Shadow War (8 page)

Caelan’s chin
lifted with dignity. “I have his word.”

Without warning
Orlo closed the distance between them and gripped Caelan’s shoulder hard. “And
what is the worth of a promise made to a slave?” he snarled. “Nothing! Nothing
at all.” He gave Caelan a shake and released him. “He doesn’t see you as a man.
You belong to him as his dog belongs to him. As that chair over there belongs
to him. He owes you nothing, do you hear? No matter what you do for him, there
is no obligation from him in return.”

Caelan sighed and
stopped listening. Orlo held some ancient grudge against Tirhin that he never
discussed. For Caelan’s sake, he had returned to the prince’s employ, but he
was never comfortable in Tirhin’s presence. And when the prince was out of
earshot, Orlo could be full of venom and paranoia, just as he was now. Caelan
felt too tired to pay attention to any of it.

“Let me relay this
to you, although Gault knows why I bother,” Orlo said. “Since yesterday, has
the prince been a man happy and carefree? You won a tremendous victory on his
behalf. He has every reason to celebrate, yet beneath the smiles and the charm
there is anger. All the anger that was present before the contest. Did you not
see it?”

“Yes,” Caelan said
reluctantly. “Angry, but hiding it.”

“Do you know why
he’s so angry? Why he’s ridden three horses into the ground and broken their
wind in the last week? Why he’s taken to staying out all hours of the night?
Why he’s so often in the company of that creature Sien?”

Caelan thought of
the bizarre meeting he’d had with the prince and Lord Sien. Hiding a shiver, he
said nothing.

“It is the
coronation,” Orlo said, looking at Caelan as though he had just failed an
examination. “His temper gets more foul with every passing day of the
festivities. The empress threatens his position, and if you’re wise you’ll
avoid getting caught up the middle of this family’s conflicts. No matter what
he promises you.”

Caelan hated
politics. He hated court intrigue. He hated all the gossip conducted by people
who weren’t directly involved.

“The imperial
family’s problems are none of your business,” he said coldly.

Orlo flushed, and
he glared at Caelan with his eyes narrowed. “Let me tell you something. Years
ago, when Tirhin was much younger, and much more impetuous, he tried to rally
the imperial army around him. He intended to bring off a coup d’etat. And I was
at his side.”

Caelan rolled his
eyes and turned away. “I don’t want to hear this.”

Orlo gripped his
arm and pulled him back. “You
will
listen,” he said angrily. “You must!”

Caelan shook him
off, and found himself swaying weakly with the effort. “Why?” he shouted. “Why
should I listen to this parable of yours? I have no need of lessons—”

“I committed
treason for his highness,” Orlo said bleakly, his eyes pinpoints of cold.

“What?” Caelan
said in disbelief. “When?”

“Years ago. I was
young and hotheaded. I was impatient for change. I had just been passed over
for promotion into the Imperial Guard for the second time.” His mouth twisted
with old bitterness. “My family wasn’t good enough. Simple country farmers,
with the stink of manure on their shoes. It didn’t matter how good a soldier I
was or how ably I served. I wasn’t the right sort for the elite Crimson.”

Caelan looked at
him, at his stocky shoulders and bullish neck and square face, and knew all
about class and status. He thought of his own birth and how he had been raised
in Trau. He had resented being the son of a famous and esteemed father. How
spoiled he had been. How disdainfully he had taken so much for granted.

For the first
time, Orlo was baring his soul. Caelan glanced at the door, wishing he could
escape this. He had no desire to hear Orlo’s secrets, not now, not like this.
But when he met Orlo’s eyes, he knew there was no leaving.

“What treason did
you commit?” Caelan asked.

Orlo’s eyes were
on fire. His face contorted with old memories and his hand groped instinctively
for the dagger in his belt. “I killed General Solon, the Lord Commander of the
army,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “At Tirhin’s order, and in cold blood. The
man was defenseless, asleep in his own quarters. I crept in, and stabbed him in
the heart.”

Orlo’s eyes
flinched, and a tide of red colored his face. “I stood over him in the
lamplight, this general who had denied me my dream because of tradition. I had
never met him before, never spoken to him, never been addressed by him. Had he
been awake, he would not have recognized me. He did not know of my existence,
and I took his life.”

