by Colt, K. J.
“I am Cyrul Frostmeyer.” The man extended his hand. “Medoriate Cyrul Frostmeyer, servant of His Majesty.”
Sieqa. The title was not what he expected. Rather than shake the beefy hand, Arythan gave a slight tip of his hat.
Cyrul did not cease smiling as he allowed his hand to fall. “I regret circumstance led us to an ill acquaintance, Medoriate. How fares your companion?”
“Y’ told me ‘e was going to die,” Arythan said, his voice hollow.
“I did,” Cyrul agreed. He stroked his beard. “Sometimes, though, the outcome of a situation can be surprising. He has not passed on, then?”
“No.” Arythan noticed the man’s left hand had not left his pocket.
“I am glad to hear it. Perhaps I can make amends by—”
“Sorry. I ‘ave a meeting with Prince Michael.” Arythan nearly smiled when the corners of Cyrul’s mouth fell.
“I will not keep you, then,” he said. “Perhaps another time.” In the blink of an eye his left hand emerged as if to wave the mage away. A fine, black powder left his fingertips and swept like a cloud past Arythan’s face.
The mage blinked and sneezed, but before he could say a word, Cyrul Frostmeyer had turned and vanished. He stood dazed and perturbed, and he had half a mind to hunt for the royal medoriate, but the pain in his leg was only growing more intolerable the longer he remained vertical. No, better he find Michael and express what was on his mind.
Arythan continued down the hall; the only sound he made was the thump of his crutch upon the floor. This, too, added to his ire, and he limped as quickly as his injury would allow. He spotted two servants stationed outside a set of ornate wooden doors. The voices from within were anything but hushed; their laughter echoed though the hallway.
Arythan approached the servants warily. “Is the prince inside?”
“Which—”
“Michael,” he snapped.
“Aye, but he is not to be interrupted.”
“’S important,” Arythan insisted.
“Sorry, sir. We were instructed not to admit anyone.”
Arythan collected himself and took a deep breath. Then he raised his voice, uncharacteristically. “Someone’s trying to murder ‘is guests. I’d think ‘e’d make an exception.”
The voices in the room quieted, and there was a shifting of chairs. The servants looked at each other wide-eyed as footsteps approached. When one of the doors opened a crack, Arythan met Michael’s gaze evenly.
“Medoriate! You should be rest—what is the matter?” the prince asked, stepping outside the room and closing the door behind him.
“What I said,” Arythan replied. “Murder.”
Michael blinked and scratched the hairline of his wig. He dismissed the two servants and refocused his attention on the mage. “What do you mean?”
“Y’aven’t ‘eard? Someone poisoned m’ mate, thinking ‘e was me.”
Michael’s expression grew taut. “No one informed me of any such incident. What happened? How do you know it was—?”
“I know,” Arythan interrupted. “Someone poisoned the wine, an’ that someone was y’r medoriate.” He cleared his throat. “Cyrul Frostmeyer.”
Michael lowered his voice. “You met Cyrul?” He averted his gaze from Arythan’s knife-like stare. “I am astounded. I…” As the implications settled in, his color faded. “Lord Sparrow—is he—?”
“Don’ know. ‘E wasn’t dead yet when I left to find y’.”
“I will send for Lady Sherralin immediately, and I will personally investigate this matter,” Michael assured him. “But you should return to you room, Medoriate Crow. You look unwell.”
In truth, Arythan did feel out of sorts. His thoughts were muddled, and he was growing tired from this exertion. He also knew that he was very angry, and that this was his moment to confront the prince about the circumstances of the attack.
“I’m fine,” Arythan said, his voice a little raspy. He cleared his throat again.
“Is there something else that troubles you?” Michael asked, steadying the mage by the arm.
Arythan deliberately slipped his grasp. “Y’r blokes—the ones in black. Why’d they follow us?”
Michael’s tight expression relaxed slightly. “I ordered the syndicate to trail the Crimson Dragon at a distance, to ensure your safety.”
“’S that why the others died?”
