Chapter Five

At twilight the summons came, brought by a timid servant who also carried new clothing and bathing water. Thankful at last for something to do, Caelan put on the finery. Admiring his reflection in the looking glass, he smoothed the tunic of pale brown silk. It fit him perfectly. Tirhin's coat of arms was embroidered on the left sleeve; otherwise, Caelan might have passed for a courtier. He sleeked back his blond hair into a neat braid and spent a moment fingering his amulet bag concealed at his throat.

He desperately needed consolation, and he sent a little prayer to the memory of his dead sister Lea to help him find some inner peace. She had been little and sweet, her wealth of golden curls as bright as sunshine, her heart pure goodness. He still grieved for her, more than for any of the others. After his encounter with Agel today, Caelan missed her even more intensely.

And Orlo still had not returned, not even to check on his health. It was possible the trainer would not come back at all. He was a free man, and if he chose to leave the prince’s service, he could. Caelan sighed. He did not even know what terms he stood on with the prince at present. He had sent word to his master that he was well enough to resume his duties of attendance. His highness had not replied, other than to give him this curt summons.

There came a soft tapping on the door. “It is time,” the servant said.

Anxious not to keep the prince waiting, Caelan gathered up his cloak and hurried out. The hours of rest following Agel’s departure had done wonders. Caelan felt physically strong and complete once more. His side gave him no more than an occasional twinge, provided he did not overexert himself. Yet despite that, he felt grim and old inside. He tried telling himself that depression was useless and that he must not let these people affect him so profoundly, yet it was hard to feel positive when his emotions had been ruthlessly pounded. He kept asking himself if he could have done better, if he could have done differently. Would it have mattered?

The sun was melting into a golden stain on the horizon as he emerged through the main entry of the prince’s house, descended a flight of grand steps flanked by life-sized stone dragons, and halted under the portico. Grooms stood nearby with saddled horses. Caelan counted them, recognizing coats of arms on many of the saddle cloths. The prince and his entourage had not yet appeared.

Catching his breath, Caelan was glad to be here ahead of his master. He swore to himself that Tirhin would find no fault with him tonight.

Caelan gazed out toward the sunset and inhaled the fragrant air. Prince Tirhin’s house was a miniature palace, and the gardens around it had been expertly designed to please the senses. Normally had Caelan found himself standing here at ease, he would have let himself pretend he was the master of his surroundings. The sidelong glances of respect and awe from the house servants as they hurried past on myriad tasks could also be woven into the fantasy. Suppose they were his servants. Suppose the grooms were holding his horses saddled and ready. Suppose he were a free man, master of himself, successful, and at ease.

But tonight the fantasy did not come readily. He was not in the mood for make-believe.

A bargain was a bargain. The prince had ordered Caelan to win, and Caelan had. The prince wanted Caelan to appear at tonight’s parties, healthy and whole. Caelan was here.

But he had done enough. He was tired, tired to his very bones and beyond, of slaying men for no purpose. As a boy he had dreamed of being a soldier who fought for the glory of the empire. Never in his wildest imagining had he believed he would ever end up in exotic, decadent Imperia, killing efficiently and ruthlessly almost daily to provide public entertainment. Agel was right to call it a moral violation, and whenever he allowed himself to think of it as such, Caelan felt sickened to his core. But even worse, he feared his own skills. He feared how good he had become, how attuned he was to his weapons, how easily his body quickened to the task before him. He liked the risk and challenge of combat. He thrived on it, and that—more than anything else—frightened him.

Laughter from within the house made the grooms put away their dice game and straighten to attention. The horses snorted and pawed. Caelan smoothed a wrinkle from his tunic and flung his cloak over one shoulder.

Emerging from the house, the prince came down the steps with about six of his friends in tow. All were dressed in sumptuous velvet tunics that were padded and lined with rich silks. Tirhin wore his distinctive blue, with a fashionable velvet cap set at a jaunty angle on his dark head. He was adjusting the belt of his dueling sword as he came. To Caelan’s eyes, the sword was a strange-looking weapon, quite long but scarcely thicker than a knitting needle. It was designed for thrusting only, no edge to it at all. One stroke of a broadsword would shatter it. Caelan considered it an overly dainty weapon, useless and silly. Still, all the fashionable courtiers wore them now.

“Caelan, there you are,” the prince called out. “Attend me.”

Startled from his thoughts, Caelan realized he was staring like a half-wit. The prince had stopped partway down the steps and stood waiting. Caelan hastened to him and bowed low.

The prince gestured for his friends to go on, and waited until they were under the portico at the foot of the steps before he returned his attention to Caelan.

Only then did the prince allow his pleasant expression to become grim. He looked Caelan up and down. “That will do. The clothes fit better than I expected.”

“They are very fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Heed me. I have your instructions for the evening,” the prince said in a low, curt tone.

Caelan knew his moods well. This was a dark one. With his heart sinking, he bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”

“We shall attend several parties, but Lady Sivee’s is the important one. When we arrive there, do not stay close to my side. Circulate among the guests. Go and come as you please.”

Caelan blinked in surprise. This was indeed a treat and a privilege, but he did not understand why the prince looked so somber. “Thank you, sir.”

