Chapter Three

At the steps leading down to his ready room, Caelan found his strength suddenly deserting him. He paused and sagged against the smoke-blackened wall, trying to catch his breath. Another cluster of guards and workers waylaid him, all talking at once. Caelan felt everything blurring, and he panicked. He could not fall; he must not fall. Questions came at him from all sides, but he found he did not have to answer. They were all too busy congratulating each other to care whether he spoke or not.

Then an insolent voice cut across the chatter. “Giant! Ho, there!”

Blinking hard, Caelan managed to rally. With great care, he turned around to face a lanky man wearing the imperial coat of arms on his sleeve.

It was Nilot, head trainer of the emperor’s gladiators.

The others fell silent and stepped back with respectful bows. Many remembered they had work to do and melted away.

“Quite a spectacle you put on,” Nilot said. His dark eyes raked Caelan up and down. “Frankly, I didn’t think you had so much toughness in you. You’ve never fought this way before.”

Caelan was burning up. His legs trembled with weakness. He struggled to hold himself together, aware that this man’s eyes were sharp and unfriendly. Nilot had never spoken to him personally before, but his hostility was plain.

“Who taught you the Dance of Death?” Nilot asked sharply. “That’s an old dueling trick, used only by officers in the Crimson Guard.”

A sense of danger alerted Caelan. He fought off the gathering mists and forced himself to focus on what the man was saying. Insolence seemed the best defense.

“And as such, is it sacred?” Caelan asked with open mockery. He knew Nilot was an army veteran, supposedly much decorated for bravery. “Does a gladiator slave sully this type of swordplay by using it on an enemy of the people?”

Nilot’s thin mouth tightened to a hard line, but he was not deflected. “There’s not a gladiator alive who would know such a move, or how to execute it properly. Who taught it to you?”

“I have an excellent trainer.”

“Orlo?” Nilot snorted. “Excellent for turning third-rate scabs into second-rate fighters. Has your master been giving you special lessons?”

Caelan saw the trap yawning before him, now when it was too late. Inwardly cursing this man, Caelan sought for a quick answer that would be believed. He found nothing. He could not say the truth, that he had joined with a sword and learned its secrets from all the combats it had known. The secret ways of Trau mysticism were feared here.

Yet how could he answer in a way that would protect Prince Tirhin?

“Masters do not have time to teach their slaves the finer secrets of swordplay,” he said as scornfully as possible.

“Oh, that’s a loyal answer.”

Caelan’s gaze snapped to Nilot’s. “What would you have me say?”

“The truth. Did Prince Tirhin teach you that move?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

If insolence would not work, perhaps arrogance would. “Perhaps you did not know that I was born free and of good birth. I have not always worn chains and served the will of others.” Caelan pushed himself forward, praying he would not stagger. “I cannot linger here.”

Nilot blocked his path. “I am not done with you.”

“Caelan!” came an angry shout. “What are you doing standing in this cold? Are you mad? Your muscles will stiffen.”

It was Orlo, coming down the passageway at a furious pace. Caelan had never been so relieved to see the man.

He glanced at Nilot and shrugged. “I must go.”

“But—”

“I must go.”

Nilot reached across him and gripped Caelan by his injured arm. The pain was like a spear point, impaling him. Caelan sucked in a breath, and felt the world turn gray.

“By the gods, I’ll have a straight answer from you yet,” Nilot said angrily. “Tell me the truth! Was it his highness who taught you?”

Caelan gritted his teeth. He wanted to scream from the pain. He knew his face must be as white as paper, but severance still served him. Coldly, he said, “You speak disrespectfully of my master. Shall I defend him, here and now, with my bare hands?”

Nilot’s eyes flickered as though he realized he stood unguarded, face to face with an unchained gladiator. Caelan reeked of sweat and blood. He had just killed in the heat of combat; his temper still ran high enough for him to risk the punishment of death or mutilation for threatening a free man like this. Nilot swallowed, and his grip slackened on Cae-lan’s arm.