Michael studied him. “Medoriate, what do you mean to imply?”
What am I implying? Arythan had to think a moment. “I want to know ‘ow Erik an’ I were the only ones spared.”
“I cannot answer for Tigress and her crew, as I was not present. I am certain they did all they could to save those in your troupe. The Warriors of the Sword are efficient at what they do: destruction. From what I hear, they are unpredictable, wanton. Do not look poorly on the fact that you survived; Jedinom was with you that day.”
Arythan swayed unsteadily on his feet, and a rush of heat flooded to his face and ears. “Curse Jedinom,” he spat. “I want the truth. Y’ told the Warriors of the Sword where the Dragon was ‘eaded. Y’ knew what would ‘appen. Y’ sent y’r blokes to spare us an’ bring us back ‘ere so I’d work for y’.”
Michael straightened, all sympathy gone from his face. “Because you are ill, I will overlook such a desperate accusation. You question a simple kindness extended to you by this kingdom, but we have not wronged you. We did not offer you sanctuary only to make an attempt on Lord Sparrow’s or your life. And as you have seen, we have a wizard employed in our service, so we are not so desperate to recruit another at the expense of so many lives.
“Whatever the incident with Lord Sparrow, I have vowed an investigation. I regret that any mishap has befallen him, but do not cast guilt so brashly, Medoriate Crow. I will speak with Medoriate Frostmeyer and anyone else presumably involved in this matter.”
He placed a hand on the door. “I have responsibilities to this kingdom in my father’s absence. I must conclude these matters before I can offer my full attention. My suggestion: return to your room and get some rest. I will meet with you as soon as I can.” With that, he disappeared back into the room, and the door was shut again.
Arythan stood there, more confused and bothered than before. Had he been wrong to accuse the prince of such treachery? But then why did his theory make so much sense? Was Cyrul Frostmeyer’s motive one of jealousy, or was he mistaken to think the wizard was behind the poisoning at all? What was going on?
He turned away from the chamber with a sigh. None of this sat right with him, and as exhausted as he was, he could not sit still and stare uselessly at his sick friend. Whatever truths were being concealed, he would seek the answers on his own. He simply did not know where to start.
The mage glanced up to see a figure standing at the end of the hall. He rubbed his bleary eyes, but the man—a servant, by his attire—was still there. He motioned for Arythan to follow him. With no one else in sight, Arythan accepted the silent invitation with caution. He moved agonizingly slow with his crutch, and as soon as he glimpsed the servant around a corner, the man would vanish.
Winded, Arythan paused when his secretive guide passed through the doors leading out of the keep. Why am I doing this? Either I’m headed for more trouble, or he has something that can help me. When he had caught his breath, he glimpsed the man waiting patiently for him at the gatehouse. What have I to lose?
No one he passed paid Arythan any attention as he crossed the courtyard to the gatehouse. He had never been inside this part of the castle, and it was definitely less luxurious than the keep. The walls were sooty, cobwebs were nestled in corners of the ceiling, and a layer of grime coated the floor. It was as though he was viewing everything through a shadow.
The servant paused by a darkened corridor before he was swallowed by the gloom.
This can’t be good, Arythan thought, but he followed anyway. “Wait!” he tried to shout, but his voice was a choked whisper. What happened to my throat? It
was a fleeting thought as his pursuit continued. There was just enough light to distinguish the unused torches on the walls, just enough light to see the outline of a heavy, fortified door at the corridor’s end. The servant was waiting, strangely visible for all the obscurity of the passage.
Arythan stopped again, a few yards from the door. “What is this place?” his voice whispered. “Why lead me ‘ere? ‘Oo are y’?” He rubbed his aching brow, and hoped for an answer—if the man could even hear him.
The servant’s response was to open the door and stand before the wall of black that had been concealed behind it.
An idea struck the mage, and he wondered why he had not considered it before. “The cellar?” he asked, though it was not even a whisper that escaped him now.
The servant nodded and passed beyond the door.
