Shadow War - Deborah Chester [36]
“The fatal blow. The moment when life fades ... you feel it the moment you inflict it, do you not?” Fuesel asked intensely. “You know.”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Fuesel inched closer so that his sleeve brushed Caelan’s. “And when it happens, you feel that indescribable thrill. It is like joy, I think. Am I correct?”
Holding back a sigh, Caelan said, “No, my lord. I do not enjoy killing.”
Fuesel’s smile only widened. “You lie. Success in any endeavor is based on enjoyment.”
And sometimes fear, Caelan thought to himself. Refusing to reply, he kept a respectful stance, his gaze focused slightly to the left of the man’s shoulder. He was suddenly very thirsty, and he finished his wine in a quick gulp.
“Well,” Fuesel said when Caelan remained silent. “Like many successful men, you maintain your greatness by keeping mysteries within yourself. Too much chatter destroys the mystique, does it not? Yes. But everyone has chattered about you. To actually execute the Dance of Death with such boldness, such courage ... even now, it steals my breath to remember the sight.” He shivered ecstatically and gripped Caelan’s wrist with clammy fingers. “You have seen death. You have felt it within yourself. That I would love to discuss with you.”
“I must go,” Caelan said. He felt uneasy and overly warm. The passageway seemed dark and stuffy. He needed air.
Fuesel released his arm but did not move aside. “Ah, of course. This is not the time. This is a party, is it not? Not a time to discuss the dark sides of death and savagery. No. And I have kept you from the poetry reading. Will you return?” He gestured at the room they had both exited.
Caelan shook his head.
“Ah,” Fuesel said. “Then perhaps we might find something more entertaining to occupy our time. If your master does not request your presence elsewhere?”
Strange as he was, this man seemed genuinely interested in talking to Caelan as a human being. Although Caelan tried to remain aloof, a part of him felt flattered.
“I have no commands to serve at this time,” he said formally.
Fuesel smiled. “Splendid. Let us walk in this direction.” As he spoke, he started down the passageway, and Caelan fell into step beside him.
“Now,” Fuesel said. “You are a natural competitor. I have won many wagers because of you.”
Caelan nodded. He still felt too warm. Perhaps the wine had been stronger than he thought. He said with a touch of arrogance, “Bet on me to win, and you take money home in your pockets.”
Fuesel laughed and slapped him on the back. “Yes, indeed! Well spoken, my tall friend. Tell me, do you enjoy other kinds of competitions?”
“It depends.”
“Such a cautious answer!” Fuesel reached into his pocket to produce a pair of dice. “I, like yourself, am a lover of risk. But my arena does not shed blood. Interested?”
Caelan’s suspicions relaxed. He returned the man’s smile, aware that he had money of his own through his master’s generosity. And although no one of Fuesel’s rank had ever asked him to play before, Caelan knew how to dice. He had learned from Old Farns, the gatekeeper of E’nonhold, on lazy afternoons when Caelan’s father was away and could not frown on such pursuits. The gladiators in the barracks were keen on dicing—everyone in Imperia was—and would play for hours, betting anything in their possession, even straws from their pallets.
Fuesel smiled and rattled the dice enticingly in his fist. “Yes?”
Caelan’s pride soared. A lord had sought him out for a game, as one equal to another. Even if Lord Fuesel was planning to fleece Caelan of his money, it hardly mattered. It was a gesture of social acceptance that warmed Caelan inside as nothing else could.
“I am delighted to play with your lordship,