by Sanan Kolva
The warden folded his arms over his barrel chest. “I’ve gotten no orders that allow you access to the dungeon.”
“And I have been given no orders that your arms must remain attached to your body,” Praett countered, not blinking. It held out a hand for the keys.
The warden held the pooka’s gaze longer than anyone else associated with Ewart or Porephyn had. Finally, with ill grace, he jerked a ring of keys from his belt and slapped the jingling ring down on a crate. He shifted his glare to Lyan.
“Keep him away from the other prisoners. Especially the Dev’gilla whelp—our lord’s ordered he stay in isolation.”
Praett smirked. “I know my orders.”
“Sure you do. And we all know you twist your orders any way you can.” He spat again. “Get moving.”
Praett scooped up the key ring. “Come along, elf.” Taking Lyan by the arm, he walked to the door at the end of the room.
Lyan jerked away from the touch. “I can walk without your help.”
Praett smirked. “Big words, little elf.” He pulled Lyan through the doorway, swinging the heavy wooden door shut behind them.
Torches lit the long hall. Praett unbound Lyan’s wrists and spoke silently. “If you will allow, I will give your hands the appearance of being bound a little while longer, master. Guards patrol the dungeon and I would trust Porephyn to hide spies where they can listen to the prisoners.”
Lyan hesitated, rubbing his wrists, then he nodded reluctantly.
Praett wound the rope around Lyan’s wrists, and tied them loose in front. Lyan tested them, and knew he could free his hands. He looked down the long hall lined with closed doors and shuddered. Being cut off from the sky in Nylas’s camp had felt stifling, but this place stank of pain and despair, promising to swallow anyone given to it, never to see the light of day again.
Cailean and his men are trapped here. I have to endure a little while in this hole if they are going to be free.
Praett waited until Lyan gave a nod that he was ready. They walked between pools of torchlight. Cell doors stood flush against the walls. Unless an escapee hid in another cell, he would find no shelter to conceal himself from guards. The cell doors were thick wood, with a swinging panel at the base for food to be pushed in, and a small barred window at eye level. The smell of musty straw lingered in the hall, and bits of straw littered the floor around the cell doors. Lyan watched the windows for signs of his friends.
As they neared one cell, he heard movement within. Praett paused without Lyan asking. The cell’s occupant moved to the window and exclaimed a dismayed, startled curse, then, “Lyan?”
Lyan saw Shiolto. The Tathren’s face bore bruises and streaks of dried blood. Shiolto gripped the bars of the window like he needed them to steady himself. Lyan spoke. “Shiolto? Are… you all right?”
“We were ambushed. Yion… he’s hurt pretty bad. I’m just banged up, mostly.” Shiolto’s eyes flickered from Lyan to Praett, and the glare he fixed on the pooka burned with anger. “What did that thing do?”
“I’m… I’m all right, Shiolto.” Lyan wanted to say much more, to tell the truth and reassure his friend, but Praett’s warning of spies hung with him.
“Is this the best ‘rescue’ you can manage, elf?” The question came from a raspy voice across the hall, one door further down. Ragged coughing followed the question.
Lyan started and turned. He saw slow, pained movements on the other side of the window, and drew a sharp breath. “Aikan?”
The older man leaned heavily against his cell door. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, bruises swelled his face, and dried blood crusted his thinning hairline. A long cut ran over his right eye. He’d been hit in the face several times, to judge from the bruises. His eyes moved from Lyan to Praett, back to Lyan, and he repeated his question.
“Shiolto holds some grand delusions that you can free us. Is this the best you can do?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Lyan responded.
Aikan’s brow furrowed in a frown. Praett press something into Lyan’s hands. Glancing down, Lyan found a stick of charcoal. As he maneuvered it, he asked, “Aikan, where is Cailean?”
“I saw Lord Cailean being taken deeper into the dungeon when he was brought in.”
“You were caught first?” Lyan asked.
Aikan nodded. He watched Lyan, still frowning, suspecting something was more than it seemed, and decided to share a little more information. “I heard the guards receive orders that no one be allowed to Lord Cailean’s cell except to bring water. He was unconscious when I saw him, and I don’t know if he was injured.”
