Authors: Deborah Chester
The household
servants crowded into the doorway. Craning their necks, they chattered among
themselves. Caelan saw Orlo among them with his blocky shoulders and shaven
head, looking like a thundercloud.
“Orlo!” Caelan
called out, but the trainer only glared at him and shook his head in pity.
“Orlo, for Gault’s
sake—”
“Silence!” The
officer ground his foot harder into Caelan’s neck, almost choking him. His gold
rank stripes glittered on the shoulders of his crimson cloak. His eyes were as
brutal as the desert. “Caelan E’non—slave and property of his imperial
highness, Prince Tirhin—you are arrested on charges of willfully turning upon
your master with intent to harm, on charges of striking your master’s face and
person, and on charges of—”
“No!” Caelan
shouted. Wildly he looked around, but he saw condemnation on every face. “Who
makes these charges?” he demanded. “Who claims these lies?”
“As a slave you
have no rights, not even the right to know who has accused you,” the officer
said.
“If it was not my
lawful master, I demand to know,” Caelan insisted defiantly. “You cannot arrest
me without the knowledge and consent of the prince.”
But Agel’s voice
rose over his. “I laid the charge,” he said, appearing at the doorway. He
looked composed and stern as he stood there in his white robes. His eyes held
nothing at all. “His highness lies unconscious, grievously injured. The
servants will testify that this slave brought the prince home in such a state.
It proves his guilt.”
“No!” Caelan said,
the denial bursting from him. “I did not hurt his highness, as he will tell you
once he is recovered. Orlo, speak for me. Tell the officer the truth.”
But Orlo did not
come forward, and the officer ignored Caelan’s protests.
His gaze locked on
Agel. “Your name?”
“I am Agel, a
healer newly appointed to the imperial court.” Agel spoke calmly and with
dignity.
“You are prepared
to swear to the extent of Prince Tirhin’s injuries?” the officer asked.
“I am prepared to
swear.”
“No!” Caelan said,
horrified. “He was—”
He broke off,
aware of how fantastic the truth would sound. The prince’s reputation was
impeccable. Who would believe he had gone to
Sidraigh-hal
to strike an
evil bargain with representatives from Madrun? Who would believe he had been
attacked by
shyrieas
on his way home?
Caelan realized he
had been foolish to bring the prince back. He should have left him on the
scorched hillside, perhaps to die. By bringing the prince home, he had left
himself open to misinterpretation and outright lie.
Caelan’s desperate
gaze collided with Agel’s cold one, and Agel’s eyes did not waver. Caelan knew
he had been a fool, an utter fool, to trust Agel at all. There had been plenty
of warning signs, and he’d ignored them all.
This, he thought
bitterly, was the result of his ambition. He’d wanted to be named protector of
a future emperor, and so he’d tagged after Tirhin, willingly involving himself
as a witness to treason. And now he lay here accused himself, the reward of
having served an unworthy master, the reward of having trusted his own kinsman.
As a slave, he would not even get a trial.
Even as cold fear
washed through him, the guardsmen dragged him bodily out into the spacious
atrium. Bile rose in Caelan’s throat. He remembered lying rolled in a net while
the Thyzarenes burned and looted his home. He couldn’t submit to this again. He
would rather fight and be killed than submit.
Panicking, he
kicked and struggled, but he was helpless and the guardsmen were experienced.
One of them gave a vicious twist to the ropes binding him, and another kicked
him hard in the kidney.
The world tilted a
moment, and Caelan’s only fight was against blacking out. He coughed a little,
trying to regain the air that had been knocked out of him.
“There’ll be no
trouble from you, gladiator.”
Biting back a
moan, Caelan sagged against the stone floor. Nothing to lose, he told himself.
But he must fight with his wits to have any chance at all. He must not panic,
must not lose his temper. He must think if he was to have any hope of getting
out of this. Besides, the more he fought, the more guilty he would appear.
They loosened the
net and put shackles on his hands and feet. Shame burned Caelan. He hadn’t worn
chains since before he won his first season championship.
The servants
watched in silence. Their eyes reflected the lamplight like mirrors. Not one
spoke up for him.
