Tahn turned his head, hoping to catch any glint of light. He blinked, and studied, and saw emptiness. Yet it felt like those same hours each morning when he considered another day. He peered into the impenetrable gloom about him and remembered sunrise from the top of Windy Peak. For the briefest of moments he was there, and saw the eruption of light into a pale blue sky over the Selia Hills. But the moment passed, replace by the sable depths that surrounded him. It seemed not even memory lived long here, the darkness absorbing light even in thought. Tahn sat and listened to himself breathe, and knew by that sound that he still lived.
If his reckoning was correct, the lesser light had come full last evening, a full cycle since his day of birth. In the Hollows, preparations would have been made for a ceremony at the Fieldstone Inn. The town elders would have gathered in the private room. Tahn had imagined his nervousness about passing out of melura to the mantle that awaited him beyond. He’d thought about what it would mean to the girls, how they might glance differently at him. And he wondered what new wisdom might dawn inside him once the ceremony was complete.
Afterward, there would have been food, music, men gathering around him to speak sage advice in quiet, serious tones. The womenfolk would have appraised him anew, especially those with daughters. Younger boys, anxious to have the secrets of the Change, would have crowded in and asked endless questions, just as he had done to boys who had Stood before him. And deep inside, Tahn had hoped that the memories of an insistent voice, the one belonging to the man in his dreams, would disappear forever, or that he’d finally understand what those cryptic words meant.
Today his sunrise came as guards passed in the hall and lit an oil lamp back out of sight. Today there would be no ceremony. The smell of ovens preparing goose and lamb and vegetable pies, and fruits baked with honey and cinnamon, were not here; in their stead here were the smell of old stone, human waste, and his own sweat coating his skin and clothes. No crowds attended here—friends, townsfolk—only another prisoner, a man capable of escape, but unwilling to use his power to free himself.
What choices have I made that brought me here? On this day of my life, I have none of the things I hoped to have.
Tahn began to consider the possibility that he could die here before Vendanj or the others found him. Nearby lay Rolen, a Sheason of the order, a strong man whose arms, Tahn could tell even without seeing them, were too weary to be held up for more than a moment. If the Sheason went so quickly to death’s door, then Tahn might join Rolen in the earth in a week’s time.
In his solitude of darkness and cold and pain, the thought was a comfort. It sated him as a cold drink after a day’s labor. Yet, in his weariness, even death seemed too much to wish for. Tahn rested his head against the wall and waited, resigned. He abandoned expectations without deliberate thought; behind so many barriers, they seemed now inconsequential.
The sound of a key in their cell door throwing back tumblers echoed down to him. Tahn looked up and saw a prison guard through the window. The door swept inward and a larger wash of light spilled into the cell. The brightness hurt his eyes, and he shaded them from the intrusion. The first man through carried a tray of bread and a carafe. A second guard followed bearing a short spear. The man who had opened the door replaced the keys on his belt and drew a short sword, following the others down toward Tahn and Rolen.
Their booted feet stamped loudly to the bottom of the stairs. The first man approached Tahn cautiously, stooping to place the tray on the floor just beyond a line chalked across the stone to mark the limit of the chain’s tethering distance. Tahn stared at the bread and small decanter, then raised his eyes to those of the guard still hunkered down before him. A maniacal grin touched the man’s lips. With a playful slowness, he began to tip the carafe over. Tahn realized there would be no more for perhaps several days, and his heart jumped in his chest. The guard tipped the container nearer a spill, his eyes regarding Tahn with wicked delight. The two men behind him began to laugh openly.
Tahn lurched from the wall and fell to his chest. His cheek cracked against the stone floor, bringing an intense explosion of laughter from his jailers. The man’s fingers still tipped the carafe ever closer to a fall. Tahn struggled to crawl forward. His muscles strained, cramped from the cold and still bruised from his beating.