Lyan cast a questioning look back to Shiolto, who shook his head, voice tight with anger. “I don’t know either, Lyan. I wasn’t in a position to know if Lord Cailean was hurt or not.” He gripped the bars and glared at the pooka. “You might not have had any hand in our capture, but if you’ve hurt Lyan, I swear I will tear you apart!” Shiolto lunged out and grabbed at Praett.
Praett only smirked, standing well out of reach. “Now why would I do that? It would spoil my fun if I broke my toy.”
Shiolto shouted in inarticulate rage. Lyan turned away from him and met Aikan’s gaze, then raised his hands to show his palm and the rough Tathren letters he’d written on his skin.
“Trust me.”
Aikan’s expression didn’t change but for a slight narrowing of his eyes, and his head moved in a small nod. He held Lyan’s gaze for a long moment before speaking.
“Enough, Shiolto. You’re only amusing the creature.”
Praett smirked, pulling Lyan into motion again. “There, you see, little elf? Just as I told you—your Tathren friends aren’t hurt… much.”
The pooka’s tone never failed to send a shiver down Lyan’s spine, and it drew far more reaction from Shiolto, who slammed against his cell door with an angry shout.
“My brother would have bled to death, and now you bastards aren’t even giving us food! What do you mean, ‘not hurt much’? Get back here! I’ll rip your throat out!”
Lyan had never heard Shiolto angry before. The horse-tender had always seemed at ease, not holding grudges even against Kithr, who had nearly hit him with an arrow. Lyan drew breath to reveal the truth, explain the plan, but choked the words back. He deflated, eyes to the floor. I’m sorry, Shiolto. Please forgive me for hiding this from you.
He spoke to Praett instead. “Since your claim about the Tathrens seems doubtful, what about Yion?”
Praett hesitated only a moment. “The mercenary will live.”
Shiolto’s shouts faded as they walked on. Praett finally stopped. “It is safe to speak here, master.”
Lyan rubbed his hands together, erasing the words from his palm. “How badly is Yion hurt?”
Praett shook his head. “He is in better health than the Tathrens, master. My senses say the blessing of his god healed the injuries he took. He is awake, alert, and calm in his cell, choosing to portray the illusion his captors expect.”
“What about Dalrian?”
“Despite what his brother says, he is hurt but in no immediate danger of death. His wounds were bound and tended, from what I sensed. He is weak, though.”
“And Cailean?”
The pooka slid the ropes from Lyan’s wrists. “His cell is ahead, master, where the torches burn dim. He’s weak, but I cannot tell more than that.” Opening the key ring, Praett considered, then selected five keys. “These should open what you need.”
Lyan accepted the keys and fought down the fear that formed a lump in the pit of his stomach. His hand trembled as he clutched the keys. “So I guess… this is where I’m on my own.”
“You can call Equinox to you at any moment, master. And if you issue me an order, I will hear. It is even possible, if you wish it, for you to see through my eyes, though doing so will leave you unaware of your own surroundings.” Praett gazed at him. “Do not become a coward now.”
Lyan forced a strained, soft laugh at the last word
s. “You’re a font of encouragement, aren’t you?”
Praett scowled. “I hate this place. My well-being depends on your success, master. Right now, I have every reason to do all I can to support your efforts. However, to continue the ruse, I must not linger here.”
“I know,” Lyan said. “Help Kithr if he needs it, and make sure he finds his way to the dungeon. Otherwise… you don’t need me to tell you how to keep suspicion off you.”
“Do I have permission to kill if needed, master?” Praett asked.
Lyan hesitated, then nodded. “If it’s necessary.”
The pooka’s eyes glittered with satisfaction and anticipation. “Of course.”
Feeling as if he had just released a wolf on a flock of sheep, Lyan turned his back on Praett and walked to a cell door half in shadows. Nothing moved inside, but someone’s breath broke the quiet. Sweat dampened Lyan’s hands as he fumbled with the keys until he found the correct one for the lock. The door squealed open, making Lyan wince. The smell hit him next, like a filthy latrine. Grimacing, he stepped into the dark, narrow cell. Not even dirty straw softened the hard stone floor as it had in other cells.
