Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [175]
“Oh, by the gods!”
A huge door was slowly opening in the cliff face. Just as they reached it, it held steady and open. When Jorl led his party into a high, square-cut tunnel, other men came forward carrying lanterns and speaking in a language that Sarcyn had never heard before. He glanced back to see the door slowly being winched shut behind him. The sight of the disappearing crack of twilight made his head swim. Suddenly hands reached up and grabbed him to lower him gently down. Jorl’s face leaned over him.
“We get litter. Carry you.”
Sarcyn wanted to thank him, but the swimmy darkness enveloped him.
When he woke, he was lying on a narrow pallet in a pitch-dark chamber. At first he panicked, because there was not a crack or shimmer of light, not even the variations of darkness as in a normal nighttime chamber. Gradually he became aware that he was clean, naked under a soft blanket, and that his burns throbbed only slightly. His broken lip, too, had been smeared with some pleasant-smelling salve. In a few minutes a door opened with a burst of light. A fellow who was about four feet tall walked in, holding up a lantern.
“The Wildfolk said you were awake,” he announced. “Can you eat?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll bring you somewhat, then.”
He set the lantern down on a little table near the door, then went out, shutting the door behind him. Sarcyn heard the sound of a heavy bar being dropped on the outside. So he was a prisoner, if a well-treated one. Although the room was only about ten feet on a side and carved out of the living rock of the mountain, it was far from being a cell. On the floor was a solid red carpet, and beside the pallet and the table there was a squarish chair with a high back and cushioned seat that looked as if it would be quite comfortable for someone with very short legs. Near the door, discreetly covered with a square of cloth, sat a chamber pot, and next to it were his clothes, washed, dried, and carefully folded.
Moving slowly, because his head was still light, he got up and dressed. He was not surprised to find that his sword was nowhere to be seen. He was just finishing when the fellow returned, bearing a wooden tray with two bowls on it.
“Do you like mushrooms?”
“I do.”
“Good.” He set the tray down on the table. “All the movables are a bit small for you, aren’t they? Well, you won’t be here long.”
“Can you tell me where I’ll be going?”
He paused, head tilted as he considered, then shrugged and went to the door. He held it a bit open so that Sarcyn could see the two heavily armed soldiers on guard before he spoke.
“The Master of the Aethyr’s coming to fetch you.”
He stepped out, slamming the heavy door shut just as Sarcyn leaped for it more in terror than in a rational attempt to escape. He slammed into it and leaned there spread-eagled, listening to the sound of the dropping bar, then began to sob in near-soundless gulps. Finally he pulled himself away and began to pace round and round the room. Up near the high ceiling was an opening that had to be an air vent, but it was only a foot square, far too small to squeeze through. Maybe he could pretend to be ill, then overpower his keeper—but there were the guards. Maybe he could withdraw his aura, slip out—if they ever opened the door again before Nevyn arrived. Or he could summon Wildfolk to create a distraction; maybe he could even get one to lift the bar on the door.
All at once he stopped pacing as a thought went through him like an arrow: he didn’t want to escape. He sat down very slowly on the floor near the table and considered it again and again: he had no desire to be free. He was weary, exhausted in his very soul, far too tired to run, and if he escaped, he would be always running, from Nevyn, from the law, from the Hawks, from the terror of his own memories, running, always running, always lying, always on guard.
“The deer on a hunting preserve have more peace, truly.”
He smiled, a bitter, twisted smile, at his own words. So he was going to die. Nevyn