Except Nardus.
Pravus groaned. The man gouged his side like a thistle. He’d never forgive himself for failing to kill Nardus when he’d had the chance. He wouldn’t fail again.
He urged himself to concentrate on how he’d persuade Aria to align Cinolth to his plans, but his thoughts kept returning to Nardus. Or Cyrus. Nothing explained how the man could’ve disappeared from the atrium unless his memory and mezhik had begun to return to him. No other rational explanation existed.
If it’s true, then the memory spell must be wearing off.
He rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. Could a spell wear off? He’d never contemplated such a notion. Many spells had a natural end, but did they all?
Perhaps a spell can run out of energy.
No matter the reason, Nardus presented an immediate threat if he knew the truth of what Pravus had done. If he did, how long would it take for him to return? When he did, would he try to kill Pravus?
Certainly not… if he understands the cost of such an action.
Nardus loved Aria. Pravus saw it in his eyes and in his actions. Nardus would never do anything that would harm her. Not after everything he went through to get her back from the dead.
He’s not a threat but a liability.
Pravus must deal with Nardus once and for all. Even without his mezhik, Nardus proved resourceful. Killing him would be a dangerous task. Then again, Cinolth seemed to hate Nardus more than Pravus did.
They’ve got far more history than he and I. Maybe I’ll just let Cinolth deal with him.
Another thought about the failing spell popped into Pravus’s head.
Perhaps the spell didn’t wear off but somehow broke when we resurrected Cinolth. Yes, that must be it.
He didn’t quite understand how the two events could be tied together, but it made far more sense than the notion of a spell just wearing off. Besides, he’d never read a book that talked about spells having some sort of expiration date.
Absurd. The world would crumble.
Footsteps echoed on the granite floor and pulled Pravus from within his head. A moment later, Aria entered the dining hall from the far end, her face aglow and a smile on her lips. She didn’t come alone. Wizard Wrik followed her, and another person trailed him, but Pravus couldn’t see more than an arm around Wrik’s large frame.
Pravus rose from his chair, his anger steeping. Balled hands hung at his sides, and sharp fingernails dug into his palms. He still couldn’t identify the third person, and it infuriated him further.
Why did she bring Wrik with her? Or anyone else for that matter? This was supposed to be a private affair. Had Credan not told her?
When Aria reached Pravus, she rose on her tippy-toes and kissed his cheek. “My love, I have a special surprise for you.”
Pravus’s eyes narrowed. Something had altered Aria’s foul mood from earlier. He didn’t like it.
Wizard Wrik stepped aside, exposing the young man who stood behind him. The young man stared at Pravus. Pravus’s breath caught as recognition came to him. Had Pravus had food in his mouth, it would’ve lodged in his throat when he failed to swallow properly. The young man looked so much like Aria. He could be none other than Alderan, Aria’s brother.
Rage filled Pravus, and the heat of mezhik burned in his palms. His jaw tightened, and his left eyebrow twitched, but he held himself together. Kept his rage concealed.
Murtag said the boy had been killed. Why did he lie to me about it? And how did the boy find his way here?
Pravus looked up at Wrik, and the large man smiled. A knowing, spiteful smile.
That bastard had something to do with this. Why does he continually betray me? He must be dealt with.
Pravus drew a deep breath and exhaled his anger. He turned his attention to the boy. “And who might you be?”
“This is my brother, Alderan.” Pravus hadn’t heard such excitement in Aria’s voice in a long time.
Pravus steepled his fingers. “Yes, of course. I can see the family resemblance.”
Alderan nudged Aria in the ribs with his elbow. “You didn’t tell me that you’d married an old man.”
Aria’s cheeks flushed red. They matched the streaks in her blond hair. “Alderan!”
Alderan laughed. “Don’t be so uptight. It was only a jest. Someone had to break the tension in here.”
Wizard Wrik’s jovial laugh filled the dining hall. “The tension has indeed been broken.”
