A Fall of Princes by Judith Tarr Read Free Book Online Page B

Sunchild,” the mage said calmly. “That
is book and circle enough.”
    Sarevan’s breath caught. His defiance had an air of
desperation. Feigned, perhaps. Perhaps not. “You cannot touch me.”
    “Enough,” said Ebraz quietly, but they heard him. “I cannot
afford an escape, my lord. Surely you understand. Your word would suffice, but . . .
Prince Zorayan is not an easy man, and he is not altogether certain that he
trusts me. I must be strict. For appearance’s sake. I will be no more rigorous
than I must.”
    “I will remember,” Sarevan said. Warning, promising.
    “Remember, my lord, but forgive.” Ebraz signaled to his men.
“The lower prison. Minimal restraint but constant guard. Within reason, let him
have whatever he asks for.”
    o0o
    It was dark. It was damp. It stank. It was a dungeon, and
it was vile, and Sarevan smiled at it.
    “Spacious,” he said to the guard who stood nearest, “and
well lit; the straw is clean, I see. Rats? Yes? Ah well, what would a dungeon
be without rats?”
    They had taken off Hirel’s chain. He bolted for the door. A
guard caught him with contemptuous ease, and took his time letting go, groping
down Hirel’s trousers. Hirel laid him flat.
    Sarevan laughed. “Isn’t he a wonder? Protects his virtue
better than any maid. But with a little persuasion . . .”
    The guards were grinning. Hirel’s victim got up painfully,
but the murder had retreated from his eyes. He did not try to touch Hirel
again.
    They left the dim lamp high in its niche, where it bred more
shadows than it vanquished. The door thudded shut; bolts rattled across it.
Hirel turned on Sarevan. “You unspeakable—”
    “Yes, I held your tongue for you, and it was well for you I
did. If my elegant lord had taken any notice of you, he would have kept you. He
likes a pretty boy now and then. But he likes them docile and he likes them
devoted, and I made sure that he thought I might have tainted you with my
sorceries. Why, your very face could have been a trap.”
    “What do you think you have led me into? I could have been
free. I could have proven my rank and had an escort to my father.”
    “You could have been held hostage well apart from me, with
no hope of escape.”
    “What hope is there now?”
    “More than none.” Before Hirel could muster a riposte,
Sarevan had withdrawn, turning his eyes toward the deepest of deep shadows.
    His breath hissed. He swooped on something.
    Hirel’s eyes were sharpening to the gloom. He saw what
Sarevan knelt beside. A bundle of rags. A tangle of—
    Hair like black water flecked with white. The tatters of a
robe such as all priests wore by law in Asanion, torn most on the breast where
the badge of the god should be. The prisoner had on something beneath,
something dark and indistinct, but glinting on the edge of vision.
    Hirel’s stomach heaved. It was no garment at all, but flesh
flayed to the bone. And the face—the face—
    It had been a woman once. It could still speak with a
clarity horrible amid the ruin, and the voice was sweet. It was a young voice,
light and pure despite the greying hair. “Avar’charin?” It shifted to accented Asanian. “Brother. Brother my lord, Avar’charin. I see you in the darkness. How bright is the light of
you!”
    Sarevan stroked the beautiful hair. His face was deadly
still. “Hush,” he murmured. “Hush.”
    She stirred. Though it must have roused her to agony, she
touched his hand. His fingers closed over hers, gently, infinitely gently, for
they were little more than blood and broken bone. “My lord,” she cried with
sudden urgency, “you should not be here! This land is death for you.”
    “It has been worse for you.” His voice was as still as his
face.
    “I am no one. My pain belongs to the god; it is nearly done.
But you—Endros iVaryan, you were mad to pass your father’s borders.”
    “The god is leading me. He brought me to you. Give me your
pain, sister. Give me your suffering, that I may