They came to a small room at the bottom of the stairs. It was clear that no one had been down here for some time. Niter and mold coated the walls. There were puddles on the rough, uneven floor. Stones had fallen out of the ceiling. One side of the room had collapsed at some point in the past. Behind the pile of debris emptiness gaped.
Opposite that was a single door. It was solid iron and badly rusted. There was no barred window in it. At first Wats couldn’t get the key to turn in the lock. Once unlocked, he couldn’t open it, and one of the other jailers had to help him. The door opened with a protesting groan and a shower of rust flakes.
Fen was thrust through the door, and they shoved it closed behind him, not bothering to remove his manacles. The lock turned. There was a line of light underneath the door that faded away as the footsteps receded. Then footsteps and light were gone, and he was alone in pitch darkness.
What happened? Fen wondered. Clearly it was Stone power that saved him, but how? Stone power had not saved him from the beatings that Wats or other jailers gave him. A check inside showed him that the icy barrier Ilsith had left was still there and still impenetrable. That left only one possibility. For the first time he considered the idea that the power which saved his life had come from inside himself, not from outside. When threatened with death it had surfaced automatically, protecting him from harm just like the time when that attacker tried to stab him in the side, on the night when he and Ravin were attacked by thugs on their way back to the castle.
Except that this time his power did far more than passively protect him from the blow, Fen realized, thinking of how the executioner had been thrown backwards, his axe melted. To do so there must be a significant amount of innate power residing within him. But if so, how was it that he hadn’t noticed its presence before? He’d spent a great deal of time inside himself, trying to defeat Ilsith’s barrier, and saw no sign of it during that time.
The answer was obvious. He hadn’t seen the power within him, because he hadn’t been looking for it. He’d been so focused on the barrier and what was on the far side of it that he’d never really explored within himself.
How much was there inside him? Was it enough to break the barrier? Could he summon it, make it obey him?
Fen calmed himself and went inside. It took some time, but now that he knew where to look, it wasn’t that hard to find his innate power. It was as much a part of him as his own muscle and sinew, entwined around every facet of his being. For the first time he grasped something that had never occurred to him before.
Stone power was not something outside him. It was not an illness or an infection that might go away in time or be cured. It was a fundamental part of him. Whatever Lowellin had done to his father had been passed down to Fen the same as facial features or skin color. He would never, ever be free of it. It was who he was.
Which meant it could not be taken away from him.
Fen tried to take hold of it, thinking to harness it and hurl it against the icy barrier. But it was like trying to catch hold of smoke. There was nothing there to grasp, nothing to pin down. He spent some time trying without any success and finally gave up.
When he did, he realized something. The distant thudding of Stone power that he’d first heard when he was put into his cell had grown stronger. A lot stronger. It must be because he was so far underground, completely surrounded by stone on all sides. He clenched his fists, frustrated that he still couldn’t reach it. To have it so close and still be unable to take hold of it was maddening.
With nothing else to do, he felt his way around the cell. His last cell had been dark, but not completely so. There’d always been at least the hint of light around the door. Not enough to illuminate anything, but enough to break the darkness somewhat. Not so here. In this cell the blackness was absolute. There was no way to tell if his eyes were even open or closed.
He’d only gone a couple of steps before his outstretched hands met a wall. He followed it a pace and found a corner. A few more paces and he was back at the door. The cell was small and empty.
Fen sat down and leaned up against the wall. He wondered what was going on in the city right then. Was the army fighting the mob? Was the mob storming the prison? What would happen next? What would he do if the mob stormed the prison and people came down here and freed him, then expected him to lead them against the Fist and the army?
Or would the Ankharans show up first? Maybe an axe couldn’t kill him, but he was pretty sure there were other things they could do to him that would. He wondered why they hadn’t intervened and stopped the execution, since Lowellin had told them he wanted Fen kept alive. Maybe Lowellin had decided he no longer needed Fen for anything. Which might mean he’d already gotten hold of the final pieces of the key.
Fen sat there for some time, pondering these things, worrying about Ravin and Cowley and his friends, and finally he simply couldn’t sit anymore. The questions whirled around and around in his mind until he thought he might go mad from them.
There was one thing he could do. He stood up. He breathed deeply, calming and centering himself. Then he began to move through his forms, imagining that he held the hilt of his sword in his hands. He hadn’t practiced his forms since before the army left to invade Marad, and the manacles and the size of the cell restricted his movements, but right away he felt better. His frenzied thoughts drifted away as his body slipped into the familiar, calming movements.
The first time through the forms was slow, as he worked through the rust that had built up from disuse, but by the second time through the old smoothness was back. Each form slid smoothly into the next in an unbroken dance. Whether it was the near-death experience he’d had that day, or the utter blackness and complete lack of distractions that came with being locked alone deep underground, or something else altogether, by the third time through his forms he had come to a place he’d never been to before. Some inner restriction that he’d placed on himself crumbled away. He was lighter, freer, than he’d ever been before. His body was gone and there was only pure awareness. He embraced that, the speed with which he moved through the forms increasing, and increasing yet again, until he was racing through them, each one blurring into the next.
