“I didn’t come here to condemn you, either, Father,” Galvus told him. “I didn’t come down here to mock you. I came down here to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I disagree. I’m your son, and I think sons always have many things to say to their fathers. And right now I’d like to tell you what I’ve been through, and what Mother and I have been through, what we’ve suffered and come to believe—but it wouldn’t matter to you. You wouldn’t be able to understand; you’d refuse to understand. I think that’s really what condemns you. That refusal. You’re the same man you’ve always been. Frightened.”
Cyrodian glared at him.
“You’re frightened of the world, Father, because it’s bigger and stronger than you are, and it means more than you do, and you can’t conquer it, you can’t defeat it or punch it, so now you think that it’s conquered you. You’re full of hatred, and hatred is only weakness. You’re full of fear because you refuse to try to understand anything. Not even yourself. And you won’t discuss ideas because to you ideas are useless things. You like to give orders, you like to issue commands and see things done—but you don’t like to discuss ideas.” Galvus told him, “I can’t even pity you; there’s nothing in you to pity.”
Cyrodian stared at him for a very long time, his black eyes burning beneath his tousled white hair. “Fear?” he asked. “And you’re not afraid? Of anything?”
“Only of men like you, when you hold swords and charge at the world.”
Cyrodian chuckled and leaned back on his chair, leaned back so that the shadows cast by the oil lamp in his cell covered his face. “Go away,” he breathed. “I have nothing to say to you. Nothing I could say would change anything, anyway.”
Orain glanced at Galvus. Galvus shook his head and nodded toward the corridor, suggesting that they leave. Orain began to move, then paused.
“We won’t be back,” she told her husband.
“Good.”
“But if you’ll tell me one thing, Cyrodian…I want to know one thing.”
His eyes burned at her from the shadows.
“Why?” Orain asked him. “Why did you murder Dursoris? Why did you want Queen Yta killed? Did you really think good would come of that? Did you really think you would help—this empire—by doing these things? Did you, Cyrodian? In your heart?”
He was silent. Staring at her. Orain thought he would not answer, and so she turned to leave.
Cyrodian’s voice was hollow in the shadows. “Yes,” he told her.
She watched him.
He had turned his head; he was no longer looking at her. But he said in a low voice, “I’m a strong man. And only strong men can accomplish things. I wanted to use my strength to help my nation become great again. If I failed—it’s because people like you…you failed to believe.” Now he faced her. “Yes,” he told Orain a last time. “Now leave me.”
* * * *
When they returned upstairs, they heard the violence of the storm booming in the air, raining on the rooftops of the porticos, breathing through the palace in long cool gusts. The downpour splashed on the window ledges of Orain’s room; Galvus hurried to pull closed the sashes, then watched his mother carefully as she sat in a cushioned chair and lifted her hands to her chin.
“Are you all right?”
Orain smiled wanly. “Strangely enough, yes.”
“Do you want me to order you some food, some wine?”
“No, Galvus. Thank you.”
Omos came in through an annex chamber, and a moment later, a knock on the door admitted Adred. In the grayness of the chamber, with the rain and the dampness, the four of them looked at one another quietly and realized that they did not have a great deal to say.
Finally, Galvus took Omos by the hand and led him out. “Let’s let Mother rest a while.”
But Adred did not leave. As Galvus closed the door softly behind him, Adred turned to Orain. “Anything I can do?” he asked her softly.
She shook her head, repositioned herself on the cushions, lifted one elbow to an arm of her chair, and propped her cheek on her hand, contemplating. “It’s so odd,” she confessed.
Adred moved to sit in the chair across from her. “What’s so odd?”
“He hasn’t changed, yet—he has. You remember him before. He seemed so—cruel, so one-minded. Something’s happened in him. To him.”
“What?”
“I can’t say. He wouldn’t tell us anything. Oh, he acts the way we expected him to act, but there’s something else about him, now. As if he’s afraid. I mean it—truly afraid.” She looked at Adred meaningfully.
