Prisoner

by Megan Derr

  "Of course."

  Sol hesitated, feeling as though there was something left undone, though he could not figure out what. Stifling a frustrated sigh, he left the room, locking it behind him.

  Chapter Twelve

  The wind was bitter and carried the type of deep, damp cold that settled in the bones and didn't let go. Sol pulled his cloak more tightly closed and walked on, head down.

  There were stars in the sky, which meant the clear weather would probably hold a while longer. He hoped so. If his plans did not go awry this time, then they would have to run immediately. There was no room for delay. If it snowed they were dead. Stars delay the snow for just a few more days.

  He reached the Coliseum without incident. It was old—older, some said, than even the Winter Palace. Built from dark gray stone, it had room enough for every last person dwelling within the palace walls. Men had been working tirelessly to keep it free of snow, readying it for the next day.

  The first few days normally saw mostly executions; the days after that the prisoners would fight. With the unexpected addition of Dieter von Adolwulf to the contenders, however, that style of combat had changed. Dieter would fight contenders until he died or killed them all. One after the other; there would be no break in between bouts.

  Sol moved quietly and slowly, as he made his way below the Coliseum to the cages. He bypassed the first several rows of cells. Dieter would not be so easily accessed. Men stirred at the sound of a visitor, but no one said anything.

  Somewhere a man was praying, and it made Sol feel sick because the prayers were Salharan. It would be so easy—and it would ruin everything. "Forgive me, brother," he whispered soundlessly to himself.

  It was dark below the Coliseum. The torches set at corners and throughout the hallways only seemed to make it worse. Sol walked on. At the farthest end of the cells was a set of rooms, pitch black closets for those prisoners who refused to get along with the others until the fighting began though occasionally it was also used to protect a contender from his cellmates.

  Sol slowed as the guards noticed him. "You!" One of them barked. "No one is allowed down here."

  From deep in his hood, Sol's eyes flared sunlight yellow. The guards dropped to the hard-packed floor. His eyes dimmed, but continued to shine slightly, like a cloud-covered sun, as he struggled to arrange the men as though they'd fallen asleep on duty. When they woke, they either would not recall his visit, or would not be willing to admit to what had occurred. Even if they did, they would not be believed. A Salharan running free in the palace and using arcen to see von Adolwulf?

  Ridiculous.

  Sol allowed himself a slight smirk, feeling much better than he had since botching everything the night before. Now was his chance to make up for it. The smirk faded as worries reclaimed his mind. Would he be able to convince Dieter to help?

  He grabbed a torch from the wall, and with a softly muttered spell, the lock clicked open. He shoved the heavy door open, hinges creaking loudly in the unhappy silence of the cells. It creaked again as he shut it. Moonlight spilled down into the cell from a small window, the only source of fresh air and light. Dieter was little more than a shadow beneath it. Sol set the torch into a sconce on the wall.

  The added light revealed that Dieter was in undershirt, breeches and boots. His hands were in manacles, and even in the dark Sol could see the cuts and dried blood that testified to the fact that Dieter had not gone quietly to his fate. A cut ran the length of one cheek, and his bottom lip was split and bloody.

  "If you have come to have your say," Dieter said, "I have already killed two for attempting to harm me. Did you want to be the third?"

  Sol pushed his hood back. "I have no plans to kill you, Lord General."

  Dieter stared at him for moment then laughed. The sound was as cold as the air in the room. "General?" The words were spoken in Salharan, accented but comfortable. "There is no general in this room. What do you want, Lord Grau? What is your real name?"

  "Sol deVry," Sol said, switching back to Krian. He sat down next to Dieter on the small wooden bench. It creaked under him, and he stood again, opting to lean against the wall.

  He realized he'd surprised Dieter enough that the shock registered briefly on his normally implacable face. "General deVry. That would certainly explain why we so seldom are gifted with your presence on the battlefield." Dieter laughed in genuine amusement rather than bitterness. "I am impressed, General. All this time… well played." Dieter nodded his head in concession. "What brings you to see me? You do not strike me as one who would take petty revenge here."

