Authors: Deborah Chester
He sighed. “All
have seen it. An era is ending, child. We all know that.”
“Yes, and I feel
the need for protection, for help.”
Albain’s craggy
face grew fierce. “Albain blood flows in your veins. Have you forgotten that?
Are you afraid?”
She wanted to
scream at him to drop this pretense that there should be no fear, ever. She
wanted to confess that she
was
afraid, horribly afraid. She wanted to be
held in his arms and reassured. She wanted to find a place where she could feel
safe.
But his scorn
stiffened her spine. She flung up her head and looked him in the eye. “I have
forgotten nothing,” she said, making her voice haughty. “But if the emperor
walks nowhere without a man at his back, whom am I to have at mine?”
“Ah. I see. But
you need a flesh-and-blood protector, girl, not a
jinja.”
“I want both.”
He considered it,
pursing his lips. “You know
jinjas
are forbidden here. I have left mine
at the city gates, squalling in a cage in the care of my baggage handlers. It
is hard to walk about, feeling the magic that shifts through these halls, and
have nothing to sound the alarm.”
“Exactly.”
“Would you defy
the emperor?”
“Will you defy me?”
she retorted.
He grew very
still, his gaze arrested. Then slowly he smiled. “Your mother would have spoken
to me in just that way, sharp as a spear, cutting to the heart of the matter. I
will see what I can do.”
She smiled at him
in grateful relief. “Thank you.”
He held up his
forefinger. “There is one problem. You must return to Gialta to claim it.”
“But I do not
think I can.”
“It is the only
way. There must be the bonding, or a
jinja
will not serve well, not the
way you require.”
“Can there not be
a bonding here?”
He shook his head.
“It would not work.”
Disappointment
filled her. Frowning, she hissed a moment through her teeth. “Then the
jinja
must wait until I can come.”
“All the more need
to select a protector.”
She nodded. “Lord
Sien recommends I do so quickly. And he says I should not choose a Gialtan.”
A slow smile
spread across Albain’s face. “But I think you do not always listen to this
priest, do you?”
An identical smile
appeared on her face as she looked up at him. “I listen. I may not heed.”
Albain chuckled a
moment, then sobered. “Be careful, girl. He makes a bad enemy.”
“I know. He
advises me to choose among my guardsmen, but they have not proven themselves
yet. How can I test the one who will best serve me?”
“You are the
daughter of a warrior, and the granddaughter of a warrior,” Albain said
gravely. “Your mother’s house is very fierce. Listen to what sings in your
blood, Elandra. Put your trust in your lineage, in the courage and good sense
we have bequeathed you. Don’t listen to the whispers of men. Listen inside.”
She bit her lip
and nodded, wishing he could tell her something more tangible. Instinct and
guesswork were not always the most reassuring qualities to depend on.
Albain gave her
cold hand a squeeze. “By Gault, you have confounded the world already. My girl
an empress in her own right. My girl on the throne.” He broke out in an
unsuppressible chuckle, wheezing a little. “By Gault, I used to think myself
poorly favored, with two girls and no sons, but now ... Ha, ha! Show them what
you’re made of. Show them, Elandra! Let your mother’s fire blaze forth. Do what
you damned well please, and don’t stand aside for any of them.”
She wanted to.
With all her heart she longed to seize the world with both hands and make it
her own. Yet she was so afraid of making a mistake.
It was like standing
on the brink of a cliff. If she spread out her hands and believed in herself,
she could soar like an eagle. If she clung to herself in doubt and worry, she
would plummet like a stone.
“I will tell you
this, and then I must go,” he said, bending close to her ear. “The best course
to confound the intriguers is to hew to your own truth. Do what they least
expect and never back down. Remember you have the upper hand. And for the sake
of Gault, do not offend the emperor. He has promised me extra lands on my
western boundary.”
She could have
snapped in frustration. What good was his advice when he contradicted himself?
Do as she pleased but don’t offend the emperor? Still, what had she expected?
His advice was better than anything else she’d been told.
“Will you send me
your armies should I ever need them?” she asked in a very quiet voice.
