Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (30 page)

He dashed to the pedestal and grabbed the harp, but it resisted. A thin chain held it to the base. Easily broken. Trevin tugged on the harp, and the chain snapped.

A crack sounded within the columns. Before Trevin could move, a chain net dropped on him, pressing him to his knees.

Benasin tossed the key onto the bench. “I dare not trust you. For all I know my brother sent you to lure me into one of his deathtraps.”

“I no longer serve Rejius.” Trevin tried to raise his head, but the weight of the net held him down.

“Don’t worry.” Benasin swept up his brown cloak. “Rejius will find you and release you soon enough.”

“Wait. I freed you. This is the way you thank me?”

Benasin slipped through a door in the far corner.

Trevin tried to move his arm. His hand. His foot. He couldn’t. If this net was like Varic’s, he would soon be fused to the ground, flat as the poppy on Melaia’s chair. Flat as …

He groaned. Flat as the cave paintings. His throat knotted. They were real people, and he had felt their thoughts. By the time he was found, he would be painted to the floor, just as real and just as trapped.

Trevin felt the net growing hot, sucking at him, pressing him down. “Is this what you wanted, Jarrod?” he muttered. “Trade me for your father?” He crept his hand toward the edge of the net, then heard footsteps.

A serving maid carrying a tray stepped through the corner door. When she saw Benasin’s unlocked chain, her eyes widened. Then she spied Trevin. She screamed, dropped the tray, and ran. Soup oozed across the floor and puddled around the feet of the seated woman.

Moments later Trevin sensed the approach of malevolents. Two men strode in, lean faced, dressed in leather vests and leggings. One had a heavy black beard and thick eyebrows. The other was fair faced and bore a red scar on his neck. Overlapping feathered wings etched their muscled arms. They raised the net and searched Trevin while he racked his mind for anything that might turn the situation to his favor.

“I served Lord Rejius in Camrithia.” Trevin flexed his aching right hand.

The malevolents snatched his dagger and knife and the leather strap he had intended to use to fasten the harp to his back, which was now burning cold.

“I freed the Second-born for Lord Rejius so he can continue his eternal pursuit,” said Trevin. “The immortals thrive on the chase.”

The malevolents shoved Trevin to the bench and locked the metal cuff around his ankle.

Trevin stood. “I demand to see Lord Rejius.”

“You’ll see him when he’s ready to see you,” said the bearded one while the scarred malevolent replaced the key on the harp pedestal.

“I can be of use to him,” Trevin called as they strode out.

He sighed. He had once used those words with Zastra, the queen mother at Redcliff, hoping she wouldn’t throw him into the dungeon. It hadn’t worked then either.

The pain in Trevin’s hand became sharp and constant. He pressed his hand to his chest and paced the length of his chain from side to side, then toward the harp, then back to the bench.

He plopped down and eyed his stone companions. It was a wonder Benasin hadn’t gone mad here. Maybe he had stayed sane because he was immortal.

How long would it take for a half human to lose his mind?

revin awoke screaming, sweating, and disoriented, at first thinking the stone figures were the image of his dreams multiplied. Then the chain around his ankle brought him back to reality.

To gain his bearings, he walked around. He passed the seated woman and confronted the soldier. “Have I been here two days, friend?” he asked the gray face. “Or three?”

He looked sideways at Dreia, three paces away. His chain wouldn’t stretch that far, but he yearned to kneel at her feet, to somehow make amends. He rasped, “I’m sorry. I’m a fool, and I’m paying for it.”

Trevin clanked back to the bench and reclined, rubbing his hand. “I guess a day or two doesn’t matter to any of you,” he murmured to the statues, “but it’s been long enough for Catellus to give up on me and head back to the fortress at Tigerre. Though with a swollen ankle, he’ll travel slowly.” He imagined Ollena’s reaction when she discovered her charge was missing. “May Catellus be strong enough to live through her wrath.” He half smiled.

How long he could keep his spirits up, Trevin didn’t know, but for now he refused to pity himself when his stone companions were much worse off. At least his chain allowed limited movement, while they stood frozen. They were free only in the motion of their thoughts, which he sensed as a constant flow of energy, almost a whisper, but without words, like the life he had sensed from the figures in the tunnels.