At once Caelan yanked free. Glaring, he started to speak but Orlo reached them, hastily interceding.

“Enough, enough,” the trainer said, his eyes darting from Nilot to Caelan. “Nilot, what are you doing, keeping him standing here? For Gault’s sake, let him clean off the gore first and have his wine. There’ll be occasion enough to talk to him tonight.”

Nilot scowled and stepped back. “I think not. There is no reason for me to attend the victory party of the emperor’s opponent.”

Orlo sent him an innocent look. “What a pity. I thought the Madrun was considered everyone’s opponent.”

Nilot’s scowl deepened. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away.

Orlo gestured at Caelan to descend the steps. “Get on with you! I thought you’d have enough sense to get to your bath at once. You can reap your glory later.”

Sighing, Caelan turned in silence and somehow got himself moving down the steps. Orlo flanked him, grumbling and criticizing all the way. He fended off anyone else who attempted to approach them. “Get back! Let the champion pass!”

Leaning closer, Orlo shot Caelan a sideways glance. “What in Murdeth’s name did that snake want with you?”

“Nothing,” Caelan said. “He was angry at the loss.”

“Angry? Him?” Orlo snorted. “Oh, yes, and how innocent you are. You, looking like you meant to tear out his throat. Don’t you have better sense than to threaten a man of his position?”

“He insulted the prince,” Caelan said through his teeth.

Orlo shot him another look, then frowned. “You are a slave,” he whispered hotly, glancing left and right to make sure no one overheard him. “It’s not your place to defend the honor of his imperial highness.”

Caelan shrugged. Now that he had a little distance from the incident with Nilot, he was annoyed with himself. Tirhin was not worth the risk he took. “You’re right, Orlo,” he said meekly. “The prince can defend his own honor. I am a fool.

I have always been a fool. It is likely I will be a fool until I die.”

Orlo’s frown deepened. “I know Nilot. He never does anything without a purpose. Did he make an offer to buy you?”

Caelan snorted, not bothering to answer. There were always men trying to buy him from the prince. Caelan was supposed to be flattered by such offers, but he always found them demeaning and shameful.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Orlo continued. “He will bring an offer from the emperor. Gault, that will be a problem! If the prince refuses to sell you, he runs the risk of offending—”

“Stop worrying,” Caelan said tersely. “Nilot didn’t come to buy me. He wanted to know who taught me the Dance of Death.”

Orlo veered onto that subject immediately like a dog after a bone. “Hah, wouldn’t he just! Wouldn’t we all? You didn’t get it from me.”

“No.”

“And it was a damned stupid thing to try! You—”

“It worked.”

“Oh, yes, it worked, but the risk!”

Caelan’s gaze dropped. “Necessary.”

“You could have killed him several times before you finished him,” Orlo said sternly. “Gods, it was like watching your first season. My heart nearly stopped at the mistakes you made. Besides, have you ever practiced that move? It was invented for bravado by lovelorn officers wanting to duel over their women.”

“It was invented for combat,” Caelan said stubbornly, concentrating on each step. “Later, it was used in duels.”

“Yes, by the officers in the emperor’s Crimson Guard. You had no business using it.”

Caelan threw him a cynical look. “Because I’m a slave.”

“Because you’re not in the Crimson Guard. They’ll be offended. They hold their traditions as high as their honor.”

Caelan frowned. No wonder the prince was displeased with him. Caelan thought he was doing the right thing, but once again he had blundered. It did no good to say he wasn’t versed in military traditions. Neither the prince nor the army was interested in his excuses. Some of Caelan’s anger returned. He hadn’t asked to be involved in this intrigue. He was no good at it. And now he had made things worse.

Someone hailed Orlo from the bottom of the steps, calling out congratulations.