Albain froze. His
one good eye narrowed, and his jovial mood vanished. For an instant he was like
a hawk sighting prey, still and dangerous.
“I swore an oath
to you today. What more do you seek?”
“The oath was
sworn to the throne,” she replied, taut with nervousness at what she was daring
to ask. “I ask you now for more than that.”
“You mean when the
cloud descends and you and the prince will fight for what’s left of the empire?”
“Yes,” she said.
Her senses seemed
to heighten. She heard the music, glimpsed the dancing and laughter, but her
being remained focused on him and his answer. Time came to a halt around her,
and she almost ceased to breathe. She must have one piece of solid ground, one
true assurance to count on for insurance against what might possibly come in
the future. Even if it was only refuge.
Albain drew in a
deep breath and glanced around slowly and openly to make sure they were out of
earshot. He put his back to the company so that no one could read his lips.
“Elandra,” he said
in a quiet voice, “if ever you have need, I will unleash my armies and rend the
empire from one end to the other. Merely send me word, and my sword arm is
yours till death.”
A dash of cold
water in his face brought Caelan back to consciousness.
Suppressing a
groan, he slitted open one eye and found that nothing had changed. He was still
hanging by his shackled wrists from a hook, his feet swinging above the floor.
His dripping hair hung in his eyes. He was naked to the waist and freezing
cold. His amulet pouch still hung safely around his neck, untouched in this
dungeon hell where only superstition received respect.
The blurred face
of his torturer peered up at him, a pale orb of flesh with merciless eyes
bobbing above a brown leather jerkin stained with dried blood and grime.
“Man ready speak
some?” the torturer asked.
His voice was a
ruined croak, as though his throat had been crushed long ago. His accent was
strange, his words barely understandable. He seemed to speak an odd mixture of
Lingua and pidgin. And although the man was no longer quite in focus, Caelan
would never forget his first sight of him. The torturer’s ears came to slight
points that jutted up through his greasy hair. His fingers had delicate webs
between them.
A shudder ran
through Caelan. This was some kind of demon-spawn, a creature half human and
half of shadow, as horrifying in its way as a moag or a lurker. To find it here
in the heart of the city, clothed and employed, had shocked Caelan deeply.
Yet why should he
be surprised at anything in Irnperia? After all, the gladiators consorted with
the monstrous Haggai—female creatures with siren voices and the bodies of huge,
slug-like worms. The Vindicants exercised an official religion for the public,
and a very different kind of blasphemous observance for private ceremonies. The
empire was based on hypocrisy, and the emperor himself lived only through some
kind of unholy bargain with the darkness itself.
But such things
were hidden away for the most part, not talked about openly, concealed from all
except those who actively sought them.
The torturer,
however, was an official of the palace— no matter how lowly his status.
Corruption was spreading; truly the end of the world must be nigh.
Even to look on
the creature’s pallid face filled Caelan with revulsion. As for the torturer,
he knew Caelan was afraid and why.
Baring his teeth,
the torturer laughed softly in Caelan’s face, close enough for him to feel the
creature’s warm, fetid breath on his skin. Caelan averted his face, but the
torturer gripped his jaw with viselike fingers and wrenched him back.
“Speak some!” he
said angrily. “Man die slow. Man die hard way. Speak some, man die not. No
speak, man die hard.”
Caelan met the
thing’s eyes. They were human eyes, green and round, fringed with lashes as
thick as a woman’s. But the light in them was madness. Gathering himself.
Caelan spat in the torturer’s face.
“Gah!” Howling,
the torturer struck him across the mouth.
Caelan’s head
rang, and the world melted into dizzying colors, shapes gone crazy against his
half-closed eyelids. He swung back and forth by his shackle-chain, and his
wrenched shoulder sockets screamed in agony.
A sharp command
rang out, and the icy water dashed over Caelan, bringing him back yet again.
Coughing and shivering, he sputtered and squinted against the water dripping
into his eyes from his matted hair.
Time had become
lost to him. He did not know how long he had been here. As yet they had not put
him on the rack or in the glove, a large wooden vise that could crack him like
a nut.
