The Pleasure of Memory (68 page)

The black rat was back, watching him again from atop his cellmate’s skull. All thoughts of Chance and self-pity dissipated with the sight of that miserable vermin. Survive first, grieve later.

The wicked black rat dropped and rose, dropped and rose, again and again, as if locked in the hypnotic rhythm of some evil dance, all the time chattering, chattering. The sight was revolting and terrifying. Then he saw the rest of them. The dark straw beyond the black rat and its corpulent perch was moving. Shadows flowed through the decaying straw. The rats were creeping toward him in a slow, determined wave. There were more than he had ever seen.

He withdrew as far as the wall would allow. The king rat’s chattering grew louder and more maniacal. The dark wave of vermin crept closer, developing form and substance as they swam forward. The clicking of teeth rose from the mob, growing louder and more determined as their frenzy intensified.

Luren dug through the slimy muck beneath the straw. He needed a weapon, something he could throw.

The black rat was dancing so feverishly atop his cellmate that the skull rocked forward and back in an unnatural nod. Luren felt something warm scurry along his leg. He screamed and kicked at it. The rats were nearly on him.

In the last possible instant, he found a piece of bone beneath the fetid straw and heaved it at the black leader. The projectile landed a direct hit, knocking the squealing rat away with a sickening thud. The skull toppled backward in pursuit, bouncing off the wall and rolling out into the middle of the cell. It came to a rest amid the scattering rats with its cavernous eyes gaping up at him in surprise from the filthy bedding.

With the loss of their leader, the rats evacuated the cell, pouring like water out through the cracks and crevices hidden in the darkest corners of his prison.

Luren couldn’t scream. He couldn’t even breathe. His fear boiled up to such an unbearable frenzy that it seemed to circle back around to reason again, until there was no fear at all, only truth. And with that, a rush of terrible clarity seized him. He had to act now, really act, or he’d certainly die here alone in the dark silence. He’d never see Chance again. He’d never feel warmth or sunshine or love, not ever again.

He twisted himself around in the imprisoning collar and found the lynch peg again. He pushed his life force out into the caeylsphere. He summoned from the depths of his spirit every bit of power and knowledge he’d achieved in his apprenticeship. He closed his eyes and strained to remember every lesson Chance had ever given him, every act he’d witnessed Chance perform with his caeyl, every moment in his life when he’d felt the earth’s energy pulse through him. He opened his mind and his heart, and as he did, his senses became a magnet for power, a conduit for the earth’s natural energy, exactly as his mentor had taught him.

He held his open palms up on each side of the lynch peg. He muttered the ancient words of lost chants as his thoughts condensed to a singular point of focus.

He anguished that way forever, it seemed. Finally, a dim blue glow tingled against the flesh of his palms. The energy was meager at first, but it quickly grew in intensity until blue sparks sizzled from flesh to iron on both sides of the shackle.

He pushed his mind ever deeper into the effort, exactly as he might put his back into rolling a heavy rock. The world around him faded away. He was floating in a dark void where nothing existed except the shackle and his mind and the caeylsphere.

The smell of ozone filled the dank cell. The lock began to glow ever so slightly, a blue heart pulsing in the darkness, a glimmer of hope. Another blue spark sizzled across the tiny space between him and the metal. And then a sharp crack split the silence of the cell. A rush of steam puffed from the metal like a last gasp as the space that had once been the lynch pin became nothing more than dripping water.

The pin was gone. The shackle was open with the sparkling remnants of his magic still popping and racing across its surface.

Luren dropped his face into the stone. “Oh, my gods,” he whispered as his eyes flooded hot with tears, “Thank you, Calina. Thank you. Thank you.”

Numb fingers pried the rusted iron collar open. He’d barely opened it wide enough to free himself when he heard the voices. He froze. Someone was coming. Dreadful memories rushed in, memories of the grievous whippings he’d received at the hands of the jailer on that first day he’d arrived.

He pushed the collar closed. He couldn’t let that miserable shell of a jailer know he was free yet. He needed a plan.

A dark shadow passed before the barred window to the cell door on the far side of the room. Keys jangled. A key scratched the metal in search of the keyhole. Then tumblers clacked confidently as they rolled away under the pressure of the key. Slowly, the great door swung inward, squealing on rusty hinges, flooding the cell with light. Luren buried his face in his arm to escape the pain of it.