  "I need your help," Sol said, getting straight to the point. "I need Beraht. Why did you name him?"

  "The Salharan obsession with names never fails to amuse me," Dieter said.

  Sol regarded him coldly. "And how would you like it, General, if I told you what the name of your sword was and gave you no choice but to accept that name?"

  "I would kill you."

  "For us, death seals the name forever."

  Dieter sneered. "Which just goes to show how stupid Salharans really are. He had plenty of opportunity to avoid the name I gave him. He made his choice."

  "The choice was forced upon him."

  "He is neither the first nor the last to be forced to make unhappy decisions. Is this why you came? To lecture me on violating a Salharan's honor by giving him a Krian name?" Dieter looked at him with tolerant amusement.

  Sol cursed himself, thoroughly annoyed. Where had his focus gone? It would be a relief when they reached Illussor, and he could finally stop. His edge was clearly dulling. "No," he replied. "As I said, I need your help."

  "I cannot imagine why, or how, I can help you."

  "Beraht," Sol said. "We need you to get to Beraht for us." Dieter merely lifted his brows. "What do you know about the Illussor?"

  "Roughly two hundred years ago they did not have magic such as they do now. No one knows the method by which they acquired it. But like the Salharans, it shows in the eyes—like sunlight on metal. Unlike your people, they do not seem to require drugs, nor does it prove deadly over time. Only the Scream kills them."

  "That's where you're wrong," Sol said. "It’s not just when they Scream. Their magic is slowly killing them. Very few so far have noticed anything. Illussor magic comes at a price much higher than anything arcen demands.

  Dieter shrugged. "I guess that will be one less problem for Kria to deal with, someday. Why does a Salharan general care about the fate of the Illussor?" Sol was silent. A moment later Dieter's laughter filtered through the room again. "A traitor. How long have you been working against your own countrymen?"

  "Since they left me to rot, and the Illussor saved me," Sol said quietly. "I do not hate my country, but I was never happy there. Not all of us like what we must do to survive. There is nothing I long for more than the day I never have to touch arcen again."

  Dieter did not appear convinced. "You are the first Salharan I have met to say such a thing. Certainly your Brother—" Sol started when he realized Dieter used the form of the word 'brother' reserved for the Brotherhood of the Seven Star, "is too fond of it."

  "It's all he's ever had, I think." Sol shook his head, bewildered. "How did you know I was a Brother? I gave no indication of it, and there was no evidence that I even knew Beraht was."

  "Your eyes," Dieter said. "They shine a deeper yellow than normal soldiers."

  Sol conceded the point with a nod. "I am slowly advancing toward orange. You are the first Krian I've known to note the nuances of the colors."

  "I do not know much," Dieter said. He leaned back against the wall, and Sol noticed for the first time how exhausted Dieter look. How still and… not quite defeated, but almost. It was not a natural look for him, and while Sol knew he should be relieved Dieter would no longer be around to dominate the battlefield, a man such a Dieter should not have to go out in such a way. What was it the Krians said? His leaf should fall from the tree; instead it was being ripped away. "But on
e should know his enemies better than his friends." He switched back to the matter at hand. "So you want me to help you get Beraht? Never mind that's impossible, for what purpose, and why should I?"

  Sol slid down to sit on the ground, wanting to be more comfortable while explained. "Two hundred years ago, the Illussor had magic that was sufficient, but nothing like it is now. They were the equal of the Salharans, and now they are far superior. If we've survived encounters with them, it is only because we know enough tricks to avoid the worst of what they can do."

  "Shadow killers," Dieter said scathingly.

  "Salhara does what it must. I did not come here to argue with you over the rights and wrongs of what we all do. The Illussor found a way to make their magic stronger, including giving them a trick that changed even what they are now called."

  There had been a time when that trick had not existed. Back when the Illussor had fought only to keep their own hold on the Regenbogen—a piece of land Kria took control over shortly before the Illussor displayed the skill that gave them their new name.

