by Robin Hardy
Chapter 9
During the night, Roman nodded off as weariness overcame discomfort. In the early morning, the radiance—and exposure—of the rising sun on his left brought him to full consciousness. He watched the growing light, feeling increasingly vulnerable. He forgot entirely what he had said to Deirdre the night before and earnestly began working the weathered leather straps.
He heard the door behind him bang open and loud voices. They drew nearer, laughing, and he stiffened. “Ho—have a look at the good Surchatain!” Three Bloods stood around him, leering. They were roaring drunk, obviously straight from a night-long revelry. One Blood was still swilling from a jug.
“Ain’t you a pretty sight?” gloated one, striking him in the abdomen. Roman gasped, recoiling. The Blood leaned on his fellow, laughing, and staggered a little on the rooftop slate, slick with early morning dew.
The soldier with the jug emptied it, then tossed it behind him over the crenelation. He wiped his mouth on his soiled coat sleeve, eyeing Roman. Grinning, he pulled out a knife to point it at Roman’s throat, then draw it down to the brand on his chest. “The Ol’ High Lord made a purty picture on ’im, huh, fellows?”
The other two studied the canvas with interest. “Why, ’s a work of art in progress. But it needs more. Say—a rainbow above,” said one, describing an arc on Roman’s chest.
“And the little hart cavorting below,” sniggered the other. Then he sobered somewhat, looking down. “Our picture gets too busy here. Somethin’ wants cuttin’ out.”
The one with the knife grinned, “Surely that’ll tame the picture somewhat.”
Drowning in fear, strangling on helplessness, Roman sent up an anguished inner cry: Lord—will you stand off and let them torture me?
Say it aloud, a silent voice urged.
He hesitated, muddled. What good would it do to say it aloud? But when the Blood with the knife put it to his skin, he lifted his face to the sky and said, “Lord Jesus, must I be tortured?”
The Bloods looked at him in surprise. The one holding the knife stopped, watching uncertainly. But as nothing happened, his face filled with laughing derision and he sneered, “You’d better pray to me, man! I’m goin’ to create something that’ll make the crowds stop an’ stare!” With that promise, he took a step back to debate where to start.
In stepping, though, his foot landed in a pile of bird droppings and slipped, shooting out in front. He reflexively caught himself on the other foot, which skidded on the dewy slate, propelling him backwards again. He thrust the first foot back to catch himself, but the droppings smeared on his sole accelerated his backward slide.
At this point, seeing him dangerously close to the edge, the others made an effort to reach for him. But in their muddled state, they were not quick enough to catch him before his last fatal step and slip had neatly flipped him over the crenelation of the wall. The other two looked down, transfixed, as his scream faded. Roman closed his eyes.
The remaining two Bloods gazed at each other, then simultaneously turned to stare at Roman. Without a word, they carefully went around him and slipped back into the palace.
The morning sun shone down brilliantly on Roman, alone again.
Tremelaine rose from the downy bed on which he had passed a sleepless night. Something was persistently troubling him, and he did not know what it was. All he knew was that it involved the man on the roof, and what to do about him.
He nervously draped himself in some fine brocades and gold chains, then ripped them off as he changed his mind about what to wear. Growing increasingly distraught, he finally yanked on his hair and clothes. “I surrender! I’m coming!”
He ran from the chambers down the second-floor corridor to a door at the end. Fumbling, he pulled a key from his tunic and unlocked the door. He paused to light one candle before shutting and locking the door behind him.
Tremelaine stood in a small, windowless room. All it contained was an intricate design of clay tiles, which shall not be described, laid in the wooden floor. He placed himself in the center of the sigil, crying, “I am here as you commanded! Now what shall I do with him?”
There was a faint ripple in the candle flame, but nothing more. Tremelaine clutched the candlestick in desperation. “I was wrong not to come before! I confess it! Now tell me what to do with him!”
Kill him. The candlelight wavered.
