For all their opulence and comfort, Bran found the apartments oppressive. Every furnishing or bit of art on the wall was just one more reminder of his imprisonment. He prowled the rooms, feeling like a wild cat he had once seen when a traveling troupe entertained the court. Bran remembered watching the great beast pace back and forth, furious at its confinement, held back by iron bars and thick wood. Bran was the one confined now, caged just as surely as that animal had been, though his was certainly the more comfortable of the two cages.
Eventually, he tired of stalking the rooms and sprawled on the immense bed, covered with fur and velvet. He sat up when the door to the apartments opened, but it was just a guard bringing him clothes. The guard said nothing, but laid the fresh clothing on a table and left. Bran realized that he was still shirtless and bootless, and that there was blood on the leg of his trousers. He quickly doffed his soiled garments and changed clothes. He was especially grateful for the boots. The stone floor was cold and even the thick carpets here could not totally eliminate that chill.
Hours passed and Bran stewed in silence. Another unknown guard delivered his evening meal on a wooden tray. Bran tried to engage him in conversation, but was ignored. He was sure that Davin had given orders that no one speak to him at all, not even to pass the time. That was to be the pattern of Bran's days.
He would arise and find fresh clothing and a meal set out for him. Lunch and dinner were similarly provided, always by silent, grim-faced guards whom Bran did not know. The nightmares were the same, too. They tormented his nights the way boredom and despair did his days.
It was all he could do not to go mad. No news came about a trial, and no one would answer his frantic questions about his family's murderer. He was beginning to think Davin had forgotten about him, that the duties of kingship had overwhelmed him.
A knock on the door one morning broke the monotony. Bran knew immediately that something was different. The guards who brought his food and clothing never knocked. He rose, not knowing what to expect. "Come!" he called out.
The door opened, revealing Madin Cowley, Lord of Westwatch and one of those who had been closest to Bran's father. Cowley looked tired, his hair grayer and there were bags under his blue eyes. He strode into the room as purposeful as ever, though.
"Cowley!" Bran stepped forward, his instinct to embrace the man. Cowley had been one of the most prominent fixtures throughout his life, and Bran had counted the man a friend. Cowley stepped back, raising one hand to forestall Bran. So, even Cowley thought him guilty. It stung.
"You too, Cowley?" Bran demanded.
Cowley shook his head, "I'm not sure what to believe my prince. Davin weaves a convincing tale, that he found you alone in Imelda's room, holding the knife used to kill your family."
Bran looked down at the floor, "It's true, Cowley."
"How? You admit it, then?"
"No!" Bran's glare was so ferocious that Cowley took a step back. "The killer fled through the window when I entered the room. Why will no one believe me?"
"Calm down, Bran. I just had to hear it for myself."
Bran could scarcely believe his ears. Was it true? "Then you believe me innocent?"
"I do," Cowley answered, "but it doesn't matter."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, my prince, that you have been tried in absentia and found guilty. Your execution is set for Belatine."
"Already tried?" Bran was in shock. He would have no chance tell his side? "Why was I not given the opportunity to defend myself?"
"The Council felt it best."
"And my brother?" Anger burned in Bran's gut, a deep, painful heat.
"Davin fought hard for your rights. He was in favor of you having a chance to defend yourself against the charges, even though he was your accuser. I think…I think he wanted you to prove him wrong."
"And now I will have no chance." It was not a question.
"No," Cowley said. He moved forward and put a hand on Bran's shoulder. "On Belatine, you will be burned in the sacred fire. You are to be lashed to a stake of oak, given milk of the poppy to dull your senses and then to die by flame."
Bran shoved Cowley's hand away. He knew the man was only trying to give comfort, but he was having none of it. "By what right did the Council deny me my rights?"
"They view you as a patricide and a regicide, my prince. Those accused of killing a king have no rights under the law. Technically, their actions were within the realm of legality."
"I don't give a damn about legality, Cowley!"
