Realm of Light (45 page)

No one brought him
food or water. He listened as the guard was changed about sunset. Shortly
thereafter someone came through with a barrel of pitch. The man replenished the
torches, keeping them burning brightly, as though light alone could hold the
demons at bay. Caelan remembered his boyhood conviction that warding keys could
drive away any attacker, even Thyzarene raiders. He had learned that day that
evil came in many guises, and often it laughed at the protection mustered
against it.

Still, it would do
no good to tell this worker that his efforts were in vain. If the shadows
decided to come creeping into these dungeons, they would do so whether the
torches burned or not.

Needing something
to do, Caelan watched the man work. There was something familiar about the man,
something in the set of his shoulders, the way he moved. He wore a long leather
apron to protect his clothes from the pitch. His head was concealed by a hood,
worn presumably for warmth. Caelan could not catch a glimpse of his face. Yet
his hands were powerful and broad. He swirled a torch in the barrel of pitch,
then lifted it and lit it.

As he set it in a
sconce near Caelan’s door, his uplifted face was partially illuminated for a
second.

“Orlo!” Caelan
said eagerly. “Orlo, it’s you!”

The man looked
around as though startled, then backed away hastily into the shadows.

“Come here, you
old donkey,” Caelan said, glad to see his former trainer. “It has been too
long.”

Orlo glanced up
and down the passageway, as though making sure no one overheard them.

“No talking!” he
said sternly. “You’re under a rule of silence.”

Caelan obediently
lowered his voice to the merest whisper. “Come and let me look on your face. I
am glad to see you.”

Orlo, however,
hunched his shoulders and pulled his barrel and cart down the passageway. He
set to work busily with the next torch, ignoring Caelan completely.

Hurt, Caelan
stared after him. “It’s me, Orlo. Caelan. Don’t you have—”

Cold water came
splashing through the window, hitting him in the face and driving him back.
Sputtering, Caelan wiped his eyes and found a bearded face glaring in at him.

“Shut up!” the
guard said. “Or the next bucketful will be dung. We’ll put a muzzle on you if
we must.”

Caelan stepped all
the way back to the far wall, saying nothing. He knew what a muzzle was, a
terrible torture device that was fitted over a man’s head and slowly tore out
his tongue by the roots.

Not daring to
move, he waited until the guard walked on. There was a brief murmur of
conversation between the guard and Orlo; then the guard’s footsteps gradually
faded. Only then did Caelan venture back to the window and peer out.

Orlo had gone
around the corner and was no longer in sight. Caelan waited a long time,
hoping, but Orlo did not return.

Someone moaned in
a cell farther down the row. Another man coughed constantly, as though he had a
rotted lung. Those were the only sounds.

Orlo had been his
trainer, gruff and brutal at times, relentless as he drove Caelan through his
drills. But he had taught Caelan how to fight and how to survive the ring. He
had made Caelan a champion, and eventually the two men had become friends. But
that had all ended the night that Caelan was wrongly accused of attacking and
injuring Prince Tirhin. Orlo had believed the accusations, and until now Caelan
had never seen him again.

It seemed Orlo had
not softened. Caelan waited, but his former trainer did not come back.

Hours went by,
enlivened only by occasional light earthquakes that shook the walls but did not
bury Caelan alive. With nothing else to do, Caelan paced and bleakly looked
into his own future. So much for destiny, he thought. So much for carrying
Exoner against the dark god.

A commotion in the
passageway sent him to the rear of his cell, out of reach and out of trouble. A
face peered inside.

“You! Stay back!”

It was an
unnecessary command. Caelan knew they were about to open the door. He could
smell food, and his stomach growled urgently. This wasn’t the time to make a
break for freedom. He could hear the other guards grunting and clanking their
weapons restlessly. They were just hoping for a prisoner to try something
stupid. A dead prisoner was a prisoner who did not have to be fed.

A scrawny boy came
stumbling inside. He set down a pail of water, sloshing half the contents over
the sides, and slammed down a bowl of food beside it. Then he backed out, and
the door was bolted shut.

