“I have some bad news,” he began.
“Yes?” Rylan sat patiently. It was apparent to him that whatever Coryden had to tell him was upsetting him terribly.
“The Northmarch is to move out at dawn.”
Rylan considered the news. “I am sorry to hear that. Are we at war?”
“No, not yet.”
“Geradon shall continue the search. I must unfortunately continue with our research, but there is still hope, Coryden—”
“We’re not going.”
Rylan looked at him, stunned. “Not going?”
“No.” Coryden looked away from him. “We—the patrol, that is—we’ve talked about it. Berret’s squad, and myself, and of course Dualas—we’re going to stay behind. The other two squads will go with the Northmarch.”
“Isn’t that desertion?”
Coryden looked at him evenly. “That’s what it’s usually called, yes.”
Rylan looked at Dualas. He looked much calmer than Coryden, though he was obviously still concerned.
“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Rylan asked Coryden.
Coryden’s eyes locked with his. “It’s Morticai’s only chance, now, isn’t it?”
“I—I do not know,” Rylan replied. “You know there is no guarantee that we will find him.”
“I know. But it certainly wouldn’t help if we left, now would it?”
Rylan sighed. “Are you asking for my approval?”
“No,” Coryden said. “I’m just asking that you not turn us in.”
“If I am asked, I cannot lie … but I will not turn you in,” Rylan said. “Where will you and your men stay?”
“We don’t know yet,” Coryden admitted.
“I could suggest that you seek sanctuary at the Sanctorium,” Rylan said, a twinkle coming into his eye. “You know, political refugees are never turned away.”
Coryden smiled slowly, then nodded once. “We just might do that, Brother Glaedwin.”
Rylan nodded and returned the smile.
* * *
Morticai jerked reflexively at the touch of the cloth on his face.
“Hold still.” The voice was Luthekar’s.
He moaned in reply. He couldn’t have said anything coherent if he wanted to. Luthekar’s hood was again thrown back, and he supported Morticai’s head while he wiped his face. Morticai closed his eyes. As Luthekar took the cloth to his back, he moaned again.
He became aware of a tugging, and realized that Luthekar was untying the gag. Morticai was surprised at the gentleness in his touch. Morticai wondered vaguely why Luthekar would show such concern.
He felt a hand under his chin.
“Can you hear me?” Luthekar asked.
Wish they would lower my arms, Morticai thought, and then he realized that he would be unable to use them if they did.
“You may speak now,” Luthekar said, as though Morticai might not have noticed that the gag had been removed.
“Hate … you,” Morticai whispered.
A rueful smile crept onto Luthekar’s face. “And you have not yet seen the depth of my anger,” the Droken prince replied. “Here, drink this, it will give you some sustenance.”
Luthekar held a cup up to his lips. Morticai thought about trying to resist, then decided to drink, hoping it to be poison. The liquid tasted sweet, and he wondered what was in it.
“You provided quite a spectacle tonight,” Luthekar said. “I was surprised—I would have thought you were stronger than that.”
Morticai spat blood at him, but Luthekar easily dodged it.
“I do wish you didn’t have such nasty habits,” Luthekar said, and then lightly backhanded him, almost as if in jest. “You must have learned such things in the streets.”
Morticai’s head rang from the blow, and for a moment, he thought he would lose consciousness.
“You know, my offer to you still stands,” Luthekar told him. “Tonight was mild compared to what tomorrow night will be. If you do not convert before then, you will most certainly die.”
Luthekar held a key up before Morticai. “This is all that stands between you and death. One word, given sincerely, would allow me to use this key to free you. Think about that tonight.” Luthekar laid the key on the table that still contained the bloody implements of torture, and then, without another glance back, he left him.
Morticai stared at the key and several minutes later realized that tears were running down his face. “Stop it!” he cried out, but the tears continued. He had actually been considering Luthekar’s offer. “Oh Glawres, forgive me!”
If you want the key, then take it.
Morticai jumped at the strange thought that echoed in his mind. He swallowed, and forced himself to look at Glawres’s carving on the wall. Nothing about it had changed. Morticai looked again at the key. It was within arm’s reach—if he hadn’t been shackled.
He tilted his head back to look at the bracket that held the chains to the ceiling. He couldn’t tell much about it; he knew it was loose, but couldn’t get a good look at it. He thought about twisting the chain, but he wasn’t certain he was up to it.
If you want the key, then take it! the foreign thought echoed once more through his mind.
Morticai jumped, involuntarily jerking his chains and inviting his muscles to spasm. He gritted his teeth until it passed. “Damn! Cry out less … when there’s no one … else around!” If I am alone, he thought. He tried to look behind him. He saw no one. He shuddered, and then chided himself for being scared by hallucinations.
He looked at the chains and sighed. He tried, gently, to twist them. The effort seemed to drain his last energy. Blessed Aluntas, I hurt! He let the chains support him and for a while, allowed himself to float on the sea of pain, only dimly aware of his surroundings. Eventually however, he started twisting the chains again, and this time managed to produce a small amount of mortar. He continued twisting them, keeping at it until it caused such pain that he couldn’t keep from moaning. He panted with the effort, and he rested for a moment, but he began again, as soon as he was able.
