Chapter Twenty-Five

The public dungeons lay beneath the ruins of the old arena, converted from its underground warren of training rooms and quarters. Torches burned at the rubble-strewn entrance, and gaunt-faced soldiers in tattered cloaks huddled around a roaring bonfire for warmth.

Beyond the firelight, furtive glowing eyes watched from nearly every nook and cranny. The soldiers talked loudly and nervously, pretending to ignore the watchers. Now and then there came the abortive scream of a hapless victim out in the darkness.

Riding through the terrible streets, Caelan held himself tightly severed, fearing any contact with the darkness that now ruled Imperia. The smell of death sickened the air, along with the scorched, fetid stench of forbidden magic.

Tightly guarded by men who rode with drawn swords in their hands, Caelan soon gave up any attempt to keep his bearings. With the city destroyed, nothing looked as it should. But when they reined up at the dungeons, Caelan gasped in surprise.

How well he recognized the public square and entrance to the arena, with its stone pillars and a massive lintel carved to show a stylized border of swords laid end to end. The arena itself towered there no more. Only a single section of seats remained, the top half broken away. The rest lay in rubble that filled the ring.

“Get off,” ordered a weary voice.

Caelan dismounted, the shackles on his wrists clanking softly. He still wore the mail shirt Elandra had given him, and during the past few days he had been grateful for it. The long sleeves had protected his wrists from being rubbed sore by his chains. As his mount was led away, he stretched himself carefully, taking care to make no sudden moves that would get himself beaten. It felt good to stand on the ground again.

The soldiers exchanged information. Caelan learned he was a special prisoner of the emperor-elect, to be kept in a solitary cell until he was sent for. No visitors. No one was to talk to him, on pain of death.

The irony of it made Caelan smile without amusement. Some men walked a path of life that progressed in a straight line from birth to death. Others meandered, finding what accomplishments they could. Still others walked in a circle, ending up where they had started. Thus it was for him. He had begun life in Imperia as a slave, chained and beaten, imprisoned beneath the arena with his only future seeming to be a quick death in the ring. Now he had returned, once again in chains, once again under the dominion of Tirhin.

His head lifted, and he gazed out into the darkness. Tirhin would not own him long this time, for indeed the world was ending. Time was running out for all of them.

The tip of a spear prodded him in the back. “Get moving.”

“Watch him!” another said in warning. “He’s a big brute.”

“Aye, Giant was always dangerous.”

Their fear made them nervous and sweaty. Caelan had fears of his own. Imperia was no place to be shackled and weaponless. If anything attacked, the guards would protect themselves, not him.

Nervously, he flexed against his chains, but they were well forged and held him.

Something that sounded suspiciously like a shyriea shrieked nearby. One of the soldiers flinched, and nearly ran his spear through Caelan’s side. The rings of his mail protected him, but Caelan turned on the man.

“Have a care, you fool!” he said angrily.

Another soldier stepped between them and rammed Caelan in the chest with the butt of his spear. “Quiet!”

Caelan drew in a painful breath, his temper hot, but he restrained himself, knowing that to argue would only bring on another beating. He’d had enough of those.

“I want to see Prince Tirhin,” he said hoarsely. “I am a member of the Crimson Guard. I demand—”

The spear shaft swung again, cracking him across the jaw and knocking him down.

Caelan lay there, stunned, his head ringing.

They kicked him. “You’re a deserter. Now get up! Get moving!”

They stripped off his mail, then kicked and pummeled him, thudding into the sore places. He pulled himself to his hands and knees, swaying as his head spun. Blackness dipped and swooped at him. By the time he drove it away, they had yanked him forward by his arms and were shoving him down a ramp into a torchlit maze of passageways. He walked past beat-up wooden doors banded with iron. The smell was even the same—musty and damp, sour with old sweat and blood.

He was shoved into a dark cell, hard enough to make him stumble into the back wall. The door slammed, and he heard the bolts shoot home. Caelan clung to the wall, fighting off his dizziness. Pain was still exploding in his jaw. He felt it gingerly, decided it wasn’t broken, and spat out a bloody tooth.