“I want you to be visible among the guests. Don’t go off and hide yourself the way you usually do. Stand about and talk to whoever will give you permission.”

Caelan frowned slightly. “Usually those are men wanting to make offers to buy me.”

“I don’t care what you discuss or what you do, as long as it’s within permissible bounds.”

“No, sir.” Caelan hesitated a moment, then seized his courage. “Sir, I wish to—”

“No questions now. We’re late already.” The prince swung away, pulling on his gloves. Then he paused and sent Caelan a hard look. “You are well? Up to this excursion?”

“Quite well, sir.”

The prince nodded. “The emperor’s healer is new at his post, I understand. A stiff-necked Traulander like yourself. Still, they are the best healers in the empire. I trust he was satisfactory?”

Caelan felt his face go stiff. “Yes, sir. Quite satisfactory. Also, may I please ask forgiveness for not being able to attend your highness last night?”

The prince frowned. “The last thing I want from you is phony courtier pleasantries. You could not attend me because you were near death. All because of your exhibition of audacity and bravado which has offended the Imperial Guard, and possibly alienated some I may need to rely on most.”

The rebuke stung. Caelan dropped his gaze in humiliation. “Yes, sir.”

Tirhin’s eyes were dark and stony. “I did not order you to kill yourself, or to let yourself be killed.”

Caelan swallowed. “No, sir.”

“You are a reckless fool. You could have cost me—” The prince broke off and slapped his palm with his gloves. “But you did not. It has worked, I think. Thus far, at least. And because there is a rumor that you are dead, your appearance tonight should be precisely the type of distraction I want.”

“Distraction?”

“Enjoy yourself, Giant,” the prince said, ignoring his puzzled question. “Take pride in the accolades that will be thrown your way. You’ve earned the attention.”

As praise it was much less than usual, hardly anything. Yet it seemed odd coming after the prince’s sharp reprimand. More puzzled than ever, Caelan wondered at the manipulative game his master was playing. Only one thing seemed clear; the reward Caelan had hoped for would apparently not be forthcoming.

Anger surged into his throat like hot bile. Furiously, Caelan struggled to block it. If he forgot himself and lost his temper now, he would find his head on a wall spike before morning. With all his might, he fought back resentment. He had made a mistake, and this was his master’s way of punishing him.

Orlo had been right. A promise made to a slave wasn’t binding.

Trembling started in the pit of Caelan’s stomach and traveled up. Clenching his fists at his side, he swallowed hard and knew he had to control himself. He mustn’t think about it now. If he was to get through this evening, then he could not feel and he could not think. There would be time later tonight, after he was finally dismissed from his duties, when he could decide what to do.

A shout from the courtiers at the bottom of the steps caught Tirhin’s attention. A smile of acknowledgment appeared on his face, but there was nothing jovial in it.

“Come, then,” the prince said and walked on.

Silently, Caelan followed. His eyes felt hot in the coldness of his face. His gaze burned into the prince’s spine. How he would like to seize this handsome, privileged man by the neck and shake him the way a weasel shakes a rat. How he would like to say, “You cannot toy with lives. You are not a god. There are consequences for what you do, and someday you will pay them.”

Over his shoulder Tirhin added, “Mind that you understand me. This is to be your night. Do not tag at my heels. Do not attend me. I need no protection. I need no service. Am I clear?”

Scorn filled Caelan like lava. The prince was still playing his game, still taking Caelan’s loyalty for granted. Let him lay his mysterious intrigues, for all the good they would do him.

This evening the prince looked keyed up and bright-eyed, his outward gaiety a thin, brittle layer over irritation. He looked as though he was up to mischief. Anyone who knew him well could see it.

The prince snapped another look at Caelan. “I asked you a question. Are you paying heed to me?”

“Yes, sir,” Caelan replied at once, his tone flat. “Forgive me. Your highness has been quite clear.”

“Good. I want no more trouble from you. No straying from your instructions. No surprises. Do only what you are told. No more. No less.”

“I shall obey your instructions precisely, sir,” Caelan said, and his voice was flatter than ever.

The prince did not seem to notice. He strode down the steps to join his friends and resumed his strange, thin smile. He quickly added a quip of his own to their jokes and merriment, and everyone laughed. All were sons of the finest families in Imperia. Well-born, well-dressed, wealthy, they might have simply been a group of comrades ready for an evening of festivities. Yet there was a faintly dangerous air about them, an air of bravado and defiance that indicated trouble to come. You will make a good distraction, the prince had said. Caelan frowned to himself. Distraction for what?

Servants came down the steps with tray of tall silver cups. Caelan could already smell the sweetness of honeyed mead on the men’s breath, but they drank deeply and with gusto, then climbed onto their mounts. There was a momentary milling about with horses prancing and men flinging back fur-trimmed cloaks over their shoulders; then they were off at a gallop.

Caelan rode as one of them, galloping down the mountain road that wound through the hills overlooking the western crescent of the city. There were no servants along, and no soldiers for protection. The prince and his friends feared no brigands.

