Book 3 - A Path to Coldness of Heart by Glen Cook Read Free Book Online Page B

him a penknife.
There was a luxury garderobe. The waste went away when staff removed dirty dishes and cutlery. Meals were regular and adequate.
There were pitchers and porcelain bowls at opposite ends of the room, with ladles. There was a metal tub that could be dragged out and, once a week, filled with warm water so he could bathe. A specialist servant would deal with fleas and lice. His captors had an aversion to parasites.
There was an area for dressing. He had a choice of apparel. Like dirty dishes, soiled clothing went away, then came back clean.
He could shave if he wanted. The tools were available.
Not a hard life. But he could not leave.
So mostly he paced, like the caged tiger, and he raged. Hour after hour, day after day, back and forth, paying little heed to his surroundings, fantasizing about what the world would suffer once he escaped.
Little thought went toward actually accomplishing that. That was work for the rational side of his mind. And the rational side had to operate in the realm of reality.
Rationally, it was obvious that there would be no leaving without outside contrivance.
Rationally, he could do nothing but wait.
The prisoner’s routine was rigid. Food arrived at predictable times, virtually taunting him: construct an escape plan around this, fool! So when the door in the flat wall opened at an unorthodox hour Ragnarson was so surprised he actually retreated.
He gawked. He failed to recognize Mist for several seconds. She was radiantly gorgeous. He had not been near any woman for so long that his response was instantaneous and embarrassing.
Then his mind clicked.
Mist, aged in spirit but not in that timelessly beautiful flesh.
He arranged himself so as to conceal his arousal.
She smiled. “Hello. The war has eased up. I thought I’d see how you’re doing.”
Off guard, disturbed by his response, he was flustered. Neither fight nor flight were options.
“Bragi! It’s me! Good gracious. You aren’t very good at being a noble prisoner, are you?”
Her tone, the amusement edging her voice, dispelled the intellectual murk. “I got it made,” he croaked. “Relatively speaking.”
They could have shoved him down an oubliette and fed him spoiled pig manure for the rest of a very short life.
He drew no cheer from the thought.
He glared at the achingly beautiful woman.
“I’m beginning to think you’re more than just a man, Bragi Ragnarson. You’re maybe an elemental who is no longer sane and still headed downhill.”
Ragnarson said nothing. He did not disagree.
A face came to mind. Sherilee. That sweet child, younger than his oldest boy. Their liaison, brief as it had been, had reminded him that he was still alive.
He shook like a dog fresh in from the rain. “I’m sane right now but it won’t last.”
“I’m pleased. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is trying to communicate with someone who can’t see that they’re caught in reality’s trap.”
“You have me for now. It may not last. Something shook me off my foundations.”
“We weren’t responsible.”
He got no sense that she was lying.
She said, “I came for several reasons. First, to see how you’re doing. We were friends. You helped me.”
He kept his expression neutral.
“I tried to support you, too. I failed. Then you put yourself into a position where this was the best I could do.”
He thought this was more the work of Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i.
“Cynical response noted.”
Ragnarson betrayed a smile.
“I’ve brought news from home. Which is hard to come by, these days.”
“I’ve known you a long time…”
She stopped him. She knew he never believed much that she said. “It would be more kind to leave you ignorant. The heart I found while I was in exile disagrees.”
Ragnarson focused. Time to be careful. The Empress of Shinsan was going to give him something because she wanted something. “Do tell.”
“Last month your grandson Bragi seemed certain to become king of Kavelin, instead of Fulk. It was just a