He stumbled over an object that went skidding across the dirt-packed floor. A stool, he thought. The door had a narrow opening set with bars. Meager illumination from the torchlight in the passageway barely reached into his cell. Exploration told him he had a stool and a pile of dirty straw, but nothing else, not even a pail of water.

Ignoring his thirst, he sat down on the stool and bent over with his elbows on his knees. The bruises were nothing. He would mend ... if he lived long enough.

No one brought him food or water. He listened as the guard was changed about sunset. Shortly thereafter someone came through with a barrel of pitch. The man replenished the torches, keeping them burning brightly, as though light alone could hold the demons at bay. Caelan remembered his boyhood conviction that warding keys could drive away any attacker, even Thyzarene raiders. He had learned that day that evil came in many guises, and often it laughed at the protection mustered against it.

Still, it would do no good to tell this worker that his efforts were in vain. If the shadows decided to come creeping into these dungeons, they would do so whether the torches burned or not.

Needing something to do, Caelan watched the man work. There was something familiar about the man, something in the set of his shoulders, the way he moved. He wore a long leather apron to protect his clothes from the pitch. His head was concealed by a hood, worn presumably for warmth. Caelan could not catch a glimpse of his face. Yet his hands were powerful and broad. He swirled a torch in the barrel of pitch, then lifted it and lit it.

As he set it in a sconce near Caelan’s door, his uplifted face was partially illuminated for a second.

“Orlo!” Caelan said eagerly. “Orlo, it’s you!”

The man looked around as though startled, then backed away hastily into the shadows.

“Come here, you old donkey,” Caelan said, glad to see his former trainer. “It has been too long.”

Orlo glanced up and down the passageway, as though making sure no one overheard them.

“No talking!” he said sternly. “You’re under a rule of silence.”

Caelan obediently lowered his voice to the merest whisper. “Come and let me look on your face. I am glad to see you.”

Orlo, however, hunched his shoulders and pulled his barrel and cart down the passageway. He set to work busily with the next torch, ignoring Caelan completely.

Hurt, Caelan stared after him. “It’s me, Orlo. Caelan. Don’t you have—”

Cold water came splashing through the window, hitting him in the face and driving him back. Sputtering, Caelan wiped his eyes and found a bearded face glaring in at him.

“Shut up!” the guard said. “Or the next bucketful will be dung. We’ll put a muzzle on you if we must.”

Caelan stepped all the way back to the far wall, saying nothing. He knew what a muzzle was, a terrible torture device that was fitted over a man’s head and slowly tore out his tongue by the roots.

Not daring to move, he waited until the guard walked on. There was a brief murmur of conversation between the guard and Orlo; then the guard’s footsteps gradually faded. Only then did Caelan venture back to the window and peer out.

Orlo had gone around the corner and was no longer in sight. Caelan waited a long time, hoping, but Orlo did not return.

Someone moaned in a cell farther down the row. Another man coughed constantly, as though he had a rotted lung. Those were the only sounds.

Orlo had been his trainer, gruff and brutal at times, relentless as he drove Caelan through his drills. But he had taught Caelan how to fight and how to survive the ring. He had made Caelan a champion, and eventually the two men had become friends. But that had all ended the night that Caelan was wrongly accused of attacking and injuring Prince Tirhin. Orlo had believed the accusations, and until now Caelan had never seen him again.

It seemed Orlo had not softened. Caelan waited, but his former trainer did not come back.

Hours went by, enlivened only by occasional light earthquakes that shook the walls but did not bury Caelan alive. With nothing else to do, Caelan paced and bleakly looked into his own future. So much for destiny, he thought. So much for carrying Exoner against the dark god.

A commotion in the passageway sent him to the rear of his cell, out of reach and out of trouble. A face peered inside.

“You! Stay back!”

