Authors: Deborah Chester
“The fatal blow.
The moment when life fades ... you feel it the moment you inflict it, do you
not?” Fuesel asked intensely. “You
know.”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Fuesel
inched closer so that his sleeve brushed Caelan’s. “And when it happens, you
feel that indescribable thrill. It is like joy, I think. Am I correct?”
Holding back a
sigh, Caelan said, “No, my lord. I do not enjoy killing.”
Fuesel’s smile
only widened. “You lie. Success in any endeavor is based on enjoyment.”
And sometimes
fear,
Caelan thought to himself. Refusing to reply, he kept a respectful
stance, his gaze focused slightly to the left of the man’s shoulder. He was
suddenly very thirsty, and he finished his wine in a quick gulp.
“Well,” Fuesel
said when Caelan remained silent. “Like many successful men, you maintain your
greatness by keeping mysteries within yourself. Too much chatter destroys the
mystique, does it not? Yes. But everyone has chattered about you. To actually
execute the Dance of Death with such boldness, such courage ... even now, it
steals my breath to remember the sight.” He shivered ecstatically and gripped
Caelan’s wrist with clammy fingers. “You have seen death. You have felt it
within yourself.
That
I would love to discuss with you.”
“I must go,”
Caelan said. He felt uneasy and overly warm. The passageway seemed dark and
stuffy. He needed air.
Fuesel released
his arm but did not move aside. “Ah, of course. This is not the time. This is a
party, is it not? Not a time to discuss the dark sides of death and savagery.
No. And I have kept you from the poetry reading. Will you return?” He gestured
at the room they had both exited.
Caelan shook his head.
“Ah,” Fuesel said.
“Then perhaps we might find something more entertaining to occupy our time. If
your master does not request your presence elsewhere?”
Strange as he was,
this man seemed genuinely interested in talking to Caelan as a human being. Although
Caelan tried to remain aloof, a part of him felt flattered.
“I have no
commands to serve at this time,” he said formally.
Fuesel smiled. “Splendid.
Let us walk in this direction.” As he spoke, he started down the passageway,
and Caelan fell into step beside him.
“Now,” Fuesel
said. “You are a natural competitor. I have won many wagers because of you.”
Caelan nodded. He
still felt too warm. Perhaps the wine had been stronger than he thought. He
said with a touch of arrogance, “Bet on me to win, and you take money home in
your pockets.”
Fuesel laughed and
slapped him on the back. “Yes, indeed! Well spoken, my tall friend. Tell me, do
you enjoy other kinds of competitions?”
“It depends.”
“Such a cautious
answer!” Fuesel reached into his pocket to produce a pair of dice. “I, like
yourself, am a lover of risk. But my arena does not shed blood. Interested?”
Caelan’s
suspicions relaxed. He returned the man’s smile, aware that he had money of his
own through his master’s generosity. And although no one of Fuesel’s rank had
ever asked him to play before, Caelan knew how to dice. He had learned from Old
Farns, the gatekeeper of E’nonhold, on lazy afternoons when Caelan’s father was
away and could not frown on such pursuits. The gladiators in the barracks were
keen on dicing—everyone in Imperia was—and would play for hours, betting
anything in their possession, even straws from their pallets.
Fuesel smiled and
rattled the dice enticingly in his fist. “Yes?”
Caelan’s pride
soared. A lord had sought him out for a game, as one equal to another. Even if
Lord Fuesel was planning to fleece Caelan of his money, it hardly mattered. It
was a gesture of social acceptance that warmed Caelan inside as nothing else
could.
“I am delighted to
play with your lordship,” he said, and he didn’t care if his eagerness showed.
“Good. Let us
freshen our drinks and seek out a friend of mine.”
Thus at midnight,
Caelan found himself facing two professional gamblers—Lord Fuesel and his
roguish friend Thole—over the felt dicing board. A pile of gold ducats spilled
over the painted crimson edges of the stakes square. It was enough gold to
sustain a modest Trau household for a year, enough gold to sustain a lord of
the empire for a month, enough gold to keep the prince in pocket money for a
week.
