Prisoner

by Megan Derr

  Sol drew a breath. "Iah—" Before he could say anything more, Iah had closed the remaining space between them, kissing him with a confidence he rarely showed for anything else. He tasted liked mulled wine, dark and spiced and laden with cloves. There was something else too, a lighter flavor, something that was only Iah. Sol opened his mouth to take the kiss deeper, hand sliding down Iah's spine before wrapping around his waist.

  Perhaps Burkhard had killed him, and this was a dying dream. His life was not one that permitted such things. "Sol." The voice that whispered his name, breathing against his mouth, sounded real enough. "I hope I didn't just offend you."

  "No, Iah." Sol dared to lean down and take a second kiss, this one softer, slower. "It is… unexpected. Certainly nothing to which I'm entitled."

  Iah laughed. "Things seldom happen because they should. More often, it's only the things that shouldn't happen which do."

  "True enough." Sol let him go before he lost his focus completely. "I have to take care of Burkhard and make plans for tomorrow."

  "Of course." Iah cocked his head, frowning. "What will you do with him?"

  Sol folded his arms and thought, looking at Burkhard's body. It hurt. Lord Grau had counted Burkhard a friend. He'd never wished Burkhard ill—had hoped he'd live to a ripe old age. Now he was dead, had died feeling betrayed. Sol wondered if he'd be the last. Wearily he moved to the desk and took a large dose of yellow arcen. As sweet as it was, as useful as it was, he loathed it. Moving back toward Burkhard, be began working.

  A spell to transfer—one of the harder spells. It would be easier if he used red, but that was one thing he did not want to do until he had absolutely no other choice. His eyes were yellow; he did not want to see them turn to orange and eventually to red.

  Sol steeled himself then cast the spell. He focused on the body and on the field between palace, library, cathedral and Coliseum. Several minutes later, the body vanished. Gasping, tumbling forward, Sol took a long, slow breath and forced himself up. "They will find him in the morning," he said, "and think he was involved in some quarrel. It is not unheard of. There will be no way of knowing we were involved. Now I must pack our things because our best chance to slip away will be when everyone departs for the Coliseum first thing in the morning. We will be spending most of the day out in the cold."

  Though he guessed he shouldn't have been, Sol was still surprised when Iah stepped close to embrace him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know you counted Burkhard a true friend."

  "Yes," Sol said, allowing himself to hold Iah briefly. It was a foreign feeling, and one the Salharan in him screamed was wrong, but he had not felt Salharan for a very long time. It was just one more strike against him that it did not matter so much. "Let me pack, and then I guess we had best talk."

  Iah smiled sadly. "I wish I could see you."

  "I'm not much to look upon. My sister used to tell me to stop walking around like some sort of grave keeper. My Brothers used to jeer that I was poorly named."

  "I don't think so," Iah said. "You have eyes like the sun and gray hair. Silver and gold. It's a prized combination in Illussor."

  Sol stroked his cheek briefly, lightly. "You honor me."

  Iah leaned up and stole a quick kiss. "Pack."

  "Yes, Captain." Iah laughed, then slowly made his way to bed to get out of Sol's way. Sol set to work, packing up their few belongings into saddlebags which he would take down to their horse in the morning. He would also have to see a horse was made ready for Beraht—assuming he was able to escape.

  In all the upheaval, Sol had forgotten that his attempts to persuade Dieter had not necessarily succeeded. Would they be racing toward the Illussor border the next day with the Breaker, or without him?

  He shoved the worries aside. There was nothing he could do now. If they failed, he had tried his best. There was always the red arcen. One full dose, and he could manage a great many strong spells. The jump from yellow to red would likely overstrain his heart, but not before he ensured that Iah and Beraht were safely on their way. He would make certain that Beraht took care of Iah.

  How quickly his priorities had changed. Shaking his head at himself, bemused, Sol sat at the desk and began to transfer the arcen from the small ink bottles to the corked vials. In the morning he would disperse them among his person, with several set aside to give to Beraht. There was no way they would make it to Illussor without some sort of edge, especially if things went wrong, and they were followed.

