Prisoner

by Megan Derr

  The pain was as bad as he'd been warned. He needed more.

  Distraction. He needed distraction. Casting his eyes out, Beraht encountered nothing, but snow-drenched fields and a swiftly approaching forest. The dark, heavy, always-green trees were not usually found in Salhara. There was something bizarre about a tree that was always green. He'd always liked them.

  As they entered the trees, the going grew rougher, and despite himself, Beraht held fast to the arm wrapped heavily around his waist. He looked at it, not quite able to look at the trees rushing toward and at the last past them.

  Von Adolwulf was strong. In a handful of days Beraht had become more acquainted with that strength than he'd ever wanted to be. He ached in places he hadn't known it was possible to ache until von Adolwulf managed to bruise them. His wrists would not soon forget the chains—nor would his dignity. Even traitors in Salhara did not get carted around in chains. Chains were for slaves, something that had been outlawed years before, when it had become more and more important that Salhara have able, willing soldiers to fight against the Krians—and the Illussor when they showed up.

  The arm around his waist held him with no effort. He wondered if von Adolwulf even remembered he was there. His monster horse did not appear to notice the extra weight, either. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear the beast was enjoying itself.

  Hated though they were, at least the pace and the company kept him warm. Only the air he breathed in told him how chilly it was—and that it was getting colder. Hopefully, this temple von Adolwulf had mentioned would prove to be a real shelter. He frowned, scouring over what little he knew of that portion of Kria.

  No temple came to mind. So it was insignificant enough even the Krians didn't bother to mark it on a map? He'd never heard of their neglecting such a marker before. At the rate they were traveling, they'd be a hundred miles or more northeast of the Disputed Fields by nightfall.

  Of course, it was foolish to think that the Krians would let their best maps anywhere near their enemies. The maps of the Salharans were probably the work of children when compared to what must accompany Krian generals into the field. How he'd love to get his hands on one of those, rather than the crummy, faded scrap he'd been working with ever since he'd been given his stars-cursed assignment.

  *~*~*

  The Stone Temple was exactly that. Stone. And a temple. No wonder Beraht had never seen it noted on any map. It had to be the most boring thing he'd ever seen, right in line with that Krian taste for simplicity that more often ran toward painfully dull. Was there a spark of imagination in them anywhere?

  Back home, temples were works of art, constructed from fine wood that was polished to a shine and draped with soft, jewel-toned fabrics. They were lit by beeswax candles and filled with the songs of the devout. Here it smelled damp and stale. There were no candles, and only moonlight and wind filled the barren, open space. A single statue stood at the far end of the room. Beraht conceded the statue was impressive, eight feet high and depicting a man who looked as though everything amused him greatly. He pondered what little he knew of Krian religion. This would be the Spring Prince? It was not as grand as it could have been. There was not half the design to it that a similar statue back home would have carried.

  Still, he had never been in a Krian building before. His experiences were limited to the battlefield and sneaking around at night to do further harm. The only worship he had ever seen there had been the strange Krian obsession with their swords.

  "Krians love their swords more than their gods, I'd say. Maybe divine displeasure is why you travel home a failure every season." He was beginning to enjoy pissing von Adolwulf off, though only the stars knew why.

  Von Adolwulf laughed, and Beraht found himself looking briefly between the general and the statue. "A failure? I think not. Every year I succeed in keeping you polluted Salharans from laying claim to the Regenbogen. Perhaps it's all the time and effort you waste making your shrines look pretty that cost you that skill on the battlefield." He sneered. "Then again, it's not as if you can expect skill from someone so polluted he needs that pollution to function normally."

  Beraht returned the sneer. "If I had arcen with me now—"

  Steel hissed against leather, and Beraht found himself trapped between cold stone and colder steel. "If you had your drugs with you now, you still would be dead. Pollution is no substitute for steel, something to which many of your dead comrades will attest."

  "That sword didn't save your men, did it?" Beraht barely had the sentence out before his world spun out from underneath him in a flash of pain. He crumbled, holding his stomach, and watched through watery eyes as von Adolwulf stalked away.