Orlo drew his
dagger and held it aloft so that its blade reflected the ruddy dance of
firelight. “This is the weapon. I carry it as my conscience, that I may never
forget the thud of impact, the heat of his blood, or the soft sigh of death
that issued from his lips. This knife is my mark of shame.”

He fell silent,
lost in his own tormented thoughts, turning the knife over and over in his big,
callused hands. No sound disturbed the quiet.

Watching him,
Caelan had no words. He understood revenge. And although he had never killed in
cold blood, he had thought of it. There had been many sleepless nights in his
bunk, thinking of Thyzarene raiders and how to torture them into hell.

Finally Orlo
seemed to come to himself. Still staring at the dagger in his hands, he said, “I
might have burned over the injustice for years, without acting, but the prince
gave me the means. He bribed the door guards and obtained a way for me to enter
the man’s house. He promised me leadership in the army he would reorganize.”

Orlo snorted and
sheathed the dagger. “For fledgling conspirators, we were lucky. The only part
of the plan to succeed was mine. No one else carried out their orders. In the
hue and cry over the unsolved murder of the Lord Commander, the prince’s plans
fell apart. His supporters lost courage, and he departed for the border to
fight the Madruns.”

“And you?” Caelan
prompted.

“I barely escaped
with my life and hid for days, terrified of arrest. His highness abandoned me.”

“But he—”

“Don’t defend him!”
Orlo snapped. “By the gods, you will not find excuses for him in this.”

“You weren’t
caught,” Caelan pointed out. “Did he not have you protected?”

“No. He was long
gone by then, anxious to cover his trail. I spent a year in hiding, skulking
around the provinces, until I was caught for army desertion and flogged. I spun
a believable tale. I wasn’t connected to the murder. At the end of my term, I
didn’t re-enlist. Instead, I took employment in a run-down gladiatorial arena
out in Sarmina. That led to a better job in a bigger town with a bigger arena.
Finally I returned to lmperia.”

“And the prince
made you one of his trainers.”

Orlo’s expression
filled with contempt. “The prince had nothing to do with it. I gained the job
on my own.”

“But you trained
me. You trained his other fighters.”

“I worked for the
public arena,” Orlo said coldly. “When the prince was informed of my skills, he
came to interview me for his service.”

“And he had
forgotten you,” Caelan guessed.

Orlo’s mouth
twisted. “You love a tale, don’t you, boy? No, he had not forgotten me.
Recognition lay in his eyes the moment we looked at each other. He was shocked
and cautious, but he knew I could never denounce him without destroying myself.
I took his money to train occasional fighters for him, but I did not reenter
his service until you came.”

Caelan stared at
this man, who had once been his enemy and who had slowly become a friend. To
see Orlo so vulnerable, so open, disturbed Caelan. He understood now the
cynicism and bitterness, and most of all, the distrust.

“Why did you help
me?” he asked now. He had tried to ask before, but Orlo would never give him an
answer. “Why do this for me? Why trust me now with your secret?”

Orlo frowned and
finally looked away. Something helpless and bewildered lay in his face. “I—I
don’t know,” he said at last. “I cannot explain why I should care what befalls
you. But. . . Ah, gods, what lies in a man, that he can convince others to help
him? Why do the gods give one man qualities that they deny to others? Why have
you succeeded in the arena beyond anyone else? How have you survived, and how
have you kept your spirit that will not be tamed? What makes you different and
unique?”

His expression
deepened into a scowl. Suddenly he looked angry and embarrassed. “I’m a fool,”
he said gruffly.

Caelan was
touched. He reached out, but Orlo flinched away from his hand.

“Why,” Orlo asked
heavily, “did you have me train you?”

“Because you’re
the best trainer in Imperia. You could keep me alive.”

“No. I meant, why
ask for me when you have never heeded anything I’ve said to you?”

“I heed you when
what you say is useful,” Caelan retorted, annoyed again. “Otherwise, I follow
my own judgment.”

Orlo’s gaze
dropped to Caelan’s wounded side. To the side that was now healed by a
mysterious process that Orlo, in his fear of foreign religions and ways,
probably didn’t understand.