It was more gold
than Caelan had ever seen before, more than his father’s strongbox had ever
held. From his modest initial stake, his winnings had grown steadily. For the
past two hours the stakes had increased even more as ducats were tossed onto
the pile. Now the croupier rang a tiny brass bell, its sound barely heard
against the backdrop of reveling going on in other rooms of the villa. The
small bell signaled the final throw of the game—high throw champion, winner
take all.
The other two men
had already thrown. Now it was Caelan’s turn. Sweating in the room’s excessive
warmth, feeling a little dizzy and breathless, he leaned over the felt-covered
board and scooped the ivory cubes into his palm.
“Bell’s rung!”
someone called out, and more spectators crowded into the already packed room to
watch.
The audience
shouted encouragement and advice in a din that rang off the stone columns at
the doorway and echoed down from the ceiling.
Caelan tried to
ignore the noise. He was used to people cheering his name in the arena. Yet
this was somehow different.
In the arena he
had the open air, plenty of space, and only the eyes of his opponent to watch.
Here, he could
feel the oppressive closeness of too many people, their perspiration and
perfumes intermingling with lamp smoke in a cloying fugue. Garbed in silks and
velvets of bold colors, they clapped and chattered. Their painted faces loomed
grotesquely from the shadows. They shouted his name, all right, but as many
called drunkenly for his failure as for his victory. And laughed when they said
it.
With the dice in
his hand, Caelan swallowed and suddenly found himself unable to breathe. What
was he doing here among these strangers? How long had he been here? He could
not recall the hours. How many cups of wine had he drunk? How many strange
dishes had he sampled? How had he come to find himself in this room, far from
the dancing girls and poetry readings, caught up in the spell of these
gamesters?
Why were they
staring at him so narrowly, sitting so still and tense? What was this
particular eagerness in the pair of them? He could see it radiating from their
skin.
His thoughts spun,
and everything seemed to slow down as though a magical net had been thrown over
time to hold it still.
Suspicion entered
him, and it was as though he suddenly inhaled the crisp clean scent of fir
needles on a snowy day. His mind cleared of the strange mist that had engulfed
it, and he frowned. The stack of ducats gleamed softly in the lamplight; their
excessive amount staggered him anew. How repugnant so many coins were, how
obscene. Before him lay his own future, the gold coins with which Prince Tirhin
had rewarded him earlier that day.
No ... his master
had not given him money.
Caelan blinked and
rubbed sweat from his eyes. He struggled to remember. It had been yesterday
when he fought. Tirhin often gave him gold for winning championships.
But he had not won
yesterday; he had died.
A shiver passed
over Caelan. Suddenly he felt wild and panicked. He did not know who he was or
where he was. Perhaps this was a fevered dream, and in truth he lay in his bed,
sweating with delirium and madness.
But he remembered
Agel, the block of granite that was his cousin. Kinsman Agel, who cured him, so
that he could come tonight with his master.
“We are waiting,”
Lord Fuesel said. “Please throw.”
Caelan drew a deep
breath. For wielding death so successfully, for killing to amuse his patron, he
had been dressed in finery, brought to this social function among the elite of
Imperia, and invited to play dice with lords. It was a mockery of death to
accept such rewards. Now—worse—he was about to fritter away his money, this
mysterious, ghostly money, about to waste it gambling. Agel’s sour face hung
before him like a vision, mouthing accusations.
Clenching the dice
harder in his hand, Caelan stood up so abruptly his stool turned over.
Both of his
opponents glanced up. Lord Fuesel looked flustered, even momentarily panicked.
Thole, a swarthy man with a thin mustache adorning his lip, raised his brows at
Caelan.
“Running away?” he
asked with a sneer.
“You can’t quit
now,” Fuesel said.
Thole brushed
Fuesel’s hand in warning, and the lord subsided with a nervous rat-a-tat of his
fingers on the board.
“How long have I
been playing?” Caelan asked in confusion, brushing his face with the back of
his hand. His thoughts were full of holes. He could not make sense of anything
except the overwhelming need to throw the dice. “My master may require me—”
“Nonsense. No need
to worry about that just yet,” Thole said. “You will forfeit all that you have
bet up till now.”
