The Immortal Prince (13 page)

Despite an intriguing day spent learning the legend behind the major cards of Tilly's Tarot, Arkady left them behind the next time she visited the prison. The academic in her couldn't quite bring herself to consider a set of Tarot cards as a historical text. The Immortal Prince's story, by Tilly's account at any rate, was a simplistic morality tale, laden with cumbersome, heavy-handed parables and, Arkady suspected, would make her the laughing stock of the entire academic community of Glaeba if it ever got about that she was taking it seriously.

Now that Declan was back in Herino and the entire responsibility for exposing the prisoner lay in her hands, she decided instead to question Kyle Lakesh on the subject of his alleged immortality. Denied the obvious option of simply running the man through to see if he survived, this was the weakest part of his story. The logistics of immortality were such that it was, to Arkady's scientific mind, quite an absurd and impractical concept. To this end, she had compiled a list of questions she was sure would put an end to his charade, sooner rather than later.

It was raining again, as it had almost every day for the past week, when she travelled to the prison along the same route, the fields burgeoning with new growth, their Crasii attendants seemingly oblivious of the inclement weather, as they toiled on, tilling a field here, planting a late crop there, weeding another crop farther beyond the road. She wondered idly if the weather didn't bother the Crasii, or if it was simply another assumption humans made about them, thinking that because they were animals, they lacked the same depth of feeling real people possessed.

This time only Timms came to collect her and the Warden didn't bother to meet her when she arrived at the prison, although there was a message telling Arkady he looked forward to her company for afternoon tea once her interview was done. She followed Timms up the long winding staircase to Recidivists' Row, almost gagging on the rank prison smells, wondering how anybody got used to this place.

When they finally reached the fourth floor, she discovered a chair waiting for her in the corridor between Warlock's cell and Kyle's cell opposite. She got another shock when she drew closer to the cells. Kyle Lakesh was clean, and looked like a different man. He appeared much younger than he had the day before, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven. His skin was pale, much paler than Glaeban skin, and he was more than presentable, he was actually good-looking. Arkady stopped abruptly, shocked to discover her first reaction to seeing him looking so respectable was far more visceral than she expected.

He smiled when he noticed her surprise. “The Warden seemed to think I offended your highborn sensibilities, your grace,” Kyle explained, leaning on the bars as she approached. “Thanks to you, I get to bathe every day now. For that, I will continue with this absurd charade, provided you promise to keep visiting me.”

Arkady eyed him warily, and then turned to peer into Warlock's cell. The Crasii was sitting on the floor in the corner, his chin on his chest, apparently asleep.

“Good afternoon, Warlock.”

“Your grace,” the big canine replied in his deep voice.

“Why waste your time talking to the flea-trap?” Kyle asked. “Isn't it me you came to visit?”

Arkady turned to face the Caelish prisoner. “Very well, I thought you might like to tell me about being immortal.”

“It's a nightmare,” Kyle replied. “Next question.”

“A
nightmare
?” she repeated curiously.

“That's not actually a question.”

“But your response intrigues me, Mr. Lakesh.”

“I told you to call me Cayal.”

“Very well, Cayal, why is being immortal a nightmare?”

“Because it's endless,” Cayal replied, as if the answer was self-evident.

“I would have thought it quite the opposite,” Arkady said. “I mean, it's one of those things that everyone secretly dreams of, isn't it? To have all the time in the world…to be able to learn any language, master any skill, achieve any goal. To never grow old. If I'm to believe what you're telling me, you've discovered the fountain of youth. Yet you seem to be wallowing in self-pity because of it.”

“Self-
pity
?” he asked, looking more than a little offended.

“Do you have a better word?”

“You don't understand what it's like,” he said. “You
can't
understand.”

“Then help me to understand. That's what I'm here for.”

He studied her suspiciously for a moment. “What happened to the other fellow?”

“You mean Declan Hawkes?” she asked. “He's returned to Herino. To take care of more important matters.”