The Surchatain started to pace, but remembered himself just in time and did not step out of the lines of the sigil. “I don’t think I can,” he whimpered. “You saw what he did to the figurehead you ordered made. The swords of an army we could turn with a word, but him alone, unarmed—”
You must kill him.
“Can’t I just—put him in prison forever?” he asked hopefully.
Your prisoners escaped. He will, too. He must die.
“I’ll leave him on that pole to die. It won’t take long now—he’s had nothing to eat or drink,” Tremelaine suggested encouragingly.
No. Ak erving girn had en feeding him.
“What?” frowned Tremelaine.
Heb ak en bed by an gervin birl! And a terrible rush of frustrated wind shook the frightened little man.
“I can’t understand you!” cried Tremelaine. “But I will do as you say! I swear it! I’ll kill him!” In fearful urgency, he spun to the door and dropped the key. Groping, he recovered it and shakily jammed it into the lock, still on his knees. In terror, he bolted from the room.
Outside, the sun rose higher in the cloudless summer sky. Even this early, townspeople were wiping their brows and saying, “It’s bound to be a hot one today!” And high up on the roof of the palace, one figure hung fully exposed to the burning rays, unable to sit or even shade his eyes.
In the courtyard far below, Kam the Blood rolled out with the other soldiers to present himself for the second day of the search. Kam had arrived too late yesterday to search with the Ninth, but today he fell in easily, scowling with the worst of them.
From the soldiers’ dining hall, where they suffered through more slop for breakfast, they were ordered to the stables. There each man saddled his own horse. Kam looked around and immediately spotted Roman’s white Andalusian, tied with a short rope in a pen. He took up saddle and bridle and headed toward the stallion. “Good luck with that bastard,” growled a Blood. “He won’t be ridden.”
“I’m meaner than any half-broke horse,” Kam answered, glowering at the animal. But he approached quietly, whispering, “Easy, Fidelis. You know me. Easy, boy.”
As he slipped the bridle over its nose, he ran his hand down the sleek neck and noticed whip marks. “Your master’s had a hard time of it too, boy,” he muttered.
Once mounted, he directed the jittery animal toward the gathering unit. They trotted out the front gates into the thoroughfare.
The first thing Kam noticed was that the crosses beside the road were empty. He grinned inwardly. Either there were no more marked people left to crucify, or Tremelaine was too preoccupied with other matters to bother with them.
The soldiers stopped at an intersection, where the Captain of the Ninth directed a line of men down each street. Kam’s group, four men, split up on their street, two going down the north side and two searching the south.
Kam and his fellow Blood dismounted at the first house they came to. It was a wainwright’s shop, with a red circle on the wide double doors. Without warning the Blood entered the house and Kam followed.
They bypassed the shop and went directly upstairs, where they surprised the wainwright’s family at the breakfast table. The householder stood. “What—?”
The Blood paid him no mind but began to search through the rooms, over-turning furniture and breaking open doors. Kam went to another part of the house, making a great deal of noise while doing as little damage as possible.
When through in the house, the Blood went back down to the shop and began searching it. He threw aside wagon wheels, axles, and planks, narrowly missing the wainwright who stood an
xiously by. Kam listened while pretending to search further.
When the place was thoroughly ransacked, the Blood turned on the be-wildered family, demanding, “Have you seen strangers, or Graydon and his wife and daughter?”
“No,” uttered the wainwright in perplexity.
“There’s a cross waiting for anyone who aids them,” the Blood informed him, jabbing a finger into his chest. Then he and Kam stalked out.
They advanced to the next door, that of the ironsmith’s house, also with a red circle. Clanging sounds of a hammer came from the lower-level shop, so they went in.
There the ironsmith was already at work, sweating over the intense heat of his furnace. He glanced at the pair of soldiers without great concern.
“Have you seen Lord Graydon or strangers about?” demanded the Blood. Kam noted that this was the second time he had heard someone refer to Graydon by a title, and he wondered why.
“You’d better check Orvis the tailor’s shop,” drawled the ironsmith, taking a bar from the furnace to examine it.
