Prisoner (23 page)

"Thank you," Sol said. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes slid shut as he began to think. "Dieter has been arrested. He's set to fight first in the Coliseum tomorrow. They say he's going to fight until death."

"As opposed to what?" Iah asked.

Sol opened his eyes. "Normal Coliseum battles are done in numbers—one against two, then three against four, and so on until there are only two opponents left. The one who lives is cleared of all charges and set free. Should a Salharan ever win a fight, it's rumored the Kaiser will have him escorted to the border. But Salharans never win. How could we?" He shook his head, displeased that he'd allowed his thoughts to wander.

"So they're going to exhaust him to death?" Iah's lips curled.

"Yes," Sol replied. He continued listing what information he had. "The Kaiser has Beraht under lock and key. Burkhard tends him as he's already familiar with him."

Iah frowned, fingers drumming against the table. "What does Beraht matter to the Kaiser?"

"He is something that was Dieter's. More importantly, Beraht was important for exacting revenge for the needless deaths of his men. So he is taking both Dieter's sword and his revenge." Sol closed his eyes again. "Which means unless we bribe Burkhard, there's no getting anywhere near Beraht. There is no bribing Burkhard. He's a good man, but he has no love for either Salhara or Illussor. I have no doubt he would turn us in."

"There must be some way to reach Beraht."

Sol dropped his arms and pushed off the wall. He strode over to the window. "If there is, I cannot see it." Outside the snow was thick on the ground. For travel to be possible, they would have to leave no later than the following night. They had less than a day to find a way to rescue Beraht.

"Your arcen can't get him out?"

"I could try," Sol said, "but it is unlikely. Right in the heart of Kria and in winter? There are too many things that could go wrong. I do not want to use more arcen than I absolutely have to before we're well away from here." He paused. "Though perhaps we have finally reached that point."

Iah's head began bobbing. Sol smiled and wondered how he'd acquired the strange habit. "So we can't get Beraht out."

"No."

"Is there at least some way we could get arcen and a message to him? Arrange to meet somewhere? Surely there must be a servant or someone we can bribe."

Sol shook his head. "No. How would a servant take it to be asked by a Krian to take a message to a prisoner—a prisoner of the former general and now of the Kaiser."

"I see your point. We are at an impasse."

"Perhaps there will be an opportunity in the Coliseum," Sol mused aloud. "It's always so crowded, chaotic. Surely there must be an opening there."

Iah shook his head. "Not unless you've got a seat right next to the Kaiser, I would wager. I can't imagine a country bumpkin and his pathetic blind cousin will be anywhere near him." He shuddered against being amongst such a crowd, overwhelmed and disoriented. "I would likely get lost. There's no way we would get out of there even if we could get close enough."

"No," Sol said slowly, and he felt the prickling in his mind that meant it had latched onto something. A second later it struck him. "The prisoners!"

"What?" Iah said. "What do you mean?"

"Von Adolwulf! He's a special enough prisoner! He can do it."

Iah tilted his head. "If I could see," he said, "my eyes would tell you you're an idiot."

Sol was surprised into laugher, and he smiled at Iah. Before he'd realized it, he'd cupped Iah's chin in one hand—then he hastily let go and wondered what in the stars' names he'd been trying to do.

"Even pretending I know what you're talking about, why would the Wolf help us?"

"Revenge?" Sol suggested. "I don't know, but I have to try. He can get the arcen and a message to Beraht if I can convince him to do so."

Iah smiled and reached out a hand. Sol took it. Iah held it tight to reassure him. "If anyone can convince the Wolf to do something, it would be you."

"Thank you," Sol said and squeezed his hand briefly before letting go. He hesitated a moment, then shook his head in confusion and turned away. From the case on the desk he pulled out one of the small ink bottles and twisted off the bottom half. Opening one of the desk drawers, he pulled out a bag that contained small, glass vials which could easily be concealed in a boot or belt. He poured arcen into one. It was thick and sticky, and the color of fresh-spilled blood. Such a small amount would give Beraht nearly three times the power of a normal dose of yellow and hopefully do no worse harm than a terrible headache and extreme exhaustion.

Restoring the remaining red arcen to the case, Sol withdrew another bottle and took a sip from the yellow arcen in it. It tasted sweet, not quite like sugar, not quite like honey, but something between the two with a bitter aftertaste. Viscous traces lingered on his lips, and he licked them away. He felt it spread through his system, richer and deeper than anything alcohol could do, and start a tingling in his mind, stirring powers not available until the arcen bid them wake.

It was only a sip, but it would be enough to help him get through to Dieter. Nor was it enough for any, but the sharpest to notice, and even they would have to look a third time to be sure. By then he would be gone and forgotten. He restored the bottle and closed the case. "I'll be back," he told Iah. "I'll lock the door; let no one in." From the wardrobe he pulled a heavy, fur-trimmed cloak. The hood was deep; he pulled it up over his head, burying his face in shadow.

"Of course."

Sol hesitated, feeling as though there was something left undone, though he could not figure out what. Stifling a frustrated sigh, he left the room, locking it behind him.

The wind was bitter and carried the type of deep, damp cold that settled in the bones and didn't let go. Sol pulled his cloak more tightly closed and walked on, head down.

There were stars in the sky, which meant the clear weather would probably hold a while longer. He hoped so. If his plans did not go awry this time, then they would have to run immediately. There was no room for delay. If it snowed they were dead. Stars delay the snow for just a few more days.

He reached the Coliseum without incident. It was old—older, some said, than even the Winter Palace. Built from dark gray stone, it had room enough for every last person dwelling within the palace walls. Men had been working tirelessly to keep it free of snow, readying it for the next day.