It was an unnecessary command. Caelan knew they were about to open the door. He could smell food, and his stomach growled urgently. This wasn’t the time to make a break for freedom. He could hear the other guards grunting and clanking their weapons restlessly. They were just hoping for a prisoner to try something stupid. A dead prisoner was a prisoner who did not have to be fed.

A scrawny boy came stumbling inside. He set down a pail of water, sloshing half the contents over the sides, and slammed down a bowl of food beside it. Then he backed out, and the door was bolted shut.

A face watched Caelan from the window, but he did not venture forth to get his food until the guards gave up and moved on to the next cell. Then Caelan rushed forward, picked up his food and the water pail, and retreated with them. He knew about prison life and the cruelty of the guards.

The occupant of the next cell was not as lucky. Caelan heard the sloppy splash and a cry of anguish. The guards laughed. Caelan knew they had just emptied a dung bucket over the hapless inmate when he tried to get his food.

Angrily Caelan picked over his own food. He drank his water after sniffing it. Then he tapped his stale bread against the wall to drive out the weevils and ate with all the control he could muster, chewing thoroughly, giving his stomach a chance to accept the unpalatable food. The rest of it was greasy and cold. He ate it anyway, knowing the rats would steal it if he didn’t.

A faint scraping noise from behind him made him turn around. Instantly alert, he listened a moment, watching as a block of stone in the wall was carefully removed by someone on the other side.

Caelan crouched by the hole and said nothing.

Another block was removed, then a third. He squinted through the gloom, trying to see who it was.

“Giant?” the voice whispered softly.

“Orlo!” Caelan whispered back. Joyfully he gripped another block of stone and found it loose. He pulled it away and grinned through the opening. “I thought you had abandoned me for certain—”

Orlo’s fist smashed into his face, catching him right under the eye. Grunting with pain, Caelan reeled back. As soon as he could see again, he found Orlo glaring at him.

“What—”

“That is for almost getting me killed,” Orlo whispered furiously. “You’re under an order of silence, on pain of death. What in hell’s own flames were you doing yelling at me like that?”

Contrite, Caelan probed the swelling knot under his eye and grimaced. “Sorry. I was glad to see you. I didn’t think—”

“You have never thought. That’s why you’re in jail.”

Caelan didn’t mind the tongue-lashing. Orlo had always criticized him. “What are you doing in the dungeons?”

“This was the arena, remember?” Orlo replied scathingly. “My responsibility.”

“So you came back here after leaving Tirhin’s service?”

Orlo snorted. “Murdeth and Fury, do you think I’d serve that prancing fop and traitor one moment longer than I had to? I only went to his household for you.”

“I know.” Caelan reached through and gripped Orlo’s arm. “I never did thank you.”

“Bah. Swallow that nonsense. It made me richer than before. I cared for nothing else.”

“You tried to warn me about Tirhin, and I didn’t listen.”

“No, you have a head like a block of wood and about as much sense.”

Caelan grinned. “You should have fled the city.”

Orlo snorted. “And go where? This damned blight that is upon us, it spreads everywhere.”

“Can you get me out?”

“Of your cell? Aye. If you can get those big shoulders through this hole.”

Caelan reached out, but Orlo suddenly hissed a warning.

“Not now,” he said and started stacking the stones back up.

Caelan listened but heard nothing. “What?”

“This isn’t the time.”

“But what is it? I don’t—”

“Shut up!” Orlo stuck his hand through. “Hand me that last stone on your side. Quick!”

“Orlo, I have to get out—”

“Later.”

Orlo put the last stone in place and was gone, as though he had never been, with no explanation.

Only then did Caelan hear the steady tramp of booted feet in the passageway. There were more than usual. He could sense a change, a quickness in the way they walked. He heard the crashing fists of salutes, along with low, respectful voices.

Then one voice lifted above the others, a sleek baritone full of arrogance.

Recognizing Tirhin’s voice, Caelan rose to his feet. Grim satisfaction filled him. So the prince had come to him at last. He was going to have his chance after all.

But then the footsteps walked on. Tirhin did not even look through the window at him, did not bother to even speak a word to him.

