His speech reminded me of what I had done with Penny, and what I had once done with Elaine. Each time, I had emerged from the experience not entirely sure if my soul was mine, or if we had perhaps switched places. Still, it hadn’t worked out badly. “When you say ‘one being,’ precisely what happens?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen it. To my knowledge, archmages have always been so rare that it has only happened twice in history, but the records described horrific results. The bodies of the two individuals flow together like water, creating an abomination possessing features of both of them. Their minds are similarly mixed, and the result has always been insanity,” he explained.
I prodded him for more information. “What happened to them then? Were they put down?”
The red-bearded mage shook his head. “In both cases they destroyed themselves to put an end to their pain.”
“I appreciate the warning,” I responded with genuine gratitude.
“I warn you for my own safety, Mordecai. While you are held here, I am sure you will be tempted to escape. For that reason, either Tyrion or myself will be guarding your cell at all times, along with another mage such as your son or one of the She’Har krytek. If you try to escape into the earth or some similar means, we will stop you, and the result would be detrimental to both of us,” said Gareth.
I couldn’t help but feel some respect for the man, both for his honesty and for the fact that he was quite literally putting his own life on the line to keep me locked up. “Aren’t you worried I might do something out of pure spite? If I’m certain to be executed, I have little to lose.”
Gareth shook his head negatively. “You have an overdeveloped sense of justice. While I don’t particularly like you, I have never known you to harm another for such reasons. In the past, most of your more spectacularly stupid decisions came from ignorance, rather than malice. Hence, I thought it best to inform you of the possibilities.”
“And yet, you still believe I killed the Prince?”
“My opinion is irrelevant to the matter,” said the archmage. “But yes, I believe it precisely because of that. You have shown a willingness to act on your conception of justice many times in the past, and damn the consequences. This instance appears to be merely another example of that foolishness.”
How could I argue with that? Instead, I merely stared at him.
“Another thing,” continued Gareth. “My wife is pregnant. In a span of months, I will become a father for the first time.”
It wasn’t a friendly sharing of happy news. He’s making sure I know that if I get him killed. I’ll be robbing his child of its father, I thought. As if the risk of harming Conall if he’s here on guard wasn’t enough. “Congratulations,” I told him. “I will keep that in mind.”
Relaxing once more, Gareth opened his mind and spoke to the stone in front of us, making it a part of his very being. It was an interesting moment for me, since I had never had a good opportunity to see it done from an external vantage point. It was surprisingly unimpressive. There was no movement of aythar or other sign that he was doing anything, though I could sense a change in the wall in front of us. Faintly, I heard its unique voice change slightly and it was a struggle not to listen more closely, but I remembered his words.
For an archmage, listening was more than a passive process; it was the means we used to connect with the world. My curiosity could kill us both. I made a conscious effort to ignore what he was doing.
The wall became translucent, and after a moment it faded until I could see through it, as though looking through murky water. “Step inside,” ordered my jailor.
I glanced at Conall, and he gave me an apologetic face. Then I did as I was told. Inside, I noticed that the walls of the cell were inlaid with silver metal, covering every surface with the runes of a complex enchantment. My new home was roughly ten feet on a side, with only a stone bench to sit or lay upon. Unlike the regular cells, there was no hole or drain for me to use for elimination. Instead, a chamber pot sat in one corner. I could only surmise that an opening, of whatever sort, had been deemed too risky.
“This looks comfy,” I told them, looking back through the murky stone wall at them.
Gareth didn’t smile. “You might be interested to know that the last occupant of this place was Jerod Mordan, the wizard who summoned Balinthor and nearly destroyed our world.”
That had been just over two thousand years ago. “He didn’t do much decorating, did he?” I commented wryly.
If I had been hoping for a laugh, I was disappointed. Gareth was as stoic as ever. Conall’s eyes were red, as though he might burst into tears at any moment. My son opened his mouth to speak. “Dad…”
It was then that I finally noticed he was wearing the surcoat I had brought him. “It’s alright, son. This isn’t your fault. Keep wearing the surcoat. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” Then the wall became solid, cutting me off from the outside world.
Darkness covered me as the light from outside vanished and I lowered my head. There was no longer anyone to see me. Lack of light wasn’t a big problem for wizards, and the manacles didn’t prevent me from using my magesight, although they did diminish it somewhat, but a ten-by-ten stone cell wasn’t much of a view. The enchantment in the walls blocked my ability to see anything beyond it.
There were many things I needed to think about, but in that moment, I didn’t have the heart for it. So instead I lowered myself onto the stone bench and stretched out. And I thought being publicly flogged was the most humiliating thing I would ever experience. It doesn’t hold a candle to being arrested and put in a jail cell by my own child.
Closing my eyes against the darkness, I considered sleep. It was a fairly silly notion, since I was nowhere close to being ready for bed. Then I thought about food. I had none, so it was a short thought, but I was glad that I had eaten with Roland right before coming to Albamarl. It was a damn shame that my most recent meal had been dried mutton and porridge, but I had a feeling I might find myself wishing for such luxury in the coming days.
