Jager snarled and threw himself at the guard, but the chains jerked him short.
They laughed and locked the door behind them, leaving him alone in the blood-colored gloom.
Days passed. Jager could not have said how many. Once a day a guard came and brought him food and water, and carried away the bucket in the corner. Jager shouted questions, but the guards ignored him. At least they did not hit him again. The screams from the other cells came frequently, and he desperately wondered if he was overhearing Mara’s torment. He felt sick with fear for her. Had the guards done to her as they said? Or had the men-at-arms simply killed her?
After eight or nine days, the door swung open, and a nightmare from Jager’s past stepped into the room.
He flinched, and then forced himself not to show fear. If he was going to die, he would not die as his father had.
The man was a knight of Andomhaim, and wore chain mail beneath a blue surcoat adorned with the black dragon sigil of Caerdracon. His blond hair and mustache were trimmed and styled, and hard black eyes stared down at Jager. He kept opening and closing his sword hand as if it pained him, but a cold smile spread over his face.
“After all this time,” said Sir Paul Tallmane. “Little rat. I thought you would have died years ago, Jager. The way your father did, with that stupid surprised look on his face. Yes, that one you have now.”
“Is that what this is about?” said Jager. “You want revenge for your domus? Fine. I burned it down. I set fire to it and I laughed as it went up in smoke. God knows you deserved it. So go on. Kill me already.”
He expected the big knight to fly into a rage. Paul’s temper had been legendary among the servants of Caudea and its domus, and more than one servant had gotten a black eye or a split lip simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But Paul only smiled. “This isn’t about you at all, rat. Or the domus you burned. Much bigger things are happening, and the world is about to change.” He grinned and stepped closer, sliding a dagger from his belt. “Though I’m still going to make you regret it. Let’s start with the fingers, shall we? One by…”
Jager growled, staining against the chains, and a cold voice filled his ears.
“That is enough.”
Tarrabus Carhaine, Dux of Caerdracon, stepped into the cell.
A guard followed and set a wooden chair upon the floor, and Tarrabus seated himself. He held out a hand, and another guard appeared with a goblet of wine. Still another left a carafe and a second goblet upon a small table.
“Leave us,” said Tarrabus. “All of you. Now.”
“But, my lord,” said Paul, “the worm…”
“Perhaps you ought to thank Imaria for healing your sword hand,” said Tarrabus, turning his cold blue eyes toward the knight. The words were innocuous, but Paul flinched, bowed, and left the cell with the other guards, leaving one of the most powerful men in the realm alone with Jager.
They regarded each other in silence for a moment, and Jager felt himself shrinking against the wall in fear.
There was something…off about Tarrabus, something wrong.
Jager could not have said what it was. The Dux’s shadow seemed too dark, too sharp. From time to time his blue eyes seemed like bottomless pits into the void. Wild visions danced across Jager’s mind, and for a moment he could not shake the feeling that Tarrabus was not really human at all, that some hideous creature of darkness had killed the Dux and wore his skin like a cloak.
“Ah,” said Tarrabus. “I was wondering if you would notice. Humans cannot, not even Magistri, but Shadowbearer said the halfling kindred might prove more sensitive.”
Jager forced moisture into his mouth. “Sensitive to what?”
“The Seventh Circle of the Enlightened,” said Tarrabus, taking a sip of his wine.
“I don’t know what that is,” said Jager.
“I would be very irritated if you did,” said Tarrabus. He set his goblet down and poured another. “It is one of the reasons I found you, after all. Some wine?”
Jager blinked. “You had me kidnapped from my home, beaten, imprisoned in this stinking hole without a stitch of clothing, are holding captive the woman I love…and now you want to give me wine?”
“You did steal my signet ring,” said Tarrabus. “You ought to be grateful you still have a tongue with which to complain. But, come. Poisoning you would be a colossal waste of valuable time. And you will need the drink for what comes next.”
He held out the goblet. Jager hesitated, scooted forward, and took the goblet in his bound hands. The wine burned as it went down his throat.
