Transformation (10 page)
Authors: Carol Berg
I had no doubt he would, though I hoped exhaustion might slow him down a bit. I talked very rapidly. “Before you do so, my lord, I will tell you one fact, and if I’m wrong, you may do with me as you will. Of course you can do with me as you will anyway, but ...” I stopped and cursed myself for a babbling fool, then began again.
“In some hour just before you were struck with this malady of sleeplessness, you had a visitor in these chambers. My guess is that this visitor brought you a gift—something of brass or bronze or porcelain. He put it directly in your hand. Very shortly thereafter, he found the need to light a candle or pull a burning twig from your fire. You may or may not have noticed him draw a pattern in the air with the fire. It may have just looked like he was using his hands to express himself and had forgotten he held it. Shall I tell you who was this visitor, my lord? And shall I tell you the word he spoke when he touched the fire?”
The Prince sat motionless. “I have many visitors and receive many gifts. If there’s meaning to this blathering, you’d best get to it while you have a tongue that works.”
I sagged in relief. If I had guessed wrong, I would be on my way to the flogging post at best.
“If I can discover this gift ... this artifact ... my lord, will you listen to what else I can tell you about it?”
“I do not bargain with slaves.”
“It’s not a bargain. Of course not. I only beg hearing and believe that my act will lend weight to my words.”
“Show me.”
I bowed, then stood up and picked up the candle. After a moment’s preparation—a clearing of the mind and a shifting of focus that would allow me to see and hear with deeper senses—I began to walk around the large, quiet room. I shone the candle on every surface, on every bit of glass or metal, examining every bottle, every decoration, the painted dishes with remnants of an early breakfast, bells, rings, the box of ulyat stones and pegs, scattered jewelry, the Prince’s sword belt thrown on the floor, the clasp on his fur robe dropped beside it, the riding crop and gloves tossed on a table. My ordinary senses became aware of someone speaking to me, but I was not listening for voices, so I didn’t hear what he was saying.
The skills I used were not sorcery. My power was long dead, methodically and deliberately destroyed in the first days of my captivity. But I had been trained from age five to see and hear, taste and smell with acuity well beyond the usual, to detect the irregularities in the weaving of the world caused by enchantment. One could not live every moment with such sensitivity; the barrage of sensation would be exhausting, akin to living inside of a pounding drum or drowning in an artist’s paint pot. And so I had also learned to shift back and forth between ordinary senses and extraordinary, only calling on those heightened skills when needed.
There ... what was that? I stepped to the small writing desk by the window, and quiet, gut-twisting music sounded faintly in my head. Closer. I held the candle high and the soft light gleamed on the polished finish of the desk. Where was it? The music was louder, wrenching, teeth-on-edge dissonance, where the next note you expected to hear fell sour upon the ear and the soul.
Quickly ... before it deafens you. Demon music eats the mind away.
Quickly ... before it deafens you. Demon music eats the mind away.
I pulled open the drawer and found it, a heavy brass seal with an ivory handle that would imprint the same Derzhi lion and falcon as Aleksander’s ring when pressed into hot wax. A larger seal than his ring, designed to be used for official documents of the Empire. A mark of his coming majority when he would become his father’s voice and not just his father’s son. The waves of enchantment pulsing from the handsome thing made my skin itch and my spine cold. I shifted my focus again, picked up the heavy piece, and turned to Aleksander, who stood not five paces behind me, staring at the thing in my hand.
“Here, my lord. This is what the Khelid gave you.”
“What witchery is this, Ezzarian?” said the Prince softly. I could not see his face in the dark. “Were you not put through the Rites as I was told? Or is this some more ordinary treachery?”
Stupid to think he would accept my word. “I have been through the Rites of Balthar, my lord. I have no power of any kind, nor any way to use it. But there are skills ... practiced skills no different than fencing or riding or dancing ... that the Rites cannot take away. That’s what I used to find this thing.”
“What has this gift to do with this sickness of mine? Choose your words carefully, slave. I am not the fool you take me for.”
Careful! I almost laughed. I had abandoned sixteen years of caution the moment I stepped into his rooms. Stupid fool. To stick one finger in a boiling pot and, because I did not immerse my whole hand, believe I would remain unburned. Every lesson of my life demanded I remain mute.