Finally, he could no longer make his arms move, and exhaustion truly claimed him. His awareness began to fade in and out, his nightmares mixing with reality, lasting for what seemed an eternity.
Chapter Fifteen
Nelerek paused. The small delivery wagon was parked at the mouth of the alley. The shadowy form that was its driver intently watched the busy intersection that lay beyond the alley’s entrance. The sun had just risen, and though small carts and wagons were already traveling Watchaven’s main streets, the dim alleys were still quiet, as cats looked for quiet places to curl up, and dogs scuffled playfully in the dirt with the children who were already emerging from quiet houses.
Nelerek whistled softly.
The wagon driver turned and dipped his head in greeting. Nelerek approached and climbed onto the seat next to him.
“Morning,” Nelerek offered.
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it,” Paxton replied, allowing himself to stretch.
“Any activity?”
“Not last night,” Paxton replied, shaking his head. “I think this one’s a dead end, Nelerek. Valdir is lying as low as the ebb tide. From what I’ve heard, he’s been that way ever since Aldwin was killed.”
“You could be right,” Nelerek agreed. “How are you doing?”
Paxton shrugged. “I’ve slept more, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep easy as long we think the Droken have Dyluth.”
“What of the Dapple Stallion?”
Paxton waved a hand, “Don’t worry about the Inn. My oldest boy’s been wanting to run it by himself for years. I think he’s looked forward to a chance to show his younger brothers that he can do it. Have you heard from Heather?”
“Not since yesterday morning.”
Paxton
shot him a concerned glance.
“You think she’s all right?”
“Yeah,” Nelerek replied. “She’s been seen around the palace. I think she’s still trying to learn something more there. Now that’s an area I think is a dead end!”
“How about Morticai’s little followers? Have you talked to any of them?”
“Yeah,” Nelerek replied, “but only to convince them to be careful.”
“Ha! You’d have better luck if you paid them to give up looking for Dyluth.”
Nelerek shook his head. “I don’t think so, Paxton. Dyluth has always been very generous to the orphans of this city. I don’t know if you knew that.”
“No, I didn’t know—but it doesn’t surprise me.”
Nelerek nodded. “I don’t think I could pay them enough to keep them from looking. So, I settled for the next best thing and tried to convince them that if they’re going to work with the Arluthians, they must be careful.”
Paxton smiled. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Nelerek—you always make the best of any given situation. So, you going to let me move to Ellenwood’s?”
Nelerek looked at him in surprise. “Don’t you think you ought to get some sleep, first?”
“Very well,” Paxton grudgingly agreed. “I’ll get some sleep—but you come and get me if anything happens!”
“Don’t worry,” Nelerek replied. “I will.”
* * *
A light knock sounded on the door of the tavern booth. Geradon grabbed the unlit candle and stuffed it in his bag.
“Yes?” Rylan asked, unlatching the door.
Coryden and Berret stood just outside the booth.
“May we join you?” Coryden asked.
“Please do,” Geradon replied, moving the bag so there would be room.
The two weary Northmarchers sank down beside the clergymen. Coryden relatched the door.
“Will you be ordering anything?” Rylan asked.
“No,” Berret replied. “We ate at the Sanctorium.”
Rylan and Geradon exchanged glances. With a nod from Rylan, Geradon withdrew the candle he had so hastily repacked. Coryden looked at it and raised his eyebrows.
“Ah,” Rylan began, “this is a rather special candle. Are you expecting to be joined by any of your men?”
“No,” Coryden said.
“Then, if we might demonstrate,” Rylan said, gesturing for Geradon to light the candle.
He did so, and the noise in the rest of the tavern promptly vanished.
“Blessed Levani!” Berret exclaimed, jumping.
Coryden smiled. “That’s a pretty handy trick. I assume that no one can hear us?”
“You are quite correct,” Rylan said. “In fact, we pay the bartender extra to keep the booths around us empty.”
“And,” Geradon added, “we always sit in this far booth.”
“Does the bartender know about this?” Berret asked, pointing suspiciously at the candle.
“No,” Rylan replied. “But it is essential to our work—Geradon and I have lost important secrets to Droken sorcery in the past. We have burned more such candles on this assignment than on many, I fear.”
Coryden shook his head. “I’ve never seen much sorcery. When I do see it, it always amazes me.”
“’Tis a very dangerous thing,” Geradon cautioned. “There is a fine line between sorcery that furthers the cause of the Faith, and that which furthers the Dark One’s wicked designs.”
“Don’t worry,” Coryden replied wearily. “I have no desire to learn any of it. Besides, I’ve always heard you have to be born with the skill.”
“So,” Rylan said, changing the subject, “has any more information surfaced?”
Coryden looked dejectedly at the drink he had brought with him to the booth. “No.”
“Have, have you prayed about it recently?” Berret asked Geradon.
“Yes,” Geradon said, his face growing grim.
Coryden glanced up sharply at his troubled tone.