Cayal scowled at her. “More
important
matters?”

She smiled. “I'm sorry, Cayal, does that bother you? The fact that you're not the most important thing in the world?”

Cayal's face suddenly broke into a knowing grin. “You're pretty good at this, aren't you?”

“You have no idea,” she assured him. “Tell me about the drawbacks of immortality.”

“The killer is boredom.”

“But to have no fear of dying…”

“…is to experience the
true
meaning of boredom, Arkady. Can I call you Arkady?”

“No, you may not. How old are you?”

The young man shrugged. “I don't know. I've stopped keeping count.”

Convenient,
Arkady thought. “Make a guess.”

Cayal looked away for a moment, obviously calculating something in his head, then he looked across the corridor at Warlock. “Hey, gemang!” he called. “What year is this by Crasii reckoning?”

The Crasii looked to Arkady, not sure if he should answer the question.

“It's all right, Warlock,” she assured him.

“It's the year six thousand four hundred and sixty-seven,” the Crasii replied. “According to our histories.”

Cayal shrugged and looked to Arkady. “There you go! Add fifteen hundred years or so to that,” he suggested. “We started experimenting with Crasii after the first Cataclysm. So I guess that makes me eight thousand years old, give or take.”

Ignoring his absurd claim about his age, Arkady was fascinated by something else entirely. “The
first
Cataclysm? Are you saying there's been more than one?”

“Half a dozen, that I know of.”

“But that's impossible.”

“So's the notion that humans could ever rule Amyrantha while my kind lived, yet here we are.”

“Your
kind?”

“The Tide Lords.”

She eyed him sceptically. “You look human enough to me.”

“I am human…or I was…once.”

Arkady smiled. “So what, Cayal, you just woke up one day and decided to become immortal?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time, but that's another story. Ask the gemang if you don't believe me. He knows what I am.”

Arkady looked across at the Crasii. “Is that right, Warlock? Do you believe Cayal is immortal?”

“He smells like a suzerain,” Warlock agreed with a low growl. “Like rancid, rotting, decaying, putrefying flesh.”

“See what happens when you don't domesticate them properly?” Cayal remarked. “They get all snarly and learn too many adjectives.”

Arkady ignored his attempt to be witty and took her notebook and pencil from her satchel instead. “Why do you call him a gemang?”

“He calls me that because I call him suzerain,” Warlock answered before Cayal could. “Gemang means
mongrel.
In one of the ancient languages, I think.”

“Kordian, fool. It means
mongrel
in Kordian.”

Arkady looked at Cayal in surprise. “You
speak
Kordian?”

“I was born there.”

“Kordia is a legend. There's no proof it ever existed.”

“Well, it didn't after the first Cataclysm,” Cayal pointed out with a shrug. “And its correct name was Kordana, not Kordia.”

“You told everyone in Rindova you were from Caelum, didn't you?”

“If I'd told them I was from Kordana, they might have been suspicious,” he replied with a shrug.

“And not without cause, given what you did to them,” she retorted.

“They'll get over it.” He shrugged. “Truth is, I probably did them a favour.”

“There're seven widows in Rindova who would disagree with you, I suspect.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asked, not in the least bothered by her disapproval. “Maybe you should ask them.”

Arkady looked away, pretending to make a few notes in her notebook before answering. “Convenient, don't you think, that you just happen to come from a country that nobody can prove ever existed? A country where nobody can check on the veracity of your claims?”

“Actually, Doctor, I find it quite
inconvenient
that everything I once knew and loved was destroyed by Tryan just because he's…well…a prick.”

“Tryan?” Arkady asked, recalling the name from Tilly's Tarot. “You mean Tryan the Devil?”

“Is that what he calls himself these days?” Cayal shook his head. “Pretentious bastard.”

“And you believe it was the Tide Lord Tryan who caused the first Cataclysm which destroyed Kordia and Fyrenne?” Arkady reminded him, trying to keep the conversation on track.