“A question,” said Tarrabus.
Jager forced a laugh. “I fear I am in no position to refuse.”
“If I were to offer to release you with one condition,” said Tarrabus, “what would you say?”
Jager hesitated. The guards had mistreated and beaten him, but they had not broken anything. With some food and water and rest he would be fine. His abilities as a thief would be unimpaired.
Which meant Tarrabus needed something stolen…and this was a negotiation.
“That would depend upon the condition, I suppose,” said Jager.
“The dark elven half-breed,” said Tarrabus.
“Mara,” said Jager. “Her name is Mara. Not ‘half-breed’.”
Tarrabus inclined his head. “Mara. The ancient Hebrew word for ‘bitter’, I believe. Appropriate, considering what is likely to happen to her. Now. What would you say if I offered to let you go…but only on the condition that Mara remains here?”
“No,” said Jager. “I refuse. Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” said Tarrabus, raising his eyebrows.
“Because I love her,” said Jager, “and I will not leave her in the clutches of a man like you.”
He spat it with defiance, hoping to insult Tarrabus, but the Dux only nodded.
“A good answer,” said Tarrabus. “One that I can understand.”
“You can?” said Jager.
“Yes,” said Tarrabus. “I know what it is to lose a woman you love.” His face retained his glacial calm, but his fingers tightened around the goblet, and for a moment the darkness around him seemed colder. “But to business. I know all about you, Jager. Your father Hilder’s execution. The arson at the Tallmanes’ domus. And the little burglary spree you have enjoyed in the years since. The Master Thief of Cintarra. The bards even sing songs about you.” He took a sip of wine. “You are going to steal something for me.”
“Am I?” said Jager.
“Oh, yes,” said Tarrabus.
Negotiation. A Dux haggling with a thief was madness…and in chaos lay opportunities. Perhaps Jager could yet get himself and Mara out of this mess.
“Go on,” said Jager.
“Do you know what a soulstone is?” said Tarrabus.
“The crystals in the Swordbearers’ Soulblades,” said Jager. “They’re magical. Give the swords their power.”
“Roughly correct,” said Tarrabus. “More specifically, the soulstone of each Soulblade contains the memory and resonance of a high elven bladeweaver, one slain during the high elves’ long wars against the dark elves and the urdmordar. Their power derives from that imprint.”
“How do you know this?” said Jager, curious despite himself. His father had cherished the tales of the Swordbearers. The archmage Ardrhythain of the high elves had given the Soulblades to the High King, as part of the Pact of the Two Orders that created the Knights of the Soulblade and the Magistri. Each Soulblade was bonded to its bearer, and only Ardrhythain knew how to create more.
Tarrabus offered a thin smile. “One of my teachers knew the high elven archmage who first forged the Soulblades. Only the most powerful high elven wizards know the secret of creating soulstones, and they are not keen to see an empty soulstone fall into the wrong hands.”
“Why not?” said Jager.
“Because a wizard of sufficient skill,” said Tarrabus, “could fill an empty soulstone
with whatever force he desired, creating a weapon of awesome power.” He smiled. “Or a key that would open any door. Even a door to another world, perhaps.”
“And I assume,” said Jager, “that you have located such a stone, and wish me to obtain it?”
“You surmise correctly,” said Tarrabus. “Have you heard of a man named Ridmark Arban?”
His cold voice grew colder as he spoke, his shadow sharper and darker.
“I take it you are not fond of him?” said Jager.
“Answer the question,” said Tarrabus.
“I have never met him,” said Jager. “I’ve heard the name. When the mad orc Mhalek invaded the Northerland five years ago. I heard that Ridmark defeated his army, but Mhalek slew his wife, and Ridmark went mad from grief. Cast aside his Soulblade and went into the Wilderland to die.”
“The story is correct,” said Tarrabus, “save in one respect. Mhalek did not slay Aelia. Ridmark himself slew her in his folly and blindness. Her blood is upon his hands, and no one else’s. I trust I am clear?”
“Then she was the woman you lost?” said Jager, taking a guess.
