From Across the Clouded Range (65 page)

Finally, one morning – at least it
felt like morning – he woke without the half-dream daze obscuring
his vision, woke and actually felt awake. Despite having control of
his consciousness, all he managed to do was stare at the dreary
cell walls and wonder how he could not be dead. The memory of what
he had seen haunted him more thoroughly than his dreams ever could,
and when he realized that this was not another dream, that this was
reality, he wept for the first time in more than twenty years. He
wept into the rough straw mattress beneath him until he returned to
the nightmarish sleep that was now a solace.

A loud clank of metal on metal
followed by the scrape of wood on stone and another authoritative
clank pulled Jaret from that troubled sleep. Recognizing the sound
that had summoned him, he scanned the room for visitors, but the
room was empty, stark walls bare. He thought the sound must have
been someone entering the cell, but another look revealed only a
crust of hard bread and a small cup of water at the bottom of the
door.

Jaret moaned as his body reminded him
of the punishment it had received. Every corner of it ached. His
arms and legs tingled with pins and needles. His head pounded. And
his ribs erupted into searing pain with every breath. He was as
debilitated as he remembered his generously scarred body ever being
until even his well-earned resistance to pain could barely
withstand the collection of miseries.

Despite those afflictions, it was the
ache for water that shone the brightest. Jaret felt like he had not
had a drop of it in a year, and he continued staring at the small
cup an impossible ten feet away until the need was so great that he
would suffer anything to fulfill it. Thus it was that without any
idea how he would accomplish it, he started the impossible journey
to that precious tin cup.

#

After what felt like hours, Jaret was
covetously enjoying the fruit of his labors. He forced himself to
sip the water so that it would last, then when his mouth was
wetted, he tore off a chunk of the bread, dipped it in the water,
and slowly chewed the moisture from it. He finished the water and
bread that way but took his time and relished each bite, knowing
that they may be his last for some time.

When the food was finished, he stared
at the bleak walls around him and the flickering blur of light that
made it through the tiny slit of a window in the door, wondering
what to do next. Over the course of his trip to the water, he had
worked some life back into his arms and legs, but they were still
weak and tingling as if half-asleep. His ribs erupted with each
ragged breath, and his head was pounding. He braced his arms
against his sides and took a deep breath. Squinting against the
pain, he ran his fingers along his ribs and found that five were
cracked. It was bad, but he’d had worse.

He had been stripped of his jacket,
shirt, and vest, had been left with only his undershirt. He unlaced
it and pulled it over his head. The thick black and gray hair that
covered his chest stood out over the well-defined form – it was
cool in the cell, he realized and suppressed a shiver. He pulled
the lace out of his shirt and set it aside. With much effort, he
reached his feet and pulled off his long hard-leather boots. The
act left him panting, and it was several minute before he could
again rise to sitting.

He marveled that he still
had his boots, that such luxuries had not been taken. Then he
reached into the right boot and was astonished to find the small
knife still tucked into the sheath deep inside. Holding the short,
stout blade to the sparse light, watching it dance off its point,
sent him into deliriums of joy.
So
, he thought,
the Order still has a part left for me to play. There is a
reason that I am not dead
.

Thanking that divine power, he propped
himself against the near wall, pulled the boots to him, and went to
work.

#

Some time later, Jaret was back on the
straw mattress that covered his small wooden bed. He was feeling
much improved. He had nearly recovered the full use of his arm and
legs. The pounding in his head had faded to a steady ache that was
so regular that it was almost unnoticed. And thanks to the boots,
he could breathe without debilitating pain. Using his small knife,
he had cut the tops off of the tall boots, slit those tubes down
the center, and used the lacing from his shirt to construct a crude
brace. That brace cut his breaths short, making him breathe at a
near pant, but it also protected his broken ribs and made the
injury bearable.

Though he felt better, he tried to
look as helpless as possible. He was certain that Nabim would come
to see him. That petty man would not miss his chance to gloat, and
when he arrived, Jaret would be waiting. He clutched the knife at
his side, hidden beneath the thin blanket that covered him. The act
would certainly end in his death, but his life was already forfeit.
His only possible remaining purpose was to save his beloved nation
from the scourge of Emperor Nabim and, the Order willing, his
black-robed henchman.

The thought of the strange
man sent a painful shiver down Jaret’s spine. To this point, he had
tried to think about what had happened in the throne room as little
as possible. He was not certain that his sanity could take the
battle that was required to explain the utterly inexplicable power
he had witnessed. He knew the old verses from
The Book of Valatarian
that
counselors used to frighten children, the verses about the
Lawbreakers and the horrible creatures that were cast out of the
world by Valatarian. Of everything he had heard and read, those
legends came closest to describing what he had seen, but even the
most stalwart counselors were quick to point out that such verses
were metaphors, that no one could actually break the Order's
omnipotent laws.

“
The world was created
first by Order,”
The Book of
Valatarian
said. “It is the core, the
basis for all. Nothing can exist without a reason, without a place
in the Order.”

Despite what those passages said – and
Jaret could think of countless others – he could not dispute what
he had seen, what he had felt. The power of that small man had been
no illusion or trick. Nabim an’ Pmalatir – az’ Pmalatir by now,
Jaret thought – had found a man who could circumvent the Holy
Order, who could break its unbreakable laws. The thought was
unimaginable. It shook the very core of everything that Jaret had
been taught, of everything he believed.

#

Days passed. Jaret remained in his
bleak cell with nary a visitor. The only indication that he had not
been forgotten was the plate of bread and water that was shoved
through the slot in the bottom of his door twice a day. Nabim had
not come to taunt him, no guards came to check on him, and none of
his men had arrived to free him. He was alone with his thoughts and
the small grey mouse that shared his cell. He had put countless
hours into reconciling what he had seen in the throne room with
what he had been told his entire life but was no closer to
answering those questions than he was to securing his revenge – the
Order was silent on both counts.

