for mercy.
I deserve to die … I betrayed my comrades, betrayed my country. Betrayed the Redai.
For some reason, he kept thinking of the conquered people of Taenareth, as he’d seen them on his way to take ship for the western lands. Kerezau’s royal governors were at least as bad as the Pelan king’s Viceroy, Salesin, seemed to be. They enforced the Redai’s rule harshly. The slightest infraction of Kerezau’s many laws was punishable by maiming, or death.
Talis’s friend Castio says that people have a right to rule
themselves. That they should not be subject to the whims of
despots.
Jezzil groaned softly.
I’m a warrior, not a philosopher. I
shouldn’t have to concern myself with all of this!
Resentment against the world surged up.
Why me? Things were going along pretty well, and then all of this has to happen!
Perhaps he’ll let Thia and Talis and Eregard go. Perhaps
they won’t be harmed.
But he knew they were all likely to lose a hand, at the least. Or perhaps they’d be hamstrung. Or blinded.
Maybe if I talk to Barus, confess, I could beg for mercy for
them.
But that would be the worst thing he could do. If Barus knew how much he cared for his friends, he’d be twice as likely to torture, maim, or even execute them.
What if I could escape?
The thought crept in unbidden. Jezzil angrily tried to push it away. He couldn’t even raise his head, much less break out of this cabin, which was undoubtedly locked and guarded.
Escape? Might as well wish to be healed and have his sword returned to him!
Healing …
Jezzil lay there, staring up into the blackness.
I do know
some healing chants, some ways to focus avundi on the body
to speed healing …
Khith had taught him to do this for himself to speed the knitting of his broken leg.
But healing required focus and intense concentration, skills that at present were beyond him. There was no way he could tap his avundi when he was in such pain, barely able to breathe. Besides, his nose was badly broken. If he applied avundi to try and heal it in its present position, it would heal crooked, and he wouldn’t be able to breathe normally.
Thirst was a torment now. Jezzil lay there, wishing he could fall asleep.
I might as well sleep, there’s nothing else I
can do. Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do, and this is
one of those times.
After all, what could anyone expect of a man locked into a tiny cabin? An injured man, alone in the dark?
Jezzil lay there, his harsh mouth-breathing the only sound, willing himself to fall asleep. Sleep was his only escape.
He was actually beginning to drift off when he realized that he needed to relieve himself. His eyes opened as wide as possible as he stared into the darkness.
It’s not fair! I can’t even move,
he thought angrily.
Maybe
there is a bucket in here, but I can’t move. I’ll just have to
piss myself.
He pictured himself hauled out for his hanging, the front of his britches soaked, smelling like a sewer.
What difference
does it make? I’ll lose control of everything when I’m
hanged, anyway! Might as well piss and shit myself.
But somehow, he couldn’t make himself let loose. Instead, gritting his teeth, he managed to lever himself up from the floor, using both hands. His head throbbed, his injured side screamed a protest, and he broke into a sweat— —but moments later, groaning, found himself sitting upright. His head spun, and he held still, not wanting to faint and lose what he had gained. Slowly, the dizziness subsided, though it was hard to be sure, since he couldn’t see.
Jezzil raised both hands and began feeling along the floor as far as he could reach.
Nothing.
After a few moments, he hitched forward on his knees and tried again. This time his questing fingertips brushed something cold and metallic. A bucket.
After relieving himself, he moved until he was sitting
with his back braced against the wall. He rested for a while, then slowly, delicately, began exploring his face with his fingertips.
His nose seemed to be canted to the right, and there was a definite bump on the bridge that had not been there before.
He took a deep breath, and then, fumbling in the dark, took off his belt. He folded over the thick leather strap and clamped his teeth on it. A warrior did not cry out in pain.
Jezzil raised both hands to his face, thinking of how filthy they probably were. Khith had emphasized the importance of cleanliness in healing, but there was nothing he could do about that.
He raised his knees, grunting with pain as his injured side protested. With his knees up, if he passed out he’d fall on his side, not on his face.
