Realm of Light (47 page)

The sergeant took
off his helmet with a grunt of relief and massaged the red marks on his temple
where the helmet rubbed it. “Koloth, go watch for when he’s reached the upper levels.
That’ll be long enough to wait.”

One of the guards
saluted and left. Caelan bowed his head to hide his satisfaction. Only four men
now. His odds were improving. He drew in several deep breaths, gathering his
strength.

A bestial howl
rose in the distance.

The men froze in
silence for a moment, then unconsciously drew closer together, holding their
daggers. Only the sergeant did not seem concerned.

Tucking his helmet
under his arm, he spat on the floor and grinned derisively at his men. “Relax,”
he said. “It won’t come this far.”

“We’re very deep
in the ground,” one of the guards said nervously. He looked younger than the
rest, a stout lad not quite fully grown into his big hands and feet, awkward
and gangly in his armor and weapons.

The oldest of the bunch,
bearing a puckered scar across his face, rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Maybe
the sergeant will let us go lookin’ fer Haggai after duty,” he suggested with a
leer.

The boy blanched.

“Shut up, Mox,”
the sergeant said. “You know the orders.”

“Aye, but I got me
a taste for some—”

Breaking off, he
gestured suggestively with his hands and laughed.

Watching them,
Caelan realized Mox was a gladiator, or had been. No one he’d fought
personally. Strictly second rank, but it explained his lack of military discipline
and the sloppy look of him. But even if his armor needed polishing, he would
fight mean and he would fight dirty.

As for the
sergeant, he was clearly a legion veteran. His ugly face was sunburned and
coarse, weathered from long years on the march, his eyes empty of anything
except his orders. A little nub of skin and scar tissue was all that remained
of one of his ears, and his left cheek was tattooed with the symbol of Faure,
the ancient war god. He might command conscripted dregs such as old gladiators
and green boys, but he was an imperial soldier, and as such he was one of the
toughest, most fearless fighters ever trained.

Caelan made his
calculations. Half closing his eyes, he drew
severance
to him, testing
it, knowing that of late his ability to use it had been erratic. The gladiator
and the sergeant must be the first to die. The boy would panic and might run.
The remaining man looked tough and competent, but Caelan could take him.

“Who’s to do ‘im?”
Mox asked, pulling out a dice cup and rattling it suggestively.

The boy grinned,
then glanced at the sergeant and wiped his expression blank.

“Know ‘im?” Mox
said. “Called ‘im Giant in the arena.”

The sergeant
glanced up from honing his dagger and shot Caelan an appreciative look.
“Gladiator, eh? You’re big enough.”

Mox laughed. “Why,
yer lookin’ at the champion! Weren’t no fighter able to beat ‘im, never. Not a
single defeat in all the time—”

“Shut up, Mox,”
Caelan said, furious at the man’s chatter. Now they would be more on their
guard. He shouldn’t have waited this long to strike.

The sergeant
sighed and leaned over to put his helmet on the floor. Taking off his cloak, he
folded it neatly and efficiently into a square and laid it atop the helmet. He
tested the edge of his dagger with his thumb and eyed Caelan.

“Arena bait, or
not, he’s finished tonight,” the sergeant said. “Hold him.”

“You were told to
wait until the prince left the dungeons,” Caelan said.

The sergeant
sneered. “What the hell’s the difference? Me and my men can’t go off duty till
you’re done.”

Mox rattled his
dice box. “Can we cast lots fer the heart?”

Caelan glared at
the gladiator, and
severed
without waiting for the sergeant’s answer. To
his relief, the swift icy rush of detachment engulfed him, and he went deep
into the coldness.

With every sense
heightened, he gathered his feet beneath him, ready to spring. He watched the
guards approach him and saw their threads of life. The sergeant’s were gnarled
and tough, streaked black from dark deeds. The boy’s were spindly. Mox and the
fourth man moved behind Caelan, and there was no more time to calculate.

As the unnamed
guard gripped Caelan from behind, and the sergeant reached for his hair, Caelan
spun on his knees,
severing
as many threads of life as he could reach.

Screams filled the
air, but Caelan had no time to count who was down and who was still standing.
Sensing a blow from the corner of his eye, he ducked aside, hampered by his
chain.

