Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [87]
“Why, Caelan, we would be in Gialta in a matter of days instead of weeks. Perhaps quicker. They can fly like the wind,” she said excitedly, looking not at all afraid. “Can you convince them to take us willingly?”
Gray Hair stirred and slowly sat up, cradling his head in his hands.
Caelan watched him grimly. “Willingly or not, they will take us.”
“Then arrange it quickly,” Elandra said.
Caelan walked over to the Thyzarene and hauled him to his feet. He gave the man a rough shaking to finish waking him up, then shoved him back.
“Your name,” he said.
The Thyzarene blinked at him slowly, his eyes filling with humiliation and hatred.
“Your name!” Caelan barked.
“I am Bwend,” the man replied. His voice was sullen. But his gaze now took in Caelan’s imperial armor and the large emerald in Exoner’s hilt. He glanced at Elandra and came to attention. “Bwend, rider of Nia. Formerly dispatch flier in the Seventh Corps.”
Caelan was pleased. If the man had once had some military discipline pounded into him, he would be somewhat easier to handle. He pointed. “And this other man?”
Bwend didn’t bother to look at his still unconscious comrade. “Fotel, rider of Basha.”
At the sound of its name, the burned dragon lifted its head and roared.
“Are you kin to the boy?” Caelan asked, ignoring the dragon.
“No,” Bwend said curtly.
“You’re lying.”
Bwend shot him a hostile look. Resentment simmered in his lean, weathered face, but he said nothing.
“Are you his father?” Caelan persisted.
Again Bwend said nothing.
Caelan was tempted to let it pass, but he knew this issue had to be dealt with now. “Kupel threatened the life of her Majesty,” he said. “None may do that, whether child or man grown. None.”
He deliberately made his voice harsh and unsympathetic. He knew enough of the customs of these people to understand that they did not respect weakness or compassion.
Bwend frowned, and a flicker of something incomprehensible passed through his face. Caelan hoped he accepted the explanation; he would despise an apology. Not that Caelan intended to offer one.
“You are my prisoners,” Caelan said. “You have attacked her Majesty, and no man may do that and live.”
Bwend’s chin lifted. His eyes grew blank and steely as though he prepared himself for execution.
Caelan drew his sword, letting the sunshine flash along the blade. His face was like stone; his eyes gave nothing away. From the corner of his vision he saw Glandra bring one hand to her mouth. He prayed she would not interfere.
Perhaps she understood what he was doing, for she said nothing.
Caelan slowly extended the sword until the tip rested lightly at Bwend’s throat. The Thyzarene’s forehead crinkled, and he swallowed hard. Otherwise, he stood there stoically, refusing to beg for his life.
Cursing his stubbornness, Caelan let the silence stretch. As he stood there with the man’s life in his hands, he felt anew the temptation to make one quick thrust. In the blink of an eye, there would be one member of E’nonhold avenged.
But he held back the old rage. This was not the place or the time.
Bwend was staring into his eyes, and the Thyzarene’s own had widened at what they read in Caelan’s. Perspiration broke out on his forehead.
“Majesty,” he said, gasping as Caelan eased the sword tip closer against his throat, stopping just short of piercing the skin. Bwend’s eyes flashed back and forth. “Leave to speak,” he choked out.
“Granted,” Elandra said coldly.
Caelan could have kissed her. She was playing the role of an outraged monarch perfectly. For once her haughty tone was exactly right.
She swept Caelan an imperious glance. “Let him speak.”
Caelan lowered his sword.
Bwend dropped to his knees at Elandra’s feet. “Majesty,” he said, his accent blurring his words, his eyes carefully cast down, “have mercy. The beacons have flashed the message across the empire that you are missing. Reward has been offered. We sought only your Majesty’s recovery.”
“You attacked us without provocation,” she said, no mercy in her voice. “You would have killed—”
“No, Majesty!” Bwend protested.