Caelan rushed to his door and peered out, but all he saw were the backs of the soldiers, marching down the passage. Swearing in frustration, he slammed his fist against the door, making it rattle.

In the next moment, it was being unlocked. Caelan backed up just in time to avoid the door as it was slammed open. Guards filled the doorway, shining torches in his face and nearly blinding him.

“You! Come with us!”

They grabbed Caelan and dragged him forth, herding him down the passageway and around a corner. Several daggers were held against him. Had he tried to break free, he would have been spitted instantly.

Down they went, going lower into the older regions. Many of the bracing timbers showed signs of rot and neglect. The stone mortar was crumbling, allowing some of the walls to bulge from the press of the earth. Caelan saw some ramps and passageways choked with fallen debris, probably from the frequent earthquakes. He swallowed hard, thinking about being crushed to death down here.

“Where am I going?” he asked.

One of the guards struck him hard on the ear, making his head ring. “To die.”

They all laughed, but Caelan could not share the joke.

Lifting his head, he gazed around, taking note as they descended another ramp. A series of doors along the passageway told him they were in the old gladiator quarters. Men stayed down here for entire seasons, never seeing the sunlight until they went into the ring. Most of them died minutes later, to be returned forever into the darkness.

Ghost voices .. . the faint ring of swords . . . the roar of the crowd. Caelan shook off the memories. When they went down a short flight of worn steps, he recognized another scent, faint and fading now but unforgettable.

It was the smell of Haggai. Those loathsome creatures, part woman and part monster. It had been a long tradition in the arena that gladiators could sport freely with the witches the night before their combat. And if the Haggai had lived deep below the complex under the arena, did that not mean there was a physical passageway into the realm of shadows itself? Just as there had been a portal beneath the Temple of Gault in the palace compound?

Caelan studied the men around him. He had an escort of five guards, well armed and alert. Their weapons were drawn, which made seizing a spare dagger from someone’s belt almost impossible. He narrowed his eyes, thinking about odds and possibilities.

The passageway ended at a closed door. One of the guards knocked perfunctorily, then swung it open. Caelan was shoved inside.

The room was circular and empty of furnishings other than a brazier supported by a tripod. A small fire burned in it, smoking heavily as though it had just been started. Torches blazed in sconces. On the wall opposite the door, a demonic face was carved into the stone. Its snarling visage caused two of Caelan’s guards to make furtive warding signs with their fingers.

Caelan barely noticed the carving, however. His attention was locked on the occupants of the chamber.

Besides Tirhin, two bodyguards stood by the wall. Agel, wearing a white healer’s robe beneath his dark blue cloak, hovered near the prince.

Caelan saw his cousin and frowned. He had thought Agel had died during the Madrun invasion. It seemed he was wrong.

Agel gazed at him with an equal lack of affection and handed a wine cup to Tirhin, who gulped the contents.

“Secure him well,” Tirhin commanded between swallows.

One of Caelan’s guards ran a length of stout chain through a massive ring bolt set into the stone floor, then looped the other end through Caelan’s shackles. He secured the chain and gave it a strong yank.

“He is secure, Majesty.”

Tirhin gulped down more wine and grunted. “Get out.”

The guards bowed and shuffled outside, shutting the door.

Tirhin gestured at Agel. “You. I wish you to go.”

“That is unwise,” Agel said. His voice was the same as ever, slightly grave, holding a note of warning and counsel.

Hearing him, Caelan shut his eyes a moment. As boys, he and Agel had been as close as brothers. He had had no better friend, but somehow it had all turned wrong. Now there was no going back, no way to regain what had once been.

“Go!” Tirhin shouted. He looked angry and flushed; whatever he was drinking only seemed to agitate him more. “I will speak to him alone.”

Agel frowned at him, looking exasperated. “Even chained, he could attack you before the guards—”

“You’re an old woman. I’m not afraid of him!” Tirhin said rudely. He finished the contents of his cup and flung it Agel, who ducked just in time. “Do you think he has the power to snap stone and steel? Go!”

