Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book... - Chapter 74: Chapter 74
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Gods below, Uachi was glad to be home. There was such a joy in knowing that Uarria was sleeping beneath her own blankets, with her parents near to her. He could feel that joy down to his very bones, a warmth and a heaviness that whispered, It is done. She is safe, and what harms have befallen her cannot be undone, they can only be healed. Rest, Uachi, and stand by them all.
And there was more. Uachi was not a fool, and he had never been one to declare a job completed before it well and truly was. The war was not over. There were peace-talks to be had, treaties to be drafted, agreements to be reached: a flood of politicking, in short, which did not appeal to him in the slightest. Still, there was a path forward. They were confident in the possibility of peace with Narr.
Even so, with this joy and this peace and this hope to soothe him, Uachi would not be able to sleep. Not until he had finished a quest half a lifetime in the making.
He did not tell anyone where he was headed. He did not want to hear anyone tell him not to go.
He did not take his bow. He did not take his sword. He took only two daggers: his own, and one he had borrowed from the castle armory. The borrowed blade was an antique, with an eagle's head pommel. He'd seen to it with care: he'd sharpened it, polished it, and wrapped it in a cloth.
Now, he would invite a man to kill him with it.
The dungeons beneath the Imperial Palace of Karelin were dimly-lit and cold. Uachi had been here before, but only to see the place. Mhera and Matei had never put prisoners here, but everyone knew that the dungeons had been built with the goal of keeping those with magical abilities safely contained. Disarmed though he may be, the archmage was a powerful practitioner, and no one dared to underestimate him.
Uachi had already passed a pair of guards standing outside the entrance to the stairs; now, he came upon another pair just outside the prison itself. They straightened to attention when they saw him, and he waved a hand.
"I need to have a word with the prisoner," he said. "Give me the keys and leave us. Wait outside with the others."
"Sir?" asked one of the guards. She traded an uncertain look with her companion. "Is it wise for you to be alone with him?"
Uachi gave her a grim smile, jerking his head to dismiss her. "Go."
Their orders reiterated, neither of the guards was willing to press the matter. They turned over the keys to the cells and then they left. Uachi waited until the sound of their heavy booted footsteps on the stone stairs had faded.
Then he went in.
The prison itself was circular, with iron-barred cells along most of the walls. Looking up, Uachi could see another storey of cells accessible by a stairway barely visible in the gloom. It was an awful place, stone-walled and stone-floored and lit with torches that cast an orange light over everything. Someone had seen fit to carve images of the Blessed Sovereigns into the walls.
Uachi was not particularly precious about the memory of these sainted ancestors, but as he gazed at their wavering figures through the uncertain light, their presence struck him as blasphemous.
He sensed the archmage before he saw him. He sensed his presence, the cold weight of his serpentine stare. As Uachi glanced away from the Blessed Sovereigns his gaze fell right onto the archmage, as if it had been pulled there by the man himself.
The cell was dark, the prisoner within it robed in shadow. The outline of his body was only suggested by the way the gloom fell through the cell, but his face was visible: the brow, the long nose, the high cheekbones, all highlighted in oily gold by the flickering light of the torches. Uachi could not see the archmage's eyes—they were hidden somewhere in the deep, black sockets of his skull—but he could feel their stare upon him, watching.
"You need to have a word with the prisoner." The words were slow and measured, a question veiled by a statement. The archmage Jaeron did not move out of the shadows. "Who are you to seek an audience with me?"
Uachi might have laughed. An audience. The question was ridiculous coming from an unarmed old man standing behind iron bars. But he didn't laugh. There was no amusement in him, none at all. "My name is Uachi u Rora."
The archmage made no response, and Uachi had not expected one. He was unknown to Jaeron, as his brother had been, no doubt. Jaeron had not lived his life looking over his shoulder, expecting vengeful brothers to leap from the shadows. He was an ambitious creature, calculating and intelligent, and he had his sights set on thrones and shifting empires. He expected to be tried and, perhaps, executed as a traitor.
He would not expect this.
Uachi pulled the dagger from within his clothes, where he had hidden it. He tossed it toward the cell. It landed on the stone floor just out of Jaeron's reach. Although it was wrapped in cloth, it fell with a telling clang.
Jaeron's gaze sharpened. "What is this?"
"Do you remember Uaran?"
