Shadow War (36 page)

In the distance
came the screeching of rusty metal as the grate of one of the holes was opened.
Caelan heard the woman scream; then the sound was brutally silenced. The other
prisoners resumed their wailing, crying out for mercy, pleading their
innocence.

The torturer
brought a stool and stood on it to reach the hook Caelan was swinging from. He
fished out a key to unlock Caelan’s shackles, and Caelan tensed himself in
readiness. With even one hand free, he could attack.

“Not that one!”
the soldier said, striding over. He paused before Caelan and looked him up and
down. “Is this the Traulander? Prince Tirhin’s property?”

“Is,” the torturer
admitted. He half turned away from the soldier and drew up a dirty hood over
his head. “Not hurt.”

“Leave him where
he is.” The soldier looked around, his face drawn with disgust. “Very well. All
of you, clear out!”

The torturer
glared at Caelan but went, along with the jailer and the others.

Caelan swung alone
in front of the soldier, bruised and battered, his skin on fire, his shoulders
bursting with agony. Even with the aid of
severance,
he found it hard to
focus on anything more than a moment at a time. His wits were wandering. It
would be so easy to sink away into unconsciousness, such a relief, but the
soldier touched his chest lightly, setting him swinging again, and the
resultant pain sent a choked cry slamming to the back of Caelan’s throat. Gray
and yellow misery washed through him, and the world was on fire. There was no
passing out, no escaping it. Even
severance
did not contain it.

A voice spoke in
the distance, and the soldier stepped away from Caelan. “He is ready, Majesty.”

By the time Caelan
managed to lift his head again and somehow throttle back his misery, the
emperor had come down the steps and crossed the dingy, splattered room. He
circled the forge, where the glow of the coals threw a ruddy glow across his
face. At last he stopped in front of Caelan.

The emperor wore a
tunic of cloth of gold and a crown on his head. He seemed to blaze in the
gloom, and his jewels winked and sparkled at his slightest movement. His yellow
eyes gleamed balefully at Caelan, and his face might have been carved from
stone.

“You dared attack
my son,” he said in a low, furious voice. “You miserable wretch.”

Caelan struggled
to pull his wits together. By some miracle, he had his audience with the emperor.
It was not what he had hoped for, but it would have to do. “Majesty,” he said,
his voice a hoarse croak, “I must denounce your son as a traitor and a—”

“Silence!” the
soldier shouted, and struck him.

The man’s fist
slammed into Caelan’s jaw like a battering ram. He spun around on the chain,
the pressure sawing through his armpits, and felt his consciousness dribbling
away.

“Get back,
Captain,” the emperor said as though from far away. “I do not require your
assistance.”

A murmured
apology, and retreating footsteps.

Then a hand
gripped Caelan’s hair and jerked up his head. “Talk to me, you overgrown brute,”
the emperor muttered. “But take care. I have risked enough, giving you this
chance to defend yourself when by rights your entrails should have already been
fed to the gulls. Talk!”

Caelan tried, but
his brain felt as though it had come loose in his skull. He gasped, struggling
for the breath to answer, praying he could pull himself together one last time.

The emperor shook
his head impatiently. It felt as though he might pull Caelan’s hair out by the
roots. “Talk, damn you! Is your confession the truth?”

“Yes,” Caelan
whispered thickly. “Traitor ... it’s true. I saw.”

“What did you see?”
the emperor demanded, his voice lower now, still tight with anger and
impatience. “Tell me quickly!”

“Bargain ...
Madruns to come ... take city.” Caelan drew in a shaky breath, knowing he
needed to be more articulate. He tried harder. “Sien and the prince ... secret
meeting on
Sidraigh-hal...
met with Madruns. Prince wants throne.
Resents the—the lady empress.” His mind stumbled and failed him for a moment.
Then it came back. He frowned. “Prince plotted against you. Made alliance. Gave
them ... gave them ...”

To his frustration
his strength petered out, and he could not finish. Panting, he hung there and
railed mentally against his own weakness.

“And you were
there?” the emperor said grimly. “You participated in this plot?”

Caelan rested his
cheek against his arm, his eyes half-closed. “No. Followed master. To
protect... didn’t know. Watched outside the hut. Heard. Saw him give them the
paper.”