Orlo waved, and swiftly changed the subject with a warning glance at Caelan. “I’ll bet you twenty ducats that putting the Madrun in today was Nilot’s idea. Stupid. If the brute had won, how could they celebrate the victory of an enemy? If he lost, who would care?”

Caelan nodded, conserving his strength against the mists that were blurring everything. He bumped into the wall and had to bite off a groan.

Orlo’s hand gripped his uninjured arm to steady him. “Stiff,” he said with pretend anger while he hastened Caelan past the group eager to offer yet more congratulations. “Too much standing around talking. Time for that massage.”

The moment they were inside Caelan’s ready room, Orlo slammed the door and yelled for the slaves.

Unz appeared. Scrawny and perpetually nervous, he was the youngest.

“Where is everyone?” Orlo demanded, looking around. “Why isn’t the massage table ready? Where’s the bath water?”

Unz bowed. “I’ll get—”

“I’ll flog their hides for this. Where are they?”

“Gone to cash in their wager tokens,” Unz replied nervously.

Orlo’s face turned a dark purple. “Get the water” was all he said, however.

Unz fled.

Orlo kicked a stool over to Caelan. “Sit!”

Caelan dropped heavily onto it. His side began to bleed again; he could feel it warm and wet against his arm. The effort of holding severance was too much. He longed to let go, yet he was afraid to.

“Hurting, are you?” Orlo asked. He tossed his club aside and advanced on Caelan. “I thought I’d never get you safely out of sight. You reckless idiot, I told you to stay out of his reach. Let me see that arm.”

As he spoke, he pulled the cloak from Caelan’s shoulders, then stood there, staring. The cloak slid unnoticed from his fingers. “Merciful Gault,” he whispered. “I thought I saw him stick you, but then you seemed unhurt. I couldn’t get out of the stands sooner to help you.”

“It’s all right,” Caelan said through his teeth. He had never seen Orlo look this pale, this frightened. “I had to provide ... spectacle.”

“You fool,” Orlo said, pressing his fingers gently against Caelan’s side where the trickle of blood was beginning to bubble faster. “You great, hulking fool. When I told you to use every dirty trick, I didn’t mean this.”

Caelan felt suddenly flushed and hotter than ever. He twisted on the stool. “Where’s my bath? It’s too warm in here. I—”

Orlo gripped his shoulder. “Boy!” he bawled at the top of his lungs. “Unz! Bring bandages, quickly!”

The room started spinning around Caelan. He braced his shoulder against Orlo’s side and gripped the bottom of the man’s tunic. “Not so loud. They’ll hear you.”

“Why the devil shouldn’t someone hear?” Orlo said in exasperation. But he lowered his voice. When Unz came running with a handful of gauze strips, he grabbed them from the boy’s hand, knocking some of them to the floor. “Get more! Idiot! Can’t you see he’s bleeding to death?”

Unz stared, his face as white as the bandages, and stammered something incomprehensible.

“Get more bandages. And water. And the healer. We need the healer!”

“No,” Caelan said.

Orlo pressed the gauze to his side, and he flinched at the pain.

“Steady,” Orlo said, but he sounded more desperate than soothing. “Don’t talk. Just stay quiet. Boy! Where are you?”

Unz reappeared with more gauze. “This is all—”

“Never mind. Get the cloak. We’ll bind it around him. Quick, boy. No, I’ll do it. Support him.”

Unz timidly grasped Caelan’s shoulders while Orlo hacked the cloak into long strips and wrapped them around Caelan’s torso. He knotted them with a firmness that made Caelan cry out.

Severance slipped, and he could not hold on any longer. The river of blood escaped him and gushed into the cloth. He could feel his life, his awareness flowing out with it.

“Forget the water. Run for the healer now,” Orlo said while the room swirled and eddied. “Go, boy!”

“No,” Caelan said. He reached out, his hand groping blindly.

Orlo gripped his fingers hard enough to crush them.

