Chapter 11
The prisoner sat stoically at the desk, hands held palms down and utterly motionless. The slight rise and fall of his broad shoulders offering the only evidence of his animate nature.
'How long has he been like that?' Barman asked.
'Since he arrived,' the young, wingless telmid answered. 'Every day he sits there, never moving, never saying anything. The only exceptions are when he has visitors, and even then he rarely moves at all.'
'Has he had many?'
He has a few regular guests, usually every other day or so. Here is the log,' he answered, handing a titrane-bound volume to Barman.
He counted a total of five names that seemed to visit at fixed intervals and times. He made some quick annotations in a tiny book.
'How long do they stay?' he asked.
'Never long. A few minutes. You can see the length of each visit right here,' the guard said, pointing.
'And what do they talk about?' Barman asked.
'We aren't sure,' the telmid answered apologetically. 'They say very little and if they do speak a field of some type appears and blocks all sound. We can't hear them or even try to read their lips. And none of his visitors has been willing to talk about their conversations. Of course, they don't have to tell us about them, but we have asked all of them several times.'
Barman considered trying to question the prisoner personally, but decided it would be pointless. He flipped through the folder on the table, examining the notes of previous interrogations. Three months of confinement and not one recorded word to show for it. He wasn't arrogant enough to believe that he would have better success.
'Is he under constant observation?' Barman asked.
'Yes. I mean we have shift changes and occasional interruptions, but he can't see us. And he knows he's being watched. He retires at the same time everyday, despite having no clock. Each day he rises and resumes the exact same position, never moving at all. He eats whatever is given to him, but beyond that he just sits there.'
'Thanks for your help,' he said, rising to leave.
It seemed incongruous that the isolation chamber was located in such close proximity to the throne room. As he passed through the courtyard that separated the Kings from one who was resolutely defying them, Barman was filled with wonder. How could this being sit day after day so near to his creators and not be crushed beneath the weight of that knowledge? The very air that filled this mountain practically hummed with their presence.
The chamber itself was warded against any noise passing the walls. The prisoner wasn't able to hear the music that filled the mount of the Kings. But surely no wall or force shielded him from that presence. Here, at the center of all life, was it possible to ignore it? How could he sit so calmly, so seemingly nonchalant? It was mystifying.
Barman took a seat by a rectangular fountain near the center of the open terrace. He closed his eyes, absorbing the pulse of energy around him. The soothing, warm, kinetic force caressed his skin. He felt its heat and vitality invade his pores and flow through him, like a cleansing hum.
The melody that came from the throne room was strangely visible to his closed eyes, telling a tale of joy and awe rendered in a panorama of color and impression. He felt his tension and worry melt away, leaving peace and clarity in its purifying wake.
He opened his eyes and it was as if he'd been scoured of all his exhaustion, stress, and doubt. His mind seemed somehow cleaner and clearer. He sat for some time just being in the complete serenity of the courtyard. He didn't know how long he sat there, but suddenly he saw a face that didn't belong. The apprehensive countenance appeared so at odds with the blissful expressions that paraded past, he assumed this had to be the one he sought. The arella looked around nervously, then turned and entered the chamber that he had just visited. According to the log book this should be Semonap, come to visit the prisoner. And if this visit held true to form, he wouldn't have long to wait to find out.
Barman was fairly certain of the visitor's identity, but completely baffled as to the reason for these short repetitive interviews. He was even less sure about what his next steps should be. He knew that all of the prisoner's visitors had been questioned, without revealing anything. They had all been asked, respectfully, about the nature of their calls, but no information had been gained. Perhaps a different approach was needed.
The door opened and those nervous eyes darted around, locking for an instant on Barman. He jumped quickly to his feet and marched deliberately towards the perturbed arella who turned and began to walk away.
'Semonap.' Barman barked, his harsh tone cutting through the serenity.
The figure froze, but did not turn around.
'Semonap,' he repeated, louder this time.
