The Eternal Flame (11 page)

Rudely shoved from behind, Brionna started moving again. Not before she looked back at the imprisoned curlew, though. And made a silent promise that, if she ever found some way to free herself, she would also free him.

She traded glances with Lleu, whose expression showed that he was equally aghast. Catha, meanwhile, continued to flutter her wings and snap her beak angrily. Only the certainty that she would be shot down by one of the archers kept her perched on Lleu’s shoulder. And yet her actions made clear that she longed to plunge into battle, seeking bloody revenge—just like the person for whom she was named, the fierce warrior Babd Catha.

Shim, trudging beside the elf maiden, seemed to be in a daze. Yet Brionna could tell by his constant mutterings that he understood something had gone badly wrong. She wished, as she looked over at him, that he were suddenly his giant self again.
As high as the highliest tree,
as he would say.

Just as they arrived at the large stone building, she turned to face Morrigon. He grinned smugly at her—even as he rubbed his unnaturally pink eye. She glared back, thinking,
I know what you are. A changeling! And I will find some way to stop you, if it’s the only thing I do before I die.

“On yer guard, men!” commanded Morrigon. “Whilst I go and report to Olo Belamir, ye can take these bags o’ dung to the
guest quarters
.” He chortled at his own choice of words. “And do yer best to make them feel ‘specially comfortable.”

With a sneer at Brionna, he added, “We’d like them to stay fer a long, long time.”

Into the building they shuffled, always surrounded by wary archers. Although the eyes of Brionna, Lleu, and Catha roved constantly, searching for some way to escape, they found nothing. The guards lit a pair of torches, then led them along one darkened hallway after another until they reached a stone stairwell. Down the dank steps, slippery with slime, they marched. Even if she hadn’t seen their descent, Brionna could tell, from the chill in her elven bones, that they were deep underground.

When at last they reached the bottom, the men shoved them into a dark, windowless cell. Its only dim light came from a torch, jammed into a niche in the stones outside the cell’s barred door. Beneath the torch, one of the men planted himself on a stone bench—after he threw Brionna’s longbow and quiver into a dark corner by the stairs.

“Ye won’t be needin’ them anymore, elf-girl,” he said with a loud guffaw.

Before she could even begin to respond, another man slammed the cell door closed. He slid the heavy iron bolt. The men’s crude laughter echoed in the stairwell as they departed, leaving behind the guard on the bench.

“Well, me guests,” rasped the guard with a smirk. “Too bad we fergot about yer dinner.”

He kicked at the floor, spraying flecks of mud through the bars of their cell door. “Unless o’ course ye can eat dirt.” With another guffaw, he pulled his own dinner out of his satchel: a large flask of foul-smelling brew. And then, with no further thought of the prisoners, he began to drink.

13
•
Pincers and Fangs

Within the cell, Brionna spun around angrily. Moving with the easy agility of her people, she sat down on the dirt floor and crossed her legs. She sighed, her expression shifting from rage to dejection.

As she leaned back against the rough stones, she could feel her old scar from the slave master’s whip.
As terrible as that time was,
she thought glumly,
at least I could still see the stars and breathe the open air.

Far less gracefully, Shim slumped down beside her. Across the cell, Lleu remained standing. The gangly priest rested his shoulder against the wall, as if he could somehow push it aside like an unlocked door. Catha stayed motionless on her customary perch, her eyes unusually dull.

“That Morrigon,” grumbled the elf. “He’s the changeling, I’m sure of it.”

“By the light of Dagda,” exclaimed Lleu. “That eye of his! I’m sure you’re right.”

Shaking his head, Lleu slid down to the floor and folded his arms across his chest. “If only we could somehow break out of here and find Belamir. If he knew the truth, he would be horrified. He’d no sooner tolerate a changeling in his midst than he’d allow himself to be used as a pawn for Kulwych—and Rhita Gawr—at the battle of Isenwy.”

Brionna shrugged. “You have more faith in that man than I do. He’s the founder of Humanity First, remember?”

“Yes, but he is also wiser than his movement has become. Much due to that changeling, I’ll wager. If only I could speak to him! I’m sure he would help us.”

“Face the truth, Lleu. We have totally failed! We never should have come here to this village. Now we’re just going to rot in this cell while our friends all risk their lives to defend Avalon.”