“No one to know,” Caelan insisted. “Spoil the victory. Spoil the prince’s ... orders ...”

He couldn’t finish. The room grew white, blurring into shapeless light, then fading, fading until there was only shadow.

“Get the healer,” he heard Orlo say. “Don’t say why. Don’t say anything. Just get him. Run!”

Caelan came drifting back to the pleasant fragrances of balm and honey, herbal scents that reminded him of his childhood safe in E’nonhold. Someone nearby was grinding with a small mortar and pestle, working the old-fashioned way, doing things correctly.

He opened his eyes a fraction, not quite willing to wake up completely yet. There was a fire burning to keep him warm. It cast a ruddy glow across his bed. He listened to the hiss of the embers, a steady singing of flame that seemed to be calling his name.

Wind spirits had called his name once, and nearly killed him when he went to them. There were no wind spirits in Imperia. He wondered if the fire spirits had come here instead.

Restlessly, a little frightened, he turned his head on the pillow, only to have a shadow fall across the firelight. A hand slipped beneath his head and lifted him slightly.

“Drink this,” a voice said.

Caelan sipped the potion, finding its taste bittersweet. The effort exhausted him, but once he was lying down again he found his head felt much clearer.

He gazed up at the healer, but the man’s face remained hidden in shadow, silhouetted against the firelight. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, yet he wasn’t the usual arena healer. Caelan frowned, unable to sort it out.

“These aren’t my quarters,” he said fretfully. His voice sounded weak and hoarse. “Have I been sold?”

“No,” the healer said soothingly. “Rest. Do not talk. Give the potion time to do its work.”

Caelan frowned, but the healer moved out of his line of vision. In growing puzzlement, Caelan stared instead at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a spacious chamber, one that extended well past the circles of light cast by the lamps placed around his bed. He could not see into the shadows, but it was evident that he was lying in a very fine bed carved of exotic woods and covered with linens as fine as gossamer. The coverlet beneath his hand felt smooth and strongly woven, like silk.

Caelan was sweating again, and he felt a wave of weakness flow through his body in a sudden tide. Perhaps this was all a fever-ridden fantasy. In reality he must be lying in his narrow room on his hard bunk. Unz would have kindled a small fire in the brazier to ward off the winter chill. Impe-ria winters were as nothing compared to the deep snows and frozen rivers of Trau, but because of the mildness of the weather, Imperia craftsmen never bothered to make buildings snug and warm. As a result, winters were drafty and miserable indoors.

Sometimes at dawn Caelan would rise and stand outside with his face turned to the north. His nostrils would draw in the scents of frost while his heart ached for the old glacier up beyond the Cascade Mountains. He missed the deep, blanketing silence of the pine forests after a snowfall. He missed the ice coating his eyebrows and eyelashes after a brisk trek out for wood cutting. He missed the rough-coated ponies, sturdy and surefooted, who would toss their white manes and gallop, snorting, across the glacier.

Gentle hands probed his side, and agony speared him, driving back his memories. He stiffened, holding in a cry. Then the pain ebbed quickly, as though it were being drawn from his body.

The healer severed him from the wound, and when the sure hands finally lifted, Caelan felt only a soft tingling sensation in his side. Without looking he knew the wound had closed. His skin there felt too drawn and tight, as though newly grown. The pain did not return. Slowly he let his body sag with relief. He hadn’t realized until now how much he had been fighting to control the pain.

“Drink again,” the healer said. “Then sleep.”

Caelan looked up at him, troubled by something elusive in that soft voice, something he should have recognized. But all of this was like a dream.

“Sleep,” the healer said.

Although he meant to ask a question, Caelan instead shut his eyes, and slept.

 

The next time he awakened, the lamplight was much dimmer around him and the fire had burned down to hissing coals. Several figures stood a short distance from the foot of his bed, arguing in low voices. He recognized the prince’s among them; there was no disguising that crisp, distinctive baritone.