He regretted speaking at once. Tarrabus did not move, did not even blink, but his shadow grew even darker, and Jager swore the room grew colder. For an awful moment it seemed as if there was indeed a creature of nightmare wearing Tarrabus’s face, that it would rip its way free and devour Jager.
“Ridmark has come into the possession of an empty soulstone,” said Tarrabus, some of the unnatural aura fading away as he calmed. “Or, more precisely, he is traveling with a madwoman named Calliande who carries such a stone. They are wandering from village to village through the Wilderland on Ridmark’s mad quest to atone for his grief. You are going to find them, steal the soulstone, and bring it back to me.”
“How will I even find them?” said Jager. “I’m a thief, not a ranger of the wilds.”
“In a few days Ridmark will pass near a small village called Vulmhosk,” said Tarrabus. “Likely he will stop for supplies. You will draw near to him, take the soulstone, and return it to me.”
“And in exchange,” said Jager, “you’ll give me my freedom.”
Tarrabus smiled, the first genuine smile Jager had seen on the Dux’s cold, masklike face.
Somehow that terrified him even more.
“Is that what you think we are discussing?” said Tarrabus. “Your freedom. Not at all. Sir Paul!” He turned his head to the door. “You may rejoin us.”
Sir Paul Tallmane returned to the cell, flanked by two men-at-arms, and Jager’s breath caught in his throat.
Mara walked between them, clad only in a dirty gray smock. She had a gag in her mouth and an iron collar around her neck, a man-at-arms holding the collar’s chain like a leash. Her hands were bound behind her back, and a chain around her ankles forced her to take small steps. Oddly, her jade bracelet still glinted upon her left wrist. Jager thought they would have taken it.
Her green eyes met his, full of pain and fear, and Jager tried to go to her. But the chains jerked and held him fast.
Paul’s laughter filled the cell. “Look at him. Like a lovesick puppy. A pretty little thing like her is wasted in a worm like him.”
“She has so far been unharmed,” said Tarrabus. “Well. Mostly unharmed. I confess my men did strike her when we took you captive, but Imaria sometimes carries out my instructions with too much enthusiasm. But other than that, she has not been harmed in any way, and we have kept her safe and fed.”
“Why?” said Jager, his voice a rasp.
“Because,” said Tarrabus, “you are going to steal the empty soulstone for me.”
“Or you’ll kill her,” spat Jager.
“What?” said Tarrabus. “I’ll do nothing of the sort.” That terrifying smile returned. “I’ll simply give her to Sir Paul.”
Jager’s blood went cold.
“I understand that he has something of a grudge against you,” said Tarrabus.
“Well,” said Jager, trying to keep his voice from cracking, “I hate him right back.”
“True,” said Tarrabus, “but he has the woman you love. She’s perfectly safe now. And if you don’t return with the soulstone…I will let Sir Paul do whatever he wants to her.” He leaned closer, his eyes glittering in the bloody light. “You saw what he did to the freeholders of his father’s benefice. Those were people he was sworn to protect and defend. What do you imagine he will do to the lover of a man he hates?”
Jager knew full well what Paul would do to Mara.
“Fine,” said Jager. “I’ll steal that damned stone for you.”
Tarrabus glanced at Mara. “For her sake, I hope so.”
###
Tarrabus’s men gave him his clothes and equipment and shoved him out the gates of the Iron Tower, and Jager set off for Vulmhosk.
And so he stood on the stern of Smiling Otto’s boat, watching as Ridmark spoke with Brother Caius and Azakhun. Jager had never expected a noble of Andomhaim to risk his life so freely. But he supposed Ridmark was an outcast.
Like Jager.
Like Mara.
Mara, who languished in the dungeons of the Iron Tower unless Jager returned to save her.
His hands tightened into fists. Calliande had to have the soulstone near her. Perhaps in one of the pouches on her belt, or in the pack she never left out of arm’s length. Jager just needed an adequate distraction, and then he could take the soulstone.
He found himself impressed by Ridmark…but that would not stop him from stealing the soulstone. It would not stop him from saving Mara.
