by C. Greenwood
“I have made careful inquiries,” came the answer. “And I’ve been able to find no evidence of a plot against you or even a whisper of a secret enemy in the Praetor’s council. Are you certain this Martyn person wasn’t just inventing a story to save his own skin? It seems likely he was acting on his own initiative in his attempts to kill you. Maybe based off his personal vendetta against you over the death of his father. You said he blamed you for that.”
“Yes, but that is not a story he would have got from the outlaws, who would never have accused me of betraying Brig to his death. That false notion must have been fed to him by somebody, and he swore it was an advisor to the Praetor. And Martyn may have tried to kill me, but I’d stake my life on his honesty in this. He believed the story he gave me. I saw it in his eyes…”
It was true. Martyn had possessed his father’s eyes, and Brig was never any good as a liar. He was the most honest thief I ever knew.
To distract myself from the melancholy thoughts that came from dwelling on the deaths of both father and son, I changed the subject. “Anyway, Terrac warned me away. So maybe he’s discovered something you haven’t.”
“It could be,” Hadrian admitted. “But there is another possibility.”
“What kind of possibility?”
My priest friend shifted in his chair as though it had suddenly become uncomfortable to him. “I don’t like to say these things, but I feel I have to warn you that you may not find Terrac as he was when you last saw him. He has changed.”
I frowned. “In what way? Is it his arm? Has it not healed properly?”
When last we three were together, Hadrian had been nursing Terrac back to health after Terrac had suffered a bite from a desert viper. The injury from the bite had done serious damage to his arm, and we were uncertain how it would heal over time.
“I’m afraid he hasn’t recovered. In fact, the opposite is true. He’s lost most use of the limb from what I can tell. He’s rebuffed my attempts to visit with him, but I’ve ascertained this much from a distance.”
“What do you mean rebuffed? Terrac has always liked you, and he must know he owes his life to how you cared for him after he first sustained the injury.”
“Yes, we were friends. But that’s what I’m telling you. He’s not himself now. Maybe it’s the knowledge his partially crippled state is permanent or maybe it’s his new position that has made the difference. All I can tell you is that you will find him a more bitter man than the friend you once knew.”
I refused to accept that. Terrac had his faults. His ambition and tendency to betray those he cared about for personal gain were the reasons I had broken off our short-lived romance. But I could not envision him in the picture Hadrian was painting either.
“You said his position has changed?” I asked. “In what way?”
“He’s been promoted to a commanding rank over all the Iron Fists. His is a station of greatest responsibility, and he’s answerable to the Praetor if he fails in his new duty to drive out the Skeltai invaders. It was Terrac who led the troop that defeated and destroyed the party of raiders that struck so recently in Dimmingwood. People are calling him a hero for his defense against the savages. But they say other things too. Though they admire him, they whisper he is a man of ambitions, a man to be feared.”
I knew Terrac too well to believe such talk. He had changed much from the peace-loving priest-boy he had been when we were children. But he wouldn’t turn against Hadrian or me. And yet… I had to wonder. Could his injury, combined with my turning my back on him, as he might interpret it, have brought about the dark change Hadrian seemed convinced of? If he was truly half-crippled and feared it put his recent promotion at risk, he would surely be very desperate to prove to the Praetor how effective he could be in his new duties.
As if following the turn of my thoughts, Hadrian said, “I must tell you I suspect Terrac of having some motive of his own for trying to frighten you away from Selbius. What that reason would be, I cannot guess.”
I could, but didn’t say so aloud. Through a simple misunderstanding involving a family heirloom, a brooch given me by my mother and borrowed by Terrac, the Praetor had long been under the false impression Terrac was his long-lost nephew. In reality, it was I and not Terrac who bore blood of the Praetor’s family.
But Terrac’s entire future hinged on the Praetor continuing to favor him as a nephew. It was probably the reason he had risen so swiftly in the ranks of the Fists despite his youth and the condition of his arm. If it became known he was an accidental imposter, Terrac stood to lose a great deal. Not that I had any plans to make the truth known, but what if Terrac thought I had? What if he thought I meant to steal away what he had gained over the years?
But I didn’t give voice to these doubts. “I’m sure Terrac has a good explanation for his letter. I won’t rush to judgment until I hear what it is.”
“Your loyalty to him is commendable,” Hadrian said, “I just hope it’s returned.”
Perhaps he could see I’d had enough of the subject, because he turned abruptly to a different topic. “And how are things with the bow? The last time I saw you, you were still adjusting to having it back in your possession.”
I relaxed. “Things are all right there, I think. I’ve concluded all that passed before was a contest of wills between us. Now I’ve proved to the bow I will not be dominated, it seems content to accept me as my own master. But there is one thing troubling me lately. I began having these intense visions while we were in Cros. I’ve had what I think of as ‘memory dreams’ all my life, occasionally calling up obscure, long-forgotten incidents from childhood. I’m not sure there’s anything magical about that. But since Cros, instead of viewing the past, I’m seeing scenes from the present. Only it’s not my present. It’s other peoples’.”