It was a sweet night, crisp and still in the way of Imperia winters. The hills stretched and rolled down toward the sea that was inky black in the indigo twilight. Stars began to glitter in the sky, except to the north, where a black cloud spread dark fingers across the horizon. A storm must be coming in, although it was strange to see one approach from that direction. Just looking at it gave Caelan an involuntary shiver he could not explain.

Owls flew on silent wings, eerie hunters among the trees.

Something in all the quiet stillness unsettled Caelan. He had the feeling of being followed, of being watched, a niggling uneasiness that he could not dismiss. He glanced back several times, but nothing came behind them. He gazed into the sky, wondering what seemed amiss. Were he in Trau, he could dismiss his fears as simple nervousness about the wind spirits that hunted at night. But there were none here. Men came and went freely in the darkness. During the blistering Imperia summers, residents left the windows of their houses open all night long with a fearlessness that left him amazed.

He told himself to stop imagining things. They were unlikely to be set upon by robbers. They were not being followed. Yet his fingers itched for a dagger hilt. And his heart beat faster with every passing minute. It was forbidden for a slave to carry weapons, but if necessary he would appropriate arms from one of the men around him.

Yet his worries proved groundless. Without incident, they rode past quince trees marking the property boundaries of expensive villas. Here and there lights glimmered in the distance, and the distant strains of lute music or merrymaking could be heard.

Caelan glanced back yet again, and one of the others looked his way.

“Is something following us?”

“No,” Caelan said. “I see nothing.”

The other man shrugged, and Caelan told himself to stop imagining things.

Every gate and every house they passed flew the red imperial banner tonight in honor of the empress. Red could be seen everywhere, fluttering from rooftops, windows, gates, and walls. A full week of festivities was still to come; then the coronation would conclude the celebrations.

Caelan had noticed when they left tonight that no imperial banner flew at the prince’s gate. Only Tirhin’s banner hung over his house. It was a deliberate slight, a deliberate defiance. It was bound to cause trouble.

Tirhin had always seemed to be an easygoing prince, apparently content to let nature take its course with his long-lived father. If he desired the throne, he seemed patient about it. He defied the emperor in small ways, typical of any son with fire in his veins, but politically he had always been loyal.

But since what was obviously to be the last marriage of Emperor Kostimon barely a year past, the prince’s mood had grown progressively darker, his temper more brittle. The announcement that the lady would be crowned empress sovereign instead of merely empress consort had snapped something in the prince. In recent days he had been showing his disgruntlement openly. His conversations were impatient and not always discreet.

Tonight, Tirhin went forth beautifully dressed, and his friends were select companions of high birth and respectability, but he was making less than minimal effort to honor his young stepmother. And according to servants’ gossip, he had not yet attended any of the palace functions. That in itself was a plain insult.

Caelan whistled silently to himself. The prince played with fire. Would the emperor let his son get away with such behavior? Would he send Tirhin off to the war as he had done before? Would he banish his one and only heir for a time to teach him better manners? Kostimon was infamous for not tolerating any disrespect. He had killed sons before. He could again.

In honor of the empress, every house in Imperia looked alight with guests and merriment. High in the western hills rimming the city, the villas of the nobility stood secluded and separate within their own gardens and groves. It was to one of these exclusive homes that the prince rode now. He was welcomed by his hosts, and the prince and his friends spent an hour among staid surroundings with mostly middle-aged guests of eminent respectability. Having been left in the hall under the sharp eye of the porter, Caelan saw nothing of the house except a few pieces of statuary and a hard bench to sit on. He could hear the sedate strains of lute music, and well-modulated laughter. It was not Tirhin’s usual sort of party, but in the past year Caelan had learned that a prince with ambition did not always seek pleasure but instead worked to purposes unexplained to mere gladiators.

The porter had nothing to say to Caelan. Presumably he had no interest in betting on the arena games. Or perhaps his owner did not permit him to gamble. If he even knew who Caelan was, he looked completely unimpressed. It was a long, silent hour of boredom. Caelan had never been one to stand much inactivity.

Just before he rose to his feet to go outside and prowl about in the darkness, the prince emerged with the well wishes of his host, a gray-haired man looking much gratified by the honor that had been conferred on him by Tirhin’s visit.

They rode to another villa, staying only a short time before leaving again. The prince did this twice more until at last they arrived at the exquisite home of Lady Sivee.

Caelan had been here before, and he found himself grinning with anticipation. Now that social obligations had been satisfied, they could enjoy themselves. The lady was a youngish widow of considerable beauty and fortune. She spent her money on lavish entertainments, and threw the best parties in Imperia. Her personal notoriety did not keep people away, and she delighted in mixing people of different social classes and standing. As a champion gladiator, even Caelan was welcome in her home, for he provided additional entertainment for her guests, especially the female ones who invariably clustered about to admire his muscles. It was rumored the lady had hopes of marrying Prince Tirhin, but while the prince dallied, he did not propose. Politically, he could do better.

The rooms were crowded with guests, but Lady Sivee came fluttering through to greet the prince warmly.

“Sir, we are honored indeed by your graciousness,” she said with a radiant smile.

The prince kissed her hand. “My lady, how could I even think of forgoing your invitation? You knew I would come.”

“I could only hope,” she replied.

Her gaze swept to the others, and when they had been suitably greeted and directed onward to the tables of food and drink, she turned to Caelan.