Without further protest, Agel tucked his hands inside his wide sleeves and left. As he passed Caelan, his gaze flicked sideways to meet Caelan’s eyes. He said nothing, however. His expression remained unreadable.

Caelan turned his head to watch Agel go. There was nothing left for either of them to say. They had chosen their sides. They would not change.

The prince swayed. A sheen of unhealthy sweat coated his face, which was far paler than usual. He had lost his handsome looks. His features were haggard, almost gaunt, with deep lines carved on either side of his mouth. His blue eyes seemed paler than Caelan remembered, and as the firelight reflected in them they appeared almost yellow.

Caelan thought of Kostimon’s yellow eyes, so cold and strange. He remembered that Sien had also had yellow eyes, like a serpent’s. Was this, then, a mark of the shadows?

Tirhin limped closer to Caelan, a sneer on his face, and Caelan tugged at his bonds, testing them with a strong bulging of his muscles. But unlike the bolt set into the pillar of wood in Albain’s courtyard, this one was immovable. Nor could the chains be broken. They were strong enough to have held many a prisoner, many a gladiator, in the past. They were holding now.

Tirhin chuckled. “Oh, you would like to get at me, wouldn’t you? I can see the heated desire in your eyes.”

Tirhin stopped just out of Caelan’s reach. The prince wore his usual blue clothing, sumptuous velvet trimmed with fur. His sword was too long and heavy for him. An emerald winked from the hilt, and Caelan recognized Exoner. He caught his breath sharply.

“Yes,” Tirhin said, noticing where his gaze went. “This exceptionally fine sword is not suitable for a former slave to carry. I have taken it for my own.”

As he spoke, he drew it from the scabbard and swung it aloft. He held it overhead a moment, long enough for his thin arms to tremble; then he brought it down in a vicious swing at Caelan’s head.

Caelan met Tirhin’s eyes, and never moved. At the last second Tirhin bent his elbows, and the blade missed Caelan by a whisper.

“Whack!” Tirhin said, with a hollow laugh. “There goes your head, rolling away like a ball.”

He sheathed the sword and glared at Caelan, looking disappointed that he had failed to frighten his prisoner. “You always had ideas above your station. I gave you everything, showered you with gifts and wealth, and you have repaid me most ill.”

“You brought the evil to Imperia,” Caelan said. “You bargained with the Madruns. You unleashed the darkness—”

“Shut up!” Tirhin broke in hotly. His eyes opened wide, and he shook his head. “Damn you, how dare you accuse me! You are dung beneath my boots. This darkness was Kostimon’s doing. Blame him, not me.”

“Kostimon is dead.”

“Is he?” Tirhin asked with an angry gesture. “Why do I hear his name at every turn? Why do I hear his voice in my dreams at night? It is said his ghost stalks the city. He is the man who bargained for immortality and paid the price by bringing this destruction down on all of us.”

Caelan did not answer. Blame could be thrown in any direction. It did not change the circumstances.

“But you,” Tirhin said, coming closer. “I have brought you back to revive the games, to give the people some entertainment.”

“Haven’t they seen enough death lately?” Caelan asked with scorn.

Tirhin flushed. “What spell have you cast over her?” he asked in a sudden change of subject. His voice was hoarse with fury. “What have you done to her mind?”

“Who?”

“Elandra! Don’t play games with me. You are this close to death.” Tirhin held his thumb and forefinger together. “This close! You could have had your freedom. Did I care? You could have gone back to your precious backwater province and rotted there. But why did you abduct her?”

“There was no abduction. Kostimon placed her in my protection,” Caelan said coldly. As he spoke, he cast a glance at the two guards. They were still alert, watching him closely.

Tirhin moved away, and Caelan was not able to seize him. He could sense Exoner calling to him. The sword was practically glowing in its scabbard from their proximity to the realm of shadow.

Grim determination reawakened in him. He had to get that sword.