“Come save this bit of water, Archer,” the man taunted. “How nimble are you? Can you reach it in time to preserve what it holds?”
Tahn worked his legs and arms, his knees difficult to bend. He dragged himself toward the man, the rasp of his chains a merry accompaniment to the unmusical sound of the guards’ continued tittering. The shackles tore at his wrists anew, but Tahn ignored the wounds and concentrated on the water. It must have been a game they played all the time, but if he did not reach the carafe, Tahn did not know if he’d be alive to play a second time. Deep behind his eyes, waves of emotion beat at him. Perhaps he did care to live, after all. Else why crawl in this sadistic game? Anger roiled through him more violently still. He used it to propel him onward.
“Ah, this time you won’t save the day.” The guard gave the carafe a final push.
The decanter fell, beginning to spill its precious liquid out over the prison floor.
Tahn crawled harder. One of the guards slapped a knee and doubled over in laughter. Another cocked his head back to emit his harsh bray. The third man, standing before Tahn, remained squatting, watching with interest and dark amusement as Tahn inched toward the water.
He reached it and pulled one arm around to right the container. But a finger’s length from it, his chain snapped tight and prevented him. Another round of mocking laughter filled the cell like a chorus. Tahn collapsed to the floor, again smacking his cheek, but too tired to move again. Prostrate on the stone, he looked into the shadows and saw Rolen’s eyes, sad and disappointed.
Then Tahn heard the carafe raised from the floor. The tray was scooted closer, and his tormentor returned to stand with his friends at the bottom of the stairs.
“A fitting guest for our cherished Sheason.” The spear-bearing guard grunted.
“Saviors both, and see them wallow in their own filth.” This from the guard with the sword.
“Saviors to what?” The tray bearer said acidly. “A leagueman, a witless child. And what does it earn them? The Exigent will likely go free, while these two are sure to find a traitor’s death at the end of their own rope. And that if they’re lucky.”
Tahn gasped for more breath, unable still to lift his head. Beyond the darkness, Rolen sat unmoving, his own chains silent.
“Did I ever tell you of the novice I met?” the first guard asked, a licentious lilt to his voice.
“You’ve been holding back,” another replied, and sat himself on the bottom stair, resting his sword across his knees.
“A fitting time for the story,” the man continued. “It was my first year in the guard. I found me a bitter hall one night and set to dulling the pain of numbness in my fingers and toes. ’Twas a harsh, cold winter.
“A young woman comes in. Had the look of a stripling, but she was full where a woman ought to be full.”
The others chuckled knowingly.
“I made a comment about the cold and the company of a woman. Well, I expected a grunt or curse or something. But she comes over and takes my hand like I’d paid her the highest compliment. Made no difference to me. She had the prettiest face I ever saw so close. Then she reaches into her robe and takes out a small vial. I kept working my glass with my free hand, glad of the attention, but still thirsty, mark me. She didn’t look to be for hire, but I wasn’t closing my options.”
Again the three men chuckled lasciviously.
“Anyway, she puts this oil on my hands. Says I’ve got winterbite and could lose the use of them if I don’t take care to protect them.” He jabbed an elbow into his friend’s ribs. “Wouldn’t want that. What good’s a woman then, I ask you?” The guards shook their heads at one another in exaggerated motions, then broke d
own laughing again. “Well, the oil put fire into my skin, and I started to feel much better. Of course, the bitter was lighting fires of its own.” He chuckled at his own innuendo.
“So I offered to escort the lady home. Along the way she tells me about how she’s studying with some Sheason so that she can join the order. Oh, she said a lot of things, but all I really remember was the generous wealth of her bosom beneath her winter cloak. I suspect even without her oils my hands would have been itching with fire to get under her garments.”
Tahn slunk back to the wall as the men went on. Their laughter and insults fell over the cell in abrasive tones.