“Welcome, champion,” she said with kindness. “There were rumors that you had suffered grievous wounds. I am glad to see them false. You look particularly well.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, pleased by the courtesy she extended to him. “Your hospitality shines above the rest.”

Her brows arched, and she seemed surprised by his gallantry. “Well, well,” she said. “You are gaining polish. Soon you will have a charm equal to your master’s.”

“Never, if I may contradict a lady’s pronouncement,” he said, drawing on his boyhood lessons in etiquette. Gladiator or not, he wasn’t a barbarian and he didn’t intend to be taken for one. “My master surpasses most men in ability, wit, and graciousness. Together, those qualities create a charm I could never approach.”

Lady Sivee laughed. “Truly I am amazed by this speech. You sound like a courtier instead of a gladiator.”

Caelan bowed, accepting the compliment.

“But I must question you,” she continued. “You say the prince surpasses most men. Are you not at risk with this opinion? Who possibly could surpass such a man whom the gods have favored so completely?”

As she spoke, her gaze followed the prince, who had reached the opposite side of the room. Everyone was vying for a chance to speak to him or to attract his notice. Prince Tirhin acted graciously, nodding to some, speaking to others.

Caelan watched him too, aware of the ears listening to his conversation with the hostess, aware of those who stared at him as though they could not believe him capable of opening his mouth intelligently. He was not going to fall into any trap. Yet here was one small chance for a dig at the prince’s expense, a temptation impossible to resist.

“Who?” Lady Sivee persisted, her eyes shining merrily. “Who is his better? Who? I would know this paragon, this man without peer.”

“Only the emperor, my lady,” Caelan said in a mild voice. “I meant no disparagement of my esteemed master; only the truth do I speak.”

Someone laughed, and Lady Sivee flushed.

“Very clever,” she said, and tossed her head. Turning her back on Caelan, she walked away to link arms with a friend.

The man who laughed gave Caelan a mock salute. “Well done,” he said. “An articulate fighter is a curiosity indeed. A witty one is a rarity. Who taught you repartee?”

Another man joined the first, saving Caelan from having to answer. This one leaned forward, his cheeks bulging with honeyed dates.

“Didn’t expect to see Giant here,” he said, poking at Caelan’s tunic with his forefinger. “Word on the streets was that he died.”

“Obviously he didn’t,” the first man replied.

While they were busy talking to each other, Caelan bowed to them and seized the chance to melt away into the crowd. He towered over most of the other men, and his broad shoulders were constantly colliding with others in the general crush. Caelan disliked such close quarters. Living a life of constant combat, he had difficulty switching off his alert instincts. To be crowded like this meant anyone could attack with little or no warning. Caelan tried to tell himself no one had such intentions, but every brush of a sleeve against him made his muscles tense.

Remembering his instructions, Caelan wandered into other rooms away from the eye of his master. He found himself recognized and greeted by some, and stared at by others who seemed insulted by the unfettered presence of a thug in their midst.

Deeply tanned from constant exposure to the outdoors and considered exotic because of his blue eyes, light hair, and height, Caelan found himself ogled and watched by both men and women. Many asked him to discuss his victory over the Madrun. Giggling maidens approached him, begging to feel his biceps. Grinning house servants with admiration in their eyes offered him spiced wine and honeyed smiles. Caelan did his best to be gracious; there was always another room to escape to.

He strolled through sumptuously appointed rooms filled with priceless art. He stood in the company of lords and ladies. He watched; he sampled delectable sweetmeats and pastries; he drank as he willed. Normally, he would have spent the time pretending he was a free man. After all, with the prince’s leash so loose tonight this was in one way a mark of his trust in his champion. In another way it was Tirhin’s silent boast to his friends. His champion could not only kill the strongest, fiercest fighters owned by anyone in the empire, but his champion was also civilized, educated, and trustworthy.

But tonight, fantasy held no appeal.

Eventually Caelan found himself in a quiet enclave where a poet stood reciting his literary creations. The room was dramatically lit. A few women sighed over the phrases; the men looked half-asleep. It was dull indeed, but Caelan picked up a ewer of wine and helped himself to a cupful while no one was looking.

He sipped his drink, standing in the back where no one need notice his presence. The poetry was well crafted, but staid and unimaginative.

Here, Caelan felt his bitterness return. With a grimace he lowered his cup. Yes, he could walk about his house as he willed, but he was not a guest. He could reply if someone spoke to him, but he could not initiate conversation. He could watch, smile, and pretend, but he did not belong among these people. His clothes were made of fine and costly fabric, but the garments were plain compared to the tailoring of the others. He wore a gold chain worth a small fortune, but it was still a chain.

To a man who had been born free, slavery—no matter how privileged—remained a galling sore that could not heal. What good were possessions, money, and finery when they were only a substitution for civil rights and a free will?

Worse, he had admired his master enough to serve him with honor and complete loyalty. Now he felt like a fool. How many times had Orlo warned him? But he hadn’t listened. From his own stubbornness, he had let himself be used and manipulated. When the Madrun’s sword and pierced his side, he had felt a fierce satisfaction—almost joy—at having succeeded in serving his master so well. Now he understood just how deluded he had been.