There was silence for a moment. Then, Jaeron stepped forward. The wavering light revealed more of his skeletal figure. He stood straight, straighter than most men of his age, but he had been marked by his misfortunes. His long, gray robes were soot-smudged and singed, and his wiry hair was tangled and lank. "Who?"
"Uaran u Rora. Do you remember him?"
The tilt of the archmage's head was dismissive, almost bored. "No. Your father, boy? A brother, perhaps?"
Uachi pushed aside the insult. He had not been a boy for a very long time, but he would not be baited by Jaeron's arrogance. "A brother, yes."
"I do not keep company with the Arcborn. You might as well have asked me if I remember the pig whose meat I ate for supper. When last I had meat."
With a humorless smile, Uachi indicated the empty clay bowl sitting just outside of the cell bars. "Not the most decadent fare, I imagine. Not for prisoners. Murderers. Instigators of genocide."
The archmage made a soft, derisive sound. "Tell me what you've come down here for. If it's to ask me about some Arcborn man—"
"Child," Uachi said, his voice as cold and hard as stone. Jaeron frowned at him, and he went on: "Uaran was but a child when you killed him."
Jaeron narrowed his eyes. Slowly, he paced the length of his cell, never taking his gaze off of Uachi. "You say I killed your brother."
"I know you did. And you sent his body to the palace, didn't you? You put him in place of the missing prince." This much, Uachi did not know for certain. He remembered a night years ago when he and Mhera had walked the moonlit Imperial Gardens together and had visited the tomb where the boy prince had been lain to rest. She had told him then what she suspected: that Uachi's brother had been buried in Prince Koreti's place. But he had no proof of it.
He had had no proof until now.
"Ah." Jaeron had stopped his pacing. "I did not know the child had a brother. I would gladly have bought both of them." He looked Uachi up and down with a cool flick of his eyes. "Your body would have been of little use to me."
"But my blood."
A smile on that cadaverous face was an evil thing to witness. Jaeron tilted his head as if in acknowledgment of Uachi's guess, but when he spoke, it was along a different tack. "I would have saved myself this trouble, had I taken care of you then. I imagine you've come to strangle me in my cell for your brother's sake." He sounded utterly disinterested. "I am certain your bastard usurper would be delighted. Is he a great lover of outlaw justice—what did you say you were called—?"
"I could, if I wanted to. My hands could wrap twice around that gray neck of yours. But I'm not going to strangle you, Jaeron." Jaeron glanced at the cloth lying on the ground. Uachi nodded. "There's a dagger in there. I'll give you a chance. Kill me, and you can make your run for it."
Keen suspicion soured Jaeron's features. He looked at the way out of the dungeon, which was now open and empty; the guards had gone. "Clever of you. And cowardly. Half a dozen men wait to help you."
"No." Uachi lifted the ring of keys. There were just a few to sort through. "I don't need help to kill you. If you make it past me, you will contend with them on your way out of the prison, but that is a problem to which I will devote no energy—it will be yours to solve." He strode to Jaeron's cell, holding up one of the keys. "I am not asking you to decide. I am not asking for you to consent. I am telling you what will happen."
Jaeron backed away from the bars of the cell, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl. "Filthy Arcborn cutthroat," he spat. "You'll deny me the trial I am owed—"
"I'm giving you a chance you will not get from a court. They will look at you and condemn you, and you'll die in front of hundreds, and your demise will spread by word of mouth through thousands, and the whole empire will celebrate. And I should let them, because you deserve to die shamed and quivering like the weak, pathetic old man you are." He inserted the key into the lock and turned it. He'd chosen the right one; it turned easily.
"Weak!" Jaeron lifted his chin, crying, "How dare you—you have not seen my power—"
"No. I have not!" Uachi barked. He wrenched the door back. It was heavy, and the hinges squealed as it slowly swung open. "I have never seen your power—and neither has anyone else, because you are a mewling, quivering leech. You steal Arcborn magic and hide behind it, claiming it as your own. Well? Will you fight now under your own power, Jaeron, or will you crouch in the corner and piss in your clothes?"
Jaeron had indeed edged back from Uachi, shrinking in on himself a little as he eased a few steps closer to the corner. He glanced past Uachi toward the way out of the prison, his fingers twitching. He was a cornered animal, ready to bite—but he had no teeth.
Uachi backed away from the cell, raising his hands. He watched Jaeron—every shift of his eyes, every twitch of his muscles—and was prepared to strike if Jaeron tried to break and run. "Pick up the dagger, old man," he said.
