Journey Of Thieves (Book 5) (11 page)

Since acquiring Myria’s dragon scale, I was growing used to having magic again, and it was frightening to lose it. But clearly the Drejians had found some mysterious way to cut me off from my power. I could see no other explanation.

It hadn’t taken me long to become familiar with my tiny cell, but I explored it more closely now as I realized my next escape might have to be by nonmagical means. There was little to examine. The walls were thick and solid, the floor constructed of the same material. The only way in or out was by way of the grate overhead. But it was strong and barely moved when I pushed and pulled at it. I even tried bracing my back and shoulders against the sloping wall and kicking at the thing, but the only result was a clanging noise that resounded hollowly down the mine shaft.

By the time I gave up, my mouth was dry and I was sweaty from my efforts. My rumbling stomach told me it had been a very long time since my last meal. By now I guessed I had been underground for around a full day, although it was hard to be sure without the passing of sun or moon to mark the time.

I slept for a while and did not dream this time. I was awakened by a rattling of the bars above. The grate was thrown back, and an expressionless face appeared above. The Drejian guard did not speak but tossed some objects down at me before quickly slamming the grate closed.

“Wait!” I shouted after him. “How long am I going to be down here?”

But he ignored my plea, and I heard his footsteps moving away.

In the dim light, I examined the items he had left me. There was a skin filled with water and a brittle, grainy substance that smelled like corn but had been hammered into a flat sheet. I nibbled at it, finding it tasted well enough and, more importantly, filled my aching stomach. I’d also been given a bucket, presumably for relieving myself. Although I wrinkled my nose, I was in no condition to reject the small favor. I had been enclosed in this place for an awfully long time.

Soon I curled up on the stone floor and slept again. There was little else to do in this place. When next I woke, it was to the sound of voices. The grate was thrown back, and there were several Drejians looking down on me this time. They indicated I should come out of my cell and offered their hands to assist me. But it didn’t escape my notice that several kept weapons trained on me as if expecting trouble.

Most of these Drejians were the same guards I had encountered before, but there was one who was different. This aging, silver-haired man was unarmed and lacked the bearing of a warrior. His face was dignified, but his simple clothing suggested his social status was only middling. These things I took in with a glance, but there was something more unusual that arrested my attention. Although this Drejian had the features of his race that were fast growing familiar to me, including the leathery skin and light scaling, he lacked one obvious aspect. Like the servants in the queen’s audience chamber, he was wingless.

I realized he was examining me even as I studied him. After a moment, he spoke fluently in my tongue. “My name is Kinhira, first servant of the exalted Prince Radistha. I have come to take you under the custody of my master.”

It was a relief to finally be facing someone I could understand and who could understand me. I poured out my questions. “What is to become of me now? No one has told me anything. For how long am I to be a prisoner, and what has been decided of my challenge to duel the queen?”

He inclined his head and said gravely, “I realize you are eager for answers, but I can offer you none at this time. My understanding is that your situation is under debate by Queen Viranathi and her noble council and that your ultimate fate remains undecided. Until this changes, my ever-merciful master has intervened on your behalf so that you need not suffer these miserable confines. The exalted Radistha has made generous arrangements for you to be released into my personal charge.”

Radistha. I recognized the name but could not think how I came to know it.

“Who is this Radistha, and what is his interest in me?” I asked.

The servant darted a quick glance to the guards on either side of us. “It is not for me to speculate on my master’s intentions. I can only suggest that you accept his generous offer to dwell in the home of his servant until your fate is decided. My home is humble, but I think you will find it more agreeable than these quarters.”

There was no arguing with that. I allowed myself to be led away by this Kinhira with my Drejian guards bringing up the rear.

“We have only a brief stop to make on our way,” Kinhira informed me as we traveled. He was mysteriously silent on what that stop would be, but I offered no questions because my thoughts were consumed by another, more urgent matter.

As we left behind the abandoned mine shaft, I was aware of an unexpected weakening of the wall that had been blocking me from my magic. I was still unable to summon my power, but with every step we took, I felt I was closer to doing so. Had it been something about my cell or about the mine itself that had created that separation, cutting me off from my magic? I could feel the barrier fading now as we put distance behind us. Not wanting to alert my guards, I showed no outward sign of noticing the change. But carefully, silently, I tested the bounds of my strength.

We boarded another of the vertically moving platforms I had ridden earlier. It elevated us to a higher level, and we disembarked into a vast cavern unlike any I had seen yet. The place buzzed with people. Their clothing was ragged and worn, their faces dirty. And they too lacked dragon-like wings, seemingly signaling their lowly status.

Kinhira seemed in a hurry to reach our destination, and he led the way so quickly I formed only hasty impressions of the people we passed. But I noted there didn’t seem to be any children or old people among them. These were fit, muscular men and women, all of them busily employed in various types of heavy labor. The air was heavy with the reek of so many sweaty bodies, and the noise of their hammers and rock-hewers and other tools echoed from wall to ceiling.

I was taken past all this commotion to where a pair of men worked at a forge. With long tongs, they pulled chunks of hot metal from the fire and pounded them with hammers, fashioning them into various shapes. These smiths treated Kinhira respectfully, maybe out of deference for his master, and put aside their work to give us their immediate attention. Although I could not understand their conversation with Kinhira, it didn’t take me long to realize the nature of our business.

One of the smiths motioned for me to place my foot atop a block, and when I complied, his partner quickly fastened a metal band around my ankle, hammering pins into the shackle to hold it tight and secure. This was no ordinary constraint. It was constructed of an unfamiliar material, black and glossy and lightweight. Although very thin, it was surprisingly sturdy and unbendable. The instant the metal was brought close enough to be clamped around my ankle, I felt a strange, muffled sensation. It took me a second to realize what it was. And then I knew.