“Thank you for
your trust,” Caelan said. “I will not betray your confidence.”

Orlo shot him a
look of despair mingled with exasperation. “You will not learn from it either.”

Caelan had no
answer.

“You will continue
to follow him,” Orlo said bitterly. “You great, stubborn lout. You cannot be
taught. You cannot be shown. You cannot be warned. Always you will do things
your own way.”

“My way works best
for me,” Caelan said softly. “All my life others have tried to shape me to
their will. I cannot do that.”

“Then he
will
destroy you,” Orlo said. “Perhaps he will even get you killed. Be damned, then,”
he muttered, and flung himself out.

Caelan turned
around too fast, nearly lost his balance as his knees went wobbly on him, and
sat heavily on the bed to save himself from falling. For a few seconds he was
so dizzy he had to grip the side of the bed; then his head cleared again.
Breathing hard, he wiped sweat from his face.

The door opened
quietly. Inwardly Caelan groaned, and he forced himself to lift his head. “Orlo,
I—”

It was not Orlo
who returned, but the healer. For the first time the man stepped into the light
where Caelan could see him clearly. It was Agel. His cousin and boyhood friend,
whom Caelan had not seen since being expelled from Rieschelhold, the school of
healing arts.

Agel... the
steady, dependable one ... grown to manhood now ... more gaunt and austere than
handsome. His face had the etched clarity of an ascetic. He stood tall and
still, his hands folded out of sight in the wide sleeves of his white robe.

Caelan lost his
breath. Thoughts tumbled through his mind without making sense. He had believed
he would never see any of his family again, yet now he had found Agel. It was a
miracle, a return of hope.

Consumed with
happiness, Caelan smiled and tried to speak. But his throat choked up, and
unmanly tears blurred his vision. Caelan averted his face sharply, struggling
to master himself.

Agel’s hand
settled gently on his shoulder. “You are overwrought,” he said. “Rest and let
the healing finish.”

Caelan gripped
Agel’s hand in both of his. “I cannot believe you are here,” he said in Trau,
his words running  eagerly over each other. “I have often thought of you,
wondered how you did and where you were. And now, to find you here, in Imperia,
is—”

“Rest,” Agel said.
His voice remained calm and serene. He continued to speak in Lingua, and his
hand lay slack in Caelan’s grip. “Loss of temper destroys the balance of
harmony, and healing cannot finish. I should have denied you all visitors until
you were stronger.”

Caelan stared at
him. There was no joy, no recognition in Agel’s face. When Caelan’s fingers
loosened, Agel withdrew his hand and tucked it back inside his sleeve. Caelan’s
happiness faded, to be replaced by sharp hurt.

“Don’t you know
me?” he whispered. “Cousin, I am—”

“Yes, Caelan, I
know you.”

Caelan waited, yearning
for more, but Agel said nothing. His eyes betrayed nothing. It was as though
Beva had returned—cold, detached, unfeeling. Agel was living in
severance,
too distant to touch.

“Is there nothing
you will say?” Caelan asked hoarsely.

“You should lie
down and sleep.”

“Damn you!” Caelan
shouted. He shoved himself furiously to his feet.

Agel blinked and
took an involuntary step back.

That angered
Caelan more. “How in Gault’s name can you do this to me? We were friends, the
closest. We grew up together. We were—Is there nothing left between us?
Nothing? You are all the family I have left. Can you not even say ‘well met’ to
me? Can you not give me something?”

Agel’s expression
did not change. He met Caelan’s eyes steadily. “What would you have me say?”

“Oh, something
like ‘Caelan, I’m relieved to find you alive. Caelan, I’m glad to see you.
Caelan, let us sit a while and talk of old times.’ Something along those lines.
Nothing too emotional. I wouldn’t want you to lose harmony.”

Agel might have
been a stone. He watched Caelan lurch to the foot of the bed and grab a bedpost
for support. He did not move.

“Discussing the
past is unproductive,” he said. “The events have occurred. They cannot be
undone. As for regrets, they are a waste of time. You chose the course of your
life, as I have chosen mine.”

“I did
not
choose this!” Caelan said violently. “Gods, do you think I crawled into the
city and begged them to make a slave of me?”