Tirhin kicked aside the wine cup and went to stand near the fire. He shivered, then moved restlessly back toward Caelan.

“Well?” he demanded. “You’ve had time to think up a lie. What is your hold on the lady?”

Caelan frowned, not sure what he wanted. Feeling the conversation was pointless, Caelan answered with the simple truth. “Love.”

“Love?” Tirhin said the word as though it were foul. “She loves you! How could she?”

Caelan said nothing.

But Tirhin seemed to read everything in his face. He scowled. “This is absurd. You have enspelled her.”

“I am only an ex-gladiator,” Caelan replied satirically. “What powers do I possess?”

“Plenty of them, from all accounts. Your speed, your prowess, your ability to heal, your way of reading a man’s mind. Agel has told me of the Traulander religion, of the special gifts and spells that can be performed.”

“There are no spells,” Caelan said, wondering what lies Agel had fed into this man’s mind.

“How earnestly you say that,” Tirhin said with a skeptical laugh. “You were always such a literal fool, so honest, so upright, so faithful. But now you think you can take everything from me, just because of Elandra. You think her favor will make you a great man. But you are wrong!”

“The men are already calling you Majesty,” Caelan said, trying to provoke him. “Did you crown yourself today?”

“Damn you!” Tirhin glared at him with clenched fists. “Taunt me again, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

“Before or after you cut off my head?”

One of the guards growled a warning and reached for his sword.

Tirhin waved him back. “I don’t need you. Keep away.”

“But, Majesty, he is dangerous—”

“Get out, both of you! If you won’t obey me, I won’t have you with me.”

“Better let them stay,” Caelan said softly.

Tirhin jerked around to stare at him. Whatever he read in Caelan’s eyes made him blink. He stepped back and glanced at his guards. “Very well,” he said. “But keep quiet.”

Caelan started over. Tirhin was a man on the edge. Whether pain or fear drove him hardly mattered. He was half-mad, fevered, far from being in control of himself or his men.

“Elandra will not marry you of her own free will,” Caelan said, still speaking softly. “Has she told you that yet?”

Tirhin’s face turned bright crimson. Hatred gleamed in his eyes. He was breathing hard, but he did not answer.

“Is an alliance with her the only way your chancellors will let you be crowned?” Caelan asked. “Imperia politics are so complicated. How much easier it all seemed when you thought the Madruns would slaughter both Kostimon and Elandra in their beds, leaving your succession a clear and simple matter. Did Kostimon accuse you of treason before he died? Is that why the Lord Commander of the army still hesitates to give you his allegiance?”

“The Lord Commander is here, damn you,” Tirhin breathed, staring at him in fascination. “He came to me. He brought the army to me.”

“But has he sworn fealty to you?”

Tirhin’s mouth trembled, but he said nothing.

“Has Lord Albain?”

“That old fool! His head will roll after yours!”

“And will that make Elandra smile at you with more favor?”

Tirhin lifted a shaking fist. “She’ll come to fear me. I don’t want her love. I want her cooperation.”

“You want her crown, and you’ll do anything to get it. The problem is, you’re about to be emperor of nothing. Imperia is doomed, and you can’t put the monsters back. Do you think they will spare you when they’ve eaten everyone else?”

All the color drained from Tirhin’s face. His eyes snapped open wide, and they were utterly mad. He gripped Caelan’s sword. “I will not be their creature!” he shouted. “I will not surrender to it, nor to you!”

Caelan held his breath, praying Tirhin would draw the sword and swing at him. There was a chance that he could seize the weapon and take it from the prince. If only Tirhin would get close enough.

But instead, the prince ran the back of his hand across his mouth. He was shaking visibly; his eyes rolled from side to side. He staggered back, too far away for Caelan to reach him.

“No,” he said raggedly, as though talking to himself. “No, not on my hands. An emperor does not stoop to ... you are nothing.” His gaze swung back to Caelan and focused. “Do you hear? You are nothing!”