“We have,” said the Blood, stepping closer. “Why do you say that?”
“He sent word to my wife night before last, in the middle of the night, to come to his shop. If Graydon’s gone, that’s where he went.”
The Blood snarled, “Why didn’t you inform us of this before?”
The ironsmith turned deliberately to the Blood with such a twisted, cruel face that even the soldier dropped back. Holding the glowing bar in tongs toward the two, the smith uttered, “What Orvis and Graydon do is their business. What I do is mine. But my wife did not ever get there.”
The Blood said coolly, “We will inform Captain Tarl.” He and Kam almost fell over each other in getting out of that shop.
They returned to Captain Tarl and gave him the ironsmith’s report. The Captain called the rest of the men together to charge the tailor’s shop. With upwards of forty men searching the house, it did not take long for them to discover the trap door in the kitchen.
The Captain descended into the cellar, then came up again scowling, “They probably were here, and took provisions when they left. Then what?”
Kam waited appropriately, as if thinking this through, then ventured, “If they took provisions, they must have been intending to travel. We certainly would have found them by now if they were still in the city, so they must have escaped, somehow. But who knows where they would be heading?” He did not want to seem to have all the answers.
“The emissaries were from Lystra,” the Captain replied. “If they did get out, that’s where they went. We’ll search the wall for signs of escape.”
This dismayed Kam somewhat, for he feared the lack of evidence would discredit his theory. But at least examining the wall would remove them from the tales of treacherous townspeople.
To Kam’s amazement, the Captain of the Ninth took his division straight to one particular part of the city wall. Removing brush and loose stones, the men uncovered a hidden tunnel at the base of the wall in a very routine manner.
The Captain poked around the tunnel for telltale signs of passage, then spoke to several of the guards stationed at the wall. As the men waited, Kam realized with a start that this was exactly the spot Graydon had indicated they night they escaped the dungeon.
Captain Tarl returned to his men, grumbling, “They swear the only ones to come through have been townspeople, but I think they are idiots and let the Lystrans out under their noses.”
Somehow, this did not add up to Kam. “Stupid guards, to sit by and let the townspeople get away,” he muttered to a nearby Blood.
The other sneered back at him, “You’re new. We’re saddled with all the new idiots. Well, idiot, this is what happens when you pull guard duty: You catch them on the outside of the tunnel—saves the trouble of nailing them up—and then divide their valuables. Clean and quiet.”
Kam chuckled in outward appreciation of this cleverness, but inwardly his stomach was rolling.
The division returned to the palace to inform Captain Berk of what they had found. Kam lingered in the stables, grooming and feeding Fidelis, to observe the results of their report. Word was passed along that the guards who had been on the wall the night of the escape were being taken out to the thoroughfare to be executed.
Kam chose that time to slip to the dungeon and make his own report. As most of the soldiers went around front to watch the scapegoats being strung up on crosses, he found clear going to the dungeon door. He trod gingerly down the slippery steps, then took a torch from the intersection and proceeded to the end cell of the hiding tunnel. He whispered loudly, “It’s Kam!”
Deirdre immediately stepped out into the tunnel and waved him in, relieved. “We still jump at footfalls,” she said. “What have you been able to do?”
He told them quickly about the house-to-house search and his own discovery: “They called off the search at a hidden passage in the wall. The Lord was with us, to prevent us trying to use that means of escape. Graydon, are you aware that they knew about that hole in the wall all along?” Kam asked accusingly.
Graydon paled. “No—of course not. We almost went through it ourselves.”
“Why do they call you ‘lord,’ anyway?” Kam pressed suspiciously.
“I am the Surchatain’s brother. I had some honor before he imprisoned me,” Graydon answered defensively.
“Never mind that,” Deirdre interrupted. “What of the search, Kam?”
The Second resumed, “They think we escaped through that hole and got past them somehow. I’ll try to learn now if they intend to pursue us outside the city.”