Lifting his hand to rub his eyes, Caelan felt refreshed and clearheaded. He gazed at the fine furnishings around him and realized he must have been brought inside the prince’s own house. This both gratified and disturbed him. Without bothering to sort it out, he tried to lift himself onto his elbow, and found himself as weak as a newborn.

Orlo reached him first. “What are you doing?” he asked sharply. “You are supposed to be resting, sleeping. What kind of potion wears off after only an hour? Are you in pain? You must lie still.”

The discussion between the prince and the healer ended. The prince departed, but the healer came forward, stopping just beyond the lamplight.

From the shadows he spoke: “Have no fear on the champion’s behalf. He does not suffer. All he requires is rest.”

Caelan frowned, his attention caught once again by the healer’s voice. Now, however, he was sufficiently alert to recognize the slightest trace of accent. The healer was a Traulander. Small wonder Caelan had thought he recognized his voice. Now it made sense. It also explained the good, fresh herbs in the healer’s potions and how he had severed the wound. Caelan probed his side with his fingertips. He felt no tenderness, no soreness. The stab wound was gone, as was the cut to his arm. It was excellent work, as good as something his father would have done.

“You are still in pain,” Orlo said in open concern. “Please lie down.”

Caelan shook his head, but allowed himself to be pressed down onto his pillow. This was a stupid time to let his emotions gain control of him.

To change the subject, he said, “His highness sounded angry. Have I—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Orlo said.

But he spoke too quickly.

Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “I missed the victory party, did I not? How long have I lain here?”

“Not long enough,” Orlo said gruffly.

“A day,” the healer replied.

Orlo shot him a glare, then swung his gaze back to Caelan. “Never mind the damned party. It wasn’t important. Neither is tonight’s—”

“The festivities,” Caelan said. “I forgot them.”

He reached for the coverlet, but Orlo’s callused hand gripped his and held it hard.

“No,” Orlo said. “You will not go with him, no matter what he wants. You are not well enough.”

Caelan stared up at the trainer, then threw back the coverlet and sat up. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he shivered lightly in the cool air and wondered if he had the strength to stand.

“Stop this!” Orlo said. “It doesn’t matter whether you go with him or not. This is a trivial thing, not worth your life. Not worth—”

He broke off and stood there scowling. His jaw muscles bunched as though he struggled to hold back words.

“My life is not at risk,” Caelan said gently, although his temper was beginning to fray. He was tired of Orlo’s interference. The trainer was only trying to protect him, but Caelan didn’t want protection. He wanted his freedom, and Prince Tirhin was his only means of getting it. “Already I am much better, thanks to the skilled ministrations of my countryman.”

As he spoke he glanced at the healer, who still kept to the shadows. “I must thank you,” Caelan said. “I—”

The healer bowed and retreated quickly, saying nothing. The door closed silently behind him.

Astonished, Caelan looked at Orlo. “Who was that?” he asked.

Orlo shrugged.

“Why was he in attendance, and not the arena healer?”

“That quack,” Orlo said with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. “What could he do but dither and shake his head? The prince asked for one of the palace healers, and this man came.”

“A Traulander,” Caelan said softly, conscious of a hurt in his heart that had never healed.

“It is said they are the best healers in the empire.”

“Yes. I know.”

How long had it been since he had heard the accent, the particular inflections of vowel and syllable heard only in the north country? He felt his eyes grow gummy and wet, and sternly he pulled himself together. This weakness must be put behind him.

“You are tired,” Orlo said, still watching him. “Please rest. No matter how fancy the healer, it is still old-fashioned rest that makes the best cure.”

“There is not time for rest,” Caelan said, frowning. “And I am well.”

Orlo touched his shoulder gently. “A lie,” he said, but the reproof was mild. “Stop the lies, Caelan. You lie to the world. You lie to the prince. You lie to me. Worst of all, you lie to yourself.”

“I don’t understand.”