He could not know how long he waited,
clutching his knife, desperate to absolve his unintended betrayal.
He spent the time recovering from his injuries and forcing himself
through awkward exercises to maintain his strength – it would do no
good for the Order to present him with an opportunity if he did not
have the strength to act upon it. Still, his arms and legs never
recovered – they still tingled as if lacking blood – and his ribs
wailed at even the slightest strain. Those, however, were not
annoyances that could stop him when his time came, so he did not
concern himself with them – he had accepted his death long ago;
pain was trivial.

Then one morning – at least it felt
like morning – Jaret was roused by a new sound issuing from his
door, the sound of a bolt being pushed back from its housing. It
was followed by the screech of rusty hinges as the door swung open.
He woke instantly but pretended to be asleep as he slipped his hand
to the slit in the side of his mattress where his knife was hidden.
His muscles tensed in anticipation of what had to be
done.

“
Ee’s banged up purdy
good.” The voice was a slow rumble; the speaker sounded like his
mouth was full of marbles. “Lil’ rat shouldn’t give us much
truble.”

Jaret’s heart sank. It was only
guards. Nabim was not with them – they would not talk like that if
they had the Emperor in their midst. His hand moved away from the
knife, but he considered his options and decided that this
opportunity might be as important as if Nabim had arrived alone.
The guards were already underestimating him. If he could get past
them, he might have a chance to escape.

He waited. The guards were taking
their time. He heard the rattle of chains. They had not bothered to
untangle them before they stepped into the cell. It was all the
distraction Jaret needed.

He lunged from his bed, forcing
himself to ignore the screaming from his ribs. His blanket came up
with him, spinning through the air into the faces of the guards.
Jaret followed. He aimed his shoulder at the nearest guard hoping
to knock him into his companion and immobilize them
both.

His shoulder struck the stomach of the
guard, but the big man did not even quiver. It was as if he had hit
a tree. Jaret’s ribs were not nearly so strong. They wailed. Spots
danced before his eyes. The big man just grunted, wrapped his hands
around Jaret’s torso, and brought his thick knee into his stomach
and chest. The blow ravaged Jaret’s tender ribs, and he went limp.
The guard held him while he brought his knee up time and time
again. Finally, when Jaret stopped moving, the guard tossed him
casually across the room.

Jaret was already only half-conscious
when his head crashed into the side of the bed and darkness
overtook him.

#

Several hours later, Jaret was thrown
back into his cell. He lay where he landed, gasping as the door and
bolt were slammed into place. The iron manacles clamped around his
wrists and ankles kept him from doing anything more than pressing
his arms to his sides in a futile attempt to ease the raging in his
chest.

When the pain had subsided enough that
he could open his tear-soaked eyes, he almost wept again. His cell
had been stripped of its furnishings. The bed and mattress were
gone. Along with them had gone his knife and any hope he had of
securing his revenge.

Propping himself against the cool wall
at his back, Jaret brought his hands up to feel his bare scalp. He
had received a bath and a shave from the sadistic guards. They had
forcibly shaved every whisker of hair from his head and face,
scrubbed him until he was raw, and dressed him in the rough woolen
robe that hung from him. After the beating he’d received in the
cell, he had barely been aware of what was happening and was just
now realizing the significance of the event.

Nabim was preparing him for trial. His
next stop would be the Hall of Judgment where the Xi’ Valati would
oversee his trial and eventual execution.

Jaret could only shake his head at the
abject failure his life had become, at the prospect of being
remembered for all time as the traitorous monster he was. Worst of
all was the thought of Xi Valati Maciam sitting in judgment of his
crimes. The idea of the man who had been there so many times for
him, who had advised him, comforted him, been more of a father than
he had ever known listening to his crimes, passing judgment on him,
seeing and acknowledging his betrayal was too much to bare. He
would gladly admit to his crimes, drop the axe on his own neck,
whip the horses that would quarter him if he could only avoid
seeing the disappointment in the Xi Valati’s eyes.

And still, there was no sign of Nabim,
no word of what had happened in the world outside. That always left
some hope, Jaret told himself. Perhaps the army was rallying to his
defense. Perhaps the city was besieged. Or perhaps Nabim and his
henchman were dead and a new Emperor was preparing to dispatch the
other would-be usurper. All these were hopes that Jaret could hold
to replace his desire for revenge, could hold until they too were
stripped away.

A scrape at the door brought his head
up just as the stout wooden planks swung open to reveal the same
mountainous guard that had beaten him in his ill-fated attempt at
escape. The guard was encased in filthy leather, covered with
scars, and completely bald. He filled the entire doorway, rising to
the stones at the top and just as wide. He probably weighed twice
as much as Jaret, and though he looked flabby, Jaret could testify
that he was strong as an ox.

“
Gonna try anyting, dis
time, ya rat?” The huge man flexed his massive arms as he stepped
into the room. Jaret had no plans to challenge him and shook his
head to show that he was harmless. “I did’n thin’ so!” The brute
stepped across the cell and kicked him hard enough to lift him from
the stones and send him crashing into the wall. Jaret almost
blacked out from the pain and loss of air.

“
Emprer’s, comin’ t’ see
ya,” the guard said as his fellow dragged Jaret by the chain that
constrained his hands. The man pulled out a metal lock and secured
the chains to a ring that hung from the wall. “He’s em’nince, do’n
wan’ slime like you bein’ able t’ touch ‘im. Can’s say’s I blame
‘im.” The brute struck him across the face splitting his lip and
loosening several teeth.