Shadow War - Deborah Chester [115]
A voice spoke in the distance, and the soldier stepped away from Caelan. “He is ready, Majesty.”
By the time Caelan managed to lift his head again and somehow throttle back his misery, the emperor had come down the steps and crossed the dingy, splattered room. He circled the forge, where the glow of the coals threw a ruddy glow across his face. At last he stopped in front of Caelan.
The emperor wore a tunic of cloth of gold and a crown on his head. He seemed to blaze in the gloom, and his jewels winked and sparkled at his slightest movement. His yellow eyes gleamed balefully at Caelan, and his face might have been carved from stone.
“You dared attack my son,” he said in a low, furious voice. “You miserable wretch.”
Caelan struggled to pull his wits together. By some miracle, he had his audience with the emperor. It was not what he had hoped for, but it would have to do. “Majesty,” he said, his voice a hoarse croak, “I must denounce your son as a traitor and a—”
“Silence!” the soldier shouted, and struck him.
The man’s fist slammed into Caelan’s jaw like a battering ram. He spun around on the chain, the pressure sawing through his armpits, and felt his consciousness dribbling away.
“Get back, Captain,” the emperor said as though from far away. “I do not require your assistance.”
A murmured apology, and retreating footsteps.
Then a hand gripped Caelan’s hair and jerked up his head. “Talk to me, you overgrown brute,” the emperor muttered. “But take care. I have risked enough, giving you this chance to defend yourself when by rights your entrails should have already been fed to the gulls. Talk!”
Caelan tried, but his brain felt as though it had come loose in his skull. He gasped, struggling for the breath to answer, praying he could pull himself together one last time.
The emperor shook his head impatiently. It felt as though he might pull Caelan’s hair out by the roots. “Talk, damn you! Is your confession the truth?”
“Yes,” Caelan whispered thickly. “Traitor ... it’s true. I saw.”
“What did you see?” the emperor demanded, his voice lower now, still tight with anger and impatience. “Tell me quickly!”
“Bargain ... Madruns to come ... take city.” Caelan drew in a shaky breath, knowing he needed to be more articulate. He tried harder. “Sien and the prince ... secret meeting on Sidraigh-hal... met with Madruns. Prince wants throne. Resents the—the lady empress.” His mind stumbled and failed him for a moment. Then it came back. He frowned. “Prince plotted against you. Made alliance. Gave them ... gave them ...”
To his frustration his strength petered out, and he could not finish. Panting, he hung there and railed mentally against his own weakness.
“And you were there?” the emperor said grimly. “You participated in this plot?”
Caelan rested his cheek against his arm, his eyes half-closed. “No. Followed master. To protect... didn’t know. Watched outside the hut. Heard. Saw him give them the paper.”
The emperor’s face turned pale. “The passwords?”
“And forged orders ... strategy ... way through the border. Everything. City in danger. Five days, then they will come.”
The emperor’s grip shifted to his throat. “When did this occur?”
“Day before coronation. I tried to warn you. Couldn’t. Only to you could I speak. No way to reach you. Prince hurt.”
“He will hurt even more,” the emperor said furiously. His eyes were blazing, and he dropped his grip from Caelan’s throat. “You’re a slave. You could say anything. Why should I trust you?”
Caelan managed to meet his eyes. “You believed