Orlo’s gaze never wavered. “I think you do. You threw yourself on the Madrun’s sword as though it was nothing. Stupid or courageous, who can say? But why can’t you throw yourself on the truth?”

Caelan’s temper slipped. “Speak your mind, Orlo. Not these riddles.”

“He won’t free you.”

It was like having the sword pierce his side all over again. Caelan lost his breath and struggled to regain it.

“You are wrong,” he said, his voice weak against the intensity of his emotions. His fist clenched on the coverlet. “Wrong.”

“I have made my share of mistakes,” Orlo said, “enough to know that it is stupid to walk about in blindness. His highness will never free you as long as you are valuable to him. No matter how many times you guard his back when he goes where he should not. You have served him with all your heart and soul. Yesterday you nearly got yourself killed for him, and none of it will avail you.”

“I will be free again,” Caelan said grimly, staring into space. “I have his word.”

Orlo snorted, his square face branded with cynicism. “Oh? You have the word of our kind, honest master. Soon enough there will be betrayal to balance the honey. I have warned you enough, but you never heed warnings, do you?”

Caelan glared at the trainer, hating everything he said. “Careful, Orlo. You’re stepping close to treason.”

“No,” Orlo said. “He is.”

Caelan surged to his feet.

Orlo took two quick steps back, balancing on the balls of his feet, his eyes watchful and wary. “Defend him,” he said in what was almost a taunt. “You always do.”

“It is my duty to defend him,” Caelan said hotly.

“Why? Do you have hopes of becoming his protector when he takes the throne?”

The accusation hit Caelan like a glove of challenge. Caelan’s eyes widened. How much did Orlo know? How much had he overheard? Or was this only speculation?

He was not quick enough to keep his reaction from his face. It was Orlo’s turn to stare with widened eyes.

“Great Gault,” he breathed, taking yet another step back from Caelan. “So he has promised you that.”

Caelan felt stripped and vulnerable. To deny it would be useless, yet he could not confirm it either without condemning himself. He said nothing.

Orlo frowned and slowly shook his head. “You great fool,” he said at last, pity in his voice. “Can’t you see he is—”

“He does not use me,” Caelan broke in hotly. “You understand nothing of this matter. Nothing!”

“No wonder you pulled the Madrun’s sword into your side. With that incentive, what man would not take tremendous risks?” Orlo glanced sharply at Caelan. “But can’t you see that he is jealous of you?”

Caelan’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Jealous!”

“Whose name were they screaming yesterday?”

“But he is the prince.”

“And you have the popularity,” Orlo said with scorn. Glancing at the door, he kept his voice low. “When you ride through the streets at the prince’s side, cheers from the populace are guaranteed. He can pretend the cheers are for him. It sends a message to the emperor, does it not? But inside, the prince knows the truth. His popularity is purchased, and at the crux it will not hold.”

“Take care, Orlo,” Caelan said in warning.

“No, you take care. Prince Tirhin is a desperate man, and I tell you to watch yourself. When you cease to be of use, he will discard you as he does all his worn-out possessions.”

Caelan’s chin lifted with dignity. “I have his word.”

Without warning Orlo closed the distance between them and gripped Caelan’s shoulder hard. “And what is the worth of a promise made to a slave?” he snarled. “Nothing! Nothing at all.” He gave Caelan a shake and released him. “He doesn’t see you as a man. You belong to him as his dog belongs to him. As that chair over there belongs to him. He owes you nothing, do you hear? No matter what you do for him, there is no obligation from him in return.”

Caelan sighed and stopped listening. Orlo held some ancient grudge against Tirhin that he never discussed. For Caelan’s sake, he had returned to the prince’s employ, but he was never comfortable in Tirhin’s presence. And when the prince was out of earshot, Orlo could be full of venom and paranoia, just as he was now. Caelan felt too tired to pay attention to any of it.