  *~*~*

  Dieter seethed. He sheathed his sword as he approached the statue of the Autumn Prince and reached out with one hand to touch the tip of one boot in respect. Killing Beraht would be the easiest recourse, but killing him would not bring Dieter's men back. Hundreds of men, some of the best in Kria, killed by a Scream. All because of a Salharan.

  He spared a brief look over his shoulder at Beraht, who was still on the ground. Dieter sneered. Perhaps his people were mocked for favoring weapons over magic, but it was steel that had held the Regenbogen decade after decade. The bastard Salharan could not even block a simple gut punch.

  Polluted fools.

  Dieter drew his cape from his shoulders and reached into a pocket buried by folds of fur. He withdrew a small ring of keys and flipped through several before settling on a small, plain steel key. Touching the boot of his patron god once more, he moved around the statue and fit the key to a hole hidden by the overhanging edge of the pedestal. The soft click of the catch was snatched away by the wind.

  He contemplated Beraht, who was slowly standing. His pain was quickly masked by his anger. Dieter smirked, amused. The last few prisoners he had taken had not lasted more than a day against his 'Krian brutality.' Of course, a man who had single-handedly taken out so many of Dieter's Scarlet in the span of a few hours was obviously cut from different cloth. But he was a Brother—for all the good that had done Dieter.

  His mood soured further. Returning the keys to his cloak, he stalked toward Beraht and grabbed his arm. "I should leave you up here to suffer in the wind, but any suffering you endure will be at my hand." He grinned in a way that had sent fresh soldiers running into walls in their haste to find a door.

  Beraht grinned back just as nastily. "We'll see who suffers, General. By the end, you'll beg me to be gone."

  "Don't make me laugh." He hauled Beraht along, not giving him a chance to find his feet. "I can always tie you up and gag you, Beraht." Beraht cringed at the sound of Dieter's speaking his name, and Dieter laughed to rub salt in the wound. The Salharan obsession with names was the one thing he'd never been able to understand. One hand strayed to his sword, fingertips touching the hilt briefly. Names were important, but they were not as important as other things.

  He dragged Beraht behind the statue and pulled at a sconce on the wall. The wall swung open, revealing a set of spiraling stairs. It was a short flight; the true temple was not all that deep underground.

  He heard Beraht mutter something in his native language and smirked.

  Stupid Salharans.

  Temples for the Autumn Prince were always underground. It was a show of respect for the dead who were buried. The Stone Temple was currently empty, and it took him a couple of minutes to get a few torches lit, but when he did the room was a beauty to behold. The furniture, the wall hangings, the decorations were all decorated in the colors of the Autumn Prince and the Scarlet Army.

  Beraht was still muttering to himself in Salharan. It was the first time since Dieter had captured him that Beraht had bothered to speak his native tongue.

  They were a hundred and fifteen miles north of the Regenbogen, making this the last temple before reaching what Kria considered battleground. He grabbed Beraht and all but threw him deeper into the temple, swinging shut the wooden door that sealed off the
stairs. "Make yourself at home," he said.

  He left Beraht standing where he was. It was a medium-sized room, one corner given over to bedding and another to a low table for eating and relaxing. Off to the right side was a room for conducting business. It had a high table with maps and other tools for strategizing. To the left side was a bathing room, though Dieter regretted it did not have a proper bath. That would come soon enough, however; if he continued to push, home was a little less than two weeks away, instead of the three or more it would have taken with his men.

  He focused on the anger that rose up as he thought again of the reason he was not with his men, blocking out all else as he headed alone toward the bathing chamber to clean up. After he determined what was going on they would all pay. It frustrated him that, near as he could tell, Beraht seemed genuinely confused as to why the Illussor had wanted him. There would be no help from that quarter.