“I’ve seen this kind of affliction before. I recognized the signs of it these three days. Such enchantments are carried on artifacts that have been triggered with fire. This is where you sleep. It had to be here. Throw it in the fire for an hour and the enchantment will be broken.”
“And why would you tell me this? Don’t say it’s because you love me well. Think you to get an extra ration tonight? Or perhaps a silken pillow or a pliant female for your slave-house bed? Do you think because I’ve missed a few hours’ sleep that I’ll believe the first lunatic story that a cowardly, sniveling slave tells me?”
Before I could attempt an answer, the back of his hand sent me stumbling backward. My shoulder struck the corner of the writing desk, and I ended up in a heap at its feet. The ivory and brass seal flew out of my hand and clattered onto the tile floor beyond the carpet.
“I don’t believe in sorcery, slave.” His boot caught me in the side, before I could roll up to protect my more vulnerable parts. “You think you’re very clever ... yes, I’ve seen it. You watch me and judge me, and here is the result of it. I told you that you think too much, but you didn’t heed my warning.” His boots were very heavy, and his feet were very quick and very strong. “ ‘Tell the story to the fool of a Derzhi,’ you thought. ‘Tell him it’s the Khelid, for he doesn’t trust them. He’ll sleep soon enough, and he’ll believe it was his slave who saved him. He’ll thank me.’ Is that how it goes?”
He kept at me with both words and boots. I began to lose track of the words in a fog of dizziness and pain. I couldn’t blame him, of course. What reason would he have to believe a slave would try to help him? Yet even as the darkness came rolling over me, I was satisfied. At least I would see no demon’s eyes that night.
Chapter 7
It was a dreadful mistake to move my head. Something hard and pointed was poking into my eye, and I thought that if I moved my head, it would stop. But though the hard pointed thing—which was the steel band about my wrist and the chain attached to it—was no longer poking in my eye, the movement woke me up enough to realize that every bone, muscle, and bit of flesh I owned hurt. Even my hair felt bruised.
I did not have to open my eyes to know where I was. Not that it would have been all that revealing to open my eyes; there wasn’t going to be any light in Durgan’s hole. Besides, it was going to hurt. It would be marvelous if I could just drift back to sleep or insensibility, or wherever I had been since Prince Aleksander had reminded me of how stupid one could be when one tried to care about issues like good and evil. Issues far beyond the control of a slave.
Of course, once I was awake enough to think of all these things, I realized how parched I was and how cold. Not hungry—or at least I couldn’t tell whether the dull ache in my belly was hunger or a royal boot print. Thus began a long deliberation on whether it was worth the misery of moving to find out if Durgan had left me a cup of water when he dumped me back in my cell. Thirst won. Thirst is very powerful.
Someone must have been listening for sounds of life. I emitted several inadvertent groans as I groped about the little cell and found no tin cup, and not long afterward, the trapdoor flew open. From out of the blinding light descended the very cup on its usual hook and rope. I clutched it tightly and eased myself to sitting by the wall. “Thank you,” I said, the words coming out somewhere between a croak and a moan. I let the immediate discomfort subside before I began to drink. Better to enjoy it as much as possible.
One sip at a time. Make it last. Savor it.
One sip at a time. Make it last. Savor it.
I collapsed back into oblivion about the time I finished the water. A blessed result.
I don’t know how long it was before the trapdoor opened again. I believe I was somewhat out of my head. The square of light wouldn’t stay still.
“Ezzarian, come up,” said the harsh whisper from the light. “Move your feet, slave.”
I peered carefully into the darkness beyond my aching belly, but saw only dancing spots of light. “Can’t find my feet.”
“Hush, fool, and get up here.”
The words made no sense, so I rolled over and closed my eyes. Before I could sleep again, two large rough hands were pulling me off the dirt and straw and shoving me up the ladder. The straw at the top of the ladder was much cleaner than that at the bottom, so I crawled out of the door and burrowed straight into it, trying to get warm.