It was not easy to look into one’s own heart and realize one was a fool.

As though magically sensing Caelan’s dark thoughts, a man robed in green and brown turned h s head sharply away from the droning poet and stared hard at Caelan.

At once Caelan put down his cup and retreated from the room.

The man followed, emerging into the passageway with Caelan’s cup in his hand.

“Wait a moment,” he said. “You left your wine behind. Here.”

Reluctantly Caelan took the cup from his fingers. He had left it nearly empty. Now it had been refilled. Out of politeness Caelan took a token sip, but in his present mood the wine tasted as sour as vinegar.

The man sipped from his own cup and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Delicious, is it not?”

“Very fine.”

“You appreciate a good vintage?”

Caelan felt as though he’d been trapped in a mad play where he did not know the lines. “I have not the training of a connoisseur,” he replied politely. “If it tastes good, I drink it.”

“Ah. A simple man, with simple tastes.”

As he spoke, the aristocrat smiled toothily. He was not a member of Prince Tirhin’s circle, and Caelan did not recognize him. The man had perhaps been good-looking in his youth, but now his square face had jowls and his body was going soft. He was sweating in the heat, and his expensive clothes looked stiff, too new, and uncomfortable.

“I am Fuesel,” he said.

It was the plain, unadorned way in which true aristocrats introduced themselves, although there could be only one reason such a man would speak to a slave.

Even as Caelan bowed, inwardly he sighed. The man would make an offer to buy him, which he would then ask Caelan to take to Prince Tirhin. The prince would be displeased by the interruption and would send Caelan back with a curt refusal. It happened all the time, no matter how emphatically the prince said he would never sell his champion, and Caelan found it an embarrassment. Only tonight he did not think he would carry an accurate offer to his master. Tonight he did not think he would cooperate at all.

He sipped more of his wine to avoid the intense way Lord Fuesel was staring at him.

“You’re the famous arena champion ... Caelan, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I thought so.” Fuesel’s eyes were small and dark. They gleamed. “I saw you fight yesterday. Masterful. It was thrilling.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell me something. Do you enjoy the act of killing?”

Frowning, Caelan tried not to recoil. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked such a distasteful question, but he never got used to it. Fuesel was obviously one of the ghoulish supporters of the games, addicted to the perversions of watching death. There were cults in the city of these people—called Expirants—who were said to raid brothels and poor districts in search of victims to torture and study. Expirants always wanted blow-by-blow descriptions, graphic details and some kind of indication that Caelan shared their own twisted excitement.

“The fatal blow. The moment when life fades ... you feel it the moment you inflict it, do you not?” Fuesel asked intensely. “You know.”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” Fuesel inched closer so that his sleeve brushed Caelan’s. “And when it happens, you feel that indescribable thrill. It is like joy, I think. Am I correct?”

Holding back a sigh, Caelan said, “No, my lord. I do not enjoy killing.”

Fuesel’s smile only widened. “You lie. Success in any endeavor is based on enjoyment.”

And sometimes fear, Caelan thought to himself. Refusing to reply, he kept a respectful stance, his gaze focused slightly to the left of the man’s shoulder. He was suddenly very thirsty, and he finished his wine in a quick gulp.

“Well,” Fuesel said when Caelan remained silent. “Like many successful men, you maintain your greatness by keeping mysteries within yourself. Too much chatter destroys the mystique, does it not? Yes. But everyone has chattered about you. To actually execute the Dance of Death with such boldness, such courage ... even now, it steals my breath to remember the sight.” He shivered ecstatically and gripped Caelan’s wrist with clammy fingers. “You have seen death. You have felt it within yourself. That I would love to discuss with you.”

“I must go,” Caelan said. He felt uneasy and overly warm. The passageway seemed dark and stuffy. He needed air.

Fuesel released his arm but did not move aside. “Ah, of course. This is not the time. This is a party, is it not? Not a time to discuss the dark sides of death and savagery. No. And I have kept you from the poetry reading. Will you return?” He gestured at the room they had both exited.

Caelan shook his head.

“Ah,” Fuesel said. “Then perhaps we might find something more entertaining to occupy our time. If your master does not request your presence elsewhere?”

Strange as he was, this man seemed genuinely interested in talking to Caelan as a human being. Although Caelan tried to remain aloof, a part of him felt flattered.

“I have no commands to serve at this time,” he said formally.

Fuesel smiled. “Splendid. Let us walk in this direction.” As he spoke, he started down the passageway, and Caelan fell into step beside him.

“Now,” Fuesel said. “You are a natural competitor. I have won many wagers because of you.”

Caelan nodded. He still felt too warm. Perhaps the wine had been stronger than he thought. He said with a touch of arrogance, “Bet on me to win, and you take money home in your pockets.”

Fuesel laughed and slapped him on the back. “Yes, indeed! Well spoken, my tall friend. Tell me, do you enjoy other kinds of competitions?”

“It depends.”

“Such a cautious answer!” Fuesel reached into his pocket to produce a pair of dice. “I, like yourself, am a lover of risk. But my arena does not shed blood. Interested?”