He squinted up over the edge of his sleeve. Two silhouetted figures were moving toward him. One of the shapes, the one with the torch, stopped at the middle of the cell. The face of the jailer simmered in the torchlight behind it. He was old and hunched. Cobwebs of hair moldered on his large, flat head. The flesh on his face dripped down his cheeks and jowls like melting wax, but his eyes were sharp and far too keen.

The second figure, the one in front of the jailer, was fully shrouded in the shadows cast by the torchlight behind him. He stepped toward Luren, stopping just at his feet. Then he squatted before him.

The man leaned closer, close enough that Luren felt the warmth of his breath on his face. It was sour with old alcohol.

“So, this is the apprentice, eh?” the man said.

Luren’s breath caught in his chest. The voice was intense and strangely familiar.

The jailer shuffled forward and stopped just behind the squatting man with his torch held high. “Aye, sire. Scrawny little rat, ain’t he?” The voice was unnaturally shrill.

“I’d expected something modestly more impressive,” the kneeling man said, “I swear, there’s barely enough boy here to bother with.”

Luren looked up into the face. The man’s hair was shoulder length and straight, and appeared reddish where the torch lit the edges, but that was the extent of what he could make out. The details were lost to the shadows.

“Refresh my memory,” the kneeling man said, “What’s the name again?”

The jailer floundered with the question. “Name? Uh...Creenon, sire.”

The dark figure rose up and wheeled on the jailer. Luren flinched at the sound of a harsh slap.

“Not your name, idiot!” the man yelled, “What’s the boy’s name?”

“The…the boy?” the jailer snuffled.

Another slap. Another shrill cry.

“You worthless hack,” the familiar voice bellowed, “Get out! Out!”

Luren hid behind his knees. The jailer shuffled out of the cell. He was still whimpering.

The figure squatted before Luren again. “What’s your name boy?” His voice resumed its false gentility. “I’ve been told, but my memory for inconsequential facts is sadly not what it once was.”

Luren squinted up into the shadowy face. He refused to show fear to one who’d doubtlessly exploit it. “Who asks?” he said.

The man laughed. It sounded absurdly musical in the fetid misery of the cell. “Excellent,” the man said, “Even after all this time under such distasteful accommodations, you remain feisty. I admire that.”

Luren didn’t respond.

The man turned slightly and yelled out to the jailer, “Creenon! The torch!”

A grunting response rolled in from the dungeon beyond.

The man turned back to Luren. “How many days have you been my guest now? Five? Six? The time passes so quickly when one is consumed with the glory of planning great events. I’m afraid it leaves little room for the concern over others.”

Luren felt his heart stop. He couldn’t draw a breath. He suddenly understood, and he cursed himself for not realizing it earlier. This was Prae!

The jailer appeared with a torch. His features twisted demonically in the dancing flame as he approached Prae. He stopped immediately behind him. “Here ye be, sire,” he said, “It’s a torch, just like ye’d be asking.”

Prae twisted to look up at him. The jailer fidgeted and averted his eyes.

“Well?” he said to the jailer.

The jailer was practically dancing in fear. “Sire?” he asked.

“What practical good is a torch held behind me?”

The jailer seemed confused by the statement. Then he quickly knelt beside Prae and held the fire above and between them. As he did, Prae’s face flamed to life.

His nose was long and narrow on a thin, angular face. His fine, shoulder length hair glimmered reddish brown in the torchlight. Save for the fine, black lines of face paint around his eyes and an excruciatingly manicured beard, he looked hauntingly similar to Chance.

For the barest instant, Luren felt a false surge of hope. Perhaps it was Chance. Perhaps this was some strange flux of space-time. Perhaps he’d been locked away in some dark dimension of the Wyr Realm where time passed differently than in the mortal world. Perhaps Chance was here to free him.

Prae’s voice parted the gloom like a cleaver. “What would have you looking so perplexed, boy?”

“What?” Luren asked. He didn’t understand.

“What are you staring at?” the man asked as if posing a question with no correct response, “Do you see something in my face that interests you, my dear child?”

“I…I’m not staring,” Luren said.

The face loomed closer. He was grinning. His perfectly straight teeth were as white as hope. “Why, boy,” he whispered, “I declare you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His laughter boiled through the cell.