  Clothes packed, arcen stowed away; everything was ready to go. Sol crossed the room and added more wood to the fire. The light of it made his yellow eyes look orange and added to the glow that lingered in them. He would have to remember to treat his eyes in the morning. After the dose he had taken to get rid of Burkhard's body, he doubted there was any way to truly hide the glow. He would simply have to be extra cautious.

  Locking the door, checking once more that all was ready for the next day, Sol allowed himself to declare his tasks finished. It was late; dawn was only a handful of hours away. He sat to pull off his boots and set them to be easily grabbed in the morning. Finally, he extinguished the lamps and climbed into bed where Iah waited.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dieter shivered despite himself. The room was cold—warmer than it had been all night, but cold all the same. In less than an hour he was going to die in a place he had always despised. He didn't know why he'd expected the Kaiser to give him a soldier's death. Dieter laughed silently at himself.

  Outside he could hear voices. Faint, but even so he could hear the fear in them. Over the course of the night he'd had no fewer than six visits. Sleep had not been option.

  Three men had died. Only the sly cat with the yellow eyes had not tried to attack him. His mind still reeled with the knowledge that the innocuous Lord Grau was really a Salharan general—and a Seven Star Brother. It was further evidence of Salharan stupidity that they'd allowed themselves to lose someone as skillful as Sol deVry. A pity he wasn't Krian; the war would have ended years ago.

  Though speaking of visitors, Dieter was surprised Burkhard had not come to say goodbye. Dieter been trying to get Burkhard off his back for years. It only figured he would succeed now, little though it mattered.

  Keys rattled, and the door protested being opened yet again as the guards stepped inside. Dieter looked down at the glass vial in his hand then threw it up and out the window above him.

  He stood up as the men approached, smirking at the way two froze, and the third stumbled back. A fourth lingered outside, waiting until he had no choice but to do the duty assigned him. Contemptible. If he'd caught a Scarlet acting as the Saffron did, he would have cuffed the man and drilled him until he no longer feared anything except being made to do more drills.

  Dieter allowed them to lead him out and through the halls that were eerily silent. The night before, plenty had jeered as the former Scarlet General joined them in their fate. After the third body had been carried out by trembling comrades, they'd stopped. It was bad enough some of them would be facing him come morning, better not to make it personal. Dieter bit back the urge to laugh.

  The guards led him none-too-gently up to the ground level and out into the Coliseum proper. Instead of leaving him, however, they continued to march him across it.

  Thousands of spectators filled the seats. Those few who did not spend the winter months in the palace still fought to make it to the Coliseum if they could. He wondered how many had come just to see the Wolf die.

  All was silent. Nothing stirred, and no one spoke. Only the wind blew, making anyone not adequately dressed against it shiver. Otherwise there was only silence. Deeper, somehow, than the silence that dominated the Coliseum when it was empty. Dieter resisted another urge to laugh, make them jump, and wonder if his mind had finally snapped. Were they starting to feel guilty? He doubted it.

  On the far side of the arena, two soldiers moved forward to unlock a door, and Dieter was led up the stairs beyond it to the landing where the Kaiser
sat. Around him were the remaining three generals, dressed in their formal uniforms. The colors seemed garish in the Coliseum and far too bright for the winter weather.

  Immediately to the Kaiser's right was Beraht, dressed in court finery. Dieter nearly laughed. His idiot prisoner must have been dying from the effort it took not to lash out at something. He wore brown and pale gold, the colors drawing out what now seemed his glaringly obvious Illussor heritage. Dieter was still confounded he'd missed it. At least he knew why the Illussor had been after him—and why his men had died.

  Someone had combed Beraht's hair. He almost looked civilized. Dieter wonder if he was the only one who noticed the murderous rage that made Beraht's eyes shine like a summer sun at midday. The first time Beraht had been thrown at his feet, those eyes had blazed the same way. Dieter did not think it was entirely because of the arcen.

  The Kaiser looked bored as he spoke, but his voice carried a smug undertone. "So, Dieter. Have you any last words? Requests? Apologies?"

  Dieter said nothing, at last dragging his eyes to the man he wanted to kill more than anything. But he wouldn't because death would not be nearly so pleasing as watching Benno live with himself. He could see the hate, hotter and stronger than ever now that Benno was aware how much Dieter had always known. Because of what Dieter had told him.

