He looked around. There were a dozen more cells in this wing, and he could see into the closest ones. That one was Brega’s, who glared at him as the water lapped around her neck. She had been stripped of her robes and her face was exposed. Her skin was dark, tawny, marred by a scar that ran from her forehead down the side of nose to tug up her lip in a permanent sneer. Her features were too broad and too heavy. She was quite ugly.
He was staring. That’s why she glared at him. He wasn’t supposed to see her face. He looked away.
They threw a bucket of freezing water over him.
It snatched his breath away, leaving him gasping and spluttering.
They gave him a bar of something. Small, oval, that fit in his palm. It smelt scented, like a perfume.
“Soap,” one of the elfs said, then mimed rubbing it over himself. Tom obeyed, covering himself it in. It turned foamy on his body, covering him with a slick, slippery slime. He didn’t like it. But it smelt better than he had. They took it away and then threw another bucket of water over him. One of the elfs sniffed at him then shrugged.
He was led away, to the table down the hall where they gambled and drank. The table was covered in dice, tankards, spills.
They gave him a towel. It was hard and thin but he could dry himself properly. Not the semi-dry between tides. Actually dry. His fingers were wrinkled and swollen.
They gave him fresh clothes, from his own bags, clean and sharp trousers and a beautiful green shirt from Faerie. They gave him back his boots.
“Thank you,” he said. The words came out before he could stop them. These were the elfs that had made him suffer for days. But now they were giving him things. It was hard not to feel grateful.
They took him away, past more cells, all full, and then up a long flight of stairs and into the castle itself. The Erhenni style seemed to be elaborate carvings in corners and doorways, unobtrusive but all the more elegant for that. Where walls met floors and ceilings there was a explosion of art, rolling waves and leaping fish. Doorways were home to sinister merrow or noble heroes bearing tridents and nets. The elfs seemed more concerned with the flat, plain stone of those walls, floors and ceilings. Rich rugs were thrown down, busts and statues were erected. The Western flag, white with blue stars, was hung everywhere. There were few humans in the castle. Just elfs, eyeing Tom as he was escorted upwards. The stairs were unending, it seemed, and Tom was exhausted. He wanted to ask for a rest but he knew he wouldn’t get one. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. At least he wasn’t wet.
The castle grew emptier as they climbed while the Western luxuries grew thicker. Beautiful and expensive chairs sat in hallways, occupied by no-one. Shelves were filled with books that no-one was looking at. Finally they stopped on one floor. Here it looked like luxury had exploded, showering the plain stone with rugs and hangings and busts and paper. Two elfs stood by the stairwell, guarding the entire floor. They spoke to his gaolers in elfish then took Tom from them. They escorted him to a door, a plain, thick wooden thing with an elfish painting hung on it, and pushed him into the room.
The bed was too big, clearly brought in by the elfs. It took up nearly all of the room. But there was little else here anyway. A bucket of water. A pile of books. A plate of half-eaten food that made Tom’s stomach growl in anger. The window brought in the smell and sounds of the damned sea; even here there was no escaping it.
“Tom.” Six got off the bed and gave him a smile. Was that guilt in his eyes? “Thank Oen’s grace. I was worried.”
Tom didn’t know why he was here or what part Six had played in their capture. But it felt too good to speak to someone. He accepted Six’s hug. Part of him told him he shouldn’t. But it was a relief to see the elf.
“I can see you’ve been suffering too.” The bitter comment escaped before he could stop it.
Six stepped away. “They’re treating me well,” he said. “But I’m a prisoner.”
“Do you know where we’re being kept?”
Six nodded. “Gerwyn told me.”
Tom flicked his eyebrows up. It was all that was needed. Six knew he wouldn’t get any sympathy.
“Sit,” the elf said and Tom did. The mattress was soft, the fur on top warm and thick. He wanted to curl up in it and sleep for days.
But he needed information. “What’s going on?”
“Gerwyn has Neirin on this floor too,” Six said. “He’s trying to get a confession out of him. I can’t imagine he’s struggling.”
“Why?”