He was pulled to
his feet. “Walk,” a guardsman commanded him, prodding him with a dagger. “And
remember, I know every trick you do, so don’t try anything.”
Caelan stumbled
out past Prince Tirhin’s collection of priceless statuary and busts. Tapestries
and fine paintings hung on the walls. His feet trod priceless carpets.
The officer waited
by the doorway leading outside. His gaze took in the fine furnishings, the
beauty of the house, without expression. He was all business, alert and
watchful as though he fully understood how dangerous Caelan could be.
Caelan drew a deep
breath, well aware of the dagger pressed to his ribs. “Lieutenant,” he said
quietly, trying to sound educated and civilized. “My master has not laid these
charges. Take care you do not make a mistake tonight.”
The guardsman at
his side struck him hard, nearly knocking him down the steps outside.
Stumbling, Caelan caught himself against one of the dragon statues. As he
straightened, he thought he glimpsed a flicker of something in the lieutenant’s
eyes.
“I am valuable
property,” he said quickly. “Too valuable for quick disposal or illegal sale on
the block.”
“Silence!” The
guardsman shoved him down the steps.
The lieutenant
watched Caelan go by and said nothing.
Despair rose in
Caelan. He had done all he could. Now his life hung in the balance. If these
men had been bribed to dispose of him, they would do it.
The servants
followed, coming outside to stand between the stone dragons. Caelan could hear
their murmurs, both sad and condemning. Even they believed his guilt.
Glancing back over
his shoulder, Caelan saw Orlo. He wanted to call out to the man, wanted to tell
him he was sorry. Orlo had been right, while he was wrong. He wanted to ask
Orlo to believe in his innocence. But he held his tongue, aware that no appeal
would help him now.
Under the portico,
a wagon supporting an iron cage stood waiting next to the guardsmen’s horses.
Caelan’s spirits
sank. Yesterday he had been a champion. His name had been on everyone’s lips.
They had cheered him and praised him. Now—on the lie of one unscrupulous man—he
was considered a villain. Condemned already, he would die unheard and unseen.
Agel came down the
steps, his robe moth-pale in the moonlight. “Where are you taking him?” he
asked.
Caelan knew the
options. He could be sold directly to the galleys, where he’d been once before.
He could be taken to the city executioner, who would behead him. His head would
be placed on a spike above the city walls to warn other slaves of the penalties
for rebellion.
The guardsman
laughed, and one of them spat on the steps.
“Why, to the
dungeons of the palace, of course. This man has an appointment with the
torturer, who is very interested in taking his confession.”
Caelan’s blood ran
cold, but Agel turned pale. “The palace?” he said. “A confession?”
The lieutenant
stepped between him and Caelan, whom the guards prodded into the cage. The
barred gate was slammed shut and locked.
“But he is not a
political figure,” Agel protested. “He is merely a slave.”
“He’s the most
famous slave in this city,” the lieutenant said impatiently. “And he belongs to
the prince. Until his highness is recovered enough to lay blame against his own
property, no one has the authority to dispose of this wretch. No, he’ll rot in
the prison, and he’ll make his confession or go mad from the instruments.”
“But—”
“Get back now,”
the lieutenant said. “This matter is no longer in your hands.”
Turning from Agel,
he shouted an order. The wagon lurched forward, rolling through the gates and
out onto the road.
Clutching the bars
of his cage, Caelan pressed his face against them and glared at the diminishing
figure of Agel for as long as he could. Inside he knew the cold satisfaction of
having thwarted his cousin’s attempt to silence him quickly. He’d give his
warning now. He’d bray it for the confession, and it would have to be believed.
But under the
bleakness of his satisfaction lay raw fear.
Gault help him,
but he knew of the dungeons. He knew that once a man entered them, he did not
emerge alive. Only Prince Tirhin could order his release, but once his
confession was made Caelan would have no help from that quarter. Truly, his
doom was being spun around him like a shroud.
