Miranda nodded. “And they have no way of knowing where I am. The one who found me is in no condi-
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tion to tell them. The others might suspect I’m here, but they won’t attempt to breech your defenses . . . yet.”
Tomas said, “We can speak more of these matters in the morning. You should rest. Night is almost upon us and you look fatigued.”
“Oh, that’s what I am,” agreed Miranda, “but by morning I plan on being a great distance from here.
There is much to be done and little time in which to do it. I must seek out your son and confer with him, and next convince some otherwise reasonable men to agree to a most foolish and dangerous undertaking.
Then I can be about other business. I hadn’t planned on coming here straight away, but now that I’m here, can you tell me something?”
“What?”
“Where I can find Pug?”
Tomas glanced at his wife and said, “We’ve not seen him for years. The last message I had from him was seven years ago. He said he was concerned over the reports my son brought back from his last voyage to Novindus. He had consulted with the Oracle of Aal, and . . .”
“And what?” prodded Miranda.
Tomas’s blue eyes regarded Miranda for a moment, as if measuring her. He said at last, “He said he feared that his own powers would be lacking in the coming battle and he needed to seek allies.”
Miranda smiled and there was nothing of humor in that smile. “His powers were lacking.” She shook her head. “Who else on this world matches him in power, save you?”
“Even my powers pale compared to what Pug can do if need be,” answered Tomas. “My arts are set by my heritage, and are as, they were at the end of the Riftwar, 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:49 PM Page 176
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fifty years ago. But Pug, he studies and learns and masters new things yearly, and it may be no one since Macros the Black can approach his might.”
At the mention of Macros, Miranda made a sour expression. “Much of what is alleged about his prowess was based upon his listeners being gullible, by all reports.”
Tomas shook his head. “I have been places you could only imagine, woman. And I stood at Macros’s side in the Garden of the City Forever, and I saw the creation of this universe. He may have been a man given to overboasting at times, but not by any great margin, I will avow. His powers approached the gods’, and his skills would be welcome in the coming fray.”
Miranda said, “Still, by all reports the Black Sorcerer is fifty years vanished from his realm. So then, whom could Pug be seeking?”
Aglaranna said, “Find the where, and that may tell you who.”
Tomas said, “If he is not upon this world, then I suspect you must go to other worlds. Have you the arts?”
Miranda said, “If I don’t, I can find those to help me who do. But where to begin the search?” She looked at Tomas. “Reputedly, you and Pug were as brothers. You would know where to begin the search.”
Tomas said, “I can think of only one place, but it is much as if I said search the sea for a particular fish. For the place to begin searching is as vast as any place in all the myriad possible universes.”
Miranda nodded, saying, “The Hall of Worlds.”
Tomas nodded, too. “The Hall of Worlds.”
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7
Trial
Roo sstirred.
He felt a hand on his leg, and in his sleepy state he brushed at it weakly. He felt it clamp down and suddenly he was wide awake.
An ugly face loomed over his, leering and grinning. “You’re an ugly sod, boy but you’re young.” It was the nervous man with affected speech of the day before who was now fondling Roo’s leg.
“Ah!” shouted Roo. “Keep away from me!”
The man laughed. “Just having a joke, me lad. ”
He shivered. “Damn cell will give a man his death.
Now shut up and go back to sleep, and we can both get warm.” The man turned over, back to back with Roo, and closed his eyes.
The brute called Biggo, who had regained consciousness an hour after being tossed into the cell, said,
“Don’t terrorize the lad, Slippery Tom. This is the death room. He’s too much on his mind to be thinkin’ of romance.” His speech had the lilt of Kornachmen of Deep Taunton, rarely heard in the west.
Slippery Tom, ignoring the jape and the accompanying laughter, said, “It’s a cold morning, Biggo.”
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Seeing Erik now awake, Biggo said, “He’s not a bad sort for a liar and murderer, is Slippery Tom; he’s just scared.”
Roo’s eyes widened. “Who isn’t?” he said with a frantic note in his voice. He closed his eyes tight, as if to shut out everything by force of will.
Erik sat back against the unyielding stone wall.
He knew Roo had spent a fitful night, awakening several times shouting in his sleep as he wrestled with personal demons. Erik glanced around the cell.
Other men slept or sat quietly in their place as the night wore on. Erik knew that the bravado Roo had exhibited since awakening in the cell the day before had been some sort of madness: he couldn’t accept the inevitability of his own death.
Biggo said, “Spanking young bottoms is common enough in the prison gangs, but Slippery is just looking for someone warm to cozy up to, lad.”
Roo opened his eyes. “Well, he smells like something died in his shirt last week.”
Tom said, “And you don’t exactly remind me of flowers, youngster. Now shut up and go back to sleep.”