Roaring curses,
the sergeant slashed at him with his long dagger, nicking Caelan’s shoulder as
he dodged again. It was a shallow cut that stung fiercely. But Caelan ignored
it. He gripped the chain with both hands and heaved against it with all his
strength. His muscles bulged. The linking pin of the chain sheared in half with
a shrill
ping
and went sailing across the room.

Links of chain
slid through the bolt, and Caelan went staggering off balance just as the
sergeant tackled him.

They went
sprawling together in a tangle of arms and legs.

Caelan blocked the
dagger thrust with his elbow, feeling another slice of the point along his arm,
and looped the chain around the sergeant’s throat.

Choking and
struggling, the sergeant tried to knee Caelan, but Caelan was already hauling
himself to his feet, pulling the chain tighter and tighter while the man
shuddered and flailed. The dagger fell to the floor. The sergeant’s face began
to turn scarlet, then purple. Veins bulged in his temple, and his tongue
protruded from his open mouth.

Something sharp
plunged deep into Caelan’s back, catching him just below the rim of his ribs
and slamming upward.

He dropped
severance
and staggered to one side, his strength gone, his breath gone,
the world dancing in shades of black that flickered in and out of his vision.

The chain slid
from his hands, and the sergeant dropped to his knees, making gasping, guttural
noises.

Glancing over his
shoulder, Caelan saw the hilt of a dagger projecting from his low back, and
Mox’s fingers whitening on it as he twisted the blade.

Screaming against
the agony, Caelan turned and swung both his shackled hands together. His
forearm slammed across Mox’s face, knocking him back. It was a foolish blow, a
good way to break his arm against the hard bones of Mox’s skull, but Mox went
sprawling awkwardly. He seemed paralyzed on one side, his left arm and leg not
working right. But he came crawling back, his scarred face contorted, death in
his eyes.

On Caelan’s other
side, the sergeant was still coughing and gasping, but he had pulled the chain
away from his throat and was trying to regain his feet.

Caelan bent, still
reeling from shock and pain, and picked the sergeant’s dagger off the floor.
The world tilted without warning, and Caelan staggered into the wall. The jolt
brought a fresh wave of agony from his back that spread up through his chest.
He struggled to reach the dagger, but his shackles prevented him. If he
strained and twisted with all his might, he could just touch the hilt with his
fingertips. But he could not grip it, could not pull it out.

A sound warned
him. He turned, his reflexes blunted by pain, and the sergeant hit him across
the chest with the heavy chain. The blow crushed the breath from him, breath he
couldn’t afford to lose.

He had black dots
dancing in his vision. He couldn’t draw in more air, couldn’t move. The weapon
wobbled in his slack fingers, and he was barely aware of the sergeant wrenching
it away from him.

The dagger felt
like a log inside his back, brutal and invasive.

“Damn you!” the
sergeant said hoarsely, his voice ruined.

Gripping Caelan by
his shirt front, the sergeant slammed him against the wall.

Brutal pain
exploded inside Caelan as the blow rammed the dagger a little deeper. He tasted
blood in his mouth, and knew he was finished. He met the sergeant’s eyes just
as the sergeant’s weapon flashed up.

Glaring with
hatred, the sergeant held his dagger up where Caelan could see it. “Get your
eyes off mine!” he said. “You’ll use no spells on me, you bastard.”

Pinned against the
wall, Caelan could barely focus on what he was saying. Caelan’s whole
consciousness had centered on the dagger hilt, jammed between his back and the
wall’. Every breath, every movement, every bit of pressure exerted by the
sergeant brought fresh torment.

“Mox! Get up and
help me, damn you!” the sergeant ordered. “Cut open his shirt.”

“Watch ‘im,” Mox
said, dragging himself upright with difficulty and staggering over to them. He
took the sergeant’s dagger and cut open Caelan’s linen shirt.

“Going to cut out
your heart,” the sergeant said, coughing again. He sneered, pushing Caelan
harder into the wall until Caelan felt himself suspended on that single
pinnacle of pain, unable to move or even cry out.

“Hurry, Mox! Damn
you, be quick!”

Snarling, Mox
raised the dagger. “Slit ‘is throat,” he growled.