Lleu chewed his lip for a while before answering. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, yet steady. “As long as we are alive, there’s still a chance we can find some way to talk to Belamir. And convince him not to send his followers to Isenwy. Brionna, there’s just too much at stake to give up now.”

She said nothing.

Hours passed. The sullen group remained silent. Only the snores of the guard, sprawled on the bench in a drunken stupor, broke the stillness.

“Owww,” cried Shim suddenly. He rolled aside, grabbing his rump. “I’ve been stingded!”

Brionna glanced over at the spot where he’d been sitting. Spying a round hole in the dirt floor of the cell, big enough to fit her thumb, she shook her head. “Gouger ants,” she said sympathetically. “They bite hard.”

“Especially when someone sits on top of their front door,” added Lleu.

Shim scrunched his nose as he patted his tender posterior. A trickle of blood stained his torn leggings. “Those antly beasts! Gave me a bigsy bite, they did.” He gave Brionna a forlorn look. “And Rowanna, I was just thinksing it couldn’t get any worse.”

“Don’t worry, Shim. We’ll get out of here somehow.” Yet even as Brionna spoke the words, she knew she didn’t believe them.

Nor did Shim, apparently. Whether or not he’d heard what she said, he hung his head miserably.

“Well, well, so these are my new guests.”

Everyone in the cell turned to see the source of the deep, gracious voice. Standing just outside the barred door, next to the sleeping guard, stood a white-haired man in a gray robe smudged with dirt. A string of garlic bulbs hung around his neck, while trowels, clippers, and other garden tools hung from the hooks and pockets of his robe. Dirt packed every wrinkle of his weathered hands, right down to his broken thumbnail.

“Belamir!” Lleu’s delighted cry echoed inside the cell. The priest leaped to his feet, so quickly that Catha barely hung on to his shoulder. “We must speak with you.”

The old man smiled, his face creasing like plowed furrows. “I am happy to hear what you have to say.” The smile faded. “Although I have been told that you came here to harm me.”

“No, that’s not true.” Lleu wrapped his hands around the bars on the cell door. “We have come only to help you! To keep you from unwittingly serving that warlord of the Otherworld, Rhita Gawr.”

The gardener stiffened. “Hanwan Belamir is no servant of Rhita Gawr.”

“But your man Morrigon is.” Brionna rose and took a step toward the door. Her eyes burning with intensity, she declared, “For he is no man at all. He is a
changeling.”

Clearly shocked, Belamir faltered, placing his dirt-crusted hand against the door for support. “A . . . what?”

“A changeling,” repeated the elf maiden. “He has influenced your followers, and perhaps you as well, to do some terrible things.”

“Such as destroying the Drumadian compound,” interjected Lleu. “And gravely wounding High Priestess Coerria.”

Even more taken aback, Belamir’s whole face twisted. He looked deeply pained, so much that he seemed about to burst into tears.

Instead, he burst into laughter. Hearty, bellowing laughter.

The captives watched him, aghast. When at last he stopped, he studied them from the other side of the cell door, his eyes dancing with mirth. “You think that Morrigon’s swollen eye means he is a changeling?”

“Yes,” insisted Brionna and Lleu as one.

“Well then,” said the gardener in a much quieter voice, “what if I told you that I already know about the changeling in my village? That I already perceive his every move?”

“You do?” asked Lleu, releasing the bars. “Then why haven’t you stopped him?”

“And destroyed him,” added Brionna.

Hanwan Belamir drew a long, thoughtful breath. “Because, my dear guests, the changeling in my village . . . is
me.”

As Lleu and Brionna both stumbled back in surprise, he broke into more laughter. Then, waving his badly broken thumbnail before their faces, he whispered, “A swollen eye is not the flaw you should have noticed.”

A sudden gasp came from outside the cell. The guard! He had woken up—just in time to hear the most startling news of his life. He started to rise from the stone bench.

Instantly, Belamir shifted shape and pounced on the wretched man. He had no time to cry out. So fast did the changeling move, even keen-eyed Brionna couldn’t see more than a blur of claws, fangs, and spurting blood.

Three seconds later, the mutilated body of the guard lay sprawled on the floor. And the gracious old man in the gardener’s robe stood again outside the cell, panting only slightly. Yet now all traces of kindness had vanished from his face.