“Neirin is too proud of what he’s doing to lie about it.” Six sat too, but on the floor. He pushed aside some books to do so. “Neirin will probably remain a political prisoner. I’ll probably be executed.”
“Or pardoned.”
Six frowned. “Pardoned? Why?”
Tom shrugged. “What about Draig?”
Six looked stricken. “So they haven’t told you?”
He was dead. Tom sighed and let his head drop. “No. We didn’t know.”
“I’m sorry, Tom.”
“Sorry won’t change anything.”
“No.”
Tom recited Emyr’s prayer to himself. The father and the prayers, and fasting and charities, and calmness of the soul until death. He hoped it had been quick for Draig. He was a good elf. He didn’t deserve to suffer.
“We should have left someone with him,” he said.
“No-one could have foreseen this.”
“We should have.” Tom looked up. “We knew the Harbour was occupied. It was only a matter of time before we were discovered.”
“Discovered?” Six frowned. “Tom, what do you think happened?”
“A patrol found our camp,” he said. “Killed Draig, released our prisoner, took us hostage.”
Six shook his head. “Tom, no. Draig isn’t dead,” he said. “Draig was the one who betrayed us.”
Tom’s first emotion was relief. Draig lived. But a traitor? “No,” he said. It wasn’t possible. Not Draig. He was too loyal. Too honest. “You’re wrong.”
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” Six said. “He’s been there for all of my interrogations. He’s helping Gerwyn.”
“He’s being coerced then.”
Six shook his head. “I’m sorry, Tom. He’s not. He sold us to the Western Kingdom.”
It was such a preposterous idea that Tom laughed. “Why would he do that, Six? Betray his own people? For what? Draig doesn’t care about riches and glory. He believes in decent things, like honour and loyalty. He swore an oath to Neirin’s father. He wouldn’t turn his back on that.”
Six opened his mouth to answer but the door opened and two elfs pointed to Tom. “You. Come with us.”
Tom stood up and looked down at Six, still on the floor. Opportunistic Six, who they’d found hiding in a duchy tavern. Perhaps he’d already been planning to sell them to the West. Perhaps that’s why he’d run when he saw them. “Perhaps Brega was right,” he said. “Perhaps it was you.”
“Tom.” There was hurt in Six’s voice. But Tom turned away and followed the guards out of the room. His foresight of Ambrose had been wrong. Keeping Six close wasn’t important. It was a mistake.
They took him further down the corridor and into another room. This was three times the size of Six’s chamber but it felt no less cramped, crammed as it was with statues and busts, tables and chairs, stuffed animals and paintings propped against walls. The Erhenni decoration was drowning under Western trinkets and Tom got the feeling that was the idea.
Proctor Gerwyn and Neirin sat at a long, low table. Neirin gave Tom a stiff nod. He looked miserable, angry and a little broken. His shoulders were hunched as if he wanted to curl into a ball. Gerwyn was more open, lounging in his seat, a glass held in one hand while the other waved Tom forward.
“Ah, Thomas,” he said, as if greeting an old friend. “Thank you for joining us.”
As if he’d had a choice.
“Wine?” Gerwyn’s white and blue robes looked t
oo elegant for him, like he was dressing up. He was short for an elf, of a height with Tom, his golden skin pale and his smile oily. It made his offer seem sinister. “We have grapes too.”
Sinister or not, Tom was starving. “Grapes, if you wouldn’t mind, my lord.”
Gerwyn nodded and Neirin passed him the bowl. Tom noticed Neirin kept looking to his right and Tom followed his gaze. On that wall, amongst the Western clutter, hung the Easterner’s skull masks. All of them. Gerwyn had taken the bones of their ancestors and turned them into ornaments.
“Gruesome, aren’t they?” Gerwyn have an airy laugh. “But no other Proctor has genuine Eastern masks. I suppose that makes up for their morbid air.”
There would be no clemency or mercy from this elf.
“Neirin and I have been negotiating the terms of the Angles’ surrender.” Gerwyn spoke as if it were a trivial thing, waving his glass around with disinterest. Neirin looked like he’d been kicked in the gut. “But such things are tedious. I thought we might take a break to deal with you.”
