by Michael Karr
Despite the artificial nerve system, Rolander would still face challenges in learning to use the hand as naturally as his real hand. Jonobar explained the mechanical hand would lack some of the fine motor movements of a real hand. Some being so minute and subtle, man could not—yet—reproduce them artificially. And the biosensors would require some getting used to. It was very likely he would accidentally snap a few dozen styluses before he learned to hold one properly. But with practice, Jonobar felt confident Rolander could learn to master his new hand. Rolander’s brain would adapt, learn to cope with the subtle changes in input and feedback.
Though the prospect of having a right hand again filled Rolander with hopeful anticipation, he found himself more enthusiastic about the actual process of building it. If they could recreate such a complex machine as the human hand, they could build anything. The possibilities made him giddy—happier than he’d felt since before…
A sudden noise from outside Rolander’s window brought his attention away from his work.
“What is that?” asked Rolander.
Jonobar raised his eyebrows.
“Sounds like marching to me.”
They went to the window and peered down.
Four stories below, the bailey droned with the stamp of soldiers’ boots. More soldiers than Rolander had ever seen at the castle before. Not only soldiers filled the bailey, but war machines as well. Not many. Enough to tell the tale that this was no mere military training exercise. Too many soldiers for that.
“What do you suppose they’re doing?” said Rolander.
“If I didn’t know any better—and I don’t know any better—I’d say they were preparing for some sort of battle.”
“At the castle?”
“Who knows? Perhaps some rebel faction has made threats against the empire. Why don’t you go ask the regent? He is a friend of yours, is he not?”
“Krom?”
Rolander had never considered Krom a friend. He didn’t know if anyone could consider Krom a friend. Friend was too warm a word for someone so…detached from emotion. Krom did speak to Rolander on occasions, mainly to inquire how his tutelage faired. Their conversations were brief, concise.
“Go on,” prodded Jonobar. “As an official resident of the castle, unlike a humble servant like myself, you have a right to know if the castle is in danger of attack. I am curious, myself, I must confess.”
Rolander looked up at his tutor. Jonobar smiled reassuringly. Rolander did not wish to disappoint his tutor. Besides, something about what Jonobar said rang true to him. He did have some right to know if something were going to happen.
“Alright, I’ll see what I can get out of the old stone face.”
Jonobar laughed softly at Rolander’s joke.
He found Krom standing amid the organized chaos of the bailey. Three or four officers were receiving instructions from him. Rolander stood by, trying not to look as insignificant and out-of-place as he felt. He watched as the lines of soldiers streamed by. They flowed from every direction. The sight made him dizzy. Involuntarily, his mind flashed back to that fateful day on Haladras. He remembered the clash of arms, the piercing cries of the blasters, the sweltering heat, the confusion, the pain. Involuntarily, he reached for the spot where his arm ended in a stump. What a fool he’d been.
A hand grabbed him by the shoulder, and he started.
“What are you doing here, Rolander?” said Krom, turning him around.
Rolander shook himself from his trance, and tried to slow his racing heart.
“I—I just wanted to know what was happening,” he replied, his voice so timid he doubted if Krom could have heard him even without the noise of the soldiers crowding the air.
Keeping his hand on Rolander’s shoulder, Krom directed him back toward the castle’s main entrance.
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”
He led Rolander just within the entrance hall, where it felt cool and quiet after the relative turmoil outside. Krom looked down at Rolander with his hard gaze.
“Intelligence has reached us that there might be an attack on the castle,” said Krom, abruptly.
“An attack?” repeated Rolander.
“Possible attack. I’m not too concerned about it. Just to be safe, I’m bringing in more soldiers to strengthen our ranks around the castle, and sending soldiers to strength several strategic outposts. The castle is perfectly safe, but I don’t want to take any risks.”
Then he drew in closer and lowered his voice.
“Skylar’s absence from the castle, and the timing of this make me suspicious. I’ve also received reports of a potential traitor in our midst.”
“A traitor?”
“Yes. We don’t know anything about the traitor. Only that the Tors are involved. You can help us by keeping a watchful eye out for any suspicious behavior inside the castle. Report it to me directly. At this point, until the threat has been eradicated or proven nonexistent, we must be wary with whom we trust. I have full trust in the Queen Mother, of course. She is aware of the situation. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” replied Rolander, suddenly feeling afraid.
“Good. Now back to your quarters. The best thing for you is to stay with your tutor and keep to your studies.”
Rolander nodded his head, then turned and walked back to his chamber. As he walked, he contemplated the import of Krom’s words. A traitor in their midst? Unexpected curiosity filled him—a desire to know who the traitor was and what he intended. For a brief moment, his mind involuntarily thought of the professor’s tea leaves, from the nation of Tor. Surely the professor wasn’t….he immediately terminated the thought. The professor was incapable of any harm. Krom trusted him. He trusted him, completely.
He began devising ways that he might secretly uncover the traitor. Perhaps he and Jonobar might conceive a plan together.
“A traitor, he said?” replied Jonobar, after Rolander told him all that Krom had confided in him. “And news of an attack? Sounds suspicious to me.”