Her comment disturbed him. “Because he realizes now that he’s only mortal?”
Orain sniffled a sort of low laugh. “No. I can’t say what it is, precisely. Perhaps because he was away from Athadia, away from home. Because all his plotting failed. Those were the only ties he had to us. He truly believes he was doing the right thing, Adred.”
“Assassins always do; extremists always do. That revolutionary who tried to kill Elad thought the same thing. So do these churchmen who scream that everybody’s wrong but them. Extremists—well, they always think that way.”
Orain looked across the room at nothing in particular. “Perhaps something happened in Emaria,” she decided. “Or on the ship. His hair is white, now, of all things.” Astounded by the fact, she half-smiled.
Adred watched her as Orain said nothing more, apparently in no mood to chat; but she wanted Adred to stay with her.
After about an hour, however, he decided to leave.
“I want you to lie down,” he told Orain, walking over to her and taking her hands. He bent down and she kissed him. “Lie down and rest. Try to put all this out of your mind.”
She made a face.
“Try,” he urged her.
“I can try.”
He kissed her hair, lifted her from the chair by her hands, and walked her over to her bed and sat her down. “I’ll be back later,” he promised.
She nodded. “I need to rest. I’m starting to get a headache.”
He crossed the room to the door.
Lying back, Orain called to him: “Adred?”
“Yes?”
She wanted to tell him that she loved him: it was impulsive, this mood, but after looking at Cyrodian again and thinking back to Dursoris and remembering Sulos—she wanted to tell Adred that she loved him. But now, as she looked at him—what did she feel, with this hesitation? Pride? Self-consciousness? Uncertainty? “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
Adred smiled. “Yes,” he said to her. “I know. Me, too. Now, get some rest.”
He closed her door quietly as he went out, drew the curtains in her antechamber, and crossed the corridor to his room. The rain had let up, but the stone sill of the window he’d left open was dripping. Adred closed and locked the shutters, then glanced around; his eyes settled on the flask of wine on the far table. He had ordered it brought up with supper, but he had not opened it yet.
He walked to the table and picked up the bottle of wine, fought with it until he managed to open it with a small corkscrew. Then he loosened his belt, shoved the bottle halfway down his waist and pulled on a lightweight long coat. He fit the cork loosely into the wine bottle again, fastened the coat, and checked himself in his mirror before going out.
As he went through the palace, no one stopped him or hailed him or questioned him. Adred in his long coat meant only that he was going for one of his renowned walks in the garden, or into the city for a meal and a drink in a tavern.
As he took the echoing stairs to the first floor, he met few people in the grand halls or on the staircases. It was getting late, and most of the palace residents and visitors were either in their rooms or at one of the intimate banquets the councilors and ministers often hosted during the summer. As he moved toward the rear of the palace, past the kitchens and storage rooms, Adred heard the muffled sounds of music and singers and the
laughter of nobility.
He took the rear stairs down a flight, went through a door, and continued following the steps as they led to the lowest level of the palace—to the underground storerooms, ancillary weapons closets, fruit cellars, and the prison.
* * * *
Cyrodian was not sure what to make of his late-night visitor; he did not know the young Count Adred especially well, and from what he did know, he didn’t particularly care for him. Immediately Cyrodian suspected that Galvus or Orain had sent Adred to him on some pretext.
But Count Adred assured Cyrodian that such was not the case. “They don’t even know I’m here,” he told the prisoner.
“Then why are you here?” Cyrodian growled, standing up and gripping the bars of his cell.
Adred stood in the flickering light of the torches. “That,” he agreed, “is a very good question.” He glanced down the way and saw that the door leading into the corridor had been closed. Good. He did not suppose that the guard on duty thought his visit any more suspicious than anyone else’s, but Adred wanted to remain cautious. Carefully, watching the barred window at the end of the hall, he opened his long coat and pulled the wine bottle from his belt.
Cyrodiun’s eyes widened. “What’s that you have there?”