“Wretched fools,” he hissed. “All of you! Humans, so easily perverted by arrogance and greed. Elves, so oblivious to the world beyond their borders. Eaglefolk, so full of pride and their precious sense of honor.”

He spat on the bloodstained floor. “That is what I think of all of you! And soon it won’t matter what I think, for Kulwych and I will destroy every last one of you.”

He leaned closer, spittle dripping from his lips. “You consider yourselves so intelligent. So very clever. Yet one lone changeling is more clever than all of you put together! How else did I create this entire village? And this movement, this mockery of human superiority? How else, good priest, did I dupe your former colleague Llynia into doing my bidding?”

A smile of satisfaction on his face, he made a gentlemanly bow. “Now, dear guests, I must leave you. I prefer to let you die here, in all your wretchedness, than to kill you straightaway.” He wiped his lips on his sleeve. “For I will soon have the pleasure of killing many more of your kinds—on the fields of Isenwy.”

With that, the changeling turned and climbed the stone stairs, taking care to hobble like an elderly man. Brionna and Lleu watched, stunned by what they had seen and heard. Eventually, they sank back down to the floor. Shim, who had witnessed enough to understand, merely shook his head morosely.

For quite some time—hours, perhaps—no one spoke. Their dejection swelled, filling the cell like a thick fog. Even the shadows around them seemed to darken.

Finally, Shim raised his voice. He didn’t speak about changelings. Or battles. Or cruel turns of fate.

“I is hungrily,” he moaned. “Very, very hungrily.”

Brionna frowned at him. Out of kindness, though, she dug into her robe and pulled out a small square of elvish waybread. Holding it out to the little fellow, she said, “Here. My last piece.”

Shim peered at her gratefully.

Doing her best to grin, Brionna added, “For my favorite uncle.”

Although he may not have heard her words, the little fellow certainly understood her gesture. His eyes widened at the sight of food, even such a tiny morsel. Apparently forgetting about his sore rump, he nodded eagerly and stretched out his hand.

Just then Brionna snapped back her arm. She held the waybread to her chest.

Grimacing, Shim sputtered, “Now, now, Rowanna. That’s a cruelsy thing to do.”

“He’s right,” grumbled the priest from his place by the wall. “That’s not like you, Brionna.”

“That’s because,” she declared with sudden urgency, “I have an idea.”

Turning over onto her hands and knees, she placed a tiny crumb of waybread at the edge of the ants’ hole. Immediately a large, armored ant with powerful pincers emerged, snatched the crumb, and dropped back into the hole.

As her companions looked on with bewilderment (and, in Shim’s case, disappointment), she crumbled more of the waybread. Rising to her feet, she stepped over to the cell door and placed the crumbs all around the iron bolt, taking care to push them into any cracks, however small. She pushed several into the edges of the holes for the spikes that fastened the bolt to the door. Finally, she moved back toward the ants’ tunnel in the floor, dropping her last few bits of waybread along the route.

At the instant she placed the very last crumb at the rim of the hole, several ants poured out. Dozens more followed, driven to a frenzy by the prospect of so much food. As Shim squealed in fright and backed away, the aggressive ants quickly crossed the floor and scaled the door, pincers digging out whatever crumbs they could find. As they swarmed over the iron bolt, splinters and chips of stone rained down onto the dirt.

When the ants had finished devouring every last particle of food, they marched back to their hole and plunged inside. Watching them go, Brionna grinned ever so slightly. Then she strode over to the door and struck it with a swift kick.

The bolt burst free of its fastenings and clattered to the floor. At the same time, the door swung open, creaking on its hinges. They were free.

Catha shrieked with delight, ruffling her wingfeathers. Lleu and Shim both gazed at Brionna with gratitude, although the shrunken giant’s face also showed a hint of longing for his lost waybread. The elf maiden signaled for everyone to stay quiet, then led them out of the cell.

Gingerly, they stepped over the gory remains of the guard. Then, pausing only long enough for Brionna to retrieve her longbow and arrows, they crept back up the stairs. Because it was now the middle of the night, they saw no one but a sleeping sentry near the building’s entrance. With little difficulty, they slipped past him and out into the village, whose buildings gleamed dully from the light of the stars.