The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [213]
Finally, after endless hours of waiting in the chill darkness, they heard the distant sound of clanging metal as an ancient iron door somewhere above swung ponderously open. There were voices, muffled and soft, and then footsteps on stone as someone began to descend the worn stairs to the lower dungeon where the three were imprisoned. Quickly they rose to their feet and crowded close to the cell door, listening expectantly as the footsteps and the voices drew closer. Balinor could distinguish the voice of his brother above the rest, strangely hesitant and broken. Then the heavy latches were drawn back, the sudden grating of metal piercing to the ears of the three captives, who had become accustomed now to the deathlike silence of their prison, and they moved back from the massive cell door as it swung slowly inward. Blazing streaks of torchlight flashed into the darkened room, forcing the prisoners to shield their weakened eyes. As they slowly adjusted to this new light, several figures entered the room and came to a halt just within the entryway.
The younger son of the ailing King of Callahorn stood foremost of four figures, his broad face relaxed and his lips pursed. His eyes alone betrayed the hatred that burned within, and there was a maddened, almost desperate way that they moved from one captive to the next as he clenched his hands tightly behind him. He was clearly Balinor’s brother, possessing the same facial construction, the same wide mouth and prominent nose, and the same big, rugged build. Next to him stood a man that even the Elven brothers recognized instantly, though they had never met him. He was the mystic Stenmin, a gaunt, slightly stooped figure, lean and sharp in his features, and clothed in reddish robes and trappings. His eyes were strangely shadowed, reflecting an undisguisable evil in the man who had gained the complete confidence of the new, self-proclaimed King. His hands moved over his body nervously, raising almost mechanically from time to time to stroke the small, pointed black beard that shaded the angular face. Behind him stood two armed guards, dressed in black and bearing the insignia of the falcon. Beyond them, just outside the doorway, stood two more. All held wicked-looking pikes. For a moment no one spoke, no one even moved as the two parties scrutinized each other in the torchlit gloom of the little cell. Then Palance made a quick motion toward the open door.
“I will speak with my brother alone. Take these other two out.”
The guards silently complied, leading the reluctant Elven brothers from the room. The tall Prince waited until they had left, then turned questioningly to the scarlet-robed figure still at his side.
“I thought that perhaps you might have need of me...?” The lean, calculating face stared steadily at the impassive Balinor.
“Leave us, Stenmin. I will speak with my brother alone.”
His tone of voice bordered on anger, and the mystic nodded obediently, quickly backing out of the cell. The heavy door closed with an ominous thud, leaving the two brothers alone in a silence broken only by the hissing of the torch flame as it consumed the dry wood and flashed into gleaming sparks. Balinor did not move, but stood waiting expectantly, his eyes trying to probe his brother’s young face, trying to reach the old feelings of love and friendship they had shared as children. But they were missing, or at least carefully submerged in some dark corner of the heart, and in their place was a strange, restless anger that seemed to rise as much from dissatisfaction with the situation as from dislike of the captive brother. An instant later the fury and the contempt were gone, replaced by a calm detachment that Balinor found both irrational and false, as if Palance were playing a role without any real understanding of the character.
“Why did you come back, Balinor?” The words came out slowly, sadly. “Why did you do it?”
The tall borderman did not reply, unable to comprehend this sudden change of mood. Before, his brother