“No!” the sergeant
said, intervening. “I want him alive while we cut out his heart. I want him to
feel it pumping in another man’s hands. I want him to know when we rip it out
of him.”

Caelan rolled his
head to one side, gasping for breath, feeling the blood bubbling up where it
didn’t belong. All he knew was that he had failed. This time, his strength and
his gifts hadn’t been enough. It didn’t seem fair that he should die like this
down in the grubby depths of a dungeon room, stabbed in the back, chained like
an animal, outnumbered. As a destiny, it was sordid and pathetic. And the
prophecies he’d been told were lies.

He thought of
Elandra, wondering if she would ever know his fate. He longed for her, wished
he could tell her once more how much he loved her.

His only prayer
was that she would be safe.

“Make it quick,”
he said to the sergeant.

The sergeant put
his ugly face close to Caelan’s. “Do you hurt now? Eh? Does that knife in your
back make you want to beg and puke? Well, see how this feels.” He grinned. “All
right, Mox. Make it clean, and make it slow.”

A furious pounding
on the door awakened Elandra. Disoriented and groggy, she pulled herself
upright on the bed while the
jinja
hissed and sniffed the air.

She looked at the
small, golden creature. Its big, luminous eyes met hers. “Safe.”

Iaris, who had
been asleep in a chair, rose and walked over to the door. Her unpinned hair
streamed down her back, making her look younger and more vulnerable. Holding a
lamp in her hand, she spoke to whoever was knocking, then glanced at Elandra.

“It is the guard,”
she said. “He is to escort you to the emp— the prince.”

Elandra’s eyes
widened. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Elandra glanced
involuntarily at the window, seeing her wan reflection shimmering in the
darkness beyond the glass. “What is the hour?”

Iaris yawned. “It
does not matter. Your presence is requested. You will go.”

Defiance tightened
the skin around Elandra’s eyes, but before she could speak, Iaris was striding
toward her.

“Don’t be a fool!”
she snapped. “You are his prisoner, as are we all. Thus far, he has treated you
with the greatest courtesy, but that could change in one snap of his fingers.”
Drawing a gown from Elandra’s journey chest, Iaris flung it at her. “Get
dressed.”

Within the hour,
Elandra was beautifully gowned and her auburn hair was sleeked back in a heavy
coil at the base of her neck. Her topaz hung in its pouch between her breasts,
and she kept her hand on it for comfort as she walked through the corridors of
Tirhin’s villa with her head held high.

Guards were
stationed throughout the house. They snapped to attention as she passed them.
She glanced at their weathered faces, seeing experience and long years of
service in every crease and scar. Crimson cloaks hung from their shoulders,
proclaiming them as the elite Imperial Guard, but most of them had the rough
look of common foot soldiers, as though they had been pulled from the ranks for
Tirhin’s service.

None of them met
her eyes. Elandra kept her expression confident and assured, as though she was
accustomed to being summoned by her sworn enemy in the middle of the night. But
her heart was pounding in short, hard jerks. It was one thing to belittle
Tirhin and defy him in public. It was another to face him alone, without
protectors or allies. She felt as though she were marching to battle, and she
went armed with nothing but her wits and a sleeve knife. If she still possessed
any courage, it seemed to be in tatters at this moment.

“If you have no
bravery, at least pretend to the enemy that you do,” her father used to
instruct his troops.

Elandra clung to
that advice now, wishing her father were walking at her side. But this she must
face alone.

She was escorted
downstairs to the ground floor. The house was all shadows and golden pools of
lamplight, filled with hushed quiet.

Her escort paused
at a pair of carved doors and knocked quietly. The doors were opened a crack.

“The empress,” her
escort said.

The doors swung
inward, and Elandra’s guards stepped aside. In unison they saluted as she
walked alone into the room beyond. Then the doors were closed behind her.

Elandra found
herself in a study. The room was square and small, with a vaulted ceiling.
Animal skins lay upon the polished marble floor. A heavy wooden desk had a map
spread across its surface. A burning lamp cast soft light. Shelves filled with
scroll cases flanked a tall window. Busts of learned philosophers were
displayed on pedestals according to an old-fashioned notion that the likenesses
of great thinkers could impart wisdom. The room smelled of leather and old
parchment.