Caelan’s suspicions relaxed. He returned the man’s smile, aware that he had money of his own through his master’s generosity. And although no one of Fuesel’s rank had ever asked him to play before, Caelan knew how to dice. He had learned from Old Farns, the gatekeeper of E’nonhold, on lazy afternoons when Caelan’s father was away and could not frown on such pursuits. The gladiators in the barracks were keen on dicing—everyone in Imperia was—and would play for hours, betting anything in their possession, even straws from their pallets.

Fuesel smiled and rattled the dice enticingly in his fist. “Yes?”

Caelan’s pride soared. A lord had sought him out for a game, as one equal to another. Even if Lord Fuesel was planning to fleece Caelan of his money, it hardly mattered. It was a gesture of social acceptance that warmed Caelan inside as nothing else could.

“I am delighted to play with your lordship,” he said, and he didn’t care if his eagerness showed.

“Good. Let us freshen our drinks and seek out a friend of mine.”

Thus at midnight, Caelan found himself facing two professional gamblers—Lord Fuesel and his roguish friend Thole—over the felt dicing board. A pile of gold ducats spilled over the painted crimson edges of the stakes square. It was enough gold to sustain a modest Trau household for a year, enough gold to sustain a lord of the empire for a month, enough gold to keep the prince in pocket money for a week.

It was more gold than Caelan had ever seen before, more than his father’s strongbox had ever held. From his modest initial stake, his winnings had grown steadily. For the past two hours the stakes had increased even more as ducats were tossed onto the pile. Now the croupier rang a tiny brass bell, its sound barely heard against the backdrop of reveling going on in other rooms of the villa. The small bell signaled the final throw of the game—high throw champion, winner take all.

The other two men had already thrown. Now it was Caelan’s turn. Sweating in the room’s excessive warmth, feeling a little dizzy and breathless, he leaned over the felt-covered board and scooped the ivory cubes into his palm.

“Bell’s rung!” someone called out, and more spectators crowded into the already packed room to watch.

The audience shouted encouragement and advice in a din that rang off the stone columns at the doorway and echoed down from the ceiling.

Caelan tried to ignore the noise. He was used to people cheering his name in the arena. Yet this was somehow different.

In the arena he had the open air, plenty of space, and only the eyes of his opponent to watch.

Here, he could feel the oppressive closeness of too many people, their perspiration and perfumes intermingling with lamp smoke in a cloying fugue. Garbed in silks and velvets of bold colors, they clapped and chattered. Their painted faces loomed grotesquely from the shadows. They shouted his name, all right, but as many called drunkenly for his failure as for his victory. And laughed when they said it.

With the dice in his hand, Caelan swallowed and suddenly found himself unable to breathe. What was he doing here among these strangers? How long had he been here? He could not recall the hours. How many cups of wine had he drunk? How many strange dishes had he sampled? How had he come to find himself in this room, far from the dancing girls and poetry readings, caught up in the spell of these gamesters?

Why were they staring at him so narrowly, sitting so still and tense? What was this particular eagerness in the pair of them? He could see it radiating from their skin.

His thoughts spun, and everything seemed to slow down as though a magical net had been thrown over time to hold it still.

Suspicion entered him, and it was as though he suddenly inhaled the crisp clean scent of fir needles on a snowy day. His mind cleared of the strange mist that had engulfed it, and he frowned. The stack of ducats gleamed softly in the lamplight; their excessive amount staggered him anew. How repugnant so many coins were, how obscene. Before him lay his own future, the gold coins with which Prince Tirhin had rewarded him earlier that day.

No ... his master had not given him money.

Caelan blinked and rubbed sweat from his eyes. He struggled to remember. It had been yesterday when he fought. Tirhin often gave him gold for winning championships.

But he had not won yesterday; he had died.

A shiver passed over Caelan. Suddenly he felt wild and panicked. He did not know who he was or where he was. Perhaps this was a fevered dream, and in truth he lay in his bed, sweating with delirium and madness.

But he remembered Agel, the block of granite that was his cousin. Kinsman Agel, who cured him, so that he could come tonight with his master.

“We are waiting,” Lord Fuesel said. “Please throw.”

Caelan drew a deep breath. For wielding death so successfully, for killing to amuse his patron, he had been dressed in finery, brought to this social function among the elite of Imperia, and invited to play dice with lords. It was a mockery of death to accept such rewards. Now—worse—he was about to fritter away his money, this mysterious, ghostly money, about to waste it gambling. Agel’s sour face hung before him like a vision, mouthing accusations.

Clenching the dice harder in his hand, Caelan stood up so abruptly his stool turned over.

Both of his opponents glanced up. Lord Fuesel looked flustered, even momentarily panicked. Thole, a swarthy man with a thin mustache adorning his lip, raised his brows at Caelan.

“Running away?” he asked with a sneer.

“You can’t quit now,” Fuesel said.

Thole brushed Fuesel’s hand in warning, and the lord subsided with a nervous rat-a-tat of his fingers on the board.

“How long have I been playing?” Caelan asked in confusion, brushing his face with the back of his hand. His thoughts were full of holes. He could not make sense of anything except the overwhelming need to throw the dice. “My master may require me—”

“Nonsense. No need to worry about that just yet,” Thole said. “You will forfeit all that you have bet up till now.”