“Let me relay this to you, although Gault knows why I bother,” Orlo said. “Since yesterday, has the prince been a man happy and carefree? You won a tremendous victory on his behalf. He has every reason to celebrate, yet beneath the smiles and the charm there is anger. All the anger that was present before the contest. Did you not see it?”

“Yes,” Caelan said reluctantly. “Angry, but hiding it.”

“Do you know why he’s so angry? Why he’s ridden three horses into the ground and broken their wind in the last week? Why he’s taken to staying out all hours of the night? Why he’s so often in the company of that creature Sien?”

Caelan thought of the bizarre meeting he’d had with the prince and Lord Sien. Hiding a shiver, he said nothing.

“It is the coronation,” Orlo said, looking at Caelan as though he had just failed an examination. “His temper gets more foul with every passing day of the festivities. The empress threatens his position, and if you’re wise you’ll avoid getting caught up the middle of this family’s conflicts. No matter what he promises you.”

Caelan hated politics. He hated court intrigue. He hated all the gossip conducted by people who weren’t directly involved.

“The imperial family’s problems are none of your business,” he said coldly.

Orlo flushed, and he glared at Caelan with his eyes narrowed. “Let me tell you something. Years ago, when Tirhin was much younger, and much more impetuous, he tried to rally the imperial army around him. He intended to bring off a coup d’etat. And I was at his side.”

Caelan rolled his eyes and turned away. “I don’t want to hear this.”

Orlo gripped his arm and pulled him back. “You will listen,” he said angrily. “You must!”

Caelan shook him off, and found himself swaying weakly with the effort. “Why?” he shouted. “Why should I listen to this parable of yours? I have no need of lessons—”

“I committed treason for his highness,” Orlo said bleakly, his eyes pinpoints of cold.

“What?” Caelan said in disbelief. “When?”

“Years ago. I was young and hotheaded. I was impatient for change. I had just been passed over for promotion into the Imperial Guard for the second time.” His mouth twisted with old bitterness. “My family wasn’t good enough. Simple country farmers, with the stink of manure on their shoes. It didn’t matter how good a soldier I was or how ably I served. I wasn’t the right sort for the elite Crimson.”

Caelan looked at him, at his stocky shoulders and bullish neck and square face, and knew all about class and status. He thought of his own birth and how he had been raised in Trau. He had resented being the son of a famous and esteemed father. How spoiled he had been. How disdainfully he had taken so much for granted.

For the first time, Orlo was baring his soul. Caelan glanced at the door, wishing he could escape this. He had no desire to hear Orlo’s secrets, not now, not like this. But when he met Orlo’s eyes, he knew there was no leaving.

“What treason did you commit?” Caelan asked.

Orlo’s eyes were on fire. His face contorted with old memories and his hand groped instinctively for the dagger in his belt. “I killed General Solon, the Lord Commander of the army,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “At Tirhin’s order, and in cold blood. The man was defenseless, asleep in his own quarters. I crept in, and stabbed him in the heart.”

Orlo’s eyes flinched, and a tide of red colored his face. “I stood over him in the lamplight, this general who had denied me my dream because of tradition. I had never met him before, never spoken to him, never been addressed by him. Had he been awake, he would not have recognized me. He did not know of my existence, and I took his life.”

Orlo drew his dagger and held it aloft so that its blade reflected the ruddy dance of firelight. “This is the weapon. I carry it as my conscience, that I may never forget the thud of impact, the heat of his blood, or the soft sigh of death that issued from his lips. This knife is my mark of shame.”

He fell silent, lost in his own tormented thoughts, turning the knife over and over in his big, callused hands. No sound disturbed the quiet.

Watching him, Caelan had no words. He understood revenge. And although he had never killed in cold blood, he had thought of it. There had been many sleepless nights in his bunk, thinking of Thyzarene raiders and how to torture them into hell.