I was cut off from my magic again. Once more, the wall was in place.

My confusion must have shown on my face because Kinhira explained. The shackle I wore was made of a material common in the mines called nathamite. A peculiarity of the largely worthless material was that nathamite had a strange effect on magickers, blocking their ability to access their powers while in its close proximity. My jailers must have remembered this little-known fact after my escape from my first cell and so moved me to the mines, where the nathamite deposits in the rock would block my abilities.

Kinhira seemed to have plenty of faith in the nathamite. No sooner was it secured around my ankle, than he dismissed the guards accompanying us. They seemed reluctant to go, eyeing me as if, even unarmed and magickless, I might be a threat. But in the end, they went. After their departure, Kinhira took me away from the smiths and from the noise and bustle of all the workers. We traveled to a neighboring cavern, where the din of the distant laborers became only a vague echo in the distance.

Here there were small homes huddled closely together, often sharing walls or even stacked atop one another. Constructed plainly of blocks of crushed rock and tar, they blended into the black stone around them and looked very gloomy. Kinhira’s home was little different than the others except that it was larger and had multiple rooms, possibly a sign that his position in his master’s service was less humble than the station of his neighbors.

There were few people around except for a handful of ragged children playing in front of the houses. These Drejian younglings stared at me with curious eyes as Kinhira led me up the steps into his house.

We were greeted by a slim female of perhaps thirty years of age, whom Kinhira introduced as his daughter Tadra. Tadra was apparently the only family member who shared this home, and she kept the house for her father. She spoke my tongue, although not as well as Kinhira did. All the while she showed me around the sparsely furnished home, including the kitchen where I would sleep, her expression was anxious. I suspected she would have preferred not to have this foreign, potentially dangerous stranger staying under her roof.

During the next few days that followed, I got to know both Kinhira and his daughter better and found them decent enough folk, for Drejians. Tadra must have sensed how it grated on me that, as a condition of this more lenient confinement, I was never permitted to set foot outside the home. Setting aside whatever doubts she might have, she did her best to occupy me with household tasks, taught me simple words of the Drejian language, and tried to make me feel at ease.

Relaxing was something I could not do, not while my future was uncertain and while I continued to be haunted by nightmares about a suffering Terrac. But I made no more ill-considered escape attempts. It wasn’t only the magic-blocking nathamite band around my ankle that held me here. I now realized how foolish I had been to think I could run away. My slaying of the queen’s dragon had given her more motive than ever to hate Swiftsfell. If I escaped now, I would provide her with yet another reason to punish the magicker village.

During the long nights when I slept on a cushion before the kitchen fire, I was haunted by indistinct visions of Terrac, feverish and slipping in and out of consciousness beneath the burning desert sun. I dreamed also of Myria, and in my dreams my grandmother was alive again. She admonished me to think not of my safety or my fears for Terrac but of the Swiftsfell inhabitants whose lives might depend on my actions here.

No, running away was no longer an option. I must bide my time and plot ways to get near the queen again. I did not have long to wait for my opportunity.

One afternoon, I was watching Tadra in the kitchen as she prepared the corn cakes that were a common part of the Drejian diet. She was just pulling the cakes from the fire when her father came home unexpectedly early. During my short time in their home, I had learned that Kinhira invariably departed early in the morning to attend his master at some place called the hall. Usually he did not return until dinner.

But today he was home early and seemed agitated. He would not say why but made us contain our curiosity until after the noon meal. Only then did he invite me to join him before the fire in a game of spar. Spar was a Drejian amusement, played on a multicolored wooden board with moveable carved figures shaped like dragons and chimeras. There did not seem to be much strategy to the game, but the rules were confusing and changeable.

Kinhira’s mind was not on the match, and I realized it when he allowed me to beat him at the first round.

“Something consumes your thoughts,” I said, watching him reset the board.

He frowned. “My master is hosting an event at the hall this evening. The queen and her nobles will attend, and there will be feasting and festivities in her honor.”

“And this troubles you?”

“It troubles me because it is no ordinary feast.” He glanced up from the board, his gaze unexpectedly sharp. “It is commonly known that there is little friendship and even smaller trust between Prince Radistha and his stepsister, the queen. Now he professes a wish to mend the relationship.”

“But this reaching out to the queen is only a ploy,” I guessed.

Kinhira rubbed his chin, reminding me briefly of Hadrian, who employed the same gesture when deep in thought. “Can I trust your discretion in this matter?” he asked.

“Who would I talk to?” I returned. “I see no one except you and Tadra and go nowhere.”

“Very well. The fact is there was a time when many people felt my master had a greater claim to the throne than his stepsister, Queen Viranathi. He has long been a thorn in her side, but she dares not rid herself of him because he holds the favor of many. Likewise, he dares not rebel against her until he is certain he has the support to guarantee an easy victory. His position has long been a precarious one. But I believe he saw the light of hope on the day you killed the dragon Micanthria and walked into that audience chamber to challenge the queen.”

“I have never understood why he took an interest in my fate and arranged my removal from prison into your custody,” I said.

“My master has been working quietly to keep you alive and in the memory of the nobles, when the queen would prefer you dead or rotting in her dungeons.”

“But why?”

Kinhira contemplated the spar board on the table between us. “You offer Prince Radistha an opportunity to subtly rid himself of his rival. And in a just manner none could protest, not even if they see his hand behind her downfall.”

I began to understand. “So I am a means to an end?”

“An end that could benefit you as much as my master,” Kinhira pointed out quickly. “For while he might gain the queen’s rule, you would attain your goal. I have been instructed to promise you life, freedom, and safety for your Swiftsfell friends. Radistha will consider their tribute paid and hostilities between our peoples resolved. You have only to play your part in his scheme.”