“Deal with me?” Tom took a handful of grapes and ate them all at once. Gerwyn wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“It is my understanding that, until Neirin here forced you to help him, you were a member of Duke Regent’s household?”
Tom didn’t argue. He just ate grapes. They were sweet and wet and delicious. It was heaven. He tried not to smile.
“Well, I wrote to Regent to inform him we had rescued his man from the Eastern clutches. He has requested you be returned to him.”
Returned to Regent. Like a thing. Like a lost shoe.
He imagined returning to that cell.
“You would do that?” he asked. “Let me go?”
“But of course, dear Thomas.” Gerwyn smiled. As if they were friends. As if he hadn’t put Tom in a rat pit. “We must keep our allies happy, after all.”
Allies? Did Gerwyn think he could forget this? Tom couldn’t help but shake his head.
“You do not wish to go?” Gerwyn smirked. “You prefer your current accommodation?”
“We are not allies.” His voice was hoarse, unused. It didn’t convey the strength he’d wanted. Instead it sounded weak. Powerless.
“No.” Gerwyn put down his cup. “You and I are not allies, little man. But the Western throne and Duke Regent are.”
“You lie.” Neirin’s voice was hollow though he looked no worse for wear. He was being kept in a room with a bed and given good food, Tom was sure of it. While they languished in rat pits. Had he protested, Tom wondered? Had he demanded his companions be treated as well as he?
“Why would I lie?” Gerwyn sat back, basking in the revelation. “Regent marched to his border and promptly demanded parlay with King Idris. Terms were agreed. Treaties were signed.”
“But we had an agreement.” Neirin sounded like a small child.
“He mentioned that.” Gerwyn shrugged. “I suppose he thought you betrayed him when you kidnapped one of his subjects.”
“We did not kidnap Tom. He came of his own accord.”
“And yet.” He sipped some wine, snatched some grapes. He talked with his mouth full. “Your ally is now our ally.”
And the West would soon be on the borders of the Angles. Only one duchy remained, Tanabawr, Tom’s old home. He wondered what the West would do to it. Tanabawr had the richest soil and produced more crops than anywhere else in Tir. They called it the Bowl, because it filled plates from coast to coast. Would Idris strike a deal with Duke Emril too? Or would they turn the Bowl of Tir into ashes?
“So, Thomas Rymour. The great seer. Would you like to go home?”
He wanted to go anywhere, just to get away. But he could feel an almost-thought at the edge of his mind. “The sword I was carrying. What happened to it?”
Gerwyn smirked. “I sent it to Cairnagwyn.”
He was lying. “No you didn’t.”
His smirk grew harder. “Can you read minds as well, little man?”
That almost-thought nudged him, prompting him. “It’s here. In this room.”
Gerwyn’s lips were twisted into a smile but his eyes were irritated. “You’re imagining things.”
Tom stood. He felt unsteady, still weak. He cast his eyes over the room, the lounging sofas, the desk, the busts. He looked through the open doorway into the bedroom. “It’s there,” he said. “In the bedroom.” The nudge again. “Under the bed.”
Gerwyn was blushing.
“What is the mighty Caledyr doing under your bed, Gerwyn?” Neirin asked. He was amused and he wasn’t hiding it.
Tom started walking towards the door. He hadn’t planned to. But he felt he should.
“Stay where you are,” Gerwyn snapped.
Tom stopped but could feel an urge in his feet to keep walking. He wanted to see it. No, he wanted to take it. But he’d never get out alive. Too many guards and too many soldiers. And the sound of the waves was a constant reminder that he was trapped here.
“Why are you here?” he asked. It was suddenly the most important question. He faced Gerwyn.
“Do you expect me to explain myself?” Gerwyn sniggered. “We are the Western Kingdom. You should be thanking us. Before we arrived this was a miserable little rock.”
“What is it now?”
“My miserable little rock.”
Tom nodded. “So this is about power.”
“What else is there?” Gerwyn opened his arms to encompass the room. “I could have been happy with my little office back in the Kingdom. Or I could come here and make a better life for myself.”
“And the Erhenni?”