The first few days normally saw mostly executions; the days after that the prisoners would fight. With the unexpected addition of Dieter von Adolwulf to the contenders, however, that style of combat had changed. Dieter would fight contenders until he died or killed them all. One after the other; there would be no break in between bouts.

Sol moved quietly and slowly, as he made his way below the Coliseum to the cages. He bypassed the first several rows of cells. Dieter would not be so easily accessed. Men stirred at the sound of a visitor, but no one said anything.

Somewhere a man was praying, and it made Sol feel sick because the prayers were Salharan. It would be so easy—and it would ruin everything. "Forgive me, brother," he whispered soundlessly to himself.

It was dark below the Coliseum. The torches set at corners and throughout the hallways only seemed to make it worse. Sol walked on. At the farthest end of the cells was a set of rooms, pitch black closets for those prisoners who refused to get along with the others until the fighting began though occasionally it was also used to protect a contender from his cellmates.

Sol slowed as the guards noticed him. "You!" One of them barked. "No one is allowed down here."

From deep in his hood, Sol's eyes flared sunlight yellow. The guards dropped to the hard-packed floor. His eyes dimmed, but continued to shine slightly, like a cloud-covered sun, as he struggled to arrange the men as though they'd fallen asleep on duty. When they woke, they either would not recall his visit, or would not be willing to admit to what had occurred. Even if they did, they would not be believed. A Salharan running free in the palace and using arcen to see von Adolwulf?

Ridiculous.

Sol allowed himself a slight smirk, feeling much better than he had since botching everything the night before. Now was his chance to make up for it. The smirk faded as worries reclaimed his mind. Would he be able to convince Dieter to help?

He grabbed a torch from the wall, and with a softly muttered spell, the lock clicked open. He shoved the heavy door open, hinges creaking loudly in the unhappy silence of the cells. It creaked again as he shut it. Moonlight spilled down into the cell from a small window, the only source of fresh air and light. Dieter was little more than a shadow beneath it. Sol set the torch into a sconce on the wall.

The added light revealed that Dieter was in undershirt, breeches and boots. His hands were in manacles, and even in the dark Sol could see the cuts and dried blood that testified to the fact that Dieter had not gone quietly to his fate. A cut ran the length of one cheek, and his bottom lip was split and bloody.

"If you have come to have your say," Dieter said, "I have already killed two for attempting to harm me. Did you want to be the third?"

Sol pushed his hood back. "I have no plans to kill you, Lord General."

Dieter stared at him for moment then laughed. The sound was as cold as the air in the room. "
General
?" The words were spoken in Salharan, accented but comfortable. "
There is no general in this room. What do you want, Lord Grau? What is your real name?"

"Sol deVry," Sol said, switching back to Krian. He sat down next to Dieter on the small wooden bench. It creaked under him, and he stood again, opting to lean against the wall.

He realized he'd surprised Dieter enough that the shock registered briefly on his normally implacable face. "General deVry. That would certainly explain why we so seldom are gifted with your presence on the battlefield." Dieter laughed in genuine amusement rather than bitterness. "I am impressed, General. All this time… well played." Dieter nodded his head in concession. "What brings you to see me? You do not strike me as one who would take petty revenge here."

"I need your help," Sol said, getting straight to the point. "I need Beraht. Why did you name him?"

"The Salharan obsession with names never fails to amuse me," Dieter said.

Sol regarded him coldly. "And how would you like it, General, if I told you what the name of your sword was and gave you no choice but to accept that name?"

"I would kill you."

"For us, death seals the name forever."

Dieter sneered. "Which just goes to show how stupid Salharans really are. He had plenty of opportunity to avoid the name I gave him. He made his choice."

"The choice was forced upon him."

"He is neither the first nor the last to be forced to make unhappy decisions. Is this why you came? To lecture me on violating a Salharan's honor by giving him a Krian name?" Dieter looked at him with tolerant amusement.

Sol cursed himself, thoroughly annoyed. Where had his focus gone? It would be a relief when they reached Illussor, and he could finally stop. His edge was clearly dulling. "No," he replied. "As I said, I need your help."

"I cannot imagine why, or how, I can help you."

"Beraht," Sol said. "We need you to get to Beraht for us." Dieter merely lifted his brows. "What do you know about the Illussor?"

"Roughly two hundred years ago they did not have magic such as they do now. No one knows the method by which they acquired it. But like the Salharans, it shows in the eyes—like sunlight on metal. Unlike your people, they do not seem to require drugs, nor does it prove deadly over time. Only the Scream kills them."

"That's where you're wrong," Sol said. "It’s not just when they Scream. Their magic is slowly killing them. Very few so far have noticed anything. Illussor magic comes at a price much higher than anything arcen demands.

Dieter shrugged. "I guess that will be one less problem for Kria to deal with, someday. Why does a Salharan general care about the fate of the Illussor?" Sol was silent. A moment later Dieter's laughter filtered through the room again. "A traitor. How long have you been working against your own countrymen?"

"Since they left me to rot, and the Illussor saved me," Sol said quietly. "I do not hate my country, but I was never happy there. Not all of us like what we must do to survive. There is nothing I long for more than the day I never have to touch arcen again."

Dieter did not appear convinced. "You are the first Salharan I have met to say such a thing. Certainly your
Brother
—" Sol started when he realized Dieter used the form of the word 'brother' reserved for the Brotherhood of the Seven Star, "is too fond of it."

"It's all he's ever had, I think." Sol shook his head, bewildered. "How did you know I was a Brother? I gave no indication of it, and there was no evidence that I even knew Beraht was."

"Your eyes," Dieter said. "They shine a deeper yellow than normal soldiers."

Sol conceded the point with a nod. "I am slowly advancing toward orange. You are the first Krian I've known to note the nuances of the colors."