“Tirhin,” Caelan said desperately, “wait—”

Tirhin made a chopping gesture to silence him. “For the good service you once showed me, I had hoped to spare you, but you are no longer of any use to me. As long as you are alive, she will hope. If she has hope, she will resist me.”

Caelan frowned, his wits scrambling for a way to reach Tirhin. “If I die, she will hate you more—”

“Guards!” Tirhin shouted.

The two men came forward. The others walked in.

“Execute him,” Tirhin said. “I want him dead. Now. Tonight.”

“At once, Majesty.”

Saluting, the sergeant turned around and gestured at his men. One of them yanked at Caelan’s chains, pulling him down to his knees. The others drew their daggers, blades ringing out the song of death.

Exoner called to Caelan, its voice an ache in his veins. If he could only get Tirhin to come close, close enough for him to grasp the hilt, he would still have a chance.

The sergeant gripped Caelan’s hair and tilted back his head to expose his throat. He placed the edge of his dagger under Caelan’s jaw. The steel felt cold against Caelan’s skin. He could tell how sharp and well honed it was. He hardly dared breathe against it.

“Will you give the order, Majesty?” the sergeant asked.

Caelan’s gaze found Tirhin’s. “Why not cut off my head yourself?” he taunted. The dagger nicked him as he spoke, and he felt a hot trickle of blood slide down his throat. “Do you fear me, emperor of nothing, or are you too little a man to dirty your hands?”

Rage darkened Tirhin’s face at the insult, and the sergeant cursed Caelan.

Before he could slit Caelan’s throat, however, Tirhin jerked up his hand.

Caelan knelt there, his whole existence poised on the edge of that trembling blade. He could feel the violence in the metal, feel the previous deaths coating the steel, feel the outrage in the sergeant who hungered to slash hard and cleanly.

Eyes blazing, Tirhin glared at Caelan. He looked more fevered and ill than ever. His thin body swayed as though he could barely stand. Breathing hard, he hesitated there, and his fists clenched and opened, clenched and opened.

Caelan never let his gaze falter from Tirhin’s. Draw the sword, he commanded in his mind. In Gault’s name, draw the sword.

Tirhin’s gaze narrowed. His hatred seethed in him plainly, but after an eternal moment he stepped back.

A low rumble ran through the room, and dust sifted down on Caelan’s shoulders. He frowned, glancing up involuntarily to see if the roof was going to fall on them.

The sergeant laughed deep in his throat. “Scared of a little shake?” he taunted. “We get them all the time down here. You’ll be dead long before you’re crushed.”

“Stand down,” Tirhin said.

His voice was choked, hoarse, almost unrecognizable.

The sergeant stared at him in consternation, then reluctantly moved the dagger away from Caelan’s throat. He released his hold on Caelan’s hair.

Gritting his teeth, Caelan lowered his head a moment to ease his neck muscles. Inside he was cursing with a mixture of relief and frustration.

Was Tirhin having second thoughts? What plot was being cooked up in the prince’s devious mind now? But any delay was a chance, however slight.

“I thank you,” Caelan said breathlessly, “for your imperial mercy.”

Tirhin’s dark brows knotted together. He swept a cold look at Caelan and said to the sergeant, “Wait until I am gone, then execute him. Don’t just slit his throat,” Tirhin added as a slow smile returned to the sergeant’s face. “Cut him into quarters and throw him outside to whatever hunts the darkness.”

“A pleasure, Majesty.”

“And, Sergeant?”

“Yes, Majesty?”

Tirhin’s gaze returned to Caelan’s. “Cut out his heart and send it to me. Then I shall know for certain that he is well and truly dead.”

The sergeant saluted.

A chill swept through Caelan. His plan had failed him. If he died here like a dog tonight, Elandra would truly be alone. His promises to her now seemed like idle boasting, deflated wineskins swinging in the wind.

“Your highness—” he said.

But the prince started laughing. It was a low sound without amusement, a sound of madness, a sound of bitter enmity. He paused only to spit in Caelan’s face, then resumed his laughter as he limped out.