Primeval Origins: Light of Honor (Book 2 in the Primeval Origins Epic Saga)

by Brett Vonsik

  Hued symbols started spinning about in Aren’s head again. What? Why? Why have they returned? The symbols danced, forming that damnable puzzle with a complexity that seemed greater than he remembered. It made his head throb and ache, the pain forcing Aren to shut his eyes trying to endure it and bringing to an end his wishful illusion. I’m not cured.

  “Leave us,” a voice commanded. The voice was calm, steady, and confident.

  Aren opened his eyes to a squint to confirm the words came from the Baraan standing in the gloomy air. He caught the last of a hand wave from him dismissing his escorts. After a moment, Aren felt and heard the movement of the armed pair leaving the chamber . . . of Questioning Racks. Another shiver took Aren despite his best effort to suppress it.

  “You’re here to answer my questions,” the calm voice told him.

  Questions . . . Aren felt his knees weaken as a throng the hued symbols spun violently in his mind’s eye. His stomach felt sour, not just from the crumbs they had fed him last night, but in expectation of what was to come.

  “I see you’ve been properly introduced to the Cords of Truth?” The calm voice continued with a slight hand motion to one of the questioning racks. “Demonstrate your value to me and you’ll be spared further sessions. Reject my offer at your own endangerment.”

  Aren’s legs buckled a bit more, and the rumblings in his belly brought his unsettled stomach to his throat. And those symbols spun even faster and hotter somehow. Even the room seemed to move awkwardly with the colored symbols. Aren struggled to keep to his feet. He stumbled forward. He felt desperate to get his orientation back. Suddenly, he felt violently pulled in a direction opposite his spinning, then felt himself floating. It felt good . . . in that moment. Thud! Dull numbing pain shuddered through his whole body. He hurt everywhere.

  “I’ll not have you flop into the pit.” The calm voice punched through Aren’s dazed awareness. “At least until I determine if you have something of use for me.”

  Pain ran the length of Aren’s aching back, and his head felt as if hit with a stone. His thoughts remained fuzzy and filled with symbols. Slowly and with much concentration, Aren’s aching head cleared. The spinning symbols also slowed, but would not stop, would not offer him relief. Aren’s fingers and palms felt the flagstones beneath him. I’m on the floor? How? He opened his eyes . . . slowly, afraid that he would see the Baraan above him. The blurred dome above the room glowed dully and danced with colors from torchlight. A heavy wood framing structure firmly anchored in stone at the top of the dome appeared to be sized just right for passage of a wood platform suspended just beneath the frame from four stout chains originating further above. Aren couldn’t make out what was above the platform with his vision blurred as it was. The silhouette of an intimidating figure suddenly stood hovering over him. Fear seized Aren as bile rose in his throat. He fought to not sick up. With an effort and much blinking, Aren’s vision started clearing a little, allowing him to see the dark features of the . . . Baraan. More shivers swept through him, charging every fiber of his body, causing pain to rack him for a moment before it settled into something manageable . . . endurable. Aren decided to lie still while looking up to watch the Baraan, reluctantly letting him know Aren recognized he was there. Maybe a show of confidence will help me with him. He was at the Baraan’s mercy. How Aren detested being so.

  “Are you firm enough to answer inquiries or do I return you to the cell?” The Baraan put on a smile with a menacing curl. “Maybe after a time hanging . . . your tongue with let loose the truth.”

  Aren winced at the words. Considering his alternatives in a flash of thought, pragmatism took hold of him. He could remain stewing in the anger he felt toward Ganzer and his strong-hand Lucufaar, or he could cooperate with this Baraan and maybe find or create leverage against the others. Maybe even find a way out of all this. The hued symbols spinning in their puzzle pattern slowed to almost a stop. Aren noted the behavior of the symbols. Yes. I’ll cooperate with and use this one.

  “Your inquiries?” Aren asked sincerely, with an unwanted hint of a quiver in his voice.

  The Baraan smiled, not in triumph, but satisfaction. “What questions did Ganzer have his man-servant put to you?”