"This is—"
"Pick up the dagger." Uachi unsheathed his own weapon. "Or die where you stand. You'll find it makes no difference to me."
And there was more. Uachi was not a fool, and he had never been one to declare a job completed before it well and truly was. The war was not over. There were peace-talks to be had, treaties to be drafted, agreements to be reached: a flood of politicking, in short, which did not appeal to him in the slightest. Still, there was a path forward. They were confident in the possibility of peace with Narr.
Even so, with this joy and this peace and this hope to soothe him, Uachi would not be able to sleep. Not until he had finished a quest half a lifetime in the making.
He did not tell anyone where he was headed. He did not want to hear anyone tell him not to go.
He did not take his bow. He did not take his sword. He took only two daggers: his own, and one he had borrowed from the castle armory. The borrowed blade was an antique, with an eagle's head pommel. He'd seen to it with care: he'd sharpened it, polished it, and wrapped it in a cloth.
Now, he would invite a man to kill him with it.
The dungeons beneath the Imperial Palace of Karelin were dimly-lit and cold. Uachi had been here before, but only to see the place. Mhera and Matei had never put prisoners here, but everyone knew that the dungeons had been built with the goal of keeping those with magical abilities safely contained. Disarmed though he may be, the archmage was a powerful practitioner, and no one dared to underestimate him.
Uachi had already passed a pair of guards standing outside the entrance to the stairs; now, he came upon another pair just outside the prison itself. They straightened to attention when they saw him, and he waved a hand.
"I need to have a word with the prisoner," he said. "Give me the keys and leave us. Wait outside with the others."
"Sir?" asked one of the guards. She traded an uncertain look with her companion. "Is it wise for you to be alone with him?"
Uachi gave her a grim smile, jerking his head to dismiss her. "Go."
Their orders reiterated, neither of the guards was willing to press the matter. They turned over the keys to the cells and then they left. Uachi waited until the sound of their heavy booted footsteps on the stone stairs had faded.
Then he went in.
The prison itself was circular, with iron-barred cells along most of the walls. Looking up, Uachi could see another storey of cells accessible by a stairway barely visible in the gloom. It was an awful place, stone-walled and stone-floored and lit with torches that cast an orange light over everything. Someone had seen fit to carve images of the Blessed Sovereigns into the walls.
Uachi was not particularly precious about the memory of these sainted ancestors, but as he gazed at their wavering figures through the uncertain light, their presence struck him as blasphemous.
He sensed the archmage before he saw him. He sensed his presence, the cold weight of his serpentine stare. As Uachi glanced away from the Blessed Sovereigns his gaze fell right onto the archmage, as if it had been pulled there by the man himself.
The cell was dark, the prisoner within it robed in shadow. The outline of his body was only suggested by the way the gloom fell through the cell, but his face was visible: the brow, the long nose, the high cheekbones, all highlighted in oily gold by the flickering light of the torches. Uachi could not see the archmage's eyes—they were hidden somewhere in the deep, black sockets of his skull—but he could feel their stare upon him, watching.
"You need to have a word with the prisoner." The words were slow and measured, a question veiled by a statement. The archmage Jaeron did not move out of the shadows. "Who are you to seek an audience with me?"
Uachi might have laughed. An audience. The question was ridiculous coming from an unarmed old man standing behind iron bars. But he didn't laugh. There was no amusement in him, none at all. "My name is Uachi u Rora."
The archmage made no response, and Uachi had not expected one. He was unknown to Jaeron, as his brother had been, no doubt. Jaeron had not lived his life looking over his shoulder, expecting vengeful brothers to leap from the shadows. He was an ambitious creature, calculating and intelligent, and he had his sights set on thrones and shifting empires. He expected to be tried and, perhaps, executed as a traitor.
He would not expect this.
Uachi pulled the dagger from within his clothes, where he had hidden it. He tossed it toward the cell. It landed on the stone floor just out of Jaeron's reach. Although it was wrapped in cloth, it fell with a telling clang.
Jaeron's gaze sharpened. "What is this?"
"Do you remember Uaran?"
There was silence for a moment. Then, Jaeron stepped forward. The wavering light revealed more of his skeletal figure. He stood straight, straighter than most men of his age, but he had been marked by his misfortunes. His long, gray robes were soot-smudged and singed, and his wiry hair was tangled and lank. "Who?"
"Uaran u Rora. Do you remember him?"