Hadrian’s dark eyebrows came together in the way they did when something intrigued him. “You’re starting a little late in life to manifest talent as a dreamer,” he said. “There must be some other explanation.”
I could think of one, but I was reluctant to bring it up. All the same, I confessed. “Perhaps I should have mentioned it before, but the vivid dreams started when I received this.”
I pulled the augmenter on its chain out of the neck of my tunic. Its dark iridescent surface shimmered in the glow of candlelight.
Hadrian’s eyes sparked with interest.
“This is the augmenter my grandmother gave me shortly before she died,” I explained. “I know you don’t approve of unnatural means of increasing magic, but I didn’t accept the dragon scale to become more powerful. It was a family heirloom.”
My friend wasn’t to be fooled. “But the magical benefit was not entirely unwelcome, I suspect.”
I glared, my temper stirred less by his disapproval than by his ability to see through me. “You don’t know what it’s like to be separated from your power. The dragon scale gave me mine back. Or at least access to it. After having my magic burned out, I could still feel it sometimes, a distant, elusive thing. But until discovering the augmenter, I had no way to reach it. Now, drawing my magic through the dragon scale, I have recovered the abilities I lost.”
“But at what cost?” he countered. “No spell or enchanted object comes without its temptations for misuse. You have the bow already, and now it seems you’re making a habit of collecting these items. It disturbs me to see you abandoning the magic you were born with in favor of a false and unnatural form. I would rather see you wait and give your true powers time to heal on their own.”
“The magickers of Swiftsfell do not share your old-fashioned ideas,” I said. “Myria saw no harm in the dragon scale or she would not have given it to me.”
He raised a calming hand. “I can see I am making you angry, so perhaps we’d best let the matter rest here. I ask only that you use this new tool of yours with caution and be aware of your feelings, that they do not lead you toward dark magery.”
I was still annoyed, but I respected Hadrian t
oo much to let the subject come between us. We talked of other, lighter things. But the easy mood from before was lost. I did not stay much longer before making my excuses and offering to let myself out.
Despite my assurance that I remembered the way, Hadrian walked me to the door of the temple. I promised to visit him again and update him on my situation. He told me not to leave it too long, hinting he was already planning another of his journeys. The Lythnian coast, I knew, had fascinated him when we were there recently, and I suspected he would like the chance to visit it again.
The hour was growing late, and by the time we said our farewells and I descended the temple steps, the moon had risen high to bathe the temple grounds in its silvery light. Once again, I found myself risking curfew violation if I was found roaming the streets without legitimate business. I needed to get to the under-levels, where I could lie low until morning.
Leaving the temple grounds, I decided to cut across the water cemetery to save time. It was an eerie place at any hour but especially now, with the tall granite obelisks that marked the graves rising from the black waters to paint threatening shapes against the starry sky.
Not trusting my night vision, I avoided the precarious walkways skimming the water’s surface, instead following the outer wall. Here, the shadows were so deep I could hardly see where I was going. But if my eyes failed me, my ears at least were attuned to the night sounds. It was strangely still. The crickets had fallen silent. There was not even a breath of wind to stir the near hedges.
Yet something did stir the one closest to me. Warily, I sent a questing trickle of magic toward it, even as I drew the twin knives from up my sleeves.
A dark shape burst suddenly out of the shrubbery, rearing like a shadowy mountain before me. I caught the metallic ching of chain mail and the glint of moonlight on a drawn blade. Reacting instinctively, I swiped one of my knives at the figure blocking my way and felt it drag across flesh. His arm, I thought, although I couldn’t see well enough to be sure. It must have been a shallow wound, because my assailant was undeterred. My eyes fixed on his sword, my legs coiled, prepared to dodge its coming swing.
Just then, something heavy slammed into my back, bearing me to the ground. Facedown, I could see nothing but the cobbles and the boots of my first attacker as he came to stand over me.
I silently cursed myself for forgetting that Fists hunted together. I had been too distracted by the first man to look out for his companion behind me. Trying to flip over now, I found myself immobilized by the weight of the second man. As I struggled, something — a boot — smashed down over my hand, crushing my fingers into the cobbles until I couldn’t help crying out and loosening my hold on my knife.
Instantly, it was kicked out of my reach.
“Not so tough now, are you, forest scum?” asked a gravelly voice.
Strong hands grabbed the back of my cloak and dragged me up onto my knees. I used the opportunity to thrust the remaining knife still clutched in my good hand into the knee of the man standing over me. His chain mail thwarted my effort, but his startled scream told me the tip of my blade had left some impression.
He might have been frozen with pain, but his companion was not. He threw me against the near wall and bashed my head repeatedly against the stone until the world grew hazy before my eyes.
Numbly, I groped after my magic. But I couldn’t seem to remember what to do with it. The bow railed frantically at the edge of my mind as my consciousness slipped away.
Chapter Four
It was the rough landing that woke me. I came to just as I was being unceremoniously dumped onto a cold stone floor. My head throbbed dully as I squinted up to see a pair of blurry figures walking away — Fists. Memory flooded through me. I had been ambushed. Captured. And now I was in some drafty, dimly lit room with bare floors.