In chaos there was opportunity, and in chaos Jager would find a way to save Mara.
No matter what he had to do.
Chapter 8 - Coldinium
Three days after leaving Vulmhosk, Smiling Otto’s boat reached Coldinium.
Ridmark stepped to the railing and looked at the northern city of the realm.
Fifty thousand people lived in the High King’s city of Tarlion, and a hundred thousand in the Prince’s city of Cintarra, but only ten thousand within Coldinium’s grim gray walls. Yet it was the largest city in the northern half of Andomhaim, and the largest settlement this close to the Wilderland. Of necessity, therefore, the city sat in a defensible location, between the northern and southern branches of the River Moradel. Watchtowers studded the city’s strong stone wall, and Ridmark saw the flash of armor as men-at-arms and militiamen patrolled the ramparts. The round towers of Castra Coldinium had been built into the western wall, the High King’s banner flying from the battlements. The fortress had once been a stronghold of the Eternalists, and after their defeat, the city had grown up around the castra.
In the narrow space between the walls and Coldinium’s harbor lay a ramshackle maze of inns, warehouses, and taverns. Reputable merchants would pay to store their cargoes inside the city. But if a man wished to avoid the eyes of the militia and the Comes, he could take his chances outside the walls.
The deck creaked as Calliande stepped to his side.
“Coldinium,” he said.
Calliande gazed at the city. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”
Ridmark shrugged. “I doubt Coldinium was here when you went into the long sleep.”
Calliande peered at the walls for a moment. “There are guards at every gate.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “They keep watch to make sure no brigands sneak into the city. Or worse things.”
“How are we going to manage it?” said Calliande. “Your brand is…noticeable, and it will be obvious if you wear a mask.”
“We’re not going into the city,” said Ridmark. He pointed at the sprawl between the walls and the harbor. “We’re going to the Outwall, the district…”
“Outside the walls, yes,” said Calliande. “Why would anyone live outside the walls when Coldinium is so near to the Wilderland?”
“It’s cheaper,” said Ridmark, “and has less oversight from the militia and the city’s magistrates.”
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“If Coldinium ever comes under siege,” said Calliande, “the Outwall will burn.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark, thinking of the freeholders near Dun Licinia, men who had lost everything first when Mhalek had invaded and again when Qazarl attacked five years later. “Life this close to the Wilderland is not for the faint of heart.”
“You know an apothecary in the Outwall?” said Calliande.
“A man named Rodinius,” said Ridmark. “He is eccentric, but knows his business. And he keeps his mouth shut.” Water splashed against the hull as the boat maneuvered to an open dock, the captain shouting orders to the sailors. “Go have Caius and Gavin bring up Kharlacht. The sooner we get to Rodinius, the better.”
She headed below as the boat pulled alongside the quay. Morigna walked to Ridmark’s side, leaning on her staff. She looked the worse for wear, dark circles under her black eyes. Her stomach had settled down after the second day, but she had eaten very little since.
“Mortal man,” said Morigna, “was not meant to travel on boats.”
Ridmark shrugged. “It was either that or carry Kharlacht all the way here ourselves.”
“Azakhun and his lackeys feel they owe you a debt,” said Morigna. “Perhaps we could have prevailed upon them to carry him.”
She fell silent, staring at the city.
“So many people,” she said at last.
Ridmark started to say that Cintarra and Tarlion were larger by far, but stopped himself. Morigna had spent her life within seventy-five miles of Moraime, and fifteen hundred people lived in the town.
“You said you wanted to see the rest of the realm,” said Ridmark.
“I do,” said Morigna.
“This is just the beginning,” said Ridmark. “If we live through this, if we go to Urd Morlemoch and stop the Frostborn, you’ll see much more than this.”
One of her rare smiles went over her stern face. It made her look almost radiantly pretty. “I know.” The boat came to a stop, the sailors tying the lines in place. “Well, let us begin with the docks. No doubt one can find wonders and splendors in such a malodorous place.”
Frostborn: The Master Thief Page 10