by Jeff Wheeler
She wanted so much to believe him. That the dream he had taught her might actually happen. But she could not trust him. Not without proof. And not before rescuing the others. She held up her hand. “You could be lying again.”
“Why?” he asked. “I’ve just risked my life telling you the truth. The whole of it. I couldn’t share this with you in Sol. I have to now.”
She stared at him and swallowed. “Are Quickfellow and the others alive?”
He nodded and raised the goblet to his lips. “I haven’t decided what to do with Prince Quickfellow yet, though.” He chuckled darkly. “You know he’s lied to you as well?”
“What do you mean?”
“He handles himself very well, doesn’t he? Who do you suspect he is?” Tsyrke asked, his face cruel. “A Silvan prince? The son of a Sunedrion councilman?”
“He’s a Shae,” she answered. “And more honorable than most.”
“Oh, he’s a Shae, Sparrow. As glib as they come. And as common as they come. He’s only the son of a barter.”
Ticastasy stared at him. A spasm of pain and betrayal went through her. “I don’t believe you.”
“We had a nice little discussion about him earlier today. He’s been banished from Avisahn. The Wolfsmen who caught up with him in the Foxtale were going to arrest him for treason. None of this is sounding familiar to you? I imagine not. I don’t think he would have told you this about himself.”
She had no idea whether Tsyrke was lying to her or not. He had lied to her before, despite his excuses, but he seemed to have strong details. He knew about the Shae who had come to the Foxtale. Was it all an elaborate ruse? Angry but uncertain, she decided that before she would condemn Quickfellow, she would hear it from his own lips first. Maybe she’d wanted to believe it too much. Maybe she’d fooled herself twice. Ban you, Quickfellow, if you’ve lied to me too…
“You swear it, Tsyrke?”
“He’s in the dungeon below the mansion,” Tsyrke replied, motioning towards the door. She gave him a wary look. “Hate, if you want to see him breathing, I’ll let you!” he snapped. “I told you my reasons, Sparrow. I told you the truth about why I’m here. I want this Rebellion to end.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Yet this is your army. You hardly look like you’re quitting.”
“I can’t exactly manage that with Ballinaire rustling in the woods. One of the other generals has been watching my movements. I’ve had to be very careful. But consider this. I am in the governor’s manor in Landmoor. He knows and stands to profit greatly from this. I told you that I sent word to the knights to meet me in Sol. And I see you brought one with you.” She bowed her head and nodded. “I haven’t met with him yet, but I will and then you’ll see. I plan to let him go back to Owen Draw. I don’t want his blood on my hands. But what about Quickfellow? Do you know what he is after?”
She gave him a wry, sad smile. “You said it yourself, Tsyrke. I’m just a serving girl from Sol. No one tells me anything.”
Tsyrke didn’t seem surprised. “I didn’t think he did. Well, I doubt he’d tell you the truth of it anyway. You want to see him then? At least let me get you some fresh clothes. Do you need a healer? I can fetch a Zerite. There are a few here in the city.”
She glanced over at the changing screen and saw Tsyrke’s two-handed sword hanging from one of the posts along with some of his clothes. An idea sprouted in her mind. “I have something here,” she said, twisting the travel sack from her shoulders. “Can I…?” She nodded to the changing screen.
Tsyrke nodded deftly and walked around the table, easing himself into the big chair. Ticastasy hurried behind the changing screen and quickly untied her sack. She removed the gown Quickfellow had given her and unraveled the bundle.
“I swear that I’m going to kill Secrist when I see him,” Tsyrke chuckled blackly. She heard him fill the goblet of mead. “This is all really his fault, isn’t it? Ban it all, he’s never been early in his life…”
Unfastening the lacings, she smoothed out the gown and then hung it from a peg. Tugging off her shirt, she slipped into the gown quickly, feeling gooseflesh prickle up her arms. “You know your brother,” she said, trying to quell the nervousness in her stomach. “He’s a mule in need of a good whipping. Make sure he feels it.” She pulled off her boots so she could get the pants off quickly. There was a mirror on the inside wall and she studied herself, swiping at stray tufts of her billowy brown hair. She tugged on her boots again and straightened the gown. Reaching behind her, she did up the lacings as quickly as she could.
“I’ve missed you, Sparrow,” he said. “It was a long winter. Too long. The seas were wretched – straight from Pitan. But I bought the homestead I told you about. It’s mine.”
Ticastasy looked at herself. Then reaching into the travel sack again, she withdrew the sparrow pendant he had given her in Sol and fastened it around her neck. She quickly slid on her bracelets and earrings from a small velvet jewel pouch. Her shoulder throbbed, but she ignored the pain.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, rising from the chair.
“I’m almost done,” she said, stalling him. She furrowed through the pile of clothes left on top of a chest near the wardrobe. It was mostly comprised of his armor, settled nicely on the tattered red cloak. A relic from his grandfather, he had said. She fingered the fabric while slipping one of his daggers in her boot. Where were those keys?
There was a loud rap on the door and she froze. Tsyrke muttered something under his breath. “Enter!”