The rusty screech and clang of my cell door being slammed shut provided me with all the explanation I needed. I was imprisoned, probably in the dungeon beneath the Praetor’s keep.
My jailers were leaving now, taking with them the flickering torch that was the only source of light down here.
Scrambling to my feet, I lurched after them.
“Wait!” I shouted. “Under whose authority do you lock me in here? I serve Praetor Tarius and cannot be imprisoned except by his command.”
Their only response was laughter as they walked off down the passage, the torchlight moving away with them. My words echoed back at me through the long corridor.
I could not be locked up without the Praetor’s permission, I had said. But circumstances proved either I was mistaken about that or the Praetor himself had been the issuer of this order.
Darkness enveloped me. Struck by a sudden fear, I fumbled about blindly, looking for my bow. It was nowhere to be found. My enemies had not been foolish enough to leave me armed. My wrist-sheaths were empty too, and the extra dagger always kept tucked down my boot had been removed. All my defenses had been stripped away. Or almost all.
I tried to draw a thin trickle of magic through my dragon scale, thinking to create a suspended ball of flame to illuminate the blackness. Nothing happened. Like my bow, my magic wasn’t there. I fished down the loose neck of my tunic and discovered the augmenter and the chain it should have dangled from were missing, almost certainly stolen by the Fists. The only question was whether they knew what they had in their possession or if they thought its only value monetary. Either way, with the theft of the dragon scale, I had lost my last weapon. I could perform no magic without it. Even the simple comfort of a glow-light was beyond my reach.
A sharp scream in the distance cut like a knife through the stillness. I jumped, heart pounding, and whirled around, eyes straining through the darkness for the source of the noise. The wild, animallike cry of pain went on for so long it seemed to reverberate inside my skull even after it had stopped. Goose pimples formed on my skin, and it wasn’t from the cold. Somewhere down that long passageway leading from my cell, another human being was suffering something terrible. In a place like this, it wasn’t hard to guess what. It wasn’t unheard of for the Fists to use torture. The depths of this foul dungeon were the most likely setting for that to be carried out.
All was deafeningly silent now. The quiet was even worse than the screams. My quickened breathing sounded harsh in the stillness. Usually, I didn’t fear much. But it was easy to be brave in daylight, with good, dependable weapons within reach. Here, in this inky blackness, with only my bare hands to rely on, courage was more elusive.
I wondered what horrors the darkness concealed. Was I even alone in this cell? Or was someone sitting in the near shadows, watching me? Chilled at the thought, I didn’t realize I was backing up until I felt the rough rock wall behind me.
I stiffened. This was no good. I had been in dangerous situations before and had always fought my way through. If a hidden enemy was observing me from the shadows, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid. So I hardened my resolve and stomped on my fear. After that, it was easier to think clearly. There was only one thing to be done. I had to know exactly what I faced.
I began a cautious exploration of my cell, feeling my way along the walls. I discovered a stone bench and a pile of moldy-smelling straw in the floor. There was a bucket, presumably for relieving myself, and a heap of something small that made crunching noises under my feet. I immediately thought of rat bones or possibly remnants from the last meal of a previous occupant.
I didn’t find anyone else in the chamber. I was alone. It was small comfort but I would take what I could get. Beyond that, there was no good news. My obvious priority was to escape this prison before the Fists returned or, worse, whatever had extracted those screams from that other unfortunate prisoner came after me next. But my examination had revealed only one way out—the door through which my jailers had exited. I had hoped to find a small window or some other space I could possibly enlarge or shimmy through. But there was none.
I tried the door but my efforts
to loosen the bars were futile. Still dizzy from my head injury, I sank to the floor in the corner and slept.
____________________
When next I opened my eyes, it was still dark. I had lost all sense of time and couldn’t tell whether I had been asleep for an hour or a day.
What had awoken me? I kept still, listening, and soon I heard it. The bold clatter of more than one pair of feet coming my way. The low murmur of approaching voices. Light pierced the shadows, dancing torchlight moving down the passage and bouncing off the narrow walls. I didn’t know whether to welcome or dread it.
The glow of the flames fell over a pair of indistinct figures. My mind leapt to the two Fists who had ambushed me, but as these visitors came closer, I saw they weren’t the same. One of them, the man in the lead, had his back to the light, leaving his details too shadowed to make out. His wore the jangling chain mail of a Fist or guardsman but was too tall to be either of the two I had already encountered. His companion, following with the torch, was less obscured. He didn’t look young or fit enough to be a fighting man, and his sloppy clothing was not the uniform of the city guard or one of the Praetor’s elite soldiers. His only weapon was a cudgel hanging from a length of rope that he wore knotted like a belt around his thick waist. Beside the cudgel jingled a ring of keys that gave away his occupation as jailer.
As the pair drew near, the jailer’s complaint drifted to my ears. “Couldn’t it wait another hour, Captain? I haven’t had me own breakfast yet, and this lot is still waitin’ on their swill.”