“Wine.” Adred undid the loosened cork and dropped it to the floor; there was no chair in the corridor, so he leaned against the wall opposite Cyrodian’s cell, picked up one leg and held it to the stone, and sipped the wine.
Cyrodian growled, “You son of a bitch, did you come here to—”
“Watch it!”
“—did you come here to drink wine and just look at me?”
Adred wiped his mouth. “No.” He coughed slightly, sipped again. “No. I didn’t.”
“Then why did you come down here?”
Adred stepped away from the wall, approached the cell bars, and held the wine bottle out to Cyrodian. “Don’t drink the whole thing,” he said, “but I’ll drink with you.”
Cyrodian eyed him suspiciously.
“All right, then. I won’t drink with you. What do you think? That it’s poisoned?”
Cyrodian scratched his nose, then reached a big hand through the bars; Adred let him take the wine. Cyrodian sniffed it, took a long swallow, and sighed heartily as he pulled the bottle from his lips. It made a smacking sound.
Adred held out his hand. “If you don’t mind …”
The giant returned the bottle; Adred wiped the mouth of it with the palm of one hand and sipped some more.
Cyrodian belched. “So why are you here, Count Adred?”
“They told me—when they came back, Orain and Galvus both said that you’d changed.”
“They’re lying.”
“No, no—they meant it. It seems to them that you’ve changed.”
Cyrodian eyed him keenly. “Do you think I’ve changed?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know you well enough. Your hair’s turned white.”
Cyrodian sniffed.
“How did that happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve got to admit that’s a pretty remarkable thing, for a man’s hair to turn snow white overnight.”
“How do you know it happened overnight?”
“Well, then, within a few months.”
Cyrodian, holding the bars, leaned back; shadows hid his face, but he grunted a series of low laughs. He breathed heavily, pulled himself forward again, and reached through the bars. “Give me some more wine.”
Adred handed him the bottle.
Cyrodian tipped it high and swallowed a great deal; he didn’t give it back. “The world’s going to hell. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’ve suspected it for quite some time now.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” Cyrodian sneered. “You and your…philosophers. What the hell good are you, Count Adred?”
“Oh, I’m probably worth my weight in gold. My bankers think so, anyway. And a few friends consider me a passable card player.”
Cyrodian chuckled. “Do you know what it’s like to be a real man?”
“I think so.”
“Do you own a sword?”
“Yes.”
“Can you use it?”
“I know how to defend myself.”
“Did you ever kill anyone?”
“No,” Adred admitted, “I haven’t. Do you think it’s essential to kill a person before you can call yourself a man?”
“It helps.”
“Well, I’m disqualified, then. Could I have another sip of wine?”
“No.” To assure him of that, Cyrodian nearly emptied the bottle with another long draft. When he pulled it from his mouth, he coughed and seemed a bit dizzy.
Adred wondered if he had had anything to eat all day.
Cyrodian leaned against the bars and regarded his visitor with tight eyes. “Do you know what a sorcerer is, Count Adred?”
“I’ve heard of them.”
“They’re real. Yes, they are. I know. I met two sorcerers.”
“Did you?” Adred sounded doubtful. “Is that why your hair turned—”
“One of them…I cut him with my sword. Cut him twice. He can’t die.”
“What do you mean, he can’t die?”
“He lives in Lasura, with King Nutatharis. The cockeater can’t die. You don’t believe me. I don’t care. Don’t believe me. I’m telling you what I know. I stabbed him twice, right here.” Cyrodian pushed the thumb of his free hand into his belly, just below the sternum; as he did, he belched slightly. “It hurts like hell, you catch a sword there. But this one—he just looked at me. The second time, you know what I did? I moved the sword around. Stuck it in him and moved it back and forth. No pain. No blood.” The giant laughed grimly. “He couldn’t die!” Cyrodian groaned and yawned and leaned against the bars again. “You don’t believe me.”
“You must admit, it’s a strange story. But…anything’s possible.”