A face watched
Caelan from the window, but he did not venture forth to get his food until the
guards gave up and moved on to the next cell. Then Caelan rushed forward,
picked up his food and the water pail, and retreated with them. He knew about
prison life and the cruelty of the guards.

The occupant of
the next cell was not as lucky. Caelan heard the sloppy splash and a cry of
anguish. The guards laughed. Caelan knew they had just emptied a dung bucket
over the hapless inmate when he tried to get his food.

Angrily Caelan
picked over his own food. He drank his water after sniffing it. Then he tapped
his stale bread against the wall to drive out the weevils and ate with all the
control he could muster, chewing thoroughly, giving his stomach a chance to
accept the unpalatable food. The rest of it was greasy and cold. He ate it
anyway, knowing the rats would steal it if he didn’t.

A faint scraping
noise from behind him made him turn around. Instantly alert, he listened a
moment, watching as a block of stone in the wall was carefully removed by
someone on the other side.

Caelan crouched by
the hole and said nothing.

Another block was
removed, then a third. He squinted through the gloom, trying to see who it was.

“Giant?” the voice
whispered softly.

“Orlo!” Caelan
whispered back. Joyfully he gripped another block of stone and found it loose.
He pulled it away and grinned through the opening. “I thought you had abandoned
me for certain—”

Orlo’s fist
smashed into his face, catching him right under the eye. Grunting with pain,
Caelan reeled back. As soon as he could see again, he found Orlo glaring at
him.

“What—”

“That is for
almost getting me killed,” Orlo whispered furiously. “You’re under an order of
silence, on pain of death. What in hell’s own flames were you doing yelling at
me like that?”

Contrite, Caelan
probed the swelling knot under his eye and grimaced. “Sorry. I was glad to see
you. I didn’t think—”

“You have never
thought. That’s why you’re in jail.”

Caelan didn’t mind
the tongue-lashing. Orlo had always criticized him. “What are you doing in the
dungeons?”

“This
was
the arena, remember?” Orlo replied scathingly. “My responsibility.”

“So you came back
here after leaving Tirhin’s service?”

Orlo snorted.
“Murdeth and Fury, do you think I’d serve that prancing fop and traitor one
moment longer than I had to? I only went to his household for you.”

“I know.” Caelan
reached through and gripped Orlo’s arm. “I never did thank you.”

“Bah. Swallow that
nonsense. It made me richer than before. I cared for nothing else.”

“You tried to warn
me about Tirhin, and I didn’t listen.”

“No, you have a
head like a block of wood and about as much sense.”

Caelan grinned.
“You should have fled the city.”

Orlo snorted. “And
go where? This damned blight that is upon us, it spreads everywhere.”

“Can you get me
out?”

“Of your cell?
Aye. If you can get those big shoulders through this hole.”

Caelan reached
out, but Orlo suddenly hissed a warning.

“Not now,” he said
and started stacking the stones back up.

Caelan listened
but heard nothing. “What?”

“This isn’t the
time.”

“But what is it? I
don’t—”

“Shut up!” Orlo
stuck his hand through. “Hand me that last stone on your side. Quick!”

“Orlo, I have to
get out—”

“Later.”

Orlo put the last
stone in place and was gone, as though he had never been, with no explanation.

Only then did
Caelan hear the steady tramp of booted feet in the passageway. There were more
than usual. He could sense a change, a quickness in the way they walked. He
heard the crashing fists of salutes, along with low, respectful voices.

Then one voice
lifted above the others, a sleek baritone full of arrogance.

Recognizing
Tirhin’s voice, Caelan rose to his feet. Grim satisfaction filled him. So the
prince had come to him at last. He was going to have his chance after all.

But then the
footsteps walked on. Tirhin did not even look through the window at him, did
not bother to even speak a word to him.

Caelan rushed to
his door and peered out, but all he saw were the backs of the soldiers,
marching down the passage. Swearing in frustration, he slammed his fist against
the door, making it rattle.

In the next
moment, it was being unlocked. Caelan backed up just in time to avoid the door
as it was slammed open. Guards filled the doorway, shining torches in his face
and nearly blinding him.