The tilt of the archmage's head was dismissive, almost bored. "No. Your father, boy? A brother, perhaps?"
Uachi pushed aside the insult. He had not been a boy for a very long time, but he would not be baited by Jaeron's arrogance. "A brother, yes."
"I do not keep company with the Arcborn. You might as well have asked me if I remember the pig whose meat I ate for supper. When last I had meat."
With a humorless smile, Uachi indicated the empty clay bowl sitting just outside of the cell bars. "Not the most decadent fare, I imagine. Not for prisoners. Murderers. Instigators of genocide."
The archmage made a soft, derisive sound. "Tell me what you've come down here for. If it's to ask me about some Arcborn man—"
"Child," Uachi said, his voice as cold and hard as stone. Jaeron frowned at him, and he went on: "Uaran was but a child when you killed him."
Jaeron narrowed his eyes. Slowly, he paced the length of his cell, never taking his gaze off of Uachi. "You say I killed your brother."
"I know you did. And you sent his body to the palace, didn't you? You put him in place of the missing prince." This much, Uachi did not know for certain. He remembered a night years ago when he and Mhera had walked the moonlit Imperial Gardens together and had visited the tomb where the boy prince had been lain to rest. She had told him then what she suspected: that Uachi's brother had been buried in Prince Koreti's place. But he had no proof of it.
He had had no proof until now.
"Ah." Jaeron had stopped his pacing. "I did not know the child had a brother. I would gladly have bought both of them." He looked Uachi up and down with a cool flick of his eyes. "Your body would have been of little use to me."
"But my blood."
A smile on that cadaverous face was an evil thing to witness. Jaeron tilted his head as if in acknowledgment of Uachi's guess, but when he spoke, it was along a different tack. "I would have saved myself this trouble, had I taken care of you then. I imagine you've come to strangle me in my cell for your brother's sake." He sounded utterly disinterested. "I am certain your bastard usurper would be delighted. Is he a great lover of outlaw justice—what did you say you were called—?"
"I could, if I wanted to. My hands could wrap twice around that gray neck of yours. But I'm not going to strangle you, Jaeron." Jaeron glanced at the cloth lying on the ground. Uachi nodded. "There's a dagger in there. I'll give you a chance. Kill me, and you can make your run for it."
Keen suspicion soured Jaeron's features. He looked at the way out of the dungeon, which was now open and empty; the guards had gone. "Clever of you. And cowardly. Half a dozen men wait to help you."
"No." Uachi lifted the ring of keys. There were just a few to sort through. "I don't need help to kill you. If you make it past me, you will contend with them on your way out of the prison, but that is a problem to which I will devote no energy—it will be yours to solve." He strode to Jaeron's cell, holding up one of the keys. "I am not asking you to decide. I am not asking for you to consent. I am telling you what will happen."
Jaeron backed away from the bars of the cell, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl. "Filthy Arcborn cutthroat," he spat. "You'll deny me the trial I am owed—"
"I'm giving you a chance you will not get from a court. They will look at you and condemn you, and you'll die in front of hundreds, and your demise will spread by word of mouth through thousands, and the whole empire will celebrate. And I should let them, because you deserve to die shamed and quivering like the weak, pathetic old man you are." He inserted the key into the lock and turned it. He'd chosen the right one; it turned easily.
"Weak!" Jaeron lifted his chin, crying, "How dare you—you have not seen my power—"
"No. I have not!" Uachi barked. He wrenched the door back. It was heavy, and the hinges squealed as it slowly swung open. "I have never seen your power—and neither has anyone else, because you are a mewling, quivering leech. You steal Arcborn magic and hide behind it, claiming it as your own. Well? Will you fight now under your own power, Jaeron, or will you crouch in the corner and piss in your clothes?"
Jaeron had indeed edged back from Uachi, shrinking in on himself a little as he eased a few steps closer to the corner. He glanced past Uachi toward the way out of the prison, his fingers twitching. He was a cornered animal, ready to bite—but he had no teeth.
Uachi backed away from the cell, raising his hands. He watched Jaeron—every shift of his eyes, every twitch of his muscles—and was prepared to strike if Jaeron tried to break and run. "Pick up the dagger, old man," he said.
"This is—"
"Pick up the dagger." Uachi unsheathed his own weapon. "Or die where you stand. You'll find it makes no difference to me."
End of Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book... Chapter 74. Continue reading Chapter 75 or return to Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book... book page.