Biggo grinned, and his bearlike face looked nothing so much as that of an overgrown child, one with broken and crooked teeth. The beating administered by the guards the day before had done nothing to enhance his appearance; blue, purple, and red lumps decorated his visage. “I like to sleep cuddled with someone warm. Like me Elsmie. She was sweet.” He sighed as he closed his eyes. “Too bad I’ll never see her again.”
“You talk like we’re all going to be convicted,”
said Roo.
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“This is the death cell, me lad. You’re here because you’re going to be tried for your life, and not one in a hundred who has sat here lived two days past his trial. You think you got a way to beat the King’s justice, boyo?” asked Biggo with a laugh. “Well, good on you if you do. But none here are babes, and we all knew what the deal was when we took to the dodgy path: ‘get caught, take your punishment.’
That’s the way of it, for a fact.” He closed his eyes, leaving the two young men to their own thoughts.
Erik had been awake most of the night, falling asleep only a few hours before, wrestling with the same questions. He had never been a religious sort, going to temple on the festival days, joining the vineyard workers in the blessing of the vineyards every year. But he hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like to face Lims-Kragma in her hall. He vaguely knew that every man came to stand before her, to account for his deeds, but he always thought of that as some sort of priest talk, what Owen Greylock had called a “metaphor” where one thing said stood for another. Now he wondered: Would he simply end? When the box was kicked out from under his feet and the rope either snapped his neck or choked the life from him, would it turn all dark and meaningless? Or would he awake in the Hall of the Dead, as the priests claimed, joining the long line of those waiting for Lims-Kragma’s judgment? Those found worthy were sent on to a better life, they said, while those found wanting were sent back to learn those lessons that had eluded them while living.
There was talk that at so
me point those who lived pure lives of harmony and grace were elevated somehow, beyond human understanding, to a higher existence.
Erik turned his mind away from the question, again; there was no answer he knew, until he actual-
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ly faced death. Either way, he thought with a silent shrug, it’ll be something interesting or I’ll not mind.
He closed his eyes on this thought, finding it strangely comforting.
The door at the far end of the hall clanked open, iron bands striking cold stone. Two guards with drawn swords led a prisoner into the hallway. Another two guards walked before and after him, holding wooden poles looped through iron rings on a wooden yoke set around his neck. The pressure on the yoke kept the man from being able to reach either guard, and the awkward procession made its way to the door of the death cell.
The prisoner was otherwise undistinguished. He seemed a young man, little older than Erik or Roo, though this was hard to determine, as his race was alien to the two young men from Ravensburg. He was one of the yellow-skinned men from Kesh, from a province called Isalani. A few had passed through Ravensburg from time to time, but they were still the object of interest to the provincial residence of that town.
This man was plainly dressed, in a simple robe, with an empty carry-cloth—a large cloth used to carry belongings, in place of a backpack—hung around his neck. His feet were bare, and his head was uncovered, showing a thatch of thick black hair roughly cut above the ears, but falling long in back.
Black eyes regarded the unfolding events without expression.
When the door was reached, the first guard unlocked it and ordered the prisoners to move to the far end of the long cell. Once they had obliged him, 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:49 PM Page 181
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he opened the door and the two men with the poles steered the prisoner to the opening. With practiced dexterity, the lead guard unfastened the neck yoke and the two guards slipped the poles out. The collar was removed, and with unnecessary force the remaining guard put his boot to the prisoner’s back and shoved him into the cell.
The prisoner stumbled one step, but caught himself and stood motionless. The others looked on in curiosity.
“What was that all about?” asked one man.
The new prisoner shrugged. “I disarmed a few of their guards when they tried to arrest me. They objected to that.”
“You disarmed them?” said another prisoner.
“How did you do that?”
The young man sat down on the vacant stone bench. “I took their weapons from them. How else would you imagine I did it?”
A few of the prisoners asked the newcomer his name, but no conversation was forthcoming, as the new prisoner closed his eyes while remaining seated upright. He crossed his legs before him, each font resting upon the opposite thigh, and put his hands, palms upward, on his knees.
The other prisoners looked at him for a few minutes, then returned to sitting and waiting for whatever fate would bring them next.
An hour later the hall door opened again and a company of soldiers entered. The man Erik had met before, Lord James, walked in. Then the men in the cell began to mutter as a woman entered, followed in turn by a pair of guardsmen. The woman was old, or at least she appeared that way to Erik. Older than his 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:49 PM Page 182
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mother, at any rate. Her hair was a startling white and her brows were pale enough for him to think her hair had always been this color. The lines in her face notwithstanding, Erik thought she was nice to look at, and she must have been beautiful when young.
Her eyes were an odd blue, almost violet in the darkness of the cell, and she carried herself with the bearing of nobility, despite an expression of sadness on her face.
Erik wondered what could be the cause of this expression of regret: could she have some sort of feeling about the men who would be tried in the Prince’s chamber this day? She stopped before the bars, and the sullen prisoners were completely silent.