The wine. I can try to find where the wine came from, if there is evidence of tampering. He did not know if he would discover anything at all, but it was worth a try. This much he could do while Eraekryst remained bedridden.
Arythan took a breath and headed for the door. He stepped through it and halted when he realized he could not see anything in front of him. He did not have his night vision anymore, but he still had his instincts, and they cried to him as his blood began to pump faster with his pounding heart. This can’t be right—
The crutch had somehow vanished from his grip, and he heard it clatter against stone steps on its way down. He looked behind him to find the door moving toward him, closing. When it shut, it did not so much as echo in the dead air, and there was not even a sliver of light to show where it had been. There was no servant; there was nothing at all but darkness and silence.
Nigqora. Sieqa. He would not panic. He simply had to stay still, feel for the door and its handle, then open it. He extended one arm and leaned forward until his fingers found the rough surface of the wood. He pressed his other hand against the door for support as he groped for the handle.
It’ll be where I can reach it. Waist-high. His hand swept the area, but there was nothing but a flat surface. He felt again and again, his desperation growing. No handle? What door has no handle on the inside?
A chill slid along the back of his neck and along his spine like the cold, sharp edge of a knife. What door has no handle? What is this place? He tried not to consider what it was, though in the back of his mind he knew. He had been in such a place before. And just as before, he was trapped. His fingers curled into a tight ball, and he pounded against the door with all his might. “Let me out!” he cried, but his throat was an abyss, bereft of sound. He pounded again and again, until his hand throbbed, and splinters had lodged themselves beneath his skin. He pounded until warm blood ran from his shredded, raw knuckles.
His harsh breathing filled the silence as he tried to decide what to do. Something prickly ran across the hand that braced him, and startled, he pushed away. Too hard. Without any balance, there was a terrible moment when he felt only the void behind him. Backwards he fell, much like his crutch, and his body thumped on the unyielding, battering stairs. His head cracked on the stone, and his ears rang as he tumbled down in a black and turbulent world that had no up or down.
At last he stopped, but the pain did not. His ankle, his hands, his head, and wherever bone had met with stone…and the ringing, pounding in his ears…the horrible sound engulfed his senses as he succumbed to his own darkness.
His consciousness returned with the realization that something was gnawing on his hand. With a silent cry, Arythan recoiled, and the furry creature scurried away. His ankle felt like it was on fire, and when he gingerly reached to feel it, his fingers were met with hot, tight skin. It did not feel like his ankle at all but like a misshapen, bulging sack of flour. The rest of him hurt, but not nearly as much.
As his senses returned to him, he realized with a grimace that his nose could detect an odor in the stale air: the reek of decay. He took another deep breath—through his mouth—and tried to sit. He clenched his teeth as he repositioned himself, fighting the feeling of passing out again. When his ears ceased ringing, and his skin ceased tingling, he held out his hand and summoned his magic. Deep blue flames formed a halo around his fingers, and he extended his arm so that he might better see his surroundings.
Spiders bigger than his fist, cockroaches longer than his fingers, and rats as large as his swollen ankle scattered in the dim light. There were other creatures too, ones that scuttled away too fast to be recognized. It was not the vermin that churned his stomach but the places to where they retreated. The walls of the room consisted of cells, cells too dark to penetrate with his meager flames, but he now knew the origin of the smell. Between the bars of one chamber was a skeletal hand still wrapped in rags.
Arythan kept his breathing slow and steady, trying to keep his mind to what was logical: a plan of escape. Behind him he could see the stairs down which he had fallen, and he even spotted his crutch a few feet from him. Climb to the top, then… He did not know. Maybe he would think of something when he got there.
He spied an old torch at the top, and from the look of it, it was nearly spent. Could he keep it lit just long enough for him to reach the door? He sent the energy from his hand to the torch, and it resisted the flames. Come on! Stay lit! He tried again, concentrating the heat on the old material. At last it sputtered and smoked, and a small flame danced upon its surface. Arythan encouraged it to grow, and then he snared his crutch.