“Good!” exclaimed Deirdre. “Then you’re sure they’re no longer searching for us in Corona?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Kam. “But we mustn’t try to leave yet. They know about Orvis’ cellar, and anyone who sees us in town may betray us.”
Graydon quickly agreed. “It seems coming here to hide was a wise move. But I cannot believe Galen is unaware of our presence.”
“How could he be aware of us?” Deirdre asked, startled.
“Why, the dark powers tell him everything he needs to know. They must know we’re here. And if they know, he knows. It’s that simple.” This calm statement chilled their hearts.
But as usual, Deirdre argued, “That doesn’t make sense. If he knows about us, why would he let us run freely? Why would he let me see Roman, and feed him? Why wouldn’t he recapture us and torture us, too?”
“I don’t know,” Graydon answered. “But what’s to prevent his knowing?”
“What’s to prevent it!” Deirdre exclaimed. “God’s to prevent it! Can’t I make you understand that we’re under God’s protection? He won’t hand us defenseless to those dark powers. Roman knows that, even as much as he is suffering.”
“What are they doing to Roman?” Kam asked uneasily.
“They’ve lashed him naked to a pole on the roof of the palace,” she answered dully. “But he told me he can endure it, because he knows there is a reason for it. He also forbade me—or any of you—to try to reach him again.”
“Why?” demanded Kam.
“He fears we’d be captured,” she said. “And I promised to obey him.”
In spite of her gravity, Nihl smiled, realizing what a momentous accomplishment that was. “We will clothe him with prayer,” he responded softly.
High above them, Roman sweltered as the summer sun reached its apex. Its direct rays made the slate beneath him sizzle. Whenever he opened his eyes, he saw the air around him rippling with the heat. He could hardly swallow for the dryness, though sweat ran unimpeded down his face and body. How long, Lord? How long will you leave me here? Why are you doing this to me? He sagged in semi-consciousness, his strength drained dry.
At the palace in Westford, Troyce passed by the nursery door and saw the guard posted there. He paused in concern. “What are you doing here?”
“Standing at sentry, Administrator,” the guard replied, saluting.
&n
bsp; “Why? Who ordered it?”
“Captain Olynn, sir.”
“Well, you have no business here,” Troyce said brusquely. “I suggest you go attend to your responsibilities.”
“I was ordered here, sir. My responsibilities are to execute my orders.”
“And I outrank Captain Olynn,” Troyce irately countered. “I say you will leave.” The guard bowed slightly and retreated down the corridor. The first thing he did was search out Captain Olynn.
Troyce watched the soldier until he turned the corner. Then Troyce opened the nursery door and stepped inside. Ariel, supposedly napping, was sitting up in the center of the bed, busily shredding the netting around it. He smiled up at the administrator.
Troyce stood by the bed, hands folded contemplatively, and watched the child. Whatever thoughts he had must have disturbed him, for his expression grew troubled.
A side door opened. “Lord Troyce—what is it you need?” Gusta inquired deferentially. She came to the bed to lay Ariel back down and scold him.
“Peace of mind, my dear,” Troyce answered. He turned and left the nursery.
Roman. He jerked his head up and blinked with sweat-covered eyes into the blinding sky, then dropped his head again. Now I am hearing things. I will go mad before I die. He laughed a little, with parched throat and tongue. Yes—where is my mighty God?
Roman. “Wha’?” His head bobbed up again and his heart thumped. He moaned. “Oh, where are you, my God?”
In communication expressed directly to his inward being, he received: I told you I would never fail or forsake you. Do you believe me?
He began to sob, but had no moisture for tears.
Do you believe me?
“Yes,” he said thickly.
Do you believe that whatever dangers you face, I am there also; and wherever you are taken, I go with you?
“Yes,” he gasped.
Will you allow me my right as Sovereign to send you and use you? Will you obey me, Roman?
“Yes, yes!” he moaned. Drooping, he mouthed, “You are God. You are sufficient.” The words were barely whispered in his physical depletion.