Shadow War Part 5

Caelan frowned, but the healer moved out of his line of vision. In growing puzzlement, Caelan stared instead at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a s.p.a.cious chamber, one that extended well past the circles of light cast by the lamps placed around his bed. He could not see into the shadows, but it was evident that he was lying in a very fine bed carved of exotic woods and covered with linens as fine as gossamer. The coverlet beneath his hand felt smooth and strongly woven, like silk.

Caelan was sweating again, and he felt a wave of weakness flow through his body in a sudden tide. Perhaps this was all a fever-ridden fantasy. In reality he must be lying in his narrow room on his hard bunk. Unz would have kindled a small fire in the brazier to ward off the winter chill. Impe-ria winters were as nothing compared to the deep snows and frozen rivers of Trau, but because of the mildness of the weather, Imperia craftsmen never bothered to make buildings snug and warm. As a result, winters were drafty and miserable indoors.

Sometimes at dawn Caelan would rise and stand outside with his face turned to the north. His nostrils would draw in the scents of frost while his heart ached for the old glacier up beyond the Cascade Mountains. He missed the deep, blanketing silence of the pine forests after a snowfall. He missed the ice coating his eyebrows and eyelashes after a brisk trek out for wood cutting. He missed the rough-coated ponies, st.u.r.dy and surefooted, who would toss their white manes and gallop, snorting, across the glacier.

Gentle hands probed his side, and agony speared him, driving back his memories. He stiffened, holding in a cry. Then the pain ebbed quickly, as though it were being drawn from his body.

The healer severed severed him from the wound, and when the sure hands finally lifted, Caelan felt only a soft tingling sensation in his side. Without looking he knew the wound had closed. His skin there felt too drawn and tight, as though newly grown. The pain did not return. Slowly he let his body sag with relief. He hadn't realized until now how much he had been fighting to control the pain. him from the wound, and when the sure hands finally lifted, Caelan felt only a soft tingling sensation in his side. Without looking he knew the wound had closed. His skin there felt too drawn and tight, as though newly grown. The pain did not return. Slowly he let his body sag with relief. He hadn't realized until now how much he had been fighting to control the pain.

"Drink again," the healer said. "Then sleep."

Caelan looked up at him, troubled by something elusive in that soft voice, something he should have recognized. But all of this was like a dream.

"Sleep," the healer said.

Although he meant to ask a question, Caelan instead shut his eyes, and slept.

The next time he awakened, the lamplight was much dimmer around him and the fire had burned down to hissing coals. Several figures stood a short distance from the foot of his bed, arguing in low voices. He recognized the prince's among them; there was no disguising that crisp, distinctive baritone.

Lifting his hand to rub his eyes, Caelan felt refreshed and clearheaded. He gazed at the fine furnishings around him and realized he must have been brought inside the prince's own house. This both gratified and disturbed him. Without bothering to sort it out, he tried to lift himself onto his elbow, and found himself as weak as a newborn.

Orlo reached him first. "What are you doing?" he asked sharply. "You are supposed to be resting, sleeping. What kind of potion wears off after only an hour? Are you in pain? You must lie still."

The discussion between the prince and the healer ended. The prince departed, but the healer came forward, stopping just beyond the lamplight.

From the shadows he spoke: "Have no fear on the champion's behalf. He does not suffer. All he requires is rest."

Caelan frowned, his attention caught once again by the healer's voice. Now, however, he was sufficiently alert to recognize the slightest trace of accent. The healer was a Traulander. Small wonder Caelan had thought he recognized his voice. Now it made sense. It also explained the good, fresh herbs in the healer's potions and how he had severed severed the wound. Caelan probed his side with his fingertips. He felt no tenderness, no soreness. The stab wound was gone, as was the cut to his arm. It was excellent work, as good as something his father would have done. the wound. Caelan probed his side with his fingertips. He felt no tenderness, no soreness. The stab wound was gone, as was the cut to his arm. It was excellent work, as good as something his father would have done.

"You are still in pain," Orlo said in open concern. "Please lie down."

Caelan shook his head, but allowed himself to be pressed down onto his pillow. This was a stupid time to let his emotions gain control of him.

To change the subject, he said, "His highness sounded angry. Have I-"

"You've done nothing wrong," Orlo said.

But he spoke too quickly.

Caelan's eyes narrowed. "I missed the victory party, did I not? How long have I lain here?"

"Not long enough," Orlo said gruffly.

"A day," the healer replied.

Orlo shot him a glare, then swung his gaze back to Caelan. "Never mind the d.a.m.ned party. It wasn't important. Neither is tonight's-"

"The festivities," Caelan said. "I forgot them."

He reached for the coverlet, but Orlo's callused hand gripped his and held it hard.

"No," Orlo said. "You will not go with him, no matter what he wants. You are not well enough."

Caelan stared up at the trainer, then threw back the coverlet and sat up. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he shivered lightly in the cool air and wondered if he had the strength to stand.