“Well we get to where she’s going, and I ask to come inside and pay my respects to her mentor, her Adwilor. And bless my luck, the man’s not at home. The sweet young flower tells me it is not proper for me to come in while he’s away, and gives me a gentle embrace in parting. But that’s not the end of it, lads. Not by a thousand suns.”
The man shifted his weight to his other leg to set himself for the meat of his tale. He gathered his companions’ eyes and proceeded. “When she turned to go in, I checked the street and slipped in after her before she could utter a sound. My, what a look she gave me. Nothing so stokes the coals like innocence coming to knowledge. Mark me. She tried to remain stern, but it melted from her fast enough.
“I ripped her cloak and bodice off with little trouble. Let me tell you, she was clean and smooth. And I fancied her cries as inclination for more. Took her right there in her master’s home. The thought of it gave me a pinch of thrill, there’s no lie in that. Had me a fine time. And when I was done with my business, I thanked her for everything”—again he jabbed his friend’s ribs—“and off I went. Never had so blessed a time since.”
“So blessed a time … you’re too much,” the man sitting on the stair cackled.
“It’s a lie,” the other said. “You don’t have the stomach to rape a novice and invite the anger of a Sheason.”
The storyteller gave them both a feigned look of hurtfulness. “You doubt me, friends? Take a gander at this then.” He stretched his collar down and lifted his chin. “This is the reminder she left me. Looks more painful than it came,” he added.
Tahn could see the pale thin scar etched from the man’s collarbone to the middle of his chest. The fellow turned to give each of his companions a clear view of his badge. The guards nodded appreciatively.
“And you say she was as pure as a virgin’s honeypot.” The seated guard sounded envious and enthralled.
“The best fit I’ve ever had,” the rapist proclaimed.
As the men fell into another round of lecherous laughter, Tahn pressed himself against the wall. His gorge rose at the ease with which they amused themselves over the defilement of a woman. He thought of Wendra, bearing a child in the youth of her womanhood, the victim of one such as these.
“Hear my contribution,” the man who’d carried the tray said next. “In the meager quarter of the city, the noble Sheason erected an orphanage to house the bastards produced by the loins of careless men and unfit women. The look of it is a shambles, a desecration that it exists at all, however poor its surroundings. These rotten bastards come to us and haven’t a place to go. I know what I’d do with them.”
The other men agreed, their voices now solemn. Tahn tucked his head between his knees to try and shut out the words. But the hard stone echoed the tale as though directly into his mind.
“Helaina has a giving heart, a credit to her. But some business must be transacted by men whose hearts aren’t so afflicted.” The man paced around in front of his friends as though prancing upon a stage. “The order was given leave to build their palace of neglected children by reasoning that these orphans would grow to serve Recityv, and that they should be safeguarded due to the trade value for children on the highways. Always spreading their propaganda about the Quiet’s lust for the children of men, they warned against poor mothers who might choose to sell their babies.” He turned with sudden viciousness. “Now I warrant you, were you not told such horrible tales in your own stripling years to get you to behave?”
The men readily agreed, held rapt by the speech of the third man.
“Worse still, these filthy orphans did not grow to serve their city.” The man sneered as he paced back and forth before the other guards. “Many grew to devise schemes and swindles to rob and scavenge the streets and people of the city that housed and protected them. And those were the better of the lot. Fah.” He growled at his listeners, and raised his voice as if to be sure Rolen took note. “The secret desire in the establishment of this bleak house was to raise up a new generation of Sheason. The insects were schooled and groomed and indoctrinated to become the disease that preserved them.” He wheeled about and peered into the shadows toward Rolen, pointing a finger. Slowly, he dropped his arm and grinned, a hidden triumph in the gleam of his eye.
“But I was not fooled by their plans.” He turned casually back to his cohorts. “Some of the creatures did follow in the footsteps of their benefactors.” He twisted the last word into a sneer. “Perhaps, Bryon, your triumph was one of these.” He pointed to his friend and chuckled as he performed a grinding motion with his hips. They all three barked a laugh. “But most of them did nothing but soil the city. And I would not have it.”