Distantly he wondered at what was happening. He could no longer feel the manacles at all. Not once had he bumped into one of the walls. There was no way the cell was large enough for him to practice with this kind of freedom. Part of him wanted to think about this, to try and understand what was happening, but he pushed that part away, knowing that if he indulged it he would fall out of this magical space he’d managed to find his way into.
Time passed. How long he’d been working his forms he had no idea. Time had no meaning. He felt neither tired, nor hungry, nor thirsty. Such things did not exist here.
But somewhere along the way, something happened. A very faint red glow began to emanate from his hands. Again, he wanted to wonder at it, to stop and examine it, but he resisted the urge, focusing everything on his forms.
Now he could feel something in his hands. It felt like the hilt of his sword.
The glow grew brighter. Gradually, it extended outwards from his hands. And it began to take on a shape.
His sword.
He could feel the weight and heft of the weapon. The glow grew stronger, and the sword became more vivid. Every detail was revealed. He could see the cross-guard, the central ridge and the fuller running the length of the blade. It shone with the light of a forge, a deep, pulsing red, leaving trails of light as he swung it.
His speed increased, and he flashed through the forms faster than he ever had before. He could hear the whistle of the glowing blade as it cut through the air.
Then, something new.
A cold, bluish glow appeared on the edge of his vision. It grew stronger, brighter, finally resolving into a massive, glowing wall of blue ice. The wall stretched in every direction out of sight. It was thicker than any city wall…
And he was sick of it.
He finished one form and slid from it to the next. He stepped back, raised the glowing blade, then spun and struck the icy wall, putting the full force of his innate power behind the blow—
The wall shattered into countless pieces.
Fen stopped. Darkness had returned. There was no sign of the glowing sword or the massive wall.
Did that really happen? he wondered. Did he imagine it all? He realized something.
The manacles were still around his wrists, but the chain connecting them was broken.
He went inside. Ilsith’s barrier was gone as if it never existed. Stone power was there, all around him, awaiting his command. He touched a finger to one of the manacles, and it popped open and fell to the floor. The other one followed. He laid one hand flat on the wall of his cell. Stone power responded eagerly. With it came a sense of completeness, as an emptiness he hadn’t even been aware of was filled.
A crack appeared under his hand, quickly growing until it reached from the floor to the ceiling.
Fen heard footsteps approaching, saw the light from a lantern. A key was inserted into the lock. The door swung open.
Chapter Twelve
It was the Fist. The lantern he carried showed a haunted man, the uneven light turning his eye sockets into deep pools of black and casting ragged shadows across the planes of his face. In his hand he carried a sword. There was blood on it.
“Fen?” he said.
“Fist,” Fen replied. He did not kneel. He was watching the sword closely, wondering what the Fist was going to do.
The Fist’s face twisted. He threw the sword down, and it struck the floor with a clatter. “I was wrong,” he said. There was agony in his voice. “Forgive me. I was wrong.” His empty hand came up, and he clawed at his face. “I see now. How could I have been so blind?”
“It’s okay,” Fen said. What else could he really say?
“No. It’s not.” The Fist looked down at the bloodied sword. “I killed my own people this day. Samkaran blood stains my blade.” The haunted eyes came back to Fen. “The gods help me. I killed my own people.” He winced as if he’d been struck. “After they took you into the prison, the city went mad. Riots. Killing. Looting. What the Maradi did to us, we did to ourselves today. I did this. Me.”
“We’ll fix it. I’ll help you. Maybe they’ll listen to me.”
“It’s past that. It’s too late.”
Fen stepped forward and put his hand on Barik’s shoulder. For the first time he realized he was as tall as the man. Always Barik had seemed so much taller than Fen. Have I grown? Or did he shrink? “It’s never too late.”
Barik recoiled from his touch. “Don’t touch me. You don’t…you don’t know my hunger. It’s nearly unbearable.” He held up his hand, and Fen could see that it was shaking. “I’ve become a monster,” he groaned. “I drained the lives from innocent people and thought I was becoming a god. How could I have been so blind?”
“It’s not your fault. It’s the Ankharans. They poisoned you. Lowellin poisoned you.”
“Lowellin?”
“He’s the one behind all this. He touched you that first night after the city fell to the Maradi. He did this to you.”
Barik shook his head. “No. I did this. I must bear the responsibility.” From his belt he drew a dagger and held it up. Fen realized suddenly what he intended and grabbed his hand.
“What are you doing?” Fen asked.
“It’s the only way I can fix this.”
“How does killing yourself fix anything?”
“I’m a monster now. It’s the only thing left for me.” He tried to pull away but Fen, bolstered by Stone power, held him fast. “Let me go. I told you what I’ve been doing. I fed earlier today, after the…after the execution. If I’m alive, I’ll do it again. There’s only one way to end this and make sure no one else gets hurt.”
“No,” Fen said, thinking quickly. He had to turn Barik from this path of self-destruction, but how? A thought occurred to him. “There are still two sorcerers left in the city. Come with me and help me defeat them.”