In the temple of
the Vindicants, the air lay thick with incense. Crimson smoke curled from the
flared nostrils of two enormous bronze dogs flanking the stone altar. Lamplight
flickered about the circular chamber, and oppressive silence hung like a
shroud.
The bronze doors
leading into the sanctuary were bolted from the inside. No one could disturb
the lone occupant of the chamber.
Lord Sien, high priest
of the Vindicant order, knelt on the floor before the altar with his head bowed
and his hands pressed tightly together.
He was stripped to
the waist, and although the sanctuary was chilly a light coating of
perspiration covered his skin. He was breathing hard, as though he had been
running a long distance. His eyes were closed.
On the floor
beside him stood an emptied cup. The flat taste of blood, ashes, and wine still
lingered on his tongue.
The air around him
felt charged with gathering energy. Opening his eyes, Sien faced the altar with
his arms spread wide. Above him on the wall hung the dread visage of the shadow
god. Empty eyes stared down at him, but he knew he was watched. He knew that
Beloth sensed him from far away, and stirred, and was aware.
Some day, when
Beloth was free, the shadow god would remember his loyal servant. Reward would
be great.
Sien shivered and
closed his eyes to regain his concentration. His arms were leaden with
exhaustion. His body swayed, but he held onto the threads he had sent forth. It
was almost time, almost time. He must not falter.
A whisper touched
his hearing, faint yet unmistakable.
He turned his head
slightly, acknowledging the sound with a slight curl of his lips.
Ah, they came.
The first shadow
appeared, sliding under the doors and racing across the floor. It was a man’s
shadow, short and square, but it came alone. When it overlapped Sien’s own
elongated shadow, he shuddered and felt a moment of elemental pain before the
joining.
“Speak,” he
commanded.
The shadow
belonged to Hovet, protector of the emperor. “He has gone to bed. I am free to
roam a short time.”
“Tell me,” Sien
commanded.
“The wasting
sickness returns. The emperor will send soon for his new healer. He is unhappy
tonight. He is lonely and afraid. He counts the number of his years. He feels
the weight of his sins. He mourns the destruction of his throne. He fears
tomorrow, when he must put the crown on the woman’s head.”
“Will he name her
sovereign?” Sien asked impatiently. That was the only important bit. Sien had
no interest in the aches and tremblings of an old man who had lived too long. “What
is his decision?”
“He wavers first
one way, then the other. He schemes and forgets. He schemes and forgives. He is
angry at Tirhin. He is angry at the woman.”
“Tell me more,”
Sien commanded.
The shadow writhed
across Sien’s. “Let me go,” it wailed. “I am too far. I will die alone.”
It had nothing
more to tell him. Disappointed, Sien released it.
The shadow sailed
across the floor and vanished beneath the door as though it had never been.
But already
another appeared to take its place. Petite and slender, it flitted back and
forth, darting about the sanctuary as though reluctant to join. Finally,
however, it came to Sien and merged into him.
“Tell me,” he
commanded.
“She survived the
poisoned smoke.”
Rage scorched the
edges of Sien’s concentration. He held it away, however, refusing to let the
spell disintegrate at this stage.
“Was she injured?”
“No.”
“Tell me more.”
“The women have
begun the purification ceremony. It goes ill.”
His interest
quickened. “How ill? Why? What has happened?”
“She has visions.”
“That is the
purpose of the ceremony.”
“Visions beyond
her ability. She sees too far.”
Sien smiled to
himself. He liked this. “Can they bring her back?”
“She must come of
her own accord.”
“Has she the
strength?”
“They worry,
master. Anas is blamed. She is no longer deputy.”
Sien had little
interest in Anas. If the Magria lost her second-in-command it might be useful
in the future, but on the whole it was of little significance to him.
“Can you ensure
the girl does not return from purification?”
“I promise
nothing, master.”
“Try!” he urged.
“I will try.”
The shadow fled
him then, darting all around frantically before it finally found the way out.
Sien moaned aloud.
His strength was waning. Great droplets of sweat poured from his forehead, but
he was not yet finished. He struggled to hold the spell.
The third shadow
came to him, lean and cold. It flowed into the room and sprawled long across
the floor until it joined with his.