One agonizing step at a time, he ignored his body’s protests as he crawled his way to the top. The torch dimmed and flickered as the starved little flame gasped for life. Not yet, not yet, he pleaded, afraid his sanity would die with it. He tried to move faster, but his eyes fell upon the torch just as it extinguished. He stopped where he was and tried to relight it, but there was nothing left. Nothing left of the torch, nothing left of his energy.
Arythan felt his way up another step, but his arms nearly buckled from the exertion. His clothes were damp from sweat, and he could not feed his lungs enough with his labored gasps for air. The pain consumed him, and he lay his head against the grimy stone. His stomach lurched, and he vomited, preferring the smell of his own sick to that of the death below him.
Wait. Just wait until you can move again. Get to the top, burn down the bloody door. That’s the plan. He calmed himself with the thoughts of what he would do once he was free. I’m leaving, and no one will change my mind. Not the prince, not the king, not my broken foot, and not even Erik… When he considered the Ilangien, despair was hard upon him. I may be leaving without him. If I ever get out.
Unwillingly, his thoughts collapsed beneath the dark and once-buried memories of his imprisonment. He thought of the oily, black water closing over his head, its putrid taste as he swallowed it, his suffocating lungs… There was the cramped space where he was forced to stand bent, where smoke, screams, and hot pokers tortured him to no end—where there was no escape or release.
This place, this dungeon, was silent. There was no one to torture him, no one to disturb the darkness. He was trapped with the dead, without a way out. His brother had saved him before, but no one knew he was here. No one but a murdering medoriate named Cyrul Frostmeyer. He was trapped. Trapped.
Another silent cry launched him into action. He tore at the steps, pushed, and strained, and pulled. There was no time to rest, no time to feel pain. He needed to escape. Now.
It was with some surprise when he collided with the door. I’m there! I made it! He exhaled a long breath in relief. All right, he thought. Burn it down. He stared where the door should be, stared and focused all his energy, desperation, and fury. Nothing was happening. He placed his hand to the door and tried again, but the result was the same. It seemed there was a sort of magical slipperiness to the barrier, and his flames would not catch. Ice would not form, and electrical sparks bounced back at him as though they had deflected off a mirror. His magic was useless.
“Nigqora!” he cried without a voice, letting his frustration get the
better of him. He assailed the door again until his hands were pulpy and broken. At last his head thunked against the wood in defeat. “Please,” he mouthed. “Let me out.”
There was a sound from below, and Arythan’s heart smashed itself against his chest. His breath froze, and his eyes widened. He heard it again, a low, throaty gurgle that bordered a moan. And then the scathing of metal upon stone: chains. He was not alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SECRETS OF THE MAN IN Red
“Close your eyes, Lady.”
Diana Sherralin had been staring out the red glass window, and she started at the soft voice that unexpectedly broke the silence. She turned to find the mysterious ashen man now awake, silver-blue eyes fixed upon her.
“You’re awake,” she said, approaching his side.
“Yea, now close your eyes.”
“I do not—”
“Close. Your. Eyes,” he directed in a voice less fragile than he appeared.
Diana sighed and did as he asked. No sooner than she complied, her eyelids brightened as a burst of radiant light erupted from the Ilangien’s frail form. Though she could not actually see the phenomenon, she felt it in the air around her. Every breath was alive, coursing with energy, and it filled her in the most wonderful, euphoric way. She reveled in it until a moment later, it became too much to take. She felt dizzy and weak, as though she might collapse. But then the light faded, and she opened her eyes.
Eraekryst was already standing, trying to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes. He was anything but the dying man she had seen moments before. His golden hair gleamed in long trails down his back and beside his fair and warm-toned face. The barely perceptible light around him had expanded to the dazzling aura she had noticed upon their first acquaintance.
She eased herself down upon the now-vacant bed. “What sort of medoriate are you?” she murmured.
Eraekryst glanced at her, his eyes bright and glittering. “As I have told you, I am not a medoriate,” he said haughtily. He proceeded to the wardrobe, where he opened the doors to find the mirror.