  His sword was unsheathed, tip resting on the dais, Benno's hand over the pommel as if the sword was some sort of cane. Dieter curled his lip in contempt, but remained silent. "Nothing to say at all, Dieter?"

  Dieter ignored him. If Benno thought he'd crack…but Benno had always been a fool. Dieter remained silent.

  "How unlike you," Benno continued to goad him. Across the Coliseum, the dead silence remained unbroken. All listened to Benno speak, though only those nearest him could understand what he said. "No parting shots for your Kaiser?" His hand moved, and light caught the sword he held. "Perhaps if you ask nicely enough, I'll let you die with your sword."

  Dieter still said nothing. His eyes spoke his hatred plenty. Even with his split lip, the abrasions on his face and arms, and clothing torn from fighting in confined quarters, he was the most intimidating man on the dais. The generals touched their swords, making sure they were loose in their scabbards even though they had already done so as Dieter had climbed the stairs.

  He wasn't stupid. Benno had no intention of giving his sword back. It wasn't enough that he was killing Dieter—he wanted Dieter to die humiliated and completely alone.

  Benno began to grow annoyed at Dieter's continued silence. "Well, if the prisoner is not interested in begging for mercy, I see no reason to keep my people waiting." He smiled mockingly. "Though of course I won't send you off without a proper farewell. The Lady Heilwig has said she would kiss you goodbye."

  Heilwig, judging by the way she recoiled, had clearly been unaware she'd volunteered for any such thing. "Of course, if there's a different lady you've in mind, do say so. You are, my former Lord General, entitled to that much." His smiled grated. Dieter wanted nothing more than to smash it. He wasn't going to give Benno the satisfaction of seeing him snap. "We haven't got all day. Declare your choice or none at all." He bared his teeth. "There are lots of men to get through."

  Dieter smirked, ever so faintly, and moved faster than anyone had thought would be possible after his night in the dungeons. Chains clinked and rattled as he grabbed Beraht's shirt, jerked him close, and kissed him hard. He used Beraht's surprise to force his mouth open and press the kiss deep, hands holding him in place despite the manacles. The cut on his lip opened again, but Dieter didn't stop.

  Beraht struggled, muttering Salharan curses into Dieter's mouth, but froze, yellow eyes going wide and then sliding shut.

  Dieter laughed as Beraht began to kiss him back.

  *~*~*

  Beraht shuddered, mind reeling as he pressed closer to von Adolwulf, fingers digging into the smooth fabric of his shirt, the cold metal of the cuffs biting into his skin. Still he pressed closer and kissed harder, tongue fighting with von Adolwulf's, sweeping his mouth, searching for every last trace of arcen he could get.

  Red arcen. He'd never had it, but he knew that was what it was. Bitter and sweet, like dark tea with too much honey, and mixed with it was the tang of von Adolwulf's blood.

  Where had the stars cursed bastard obtained red arcen? Sol. But why?

  Beraht's mind tried to formulate thoughts, but it was overwhelmed into silence by his burning need for the arcen von Adolwulf was giving him. Beraht kissed him until his lips were bruised and raw. He licked them, tasting arcen and blood.

  Then he began to feel it: the thrumming burn of arcen in his system, the too-fast beating of his heart as it dealt with a level of power to which it had not carefully been made accustomed. He pulled away with a gasp, locking onto the jade green eyes that were watching him so intently.

  "Meet him at the crossroads," von Adolwulf said against his mouth. In Salharan. Beraht was going to kill him. "A mile north of the palace." Von Adolwulf shoved him away, sending him stumbling back to fall hard on his backside beside the Kaiser.

  Von Adolwulf laughed at the horrified looks on the faces of Benno and the people around him. "Goodbye," he said and descended into the arena without a backward glance. Beraht watched him go, debating the merits of wasting arcen just to give the bloody bastard a parting shot.

  But that bastard had also just saved his life. Had given him arcen. Freedom.

  Why?

