A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [158]
Maldor had not burst into flames. He had not melted into a bubbling jelly of biomaterial. He had not vanished with a thunderclap, empty clothes falling to the floor. The ground had not rumbled, the castle had not tumbled to ruins, and the courtiers had not fled the room in terror.
Instead Jason had been the focus of an awkward moment for less than a minute and then unceremoniously escorted from the room. Now he sat chained to a chair.
What if the Word worked slowly? What if the effects took time to manifest? Hours, days, weeks? It didn’t seem likely. Magical or not, the Word had been a dud.
Jason sighed. He kept trying to ignore the restraints.
He tried counting heartbeats but gave up when he reached a thousand.
He imagined happier times. He pictured his dad drilling a tooth. He envisioned his mom walking Shadow. He imagined Matt turning in an English assignment. He visualized Tim cracking jokes at lunch, getting the whole table laughing.
Then he pictured Rachel. She was on the run with Tark someplace. He found that he missed her more than anyone, perhaps because he knew the others were safe. What would become of her? Somebody needed to warn her that the Word was a dud.
Hours passed. His mouth became dry. His stomach gurgled. He pictured himself dining during his arrival banquet at Harthenham.
How long would they keep him here? Besides being hungry and thirsty, he was developing an itch beside his nose. He attempted to reach it with his tongue but could not come close. Eventually he quit trying.
Much later—it was impossible to determine exactly how long—the door opened, bringing blinding light. Jason squinted while his eyes adjusted.
A pair of men carried a table into the cell. A third brought a cushioned chair. The two men spread a clean white cloth over the table and placed a bottle in a silver bucket of ice beside a glass. The other man set a lantern on the corner of the table.
“At least this place has room service,” Jason said, his voice cracking. His mouth was dry. He had not spoken for hours.
The men did not acknowledge his comment or his presence. They exited the room and closed the door.
Not long after they had departed, the door opened again.
Maldor entered unaccompanied.
The door closed behind him.
“Greetings, Jason,” he said, sitting in the chair at the table.
Jason swallowed. The pulse in his neck quickened.
“You are in a difficult situation,” Maldor said, pulling the bottle from the bucket and wiping off the beads of moisture with a linen napkin.
“I have an itch by my nose. It’s beginning to fade though.”
Maldor set the napkin aside. “Oklinder, with a hint of lumba berries.” He uncorked the bottle. “Let us speak plainly, man to man.”
“Sounds good.”
“Congratulations.” Maldor poured pink liquid into the glass and raised it toward Jason. “You have uttered the dreaded Key Word in my presence. You surprised me. I would not have chosen to let you speak the Word in public. I did not realize you had all of the syllables. Those who heard it will not remember it, but still, I dislike being surprised. Although you were not rewarded with the desired effect, you had the Word right.”
Jason stared blankly. “I did? Then what happened?”
Maldor gave a small smile. “You tell me.”
Jason frowned. “The Word was a hoax?”
“Perceptive.”
“A big diversion,” Jason realized.
“What value does the Word have as a diversion?” Maldor coaxed, taking a sip.
Jason’s heart sank. “It would keep your enemies busy, chasing after false hope.”
Maldor inclined his head in agreement. “You have the idea. Only myself and Salzared know the truth. And now you.”
“Salzared was in on it?” Jason felt dizzy. The faceless hero who had stolen the Word was a fraud!
“The displacer Salzared lives a life of pampered luxury inside this stronghold. It is his skin that binds the book scribbled in his blood, his eye on the cover.”
“What about the people guarding the syllables?