Alderan offered Pravus his hand. Pravus stared at it for several moments before taking it.
Soft hands for someone so keen on the outdoors.
Alderan shook Pravus’s hand hard but didn’t squeeze the life from it. “A pleasure.”
Pravus retracted his hand and casually wiped it on his robes. “I’m certain it is. Welcome to our home.”
Alderan smiled a big, dumb smile. “Thank you. It exceeds all imagination.”
“Yes, it does. Galondu Castle once served as the home of the Ancient Realm’s great king, Magus Carac. One day, it will serve as the central point of the realm once more.”
A servant entered the dining hall and added two place settings to the table. Pravus nodded at the woman and then gestured toward the spread of foods. “I am quite famished. Shall we dine?” None protested.
A minute later, the four of them had filled their plates with various breads, meats, cheeses, and fruits and sat around the end of the table in silence, focused on their plates of food.
Beast trotted into the dining hall and settled on the floor a few feet from Pravus’s chair. Pravus took several pieces of roasted boar from his plate and tossed them to the massive dog. Beast caught them all mid-flight and downed them without chewing.
Pravus smiled. May our enemies suffer the same fate.
Chapter Eleven
Calen woke to a dim world filled with agony. Every muscle ached, and each breath pierced his left side with shards of pain. His mind struggled with every thought, shrouded by a thick fog he couldn’t seem to break through. He sat up, and the world tilted to the side. Or rather the wooden-shafted cage he sat in did.
He looked down and wished he hadn’t. His chest heaved, and a loud gasp escaped from his dry lips. Not only did he sit in a cage suspended over a deep pit, but shrewd, wooden poles filled the pit below him, each sharpened with an uneven point.
Suddenly, the shafts of wood that made up the cage seemed far too thin and frail to support his weight, and the strands of grassweed twine that bound the cage together looked like they’d been tied by a three year old. He tried to stand up but knocked his head against the top of the cage. It didn’t come close to accommodating his height even though he stood just five feet tall.
Calen slumped back down and leaned against the side of the cage. Tears slid down his cheeks and blurred his vision. In the last few weeks, his life had turned to shambles, and he didn’t understand what went wrong. How had he wound up in this moment? So many questions swirled through his mind.
Where am I? What do the zhebəllin want with me? Why did Master Savric abandon me? What happened to Aunt Tahmara and all those other people? Why didn’t it happen to me? Why wasn’t I infected? Why did the zhebəllin attack the town? Why didn’t they kill me like they did so many others?
Each question led him back to himself and all his inadequacies.
Because I’m fat and worthless. I’m nothing.
Several tales of the zhebəllin rose in his mind, and he thought he knew his purpose a little better.
They’re going to eat me. The thought terrified him and sent his mind racing down another hole full of questions and despair.
Will they kill me first, or cook me alive? Do they even cook their food? Will they keep me alive and slowly snack on my arms and legs before digging into my soft center?
He squirmed as sharp little teeth gnawed on his plump, sausagie fingers. He knew it only happened in his mind, but that didn’t stop the pain from manifesting.
He squeezed his hands into fists.
Several sobs pulled Calen from his thoughts. He rubbed his eyes with fisted hands and peered around the poorly-lit room. No, it wasn’t a room. More like a cave or cavern. Somewhere underground. As his eyes accustomed to the dim light, he noticed several more cages suspended over pits of their own. Each of the other cages held several people, some with four or five.
Why did they put me in a cage of my own?
The answer punched him in the gut. Because I’m fat.
When he took a closer look, he noticed that all the other cages held only children.
Not a single adult.
Furthermore, he seemed to be the oldest of the bunch—by several years in fact. His throat tightened and his heart sank. What chance would any of them have for survival? Tears formed in the corners of his eyes again, but he wiped them away before they had the chance to fall.
I can’t let them see my fear. They’re more scared than I am.
But what could he do? How could a fat kid from Daltura do anything? The conversation he’d had with Master Savric about not being special bloomed in his mind and twisted his stomach with guilt.
