The Second God (38 page)

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Perhaps I squeaked in terror, for Yannassia was at my side, brushing aside nobles and high-ranking guests.

“What is it? What has happened? Tell me the worst.”

“Don’t know yet,” I managed to get out.

“Is it Arran?”

I nodded. Looking through his eyes, I saw that he was in a dark, narrow corridor. Ahead, a torch flickered, and I could see the backs of several guards walking ahead of him. Behind, heavy footfalls suggested several more, with another torch, judging by the shadows. It was hard to see much, because Arran was blinking rapidly, and then he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the brightness of the torches.

Seeing his surroundings steadied me. I had no idea what these people had planned, but would they keep him locked up for so long and then execute him? Especially when no one had yet moved against his captors. I thought furiously.
“Um… maybe it’s an interview?”
I said.
“Trying to get information from you, maybe.”

His fear receded, replaced by a degree of optimism.
“Oh, you think so? That makes sense. Or just a flogging, or something.”

The calmness with which he spoke wrung my heart. My poor Arran! Floggings and interrogations and whatever else these savages could dream up, and then, in time, pieces of him hacked off. Although they would have trouble with that, I kept reminding myself. He was hard to hurt now.

They were climbing stairs, bare stone so that the sounds of scuffing boots and creaking leather echoed. Arran moved so slowly that the guards ahead of him began to leave him behind. A wider corridor, still bare stone, and more stairs, up and up and up. I lost count of the number of flights. Arran began to flag, weakened by poor food and lack of exercise, no doubt.

Another corridor, much the same except laid with woven matting. A door held open by one of the guards, his face impassive. Arran followed the other guards through into a long, narrow room, with no furnishings except a small table and four wooden chairs. Then an inner door, and beyond that a different world altogether.

“Drina? Are you watching this? What do you think this place is?”

It looked like a room in a remote inn. Plain wooden furniture, simple matting, painted walls. At one end of the room, a table with a settle and a couple of chairs. At the other, a bed low to the ground. A couple of doors in the far wall – a water bucket room, perhaps, and a closet. The windows had shutters, but no curtains. And bars across them. There was a smell of fresh paint and sawdust. It looked to me like a new, improved prison cell, but I didn’t want to raise Arran’s hopes too much. It might still be no more than an interrogation room.

“I don’t know,”
I said.
“Let’s wait and see what they do.”

Only a couple of guards had gone in with Arran. Now one of them beckoned him towards one of the two doors in the further wall. Opening it, I caught a glimpse of shelves. A closet, then, and the shelves were stacked with neat piles of clothes. The guard waved an arm as if to say, “Look at all this.” He said nothing, though, not realising that Arran would understand him.

Then the other room, and it was a bathing room, with a small water bucket room beyond. The guard opened valves above the bathing tub and hot water gushed out, filling the room with steam, then he pointed first to Arran and then to the tub. Arran laughed out loud.

“Drina? You see this? I am getting to bathe. At last!”

“Thank you!” he said to the guard. “Thank you very much.”

The guards disappeared and a door slammed. Arran checked the main room. Empty.

“They have gone. Is this where I am to live now? Never mind. Even if it is only temporary, this is wonderful. Hot water, clean clothes – I shall enjoy it. No blade to shave with, but I suppose nothing is perfect.”

“Remember that there may be hidden peepholes in the walls,”
I said, mindful of the smell of sawdust.
“They could be watching you at any time.”
Then I had a thought that made my heart race.
“Is there a mirror?”

“On the wall there. Why?”

“I should like to see your face.”

“Oh. Oh, sweetheart.”
Grief washed through his mind, and for a moment he didn’t speak, busying himself with the water in the tub, adjusting the valves. Then, very quietly, he said,
“The mirror is misted up – from the steam. Maybe another time?”

“Of course. Enjoy your bath.”

When I became aware of my surroundings again, the first thing I saw was Yannassia’s anxious face. She had managed to get me out of the assembly chamber, for we were standing in a small ante-room, with only Torthran and the bodyguards.

“He’s fine, he’s fine, it’s all right,” I babbled, relief overwhelming me. “They’ve moved him to a new room, with windows and a bathing tub.”

“Oh.” Her expression lightened, but with a continuing hint of anxiety. “That is good – I think? They would not bother if…”

“If they were planning something worse? No. But I wonder why they kept him in that dark place for so long, and now they’re treating him almost like a guest.”

“Softening him up,” Torthran said. “He should take care, especially if any of the guards try to befriend him.”

“That’s a good point,” I said. “When did you get so cynical, Torthran?”

“I have a brother in the Elite specialists. This is what they are taught to do with a prisoner – treat him badly, to see if he breaks that way. If not, switch to better treatment and try to befriend him.”

“Long ago, before we were civilised, we tortured people to break them,” I said.

“And then they would tell you whatever you want to hear, just to make the pain go away,” Torthran said. “We stopped using torture because it was ineffective, not because we chose to be civilised.”

“Are we civilised?” I murmured, and then laughed at the speed with which Yannassia’s brows snapped together. I raised my hands in surrender. “All right, all right, that is a discussion for another time, when we have the leisure to be philosophical. I will warn Arran to be on his guard. I know well enough how vulnerable he might be to a little flattery and gentle treatment.”

“Anyone would be, in his situation,” Yannassia said. “But he knows all our plans for the coming campaign.”

“No, he knows nothing,” I said.

“But he watches through your eyes, does he not?”

“He could do, but we agreed that he wouldn’t during the war planning meetings. The less he knows the better.”

“Ah.” Her eyes gleamed. “Excellent. And I suppose he can always switch to Ly’s head if he needs to.”