  Aren considered how to answer. He didn’t want to take too long or this one might think he wasn’t serious with his cooperation or truthful. So he’s untrusting of my tormentors . . . How do I use this? Aren quickly decided to stay away from telling him of the now slumbering Agni stone, instead, keeping his answers to the believable, the materialistic. “They asked of gems in my possession.”

  “Continue,” the Baraan prompted with a flat, confident tone.

  Aren panicked a moment with his heart pounding before gathering his thoughts and answering. Bluffing wasn’t something he considered himself good at. While still lying on the hard stone floor, he answered, “They wanted to know where I stole them from.”

  “Ganzer isn’t one motivated by wealth,” the Baraan laid out, insinuating Aren was lying or at least holding back. “There is more to your explanation.”

  “I’m speaking truth!” Aren shot back with more heat than he intended, causing him to winch a little in trepidation after the words escaped his lips. He peeked up at the Baraan hoping not to see harm coming his way. To Aren’s relief, the sharp-featured Baraan remained still and stolid. He took advantage of the moment to roll away and scramble to his feet, all the while looking for a way to escape the room, if the situation allowed it . . . and Aren wanted to escape. As he regained his feet, he caught sight of the Sake guards. They stood deep into each hallway Aren spied down. Far enough away to see, but not hear.

  The Baraan grunted. When Aren returned his eyes to him, he motioned Aren to a stool near the entrance to that unlit room. This Baraan made him uneasy, at best. He was different from the others wanting knowledge from him. His tactics were not so brutish, but practiced manipulation. Long moments passed with Aren considering his options again. None would result in his freedom except taking a chance with this one. With reluctance, he submitted to the invitation and took the seat after making his way slowly to it, half-expecting to be bitten along the way. The Baraan carried an air of confidence and of being in total control. Is he putting on a ruse, or is this one filled with that much confidence? Aren didn’t know which, but it made a difference to any plans he might work to gain his freedom. He dared say the Baraan acted with arrogance, smugness, and with a certain confidence that made Aren wonder of the authority that he carried. He concluded he must proceed carefully. Very carefully.

  “Now . . .” the Baraan continued as if their conversation was not interrupted, “tell me of these gems.”

  Aren glanced to the dark inner room now at his back to see what was to jump out at him. The darkness mingled with the odor of suffering, both past and recent, setting his mind in a place he didn’t want it to be. His skin crawled, and his stomach soured. He couldn’t suppress a shiver that was visible to the Baraan. Aren needed to weave a believable story, but one with only enough truth to hide the truth. “I took them from a merchant passing through Windsong.”

  “Why would you take such things . . . when it’s obvious to anyone’s eye you didn’t need them?” Aren could barely make out the wry smile the Baraan gave as he inquired. He too now sat on a stool of his own he pulled from the shadows. The Baraan’s eyes looked black with a shine reminding Aren of metal, difficult to see . . . difficult to read.

  “I have needs!” Aren shot back almost playfully, hoping to insinuate he needed coin and would use the gems to that end. Be careful . . . This one is reading much more than my words.

  The Baraan smiled openly. “And what needs could an Evendiir of your youth have?”

  Yes . . . what needs? Aren gave the Baraan a puzzled look meant to throw him off and give him time to fabricate the next piece of his tale. A half-truth came to him. “I wish to travel to Padusan and learn the ways of the sa
ges.”

  “And what domain of sage do you wish to be?” The Baraan asked with half of that smile now, but let Aren know with his question he was knowledgeable of the sages.

  “I wish to study in the ways of the Ancients.” Another half-truth. Aren only wanted to be studied enough in the ways of the Ancients to rid himself of these damnable colored symbols . . . and get rid of that voice that sometimes talks to him in whispers.

  “The Ancients?” The Baraan mused with a rub of his bearded chin. “They’re long lightless. What could be so interesting of them for you to decide on thieving so you could become a respected Evendiir?”

  Aren didn’t have a quick answer. He needed a bit of time to figure out how to respond. How do I answer? How close to the truth do I get?