Finally Orlo seemed to come to himself. Still staring at the dagger in his hands, he said, “I might have burned over the injustice for years, without acting, but the prince gave me the means. He bribed the door guards and obtained a way for me to enter the man’s house. He promised me leadership in the army he would reorganize.”

Orlo snorted and sheathed the dagger. “For fledgling conspirators, we were lucky. The only part of the plan to succeed was mine. No one else carried out their orders. In the hue and cry over the unsolved murder of the Lord Commander, the prince’s plans fell apart. His supporters lost courage, and he departed for the border to fight the Madruns.”

“And you?” Caelan prompted.

“I barely escaped with my life and hid for days, terrified of arrest. His highness abandoned me.”

“But he—”

“Don’t defend him!” Orlo snapped. “By the gods, you will not find excuses for him in this.”

“You weren’t caught,” Caelan pointed out. “Did he not have you protected?”

“No. He was long gone by then, anxious to cover his trail. I spent a year in hiding, skulking around the provinces, until I was caught for army desertion and flogged. I spun a believable tale. I wasn’t connected to the murder. At the end of my term, I didn’t re-enlist. Instead, I took employment in a run-down gladiatorial arena out in Sarmina. That led to a better job in a bigger town with a bigger arena. Finally I returned to lmperia.”

“And the prince made you one of his trainers.”

Orlo’s expression filled with contempt. “The prince had nothing to do with it. I gained the job on my own.”

“But you trained me. You trained his other fighters.”

“I worked for the public arena,” Orlo said coldly. “When the prince was informed of my skills, he came to interview me for his service.”

“And he had forgotten you,” Caelan guessed.

Orlo’s mouth twisted. “You love a tale, don’t you, boy? No, he had not forgotten me. Recognition lay in his eyes the moment we looked at each other. He was shocked and cautious, but he knew I could never denounce him without destroying myself. I took his money to train occasional fighters for him, but I did not reenter his service until you came.”

Caelan stared at this man, who had once been his enemy and who had slowly become a friend. To see Orlo so vulnerable, so open, disturbed Caelan. He understood now the cynicism and bitterness, and most of all, the distrust.

“Why did you help me?” he asked now. He had tried to ask before, but Orlo would never give him an answer. “Why do this for me? Why trust me now with your secret?”

Orlo frowned and finally looked away. Something helpless and bewildered lay in his face. “I—I don’t know,” he said at last. “I cannot explain why I should care what befalls you. But. . . Ah, gods, what lies in a man, that he can convince others to help him? Why do the gods give one man qualities that they deny to others? Why have you succeeded in the arena beyond anyone else? How have you survived, and how have you kept your spirit that will not be tamed? What makes you different and unique?”

His expression deepened into a scowl. Suddenly he looked angry and embarrassed. “I’m a fool,” he said gruffly.

Caelan was touched. He reached out, but Orlo flinched away from his hand.

“Why,” Orlo asked heavily, “did you have me train you?”

“Because you’re the best trainer in Imperia. You could keep me alive.”

“No. I meant, why ask for me when you have never heeded anything I’ve said to you?”

“I heed you when what you say is useful,” Caelan retorted, annoyed again. “Otherwise, I follow my own judgment.”

Orlo’s gaze dropped to Caelan’s wounded side. To the side that was now healed by a mysterious process that Orlo, in his fear of foreign religions and ways, probably didn’t understand.

“Thank you for your trust,” Caelan said. “I will not betray your confidence.”

Orlo shot him a look of despair mingled with exasperation. “You will not learn from it either.”

Caelan had no answer.

“You will continue to follow him,” Orlo said bitterly. “You great, stubborn lout. You cannot be taught. You cannot be shown. You cannot be warned. Always you will do things your own way.”

“My way works best for me,” Caelan said softly. “All my life others have tried to shape me to their will. I cannot do that.”

“Then he will destroy you,” Orlo said. “Perhaps he will even get you killed. Be damned, then,” he muttered, and flung himself out.