“The Dregmoors is one big trap,” Trevin muttered.

The thought flow surged, then went silent.

Trevin sensed the approach of tainted light, oily, impure. He sat up, cradling his pained hand as the two malevolents strode in.

One stood by the door while the other unlocked Trevin’s ankle cuff. Then they marched Trevin through hall after lanterned hall, each lined with flattened figures. The corridors grew wider and busier. Servants passed, silently going about their tasks. Trevin noticed that the women wore sandals decorated with small jewels like the ruby heart tucked in his waist sash.

The malevolents led Trevin down a flight of stone steps to a massive anteroom of black marble that reflected the torchlight. Guards swung open two tall, gilded doors.

“My lord,” said the bearded malevolent. “The one you sent for.”

“Grigor,” came a deep, smooth voice that made Trevin’s hair stand on end. “Bring him here.”

Sweat beaded at Trevin’s forehead as guilty memories crowded in. Spying, lying, cowing to the Firstborn’s threats.

Grigor led Trevin into the center of a room studded with gems, then stepped back, leaving Trevin standing on a giant circular game board carved into the rock floor. Before him sat the immortal Firstborn, his gold-eyed gaze assessing his new guest.

A chill swept through Trevin. Lord Rejius had not fully regained his human body since Melaia had crushed his hawk form under her harp during the battle at Alta-Qan. Black feathers matted his head instead of hair. His nose curved, sharp and beak-like. Talons replaced his fingers.

Benasin had warned Rejius in the aerie that constant shape shifting would make him more hawk than human. Trevin had seen the Firstborn in both forms. This in-between state was hideous.

Hiding his disgust, Trevin bowed. “Lord Rejius. I offer you my services.”

“Your services?” Lord Rejius stepped down from his gilded throne and circled Trevin, looking him up and down.

“Surely you remember me,” said Trevin. “I brought you a kyparis harp.”

“Then you fought me to deprive me of it again.” Lord Rejius flicked Trevin’s aching right hand with a talon.

Trevin clenched his jaw to keep from yelping.

“Deceit,” hissed the hawkman. He turned to the door and yelled, “Orvis! Bring Stalia!”

The scarred malevolent swept out of the room.

Trevin rubbed his hand. Stalia, queen of the Dregmoors, Varic’s mother.
Nothing good could come of her involvement. “Remember how I spied for you?” he told the hawkman. “I can do the same now. I’ve gained the trust of your enemies, but I serve you, the one who holds the greatest power.” His gut burned with shame.

“The greatest power.” Lord Rejius strutted, chuckling. “Yes, yes. Delicious power. My daughter must witness my power. Stalia. Oh, Stalia. Deceit and treachery.” He tilted his head, studying Trevin. “I hope you enjoy games.”

Trevin heard the door open behind him.

“My lord,” a guard said, “Stalia has already left on her mission.”

“That, I regret.” Lord Rejius eyed Trevin. “I was going to invite her to play a game, with you as the pawn. And the prize.” He motioned to a servant, who brought him a gold tray that held a die. “I suppose you will have to play in her place.”

He strode around the game board, pointing to the sections. “Each has a symbol on it,” he said, “depicting my successes: gash, the silver net, draks, idols, bloodletting, mines, leatherwings.” He tossed the die to Trevin.

Trevin caught it in his sweaty palm. A cube. Dots on each side. One to six. “What are the rules?”

“You roll the die. From where you stand, you may choose any section as your first step. The die will tell you how many sections to move. The game ends when you throw a six. With a six you make no move; the section you stand in is your reward.” Lord Rejius rubbed his palms together. “Begin.”

Trevin could feel his pulse in his temples as he rolled the die. A four. He could work mines, perhaps survive bloodletting. The net he wanted to avoid. He started there so he could move away from it. But the game board was a circle. If play lasted long enough, he would face the net again.

He took his four steps: net, draks, idols, bloodletting.

