The Captive Soul

by Josepha Sherman

  Wonderful morale we have here.

  But he couldn’t concentrate on the potential uses of that right now, not with Khyan pointing that bloody sword at him.

  “It needs cleaning,” Methos said so calmly that he surprised himself. “A good blade should not be treated so casually.”

  And, equally surprising, Khyan looked at the blade, then lowered it. “True.” There was no longer the slightest trace of madness in his voice, and his expression looked merely weary. “Quite true.”

  Does he even remember he just killed a man?

  Khyan was busy cleaning the blade free of blood on the edge of his tunic. “You, and you, get rid of that garbage.” The wave of his hand took in head and body both. “And clean up the mess.”

  “My prince…?” One guard began warily.

  “No. I—I am tired now. I will rest.”

  He sheathed his sword with practiced ease, not even needing to glance at the scabbard, then wandered off.

  Ah, yes. Welcome to Avaris, Methos told himself. A whole world of charm.

  The day passed in absolute, unnerving tranquility after that, with nothing more granted to him than a very brief tour around the palace—or what little of the palace he was permitted to see—by a polite but bored servant. Methos dutifully examined murals and carvings, most of which were, as he’d suspected, an uneasy if not unattractive mixture of Canaanite and Egyptian designs, oohed with proper respect at the chapel to Set, with its very realistic paintings of the god beheading his divine brother, and all the while looked for weaknesses in structural design and very gently tried prying what information he could from his guide.

  Unfortunately, said guide was wise in the ways of survival, saying only what one would expect from a wary servant: King Apophis was a mighty man, a god among kings, and his half-brother was clearly sacred, touched by the gods. And from what Methos could see from this brief tour, the palace was utterly solid, utterly impregnable.

  Frustrating.

  Of course, this lack of anything fruitful was deliberate on King Apophis’s part: Keep the “guest” in boring comfort until he either betrays himself or proves himself worthy of trust.

  Or until Khyan decides to attack me.

  At least Apophis hadn’t decided to simply put the “guest” to the question, or whatever other idiom they used in this court for king-sanctioned torture. That didn’t mean, Methos knew, that he wasn’t constantly being watched and judged. The most blatant of the watchers—that is, the one who was trying the hardest not to be seen—was a slender young male servant with the fierce eyes of a born idealist.

  Defintely not spying on King Apophis’s orders.

  A would-be assassin? Or merely a would-be rebel looking for an ally? Either way, Methos thought, an amateur.

  King Apophis’s spies, by contrast, were so far from amateur that only logic and years of wariness told Methos that they were there at all.

  At least I’m establishing myself as harmless. Which is, unfortunately, not exactly the opinion I need to develop.

  That night, he spent more time awake and plotting than he did asleep. But no sooner had Methos finally given up on plots and drifted into fitful sleep than he was roughly awakened by the twin alarms of Immortal, here! and a terrified scream. He was on his feet in an instant, heart racing and sword drawn—

  But Khyan wasn’t attacking him. Khyan was standing there in the doorway, blank-faced, shaking and wet with perspiration but clearly not yet truly awake.

  “Prince Khyan? Prince Khyan!”

  Now he was awake, and staring at Methos in terror, still trembling. “They—they—”

  I wish I could lock that door. “They were dreams,” Methos said, forcing his voice to gentleness, “only dreams.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Remember the ship? Remember back then, when I told you that these were only dreams, without any power to them?”

  “I… but… yes… but…”

  “I know that they seem dreadfully real to you, but you must believe me, they are nothing more than… than so much mist. You are stronger than they, Prince Khyan, remember that. No matter how horrible they may seem, you are always stronger than they. You can stand your ground and defy them, and they will retreat. They will always retreat.”

  “Yes. Yes!” Khyan grinned, a wide flash of white teeth, and brushed strands of wild hair back from his face. “I am stronger! Of course I am.”