  “What of the gems?” the Baraan asked simply.

  “Lucufaar wants to know why it no longer shines . . .” Aren broke off his answer. Tricked. You idiot, he chastised himself. Got me thinking of something else, but not far enough away from the truth I wouldn’t answer him in my distraction.

  “Care to tell me more of this gem that no longer shines?” the Baraan politely asked.

  “That’s not my first thought,” Aren replied with the realization he had been caught in his fabrication . . . and so quickly. That latter thought angered Aren more than causing him fear at being discovered in a lie. He felt an uncontrolled urge to be defiant. “Or my second.”

  The Baraan’s playful demeanor turned dark. “Where did you get this gem from?”

  When Aren didn’t answer immediately, the Baraan continued with some heat in his voice. “No matter. I’ll find answers in Windsong and those that find playing with such shiny things in defiance of the law.”

  Aren felt his blood freeze. No . . . Father did nothing wrong. How do I keep this one from family? No . . . not my father.

  “What will you give me . . . do for me to keep my feet out of Windsong?” The Baraan asked in an even voice with clearly spoken words so Aren would understand his meaning.

  Aren felt trapped. Those damnable symbols started flying and twirling about fast in his head making it difficult for him to think things through . . . figure a way out of this without involving his father. Guilt washed over him. I’ve done enough to Father. No more. His disappointment will be the least of my worries if this one hunts him down.

  “What do you want of me?” Aren replied in a voice hinting of defeat. The thought of being bested by this one . . . bested by anyone, caused bile to rise in his throat.

  The Baraan kept a serious face and his calm tone returned. “Simple. Keep your ears listening concerning your new prison mates. I want to know who they are, and what meaning they hold for their captors. Keep silent of our chewing this hide.”

  Aren didn’t like how this session of chewing worked out. Those ropes would have been better. At least it would be over when the questioning ended.

  “Are we at an understanding, young Aren?” The Baraan asked, using his name for the first time. Aren’s response was to nod his agreement. The Baraan smiled broadly as he rose from his stool. “When you have information, ask your jailers for the Subar.”

  The Subar called the waiting Sake jailers, instructing them to feed Aren, then return him to his cell. Aren rose from his stool not fully understanding the “arrangement” thrust upon him and now was part of. He did understand his situation was a dangerous thing, and he needed to keep his head about him and watch his tongue. His world was changing by the moment with no way to determine where it was going, but at least he would get to eat. His stomach growled.

  Chapter 14

  As an Ear and Eye

  Aren’s belly felt full and his attitude much improved, even for being held prisoner without reason and the questioning and those symbols continuing to taunt him. His jailers fed him from their servings of pleasant-smelling tanniyn and beans instead of the unappealing gruel left-overs given to the jailed. Whatever the “Subar” is, the Sake jailer-guards and Tusaa’Ner guardsmen either respected or feared the authority he carried. Maybe I can use this, Aren thought. His jailers even allowed him to wash his feet with clean rags and clean, bloodherb-treated water. Though the stinging remained and his scraped toes looked bad, Aren no longer feared a raging infection and walked with an improved gait. Still, he didn’t see the need in his captors taking his sandals when they locked him in. The jailers aren’t intelligent enough to know what I could make from them. As he walked the corridors, Aren noticed all those jailed were barefoot. Maybe these jailers are more experienced than intelligent.

  Aren winched in pain at those damnable symbols spinning in his head, staggering a step before catching himself at the flood of images hitting all at once. They made no sense to him. The colorful symbols had been there since he woke and upon occasions during the day, they roared large in his mind before settling back to an intensity he was able to put into the back of his head. His jailers only glanced at him as they escorted him back to his cell. When they turned him down a long hallway leading back to his prison bed they dragged him from earlier, Aren heard voices . . . arguing. What’s going on in that room? He wondered. Surprising to him and much to his relief, those symbols faded as he approached the door to the cell room. Strange . . . Upon his jailers opening the door, a strong odor of sweat and unwashed bodies and a scene of anger struck him. Not between the Sakes and the prisoners, but between the prisoners themselves.