There was no water in my cell, either, which seemed terribly unfair. Then again, the more I drank, the faster I’d fill up the chamber pot, and I didn’t want to think about what would happen if that occurred before someone came to empty it.
Finally, I began to examine my shackles. They were pretty much as my daughter, Moira, had described, although these were obviously better made. Apparently, Gareth was no slouch when it came to enchanting. The basic principle was simple—the manacles siphoned away any aythar that I tried to emit. If I didn’t exert myself, they only collected the small amount I naturally radiated, but any time I began to consciously try to do something, they rapidly drained the power away.
In a sense, they were similar to the enchantment I had once used to charge my iron bombs, except rather than collecting heat energy, these trapped aythar itself. The key lesson, though, was that they had a limit, just like my bombs. Eventually they would fill up completely, and if the power they stored exceeded that point, they would explode. I didn’t think I wanted to be wearing them when that happened.
Given my strength, it was possible I could fill them within a day or two if I bent myself entirely to the task, but since I wasn’t feeling suicidal, I decided to shelve that option for the time being. If I avoided emitting aythar deliberately, they would probably last a week or two. It was hard to judge without testing the material, for I didn’t know what its energy capacity was, as I did with iron.
They were carved from a crystalline mineral of some sort. Crystals could often contain surprising amounts of power, which was why I had once used diamond to make a set of stasis cubes strong enough to freeze time for an entire city. This material probably didn’t have that kind of capacity, but it was also a lot larger than the diamonds.
Either way, it was a dead-end line of thought. Overloading the manacles would surely kill me. The best—and si
mplest—course of action, would be to use my ability as an archmage and let the material pass through my wrists. There were two problems, however.
One, I didn’t know if anyone was watching. If they were, that action might result in a response, and if that led to a battle with Gareth or Tyrion—well, I had been warned of the possible result. The second problem was that there might be a hidden enchantment I couldn’t see on the inner surface of the manacles. If I had been the enchanter I’d have implemented something to detect the absence of the wearer’s wrists. In other words, they might detonate if I removed them without following the proper procedure.
The only reason I would want to remove them, though, was simply to make myself more comfortable. A quick glance at the enchantment built in to the walls had already shown me that it was of a similar nature. The room was something like the Ironheart Chamber I had once built to trap a god. It would absorb any force thrown against it, and while it wouldn’t have been sufficient to hold Karenth, it was more than enough to hold me. To escape, I would have to destroy the enchantment or use my ability as an archmage to pass through it, as Gareth had done to let me enter.
The same two problems that kept me from attempting to remove the manacles applied equally to the enchantment on the room.
What about a teleport circle? Hah! The room had been built to hold mages, and it had been effective at holding Jerod Mordan, who had the same innate ability to teleport that Karen had. Although I hadn’t spent enough time to decipher most of the enchantment, I could assume that it would prevent those sorts of shenanigans.
“This is a fine pickle I’ve gotten myself into,” I said the words aloud, more to hear my own voice than for any other reason. The room was deathly still. The silence might be worse than the darkness. It was already beginning to eat at me.
Reaching down, I felt around my waist, wishing I still had my pouches, or even just the belt. They had removed both, guessing, and rightly so, that I might have tricks concealed within them. They had also taken my boots and my jacket. I was clothed only in a simple tunic and a pair of trousers.
And my feet were getting cold.
“You could have left me my socks!” I yelled, wondering if anyone could hear me. If they could, they didn’t do me the courtesy of responding. Even laughter would have been nice, or swearing. Anything, just so I knew someone heard me.
How long have I been in here? An hour, two hours? I laughed. It probably hadn’t even been twenty minutes yet. How long would it be before the trial? If it was a week, I’d have to wait this amount of time—I did a mental calculation—five hundred and four more times.
What if it was longer than a week? “This is going to be rough,” I told myself.
After a while, I retreated into my memories. One benefit of perfect recall is that you can always revisit the past. Doing my best to ignore the hard stone against my back and the chill of my feet, I immersed myself once more in the warm days of summer. Days when Penny had been just a friend, a girl I couldn’t imagine being silly enough to love me. Days when Marcus had always had some foolish scheme to while away the hours. Days when Dorian had traipsed around with us on endless adventures.
Chapter 16
“Lady Hightower, have you taken leave of your senses?” The speaker was in his thirties, with piercing brown eyes and pronounced almost blade-like nose.
Rose answered him calmly, “No. I don’t believe so. Have I given you some reason to think so?”
“Frankly, yes,” replied Lord Watson, the chief judge of the courts of Lothion. He was also, not coincidentally, the judge who would be overseeing Mordecai’s trial. “You have nothing to gain from this and everything to lose.”
“I am not the one on trial,” said Rose coolly.
“I’m referring to your reputation. Lord Cameron is accused of murdering a prince. Based on the evidence, I am as certain of his guilt as I am that the sun will rise tomorrow. You will do him no favors by representing him and you will only serve to tarnish your own standing. Let someone else take this distasteful task.”