"Peace, my prince," Cowley raised both hands.
"I'm sentenced to death, without a chance to defend myself, and you counsel 'peace'?"
"What more would you have of me, Bran? What more can be done? You'll die for the crimes, whether you committed them or not." Cowley shrugged, defeated.
"It's so easy for you. It's not your death!"
"Easy for me? Do you think any of this has been easy? Insolent boy!" Cowley's hands tightened to fists. "I served your father for thirty years. He was my liege, and your mother was my delight. More, they were my friends! You, Davin and Imelda – you are all close to my heart." A tear rolled from the corner of his eye.
Bran turned away, unable to look at Cowley any longer. Betrayal was bitter; not the small betrayal from his father's advisor, but the larger one from the Council, from Davin. Davin fought the council for him, according to Cowley, but to what end? The Council tried him in absentia, condemned him to death. Why? Were they afraid? Were they so anxious to put this behind them?
The betrayal burned, like shattered glass ground into an open wound. While the Council was condemning him to death, they were letting the real slayer get away. They were turning a blind eye and a murderer walked free.
"I didn't do this, Cowley."
"We've been over this, Bran. I believe you, but it does not matter. The Council has made its ruling, and there is no appeal."
"But someone did do it. That someone is still out there, as is the person who hired him."
"Davin!"
"He could still be in danger," Bran was pleased that Cowley had followed his train of thought. "The assassin could strike at any moment," Bran was suddenly anxious, wondering where Davin was right now. Are you safe, brother?
Cowley shook his head. "No, if they are smart about it, they will wait until after your execution to strike. The fact that nothing has been attempted since you have been here seems to indicate that's what they are thinking."
"That makes sense, I suppose."
Cowley turned to leave. "Keep your spirits up, Bran, Belatine is still days away. Something may change." Bran watched him go. Nothing would change, Bran knew. He dropped his face into his hands. It was not that he feared death, though he did. It was that he knew Davin would still be in danger. Once Bran was dead, Davin would relax his guard and the assassin could strike.
Bran walked to the small side table where his jailers regularly placed a silver pitcher of wine and poured a cup. He had little head for the stuff, but if there was ever a time for a drink, by the gods it was now. Anger began replacing Bran's sadness once more. Why could they not see?
His hand holding the cup trembled with suppressed rage. Why could Davin not believe him? Why? He screamed his pain and anger aloud, a raw, primal sound of anguish, and flung the cup from him. It hit the wall with a metallic clink, fell to the floor and rolled back toward Bran. The wine dripped slowly down the stone, pooling on the floor.
Not content with merely throwing the cup, Bran stepped forward and kicked it as hard as he could. It rebounded off the table leg and then into the wall. Something caught his attention, though. The sound was different this time. Before, it had been the sound of metal striking solid stone. This sound was different, duller, almost hollow.
Curious, he knelt to inspect the wall. It looked no different from any other part of the room, made of pale, mortared stone. An exploratory touch yielded nothing out of the ordinary; the stone was cool and rough, the mortar s
nagging the skin of his fingers as he passed them over the joints.
Pressing his hands flat, palms against the wall, Bran worked his way down the wall. He knocked experimentally, but sore knuckles were his only reward. He knocked a bit lower on the wall and received a similar lack of results. Where was it? He knocked once more and found it. The wall echoed hollowly.
With further tapping, Bran determined the dimensions of the spot in the wall. It seemed to be a false door, about two feet in height and two and a half feet in width. But bran had no idea how to open it. He tapped and pushed at every edge and corner to no avail. The wall refused to yield it's secrets.
By mere chance he found it, just as he was about to give up in frustration. A spot right in the center of the false wall seemed to give the tiniest amount with pressure. He heard a soft click, and felt the left side of the panel move inward a bit. He pushed and the wall moved farther, unused hinges squealing in protest. The passage beyond was utterly black, the light from the room not penetrating more than a few inches beyond the door.
