Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [148]
All the color drained from Tirhin’s face. His eyes snapped open wide, and they were utterly mad. He gripped Caelan’s sword. “I will not be their creature!” he shouted. “I will not surrender to it, nor to you!”
Caelan held his breath, praying Tirhin would draw the sword and swing at him. There was a chance that he could seize the weapon and take it from the prince. If only Tirhin would get close enough.
But instead, the prince ran the back of his hand across his mouth. He was shaking visibly; his eyes rolled from side to side. He staggered back, too far away for Caelan to reach him.
“No,” he said raggedly, as though talking to himself. “No, not on my hands. An emperor does not stoop to ... you are nothing.” His gaze swung back to Caelan and focused. “Do you hear? You are nothing!”
“Tirhin,” Caelan said desperately, “wait—”
Tirhin made a chopping gesture to silence him. “For the good service you once showed me, I had hoped to spare you, but you are no longer of any use to me. As long as you are alive, she will hope. If she has hope, she will resist me.”
Caelan frowned, his wits scrambling for a way to reach Tirhin. “If I die, she will hate you more—”
“Guards!” Tirhin shouted.
The two men came forward. The others walked in.
“Execute him,” Tirhin said. “I want him dead. Now. Tonight.”
“At once, Majesty.”
Saluting, the sergeant turned around and gestured at his men. One of them yanked at Caelan’s chains, pulling him down to his knees. The others drew their daggers, blades ringing out the song of death.
Exoner called to Caelan, its voice an ache in his veins. If he could only get Tirhin to come close, close enough for him to grasp the hilt, he would still have a chance.
The sergeant gripped Caelan’s hair and tilted back his head to expose his throat. He placed the edge of his dagger under Caelan’s jaw. The steel felt cold against Caelan’s skin. He could tell how sharp and well honed it was. He hardly dared breathe against it.
“Will you give the order, Majesty?” the sergeant asked.
Caelan’s gaze found Tirhin’s. “Why not cut off my head yourself?” he taunted. The dagger nicked him as he spoke, and he felt a hot trickle of blood slide down his throat. “Do you fear me, emperor of nothing, or are you too little a man to dirty your hands?”
Rage darkened Tirhin’s face at the insult, and the sergeant cursed Caelan.
Before he could slit Caelan’s throat, however, Tirhin jerked up his hand.
Caelan knelt there, his whole existence poised on the edge of that trembling blade. He could feel the violence in the metal, feel the previous deaths coating the steel, feel the outrage in the sergeant who hungered to slash hard and cleanly.
Eyes blazing, Tirhin glared at Caelan. He looked more fevered and ill than ever. His thin body swayed as though he could barely stand. Breathing hard, he hesitated there, and his fists clenched and opened, clenched and opened.
Caelan never let his gaze falter from Tirhin’s. Draw the sword, he commanded in his mind. In Gault’s name, draw the sword.
Tirhin’s gaze narrowed. His hatred seethed in him plainly, but after an eternal moment he stepped back.
A low rumble ran through the room, and dust sifted down on Caelan’s shoulders. He frowned, glancing up involuntarily to see if the roof was going to fall on them.
The sergeant laughed deep in his throat. “Scared of a little shake?” he taunted. “We get them all the time down here. You’ll be dead long before you’re crushed.”
“Stand down,” Tirhin said.
His voice was choked, hoarse, almost unrecognizable.
The sergeant stared at him in consternation, then reluctantly moved the dagger away from Caelan’s throat. He released his hold on Caelan’s hair.
Gritting his teeth, Caelan lowered his head a moment to ease his neck muscles. Inside he was cursing with a mixture of relief and frustration.
Was Tirhin having second thoughts? What plot was being cooked up in the prince’s devious mind now? But any delay was a chance, however slight.
“I thank you,” Caelan said breathlessly, “for your imperial