The emperor’s face
turned pale. “The passwords?”

“And forged orders
... strategy ... way through the border. Everything. City in danger. Five days,
then they will come.”

The emperor’s grip
shifted to his throat. “When did this occur?”

“Day before
coronation. I tried to warn you. Couldn’t. Only to you could I speak. No way to
reach you. Prince hurt.”

“He will hurt even
more,” the emperor said furiously. His eyes were blazing, and he dropped his
grip from Caelan’s throat. “You’re a slave. You could say anything. Why should
I trust you?”

Caelan managed to
meet his eyes. “You believed me. You came to see me for yourself.”

The emperor’s
mouth quirked in a thin smile before he turned serious again. “I have seen you
in the Dance of Death.

Only men of great
courage attempt it. Courage and honor are sometimes found together.” His eyes
narrowed. “Then you attacked my son when you found he was a traitor.”

Caelan shook his
head. “No attack,” he said wearily. “Lies.”

“But the servants
witnessed it.”

“No attack.”

Disbelief filled
the emperor’s face.

Caelan grew
desperate. “Please,” he whispered. “The accusation made by the healer against
me is a lie. The servants saw nothing. There was nothing to see. Ask Orlo, my
trainer. He will tell you the truth.”

“Why should the
servants tell this falsehood, lay accusations against you? My son has been
injured. You struck him—”

“No!” Caelan said
vehemently, daring to interrupt. “I swear to you on all my gods that I did not
strike the prince. I brought him back from the mountain and sent for my
cousin—for the healer Agel to tend him. The prince was attacked by the
shyrieas.
They hurt him, not I.”

“None of this
makes sense,” the emperor complained. “It is all babble, as I feared it would
be. You accuse a man, yet you carried him back and sought help for him? Bah!”

“Could I accuse
him unconscious?” Caelan asked, his desperation rising. “Could I be heard
unless he were in a condition to be judged? I have no reason to lie. My very
life is endangered by what I have said. If you do not believe me, then I am a
dead man. I would be safe had I kept silent.”

“And why has the
healer accused you?”

“I do not know.”

“You say he is
your cousin?”

Caelan found the
emperor’s eyes to be more penetrating than ever, as though the man wanted to
peel open his skull and peer inside. “Yes,” he said bleakly. Unwanted memories
of Agel, of racing together through the spruce forests, of stealing apples,
flitted through his mind momentarily and were gone, ghost voices laughing
merrily before fading behind. “But I can call him kinsman no longer.”

“He must have a
reason for betraying you,
if
he has betrayed you.”

Caelan frowned. “The
reasons are old ones. When jealousy and grief entwine through a man’s heart,
who can say why he does one thing or another? Our feud does not affect this
matter—”

“I think it does.
I will know everything.”

Caelan sighed. He
did not understand why the old man had to probe into matters that were
personal. “May I have a drink of water?”

“No,” the emperor
said in an implacable voice. “Talk.”

“We were at school
together, to be healers,” Caelan said in a low, toneless voice, trying to shut
off the pain. “I— my father wished me to be there, although I wanted to be a
soldier in your army.”

His gaze flicked
to the emperor, who watched him impassively. Caelan shrugged. “A boyish dream. I
was rebellious. The elders of the school eventually disrobed me—cast me out.
Agel stayed, a model student, but he never forgave me. I had more talent than
he did; he considered my actions a waste.”

Spoken aloud, it
did not seem like much of a motivation. Caelan hesitated a moment, then added, “There
is more to it than a boyhood rivalry. Agel is ambitious. He thought this matter
would bring him the gratitude of his highness. As a slave, I embarrass him.”

The emperor turned
away from him, hands clasped at his back. Back and forth he paced, deep in
thought. Finally he stopped and faced Caelan again.

“If I had not seen
you fight the Madrun, I would not have come down here. My son offered you a
magical potion to strengthen you against your opponent, but you refused it.
Why?”

Caelan blinked in
surprise. Did the emperor know everything? “I—I do not believe in such things,
Majesty,” he said.

“Yes, you believe,”
the emperor said, turning the meaning of his remark. “You believe all right,
and you’re afraid. Why?”