"Stop this!" Orlo said. "It doesn't matter whether you go with him or not. This is a trivial thing, not worth your life. Not worth-"

He broke off and stood there scowling. His jaw muscles bunched as though he struggled to hold back words.

"My life is not at risk," Caelan said gently, although his temper was beginning to fray. He was tired of Orlo's interference. The trainer was only trying to protect him, but Caelan didn't want protection. He wanted his freedom, and Prince Tirhin was his only means of getting it. "Already I am much better, thanks to the skilled ministrations of my countryman."

As he spoke he glanced at the healer, who still kept to the shadows. "I must thank you," Caelan said. "I-"

The healer bowed and retreated quickly, saying nothing. The door closed silently behind him.

Astonished, Caelan looked at Orlo. "Who was that?" he asked.

Orlo shrugged.

"Why was he in attendance, and not the arena healer?"

"That quack," Orlo said with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. "What could he do but dither and shake his head? The prince asked for one of the palace healers, and this man came."

"A Traulander," Caelan said softly, conscious of a hurt in his heart that had never healed.

"It is said they are the best healers in the empire."

"Yes. I know."

How long had it been since he had heard the accent, the particular inflections of vowel and syllable heard only in the north country? He felt his eyes grow gummy and wet, and sternly he pulled himself together. This weakness must be put behind him.

"You are tired," Orlo said, still watching him. "Please rest. No matter how fancy the healer, it is still old-fashioned rest that makes the best cure."

"There is not time for rest," Caelan said, frowning. "And I am well."

Orlo touched his shoulder gently. "A lie," he said, but the reproof was mild. "Stop the lies, Caelan. You lie to the world. You lie to the prince. You lie to me. Worst of all, you lie to yourself."

"I don't understand."

Orlo's gaze never wavered. "I think you do. You threw yourself on the Madrun's sword as though it was nothing. Stupid or courageous, who can say? But why can't you throw yourself on the truth?"

Caelan's temper slipped. "Speak your mind, Orlo. Not these riddles."

"He won't free you."

It was like having the sword pierce his side all over again. Caelan lost his breath and struggled to regain it.

"You are wrong," he said, his voice weak against the intensity of his emotions. His fist clenched on the coverlet. "Wrong."

"I have made my share of mistakes," Orlo said, "enough to know that it is stupid to walk about in blindness. His highness will never free you as long as you are valuable to him. No matter how many times you guard his back when he goes where he should not. You have served him with all your heart and soul. Yesterday you nearly got yourself killed for him, and none of it will avail you."

"I will be free again," Caelan said grimly, staring into s.p.a.ce. "I have his word."

Orlo snorted, his square face branded with cynicism. "Oh? You have the word of our kind, honest master. Soon enough there will be betrayal to balance the honey. I have warned you enough, but you never heed warnings, do you?"

Caelan glared at the trainer, hating everything he said. "Careful, Orlo. You're stepping close to treason."

"No," Orlo said. "He is."

Caelan surged to his feet.

Orlo took two quick steps back, balancing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, his eyes watchful and wary. "Defend him," he said in what was almost a taunt. "You always do."

"It is my duty to defend him," Caelan said hotly.

"Why? Do you have hopes of becoming his protector when he takes the throne?"

The accusation hit Caelan like a glove of challenge. Caelan's eyes widened. How much did Orlo know? How much had he overheard? Or was this only speculation?

He was not quick enough to keep his reaction from his face. It was Orlo's turn to stare with widened eyes.

"Great Gault," he breathed, taking yet another step back from Caelan. "So he has promised you that."

Caelan felt stripped and vulnerable. To deny it would be useless, yet he could not confirm it either without condemning himself. He said nothing.

Orlo frowned and slowly shook his head. "You great fool," he said at last, pity in his voice. "Can't you see he is-"

"He does not use me," Caelan broke in hotly. "You understand nothing of this matter. Nothing!"

"No wonder you pulled the Madrun's sword into your side. With that incentive, what man would not take tremendous risks?" Orlo glanced sharply at Caelan. "But can't you see that he is jealous of you?"

Caelan's mouth fell open in astonishment. "Jealous!"

"Whose name were they screaming yesterday?"

"But he is the prince."

"And you have the popularity," Orlo said with scorn. Glancing at the door, he kept his voice low. "When you ride through the streets at the prince's side, cheers from the populace are guaranteed. He can pretend the cheers are for him. It sends a message to the emperor, does it not? But inside, the prince knows the truth. His popularity is purchased, and at the crux it will not hold."

"Take care, Orlo," Caelan said in warning.

"No, you you take care. Prince Tirhin is a desperate man, and I tell you to watch yourself. When you cease to be of use, he will discard you as he does all his worn-out possessions." take care. Prince Tirhin is a desperate man, and I tell you to watch yourself. When you cease to be of use, he will discard you as he does all his worn-out possessions."