The dungeons were
a foul, gloomy maze of holes sunk in the floor and fitted with iron grates. The
unfortunate inhabitants were dropped into the holes like rats down a well, and
left in the dank coldness and filth until they were dragged out for questioning
or until they died. Food was dropped in on top of them. They lived without
light or warmth or hope, miserable wretches forgotten by all save their
jailers. Their wailing went on all the time, an eerie, primal sound of raw
anguish that never diminished.
Overlaying that
were the screams of the tortured. A man currently lay stretched on the rack,
babbling in delirium. A woman, recognizable as such only by her long, matted
hair, sobbed in a cage that swung high from another rafter on the other side of
the forge. The round stone pit glowed a dull red, hot with hissing coals, the
smoke curling forth to blacken the ceiling. A short time past, some convicted
thieves had been brought in, kicking and screaming for mercy, to be branded
with the hot iron.
The torturer had
picked up one of the irons, its tip white-hot fading to a dull red higher up
the shaft, and he had held it close to Caelan’s face, so close Caelan could
smell the hot metal, could hear it singing and hissing, could feel its
scorching warmth against his skin.
“Want this?” the
torturer asked, moving the iron back and forth.
Caelan could not
help watching it, his eyes shifting back and forth, mesmerized with horror.
“Man eyes, gone
far!” The torturer grinned and let his tongue flick back and forth across the
edges of his teeth. “Blackness, hot blind. All time blackness. Speak some!”
Sweat broke out
along Caelan’s temples, but he didn’t flinch. After a few moments when the iron
began to cool slightly, the torturer growled in disappointment and flung it
back in the fire.
Now he returned,
pacing and rubbing his webbed hands together. “Man think smart, but not smart.
Think, master maybe change, maybe say torture not man. Maybe not!”
He laughed in
Caelan’s face, then drew back sharply as though afraid Caelan would spit at him
again. “Speak some, or many hurts. Here!”
Drawing a flat,
wide strap of leather from his belt, he swung it back and forth. One end was
perforated with numerous holes. He brought it around with a rapid flick of his
wrist. The leather struck Caelan’s arm with a smack of fiery pain. He drew in
his breath sharply, biting off a cry.
The torturer
grinned. “Man speak some now. Man scream high!”
The beating
commenced expertly, each blow landing on vulnerable flesh in an overlapping
pattern of agony that only intensified. It was like a scourging, yet the wide
strap inflicted a different kind of pain than a narrow whip did. After a few
moments when Caelan felt himself begin to waver badly, he
severed
himself from the pain and endured it, detached in the cold void of elsewhere,
and always waiting for a chance, however slim, to retaliate.
He had confessed
hours ago, spilling all that he knew. But he had spoken too soon and too
eagerly. The torturer had not believed him and was demanding another
confession.
Caelan had nothing
left to say. Gritting his teeth, he shut his eyes and tried to endure.
“Stop!”
The voice cried
out the command loudly enough to silence the wails of the prisoners. The
clatter and racket ceased as the jailers stopped their tasks and looked around.
The torturer lowered his strap and turned sullenly, standing almost at
attention.
Through the sudden
silence, there came only the faint constant sound of dripping water and the
soft moans of the man on the rack.
Swinging in place,
Caelan struggled to turn his head so that he could see the visitor.
Through the smoke
and gloom he glimpsed a figure in a soldier’s breastplate, feet spread apart,
head high with arrogance.
“Who is in charge
here?”
The soldier’s
voice rang out strongly, sternly. It was a voice of command, and it sent
jailers and turnkeys scurrying into a motley line as though for inspection.
A burly man,
broad-shouldered, running to fat, shuffled forward. “I’m the head jailer,” he
said.
“Clear this room.”
“What, of all—”
“Clear the room!”
the soldier barked. “Immediately!”
Grumbling, the
jailer turned around and gestured. His minions set to work unbuckling the
unconscious man from the rack. The woman in the cage was lowered and dragged
forth. She couldn’t walk, and the men half dragged her, half carried her out of
sight.