Jonobar stroked his beard meditatively.
“Why do you say that, Professor?”
The professor shrugged and waved his hands dismissively.
“It really isn’t my place to meddle in such affairs, nor to put conspiratorial thoughts into your brain. I should not have said anything. Now, shall we continue from where we left off?”
“No,” said Rolander. “I mean, I want to know your ideas. I was hoping we might help catch the culprit. After all, I feel as though I owe it to Skylar to do what I can to protect his kingdom.”
Jonobar considered the matter for several moments, stroking his beard some more, and wincing in response to the internal battle he appeared to be waging. At last, the wincing and beard-stroking ceased, and the professor looked resigned to whatever decision he had made.
“So be it, Master Rolander,” he said. “I shall endeavor to assist you in whatever manner I can.”
“Tell me, then, what you think is suspicious?”
“Only that—and keep in mind that this is only a conjecture, my boy—that the timing of it all feels too uncanny. Consider it. Prince Korbyn is absent from the castle for an extended period of time—supposedly to pursue his studies.”
A subtle knowing looking sparked in the Professor’s eyes.
“Now there’s suddenly news of a possible attack on the castle—an unprovoked attack—and a traitor. All perfect conditions for the regent to fortify the soldiers, as well as point the finger of suspicion at anyone who might oppose his actions. The conflict—whether real or fabricated—would serve to win the backing of the people, who will inevitably feel vulnerable.”
“You mean, you think Krom is making all this up so that he can overthrow Skylar?”
“He may not need to overthrow the prince. If something tragic should happen to him while he’s away from the castle, who more natural to take his place than the regent? Especially at a time of crisis.”<
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“But, Krom wouldn’t do that. He’s one of Skylar’s most loyal subjects. He risked his life to put Skylar on the throne. Why would he try to take it from him now?”
“No man, however great, is immune from the corruption which power or the desire for it stirs in his heart. The thirst for power can canker and blacken the noblest and purest of men.”
Jonobar lowered his voice, and he looked at Rolander intently.
“If you wish to aid the empire, keep a wary eye out for Krom.”
Twenty-one
How long had he been enslaved in the bowels of the castle? The lack of sleep made it impossible for Skylar to distinguishing one day from the next. To him, all the days blurred into an endless stream of nightmares. When he slept, he dreamt that he was awake, carrying that accursed crucible, his muscles tense and twitching. There was no day, only night. The darkness always pervaded in the depths of that infernal pit.
As he lost track of time, so too he began to lose track of himself. Utter misery and depravation clouded his mind. He no longer thought or felt. His body moved of its own volition, goaded by the taskmasters’ stripes.
One morning he woke to the sound of the guards beating their iron cudgels against the bars of the dungeons. The sound jolted him out of sleep, just as it always did. He never crept slowly out of sleep, like one does after a long night’s rest. Always with a start, his nerves and muscles reacting like a sprung trap.
Unlike every other morning, one of the guards was on him before he could muster the willpower to stand.
“Up with ‘ya,” said the guard, prodding Skylar with the end of his cudgel.
Skylar stood, only to have the guard shove him toward the exit of the dungeon. He stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. The man whom he recognized as the driver, the one who purchased him and brought him here, stood just outside the threshold. The driver held his whip coiled in his hand.
“You’re needed elsewhere, boy,” said the driver with a sneer on his dark face. “Upstairs. You’re going to be a court slave today. But don’t get any ideas. You still belong down ‘ere.”
He grabbed Skylar by the throat and squeezed so that Skylar couldn’t breathe. Then he brought his ugly face next to Skylar’s ear.
“And if you give ‘em any trouble, I’ll personally slit your throat and feed your entrails to the hogs.”
With a jerk, he tossed Skylar toward a line of several other slaves.
Skylar coughed and rubbed his neck.
Ten other slaves stood in the line with him. A portly gentleman carrying a lantern, and wearing a trim jacket stood at the head. His clean appearance in that filthy hole glared like the Haladrian sun. And when he spoke, his voice sounded kind compared to the harsh growls Skylar had grown accustomed to.
“Follow me,” he said, holding his lantern level with his face and turning toward the stairs that led upward. The same stairs which first brought Skylar down into that blazing pit.
The portly gentleman led them up the stairs, through a cellar packed with dried meats, and into a kitchen filled with smells which set Skylar’s mouth salivating like a dog.
“Here’s a few more slaves, Lurdel,” announced the portly gentleman. “They’ll need a good meal before the ceremony.”
An even portlier woman looked up from pounding a piece of raw meat with a mallet and let out a cry of indignation.
“Not in my kitchen!” she shouted, shaking her mallet threateningly. “Those filthy creatures! They’ll get dirt and fleas all over the place. You get them washed and dressed in clean clothes afore bringing them in here.”
The gentleman in the jacket didn’t look like he wanted to risk getting his face flattened like the meat the cook had been pounding. Backing off a few steps, he held up his hands in surrender.
“Fine, fine,” he said.
Then turning, he motioned for Skylar and the other slaves to follow him out of the kitchen.
“Baths first it is, then.”