Slowly the angel turned to face him, his shoulders seeming to deflate in the process.
'I hope that you understand how serious this situation is,' Barman continued in his most authoritative voice, never breaking stride.
The expression on Semonap's face looked stricken, as if he just realized that the building that he stood in was on fire.
'Do you know who I am?' Barman asked. The arella shook his head. 'This is your last chance. You need to realize that. Now, tell me what went on in there.'
The angel stared blankly at him for a second, seeming to wrestle with an inner conflict.
'Nothing,' he answered.
'Nothing!' Barman thundered. 'I give you a chance and you tell me, nothing.'
Semonap's face grew even more agitated, and he stammered apologetically, 'we didn't say a word.'
He put his hand under the fold of his outer robe and pulled out a sheet of linen parchment.
'I just brought this.'
Barman grabbed the sheet and examined the neat rows of glyphs. They said nothing. It was a seemingly random mess of symbols without any discernible meaning.
'Did you show this to him?' Barman asked.
'No.'
'Do you know what it means?'
'No.'
'Then why bring it?'
'I brought a sheet of blank parchment like I always do. I don't understand how he creates that or what it means. I just bring the blank sheets and place them in the same place each time,' Semonap answered.
'And why do you do this?'
The angel swallowed, visibly uncomfortable, 'he knows things about me.'
Ligoth Oregot was not happy. The timber that was supposed to be delivered yesterday still had not arrived. This delay was going to cost him. And if it cost him, it would certainly cost Angus.
He understood that it was becoming increasingly difficult to find the black yew trees, but that wasn't his problem. He had paid for the lumber, it was up to Angus to deliver it. He stood on a small hill overlooking his latest development. This section of third tower block was a bit of a gamble, even for him.
In order to secure the rights to this land and finance the construction, he leveraged his entire business. These would be the finest homes outside of the central ring and he believed that they would sell, but he was running out of time. He had until solstice end to make a payment on the loan that he had convinced Eltoth to give him, but if he didn't get the timber today he wasn't sure how he would meet the deadline. He saw his son approaching with his usual serious expression.
'Did you speak to Angus?' he called out as his only heir struggled up the hill toward him.
'You aren't going to be pleased,' the boy answered.
'I'm already not pleased.'
'What did he say?'
'He can't deliver the timber. He was sanctioned by the representatives for felling trees on Cherlot land. He says he can't get the black yew. They have restricted his access to other woods.'
'What use do the Cherlot have for black yew? They certainly don't need any to build their stinking tents. By the Kings, what kind of idiots are we dealing with? Aren't arella supposed to be intelligent,' he fumed, spitting out the words.
'Apparently the represen
tatives told him they have gotten complaints about land encroachment from the Cherlots and Umgey. He was told that they are considering placing a cap on development if we continue to disregard boundary restrictions.'
'Cursed fools. We need to stand up to the oppressive blowhards. We merely take what our neighbors fail to use. We haven't stolen their berry bushes. What use do they have for timber?'
Ligoth stamped his foot and began mumbling inarticulately under his breath. This would ruin him. He was so close. He had worked so hard. This was the project that would propel him to the upper council, but it was slipping away.
Eltoth would not be willing to grant him an extension. The old lender was infamous for his lack of flexibility. He would be left with nothing but shame, forced to start over. It was inconceivable.
'Go find out what else he has available. And make an appointment with Eltoth for me. Maybe he can do something about those idiotic representatives. They have to be costing him as well.'
The boy hurried off to do as instructed and Ligoth sat on a log surveying the rows of stone foundations, arranged along the perimeter of the central square. He could see the beautiful little community complete, in his mind. He wondered aloud if he would ever see it finished.
'I think I can help,' a deep voice announced from behind.
Ligoth jumped up and tripped over his own feet as he tried to turn and face his interrupter. He fell painfully to his knees, catching himself with his hands. He raised his head and stared into the face of a legend.
Tail of the Dragon Page 12
