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Prologue
Why didn't they just kill him and have it over with?
He had never liked waiting. Not even now while he waited to be executed.
He sat with his back against the cold stone wall and tapped his fingers impatiently on the clammy floor. He ignored the other prisoners. They were just shadows in the thin light from the single brand set in the wall beyond the barred door. If his impatience disturbed them, they would not argue about it. In the barbaric world beneath the Tiria's palace, he had carved out a niche with his bare hands. He was not afraid to kill to keep what was his, and they knew it.
Hunger rumbled in his gut. A grim smile twisted across his lips. Why should those above bother to feed those who were already dead in the eyes of Gayomian law? The Tiria would never be so wasteful. She had proven her stifling government's efficiency by condemning him to death swiftly.
Since the travesty of his trial, he had rotted in this hole that could have come from the depths of a dreamsinger's madness. Once he had yearned to believe that this was just a nightmare, but it was real. The deprivation, the suffering, the death--it all was real. Too real. The warmth of sunshine on his face was like the memory of a half-forgotten dream. And the sweet song of the wind through the fragrant pine--
He almost laughed. The prison reeked of human waste and forgotten corpses.
He wiggled his bare feet, ignoring the manacles rattling around his ankles. So far, he had been lucky. He had not lost any toes to decay. Not that that would be important when he was shorter by a head.
He rubbed his nape. It was said there was little pain when a sword was driventhrough the neck, but then again, no one had survived to tell the tale. He had no fear of death. If the choice was that or waiting here until he ceded himself to madness, he would rather die.
Yet, he needed to live long enough to discover who had betrayed him to the Tiria. One of his own had used him to gain favor with that despot, for Gayome's leader wanted control of the northern woods.
Footsteps resounded toward the cell. He looked up in curiosity. No one had come since he was tossed in this cell days ago. Again his stomach grumbled, but he disregarded it. He was not weakened by hunger ... or not too much.
A moan came from the dusky corner. The fools! They could not halt the death due to be served to them on the cold steel of the Tiria's brutality.
Light strengthened. The guards were afraid of the dark that had been his ally before he was tricked into the Tiria's bloody hands. He rose. The chains holding him to the wall grew as taut as his fists when he faced the door. He smiled when a key clattered in the lock. Let them see that he would meet his end with pride.
The glare of a torch fought its way into the ebony cell and flickered off the guard's funereal uniform of black and red. She was one of the Tiria's feared death warriors.
"Bow your head," the guard ordered.
He did not obey.
"The Tiria (May she live forever!) has remembered that you are taking up space in her prison." She stepped through the door. Her fingers were steady on the hilt of her broadsword, but her knuckles bleached.
Was she frightened of a manacled man?
The guard was right to be scared, for she knew he could kill her before another breath was drawn. However, with the chains on his wrists and legs, he would be no match for the rest of the guards. If they struck his bonds ... There was no use thinking of the impossible, because it might blind him to the possible.
"I should have guessed that, sooner or later, she'd get a taste for blood and think of mine." His smile broadened as he added, "What are you waiting for? I've heard that she doesn't like to wait to watch her enemies' heads roll."
"Beheaded?" The guard wheezed a laugh. "You have angered her Supreme Graciousness more than you guessed. The Tiria (May she live forever!) has decreed that you be sent to the thrall-games."
His smile did not waver. He watched the guards' uneasy expressions. No doubt, they thought him mad with prison fever. Any sane man would react with horror at being delivered to the vassal city of Teles. The residents there enjoyed viewing men in a battle to the death. It was not a quick way to die, but, in his opinion, it was far better than being left to molder in a dank cell.
"I'll have to remember to thank the Tiria--May she suffer in the dreamless depths forever--for her consideration."
A young guard raised her sword and muttered a curse. He laughed at such obsessive loyalty. Only an idiot would submerge her will and thoughts to the Tiria. When the leader of the guards hissed a warning, he was surprised it was aimed at the other guard. Perhaps he was not the only one who could see corruption at the heart of the Tiria's rule.
He held out his arms compliantly as a guard edged around him to unhook him from the wall. Snarling orders at the disheartened wretches at the back of the cell, the guard pushed him toward the door. The guard was wasting her breath. The drudges did not have a spark of life left. The Tiria had won their souls before taking their heads.
The three guards raised their swords, but he turned to the woman relocking the cell door. "Do we leave today?"
"In a hurry to join the thrall-games?"
"A change of scenery would be nice."
"Come along. No tricks."
"Nothing up my sleeve." He moved his elbows to shake the tatters of his tunic sleeves.
"Silence."
When the guard backed away, keeping her sword between them, he laughed. The clink of the chains about his wrists and ankles squelched his amusement. Being in prison had not been as humiliating as being chained like a beast.
It was only temporary. When they reached Teles, which should not take more than a nineday, his shackles would be removed. No man had been forced into the thrall-games while manacled. Of course, anything was possible in that evil city. It mirrored the perversions birthed here in the Tiria's private compound. There were many miles between here and Teles and many opportunities to avoid the fate issued to him by the Tiria.
Muscles not used in months protested as he climbed the steep, narrow stairs. The guards jeered at his wobbly steps. Cursing them silently, he kept his head high. None of his family had served the Tiria. He would not do so now by offering entertainment for her witless warriors.
He emerged into the thin sunshine. His eyes, that had become accustomed to the dark, burned. He halted, rubbing his fingers through his beard. Was it still red, or had it turned as white as a bug crawling from beneath a stone?
Struggling to see, he discovered a crowd congregating in the main courtyard of the Tiria's compound. Others wore chains, so he was not the only one being sent to Teles. That surprised him. Why would the Tiria be making such a generous gesture to the city that had been subservient to her rule since the Beginnings? She must want something, and she was buying it with these lives.
Snow was heaped around the market booths and the wall marking the Tiria's private quarters. It had been the peak of summer when he was sent to that hole. Six months was a long time for a prisoner to remain under the earth. Perhaps the Tiria was not as efficient as he had believed, or, he thought with a smile, she had other, more pressing issues on her mind. The people of the northern woods could not be the only ones chafing beneath her cruel persecution.
Were they still free? What had happened since he had last seen the sun? The city was unchanged. Its high stone walls and spiraling towers still separated it from the lands the Tiria ruled. The booths in the marketplace were open for business, but extra guards watched from the walls and prowled the courtyard. The people in the market skulked away from the warriors.
Fear.
It stank in the wintry sunshine like droppings in a stableyard. It hummed beneath the voices in the marketplace. The Tiria had always ruled by fear, but this was something else. Something more. He could not pinpoint it, but a subtle transformation had taken place. He must find out what it was. Then he would turn it to his advantage.
His smile returned as he saw a decorated litter at the front of what looked like a long procession. The Tiria must have a reason for courting Teles with this show of glitter and strength. That might mean a threat to her power. Such circumstances could be bent to his favor.
"Walk, thrall," grumbled his guard.
He thought of protesting, but not now. Trying to escape while ringed by the Tiria's guards would be futile--or fatal.
His time would come. He would be free again. Then he would have his revenge. The Tiria would rue the day she had ordered Durgan Ketassian to the thrall-games.
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