Caelan's chin lifted with dignity. "I have his word."

Without warning Orlo closed the distance between them and gripped Caelan's shoulder hard. "And what is the worth of a promise made to a slave?" he snarled. "Nothing! Nothing at all." He gave Caelan a shake and released him. "He doesn't see you as a man. You belong to him as his dog belongs to him. As that chair over there belongs to him. He owes you nothing, do you hear? No matter what you do for him, there is no obligation from him in return."

Caelan sighed and stopped listening. Orlo held some ancient grudge against Tirhin that he never discussed. For Caelan's sake, he had returned to the prince's employ, but he was never comfortable in Tirhin's presence. And when the prince was out of earshot, Orlo could be full of venom and paranoia, just as he was now. Caelan felt too tired to pay attention to any of it.

"Let me relay this to you, although Gault knows why I bother," Orlo said. "Since yesterday, has the prince been a man happy and carefree? You won a tremendous victory on his behalf. He has every reason to celebrate, yet beneath the smiles and the charm there is anger. All the anger that was present before the contest. Did you not see it?"

"Yes," Caelan said reluctantly. "Angry, but hiding it."

"Do you know why he's so angry? Why he's ridden three horses into the ground and broken their wind in the last week? Why he's taken to staying out all hours of the night? Why he's so often in the company of that creature Sien?"

Caelan thought of the bizarre meeting he'd had with the prince and Lord Sien. Hiding a shiver, he said nothing.

"It is the coronation," Orlo said, looking at Caelan as though he had just failed an examination. "His temper gets more foul with every pa.s.sing day of the festivities. The empress threatens his position, and if you're wise you'll avoid getting caught up the middle of this family's conflicts. No matter what he promises you."

Caelan hated politics. He hated court intrigue. He hated all the gossip conducted by people who weren't directly involved.

"The imperial family's problems are none of your business," he said coldly.

Orlo flushed, and he glared at Caelan with his eyes narrowed. "Let me tell you something. Years ago, when Tirhin was much younger, and much more impetuous, he tried to rally the imperial army around him. He intended to bring off a coup d'etat. And I was at his side."

Caelan rolled his eyes and turned away. "I don't want to hear this."

Orlo gripped his arm and pulled him back. "You will will listen," he said angrily. "You must!" listen," he said angrily. "You must!"

Caelan shook him off, and found himself swaying weakly with the effort. "Why?" he shouted. "Why should I listen to this parable of yours? I have no need of lessons-"

"I committed treason for his highness," Orlo said bleakly, his eyes pinpoints of cold.

"What?" Caelan said in disbelief. "When?"

"Years ago. I was young and hotheaded. I was impatient for change. I had just been pa.s.sed over for promotion into the Imperial Guard for the second time." His mouth twisted with old bitterness. "My family wasn't good enough. Simple country farmers, with the stink of manure on their shoes. It didn't matter how good a soldier I was or how ably I served. I wasn't the right sort for the elite Crimson."

Caelan looked at him, at his stocky shoulders and bullish neck and square face, and knew all about cla.s.s and status. He thought of his own birth and how he had been raised in Trau. He had resented being the son of a famous and esteemed father. How spoiled he had been. How disdainfully he had taken so much for granted.

For the first time, Orlo was baring his soul. Caelan glanced at the door, wishing he could escape this. He had no desire to hear Orlo's secrets, not now, not like this. But when he met Orlo's eyes, he knew there was no leaving.

"What treason did you commit?" Caelan asked.

Orlo's eyes were on fire. His face contorted with old memories and his hand groped instinctively for the dagger in his belt. "I killed General Solon, the Lord Commander of the army," he said in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "At Tirhin's order, and in cold blood. The man was defenseless, asleep in his own quarters. I crept in, and stabbed him in the heart."

Orlo's eyes flinched, and a tide of red colored his face. "I stood over him in the lamplight, this general who had denied me my dream because of tradition. I had never met him before, never spoken to him, never been addressed by him. Had he been awake, he would not have recognized me. He did not know of my existence, and I took his life."

Orlo drew his dagger and held it aloft so that its blade reflected the ruddy dance of firelight. "This is the weapon. I carry it as my conscience, that I may never forget the thud of impact, the heat of his blood, or the soft sigh of death that issued from his lips. This knife is my mark of shame."

He fell silent, lost in his own tormented thoughts, turning the knife over and over in his big, callused hands. No sound disturbed the quiet.

Watching him, Caelan had no words. He understood revenge. And although he had never killed in cold blood, he had thought of it. There had been many sleepless nights in his bunk, thinking of Thyzarene raiders and how to torture them into h.e.l.l.

Finally Orlo seemed to come to himself. Still staring at the dagger in his hands, he said, "I might have burned over the injustice for years, without acting, but the prince gave me the means. He bribed the door guards and obtained a way for me to enter the man's house. He promised me leadership in the army he would reorganize."