“That’s right. Anything is possible.” Cyrodian finished the wine but held onto the empty bottle; it clanked against the iron bars. “You want to know why my hair turned white?”
“Yes.”
“You sure you do?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Cyrodian looked at him, glanced down the hall, and rubbed his forehead against the cell bars. Abruptly he looked up and eyed Adred tensely. “You think I’m drunk, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s why I brought the wine. Everyone should get drunk once in a while. Only—” he smiled weakly “—I thought I’d get to taste more of it.”
Cyrodian barked a laugh. “You can always get wine. Elad won’t let them give me any wine. If he were any kind of man himself, he’d know he should let a condemned prisoner have some wine, or a decent meal—at least his wife—before he goes to the axe.”
Adred didn’t say anything to that.
“You really want to know why my hair turned white? I’ll tell you. It was the second sorcerer I met. You know what an ikbusa is?”
“They’re not sorcerers, they’re priests.”
“This one was a sorcerer.… Why am I telling you all this?” Cyrodian wondered aloud.
Adred shrugged. “Because you drank all the wine, and you have to tell someone. Tell a stranger. It’s the guilt.”
“I don’t feel guilty about anything.”
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Maybe you only think you don’t.”
Cyrodian stared at him, then nodded with a heavy head; the wine was indeed affecting him. “I suppose…that’s right.” He shook his face and wiped back his hair with his free hand. He fingered his hair, clutched it, yanked out a clump of long strands, and stared at them. “White,” he murmured.
Adred stepped closer.
“They had me in a cage,” Cyrodian said. “They had me in a cage, like an animal. Had me in chains. Chained. Me! We were—I don’t know where; it doesn’t matter. In Ithulia, I think. It doesn’t matter. This little
village. And they had me in this cage, and there was this priest—this ikbusa—in this town. Aswassa-ahh…Asawas? Asawas? Awasa— It doesn’t matter. Telling stories. You know—all about the gods, and now there’s one god, and…be a good person. God loves you. All this ass shit. Anyhow.…”
“Go on,” Adred whispered, feeling something inside him, a remembrance of the ikbusa he had heard preaching in the uplands.
“He spotted me. Saw me in the cage and—he knew who I was. I don’t know how. He’s a sorcerer. He looks at me, he’s watching me, all these people around, and he starts talking about— I’m an evil man and I cause pain to everybody—all this ass shit. Like I’m the only man who ever put the sword to these bastards who deserved it in the first place. So he’s telling me what a sad-forsaken son-of-a-bitch I am…I spit in his eye, I remember doing that…and then he starts talking about…I don’t know.” Cyrodian, an arm’s length from Adred, leaning on the bars, stared at him, and Adred could smell the wine on his breath. “It was his eyes! You know how these dogs get, so that it gets in their eyes! They’re not men anymore, but it’s like they’ve been chewing on leaves, like they’re—ghosts inside? And their eyes—their eyes glow—”
Adred swallowed thickly.
“—but he said to me—I can still see the eyes, and the heat—it was very hot—all the dust, everywhere…and he’s looking at me, he’s looking through me…and he’s telling me what a son-of-a-bitch I am, and then he tells me—”
Adred saw tears in Cyrodian’s eyes.
“—he tells me…my mother…that Yta—”
He stopped abruptly. Stared at Adred. The giant colored; he held out his free hand, pushed it between the bars, and stared at it. Wide, thick, hairy, and it was shivering, his hand. Trembling.
Adred stared at the hand.
The hand moved.
Adred gasped. Instantly the hand was at his collar. Cyrodian gripped him and pulled him forward; Adred was jerked as though he weighed nothing. Cyrodian spun him around and pulled him tightly against the cell bars and wrapped a huge arm around Adred’s chest to pin his arms to his sides.
“What the hell do you think you’re—”
There was noise as Cyrodian smashed the empty wine bottle on the iron bars. With the broken neck in his left hand, he threatened to cut Adred’s face or slice his throat.
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