  "It was meant to only last for a few years, through one generation. Something to give Illussor an edge they desperately needed, back when the war had a clearer purpose. It didn't die with the soldier who had it, however. They passed it on to their children. So too the others who acquired it—royalty and a handful of nobles. Now it has somehow spread to the entire nation. What was meant to be limited to a few has become something upon which the entire country is dependant."

  Sol breathed out on a slow sigh. "It is beginning to kill some of them. Headaches, at first, and only in the very old or very young. No one has made the connection to magic except those who know its deepest secrets. In order to stop it, to get rid of the magic and keep it from killing the Illussor, they need a Breaker."

  "A Breaker," Dieter repeated.

  "Yes." Sol looked up at him. "Someone of uncorrupted Illussor blood who does not have the magic that the rest of the Illussor possess. He's the only one who can break that which gives Illussor its magic."

  "Beraht," Dieter said. "The Kaiser was the one who pointed out to me that he looked half-Illussor."

  Sol nodded. "I did not notice it either until I learned he was the Breaker."

  "You came here hoping to find him? How did you know I had him?"

  "I didn't. I came here to learn what had happened to the Scarlet. A Brother was supposed to find Beraht and bring him to me—ostensibly to learn why the Illussor attacked the Scarlet to get to a Salharan. My comrade does not know the game I play."

  Dieter laughed. "You want me to help you get your Breaker out of the Kaiser's claws, is that it? I don't see how that is possible."

  Sol stood up and pulled the small glass vial from where he'd stowed it in his belt. In the weak light of the torch and moon, the liquid inside appeared black. "Give him this," Sol said, "and tell him to meet us at the crossroads a mile beyond the palace. He'll manage the rest."

  "Arcen," Dieter said, sneering in contempt. "How do you propose I get it to him?" He lifted his hands, bound by heavy manacles. Already they were making his wrists raw. "I have less access than you."

  "So you'll help?" Sol asked in a voice laced with disbelief and hope.

  Dieter snorted. "No. I'm merely curious as to what you're planning. Why should I? It matters little to me what becomes of the lot of you. Twenty years I did my duties and more. I have ceased to care. Nor will I turn traitor with my last moments. He will not get that satisfaction."

  "You'll stay loyal to a country that has done nothing, but betray you? Why?"

  "If you think such logic will sway me, Sol deVry, you are mistaken."

  Sol held the vial tight, mind racing for something that would sway him. "Is this the revenge you wanted for Beraht?"

  Dieter, for once, did not come back with a scathing reply. "The Coliseum I did not anticipate. I should have. Beraht was meant to die with me in a formal execution. It has been done before with soldiers and the prisoners they claim for personal vengeance."

  "So you're perfectly willing to leave him to whatever the Kaiser devises? Knowing full well he'll take out on Beraht what he could not inflict upon you?"

  "He will kill him."

  "Yes, but only after he does what?" Sol pressed, sensing he'd gained the advantage. "It's unacceptable for him to kill your men in their beds, but you can leave him to suffer the tortures you always avoided?"

  Dieter glared. "Do not preach to me, Salharan. A man who plays three sides has no right to lecture anyone. Nor is it my duty to help you with your treachery. Let the Illussor take care of their own problems. How weak that they need two Salharans to rescue them from a mess of their own devising."

  "How weak that you're content to sit here and let everyone suffer when you could help. Did you spend your whole life hating one man so much that you can't see past that?"

  Chains rattled as Dieter shifted, nearly standing up. He calmed himself at the last and sat back on the small, creaking bench. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

  Sol realized he finally had a chance to ask the question that had burned from the moment he realized the situation. "Why the hatred? It makes no sense. I've never been able to learn the reason. Why does he hate you?"

  Dieter laughed again. It was slow, tired, and sad. "Do you know, Sol deVry, that you are the first one to ever ask me? No one ever dared to pose the question. They feared that if they gave the impression of not hating the Wolf, they would turn the Kaiser's hatred their way, and they had not the protection of being the Scarlet General. The Kaiser hates me because he was jealous. He thought I took what belonged to him."

