A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [1]
Without warning, the door to his cell creaked open. He tensed, braced for anything. Keep silent, he warned himself. No matter what they do or say.
“Well, well,” said a warm voice that he had heard before. “You’re looking worse every day.”
The prince said nothing. He heard other men entering the cell. Three besides the speaker.
The friendly voice hardly paused. “If you’re going to host a visitor, we had best get you cleaned up.”
Rough hands unlocked the manacles. The prince felt perplexed. He had never been cleaned since arriving at the dungeon. Perhaps this was a ploy. Or perhaps he might finally enter the presence of the emperor!
Large hands gripped his arms. The hands led him forward, then down to his knees. Coarse rags scrubbed his bare flesh. Before long, unseen hands began trimming his whiskers. Minutes later a straight razor scraped across his cheeks.
A man held him on either side, which gave the prince a good sense for how he might attack them. He could use his legs to take out their knees, then get the razor, and add four corpses to his count. Since his capture, he had already slain six guards.
No. Even if he defeated these guards, without his eyesight he would never escape the dungeon. But he might ruin his chance for an audience with Maldor. The prince shuddered faintly. Some of his best men and closest friends had given their lives, and despite their sacrifices he had failed. His only chance for redemption was to come before the emperor.
“You seem especially docile today,” the warm voice commented. “Could it be you have finally resolved to become a model prisoner?”
Biting retorts sprang to mind. His consciousness had felt muddy for so long, the prince felt tempted to answer. Surely there could be no harm in responding. No, even if his mind felt clear, even if this particular question were innocent, if he broke his pattern of silence, eventually his captors would coerce him into revealing secrets. He only had one word to share, and it would be in the presence of Maldor.
“Ready for a stroll?” the voice asked.
The men on either side helped the prince rise, then escorted him from the cell. He took shuffling steps. As always he wished for his eyes, but he resolutely reached out with his other senses, noting the direction and temperature of a draft, the acoustics of the corridor, the smells of rot and burning torches.
After some time he heard a door open, and the prince entered a new room. His escorts forced him to his knees—locking him there with shackles on his ankles and wrists—and then placed a heavy iron collar around his neck. Without another word the guards left. Or at least some of them left. One or more could have covertly remained.
Minutes passed. Hours. Finally the cell door opened, and then closed.
“We meet again at last,” a familiar voice said.
Chills raced across the prince’s shoulders. Maldor had visited Trensicourt years ago, trying to negotiate an alliance. As a boy the prince had studied his every move, this man who his father claimed was so dangerous.
“I promised that one day you would kneel to me,” the emperor said, his tone dry.
The prince moved his arms slightly, enough to jangle his chains.
“I would have preferred voluntary reverence,” the emperor admitted. “Perhaps in time. I understand you have lost your tongue.”
The prince hesitated. He had to be sure. He had learned this word of power at great cost. The emperor could not possibly suspect that he knew every syllable. Otherwise he would never have come here in person. But could the speaker be a trick? An imitator? The prince knew he would only get one chance at this.
“I had no interest in addressing your underlings,” the prince said, surprised by how hoarse and weak his voice sounded.
“The heir to Trensicourt