“What about them?” Gerwyn picked up a grape. “They’ll have to look after themselves. Waiting for someone else to give you what you want leaves you hungry and poor.” He popped the grape into his mouth and chewed. “Get what you can while you can get it.”
“It’s every man for himself.”
Gerwyn toasted Tom’s words. “Precisely.”
Part of Tom wanted to accept Gerwyn’s offer, walk out of this place and return to Regent. The duke would be angry, no doubt, and might even punish him. But he wouldn’t be in a rat pit. No-one would come and save him. He had to save himself.
But sometimes people needed help to get what they wanted.
“I do not think I can return to Duke Regent,” he said. “I would not like to serve a duplicitous man.”
“The duplicitous man serves the West now.” Gerwyn’s voice carried a warning: do not offend.
“How long until he betrays you too?”
“He would not dare.”
“I didn’t think he would dare betray the Angles.” Tom shrugged. Careful. He needed just the right amount of anger.
The elf sneered at him. “Perhaps Regent knew where the real power in Tir lies.”
“With you?” Tom shook his head but said no more.
Gerwyn’s nostrils flared. “And perhaps you need time to think. Take him back to his cell,” he told the guards. “When he’s decided he’s learnt some manners, leave him another day before bringing him to me.”
The guards moved to take him. “Wait,” Gerwyn said, leering at Tom with gleeful malice. “Leave him two days.”
The guards were rough, presumably for their master’s pleasure. As they hauled him out of the room, Tom said to Neirin, “Don’t give up. Don’t give in. Be patient.”
“We can outwait you, little man,” Gerwyn said. “We can outlive you.”
But Neirin nodded and his expression settled into resolve. It was the encouragement he’d needed. The guards took Tom away. This would be the tricky bit. Down the stairs, into the dungeons and past wings of cells full of moaning and stinking people. Tom felt despair and panic rise up in him like the damnable tide itself. Hold it. Contain it.
There. They were still there. His old clothes, soaking and filthy, sitting in a corner near their cells. He waited until one of the guards let him go to open his cell and then Tom let all the despair and fear and panic bubble up.
“No, wait, please.” He threw himself back, surprising the other guard and breaking free of his grip. “I don’t want to go back.” He stumbled and dropped to the floor, crawling away. “Not in there, I’m sorry, please.”
The other guard grabbed him by the back of his shirt. “No no no.” The panic was real. It had to be; he couldn’t pretend. He flailed and caught hold of the sodden trousers, flung them back. The guard let go, spitting and swearing. Tom had maybe a few seconds. He fumbled with the shirt, pretended to hug it to himself in despair.
“Vermin,” the guard growled, pulling Tom up by his hair and throwing a fist into his stomach. Tom’s groan was no act and he doubled over, dropped the shirt. Then the other guard had him too and they pushed him back into the cell.
“No, please, I’m sorry, mercy, please.”
The grate closed with a clang and the wet guard locked it, giving Tom a smile and a gob of spit. “Maybe we’ll leave you three days now,” he said. Then they were gone and Tom was back in his tiny, stinking, dripping rat pit.
It didn’t matter. He had the Call.
Chapter 19
Two more tides came and went before the guards left them alone to drink and gamble. That gave Tom time to think and time to plan. So he was ready when the guards’ laughter and shouting grew loud enough to drown out his own voice.
“Dank,” he hissed. Nothing. He tried a little louder. “Dank.”
“Thomas.” The voice that came back sounded weak, injured. Tom wondered how the boy was faring under those iron bars. He hadn’t looked very strong to begin with.
“I need to speak to your sprite.”
“You are speaking to us.” His speech was halting. He would need help, Tom realised, maybe even need carrying.
“I need to see it.”
“Iron.” He sounded tired already.
“I know.” He searched for words. “Please, Dank. Please try. She can get us out of here.”
There was no response.
“I know it hurts.” He reached up and touched the cold metal above him. It felt too cold, as it always did. “I can feel it too. Like a coldness that cuts all the way through your bones.” He felt only an echo of it. He could only imagine what Dank felt. “I need you to fight past it. If you don’t, we might not get out of here alive.”
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 29