Intrigued, Bran turned to remove a candle from the holder nearby, and thrust it deeper into the passage. The flickering light illuminated a rough stone floor, ceiling and walls. A deep patch of darkness must mark the end of the passage, Bran assumed. Without a second thought, he began to shimmy his way into the dark space.
Bran thanked all the gods that the passage was mercifully short. The ceiling and walls were rough, and he scraped his back several times on jutting stones and bits of masonry. Whoever had the passage constructed certainly did not care much about niceties. The candlelight revealed the abrupt end of the passage. Here, the rough stone of the floor gave way to smooth flagstones, and the walls and ceiling fell away into darkness. Bran found himself crawling out of the tiny passage into a much larger one. Holding the candle aloft, he stood, staring around him.
He was in a narrow tunnel, about half the width of one of the keep's main corridors, and it was dusty. Years of dust lay piled on the floor. Thick masses of cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling, like grotesque draperies. The passage appeared to stretch interminably in both directions, though Bran knew that either direction might end a foot beyond the reach of his meager light.
The dark maw of the passage he had followed to get here caught his eye. Like the larger passage, dust was everywhere, and Bran could clearly see the marks of his passing. Gazing at his footprints in the filth, a thought struck him. If he could see those marks, then someone else could, as well. Heart hammering, Bran dropped to the floor and crawled back the way he'd come, the candle lighting his way.
It took only minutes to reach the end of the tunnel once more. Bran peered around the corner of the concealed door, but his chambers were empty. No one had come to check on him yet. That was good. Bran slid out of the tunnel into the room. He snuffed out two more candles before stowing them in his pocket and returning to the hidden passage. Scooting back over the rough stone, Bran moved far enough back that the door would clear his body, and then pushed it closed. It shut with a soft snick, telling him that whatever latching mechanism it had was secured once more.
With the panel secure again, Bran backed his way down the passageway, into the larger tunnel. Now that he was reasonably sure that no one would manage to stumble on him, Bran was intent on exploring. What was this place? Why was it here? Who built it? Most importantly, where would it take him?
Bran set off down the left hand passage. As he walked, he studied the passage. It was well built, and did not have the roughness he'd seen in the small connecting tunnel, which made him think that this was the older of the two. The smaller one must have been added later, specifically for entrance to those apartments. Perhaps the rumors that Aretin was murdered had some credence after all. Whatever its origin, the passage had not seen traffic in a very long time. The dust was thick, deadening the sound of his footfalls, the work of decades at least.
The passage ran ahead, straight as could be, at least as far as Bran's candle would show. For all he knew, there was a vast chasm yawning a foot beyond the sphere of candlelight. He pressed on, though. He had no plan other than exploring the passageway, but the temptation to escape was certainly in his mind.
He forced the thought from his mind. If he fled, he declared his guilt. If he stayed, he would die. The thought of living as an outlaw held little appeal, though it meant staying alive. His one hope now was to find some clue that would point him to the assassin. He pressed on.
***
Bran paused to light his second candle from the melted stump of his first. The passage seemed to go on forever, unchanging. He had seen nothing to differentiate one section of the passage from another. It was all darkness, blank stone, cobwebs and dust.
He tossed the ruined candle stub aside. The stub hit the flagstone floor of the passage and rolled. Distracted, Bran watched it, expecting it to stop. It continued rolling, moving ahead of him. So, he thought, something had changed after all. The passage was leading downward. How long since it began descending? How deep was he now?
Five steps farther on, he encountered his first intersection. The main passage continued on, straight as an arrow's path. The left corridor sloped steeply upward, while the right corridor went straight, and then turned sharply to the right after a few feet. Neither passage showed signs that anyone had recently ventured that way – the dust lay thick and undisturbed.
Bran hesitated, unsure of which way to go. The left passage would likely take him up toward the levels of the keep where people ventured. The right passage seemed to lead deeper into the dungeons. Continuing with the main passage meant going deeper under the keep, into the heart of the Stone. What secrets lurked there in the darkness, he wondered? In the end, that question decided his course. Onward and down – perhaps the answers he sought lay concealed in the darkness below.