  Dieter scrubbed angrily until he was red and raw from cleaning. From cedar chests in the corner he drew out clothes that he had left the last time he'd passed through. When he returned to the main chamber, he was not surprised to see that Beraht was fast asleep amongst the heap of bedding in the far back corner. He stalked across the room and hauled him to his feet, shaking him awake. "Now, now, little prisoner. I don't want you infesting this place with more vermin than absolutely necessary."

  "What? Even your vile little brothers can't stand your company?" Beraht's yellow eyes flashed with anger. Strange that they were still so bright when Dieter could tell from the way Beraht had been holding his head that he was suffering severely from withdrawal.

  He half shoved, half threw him in the direction of the bathing room. "Get clean. Then maybe I'll let you sleep."

  The words hurled at him were uttered in Salharan. Dieter laughed, settling himself amongst the bedding and tossing aside extraneous pillows. He drew his sword and stared at it in silence. Through his head ran the names of his third-in-command, his assistants and strategists, and so many others who would not make it home. All because of a Salharan and the damned Illussor.

  He should have been aware of the Illussor trick. But his punishment would come soon enough, of that he had no doubt. Dieter allowed his mind to wander, though one ear was ever attentive to the sounds made by Beraht in the other room.

  His sword glinted in the light, and for a moment it seemed as though colors shimmered deep within. It was a long sword, old but much cared for. Made with skill. The hilt and pommel were black, and the base of the pommel was set with a large, round, blood-red stone. Even in his youth, it had been decided he would someday lead the Scarlet. Dieter sheathed his sword and drew the keys from his cloak before setting both sword and keys aside. He locked the door and returned to his bed. A few minutes later, Beraht emerged.

  Clean and shaven, he looked almost completely different—softer, younger. Perhaps thirty, but Dieter thought he might be a few years younger than that. His hair was not as dark a blond as Dieter had thought; it was actually quite pale. His eyes…even dulled with exhaustion, Beraht's eyes remained a brilliant yellow. Somewhere he'd found clothes that fit, and his glare dared Dieter to protest his taking them.

  As if he cared. "Now you may sleep," he said and smirked to see the ire that flashed across Beraht's face. It was like toying with a new recruit—far too easy. "I do not suggest attacking me in my sleep, should you decide to try it after all."

  "You're not worth losing sleep over," Beraht returned. Saying nothing more, he reclaimed his section of bedding and fell almost immediately back to sleep.

  Dieter sneered at his still form. Headaches. Exhaustion. Beraht was progressing rapidly through the stages of arcen withdrawal. It would be amusing when he woke up starving in a few hours with no idea where to find food.

  *~*~*

  Beraht sat up, instantly awake. Dieter had lit two torches when they first arrived, but only one remained lit. He was painfully aware of the fact that they were underground, with no sun and stale air. It was little better than living in a cave. Heathen Krians. As beautiful as the room was, it was still a hole in the ground.

  Stars above he was hungry. For something very specific, but he was as likely to find arcen there as he was to get along with his bastard keeper. He stood up, resisting the urge to kick the man who slept only a few steps away—with one hand on his sword. Beraht snorted. Krians and their weapons. If he took the sword away, would von Adolwulf snarl or cry?

  Beraht realized that he had no idea where to find food. There was no obvious cupboard, and they were already in a cellar. Damn it. At least the pain in his head had dulled. Stars he just wanted to go back to sleep.

  "Hungry?" The smug voice made Beraht start. He hoped the bastard hadn't noticed. Had he been awake the entire time? Probably. One day their positions would be reversed, and oh the revenge Beraht would have.

  Instead of answering, Beraht curled back up in his bedding. Everything smelled like the trees outside, mixed with dust and some strange powder that he'd determined kept out insects. Laughter met his silence, and he heard von Adolwulf lay back down. Eventually his breathing evened out. Beraht turned over to his other side and stared at von Adolwulf's shadowy form.

  Even asleep von Adolwulf dwarfed his surroundings. He slept soundlessly, breaths audible only because there was literally no other sound in the room. Beraht was surprised. He would have expected a man like von Adolwulf to sleep with one eye open. Perhaps he did. Could Beraht kill him now?