“Giant! Don’t quit!” shouted a buxom woman from the crowd. “Keep your courage. Don’t rob us of the end.”

Frowning, Caelan edged back from the board. Thole leaned over and gripped his wrist. His hand was soft and supple, lacking the calluses of physical labor. The touch of his warm, moist palm made Caelan’s skin crawl.

“They want their spectacle,” Thole said, tightening his grip. “Don’t you want this fortune?”

Something seemed to lie beneath his words, as though another language had been spoken, with a different meaning. The mists were swirling anew in Caelan’s brain. He was so very thirsty, and he looked around for his cup.

Everyone seemed to be shouting now. The din increased in volume, making Caelan’s head ring. He blinked off a sudden feeling of dizziness, and felt the internal shift of sevaisin taking hold.

Not here, he thought in panic. Not with so many.

But something inside him surged to connect with Thole, before he hastily yanked free of the man’s grip. Just as hastily the gambler shielded himself from any empathic link.

But Caelan had gained one impression from that fleeting connection.

Trap.

He swallowed hard, hearing anger in the voices shouting at him now. Disappointment and derision came in open jeers.

“Why doesn’t he throw?” someone asked in bewilderment. “All he has to do is throw.”

“Take the sword from his hand, and he’s just another stupid gladiator.”

“Maybe his victories are as fake as his dice game.”

The croupier leaned forward. “You are delaying the game. Take your turn, or forfeit.”

Caelan uncurled his fingers and stared at the yellowed ivory dice lying on his palm. Sevaisin shifted within him again, and he knew the elephant from faraway Gialta that had died and left its tusks to be crafted into ornaments and baubles. He knew the craftsman who had carved these dice from the ivory. He knew how the slivers of lead had been cleverly worked into the interiors of the cubes.

These were not the same dice he had been playing with before. They had been skillfully switched since the last throw, and they would roll up a high number.

If he threw, he would win.

That large mound of ducats would be his. He would be a very rich man.

Caelan frowned. He would be a very rich slave, he corrected himself.

But one rich enough to purchase his freedom?

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he shoved it derisively away. If the prince would not free him in honor, he would not accept a price either.

What, then, did a slave need with so much money?

Even more puzzling, why did these men want him to win?

Why had they let him win until his stake rivaled theirs?

Why had they lured him here and kept him so long? Why were they so interested in him?

Trap. But what kind? What did it mean?

“You must play or forfeit,” the croupier said sternly. “Follow the rules of the game before we have a riot in here.”

“The barbarian doesn’t know the game!” someone shouted.

“Throw the damned dice,” Lord Fuesel said. “Where is your nerve now? Show us the courage you exhibited in the arena.”

He was too vehement, too desperate. Fuesel’s thick fingers were gripping the edge of the board so hard they turned white.

Thole watched Caelan with the unwavering gaze of a serpent.

Meeting that gaze directly was a mistake. Caelan felt mesmerized, unable to look away. His heart started thumping hard, and once again he felt he could not breathe. The compulsion to throw the dice grew inside him as though the collective wills of everyone in the room had merged into a compelling force. Caelan could feel himself being drawn into it, being absorbed by it as though his own consciousness were melting.

The dice themselves grew warm in his palm, pulsing against his skin, almost purring as though they had come alive. Strange whispers floated through his mind: wealth, please us, fortune, obey us, treasures incomparable, obey us, obey.

His eyes fell half shut, and he swayed. His blood still pounded dizzily in his ears, and he felt boneless and adrift. Why fight it? What harm could there be in winning?

Something icy cold seemed to pierce his breastbone. The pain touched him directly beneath where his small amulet bag swung on its leather cord beneath his tunic. New visions filled his mind, overlapping the mist and heat with swirling snow, icy blasts of cold wind, the scents of fir mingled with glacial ice. And Lea’s small face, her blue eyes bright, her mouth open as though she called to him.

He strained to hear her, and as he did so something snapped inside him. He slipped into severance. It was as though a knife sliced through the spell that had engulfed him. He stood apart, detached and separate in the cold wind. He saw the plan in its entirety. Fuesel and Thole were paid agents, intending to accuse Caelan of cheating as soon as he made the winning throw. Such a charge was serious. He could be imprisoned, and his hands cut off. He would never fight in the arena again. The competition could then step in with new contenders and new champions. The betting odds would once again be more even.

Caelan set the dice on the edge of the gaming board and stepped back with a shake of his head.

“I forfeit the game,” he said.

Fuesel’s mouth fell open, and Thole looked furious. The spectators roared with disappointment.

Avoiding everyone’s gaze, Caelan turned his back on the money that was spellcast and not his. He shoved his way through the crowd. People growled and swore at him. A women even struck his chest with her fist. Wrapped in his cloak of icy detachment, Caelan ignored them all and pushed his way clear.

The moment he exited the room, he felt another tug of resistance, then a final snap as though the last tendrils of the spell had broken. He hurried away, and every step brought a cool, refreshing sense of relief and freedom.