“What do you want with me?” Luren asked.

“How long has Chance employed you as a tutor?”

Luren’s sweaty hands adjusted the heavy collar at his neck. “Fifteen years. And a half. Since nearly my birth.”

Prae’s eyes slid over to the jailer who cowered on contact. “Fifteen years and nearly a half,” he said to Creenon, “My goodness, where does the time go?”

The jailer grew flustered. He continued to avert his eyes. “I...I don’t know what you mean, sire.”

Prae turned back to Luren. A wicked grin snaked through his beard. “Fifteen years and a half, you say. You’re nearly sixteen years, then, aren’t you? Nearly a man. Well, I imagine you must be quite adept with the Water Caeyl by now, aren’t you? Do you have your stone yet?” He poked a long, jeweled finger into the boy’s chest.

Luren recoiled into the wall.

Prae brought the back of his hand to his mouth and sniggered into it. The tiny gems woven through the ruby cloth of his shirt glittered in the torchlight. Such pretentiousness was the last divide between this one and Chance.

“You must be quite impressive,” the mage continued, “Chance would never stoop to taking on an apprentice who wasn’t immensely gifted. He’s always been desperately arrogant that way. Not that a caeyl as impractical and subservient as a Water Caeyl requires any special degree of ability, of course.”

“You don’t know anything about him,” Luren said.

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

“I imagine he has you spending your days washing his dishes and chopping his wood, am I right?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Prae laughed again. “You’re beginning to sound like my jailer. Perhaps you’d like a position. I may have a vacancy soon.” He snapped a glare over at the jailer who nearly dropped the torch in surprise.

Luren said nothing. It surprised him that he felt a tiny spark of sympathy for the jailer.

Prae leaned closer. “But fifteen years?” he whispered.

“And a half,” Creenon whispered from behind the torch.

Prae laughed at that. “Fifteen years and a half,” he said, “My goodness! He’s being a bit greedy with his stone, wouldn’t you say?”

“He’s not greedy. He’s smart. He knows better than to fracture his caeyl before he needs to. I still have studies to complete.”

“He’s smart? I’d think the wiser wager is he’s afraid.”

“He’s not afraid of anything,” Luren said, “Least of all you.”

Prae’s grin didn’t waver, though the darkness in his eyes seemed to deepen just a bit. “I recall from our youth,” he said, “Chance used to tell me that having an apprentice would be just like having a little slave girl. Someone to do all the work, but share none of the glory. Much like a handmaiden, I would dare to estimate. But you don’t look like a handmaiden.” He laughed at that.

“You’re a liar,” Luren said.

“Me?” Prae said, still laughing, “A liar? I dare say I should know him better than you. You’ve been his slave a mere fifteen years and a half, but I’ve been his brother for two centuries.”

Brother? Luren couldn’t get his breath. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. The madman was just trying to provoke him.

Prae leaned closer. His hawkish eyes burned at Luren from above a lethal smile. “You seem distraught, my boy. Is something bothering you?”

“Chance never...he…he never...”

“He never what, boy? Never told you he had a brother?”

Luren could only look at him. There was nothing he could say. The news was too big. Too terrifying.

Prae glanced over at the jailer and feigned guilt. “Oops,” he said, covering his mouth with a few bejeweled fingers, “I fear I’ve never been much skilled at keeping secrets.”

“I don’t believe you!” Luren said.

“You don’t have to!” Prae growled back at him, “Chance has one brother, and you’re looking at him. He has a sister as well, but I fear I’ve lost sight of her these past decades.”

“It’s not true. You’re not his brother.”

“I am Lord Prae Gnoman, Master Mage of the Fire Caeyl and Keeper of Dragor’s Field and the Southern Realm of Na te’Tula. I’m Chance’s older and far, far wiser brother.”

“I...I don’t believe you,” Luren lied.

“My dear lad! You don’t have to! I’m more than his elder brother. I’m also a far more powerful mage! He should be my apprentice just as you are his. That’s how brightly my flame burns over his.”

“You’re a liar!” Luren yelled up at him.

Prae seized the torch from the jailer and thrust it into Luren’s face. Luren recoiled from the heat. He could smell his hair singeing but refused to submit to it. Let the mage kill him, what difference did it make now? He didn’t care.