Savric’s words echoed in his head, “Ƨäʈūr does not make anyone insignificant. People choose to be so. You will find your purpose.”
Then, he remembered the words of the wizard he’d met outside of the town gates several months back. “…one day, I believe, they will look to you in the time of their greatest need,” the man had said of Calen.
He eyed his hands. Soft and uncalloused. They wouldn’t remain that way for long. “Is this it?” he whispered. “Will they look to me?”
It certainly didn’t feel like a moment where he’d become some sort of hero. In fact, he felt far more scared and far less heroic than he ever had before. But perhaps that was the point. Bravery didn’t require nerves of steel, did it? Could he be the hero those children needed? He didn’t know, but who would save them if he sat back and did nothing?
No one.
“You can’t just sit here and let them all die.” As though imbued with mezhik, Calen’s own words lit a flame of courage within himself. “You can do this, Calen.”
Calen rolled over onto his hands and knees to see if he could get a better understanding of their situation. He peered through the slats in each direction and took note of anything that might help them escape. Several observations gave him pause, but the most alarming of them had to be the sheer number of cages.
At least fifteen other cages hung from the cavern ceiling. If each cage contained just three children that would put the count at forty-five, and he knew some of them held more. Even if he found a way to free himself from his cage, how could he free all the others and manage to help them escape without getting caught? To complicate matters further, more than a dozen tunnels led away from the cavern. Freeing the children without knowing what they might face in the tunnels could do them more harm than good.
As far as Calen could tell, no zhebəllin stood guard. His stomach gurgled. If the zhebəllin didn’t fear them escaping, what chance did they really have of doing so?
None.
He chided himself. “I can’t think like that anymore.” He rolled back over and leaned against the cage. “Master Savric believes in me. I must believe in myself.”
Calen needed a plan, but where would he even begin? No life experiences or schooling had prepared him for such a task, but he knew one thing that would help. He squeezed his eyes tight and offered a quick prayer to Ƨäʈūr for strength, courage, and guidance.
By the time his eyes fully opened, a deep sense of peace filled him and purged his mind of negativity. He took a deep breath and focused on the first task: freeing himself from his cage.
Calen understood that he couldn’t just untie the bindings that held the cage together. If he did, he’d certainly plummet straight into the mouth of the pit below and impale himself on the sharpened poles. The thought sent chills racing across his skin and a shudder into his shoulders.
He peered up at the four lengths of twine attached to each corner of the top of the cage. Those lengths converged a good five feet above the cage and twisted together. From there, the twine rose several more feet where it twisted around a large, rusted hook. The hook attached to another length of twine that climbed to the ceiling, through an eye bolt, and back down to another hook that jutted out from the nearest wall, about three feet above the ground. Every cage was suspended in the same manner.
Calen knew very little about momentum and trajectory, but he wondered if he could get the cage to swing on the hook far enough to clear the pit. If he could, how would it help him free himself? He had nothing to cut the bindings with, and, even if he did, his timing would need to be perfect.
He twisted his finger in his ear. What would Master Savric do?
Use his mezhik. But if he didn’t have mezhik… Calen grinned. He’d solve one problem at a time.
“First things first.” He hunched over as he stood. “Let’s see if I can get this cage swinging.”
Calen grabbed a slat with each hand on opposing sides of the cage and started pushing and pulling, shifting his weight from side-to-side as he did. At first, the cage hardly moved, but with every grunt and strain the cage began to swing back and forth, slowly gaining momentum.
The bindings groaned as they slid and contracted around the slats, causing the entire cage to shudder violently. Calen stopped feeding his energy into the swinging cage, perhaps a few moments too late.
Snap!
One corner of the cage jerked and dropped a good foot as the twine that held it broke. Calen lost his balance and fell to the cage floor. The cage creaked and moaned as it swung wildly and spun out of control.
Snap!