For some reason, Erik found himself standing, feeling the urge to touch his forelock, as he would to any lady of quality who passed on the road in her carriage. Roo followed his example and soon the other men were standing as well.
The woman ignored the filth and wretched stench of the cell as her hands closed upon the bars. She was silent while her eyes searched out every face, and when her gaze at last turned upon Erik, he found himself suddenly afraid. He thought of his mother and Rosalyn, and thinking of Rosalyn made him think of Stefan, and suddenly he was ashamed of himself. He couldn’t look at the lady any longer and lowered his eyes.
For long minutes the woman stood silently, her rich gown becoming dirtied by contact with the rusty iron of the bars as she leaned against them. Erik glanced up and found that as she looked from man to man, only the new prisoner could return her gaze, and at one point he even smiled slightly. But for sev-
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eral of the men her penetrating gaze was too much, and they began to weep. Then at last her own eyes began to fill with tears and she said, “Enough.”
Lord James nodded curtly once and motioned for the two guards to escort her out of the cell. When they were gone, he said, “You men will face trial this afternoon. Kingdom justice is swift; those of you found guilty of capital crimes will be brought back to this cell and in the morning we will hang you. You’ll be given one last meal and time to make your peace with the gods. Priests of the twelve orders will come for those who ask for shriving, and for the rest of you who don’t wish to speak with a priest, well, you can spend time contemplating your sins. If you have an advocate, he will be allowed to speak for you before Prince Nicholas; if you don’t, you must speak for yourself or the Crown will convict you by default. There is no appeal, so make your brief persuasive. The King is the only man who can overrule the Prince, and he’s busy.”
Without another word, the Duke of Krondor turned and left the cell block. A guard waiting in the connecting hall reached in and pulled the door shut behind him.
The men stood silently for a long minute, then one, the man called Slippery Tom, said, “Something about that witch gave me a chill.”
“It was like having me mum finding me with my brother’s sweets on festival day,” said another.
Slowly they sat, and when every man was back in his place, Roo turned to Erik and asked, “What was that all about?”
Erik shrugged. “You know as much as I do.”
“She read your minds,” said the newcomer as he returned to his contemplative pose.
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“What?” came from several of the men. “She read our minds?”
Without opening his eyes, but with a very faint smile, the newcomer said, “She was looking for some men.” Then suddenly his eyes opened and he glanced from face to face. “I think she may have found them.”
His eyes lingered on Erik and he said, “Yes, I think she has.”
The midday meal was plain but filling. The guards brought in a platter of bread loaves and a round of hard cheese, as well as a bucket of a vegetable stew.
No knives, forks, or other potential weapons were permitted, but dull-edged wooden bowls were provided for the stew. Finding himself suddenly hungry, Erik shouldered through the press at the bars as the guards handed out the food.
“Here, now!” shouted a guard. “There’s enough for all of you, though why you’d have any appetite when you’re going to hang tomorrow is beyond me.”
Erik took a bowl and grabbed a loaf of bread, broke off a hunk of cheese, and returned to where Roo sat. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
Roo said, “If the guard’s not lying, there will be more when I get to the bars.” He rose slowly and moved to where the press of prisoners was lessening, then took his bowl and held it close to the bars as the guard filled it with a metal ladle. Then a loaf of bread and some cheese was given to him, and he returned to Erik’s side.
One of the prisoners said, “The food’s better here than at me mum’s!”
That brought a weak laugh from two of the men, but the rest ate in silence.
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Shortly after the meal, the guards came to escort the prisoners to the Prince’s court. Each man’s leg irons and shackles, wrist irons and collars, and all the chains were inspected. The newest prisoner, the Isalani, stood silently as the wooden collar was presented to him. He said, “I will cause you no difficulty.” Then with an enigmatic smile he said, “I am interested in what is about to occur.”
The guard sergeant seemed to think about it, but the man walked quietly out of the cell and stood in place behind the man who had been led out before him. The guard sergeant made a curt nod, indicating it was all right, and the other prisoners were put in the line.
“All right, any of you makes a break, we shoot you down and that’s the end of it. So if you prefer a crossbow bolt to the rope, now’s your chance. But be warned, if the bolt doesn’t kill you outright, it’s a messy, pitiful way to go. Saw a man with his lung punched out of him; that was a sight. Now, move the prisoners along!” The company of crossbowmen lined the hallway where they marched, and the prisoners, now numbering twelve, were led through the palace, up to the Prince’s hall.
Dirty, poor, and miserable, these men were ushered into the presence of the second most powerful man in the Kingdom, Nicholas, Prince of the Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles, brother to King Borric, Heir Apparent to the Crown. The Prince was a man of forty-some years of age, and his dark hair was still almost entirely without grey. His eyes were dark brown and deeply shadowed; the stress of burying his father was obvious, etching deep lines on his face.
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