The angle of descent steepened almost immediately beyond the intersection, and the passage began to take on a different tone. The flagstones grew larger, cruder. The stones making up the walls were also larger, rough-hewn and more loosely fit together. Strange carvings began to appear, etched deeply into individual stones along the wall.
He saw one that might have been a man with a bolt of lightning, and another that seemed to be a gate or doorway of some sort. Others seemed to be little more than random images, circling birds or odd geometric patterns. He peered at them, the flickering candlelight making the images seem to waver and move within the gray stone.
Sudden voices made him stop. They seemed to be coming from ahead of him, but it was hard to be certain. Sounds echoed strangely in these passages. It seemed to be two men talking. Bran crept closer, doing his best to hide the light of his candle.
"I don't care," one voice said. The voice was very familiar for some reason.
"You should care, everything hinges on this," the second voice was male, but deeper, rasping.
"When he's dead, it won't matter anymore," the first voice argued. Bran was able to put a face to that voice now. It was Davin, his brother, King of Celadon now that their parents were dead.
"His death is only the beginning, your highness. It will not stop then."
"Of course it won't! But when Bran is burned and blackened, I can finally have some peace!" Davin's words cut Bran to the core. This was not the brother who had argued for Bran's right to tell his story before the Council. This was someone else, a Davin who hungered for Bran's impending death.
"Yes, with Bran finally disposed of, we can tie up loose ends here in the city. But what of the overall plan?"
"Mind your questions, Cornar! Lest you forget, I rule in Celadon, not you!"
"Of course, my king, of course, I forgot myself."
"See that you remember whom you serve, dog," Davin's voice was cold. "Leave me now; I will go on alone. You have things to attend to, so get about them!" There was silence then, followed by the sound of footsteps moving away. There must be another passage up ahead, Bran surmised, as the footsteps began to recede once agai
n.
Davin wanted him dead. What was this? Had his brother orchestrated the entire thing? Was Davin behind all the murders? Anger flared anew in his heart, wreathing his mind in cold hate. Bran would find out the truth. New footsteps echoed off the stone, alerting Bran that his brother was on the move.
Bran hastened to follow, watchful that his candle did not give him away. In mere feet, he rounded a turn and found the intersection where Cornar and Davin must have entered. Both left and right hand passages were a confusion of footprints in the deep dust. The area seemed heavily traveled, a fact that struck Bran as very strange. Which way, though, left or right? Davin's footsteps seemed to have moved away to Bran's right, but sound was confusing in these timeless passages. He turned right. If he was wrong, then so be it.
The new passage sloped steeply down, with crude steps placed every few feet to provide better purchase. The walls were natural stone now, roughly hewn and still showing the tool marks from centuries past. The way ahead was dark, but Bran could hear the faintest echo of Davin's footsteps if he stilled his breathing. He hastened on.
The passage narrowed and widened, the work of inexpert hands. Bran seethed, his free hand clenching and unclenching as he walked. He passed beneath a low arch in the passage and the left-hand wall suddenly dropped away. Bran emerged into a natural cavern, the roof so high it was invisible.
He stood on a narrow path cut into the side of the cavern wall. To his left, there was only deep night, a drop that might have been five feet or five hundred. Somewhere in the distance, Bran heard rushing water.
Farther down the path, Bran could make out a pinprick of light that must have been Davin's torch. He blocked the candle's light with his hand, fearful that it would give him away. A second later, the pinprick of light that marked Davin's path disappeared.
With Davin no longer in sight, Bran picked up his pace, though the path was treacherous. Water glimmered on the walls, reflecting the candlelight, and trickled onto the path. It made the stone beneath his boots slick, but his anger drove him on faster than caution would dictate.
Celadonian Tales Vol: 1 Blood and Brass Page 5