Gripping the belt with his teeth, he put both hands up to his nose. With his right fingers he pushed sideways, and with his left he pulled down.
Pain! Jezzil’s harsh breaths burst out past the belt, and for a moment he thought he couldn’t stand it long enough to accomplish anything. His ears rang; spots danced before his eyes.
He couldn’t breathe! Jezzil spat the belt out of his mouth and sucked in air, half sobbing in agony. But his efforts had worked, at least partially. Now he could draw air into his nostrils. Tentatively, he explored his face. He groaned aloud.
Not again! I can’t face that again!
He gave himself to the count of a hundred to prepare himself. Then, steeling himself, he repeated his manipulation.
He’d forgotten the belt, and a strangled cry burst forth, despite his clenched teeth. Sweat burst out on his face and his fingers skidded in it.
But many breaths later, when he dared to explore his face again, his nose seemed almost straight. Jezzil wished he had some cotton wadding to shove up his nostrils, but he didn’t.
But I have avundi,
he reminded himself.
I have avundi
.
Part of his mind argued that he wasn’t supposed to be doing this, he was supposed to accept his fate, a just fate. After all, he
was
a deserter. He had left his comrades to perish in the flames of m’Banak.
So did Barus,
he remembered, with a scowl that hurt his face.
So maybe I will accept my fate … and just maybe I
won’t …
Jezzil used the tail of his shirt to wipe the greasy sweat off his face.
But, by Avenar’s fist, first I’ll help my
friends escape.
Escape to where?
the mocking little voice demanded.
You’re in the Narrow Sea, remember? Pela is still at least ten
leagues away, too far to swim.
“I’ll ride that mare after I catch her,” he muttered.
Calming himself, ignoring the pain, he sank deep into himself, controlling his breathing, closing his eyes, commanding himself to focus on his avundi.
He touched the now familiar place in his mind, and was comforted to realize that his physical injuries had not affected it. Carefully, he created a mental picture of his injuries, their precise location, and then sent warm waves of avundi out toward those places. He envisioned bone knitting, swelling ebbing away, torn skin and flesh pulling back together, then closing, closing …
He realized he was breathing better, more easily—that it was working—but repressed his exultation. Emotion had no place in the use of avundi.
He was still in the half waking trance, submerged in the healing process, when the door opened. A guard stepped in with a lantern, raising it high. Blinded, Jezzil covered his face with his arms.
The guard gave a grunt of satisfaction, seeing that his prisoner was still safely locked away, and slammed the door shut. Jezzil heard metal bolts slide into place.
He groped his way forward in the dark and found a rough crust of bread and a waterskin. The water was warm and tasted of the cured goatskin that contained it, but it was the equal of any wine he had ever sipped. Jezzil forced himself to ration it. No telling how long it would be before he got any more. He managed to down the bread by soaking it with
water and letting it dissolve in his mouth. His face was too sore for chewing.
Then he crawled back to his corner and went back to healing himself. He’d heard the bolts click. It had been weeks now since it was all he could do to lift a simple coin. Lifting the knob on a door-bolt should be easy.
He was trying to decide where they might have imprisoned his friends, when he realized that the ship was beginning to roll and pitch. The swells were growing now. The deck heaved. Even buried in the bowels of the ship as he was, Jezzil could hear the wind howling outside.
Suddenly, the ship dropped, then wallowed side to side like a sweaty, rolling yearling. The waste bucket fell over with a clang. Urine splashed. Jezzil tried to brace himself in the corner as the ship lurched again.
A storm,
he thought.
A big one.
He crouched in the corner, hissing with pain every time his ribs protested, determined to ride out the tempest.
Ulandra lay beside her prince, stiff with loathing, silently cursing her bad luck. Why had she decided to stay in the royal apartments at this time of day, mid-afternoon, instead of going out for a walk with her ladies-in-waiting, as she usually did?
She knew why. She had wanted quiet time alone to read and to think about the new priest’s teachings. Varlon had taught her how to meditate, how to relax her mind. His deep, beautiful voice and dark eyes were easy to lose herself in.