“He is still alive,” Geradon assured him.
“But?” Coryden asked.
Geradon paused. “Morticai’s life force is not as strong as it was.”
“He’s been hurt,” Coryden said.
“That is probably safe to assume,” Geradon confirmed.
Coryden pounded a fist down on the table.
“At least we know he is still alive,” Rylan said.
“I’m not certain that knowing doesn’t make it worse,” Coryden complained. “No, no, I don’t mean that. I’m sorry. I’m glad we know he’s still alive—I just feel so helpless. And now we know that if he wasn’t hurt before, he is now. That’s just great!”
“I’m afraid I have additional ill news,” Rylan said.
Coryden threw up his hands. “Great. What more?”
“I believe the Dynolvans will declare war by tomorrow,” Rylan said.
Berret shook his head. “Well, at least that was bad news we were expecting.”
“What has happened, Rylan?” Geradon asked.
“As you know, I spent some time at the palace this morning. While there I heard that Watchaven has seized a shipload of goods bound for Dynolva from Menelcar.”
“Almighty Aluntas!” Berret exclaimed. “You’re right, that will do it!”
The others nodded in grim agreement.
* * *
The touch on Morticai’s face was light, and for once, he awoke without a jerk—his arms were numbed beyond that capability. Pain was certainly still present, however, and the captive Northmarcher pulled in a ragged breath as his body’s senses reminded him of the previous night’s torments. A cup touched his lips; a firm hand supported the back of his head.
“Drink.”
Morticai’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Luthekar’s voice. The dark prince tilted the bowl upward and, unable to resist and uncertain if he should try, Morticai drank. It was the same sweet liquid Luthekar had given him the previous night.
“Can you speak?” Luthekar asked.
“Yes,” Morticai replied, though it came out a hoarse whisper.
“This evening’s service shall begin shortly. Did you think about my offer?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“May you freeze in the Wastes with Droka!”
Luthekar nodded. “That was what I expected.” He shrugged, and said, “Still, I have made the offer. It will stand until you die, though I suspect you will not be sane enough to choose after tonight.”
“Leave me alone.”
Luthekar smiled a cold smile. “As you wish, Arluthian.” The silver-haired corryn moved behind his chained captive, and with a sudden jerk, he pulled the silk gag, once again, tightly into place. “Pray to your god,” Luthekar whispered into his ear. “See if he will save you—in one hour you shall learn for yourself how easily Glawres abandons those who worship him.”
Morticai did, indeed, spend the hour in prayer—praying that somehow the Droken army would be discovered, that the plot would be broken, that his death would not be meaningless.
The main doors opened and, as before, the large room filled with masked Droken. Ellenwood stood with Luthekar on the dais, but unlike the previous night, Luthekar began with a responsive prayer and a hymn. The mere sight of the lit brazier reawakened the pain in Morticai’s forearms, and the Northmarcher fought the knot of fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Oh, Glawres, he prayed silently, should I go mad, please keep me from telling them about the Arluthians. Please.
The hymn came to an end.
“We have sung our praises to the Almighty Droka,” Luthekar began. “Now, we must turn our attention to the dispensing of his justice.”
Luthekar moved out of sight. Morticai tensed. A pair of strong hands grabbed his head and w
ith a jerk, snapped it back so that Morticai looked at the distant ceiling. Morticai gasped, thinking the dark prince planned to break his neck. Instead, he found himself looking into Luthekar’s cold eyes, unable to free himself from the prince’s iron grip.
“It is proven,” Luthekar said to the quiet congregation, “that this abomination, this thief, is a worshipper of Glawres, an Arluthian, and a Northmarcher. It is proven that he has actively fought against us. For these crimes, justice must be done.”
Luthekar bent down and whispered to him, “This is the last time I shall ask. I will allow your head to move enough to answer me—will you repent?”
Morticai shook his head.
“Then, so be it,” Luthekar whispered. He straightened, but kept Morticai’s head in his iron grip.
The prince nodded to someone out of sight. A body moved against Morticai’s arm—it was Ellenwood. Then Morticai saw the glowing iron rod. As Ellenwood slowly lowered it toward his eyes, Morticai’s scream filled the temple. He nearly wrenched his hands through the manacles, and would have doubtless broken every bond that held him, had it not been for Luthekar’s unnatural strength.
* * *
A heavy veil of silence hung over Grandhaven Sanctorium. War had been declared, and the Sanctorium’s doors had been closed. Only those deemed faithful by the knights who guarded the fortress—and the hundreds of corryn refugees who sheltered within it—were allowed to enter.
The Inquisitor and his assistant moved with purpose through the great structure. At every intersection, a knight of the Faith waved them through. Rylan paused as they passed the section that sheltered the refugee families. A woman’s muffled sobs echoed toward them from somewhere within the great chamber. Geradon gently laid his hand on Rylan’s arm, and with a sigh, Rylan continued on.
They stopped at an intersection. The knight standing guard there nodded in silent greeting. Rylan addressed him. “The Grand Patriarch has reassigned you to our service, Sir Dualas. Please, come with us.”
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