  The Baraan elders were standing at the bars between the cells with pale-knuckled hands gripping iron berating the young Tellen about somehow getting them all involved in unclean Tellen affairs. The young Tellen was sitting with his back to the stone wall of his cell, the cell door evidently repaired and now locked. Rogaan was doing little to defend himself except for an occasional useless attempt in trying to correct something accused. The youngling Baraan was more involved in defending the Tellen from his own parents, but found himself verbally put down each time he tried to defend who Aren surmised was his friend. The two jailers standing next to the doors to the room wore amused smiles at the spectacle. They seemed to take pleasure in the sufferings of their prisoners. Aren wasn’t amused. This bunch was going to ruin what little he had of a good mood with all their bickering. Aren noted the older Tellen, Mithraam, was absent. Where did they take the old one?

  A firm hand in his back caused Aren to stumble halfway across the room. When he glared back at his jailers, he found contemptuous glares and satisfied sneers staring back at him.

  “Put yur eyes to the floor, pointy ears,” his jailer escort demanded.

  “Pointy ears?” Aren’s anger exploded without a warning as he cast a burning glare at the jailers. “Telling me to cast my eyes down, you half-witted dung-shoveler—”

  Suddenly, Aren found himself on the floor with a throbbing head and numb left arm. He looked up from his sprawled position to find the jailer standing at the door glaring down at him with a mix of anger and disgust.

  “Keep your tongue or I’ll cut it out,” the jailer threatened while imposing himself over Aren.

  “You half-witted idiot.” Aren started another insulting rebuke with the intent to involve invoking of the Subar to get them to back off. The jailer was having none of it, however, sending a sandaled foot into Aren’s ribs. “Oomph . . .”

  Silence fell over the room as Aren curled up in pain holding his ribs. After several moments, he took in a breath that allowed him to clear his head of the exploding sparks of lights. A click and a squeal from somewhere left him wondering what was happening. He felt himself hauled up with unkind hands and tossed. Before he could get his feet under him, he slammed onto floor stones. “Oomph . . .”

  Aren lay in a dazed pain where he landed, trying to recover. He lay suffering with what he considered a silent dignity as throbbing waves of pain shot through his ribs, shoulders, and foggy head. He wished his physical strength greater to keep brutes like these idiots from dominati
ng him, or that he could teach them a lesson in never touching him again. Aren’s frustration burned. He hated being defenseless, helpless . . . not in control of his own being. Unexpectedly, he felt hands pulling at him. Fear shot through him anticipating what he was to suffer. He held his breath waiting to be struck on his head, back, or other places, or to be tossed to the floor again. Instead, Aren felt himself being propped up against the back wall of the cell. When he opened his eyes, he found the young Tellen hovering over him, making sure he would not flop over. When he appeared satisfied, this Rogaan sat down with his back to the wall next to Aren.

  Aren tasted blood in his mouth. A quick inspection with his finger told him his lower lip bled. His frustration turned to anger, yet he kept it within himself. His jailers wouldn’t care if he lost his composure in an explosion of anger. They may even see such a display as their victory. He admitted there was nothing he could do to them . . . now. There will come a time when they regret their treatment of me this day.

  “Why did ya have her follower ya?” The mother of the young Baraan woman-child asked. At first, Aren thought she was just bereaved and asked the question without truly seeking an answer, but when he looked up at her he found a shaken and distressed woman tightly gripping the bars between their cells and eyes aflame with anger. She bore all of her focus on the young Tellen. The woman’s husband clearly wore anger on his face as he slowly paced the far side of their cell. The young Baraan cautiously watched his mother as if afraid of what she might say or do. “She be innocent until she laid eyes ta ya.”

  “I have not dishonored, Suhd,” the young Tellen replied with a hint of restrained anger in his tone. “Never would I.”

  “Den why did dey take me little one away?” The Baraan woman had tears streaming down her dirt-stained tan cheeks. “Why? Why . . . Rogaan . . . son ta da Mithraam da forger or whatever he supposes ta call himself dese days.”