan still couldn't believe it, although slowly comprehension was beginning to sink in. He looked at their faces, seeing neither friendliness nor condemnation. "I'm not going to be beheaded?"

They laughed in a roar that made his head ring.

"He's out of his wits," Zoma said. "Move on. The sergeant will cut you down to size soon enough."

Gathering him up, they shoved him onward, taking him out of the dungeons and out across the grounds toward the barracks. It was night, and very cold. Shivering and still wet, Caelan stumbled along as though in a dream. If he was to live, he found he could not let himself believe it yet. He was afraid it might vanish like ashes blowing through his fingers. It could be another cruel joke, a final measure of hope meted out to him before the axe fell. But with every step he began to believe despite his caution.

"Have I been pardoned?" he finally asked.

"From what?" Zoma asked, giving him another shove. "Is this man accused of any crimes?"

"No official charges."

"No, just that he stinks."

"You stink," Zoma said with a smirk. "Your punishment is a bath and severe scrubbing. If I catch any of your vermin, I'll peel your skull."

Caelan grinned. He straightened, his legs suddenly finding strength. He was to be a soldier, he realized. After all these years, after all this struggle, it was finally coming true. He could not be a soldier unless he was free. No slaves served in the army.

His heart filled up fast, ready to burst with intense happiness. Right then none of his aches mattered. He went staggering across the immense parade ground, managing to keep up with their long strides. He couldn't stop grinning, not even when they stripped him naked and threw him bodily into a trough of icy water.

"Get clean," he was told.

Shivering and sputtering, he scrubbed until his hide felt raw. Then, wrapping himself in a blanket, he dashed indoors only to find himself surrounded by a circle of brawny men.

Every face looked hostile. Not a smile of welcome flickered from one of them. A set of clothing came hurtling through the air and smacked him in the face.

He caught it clumsily, still unable to raise his hands higher than his elbows.

"Get dressed," he was told.

Someone else kicked a bucket his way. "The floor is dirty, slave. Scrub it."

Caelan stood there his hopes and dreams dying away while they laughed in open scorn and turned their backs on him.

When he didn't move, Zoma came over and gave him a hard shove that nearly overbalanced him. "Are you deaf? You heard the sergeant. Get to scrubbing."

"But I-I thought-"

"You thought what?" Zoma asked him scathingly.

There was no answer. Caelan's protest died in his throat. He looked down, his face hot, his hands clumsy with the clothing.

Zoma shoved him again, sending him stumbling against the empty bucket. It fell over with a clatter. "Get to work! Or you'll stay up all night, scrubbing in the dark."

Chapter Sixteen.

When the morning bugles sounded, Caelan awakened with a start, forgetting at first where he was. Then the door to the barracks banged open, and an officer came striding in.

"Attention!" bawled the barracks sergeant, looking as startled as any of them.

The soldiers scrambled from their bunks and hastily a.s.sembled themselves in a line. Wearing only their nethers, their hairy chests pimpled with cold, their hair standing on end, and their jaws unshaved, they looked a bleary lot.

Caelan, who had slept on the floor in the uncaring slumber of exhaustion, climbed to his feet also but stood slightly apart from the others. The homespun tunic they'd given him was ridiculously small, and his wrists dangled from the sleeves like an overgrown boy's. In the clear early light his arms showed their bruises and shackle sores plainly. His shoulders still ached, but he could move his arms in a near-normal range of motion again. Fast healer, Fast healer, he thought derisively to himself. he thought derisively to himself. Hurry up and recover so you can take the next round of abuse. Hurry up and recover so you can take the next round of abuse.

The officer's gaze swept around the barrack like a cold northern wind and came to rest on Caelan. "Is this the man?"

The sergeant stepped forward smartly. "New recruit, yes, sir."

The officer looked Caelan up and down, his eyes missing nothing, not even the pail of dirty scrub water with the brush floating on top of the sc.u.m.

His mouth tightened. "In my day, sergeant, the recruits were set to polishing armor as part of their initiation. Floors don't seem quite in keeping with the dignity of the Imperial Guard, do they?"

The sergeant's face stayed as blank as the wall. "No, sir."

"Present the men for inspection by second bugle."

The sergeant's fist slammed against his left shoulder. "Yes, sir."

The officer pointed at Caelan. "You, come with me."

Caelan stepped forward warily and walked past the silent row of men. He no longer knew what to think. Their cruelty in letting him believe he was still a slave stoked his growing resentment. He remembered the brutality of the soldiers he had met as a boy and how they had robbed him on the road like common brigands. These men were no better, and as guardsmen, they were the elite of the emperor's fighting forces. He glanced at their stoic faces as he walked past and wondered how many more unpleasant surprises they had in store for him.

Outside, the air was frosty and still. Caelan's breath streamed about his face as he looked around. A small cl.u.s.ter of men in crimson cloaks and armor stood waiting.

"Get it done quickly, Sergeant Baiter," the officer said to a short, burly individual who saluted.

The officer walked away without another glance at Caelan.

Frowning, Caelan stared at the others. "What am I-"

"Silence!" the burly sergeant snapped at him. "Fall in."

The other two guardsmen stepped behind Caelan, and he had no choice but to follow Baiter down the long row of barracks to a sort of courtyard formed in the angle between the last barracks and the stables. Paved with flat stones, the area held a set of stocks, a whipping post, a fountain stilled beneath a skim of ice, and a smithy.

It was to the last that Caelan was taken.

He stepped into the open-sided hut, ducking his head beneath the low ceiling. The smith, muscular and sweating, already had his bellows going and a fire burning in his forge. The air in the hut smelled of charred hair, hot metal, and ash. Caelan suddenly suspected what was coming. He tensed, swallowing hard, and made his mind a blank.

Sergeant Baiter exchanged a brief word with the smith, then snapped his fingers at Caelan. "He will remove your slave chain."

Caelan's throat was too full and tight to answer. He nodded silently, his eyes full of what he could not say.

"Come o'er," the smith said. Bearded and taciturn, he pointed at an anvil.