Praett swung the door nearly shut behind Lyan, dimming the thin light further. Lyan tensed, for a moment fearing that he had somehow been deceived, and he’d walking into a trap.
He let the idea go. No, Praett can’t betray me.
The cell was barely large enough for a man to lie down. Even elven eyes struggled to see in the faint light, but Lyan glimpsed movement at the back of the cell. A shape that slumped against the wall shifted weakly. Chains rattled. Cailean’s voice whispered—a thin, strained croak.
“Back… so soon? Do what… you will. You won’t… find… Solstice.”
Lyan stepped closer, shoving the keys into his belt pouch. “Cailean, it’s Lyan.”
“Good try, mage. Sounds… just like him. Not going… to fall for… your tricks.”
“Taking lessons in doubt from Nylas?” Lyan responded. “At least you aren’t calling me a mooncalf yet.”
“If you… are Lyan… prove it.”
Lyan knew one undeniable way to prove his identity. He stepped back and held out his hand. Equinox!
The Spear appeared in his hand with the thought, glowing like a beam of moonlight. Cailean winced from the sudden light, but his cracked lips curved in a relieved smile. The Tathren lord looked as if he’d been dragged behind a horse—his clothes were filthy and ripped, blood staining the cloth, his face bruised and dirty, his hair a tangled mass. His eyes were sunken and exhausted. His arms hung in chains from the wall.
“Lyan? You really are here? How in the gods…?”
“The short version is that the pooka is bound to me, and feigned to capture me so I could get in here without suspicion. Kithr is sneaking in—I’m sure he can find a way. I’ll go into details some other time.” Lyan pulled a water skin from his belt. The Tathrens hadn’t been willing to get close enough to him to search him. Lyan held the skin to Cailean’s mouth, and the Tathren lord drank deep gulps. The guards might have been given orders to bring Cailean water, but they clearly had not been giving him enough.
When the skin was empty, Lyan asked, “What happened, Cailean?”
“Solstice. I had to use the Spear.” Cailean let his head rest back against the cold wall while he caught his breath, as if even speaking exhausted him. “Lyan. My men. Safe?”
“They’re bruised, imprisoned, angry, and worried. I saw Shiolto and Aikan, and the pooka said Dalrian will be all right. Yion isn’t hurt as bad as their captors think.”
Cailean lifted his head. “Aikan too? How is he?”
“He looks like he fought when he was captured.” Lyan didn’t want to say more about Aikan; captivity obviously wasn’t treating the older man well.
An absence finally struck Lyan, overlooked earlier in the fear and worry about his friends. Lyan looked at Cailean and continued. “I didn’t see, and no one spoke of Torqual.”
Cailean’s expression twisted in anger, confirming the suspicion creeping through Lyan’s mind. “You were right. Aikan didn’t betray me.”
“Torqual did,” Lyan whispered. He saw Cailean try to speak again, and held up a hand to forestall him. “Wait, Cailean.” Equinox, I need food and more water for Cailean.
A leather satchel appeared on the floor at Lyan’s feet, a water skin beside it. Using Equinox, Lyan cut the chains holding Cailean’s arms to the wall. He crouched beside Cailean and opened the satchel, finding bread, cheese, and dried meat within. If the cell hadn’t stunk so, Lyan’s stomach would have complained about being empty, but he felt little appetite. When he handed the food to Cailean, the Tathren devoured everything ravenously.
After draining the second water skin, Cailean found his voice, and sounded a little stronger. “Gods, I’m so… damned… helpless. Haven’t eaten since I woke here.”
His captors have been making sure he doesn’t regain his strength. “What happened, Cailean?”
“We rode into an ambush.” Anger burned in Cailean’s eyes. “I was furious. Maybe there was some other answer, but I doubt it… I had to use Solstice to protect my men. We beat them back. Then, Torqual… showed his true allegiance. Went after Yion first, and fast. None of us expected…” Cailean shook his head sharply. “When he attacked, the rest of the ambush struck.” He cursed. “Torqual knew. He knew there were enough that I could have killed most using Solstice, but not all, and it would drain the last of my strength.”
“Why didn’t you?” Lyan asked.