A second twine broke, sending Calen face-first into one of the sides of the cage, which now served as its bottom. The cavern spun around him and the pit below drew closer as it swung in and out of view.
Snap!
Chaos and madness jolted Calen every which way. Nausea twisted his stomach, and bile rose in his throat. He didn’t know if the motion or his teary eyes caused it, but everything blurred. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and the side of his tongue pulsed with pain.
Snap!
Calen cried out as the cage lurched, and his stomach leapt into his throat. He clutched the cage slats, braced for impact, and prayed that death wouldn’t catch him in its snare.
Chapter Twelve
The atrium at Galondu Castle phased into view and Nardus stood in front of its center section. Gnaud lay limp in his left arm, but Theyn didn’t stand by his side. Nardus turned in a circle, but she didn’t come through.
Damn! Can I only take one person with me, or did the collar prevent her from coming through?
Gnaud groaned. He’d have to worry about Theyn after he found help for Gnaud. But who would help him? Pravus?
Not a chance. He’d probably try and kill us both.
However, Wizard Wrik had been cordial enough with him before the wedding. Perhaps he could help. But how will I find him? This place is as big as an entire city.
“Nardus.” The deep voice came from the left.
Wrik. Nardus sighed with relief. Ƨäʈūr’s with us today, Gnaud.
Nardus turned and eyed the large, black man. Wrik’s wrinkled brow and set jaw piqued Nardus’s concern, but he might be Gnaud’s only hope of survival. Wrik’s long legs carried him across the atrium at a quick pace, but not quick enough for Nardus.
“What’ve you got there?” asked Wrik.
Nardus met Wrik halfway between the atrium’s center and the northeastern set of large, steel doors. “This is my friend Gnaud. As you can see, he’s badly injured. Do you think you can help him?”
Wrik turned around and started walking back toward the doors he’d come through. “Follow me,” he said over his shoulder. “If someone spots the two of you, you’ll have more to worry about than just your friend’s wo
unds.”
Several minutes later, Wrik led them through a set of tall, wooden doors. Light from the corridor failed to penetrate the darkness of the room. Wrik closed and locked the doors behind them, casting them into total darkness.
A moment later, a purple ball of flames lit Wrik’s face, hovering just above his outstretched hand. Nardus tensed, still distrustful of the wizard despite the risk he took in helping them.
Wrik thrust the fireball across the small room. A stack of logs erupted with blue and yellow flames within the fireplace hearth, casting shadows throughout the room.
Damned mezhik. Nardus refrained from spitting on the floor.
With smaller flames, Wrik lit several candles that stood atop pedestals spread throughout the small room, bringing its interior fully out of the darkness. The room contained a brown, three-cushioned couch and two white, overstuffed chairs with burgundy pillows. Bookshelves lined the three walls flanking and opposite the fireplace.
“Lay him on the couch, and I‘ll see what I can do.”
Nardus carefully lay Gnaud down. “I can’t lose him, Wrik.” He rubbed the inside of his left bicep where the arrow had pierced him a lifetime ago. “I’ve lost too many close to me already.”
Wrik knelt on the floor next to the couch. “In truth, Lord Rosai would be better for the job. He has far more experience in healing wounds. However, I realize he’d be more likely to kill you both.”
“Agreed, and we don’t have the luxury of time either.”
“True.” Wrik pointed behind Nardus. “Retrieve one of those candles and bring it over here so that I can see what I’m dealing with.”
Nardus grabbed the closest candle holder and held it where the light bathed Gnaud. “Good?”
Wrik nodded. He placed his hands over Gnaud’s wounds, his thumbs outstretched and touching, creating three sides of a square between them and his forefingers. He muttered some words Nardus didn’t recognize, and then a warm, purplish glow emanated from his hands and drifted down into Gnaud. The four gashes across Gnaud’s stomach began to knit themselves back together. Wrik repeated the words several more times, and each time Gnaud’s wounds became less severe. After the fifth time, Gnaud’s eyelids fluttered and then opened.
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