  Probably just to infuriate him. Beraht glowered at the spot where von Adolwulf had been as he realized that von Adolwulf had freed him, but not stricken his name. Which meant when von Adolwulf died, Beraht be stuck with the name the rest of his life.

  Fine. It wasn't as if he was going back to Salhara anyway. No one in Illussor would know how bad it was, and Sol was in no position to judge him. Beraht twisted to get his hands underneath him and leverage himself up. His eyes caught on von Adolwulf's sword as he struggled, caught by the strange, deep rainbow shimmer. It was familiar somehow. Shock rippled through him as he suddenly realized why.

  Arcen.

  Von Adolwulf's sword had been made with arcen. Beraht took a closer look as he pretended to struggle to stand up.

  The way it shimmered from deep within. The way that shimmering exploded when the sun hit it—like light on fine crushed glass. Von Adolwulf's father had put arcen powder in the steel, Beraht was certain of it. He choked on a laugh as he finally stood up. How had he not noticed before? Beraht couldn't wait to see the expression on his face when he told von Adolwulf his sword was polluted.

  Except he wouldn't get to tell von Adolwulf that.

  Beraht frowned and stared down into the arena.

  What had Burkhard told him? That von Adolwulf would not be leaving the arena. One by one opponents would come out to face him. To live, von Adolwulf would have to kill every last one of the thousands of prisoners in the cages below. Impossible.

  Beraht grimaced. His own skill was in killing men while they slept. Fair play was for men who could afford to obey the rules. But at least he had been fighting a war.

  This was just cruel.

  He watched as von Adolwulf was given a sword. It looked like a toy next to the sword currently in the Kaiser's possession. It was far too small, and Beraht doubted it was up to the challenge. How cowardly could one man get? At least when Beraht killed, he did it mercifully. He'd never made anyone suffer.

  "Enjoying yourself, prisoner?"

  Beraht stiffened and moved away from the fingers that touched his hip. "What is there to enjoy about barbarism? Krians are uncivilized bastards."

  "Salharans are simply weak." The Kaiser reached out to touch him again, seeming amused by the way Beraht shied away.

  Beraht carefully did not look at him, uncertain of the effect the red arcen would have had on his eyes, though he doubted anyone would notice. The one man who would immediately note the change had been the one to feed it to him. Beraht's lips were sore; von Adolwulf kissed as bru
tally as he did everything else. There were no soft edges to him. But Beraht had suffered far worse kissed, and those had not come with red arcen.

  Von Adolwulf did not seem to react as the first prisoner was presented to him.

  With a cry born of fear and panic, the ragged man in grungy clothes charged Dieter.

  He was killed swiftly and immediately. Had not even lasted a minute.

  "At least we are not bloodthirsty," Beraht said, finally responding to the Kaiser's earlier comment. "Why, after sending your men to die most of the year, do you bring them home and inflict more deaths upon your people? Anyone watching this will be doomed to remain on earth. They will never be stars in the sky."

  The Kaiser laughed tolerantly. "I would rather be in the earth than high in the sky. I will leave the stars to flighty Salharans." He paused as he watched von Adolwulf kill a fourth and fifth man. "He's rather boring, really. I was expecting more of my Scarlet Wolf."

  Beraht's mouth moved before he could think to stop it. "Wolves kill cleanly. Torture is a human thing. As near as I can tell, von Adolwulf was never your Wolf, even though he was meant to be. You have no one but yourself to blame for it."

  He swore as his head knocked hard against the ground. A fresh bruise would be forming on top of the knot that was still healing.

  What was it with Krians that they thought the solution to everything was to throw him to the ground with as much force as possible? Beraht picked himself up, in pain, but pleased that he'd angered the Kaiser.

  Down in the ring, von Adolwulf killed another man. Beraht wondered why he bothered. Wouldn't it have been easier just to die?

  But that, he had to admit, wouldn't be von Adolwulf.

  His movements—powerful, strong, confident, and precise—weren't as graceful as usual. When he'd killed the bandits, he'd moved almost liquidly, as though moving through the steps of some deadly dance. Beraht glanced sideways at the sword in the Kaiser's hand.

  Swords are not lovers—they are named after them. So that when we die with sword in hand, we do not die alone.