  “Excellent. Now, don’t you think you should go back to your chambers before you worry your people?”

  A wave of a hand dismissed that thought. “They are but servants. I am a prince.”

  “And princes, even as common men, need rest. Good night, Prince Khyan.”

  “Good night.”

  With immense dignity, the prince stalked away, right into the arms of torch-bearing servants who had, of course, quivering with fear for their own safety, followed their master.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Methos heard the prince say. “It was nothing. Only a dream.”

  Oh fine, now you realize it.

  Khyan vanished into the herd of servants. But one of them, a thin, tense young man, paused, staring at Methos for a long, thoughtful moment.

  Aha, our blatant amateur spy!

  But when Methos raised an inquisitive eyebrow, the young man’s gaze dropped, and he turned and hurried after the prince. Methos stood for a moment more, wondering what had just happened, then gave a sigh that turned into a yawn. Sheathing his sword, he closed the door behind him and sank back to his bed.

  Maybe I can get at least some sleep this night?

  But all the while, his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword.

  The next disturbance came very early in the morning, before the sky had quite enough color to do more than tell white from black. Methos, nerves still on edge, was awake and on his feet long before the first tentative creaking of the door.

  I really must get a lock on that thing!

  He waited. A head poked warily inside: Sure enough, it belonged to the young male servant, the would-be spy with the intent gaze. The young man crept carefully into the room—then stopped with a gasp as Methos, slipping behind him, put the edge of his sword tenderly against the youngster’s throat.

  “Good morning,” Methos said in his ear. “Now, do I cut your throat or call for the guards?”

  “Neither! Please. I—I just wish to talk with you.”

  “Feel free.”

  “Uh… if you could just… the sword—”

  “Why should I move it? How do I know you’re not here as an assassin?”

  That brought a daring twist of the head so that the young man could glare back at him, and an indignant, “I’m not!”

  “No,” Methos agreed wryly, lowering the sword. “You’re not. No assassin would ever be so clumsy.”

  He backed off a wary bit, just in case the youngster decided to be dangerous after all. No clothes on the boy save a brief, drab gray kilt, but a long knife was stuck into his belt, and Methos snatched it free, placing it out of the youngster’s reach.

  “Very well. Turn around, boy. Tell me why you’re here.”

  “You know why!”

  “No. I do not. First of all, who are you?”

  “My name doesn’t matter. I am a—a fighter for our people’s freedom!”

  Gods, he means it. “How exciting for you,” Methos said without expression. “And why are you here, oh Fighter for Your People’s Freedom? For that matter,” he added with the smallest touch of sarcasm, “which people might that be?”

  The young man stared at him as though he’d suddenly sprouted horns. “Why, the true people, of course! Those on whom the gods of Khemt smile!”

  “Ah, in other words, the Egyptians. And you wish to, let me guess, free them from the tyrant’s yoke, or words to that effect. Well and good, but why come to me?”

  Another horrified stare. “Why, are you not from the pharaoh himself?”

  “I came here from Thebes,
” Methos said carefully. “No more than that.”

  “But—”

  “Boy, listen to me. I am not a secret agent, a spy, an assassin, or any other such dramatic being. If you wish to try overthrowing the evil overlord, that is your affair. Just don’t seek to enroll me.”

  “But you have to help me!”

  Save me from idealists! “Boy, freedom fighter, whoever you are, how do I know I can trust you?”

  “I swear my honesty by—”

  “Yes, yes, oaths are easy. I swear them all the time. That doesn’t necessarily mean I believe a word of them. And while we’re on the subject, how do you know that you can trust me? How can you be sure I won’t go straight to King Apophis and betray you?”

  The boy stared earnestly at him. “You won’t. Will you?”

  Oh gods, gods, was I ever this naïve? Or this young? “Not if I don’t need to do so. Come, tell me, why are you here?”

  The young man bit his lip, then said in a rush, “To kill King Apophis.”

