Shadow War - Deborah Chester [90]
The servants followed, coming outside to stand between the stone dragons. Caelan could hear their murmurs, both sad and condemning. Even they believed his guilt.
Glancing back over his shoulder, Caelan saw Orlo. He wanted to call out to the man, wanted to tell him he was sorry. Orlo had been right, while he was wrong. He wanted to ask Orlo to believe in his innocence. But he held his tongue, aware that no appeal would help him now.
Under the portico, a wagon supporting an iron cage stood waiting next to the guardsmen’s horses.
Caelan’s spirits sank. Yesterday he had been a champion. His name had been on everyone’s lips. They had cheered him and praised him. Now—on the lie of one unscrupulous man—he was considered a villain. Condemned already, he would die unheard and unseen.
Agel came down the steps, his robe moth-pale in the moonlight. “Where are you taking him?” he asked.
Caelan knew the options. He could be sold directly to the galleys, where he’d been once before. He could be taken to the city executioner, who would behead him. His head would be placed on a spike above the city walls to warn other slaves of the penalties for rebellion.
The guardsman laughed, and one of them spat on the steps.
“Why, to the dungeons of the palace, of course. This man has an appointment with the torturer, who is very interested in taking his confession.”
Caelan’s blood ran cold, but Agel turned pale. “The palace?” he said. “A confession?”
The lieutenant stepped between him and Caelan, whom the guards prodded into the cage. The barred gate was slammed shut and locked.
“But he is not a political figure,” Agel protested. “He is merely a slave.”
“He’s the most famous slave in this city,” the lieutenant said impatiently. “And he belongs to the prince. Until his highness is recovered enough to lay blame against his own property, no one has the authority to dispose of this wretch. No, he’ll rot in the prison, and he’ll make his confession or go mad from the instruments.”
“But—”
“Get back now,” the lieutenant said. “This matter is no longer in your hands.”
Turning from Agel, he shouted an order. The wagon lurched forward, rolling through the gates and out onto the road.
Clutching the bars of his cage, Caelan pressed his face against them and glared at the diminishing figure of Agel for as long as he could. Inside he knew the cold satisfaction of having thwarted his cousin’s attempt to silence him quickly. He’d give his warning now. He’d bray it for the confession, and it would have to be believed.
But under the bleakness of his satisfaction lay raw fear.
Gault help him, but he knew of the dungeons. He knew that once a man entered them, he did not emerge alive. Only Prince Tirhin could order his release, but once his confession was made Caelan would have no help from that quarter. Truly, his doom was being spun around him like a shroud.
In the temple of the Vindicants, the air lay thick with incense. Crimson smoke curled from the flared nostrils of two enormous bronze dogs flanking the stone altar. Lamplight flickered about the circular chamber, and oppressive silence hung like a shroud.
The bronze doors leading into the sanctuary were bolted from the inside. No one could disturb the lone occupant of the chamber.
Lord Sien, high priest of the Vindicant order, knelt on the floor before the altar with his head bowed and his hands pressed tightly together.
He was stripped to the waist, and although the sanctuary was chilly a light coating of perspiration covered his skin. He was breathing hard, as though he had been running a long distance. His eyes were closed.
On the floor beside him stood an emptied cup. The flat taste of blood, ashes, and wine still lingered on his tongue.
The air around him felt charged with gathering energy. Opening his eyes, Sien faced the altar with his arms spread wide. Above him on the wall hung the dread visage of the shadow god. Empty eyes stared down at him, but