  With what? Beraht snorted softly. If he had arcen, the problem would have already been resolved. But without his magic—and while suffering from a lack of it—Beraht doubted he could best von Adolwulf even if he had all the weapons, and von Adolwulf was already wounded.

  He turned back over. How twisted that his captor was the person he had the least interest in killing. Names are power. Power of life. Power of death. Do not give a name lightly. Do not take a name lightly. Do not share a name lightly. Do not speak a name lightly. Beraht choked on a sound that was half laughter, half sob.

  He had been nameless his entire life, only to be offered a place on the condition that he killed. Now he lay here, captured and named.

  Not by a parent. Not by a spouse. Not by a brother. By an enemy.

  He curled up tightly, ignoring the pains of both body and mind as best he could, until sleep finally carried him away again.

  Chapter Three

  "Lord Grau," an older woman greeted him with a smile. "We were just finishing up."

  "Excellent," Sol said, returning the smile. He looked at Iah, who sat quiet and motionless in an old wooden chair. The cottage wasn't much, but over the years it had become the place he thought of most fondly. Lying in the woods, just shy of the northern border between Salhara and Kria, it was an ideal place for him to switch identities. He paused to look in the mirror just inside the main cabin.

  He'd gone outside to treat his hair. Instead of gray, it was now a dark, nutty brown. His eyes too he had altered with chemicals, dimming their distinctive yellow to a lighter amber. Treating them thus also gave Sol a slow look. Lord Grau was an amusement in the Emperor's court and 'endearing' to a few of the kinder women. A lotion, yet another handy trick, darkened his skin. With the sun bowing to winter's strength, the lotion would not be necessary for much longer, but it would seem strange if his skin did not show at least a hint of a tan.

  Mella clucked at him. "It's always strange, the way you alter your appearance. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

  "I'm not used to it, Mella. Why should you be?" Sol dropped to one knee and carefully took one of Iah's hands, letting Iah know exactly where he was. "How fair you, Captain?" He spoke in Illussor.

  "Well enough, considering." Iah lifted a hand to his bandaged eyes. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

  "I would imagine not," Sol replied. He stood slowly, never releasing Iah's hand. "I doubt you find it reassuring," he said teasingly, "but you make for a fine Krian."

  Iah laughed sadly. "At least I make
for a good something. Certainly I'm not much of an Illussor anymore."

  "Now don't say that," Sol said. He tugged Iah up, gently adjusting his clothes so that they fell properly. It had taken Sol a long time to adjust to Krian clothing—the heavy fabrics and intricate fastenings, all of it lined or trimmed in fur. Iah seemed to wear his long coat without trouble. Perhaps because, unlike Salhara, Illussor spent almost as much time buried in the cold as Kria. "When you bring home the Breaker, all will call you a hero." He touched the bandages softly.

  "I suppose." Iah said then changed the subject. "I would imagine we can't go around calling me Iah, can we?"

  Sol hesitated. "No, we cannot."

  Iah smiled. "Am I running up against a stigma with names? You shall have to explain it all to me sometime. I fear I do not understand it."

  "Names are power. Power of life. Power of death. Do not give a name lightly, do not take a name lightly, do not share a name lightly, do not speak a name lightly," Sol recited, "To give a name is to give a life. To strike a name is to kill a man. Whosoever names you has power over you."

  "I still don't really understand."

  Sol nodded. "I will explain over dinner if time permits. For now, we must attend more important matters: do you speak Krian at all?"

  "Only battle speech," Iah said. It was not unusual for soldiers to pick up a measure of fluency in the language of his enemies. Krian, Salharan, and Illussor soldiers alike all managed to learn at least a bit of one another's languages.

  "Then we will practice on the journey. You will have to be fluent."

  Iah smiled. "Or I could be mute."

  "That will be our last resort," Sol said. He stood and tugged Iah to his feet. "We will also have to drill you on Krian custom. I don't suppose you know any of that?"