Finally, he let severance drop from him. He paused behind a column in the passageway. Drawing in several deep breaths, he pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the small, reassuring lump of the amulet bag beneath his silk tunic. Even now it still felt cold to his touch, as though a chunk of ice swung inside the leather pouch. His emeralds, gifts from the ice spirits of Trau that had favored him long ago, had protected him many times before. No ordinary gems, they looked like plain, ordinary pebbles whenever anyone else examined them, and they revealed their true shape only to him. He had never understood why the ice spirits had chosen to give him such magical stones; he had never understood what purpose they might be intended to serve. Never had they intervened as directly as they had tonight.

He realized he was still sweating. He felt trembly and a little sick. The wine, of course, had been drugged. Tipping his head back against the wall, he struggled to compose himself, then wiped his face with his sleeve and sent a small prayer of thanks to whatever benevolence existed within the stones.

Painful memories of his sister flooded his heart. He choked a moment before he pushed such thoughts away. He had loved her with all his heart, and he had failed her utterly. He had failed other people as well, including his father, but it was only Lea he felt the sharpest guilt for. She had been sweet, innocent, special—a tiny, golden-haired child beloved by nature, people, and the gods.

And he must stop thinking about her now, must drive her from his mind once more, knowing he could not return to the past and undo his mistakes, knowing he could not go back and save her.

Wiping his eyes, Caelan repressed a shudder and walked on in an effort to pull himself together. Forcing his mind back to Fuesel and Thole, he found his anger growing. It had been a vile plot to remove him from the games. Rivalry among the owners was fierce, and sometimes fighters were stolen and sold illegally. Sometimes they were poisoned or hamstrung. The prince must be told without delay. He had the authority to order these agents questioned. Tirhin could find out who hired them, then plan his own retaliation.

Yet the prince was not to be found. Searching discreetly, Caelan drifted from room to room, yet did not find his master. Occasionally he made an inquiry, only to be told, “His highness was last seen with Lady Sivee.”

Yet Lady Sivee sat in the main reception chamber, surrounded by all her male admirers except Prince Tirhin. The group chattered wittily and nibbled on delicacies while dancing girls whirled seductively to erotic music. When Lady Sivee saw Caelan lurking in the doorway, she beckoned to him.

“Tell your master I miss him dreadfully,” she said with a pretty pout. Drink had softened her eyes and her mouth. “Must he talk politics in the garden all night?”

Caelan barely concealed his reaction. In that moment he had a sudden vision of Tirhin on horseback, galloping away into the darkness, alone.

Somehow Caelan found a smile for the lady. “He is returned to the house, my lady. He sent me to ask you to meet him.”

“Where?” she asked, too eagerly.

Some of her male friends scowled. Others nudged each other.

Caelan said nothing, and she gave him a quick nod and a sudden, dimpling smile.

“I know” she said and put her finger to her lips.

Caelan smiled back, although he could be flogged for playing such a prank. But the lady would never guess. He left the room and slipped outside into the cold air. As soon as the shadows engulfed him, he lengthened his stride, cursing to himself with every step.

Every action of the prince’s made sense now. Bringing Caelan and his wealthy young friends to the party as distractions, chatting freely and moving about from room to room until everyone had seen him and everyone thought he must be nearby, ordering Caelan not to stay close to his side. Yes, it had been perfectly planned for the prince to slip away unnoticed. Even Lady Sivee would now contribute to the deception by going to wait for a rendezvous. Her tipsy departure would be noticed by her guests. Alone in her chambers, she would disrobe and wait. The prince would not come to her, but to save herself humiliation she would not rejoin her guests. They would never know he stood her up, because she would never tell.

But the prince had no business going out unescorted and unprotected. Not late at night, not with strangers casting spells on his slaves for dastardly reasons, not with the land restless and unsettled as it was.

“Fool,” Caelan said under his breath and quickened his pace.

Twice he nearly ran into couples entwined in the dark shrubbery. There were almost as many people in the gardens as in the house. Torchlights blazed everywhere, but the noise and general confusion was a blessing. Finding a dark wool cloak lying across a bench, Caelan put it on, drawing up the hood to disguise himself. Joining a group of guests who were leaving, he was able to get his horse and mount up, unnoticed by the harried grooms and stableboys. He also casually drew a sword from a saddle scabbard as he rode by. His heart was thumping hard, for if he were caught it would mean his death.

But the gods favored him, and he was able to conceal the weapon under his cloak.

Leaving the gates, he wheeled his horse around uncertainly and set off at a trot. The moon was too thin to provide much light. It was hard to see the road, and he had no idea which direction the prince had gone.

Again he cursed his master, then he cursed himself for caring. What had happened to his anger and resentment? The prince could risk his foolish neck if he wanted.

But if anything happened to the prince, Caelan knew he would be sold to a new master. Better to stick with the master he had than risk the unknown.

He tried to calm down, although impatience and worry made it hard.

He sought, extending sevaisin farther than he had ever tried before. A flicker of the prince came to him, but it was clouded by something else, something evil and horrifying.

Caelan’s mouth went dry, and he cut off the contact with a shudder. He did not know what he had sensed, but it was of the darkness. And it was on the prince’s trail.

Praying he would not be too late, Caelan turned his horse north and spurred it to a gallop.