The oak door opened and Ticastasy saw a Bandit officer between the slits in the screen. “Lord Ballinaire is on his way to see you, Commander.”
“Doesn’t the old man ever sleep?” Tsyrke said. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the tunnels, sir. Will be here soon. I thought I’d warn you.” The soldier sounded worried.
“I’ll deal with him, Trent. Go find Mage and tell him to meet me here.”
“I will, sir.”
Ticastasy stepped away from the screen as the soldier left the room. She watched Tsyrke’s expression change as he looked at her. It was hard to keep a smile from her face, but his look was flattering.
“Sweet Achrolese,” he murmured, “but you are fair.”
She approached him and looked up into his eyes. “I’m glad you like it,” she said, enjoying the expression on his face. She fingered the pendant. “There have been changes, Tsyrke. Surely you realize that. I…I need time, to see how I feel about you, about what you are doing here. I’m not your prisoner, am I?”
“Hate, no!” he sputtered, folding his arms.
“I’ll see Quickfellow then. If that’s all right. I don’t want to be here when the leader of the Bandit Rebellion comes in to talk to you,” she said. “Sweet Achrolese, I wouldn’t know what to do. Pretend I’m your serving wench? But I do want to talk to you. After he leaves?” She gave him one of her most promising smiles.
Tsyrke thought about it, trying to seem reluctant. She read right through it and arched her eyebrows. “Let me stop by the kitchen and make sure he’s eaten. Please, Tsyrke. He’s my friend, a barter or a prince. I’d fetch you a bowl of stew if you were rotting in the River Cellars in Sol.”
A smile finally broke on his stormy face. “I’ve missed you, Sparrow. I’ve missed you more than I can say.” He turned around and raised the goblet. “We’ll talk later. We have a lot to talk about. Fetch the Shae lad some buttered rolls. Tell him to get some sleep. He’ll live through the night – because of you. Tell him that.”
Ticastasy gave him a warm smile. The small iron key pinched in the bottom of her boot.
XXXI
Heavy iron manacles clamped against Thealos’ wrists and ankles, making his fingers and toes tingle with the lack of blood. The manacles were connected to a short length of chain fixed to an iron ring hammered into the stone wall. He rested the weight on his lap and tried to find a comfortable position on the floor. Clumps of dry straw littered the cell, and he
scooted some over with his boot to see if it might cushion him a little. But the straw stank of urine, and he kicked it away.
Thealos sat in the main holding cell at the head of the hall. He could hear other prisoners in cells further down, locked behind huge iron doors. The door on his cell was made of long iron bars, fastened together at the top and bottom with steel slats. The hinges were rusty and made a grating screech when the soldiers had opened the door. Torchfire sputtered outside in the corridor, and without any windows he was unable to tell whether it was noon or dusk. Twice since he had been locked up, the Bandits had brought in other people, chained them to the wall near him, and then returned later to take them to another cell. He was alone at the moment, but he could hear the others. Some muttered and grumbled. One man, far down the hall, hadn’t stopped whimpering since Thealos arrived.
Sitting in the shadows of the holding cell, Thealos thought about his encounter with Tsyrke Phollen. He remembered it over and over, wondering what else he could have said. He wasn’t sure whether they intended to kill him or not. Fear bloomed inside him again and he loathed the feeling. He was weary of his fears and shoved it down inside himself. He was alive at the moment. If they had wanted him dead right away, there was nothing to stop it. He visited the conversation again in his mind. Tsyrke’s words had been plainly spoken: Maybe I’m counting on that. Had he meant it only as a threat? That they intended to kill him in order to lure the Shae down into the Shoreland? Or was it something to cow him and make him more willing to bend and tell them what they wanted to know? Thealos shook his head in the darkness. They knew about the Silverkin. Well, they didn’t know what it was, but they knew something was there. A wry smile crossed his mouth. He was hoping that they would send him in after it. Did they know that the Otsquare prevented any human from passing into the chamber? They would not be able to follow him in. Better still, if he could only manage to slip out of the cell, he knew he would be safe within the warding. But how? How was he going to get that far?
Thealos’ stomach grumbled with hunger. How long had it been since he’d eaten? He remembered the savory food at the Catpaw and wished he had finished eating all of the stew in the trencher bowl. He was fearful – who wouldn’t be in his place? – but he’d manage to skirt trouble all the way from Avisahn. Granted, having Jaerod as a protector did have something to do with that.
A roach roamed across the floor in front of him and he crushed it under the heel of his boot. He missed Jaerod. He thought back on the flash of lightning coming from a clear night sky. No rain, no storm. Just a single streak of crackling white. He hoped against hope that the Sleepwalker had somehow survived, even though he no longer felt that prick of awareness, that second sense whenever he was nearby. If anyone could face a Sorian and make it through alive, Jaerod could. He wished he knew for certain whether Jaerod had.
The door at the end of the hall opened and the sound of marching steps came down the corridor. Another prisoner? Thealos could hear the clinking of chains. He didn’t have any idea how long he’d been locked away. Was it morning yet? Had the Bandit army reached the walls of the city?
A group of guards shoved Sturnin Goff down the way.
