Shadow War - Deborah Chester [26]
Agel might have been a stone. He watched Caelan lurch to the foot of the bed and grab a bedpost for support. He did not move.
“Discussing the past is unproductive,” he said. “The events have occurred. They cannot be undone. As for regrets, they are a waste of time. You chose the course of your life, as I have chosen mine.”
“I did not choose this!” Caelan said violently. “Gods, do you think I crawled into the city and begged them to make a slave of me?”
Agel turned his head and gazed about the luxurious room. Compared to a Trau home, the place looked too full of furniture, too gaudy; it would be considered excessive and wasteful. Caelan frowned, but it was Agel who spoke next:
“Slavery seems to have its rewards. You have done well for yourself here.”
Caelan gasped, but even as memories of floggings, nights spent crouched in filthy straw, long hours of brutal drills, and the grim realities of arena combat flashed through his mind, he realized he could not explain anything to Agel. His cousin had already judged him by these surroundings, and would never believe anything else.
Pride lifted Caelan’s chin. “Yes,” he said tightly. “I have done well. I have a master who rewards me when I please him. I have a roof over my head. I have the security of knowing I will be fed and clothed. Even my slave chain is made of gold. Isn’t it pretty?”
“You have the gifts of healing,” Agel said in a stern voice. “So much talent and potential, and you wasted it all. Worse, you have put your gifts into the hands of evil. You use severance to kill, do you not?”
The unexpected attack left Caelan silent.
“To do so is an abomination,” Agel said. “An abhorrence to all life. The citizens of Imperia worship you. They throw coins and flowers at you in tribute. “The mighty warrior Caelan,’ they cry. How greatly would they cheer you if they knew the truth? That it is not with the sword that you slay your victims, but with your talent?”
Agel’s unjust accusations stung Caelan. Years ago, when they were young boys, Agel had been fair and open-minded, but the teachers at Rieschelhold had obviously erased those qualities from him. Now he was petty and prejudiced. He had prejudged Caelan, and his disapproval hurt.
Before Caelan could say anything, Agel continued in that same soft, relentless voice:
“The deaths of your many victims is like a dirty cloak over you. When I look at you from severance, I see you in shadow, vague and obscured. You are tainted and foul.” He paused a moment, his lips tight as he assessed Caelan. “You even use sevaisin, do you not? I can tell it is entwined about you.”
Repulsion filled his eyes. “It has always been forbidden. Where did you come by it? Who taught you such evil? In the memory of your father and all he stood for, how can you?”
Caelan sighed. All his life he had struggled between the two extremes of his unwanted gifts. Severance, the cold isolation, and sevaisin, the joining of life to life. No man should be able to do both, yet he could. The struggle to keep them balanced, the struggle to keep himself from going mad between them at times, seemed harder and harder. He feared himself, feared what might befall him if he ever gave way. Which side of him would eventually win? Yet, for now, he had no means of saving himself except to practice the very principles of balance so revered in Trau. He often felt like a man walking the crumbling edge of a precipice, with no solid ground ahead of him.
No one had ever known his secret, except his father, who had called him a monster. And now Agel knew also. His condemnation showed plainly in his face.
“Please,” Caelan said softly. “Try to understand ...”
“Sevaisin is forbidden!” Agel snapped. “Why did you seek such a thing? Why did you study it?”
“I didn’t—”
“Was it to dishonor your father’s memory? Was it to stain his accomplishments, all he stood for? Has this been your purpose?”
Caelan’s temper slipped. “You said to let the past lie. My father is dead. Why should I seek to dishonor