  “You don’t think small, do you?” Hey now, he was perfectly willing to let the young man assassinate King Apophis: It would certainly make his own job all the easier! “But do you actually have a plan?”

  “No one watches servants. I will wait till the king is off his guard, then rush him! Before anyone can stop me, I’ll cut him down!”

  “I see. In other words, you don’t have a plan.” And as a result, you are far more dangerous than useful. “Go away, boy. Get yourself killed without my help.”

  The boy frowned. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? You’re not a friend of Egypt.”

  “I’m not its enemy, either.”

  “No, no, you are a danger to the cause—you will tell the king! I can’t allow that!”

  He dove for his knife, snatching it up, then lunged. Methos sidestepped, thinking, Spare me from hotheaded idiots, caught the boy’s arm as he hurtled by, and twisted. The boy went crashing into the door, which flew open, spilling him out into the courtyard. Methos followed, sword drawn—but the youngster had already been seized by two guards, who tore the knife from his hand as he struggled wildly and uselessly.

  “Let him go,” Methos told them. “This is between the two of us only.”

  “No!” the young man cried.

  “Yes.” You young idiot, shut up! I’m trying to save your life. “He mistook me for a spy come here to assassinate the king.”

  But the boy was past the point of logic. “That’s not true!” he screamed in an ecstasy of self-sacrifice. “I am the one who meant to kill the king! Freedom for Egypt! Freedom—”

  A blow from one guard silenced him. “Thank you, my lord,” the other said to Methos. “Be assured, King Apophis shall hear of your courage.”

  “What of the boy?”

  “This one? Oh, he, of course, shall die.”

  “Of course.”

  That was, Methos mused, the usual fate of fools. And martyrs.

  Which, in his opinion, often came to exactly the same thing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Egypt, Avaris: Reign of King Apophis, 1573 B.C.

  It wasn’t long after the capture of the self-styled freedom fighter that Methos received the predictable second royal summons.

  King Apophis, sitting straight-backed and proud on his throne chair in the audience hall, looked as cold as a regal, glittering statue. But as Methos approached at Apophis’s beckoning crook of a hand, the king’s chill melted into a sort of smile that seemed warm enough even if it didn’t quite include his eyes.

  “The rebel,” Apophis said without preamble, “the would-be assassin, has confessed everything: how he sought to enlist your aid, how you refused him and caused his capture. You have done us a great royal service, Methos. And we shall not forget it.”

  Conveniently vague wording, that. And thank whatever powers there are that the boy was too stupidly honest to implicate me in anything.

  “Kneel,” the king commanded.

  Warily, Methos obeyed, one foot curled under, ready to spring up or aside should need be. But Apophis did noth ing more alarming than set a necklace of gold beads over his head. Methos settled it into place, forcing down a shiver at the touch of the cold metal, telling himself, This royal token I melt down as soon as I’m out of Avaris!

  “You have aided in the capture of that would-be regicide,” King Apophis continued. “And so you shall stand at our side when he is executed in honor of the great god Set.”

  Oh, joy. Methos bowed. “I shall be honored, King Apophis.”

  The execution did not take place within the royal chapel—too messy, Methos thought dryly. Too difficult to get bloodstains out of porous marble.

  Instead, the prisoner, naked, bloody, and much the worse for wear, was staked out between four pegs hammered into the ground just outside the chapel. His frantic, agonized glance focused on Methos. In a harsh, pain-filled, barely understandable voice, the boy cried:

  “May you live forever and never know peace or—”

  A blow from a guard’s spear haft silenced him.

  “Gently,” King Apophis warned in a voice that was anything but gentle. “Our god would not wish this traitor too easy a death.”

  Even if the boy’s curse was only the truth, Methos added to himself.

  He watched, face carefully impassive, as the prisoner was slowly burned and cut and torn open, slowly disemboweled, slowly turned into so much meat. Methos would not allow himself anything as perilous as pity; he would not allow himself any emotion at all. This was merely something unavoidable to be waited out. Something finite.