“I don't
believe
it, I
know
it,” Cayal corrected. “I was there, remember? By the way, Fyrenne wasn't destroyed until years after Kordana. And it was Elyssa, not Tryan, who wiped that inoffensive little population off the face of Amyrantha.” He turned his back on her, leaning against the bars of his cell. “Tides, don't give Tryan any
more
credit than he deserves! He's insufferable enough without it.”

Arkady found herself admiring the prisoner's nerve. He spoke with real conviction, not as if he'd studied these mythical characters, but as if he actually knew them. This was no simple criminal. He was far more intelligent than his current predicament might indicate.

Which begged another question:
What's the real reason he is here in Glaeba?

Is it possible,
she wondered,
this man really is a Caelish agitator?

If the Queen of Caelum was looking to avenge the insult to Princess Nyah, why not train a man for the job? Pick some handsome and personable young fellow with a sharp mind and have him pose as a Tide Lord. Teach him Tilly's Tarot. Throw in a few unverifiable facts to give the story the ring of authenticity. Pepper it with enough Crasii folklore to make it seem plausible, and then sit back and watch the fun.

It was certainly cheaper than declaring war.

Her reasoning also brought her back to her original line of questioning. Cayal's claim to immortality was the weakest part of his story, and probably the easiest way to expose him. She almost admired the complexity of the plan as she realised the last thing they could do now was attempt to kill this prisoner again. If he died, it might debunk this man's claim to immortality, but it would also rid them of their proof of a Caelish agitator in Glaeba.

This man might not be immortal,
she mused,
but he's surely found a way to avoid dying.

“Let's get back to your alleged immortality,” Arkady instructed, taking a seat on the chair the Warden had provided for her. “How does it work?”

“I don't die,” Cayal said, turning his head to watch her. “That's what immortal means, Doctor. You're supposed to be educated. I thought you'd know that already.”

“So you…what?…can't be hurt…can walk through fire…break every bone in your body, and you'll just walk away unscathed?”

“I
wish
!” Cayal exclaimed with feeling. “I can be hurt just as much as any other man. I just heal up, afterwards.”

“What if you lose a limb?”

“It grows back.”

Arkady smiled. “Really.”

“Really,” Cayal assured her. He turned and put his right hand through the bars. “See here. Krydence cut my right hand off once. Grew right back, good as new.”

Arkady wasn't foolish enough to get within reach of his hand, and there was no point, anyway. There would be no scars, no telltale marks to prove his claim. That's what made this swindle so effective.

“How long did it take to grow back?” she asked, wondering how far through he'd actually thought this.

The young man shrugged. “Couple of hours, maybe. The pain was indescribable. For some reason bones grow quicker than flesh, so the more tissue damage the longer it takes to heal and the more painful it is.”

“And what if someone cuts off your head?” she enquired, certain this was where his story would begin to crumble. She looked at him curiously, not attempting to hide her scepticism. “Does
that
grow back too?”

“It surely does,” Cayal agreed.

His reply took Arkady by surprise. She wasn't expecting that. “You're telling me that if I cut off a Tide Lord's head, it grows back?” she repeated, to make sure she'd heard him right. “That's impossible.”

“In your world, lady, not mine.”

“But that would require…”

“Magic,” Cayal finished for her. “Something you appear to have trouble coming to grips with.” He pushed off the bars and walked to the back of his cell, taking a seat on the straw pallet. “If you don't believe me, ask poor old Pellys.”

“Pellys the Recluse?” she asked, naming another card in Tilly's Tarot.

“The
Recluse
?” Cayal chuckled, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back against the rough stone wall. “Wouldn't you want to be a recluse, too, if someone chopped off your head and after a few of hours of intense agony it grew back and you discovered you had no idea who you were, because your memories dropped into the basket under the headman's block along with the rest of your old head?”