But just as she’d donned an old, comfortable robe and settled down to reread one of the letters he’d written her— discussing how hectic the life of a royal was these days, how meditation techniques could help even if one had only a few minutes to relax—Salesin had come trooping into her suite without even knocking. He’d not even bothered to address her ladies-in-waiting, but merely glanced at them, his glare so fierce that they nearly ran over each other heading for the door.
He’d turned his scowl on her. “Strip.”
Quickly, she’d obeyed. The sooner it was over with, the better.
Now he lay beside her, snoring lightly, relaxed, sated.
She, on the other hand, was as stiff as a corset, muscles aching with tension. Ulandra grimaced as she felt his seed spilling out of her, wishing she dared reach down and pull the sheet over herself. But doing so might wake Salesin, and that she would not risk.
She closed her eyes, deciding to try and meditate. Perhaps if she could relax, she, too, might be able to sleep. If she could fall asleep, there was the chance that Salesin would leave her alone when he awoke.
As she had been instructed, she slowed her breathing, making it smooth, deep, and regular. In through her nose, out through her mouth.
She thought of her private focus-word. It was a nonsense syllable that Varlon had given her, to help her focus and quiet her mind.
Bokurak … bokurak … bokurak …
Silently, Ulandra repeated the word to herself, controlling her breathing, trying to make her mind a blank— —when, without warning, she discovered that she was
somewhere else.
She was seeing with the eyes of another.
For a moment terror flooded her, as she remembered that other presence she had sometimes sensed and had once half glimpsed in her mirror. But she quickly realized the presence in her mind was not that inhuman horror.
This was someone she knew. Eregard. Prince Eregard.
Ulandra wasn’t quite sure
how
she knew his identity, but she was sure it was he.
But Eregard is dead!
she thought blankly.
She sensed negation, then reassurance. Eregard was alive, alive and well. They seemed to be in a tiny room, and the room was moving. A wagon? No, the movement was too regular.
A ship. She was seeing with Eregard’s eyes, and she was on board a ship. Ulandra felt his presence, felt his caring for her, felt his … love? Yes, love. It was there, as tangible as the breath in her lungs, the blood in her veins.
She tried to frame her thoughts to reach him.
Eregard? I
am here. Where are you?
But there were no words in this sharing. No actual speech.
No answering message. She could hear nothing, but then her attention was focused on a rough square of cloth. There was a crude map drawn on it. As she watched, a hand that she knew belonged to Eregard began tracing a message, letter by painful letter.
THIS IS EREGARD, ALIVE, OFF THE NORTHEAST COAST. KEREZAU’S TROOPS WILL INVADE WITHIN HOURS OR DAYS.
The message stopped. Ulandra lay rigid, willing the contact to continue.
A moment later it did just that.
TELL SALESIN! TELL MY FATHER! I AM HELD CAPTIVE ON SHIP
. The lettering was different now, reddish instead of black, blurred and smeared … but still readable. She saw an X appear on the crude map. send help. send help.
She felt the contact fade. The words blurred. “No!” she gasped. “Eregard! Don’t go!” Forgetting completely who lay beside her, Ulandra sat straight up in bed, snatching for her nearest garment, the comfortable old robe she’d been wearing.
Swinging her legs off the bed, she began to dress.
A hard hand fell on her shoulder. Salesin was sitting up on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on?”
Ulandra heard the undertone of anger in his voice, and knew that whatever answer she made would be wrong. Silence would anger him even more. She was not a good liar, and she knew it. Nevertheless, she tried. “I … I am sorry, my lord. A dream. Only a dream.”
“A dream? What kind of dream? I heard you say my brother’s name.” He gave a short bark of laughter that held nothing of good humor in it. “Have you been cuckolding me with my dead brother in your dreams, Princess?”
“No, my lord, of course not. I dreamed … I dreamed of Prince Eregard. ’Twas nothing, really.”
Salesin pulled her around to face him. “You’re lying, Princess,” he said. “And you’re hiding something. My brother is dead. So why call out his name? Who have you been talking to? My father?”
“Just a dream!” she stammered. “I … I must go, my lord.