“You! Come with
us!”

They grabbed
Caelan and dragged him forth, herding him down the passageway and around a
corner. Several daggers were held against him. Had he tried to break free, he
would have been spitted instantly.

Down they went,
going lower into the older regions. Many of the bracing timbers showed signs of
rot and neglect. The stone mortar was crumbling, allowing some of the walls to
bulge from the press of the earth. Caelan saw some ramps and passageways choked
with fallen debris, probably from the frequent earthquakes. He swallowed hard,
thinking about being crushed to death down here.

“Where am I
going?” he asked.

One of the guards
struck him hard on the ear, making his head ring. “To die.”

They all laughed,
but Caelan could not share the joke.

Lifting his head,
he gazed around, taking note as they descended another ramp. A series of doors
along the passageway told him they were in the old gladiator quarters. Men
stayed down here for entire seasons, never seeing the sunlight until they went
into the ring. Most of them died minutes later, to be returned forever into the
darkness.

Ghost voices .. .
the faint ring of swords . . . the roar of the crowd. Caelan shook off the
memories. When they went down a short flight of worn steps, he recognized
another scent, faint and fading now but unforgettable.

It was the smell
of Haggai. Those loathsome creatures, part woman and part monster. It had been
a long tradition in the arena that gladiators could sport freely with the
witches the night before their combat. And if the Haggai had lived deep below
the complex under the arena, did that not mean there was a physical passageway
into the realm of shadows itself? Just as there had been a portal beneath the
Temple of Gault in the palace compound?

Caelan studied the
men around him. He had an escort of five guards, well armed and alert. Their
weapons were drawn, which made seizing a spare dagger from someone’s belt
almost impossible. He narrowed his eyes, thinking about odds and possibilities.

The passageway
ended at a closed door. One of the guards knocked perfunctorily, then swung it
open. Caelan was shoved inside.

The room was
circular and empty of furnishings other than a brazier supported by a tripod. A
small fire burned in it, smoking heavily as though it had just been started.
Torches blazed in sconces. On the wall opposite the door, a demonic face was
carved into the stone. Its snarling visage caused two of Caelan’s guards to
make furtive warding signs with their fingers.

Caelan barely
noticed the carving, however. His attention was locked on the occupants of the
chamber.

Besides Tirhin,
two bodyguards stood by the wall. Agel, wearing a white healer’s robe beneath
his dark blue cloak, hovered near the prince.

Caelan saw his
cousin and frowned. He had thought Agel had died during the Madrun invasion. It
seemed he was wrong.

Agel gazed at him
with an equal lack of affection and handed a wine cup to Tirhin, who gulped the
contents.

“Secure him well,”
Tirhin commanded between swallows.

One of Caelan’s
guards ran a length of stout chain through a massive ring bolt set into the
stone floor, then looped the other end through Caelan’s shackles. He secured
the chain and gave it a strong yank.

“He is secure,
Majesty.”

Tirhin gulped down
more wine and grunted. “Get out.”

The guards bowed
and shuffled outside, shutting the door.

Tirhin gestured at
Agel. “You. I wish you to go.”

“That is unwise,”
Agel said. His voice was the same as ever, slightly grave, holding a note of
warning and counsel.

Hearing him,
Caelan shut his eyes a moment. As boys, he and Agel had been as close as
brothers. He had had no better friend, but somehow it had all turned wrong. Now
there was no going back, no way to regain what had once been.

“Go!” Tirhin
shouted. He looked angry and flushed; whatever he was drinking only seemed to
agitate him more. “I will speak to him alone.”

Agel frowned at
him, looking exasperated. “Even chained, he could attack you before the
guards—”

“You’re an old
woman. I’m not afraid of him!” Tirhin said rudely. He finished the contents of
his cup and flung it Agel, who ducked just in time. “Do you think he has the
power to snap stone and steel? Go!”

Without further
protest, Agel tucked his hands inside his wide sleeves and left. As he passed
Caelan, his gaze flicked sideways to meet Caelan’s eyes. He said nothing,
however. His expression remained unreadable.