Barik hesitated, and Fen could see that he’d struck a nerve.
“If you want to kill yourself, I won’t stop you. But don’t do it until after they’re dead. Help me. You can still do that much, can’t you?”
A moment later Barik quit struggling against him. Fen let go of his hand, and he returned the dagger to its sheath. He stood there with his head down. Fen could hear his ragged breathing. He was trembling slightly.
“What now?” Barik asked.
Fen bent and picked up Barik’s sword. He held it out to him. “We go after the sorcerers. Kill them before they cause any more harm.”
A gleam slowly came into Barik’s eyes, and he reached for the sword. “Yes.”
Chapter Thirteen
Side by side Fen and Barik walked out of the prison, Fen carrying a sword he’d taken from the prison armory. Outside a cluster of jailers were gathered by the gates, frightened voices rising. One of them turned as the two men approached, and Fen saw that it was Wats. Wats looked from Fen to Barik and back, and he seemed to shrink in on himself. He stepped back, mumbling excuses, but Fen paid him no heed. The man’s petty cruelty wasn’t important now.
“Open the gates,” the Fist ordered.
“But, Fist,” one of the men said. “There’s a crowd out there, trying to come in…”
The Fist raised his sword, his expression grim. “I won’t ask you again.”
The men scrambled to unlatch the gates. Fen felt a touch on his arm. He turned. It was Robbert. The man was carrying his short sword and wearing leather armor and a half helm. “Wherever you lead,” he said.
Fen touched him on the shoulder, acknowledging his pledge. “Later. What we go to face is beyond you.”
“You’ll take on the sorcerers then?” Robbert said.
“This is their last night.”
When the gates swung open, the mob outside started to surge forward. They stopped when Fen and Barik stepped up. Confusion lit their faces. The Fist and the traitor-slash-hero together? What did it mean?
“Move aside,” the Fist ordered. “Do not hinder us.”
They yielded, but there was hesitation until Fen said, “We go to kill the foreign sorcerers.” Then they moved willingly.
The crowd—it was no longer a mob—started to follow, but Fen turned to them. “This is not for you. Lay down your arms and go home.” There was in his voice the command of Stone, and they froze at the sound. He stared at them until weapons were lowered, and they began to disperse.
Fires painted the night sky lurid colors, and distant screams rent the air. Smoke rolled in thick clouds, obscuring the stars. Memories of that night not so many years ago, when the Maradi sacked the city, flooded over Fen, and his eyes stung. He’d sworn to never let this happen again.
They took a street that led down to the docks. People ran by, some chasing, some being chased. There were bodies on the ground, some still alive. It all hurt, but Fen reminded himself that the cancer had to be cut out first. The healing could come later.
“How did you do that?” the Fist asked. “Why did the axe not cut you?”
“There are other powers in the world besides what the Ankharans wield,” Fen said.
“You speak of the gods?”
“I do not think there are gods, only those who seem to be so, and they are almost all asleep.”
“If such is your power, why were you still in prison? Why let yourself be captured at all?”
Fen glanced over at Barik. Why, indeed? Because he had blinded himself to his own power. That was the obvious answer. But there was another, deeper one. “I was waiting.” The words felt right.
“For?”
“For you.”
Barik stopped and turned to him. “Waiting for me?”
“I swore an oath to you.”
“You would keep an oath to a madman?”
Fen considered this. “I knew it was still you. And…”
“And?”
“You are family to me.”
Barik blinked, taken aback. He swallowed visibly. “When the axe fell, that’s when I knew. I knew I’d made a mistake. But still I hesitated.” He gestured with his sword at the burning city. “And now this. My city is burning.”
“We’ll put it out,” Fen said grimly, and continued on, Barik following a step behind.
All of Fen’s earlier doubts were gone. He felt strong, sure. Stone power thrummed within him, and he welcomed it as an old friend. The sorcerers would fall before him like wheat before the farmer’s scythe.
The new ships were being built at the far end of the docks, near where the black ship was anchored. The other ship, the one that had brought the Ankharan shipwrights, was gone, presumably sailing back to its home port. The Ankharans had built a log palisade sealing off the street. The gate was closed. Torches mounted on iron stakes illuminated the area. Looking over the sharpened points of the logs were Ankharan men with their long, braided beards, their eyes darkened with ash. They carried curved swords and short bows and wore splint mail and pointed helmets.
“Go back,” one of them said when they appeared, a thick-bodied, hulking man with a strange, sibilant accent. “Go back or die here.” Bows were raised, and iron arrowheads were trained on the two men.
“I am the ruler of this city. I go where I please,” Barik said. He looked like nothing. He wore no armor, and his head was bare. Blood stained his ripped tunic. But there was about him an air of inevitability.
“You don’t rule here.”
“Open the gate,” Barik said. “I won’t ask again.”
The hulking man gestured. A hiss, a soft thump, and an arrow buried itself in Barik’s chest. Barik looked down at it. “You’ll have to do better than that.” A faint, purplish glow appeared around the wound. The arrow was pushed out of his flesh and fell on the ground. The wound sealed up, only a small amount of blood showing.
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