Thealos nearly blurted out the knight’s name, but he caught himself. He sat up quickly, coming into the light so the knight could see him.
Sturnin Goff noticed him, but he also kept silent. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, but not before making a quick gesture to Thealos not to say a word. The guard stopped and stared into the holding cell.
Thealos kept his expression blank and his eyes fixed on the guards, not Sturnin.
The guardsman hesitated a moment and then withdrew a ring of keys and unlocked the door leading to the holding cell. Four of them muscled the knight inside and locked him to a ring on the other wall. Brushing off their hands, they left, locking the door once again. Howls for food started up as soon as the soldiers continued down the hall.
“Well, you are the last man I expected to find down here,” Thealos whispered in amazement after the soldiers had left.
Sturnin settled down on the floor with a slump. “I didn’t banned expect to find you here either,” he answered. “When were you caught?”
“That depends,” Thealos replied. “I don’t know whether it’s day or night. I’ve been in the tunnels since the morning after we lost you.”
The knight nodded. “That would have been this morning. Sunset was an hour ago.”
Thealos looked at him seriously. “Where are the others?”
“Faring better than we are, I hope. Allavin and the Drugaen went looking for you two. Where’s the other Shae?”
“They took him to another cell.” He nodded vaguely down the hall. “I think he’s alive, though. And Ticastasy?”
“They’ve probably got her by now too. When we came to the gates, I sent her ahead to an inn Allavin told us about. They’ll probably have some Kiran Thall in disguise waiting to drag in anyone else who comes along.” He shook his head angrily. “Banned foolish of me. Banned foolish.”
“It’s probably too late to point out that the Bandits control the city, isn’t it?” Thealos said it with an ironic edge to his voice. The knight nodded, festering with anger. “Don’t worry yourself, Sturnin Goff. There is no way you could have known.”
The knight gave him a black look. “I am only one man. I just take heart knowing that the Governor of Landmoor will die when this is over. That he could betray the king like this…” He shook his head. “Well, justice will come due. And it will ride with hooves of thunder.”
Thealos cocked his head. “I didn’t know the knights were poets. What in Pitan makes you think that justice is coming?”
The knight regarded him and a cool smile lit his face. “I sent a message from Castun. A woodcutter agreed to carry it to Owen Draw for me. I paid him well enough to get the job done and promised him more if he could get it there in three days.”
“And will they answer it?”
“I sent it to the Knight General of Owen Draw. He should be the banned Champion of Owen Draw. Maybe he will get the title once Ballinaire is under the shovel.”
Thealos scooted back against the wall, letting his chains rest on his lap again. “And why won’t there be a Champion until Ballinaire is dead?”
“Ballinaire was the last. He destroyed a tradition of honor that had been with the knights of Owen Draw since we were established. You know we trace our origins to the Shae, don’t you?”
Thealos shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
The knight leaned forward. “We do, Thealos. We patterned our order after the Crimson Wolfsmen. They were dedicated to protecting the Shae people and to defending the life of your king and his family. The knights of Owen Draw are the protectors of the kingdom and the life of don Rion and his family. It is our single duty. Our honor. In the past, there was one knight chosen as Champion of the realm. The one who had perfected his skills, the one who every other knight deferred to. He had power to lead the king’s army on his behalf, to stand in his place should the need arise. The next most powerful man in the realm, except maybe the heir to the throne.”
“Ballinaire,” Thealos said with a nod, remembering a little of Dos-Aralon’s history. “I knew he was originally a knight from Owen Draw – and that he did not lack for wealth or power. He fought during the Purge Wars, if I remember right.”
Sturnin Goff nodded savagely. “He won great honor for his courage. He was young back then, but already a great leader. No one ever questioned his loyalty. He was popular among the people and even won the respect of the Shae battle commanders. He was one of the few who defined the Accords of Dos-Aralon, giving the knights of Owen Draw power to command any garrison in the realm.”
“I did not know he had done that,” Thealos said, impressed. “So Ballinaire became Champion of Owen Draw after the Purge Wars. But when he rebelled against don Rion, it probably cast doubts on you all. It is easier to believe the evil in men than the good.”
“Didn’t he rebel because he was not named the Duke of Owen Draw?”
Sturnin Goff nodded. “A right petty grievance, if you ask me. I guess it shows how far and deep hate and pride can go together.”
Thealos listened as Sturnin told him about the knights and their order. He had always wondered why the man was so aloof and distant, so unemotional about living and dying. He’d never thought to compare him to the Crimson Wolfsmen and their single-minded determination to protect the Shae. To the end, Sturnin Goff was a soldier who lived and breathed a life of trouble. His parents had both been killed during a Kiran Thall raid in Owen Draw. At first he wanted to be a knight to avenge them. But as he trained and studied the arts of war, he discovered that his pain was not the only pain in the valley. Many others had lost their homes, their families, even their lives because of the lightning attacks of the Bandit Rebellion. The Rebellion wasn’t strong enough to topple don Rion’s government. But it was too prideful to admit that, to try and soothe the wounds between an embittered Ballinaire and his king. Too many had died for there to be any forgiveness.