  Midway through, the screams stopped, as shock mercifully deadened the boy’s brain, and Methos bit back a sigh of relief. The prisoner would no longer be aware of much of what was being done to him.

  True enough. The boy made not the slightest move as the executioner’s blade finally came slashing down. A concerted sigh of satisfaction went up from the assembled courtiers as the executioner held the severed, battered head high. Methos glanced at Khyan to his right and saw nothing but glazed satiety in the prince’s eyes, the look of one who has just enjoyed an orgiastic experience.

  He is a madman, Methos reminded himself. He is not to be judged as other men.

  But when he glanced at King Apophis, Methos saw nothing but that same dreadful satiety. The faintest of dreamy smiles was on the royal lips, and for one insane moment, Methos ached to have his sword out and slashing across that royal neck.

  I want out of here. I want out of here, now!

  It was, of course, a little too late for that.

  You got yourself into this perverse lair, and only you can get yourself out again.

  He must remember why he was doing this at all. Wasn’t the restoration of a happy, stable Egypt worth the risk?

  Not particularly. I would much rather keep my head firmly attached to my body. And my entrails, he added as a breeze brought the reek of the execution to him, where they belong, as well.

  That poor, stupid boy… like suicidal Amar back in Albion. What got into boys’ heads to turn them into martyrs? Stupid, yes, because once a mortal was dead, he wasn’t coming back, and while martyrdom might sound wonderfully self-sacrificing, a dead martyr wasn’t half as useful to a cause as a live warrior.

  With a start, Methos realized that he was still being watched by both guards and courtiers. Control, he told himself. You feel nothing but satisfaction that a traitor is dead.

  And no one challenged him. He was going to get past this after all.

  Was he? Before he could reach his room, a guard over-took him.

  “The king wishes to speak with you.”

  Gods!

  “So be it,” Methos said, since he could hardly refuse. And his face revealed nothing at all.

  This time, the audience chamber held both the king and a good many of King Apophis’s aides as well.

  I’d want to question me more thoroughly, too. All right, then, let’s get this over and done.

  King Ap
ophis leaned forward in his throne, smiling. “And now, Methos, we shall discuss the matter of Egypt.”

  Not about the boy, then! Not an accusation of treason.

  What followed was another, even more intensive interrogation, a rapid attack on all sides by the king and his aides.

  Naturally. The better to shake my concentration.

  It wasn’t so easily shaken. Methos had planned for just such an inquisition as this, thanks to having gained insight into the workings of a royal mind over the years. He countered question after question with carefully fabricated answers, slowly and deliberately building up an image of an Egypt utterly demoralized by the death of Pharaoh Sekenenre.

  He also, equally carefully, built up the image of a clever man, himself, driven nearly to the edge of despair by frustration.

  “At least here,” he slipped in as though momentarily overwhelmed by relief, “a man has some scope for his talents!”

  “And the new pharaoh?” King Apophis snapped, showing no sign he’d heard.

  “Ah, Kamose.” Methos paused as though trying to find the most diplomatic way to word what he must say. “He is… still young. The young are often…” another delicate pause, “impatient.”

  Apophis and the others would, of course, seek out the double meaning hiding in that, assuming “hot-blooded,” which was true, and “stupid,” which was not. “And of course, there is also Prince Ahmose,” Methos added thoughtfully. “It cannot be easy being a younger brother. And at the same time… ambitious.”

  That Ahmose was also, even so, too fond of his brother to ever consider usurpation was a fact Methos neglected to include. Instead, he continued his deliberate web of insinuation and carefully misinterpreted facts, verbally dueling with the aides, giving King Apophis a great deal of infor mation—little of it true.

  Why, I could almost despise myself for a scoundrel—had I not seen that sacrifice. Or rather, King Apophis’s enjoyment of it.