Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [146]
“Go!” Tirhin shouted. He looked angry and flushed; whatever he was drinking only seemed to agitate him more. “I will speak to him alone.”
Agel frowned at him, looking exasperated. “Even chained, he could attack you before the guards—”
“You’re an old woman. I’m not afraid of him!” Tirhin said rudely. He finished the contents of his cup and flung it Agel, who ducked just in time. “Do you think he has the power to snap stone and steel? Go!”
Without further protest, Agel tucked his hands inside his wide sleeves and left. As he passed Caelan, his gaze flicked sideways to meet Caelan’s eyes. He said nothing, however. His expression remained unreadable.
Caelan turned his head to watch Agel go. There was nothing left for either of them to say. They had chosen their sides. They would not change.
The prince swayed. A sheen of unhealthy sweat coated his face, which was far paler than usual. He had lost his handsome looks. His features were haggard, almost gaunt, with deep lines carved on either side of his mouth. His blue eyes seemed paler than Caelan remembered, and as the firelight reflected in them they appeared almost yellow.
Caelan thought of Kostimon’s yellow eyes, so cold and strange. He remembered that Sien had also had yellow eyes, like a serpent’s. Was this, then, a mark of the shadows?
Tirhin limped closer to Caelan, a sneer on his face, and Caelan tugged at his bonds, testing them with a strong bulging of his muscles. But unlike the bolt set into the pillar of wood in Albain’s courtyard, this one was immovable. Nor could the chains be broken. They were strong enough to have held many a prisoner, many a gladiator, in the past. They were holding now.
Tirhin chuckled. “Oh, you would like to get at me, wouldn’t you? I can see the heated desire in your eyes.”
Tirhin stopped just out of Caelan’s reach. The prince wore his usual blue clothing, sumptuous velvet trimmed with fur. His sword was too long and heavy for him. An emerald winked from the hilt, and Caelan recognized Exoner. He caught his breath sharply.
“Yes,” Tirhin said, noticing where his gaze went. “This exceptionally fine sword is not suitable for a former slave to carry. I have taken it for my own.”
As he spoke, he drew it from the scabbard and swung it aloft. He held it overhead a moment, long enough for his thin arms to tremble; then he brought it down in a vicious swing at Caelan’s head.
Caelan met Tirhin’s eyes, and never moved. At the last second Tirhin bent his elbows, and the blade missed Caelan by a whisper.
“Whack!” Tirhin said, with a hollow laugh. “There goes your head, rolling away like a ball.”
He sheathed the sword and glared at Caelan, looking disappointed that he had failed to frighten his prisoner. “You always had ideas above your station. I gave you everything, showered you with gifts and wealth, and you have repaid me most ill.”
“You brought the evil to Imperia,” Caelan said. “You bargained with the Madruns. You unleashed the darkness—”
“Shut up!” Tirhin broke in hotly. His eyes opened wide, and he shook his head. “Damn you, how dare you accuse me! You are dung beneath my boots. This darkness was Kostimon’s doing. Blame him, not me.”
“Kostimon is dead.”
“Is he?” Tirhin asked with an angry gesture. “Why do I hear his name at every turn? Why do I hear his voice in my dreams at night? It is said his ghost stalks the city. He is the man who bargained for immortality and paid the price by bringing this destruction down on all of us.”
Caelan did not answer. Blame could be thrown in any direction. It did not change the circumstances.
“But you,” Tirhin said, coming closer. “I have brought you back to revive the games, to give the people some entertainment.”
“Haven’t they seen enough death lately?” Caelan asked with scorn.
Tirhin flushed. “What spell have you cast over her?” he asked in a sudden change of subject. His voice was hoarse with fury. “What have you done to her mind?”
“Who?”
“Elandra! Don