Caelan’s heart
started pounding. Yet he could not escape. “I will not sip of the shadows,
Majesty,” he said, gasping a little.

“Hah!” The emperor
drew back as though struck. His scowl was fearsome. “Self-righteous bastard,
what do you know of the world? What do you know of shadows? Do you judge me,
you piece of dung?”

Caelan dropped his
gaze hastily. “No, Majesty,” he whispered.

“No,” the emperor
said more calmly. “No, you do not. So you fought without magic. You fought with
valor and courage and skill. You fought like a damned fool. And you used the
Dance of Death, you, a mere slave, with no military service behind you. I know
it is believed by some that my son taught you that move. But I happen to know
that Tirhin is unacquainted with it, except in theory. It was never taught to
him. How did you know it, slave?”

Caelan swallowed
hard and had no answer.

“How did you know
it?” the emperor demanded more harshly, forcing Caelan to look at him. His
yellow eyes bored in. “A Traulander, bred to peace, the son of a master healer
committed to pacifism.”

Caelan’s mouth
dropped open. “You knew my father?”

“I did,” the
emperor said grimly. “The proud fool refused my offer of an appointment. How
did you learn that sword move?”

Caelan’s gaze
shifted away, then came back to his. He said nothing.

The emperor leaned
closer. “Was it the sword?” he asked in a scratchy whisper. “A blade of many
combats. Did it sing to your blood? Did it share its secrets?”

Caelan’s eyes
widened.

The emperor
laughed at him. “Do you think I don’t recognize
sevaisin
when I see it?
Do you think Sien would not know?”

Caelan’s mouth was
suddenly dry. “It is a great shame in my country.”

“So is using
severance
to kill.”

Caelan felt
jolted. The denial rose to his lips, but he held it back.

“But, no, you
fight fair,” the emperor said. “Always you fight fair, although there are no
rules in the arena. You have won the championship every time, and by rights my
son should have freed you for that. You do not drink excessively. You do not
sport with the Haggai. You do not spend the gold my son has given you. Except
for being a slave, you conduct yourself with honor and honesty. Rare qualities
rarely seen these days.”

Caelan had no
answer. He waited, hoping for the emperor’s mercy.

“What did Tirhin
do to destroy your loyalty?” the emperor mused. “Was it treachery alone?”

Hope filled
Caelan. “Then your Majesty does believe me?”

“Hah!” Anger
returned to the emperor’s face. He spun on his heel and strode away, trotting
up the steps and sweeping out past the soldier at the door, who stiffened to
attention.

Caelan watched him
go, chilled with dismay. It was over. His chance had come and gone. He had
failed to convince the man, and with him went Caelan’s last hope.

His consciousness
of his surroundings returned. The wailing sawed on his nerves, and he could
once again smell the filth and despair. Like a beetle, the torturer came
scuttling forth from the shadows and grimaced in his face.

“Speak plenty now!”
he said petulantly, and struck Caelan.

The pain and gray misery
swept through him again. He was choking, coughing, balanced halfway between
oblivion and agony when he heard the rattle of his shackles. One of them
opened, and his right arm dropped to his side.

Fire lanced
through him, piercing straight through his shoulder with such intensity he
could not find enough breath to scream. His left arm dropped too, borne down by
the weight of the shackles and the chain that thumped him a glancing blow on
the side of his face. He tumbled to the floor, unable to catch himself, lost in
the fire of his wrenched shoulder sockets.

The torturer
kicked him, grunted, and scuttled away. After a moment the intense pain abated
slightly, only to flare again when a pair of turnkeys grabbed him by his elbows
and lifted him.

Caelan bit off a
cry, sweating and unable to walk. They propelled him forward, shoving him
across the chamber and up the steps into the hands of some soldiers.

Barely conscious,
Caelan glimpsed their cold eyes and taut mouths and knew they were taking him
to execution. He’d been a fool all his life. He would die a fool. He should
never have spoken the truth, not even to the emperor. What good had it done him
but bring him to this misery and shame?

“Come on, get on
your feet,” one of the soldiers snarled at him. “If you can’t get to barracks
on your own strength, you don’t deserve to be a member of the guard.”