He led them into a chamber, lined along the walls with deep recessed. These recesses contained rows of narrow cots, each with a pillow and a blanket. They were also held behind iron bars. At the far end of the chamber, a set of wide stairs led down into a low area filled with wooden barrels, sawed in half and filled to the brim with water. The floor sloped gently inward, meeting with a circular drain at its center.
“In the tubs ‘ya go,” said portly gentleman. “Must be nice and clean for the ceremony.”
Though still baffled by the entire situation, Skylar wasted no time in stripping off his sullied rags and plunging into the bath. The water felt like a shot of vitality to his entire body. As the layers of filth and grime washed away, his skin cleansed and renewed, some of the clouds over his mind cleared. He began to feel like himself again, to remember why he was there.
One bath was insufficient to fully wash away the filth. Servants brought in more fresh water. The tubs were drained. And they washed again.
After the gentleman in the jacket deemed them satisfactorily clean, he led them back up from the bathing area of the chamber and over to a cluster of wooden trunks and stone benches. From the trunks, he produced clothes for them to wear.
Skylar quickly donned the garments the man gave him. The chill from the bath had set in nearly as soon as he left had the warm water. He found these new clothes a remarkable improvement from the bits of cloth he wore before. Though simple, the garments felt warm and comfortable. The boots the man gave him to wear he loved the best. He’d near forgotten what it felt like to have his feet shod with supple leather.
Having made good on his promise to bathe the “filthy creatures,” the gentleman in the jacket led them back to the kitchen, where the cook reluctantly fed them.
“Eat,” she commanded sharply, “then out of my kitchen.”
Plopping platefuls of roasted meat and potatoes and several loaves of bread onto a table, Lurdel bustled back to ordering about her kitchenhands and attending to her bubbling stewpots and baking ovens.
Skylar scarcely saw the food in front of his face before he felt himself stuffing handfuls of the victuals into his mouth. He must have looked like an animal glutting itself after going without food for weeks. He didn’t care. The ache for food—for nourishment—had been a constant companion ever since he arrived on Gorgoroth. The meat was foreign to him, but he tore into it with his teeth as though it was the most delicious thing in the universe.
“Look at ‘em go at it,” said one of the kitchen hands. “You’d think they hadn’t eaten in years. What do they do to ‘em down there?”
You don’t want to know, thought Skylar.
It didn’t take long before Skylar’s belly felt full. No doubt, his belly had shrunk to the size of a fist from his starvation down in the Inferno. Like the bath, the nourishment brought vitality where before he felt dead. His mind felt even clearer. Strength gradually seeped back into his muscles and bones. He could feel it. Like an electric current flowing, charging his body.
“Well, boys,” said the man in the jacket, rocking onto the balls of his feet, “if you’ve eaten your fill…”
He motioned that it was time for them leave.
Reluctantly, Skylar stood up from the table. Before leaving, he looked at the remnants of their meal and imagined himself eating it again. The force of that image held him spellbound for a moment. He wondered if he’d ever enjoy such a meal again.
The man in the jacket led the small group of slaves down a deep corridor. A long file of other slaves dressed identically to Skylar stood silently near the stone wall. The man in the jacket motioned for Skylar and the others to join the back of the line. Another official-looking man, with a whip and fierce scowl, caught Skylar’s notice.
“Is that all, Cartwright?” said the man with the whip.
“That’s all,” replied the man in the jacket, amicably.
“Very well.”
The man with the scowl turned to the slaves. Car
twright departed. Skylar felt remorse at seeing him leave. This man, whom he never met, had shown him the first shred of kindness since leaving Rajar Koon’s compound.
“In a moment,” said the man with the scowl in a booming voice, “I will take you into the throne room, there to participate in an important ceremony. Her Majesty the Empress will be there. Your job is to stand still and stay quiet. Don’t even so much as look her majesty. Understood? Good.”
He cracked his whip in the air then struck off down the corridor. The line of slaves followed in his wake.
Skylar marveled that this man commanded so many slaves alone. There must have been a hundred of them.
At the end of the corridor, they entered the throne room through a pair of great wooden doors. Except for a pair of guards flanking the doors, the throne room was vacant. Vacant and dark. No windows admitted light from the outside. Only an iron chandelier with its circle of tallow candles and a few candelabras provided any relief from the darkness. The light these produced was nothing more than a sallow glow.
Skylar thought the whole scene a stark contrast from the throne room in the Castle Ahlderon.
An hour or more passed. Their new taskmaster stood with folded arms, watching the slaves, daring them to make the slightest sound or movement. For his part, Skylar found himself almost wishing to be back down in the Inferno. At least there, he could do something. Then he remembered the food in this belly, the clean clothes, the bath.
Eventually, the throne room began to stir with activity. Servants and servitors bustled in and out, checking candles, hanging tapestries, and depositing decanters of wine near the throne.
A group of fifty men, who looked more like warriors than courtiers, entered the hall and silently assumed their place near the base of the throne. These warriors wore nothing to cover their bare upper torsos. Their chests were exposed, revealing strange markings carved into their dark skin. Their loins were covered by a simple animal skin. They carried various bladed weapons which Skylar had no name for.