“Come on, boy,” whispered the man who followed me out of the cell. “You’ve had a rough go, but you’ve got to get your head clear. Here—” He threw something at me. A thin blanket that stank of horse ... the finest thing I’d felt in forever. “Wrap up and get over there by the fire. We’ve got to get you cleaned up. He wants you in five minutes.”
His urgency could not penetrate my daze, and he had to half carry, half drag me down the aisle between the rows of sleeping men. He dropped me beside his little brazier, then poured a dram of brandy down my throat. I gasped and heaved and coughed. It had been sixteen years since I had tasted anything stronger than sour ale, and I wasn’t sure that I was going to get a breath ever again.
“Is that better?”
“Don’t know,” I said, my voice scorched away. It was very good brandy.
“Here, get warm and eat this. I’ll get some water to clean you up.” He crammed a piece of soft bread in one of my hands and a lump of cheese in the other, then hurried away. The first bite of the bread gave me a hint of how long it had been since I’d eaten. Both bread and cheese were gone before Durgan was back. He had a knife in his hand.
I scrambled backward, clumsy, toppling a barrel just behind me, ending up in a quivering heap, my gut hurting so ferociously, I wasn’t sure I would be able to move again.
Durgan squinted at me, then at the knife in his hand. “Awake now are you? Come back here. I said we’re going to clean you up.”
“Clean ...” Slowly I crept back toward the fire. “The food. Thank—”
“Don’t say it. I do only as I’m told.” He thrust the old, dull knife into my hand and set a bucket of water on the fire. “You take care of the hair. I’ll see what I can do about the blood. You’re a mess. The Prince won’t like it.” To my great regret he yanked the blanket off my shoulders.
It must have looked very strange. One very large man, fully dressed, and one skinny man, quite undressed, huddled next to the tiny fire, whispering so as not to wake up a hundred snoring slaves. I hacked off a week’s growth of hair, trying not to cut myself while Durgan ham-handedly dabbed at the broken, bruised skin on my forehead, shoulders, legs, and back. Every mezzit of my skin was mottled black, blue, and sickly green. I was happy I didn’t have to worry about shaving. When we were both done, and I sat shivering, Durgan pointed to his steaming bucket. Not quite believing my good luck, I scooped the delightfully warm water and doused my head, which did wonders for my spirits until my head was clear enough to remember how I’d come to be in such sorry state.
“Enough,” said the slave master, throwing me a white tunic. “You’re to go to the Prince’s chambers ... discreetly.”
“Can you tell me—?”
“I don’t know anything. Just to send you up. You’ll be met.”
I set off through the dark, quiet courtyard, wading ankle deep in snow and trying to settle myself.
Don’t think. Don’t wonder. Just go. Just do. What comes, comes, and you will survive it or not.
It was much more difficult to follow my own command when every creaking step was a reminder of my last venture into the Prince’s presence. I still saw two of everything, and had so many throbbing bruises that the darkness pulsed red in the same rhythm as my heartbeat. How could I have been such a fool?
Don’t think. Don’t wonder. Just go. Just do. What comes, comes, and you will survive it or not.
It was much more difficult to follow my own command when every creaking step was a reminder of my last venture into the Prince’s presence. I still saw two of everything, and had so many throbbing bruises that the darkness pulsed red in the same rhythm as my heartbeat. How could I have been such a fool?
Discreetly, Durgan had said. That was difficult in a palace that housed a thousand people, most of whom were there solely to wait upon the very same man I was supposed to meet. It must have been the depths of first watch, or just after the change to second, somewhere about the fourth hour past midnight. It was probably the only quiet hour in the palace. The great stoves in the kitchens stood like tombs in the darkness. The fires would not be relit for another hour. The passageways and staircases were deserted, only a few small lamps left burning to chase away the deepest midnight. Evening revels were being slept off in drunken stupor or languorous exhaustion. Lovers had stolen back to their beds, and slaves were lost in their own particular nightmares. Only the guards outside the Prince’s doors stood awake and alert, though three gold-clad attendants were slumped over on their velvet benches, given up on any more midnight whims of their prince. I hung back behind a pillar at the top of the stair, wondering how I was to get past the guards discreetly, when a hand fell on my shoulder. I almost leaped out of my skin.
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