Shadow War - Deborah Chester [4]
Caelan felt alarm. This was treasonous talk. “Sir,” he said softly, his voice full of warning, “these walls are honeycombed with listeners.”
“We are safe,” Tirhin said, but Sien lifted his long hand.
“Perhaps the slave is right,” the priest said. “Take care, your highness.”
Anger clouded Tirhin’s face. Clenching his fists, he swung away. “I am tired of waiting! I am tired of being careful! Swallowing insult after insult. Waiting endlessly on a man who will not die! I—”
He broke off, choking back his emotions, and gestured furiously at Sien.
The priest gripped Caelan by the arm. “Heed your instructions,” he said. “You are to win, by any means possible. Is that clear?”
Caelan stared at him. The man was a fool. “Yes, Lord Sien,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “I understand.”
Sien gave him a little shake. “You are as blind as an eyeless man. You understand nothing. There is more at stake here than a mere arena victory.”
Caelan glared at him and pulled his arm free. “I will win, if I am the better fighter. I will fight my best for my master, as I always do.”
“Not enough,” Sien said. “There is no passion here, no loyalty to you, sir.” He glanced at Tirhin; then his gaze returned to Caelan. He had yellow eyes, Caelan noticed with an inward shiver. Unpleasant, cold, inhuman eyes. They seemed to bore to Caelan’s very heart.
“There is no question of who is better,” Sien said. “Do as you are told. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The room was suddenly close and still. The air felt hot, stifling. Caelan tried to swallow, but his throat felt constricted. There was a strange roaring in his ears, and through it came Sien’s voice:
“You will kill the Madrun.”
Caelan bit back a sigh. “Yes, Lord Sien.”
“You will tantalize him and play with him as a cat toys with its prey.”
“I will, Lord Sien.”
“The object is to win the crowd’s approval for your master.”
“Yes.”
There was something heavy and hypnotic about the priest’s voice. His statements and Caelan’s responses had the solemn cadence of a religious ritual.
“You will rob the emperor of his acclaim.”
“I—” Caelan’s voice died in his throat.
He stepped back, forcing himself to break Sien’s intense stare. Blinking furiously, and sweating as though he’d run a long distance, Caelan scowled.
“Get back from me, priest!” he said, spitting the words in his fury. “Keep your filthy spells to yourself!”
“Caelan, silence!” Prince Tirhin commanded. “Remember your place.”
Caelan turned on him. “My place is to serve you. I will fight, sir. I will give my best to this contest, as I do every time I enter the ring. But I need no spells cast on me. I need no one to tell me how to fight. I will not submit to such—”
“You will have your tongue cut out for this insolence,” Sien said rapidly. “Speak to your master—or me—in like manner again, and you’ll—”
“Beat me, and I cannot fight,” Caelan retorted. “Cut out my tongue, and I’ll bleed my strength into the sand. You’ll have no victory then.”
The three of them glared at each other in long silence. Caelan knew well that Sien could carry out his threats, but he was too angry to care. The Vindicants had tried to meddle with him before. He wouldn’t submit to their blasphemy. He’d rather die than lose his soul to their brand of darkness.
It was Prince Tirhin who was the first to speak. “My Lord Sien,” he said, “I think it best if you step outside.”
Sien scowled in outrage.
“Please,” Tirhin said. “Your efforts have served to gain the slave’s attention. Now let me finish the persuasion.”
“You cosset him and spoil him, granting him privileges above his station, allowing him ideas of his own importance.”
“He is important,” Tirhin said, still calmly. “It is not boasting to state a fact. My father surely requires your return by now. Let me have the bag.”
Sien hesitated further, but at last he drew a small leather pouch from his robes and put it in Tirhin’s hand. “Make very sure,” he said, his voice hoarse with anger. “This chance must not be wasted.”
Tirhin’s handsome face tightened with annoyance. “I know what’s at stake,