Rose’s eyes narrowed until they were slits with mere glints of sapphire between the lids. “Would any of your barristers do so?”
Lord Watson chuffed. “Unlikely. They are not fools, but if he offers them enough gold, one of them might reconsider. If not, he can represent himself.”
“Do any of them believe in his innocence?” asked Rose.
“Lady Hightower, no one believes in his innocence,” said the judge emphatically.
“Then if one of them did take his money, how would they represent him effectively?” demanded Rose. “How is that right and just? He has not been convicted yet, but if you allow him representation that already believes in his guilt, then he may as well be.”
“Justice will see him hanged, Lady Hightower. That is a fact. But your life will continue. Would you give more fodder to the rumors regarding your relationship to the accused?”
Rose’s expression had been relaxed, almost languid, but at the judge’s remark her eyes locked on his and they seemed to catch fire with a ferocity that nearly caused the man to flinch in his seat. “Rumors. Tell me, Your Honor, do rumors have any standing in a court of law? Do they have the weight of evidence?”
Lord Watson hesitated before answering, “Of course not.”
“Then I would advise you to stick to the facts of this case. Otherwise you may find yourself dealing with another case entirely, and not from that side of the bench. I don’t think either of us want that. Do we?” she warned him.
The judge looked outraged. “Is that a threat, Lady Hightower?”
“No, Your Honor, merely a statement of intent,” she responded, calm once more. “Now, I ask again. May I have the list of witnesses and any other information pertinent to the trial? Time is limited.”
Lord Watson grinned maliciously back at her. “Only after I see a signed letter from the defendant, naming you as his counsel.” He leaned back, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “You may have trouble obtaining that, however, since the Queen has given orders to keep him confined without visitors.”
“Aside from his counsel,” corrected Rose confidently.
“Which you are not,” said Lord Watson, “unless you already have his signed consent in hand.”
Rose kept her eyes on the judge, but held one arm out to the side, toward her maid-servant, Angela. The other woman lifted a leather case and put it in her hand. Opening it, Rose drew out a folded sheet of parchment. “As it happens, I already have that document.”
The judge sneered. “You expect me to believe he named you, a woman, in advance?” His expression changed as he read the document she presented to him. “How did you get this?”
She smiled beatifically at him. “If you will notice the date, Your Honor, I was named his counsel over a decade ago, to represent him in the matter of Tremont’s destruction. There is no date of expiry on that letter.”
With an expulsion of pent-up breath, Judge Watson dropped the letter and turned to a scribe who stood to one side of his desk. “Clerk, please copy out the list of witnesses and any other pertinent information we have for Lady Hightower.” Then he took to his feet, towering over the women in front of him. “It saddens me to see you drag your once-proud family into the gutters. If your father were alive today, he would be sorely disappointed. I will see you again the day of the trial.” Turning away, he left the room.
Rose waited patiently while the clerk did as instructed. It took the man half an hour to write out everything. The court-room was expansive, with small desks on either side of the room and a variety of other scribes and functionaries continually entering and leaving. She was painfully aware of them, for many stood in small groups, whispering as they cast glances in her direction.
Angela’s face colored when one group became loud enough for their voices to carry clearly to her ears, with the words ‘s
lattern,’ ‘blood-lord,’ and ‘lady highwhore,’ featuring prominently. If Rose heard them, though, she gave no sign of it.
When her maid became so overwrought that she opened her mouth to berate one of the speakers, Rose caught her hand. “Angela, after we return to the palace I’ll need you to run an errand for me.”
Angela looked from her wrist to her lady’s face and closed her mouth. Then she dipped her head respectfully and answered, “Of course, milady.”
Half an hour later, they were back in Rose’s carriage, returning to the palace. Alone at last, Angela took the opportunity to vent her frustration. “You shouldn’t have stopped me. Those dogs had no business saying such things.”
Rose’s lips quirked upward on one side. “I have excellent hearing, Angela, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Then you should have let me confront them!” protested her maid.
“That would serve no one, least of all me,” said Rose. “Do you think I was merely listening? How many of those men did you recognize?”
“One or two.”
“I knew fifteen of them, and made note of two others for future study. More importantly, I also know many of their personal details, who they are connected to, who they work for, and who they take bribes from. Rumor-mongers have their uses. Confronting them directly does little, unless one first determines who is behind them. Some are clueless, repeating only what they have heard, but others are deliberate. Discovering which is which is key to taking effective action,” lectured Rose.
Angela leaned forward. “Then you’ll punish them later?”
Rose laughed. “Heavens, no! One or two, perhaps, but I’ll ignore most of them. Once Mordecai is vindicated, their newfound doubts will be useful. Some of them may even become allies one day. Punishment is a goal for the simple-minded. I prefer to pursue more important things, such as leverage.”
“Do you really think Lord Cameron is innocent?” asked her maid uncertainly.
“Of course,” said Rose, looking out the window. Inwardly, however, she struggled with her doubt. He has to be. If he isn’t… Softly, she muttered to herself, “Anything.”
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