Lord Rejius scooped up the die and rolled it between his palms. “This is not the real game, you know. The real game is played upground. You’ve been part of it for a long time. In your last move you released my brother, and he ensnared you. Delightful twist of the game.”

“I thought you might be pleased,” said Trevin.

Lord Rejius tossed Trevin the die. “Roll!”

The die landed with a three on top. Trevin stepped to gash.

Again Rejius snatched up the die. “Varic is part of the game too. He thinks I don’t know who you are. I allow him to hold you as his valuable secret. He wants the throne, you see.” He tossed the die to Trevin.

The next roll was a two. Trevin moved past the net and stopped on draks.

The hawkman picked up the die. “Stalia is also part of the game. Forever. Just like Benasin. I have Stalia in a double bind, for I suspect she’s holding more than one secret from me. Yet I hold secrets from her as well.” He tossed the die to Trevin.

Trevin rolled. A six.

Lord Rejius crowed.

“Draks!” Trevin grabbed at a glimmer of hope. “Let me prove my loyalty to you as a drak-keeper. I was good with the draks. Your talonmasters said as much. I was on my way to becoming a skilled talonmaster myself.”

Lord Rejius folded his arms. “Plead for my forgiveness.”

Trevin gritted his teeth and bowed his head. “Please forgive me, my lord.”

“On your knees!” shouted Rejius.

Trevin knelt. His naming would mean nothing after this. “My lord, please forgive me.”

“On your face, worm. Beg me. Beg me for mercy.”

Trevin lay prostrate before the hawkman, burning with shame. Arelin’s sword had lied. He was not a confident, wise man. He was a coward and a fool. “I beg you, my lord,” he said. “I beg you for mercy. Please forgive me.”

Lord Rejius grabbed Trevin’s hair and yanked him to his knees. Trevin inhaled sharply, his eyes watering, and the hawkman swiped his talons across Trevin’s forehead.

Trevin bit down on his lip. The scratches stung like fire, and he could feel blood trickle down his face, but he held himself steady. He was now in Lord Rejius’s service, and the hawkman had no use for whiners.

“Beggars usually forfeit their right to choose in this game,” said Lord Rejius. “Why should I treat you any differently?”

Because I don’t want to die a stupid, worthless death
, thought Trevin. But he said nothing.

“This could be part of our game.” A cruel smile crept across Lord Rejius’s face. “You want to work with draks? Come.”

Trevin scrambled to his feet and followed the hawkman out the door,
flanked by Grigor and Orvis. He tried to ignore the pain in his hand and the oozing blood on his forehead. At least if he was caring for draks, he would be free. Maybe he could find Peron.

They marched a confusion of corridors, then climbed two long flights of stone stairs that ended in a windowless room filled with the sharp odor of bird droppings. The only fresh air entered through two holes in the ceiling. Cages lined the walls, all of them occupied by fidgeting draks. Trevin could see fear in their eyes. The thought of cleaning their cages disgusted him, but he told himself the job would be temporary. He would escape at the first opportunity.

“Let’s see if you still have your talent,” said Lord Rejius. “Transfer one of the birds to another cage. Any cage you like.”

Trevin eyed the draks and chose one that appeared calmer than the others. The human hands that served for its feet looked older, less likely to fight. He plucked a piece of raw meat from a bucket and slowly approached the bird. Speaking softly, he unlatched the cage and held out the meat in his aching right hand, ready to clamp the bird’s legs with his left. The bird retreated, its gray eyes wary. Trevin leaned into the cage, gently coaxing it toward him.

As soon as he felt brawny hands on his back, he knew his mistake. He jerked around but too late. Both malevolents shoved him in with such force he smashed into the back of the cage. The old bird squawked and flapped in his face.

Trevin dived at the closing bars, but they latched and held. Orvis added a lock and smugly stepped back.

“What are you doing?” Trevin yelled. “I can help you. I can be of use.”

“Of course you can,” said Lord Rejius, “and you will. But I’m no fool, a fact my daughter must learn. I’m eager to see Stalia’s face when I present her with a drak with
your
hands.” He strutted out, followed by his malevolents.