“The bastard knows me too well. He ordered me to surrender. If I did, he promised no further harm would come to my men, and their injuries would be tended. No one would die.” Cailean closed his eyes. “Yion was down, bleeding badly. Dalrian was wounded and pinned, and Shiolto… I think Torqual hit him with a poisoned blade.” His hands clenched in fists, and his voice shook with anger. “If I didn’t surrender, Torqual swore he would make sure I was conscious and helpless while he tortured my men to death in front of me.”
Anyone who knows Cailean knows he would do anything to protect them.
Cailean opened his eyes. “He thought he could take Solstice, but that, at least, I denied him. I sent the Spear to a safe place, and neither he nor his master will get their hands on it.”
“A safe place?” Lyan repeated. Cailean just smiled slightly and nodded. Lyan blinked, eyes opening wide. “Cailean! Did you send Solstice…?” He didn’t finish the thought aloud.
Cailean only nodded. “It took more strength that I thought. After that, I remember his men holding me up and him hitting me, demanding the Spear. I think he tried to make me walk behind his horse. Don’t think that lasted long. Woke up here. Haven’t seen Torqual since, just a guard and sometimes… Ewart’s master.”
“Porephyn,” Lyan said.
Cailean nodded. “He’s trying to force me to reveal where I hid Solstice.” He shuddered with the memory. “Is there a plan?”
Lyan nodded, about to answer, when a thought struck. His eyes opened wide and he paled. Cailean’s words: The bastard knows me too well. “Oh gods… Torqual will hear I’ve been captured. He knows Kithr won’t sit idle.”
“Lyan?” Cailean asked.
Lyan turned, his eyes locked on Cailean’s. “How many times when they sparred did Torqual tell us he can predict Kithr? That Kithr still uses the same tactics the elves used before. Gods…” Lyan saw understanding fill Cailean’s eyes, and the Tathren paled. Lyan’s thoughts flew to Praett. Find Kithr! Warn him! Torqual is the traitor.
Cailean tried to stand. “We have to get to him.”
“We don’t have time, Cailean.” Lyan’s stomach twisted in a knot. His closest friend was in danger and didn’t know it, and Lyan couldn’t reach him. His only chance, his only hope: place his trust in the creature that had tormented him since he left Eilidh Wood. Lyan sat on the filthy floor.
“Lyan, we have to do something.” Cailean urged.
“I am,” Lyan s
napped, more sharply than he’d intended. “But I can’t talk at the same time.”
“Sorry.” Cailean looked abashed. “Do what you need to; I’ll stop distracting you.”
Lyan closed his eyes, gripping Equinox to his chest. “Where is Kithr?” he demanded of Praett.
“I am near, master,” Praett answered.
Lyan suddenly saw through eyes not his own. The world swam with colors and shapes that glowed in shades of red, blue, green, yellow, or even dull, flat gray. Nothing had a form he could comprehend, and the foreign sight made his stomach lurch as he fought nausea.
“Your pardon, master. I am able to see the auras and energies of my surroundings. I will keep to a sight more familiar to you”. The swimming colors shifted, becoming walls and people.
Lyan didn’t respond, only watched as Praett swept down halls. He didn’t seem to hurry, but Lyan would have been running to match his pace. The pooka stopped in the shadows of a doorway into a small courtyard nestled between the outer wall and the castle’s keep. The branches of scattered trees bore ripening apples, and a small fountain spat intermittent bursts of water. Stone benches invited visitors to sit and enjoy the view of trampled flowers that must have been tended at one time. Archers lined the walls, arrows to the string, looking down into the courtyard at the prone figure on the ground. Torqual stood among them, smirking with an expression not unlike the one often found on Praett’s face.
Torqual spoke, voice clear in the stillness. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the lesson you so graciously refreshed for me, Kithr. Not one arrow hit you—I was watching. Get up and surrender. Keep playing dead, and I have more than a dozen archers who will ensure you aren’t pretending. They might not be as good as you, but they can hit a prone target.”
Kithr didn’t move.
“Archers.”
The archers drew bow strings tight. Kithr launched to his feet and sprinted the nearest stone bench before the first shaft hit nearby. The archers murmured in surprise and fear. Torqual smirked.
Help him! Lyan told Praett. How you do so is up to you.
“Yes master,” Praett murmured, watching the scene.