The malevolence in the man’s voice chilled Tahn to the bone. His heart pounded in his chest, anticipating what this city guard had done in his displeasure over the practices of the Sheason. He wanted to stand and rebuke him for speaking ill of babes. But his limbs hung heavy and numb.
“A friend of mine prepares the wretches their slop,” the man said. “The year before the Civilization Order was ratified to exterminate the Sheason, I made an extermination of my own. I delivered their oats personally one morning and dropped a flask of a rather sweet, potent tincture in the morning kettle.”
“The Tainted Repast,” the rapist said. “That was you?”
“None other.” The man bowed munificently.
“One hundred sixty and eight went to their earth that day,” the seated man remembered. “I was called to remove the bodies to the city graves.”
“One hundred sixty eight fewer criminals,” the speaker declared. “One hundred sixty eight fewer renderers and their unholy power to call lightning, move earth, influence us.” He beat a fist against his chest. “They are no different than the Velle. Worse perhaps, cloaking their deeds in the raiment of service. If you ask me, they are closer in nature and purpose to the Whited One than any legend of the Bourne.” He started to pace back and forth in an agitated manner. “Stories, all of them. And we are left to bear the burden of their philosophies and grand plans.” He gestured broadly. “No sirs, not I. I put the poison to their strange brood and ended an experiment that should have never been allowed.
“And I sent no lye to the pits either. Let their bodies grow rank in their own liquid decay.”
Will and War, can he be saying these things about children?
Tahn shoved his fists into his ears. The clank of his chains traveled up his hands and arms and into his head.
“Well those are fine enough pearls,” the man seated on the stairs said dismissively. “But they lack ingenuity. Effective to be sure, and I hail your best efforts. But let me tell you of my humble deceptions. Yield, will you, Jep?”
The man on the stair stood and shooed Jep back to his place beside Bryon. They both clapped their hands indifferently at his assumption of the stage. He mugged a close-lipped smile before hunching over in a conspiratorial manner. Tahn stole another glance into Rolen’s shadows. The Sheason had not moved. The insults may not have penetrated his private darkness. Tahn wished the things he’d heard had forever remained unknown to him.
“I’ve been the turnkey for quite some time now,” he began. “Came the year Van Steward named his predecessor, Ulian, a minion of the Quiet. Why, Bolermy was no more than an infantry leader at the time. But the regent gave him command of her army, and
put the laurels on his sleeve.
“General himself appointed me here. No favor in that. The smell of oil and wax and stone down here, not to mention the prisoners and all their loveliness.” He pinched his nose. “It all gets ripe and tiresome. But,” he said confidentially, “those condemned to the irons are crafty with how they hide up bribes to get a little attention once the cell becomes their home.”
“Bribes?” the two guards said almost in unison.
“Aye, and you can forget sharing a part in them, ’less you intend to ask for permanent reassignment here, and come to help me clean and serve our fine guests.” He fanned his nose in comment on his odious task.
“And what bribes do searched criminals have with them?” the rapist asked, skeptical.
“How about rings, necklace charms, gold sometimes.” The turnkey fairly giggled through his list of illicit booty.
“And how do they manage these things past the guards who search them?” Jep asked, a hint of understanding in his voice.
“Resourceful people will use every cavity available to them, friends, including those between their legs,” he said, smiling as though vindicated.
“Not an attractive way to make a living,” Bryon critiqued.
“What does that matter?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I wash the items and sell them the same day. It comes out all right by me.” He sniggered at his own joke.
The other men shared a disgusted look and chortled.
“But this is not all,” the turnkey went on. “Some cause themselves to spew small gems or bits of platinum once they are safely shackled. Then they pick the finer bits from the mess and offer them to me to buy favors.”
“Favors?” Jep said. “From bribes to favors. Come, what is it they ask for?”
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