  "I see," Sol said, not really seeing at all, but he had indulged himself as much as he would permit. "Is there no way I can convince you to help us? What would it cost you to do so?"

  "What would it gain me?"

  Sol set the vial down on the bench and drew his hood up. He was done. There was nothing more he could really say. "A life not completely wasted. If you choose, give it to him when you say goodbye." The torch he left, unable to bring himself to take it away. The door creaked as it opened and closed, and then Sol left as quietly as he had come.

  The wind howled as he made his way back across the field to the palace, deeper and colder, snatching at his cloak and whipping the hood away. After the third time, Sol gave up keeping it in place. Only the howling wind offered any sound; perhaps in anticipation of the next morning, everyone had bedded for sleep. If there were games afoot, they were quietly played.

  However, he was not the only one up, Sol realized when he reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hallway to his room. He nodded politely to Burkhard. "Fair evening, Burkhard. Can't sleep?"

  "Yes. And yourself?"

  "I think the walk took the energy out of me. The cold saps it. My bed sounds good right about now. So I will see you in the morning." Sol smiled, nodded a good night, and continued on his way. Sol knocked softly on his door, and at Iah's demand for identity offered his in Salharan. When the door opened he smiled at Iah, reaching out a hand to greet him with a touch on the shoulder. "How did it go?" Iah asked, stepping back to let him in.

  The sound of boot scraping stone was the only warning he had, and Sol turned just in time to avoid a fatal blow. Burkhard's eyes were dark and feverish with hate. "Salharan!"

  Biting down against a cry of pain, Sol wrenched free of Burkhard's grip, the dagger still in his shoulder. Grabbing Burkhard roughly, he shoved Iah aside and threw himself and Burkhard into the room. "Lock the door!" he snapped, speaking in Krian.

  "You're Salharan." Burkhard picked himself up. "Your eyes. How did I never notice them?"

  Sol swore. He'd thought the glow past, the tiny sip of magic used up by the evening's tricks. His edge really was gone. With a rough cry he wrenched the dagger from his shoulder, holding it tightly as Burkhard approached. "Burkhard, stop! Please! I don't—"

  "You've lied. All this time! I called you friend."

  "I am—" Sol do
dged away, holding the dagger close, reluctant to go that far. His shoulder burned with agony, and he could feel the blood soaking through his clothes, making them sticky. He fell for a feint, and the punch sent him reeling, tripping. Reaching out to catch himself on a chair, he instead only sent it crashing to the ground with him. The dagger went skittering away, and then his world was a blur of fists and angry words as he tried to block Burkhard's assault.

  Even considered vulgar for a Salharan, he was woefully inadequate for fighting a Krian. Sol continued to struggle, but the wound in his shoulder worked against him. He did not want to resort to arcen, did not want to have to kill Burkhard.

  Suddenly Burkhard stilled above him, eyes wide. He collapsed on top of Sol, who struggled for a moment before throwing him off. There was a dagger in his back. Holding his shoulder, Sol struggled to his feet and crossed the room to where Iah stood. "Thank you," he murmured, and held Iah in a loose embrace.

  "You're bleeding," Iah said. His fingers sought and found the wound at Sol's shoulder as he turned his face up. He frowned.

  "A minor wound," Sol said and slid his arm from around Iah shoulders, holding his hand over Iah's own on his wound, letting Iah feel as he cast a spell to close the gash. "I'll be fine." He made to pull away.

  Iah wouldn't let him. "You should be more careful."

  "I know," Sol said quietly, fingers reaching up of their own accord to touch Iah's cheek. "I'm sorry. Thank you for saving me."

  Iah leaned closer, and Sol tried not to notice how he smelled—like soap and wine, but also fresh, like the beginning of spring. "It's funny," Iah said, voice unsteady. "I was raised as a Duke, and even when I gave that up I was quickly promoted to Captain. I've been in command of others for as long as I can remember. People lean on me. I don't like that, for the rest of my life, I will have to lean on others." He tilted his head a bit more, leaned in a little closer. "But I don't mind leaning on you. As terrified as I am of being blind, it scares me more that I almost lost you."