“Which would give him a fine view of treetops and bare hills,” I snapped.

Yannassia patted my hand in sympathy. “He will be back soon, I have no doubt.”

I wished I could be so sure.

~~~~~

Barely two hours later, Arran’s voice was in my head again.
“Drina? I have company.”

I was making my way to the planning room, but I ducked into a side room to be private while I looked through Arran’s eyes. I knew at once that we were in trouble. The company was not a guard or even one of the golden army, but the Dragon God himself. Trimon. And he was alone.

“See if you can find out something about him,”
I said.
“But be very careful what you say, my love. Very, very careful.”

“I know.”
But he sounded so miserable, I wanted to hug him. My poor Arran, the least astute in diplomacy of all Yannassia’s extensive family, and it had never been more important for him to be on his guard. I hoped he knew no vital details of the planned spring campaign, but he knew there was to be one, and he probably knew the date, too, and we’d talked often enough of what would need to be done. I could only trust him not to give too much away.

Trimon was dressed exactly as we’d seen him before, like a guard or a soldier, in what looked like a well-fitted, good quality uniform. And yet, if it was a uniform, it wasn’t the same as that of the guards who watched Arran, and nothing at all like the golden armour of his troops. Perhaps he was a mercenary of some sort, or had been in some kind of militia in the Karningplain.

He smiled at Arran, quite relaxed. “Good afternoon. Arran, isn’t it? Shall we sit at the table and have a little chat? Did you enjoy your meal?”

“Yes, thank you. It was nice to have meat for a change.”

“And the apartment? You like it?”

“It is a great improvement,” Arran said with feeling.

Trimon laughed, a pleasant rumble. “I’ve been away at Dellonar for a while, so I didn’t realise you were still in the black cell. As soon as I got back, I gave instructions for this room to be made ready for you.”

“I appreciate it very much.”

“Now, then…” Trimon had a small box under one arm, which he rested on the table. Lifting the lid, he pulled out a glass sphere sitting on a wooden plinth. “Have you ever seen one of these before?”

“No. It is… very pretty.” Arran was puzzled, and so was I. What trick was this?

“Pretty?” Trimon gave a bark of laughter. “It is pretty, yes. Just now it’s completely clear but if you put your hand on it, it will change colour inside.”

“Really? I should like to see that.”

Another burst of laughter. “And so you shall, so you shall. Just rest your hand on it and keep it there until the colour stops changing.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Very well.” Before I could urge him to be cautious, Arran slapped the palm of his hand onto the top of the ball. At once it lit up with a yellowy glow. “Oh, that is very clever!” he said in delight. The colour changed to red, then green, and then an orangey-red, before shifting to a very dark grey. For a time it pulsed lighter and darker, before it burst into an explosion of orange, followed by a sparkling light grey that twinkled like stars. Gradually it settled back to dark grey, and became steady. Arran broke into laughter. “What a good trick! How does it do that?”

But Trimon’s eyes were wide with surprise. “I’ve never seen it do that before,” he muttered. “You must be very special.”

Arran laughed again. “Me? No.”

“Hmpf. You may remove your hand now. Well. That was unexpected, but the colours are not important. What matters is that if you lie to me, the ball will turn blue.”

“Oh, magic. I get it.”

“Magic? I don’t know. Perhaps it is, or perhaps it’s just something we don’t understand. It works, that’s all I need to know. So tell me a lie, and you can see for yourself.”

“What sort of lie?”

“Anything. Your age, for instance. How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Arran said without hesitation. The glass sphere flared a deep blue. “Oh! That is ingenious.”

“Why seventeen?”

“That was the year I won the tournament.”

Trimon smiled. “Ah. I won my first at thirteen. Sword? Bow? Spear? Pike?”

“Sword. Yourself?”

“Bow.” But a shadow crossed his face, and he folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Enough idle talk. We understand each other. If you lie, I will know it. So let us have some wine, and you can tell me all about yourself.” He clapped his hands, and although Arran didn’t turn his head, I heard the door open and a guard came in, clearly by pre-arrangement, with a flask and two beakers. Trimon poured wine into both and slid one across the table to Arran.

“Not too much wine,”
I whispered, realising even as I did so how foolish it was to lower my voice when only Arran could hear me.

“I know,”
he said.
“Stop worrying.”
There was affection in his mind, but also a strange excitement. He was enjoying this game with Trimon. That made me fret even more. He was too relaxed, too unsuspicious.

“Tell me your name first,” Trimon said.

“Arran. Oh, my full name? Arran abre Teynia fen Hextor.”

“And what does all that mean?”

“Hextor is the family name. The middle part means
‘from the noble line of’
. Teynia is the nobility part. Well, minor nobility.”

“So you really are a lord? Tell me about your minor nobility family.”

“My father was Bai-Kellonor at Hexmore – heir to a ruler in a very small town in the far north of Bennamore. That was years ago. He is nothing important now. My mother… is dead. I have three brothers and two sisters, all much older than me. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Irrelevant,” Trimon snapped. “Why do you ask about me?” His tone made my heart turn over in fear. This was a dangerous man to anger.

But Arran was unruffled. “You interest me. A man with god-like abilities who leads a great army, the ruler of a vast land, yet you wear no silk or gold, you are not followed around by hordes of fawning lackeys. You are a powerful leader, yet still humble.” I was silent, admiring the deftness of his flattery. “And from the way you dress, you are a plain soldier, like me,” he went on. “Still fit enough to fight, too. I respect that.”

An impressively skilled answer. Where had he learned such tactics?