“Giant! Don’t
quit!” shouted a buxom woman from the crowd. “Keep your courage. Don’t rob us
of the end.”
Frowning, Caelan
edged back from the board. Thole leaned over and gripped his wrist. His hand
was soft and supple, lacking the calluses of physical labor. The touch of his
warm, moist palm made Caelan’s skin crawl.
“They want their
spectacle,” Thole said, tightening his grip. “Don’t you want this fortune?”
Something seemed
to lie beneath his words, as though another language had been spoken, with a
different meaning. The mists were swirling anew in Caelan’s brain. He was so
very thirsty, and he looked around for his cup.
Everyone seemed to
be shouting now. The din increased in volume, making Caelan’s head ring. He
blinked off a sudden feeling of dizziness, and felt the internal shift of
sevaisin
taking hold.
Not here,
he thought in panic.
Not with so many.
But something
inside him surged to connect with Thole, before he hastily yanked free of the
man’s grip. Just as hastily the gambler shielded himself from any empathic
link.
But Caelan had
gained one impression from that fleeting connection.
Trap.
He swallowed hard,
hearing anger in the voices shouting at him now. Disappointment and derision
came in open jeers.
“Why doesn’t he
throw?” someone asked in bewilderment. “All he has to do is throw.”
“Take the sword
from his hand, and he’s just another stupid gladiator.”
“Maybe his
victories are as fake as his dice game.”
The croupier
leaned forward. “You are delaying the game. Take your turn, or forfeit.”
Caelan uncurled
his fingers and stared at the yellowed ivory dice lying on his palm.
Sevaisin
shifted within him again, and he knew the elephant from faraway
Gialta that had died and left its tusks to be crafted into ornaments and
baubles. He knew the craftsman who had carved these dice from the ivory. He
knew how the slivers of lead had been cleverly worked into the interiors of the
cubes.
These were not the
same dice he had been playing with before. They had been skillfully switched
since the last throw, and they would roll up a high number.
If he threw, he
would win.
That large mound
of ducats would be his. He would be a very rich man.
Caelan frowned. He
would be a very rich slave, he corrected himself.
But one rich
enough to purchase his freedom?
Even as the
thought crossed his mind, he shoved it derisively away. If the prince would not
free him in honor, he would not accept a price either.
What, then, did a
slave need with so much money?
Even more
puzzling, why did these men want him to win?
Why had they let
him win until his stake rivaled theirs?
Why had they lured
him here and kept him so long? Why were they so interested in him?
Trap.
But
what kind? What did it mean?
“You must play or
forfeit,” the croupier said sternly. “Follow the rules of the game before we
have a riot in here.”
“The barbarian
doesn’t know the game!” someone shouted.
“Throw the damned
dice,” Lord Fuesel said. “Where is your nerve now? Show us the courage you
exhibited in the arena.”
He was too
vehement, too desperate. Fuesel’s thick fingers were gripping the edge of the
board so hard they turned white.
Thole watched
Caelan with the unwavering gaze of a serpent.
Meeting that gaze
directly was a mistake. Caelan felt mesmerized, unable to look away. His heart
started thumping hard, and once again he felt he could not breathe. The
compulsion to throw the dice grew inside him as though the collective wills of
everyone in the room had merged into a compelling force. Caelan could feel
himself being drawn into it, being absorbed by it as though his own
consciousness were melting.
The dice
themselves grew warm in his palm, pulsing against his skin, almost purring as
though they had come alive. Strange whispers floated through his mind:
wealth, please us, fortune, obey us, treasures incomparable, obey us, obey.
His eyes fell half
shut, and he swayed. His blood still pounded dizzily in his ears, and he felt
boneless and adrift. Why fight it? What harm could there be in winning?
Something icy cold
seemed to pierce his breastbone. The pain touched him directly beneath where
his small amulet bag swung on its leather cord beneath his tunic. New visions
filled his mind, overlapping the mist and heat with swirling snow, icy blasts
of cold wind, the scents of fir mingled with glacial ice. And Lea’s small face,
her blue eyes bright, her mouth open as though she called to him.