First and Last Sorcerer

Chapter Five

The following night and well past dusk, Prince Ounyal’am paced alone in the entry room of his private chambers. He struggled to ignore the repercussions of all that could go wrong in the events he had set into motion. At a soft knock upon the outer door, he froze for an instant.

As he went for the door, a voice spoke from beyond it.

“My prince? Commander Har’ith has arrived.”

Ounyal’am took a slow breath upon hearing Nazhif. “Enter,” he replied and quickly assumed a cavalier and almost bored demeanor as Nazhif opened the door and stepped back.

A tall man in his late forties with narrow, hawkish features entered wearing a broad gold sash wrapped over his left shoulder and across his chest. He halted after three steps inside and bowed his head, though he appeared mildly puzzled.

Har’ith commanded the imperial guard. The prince rarely sent for him—and certainly not after dark.

“You summoned me, my prince?” the commander asked.

Ounyal’am let silence hang for two breaths, as if annoyed by such an obvious question.

“I visited my father tonight,” he said. “The emperor made a request.”

Har’ith’s eyes widened slightly, as well they should have. Counselor a’Yamin allowed few, if any, to see Kanal’am, including his own son. Then again, aside from the emperor himself, no one had open authority over an imperial prince.

For an instant, the commander’s gaze flickered, as if trying to peer into every shadow in the room. That ended in a start as Ounyal’am stepped to a small side table and picked up a rolled parchment bearing the imperial seal.

“My father expressed concern over the treatment—and security—of the foreign prisoners. You are to conduct an inspection tonight and report to me after my morning tea.”

Commander Har’ith blinked and hesitated before taking the rolled sheet. He immediately cracked its seal and unrolled it to view the order. To make matters worse, the commander was well-known as one of a’Yamin’s minions, though he would not question a direct order from the emperor, no matter how bizarre.

The order was as brief and succinct as Ounyal’am’s instructions, for he had written it himself.

Earlier that evening, after manipulating his way into his father’s quarters in the counselor’s absence, he had dismissed any servants present. They fled in panic, not daring to question his sudden appearance in the emperor’s chamber after three moons. Perhaps he had stood there too long in staring across that room to his father’s bed, hidden behind a haze of gauze curtains. Even obscured, the sleeping, decrepit form tucked beneath vermillion sheets left him sickened.

Some palace servants had whispered rumors about his father being seen once or twice wandering the halls downward through the palace dressed only in a long dark robe and hood. Of course, none had said this openly, and none seemed to know where that figure went. Looking upon the withered corpse-to-be, Ounyal’am did not believe a word of this.

How much better all would have been—would be—if he had smothered that wrinkled face with a pillow. But such a thought had filled even him with self-loathing as he stood there in the half dark within sight of his father.

The order had been quite simple to draft. Forging his father’s signature was another skill practiced over half a lifetime at the insistence of Ghassan. After he used the imperial seal, he carefully cleaned and returned it to the cabinet, never again looking to the bed. He had waited until the scent of melted wax dissipated before leaving that place.

At some point—there was no way to guess when—the imperial bodyguards on duty outside his father’s chambers would inform the imperial counselor of a son’s sudden nighttime visit.

That could not be helped.

“Perhaps you should hasten,” Ounyal’am said shortly, affecting a yawn, either sleepy or impatient, to hide his panic. “I will expect you again in the morning.”

Har’ith’s eyes narrowed slightly. It would seem to him beyond unlikely that the emperor would give a passing thought to the treatment of foreign prisoners accused of murdering Suman citizens, but it was not the commander’s place to question—only to obey.

“Yes, my prince,” Har’ith said clearly, and with another bow of his head he pivoted on one heel and left.

Ounyal’am followed a short distance behind and took a half step through the door, though Nazhif had reached for the handle to close it. They both stood there in silence, watching the commander of the imperial guard stride off down the passage.

To either side of the door waited two more of the prince’s personal bodyguards, both wearing silver instead of gold sashes. But as Ounyal’am looked to Nazhif, his thoughts fixed on two of his guards who were not present.

“Fareed and Isa are in place?” he whispered. “They understand what must be done?”

“Yes, my prince,” Nazhif answered quietly. “They will wait until the commander opens the first cell door and—” He finished with only a nod.

Ounyal’am nodded once in return. Only Commander Har’ith had authority over the use of keys to all cells for imperial prisoners. That fact had left Ounyal’am with no choice, and he studied the captain of his bodyguards.

“And the prisoners’ belongings, anything that was taken from them?” Ounyal’am asked.

“All has been arranged, my prince.”

Likely Nazhif’s instincts had screamed at him to stop as he had given Fareed and Isa their orders. There was no other way that any of this could be managed for Ghassan’s needs.

Events had been initiated, and Ounyal’am could not stop them now if he wished to.

Leesil shifted where he lay on the cell’s floor. When his chains clinked dully upon stone, he opened his eyes a little. Not that he’d actually been asleep in such thirst and hunger. And of course there was nothing to see, as the candle had been snuffed out for a long while.

Wayfarer hadn’t spoken all day. By the sound of her slow breaths, she was likely curled up as close to Chap as her chains allowed. Something that Leesil hadn’t heard made his despair worse than hunger.

Magiere hadn’t screamed tonight.

Amid this nightmare existence, that silence brought him no relief. It brought a terror that was eating him alive from the inside.

A soft, short scrape of metal came from the direction of the cell’s door.

Leesil jerked his head off the floor as somewhere in the darkness Wayfarer inhaled sharply. Their meager food and water for a day and a night had already been brought some time ago. With one exception, no one entered the cell after that.

The door cracked open with a louder squeal of iron hinges.

Light from a lantern in the passage blinded Leesil briefly. As the opening widened, all he saw was the silhouette of a tall man in a head wrap like all guards. Chap rumbled, but Leesil didn’t look away, even as he heard Wayfarer’s chains rattle against the floor stones. He squinted warily, wondering what fresh suffering was about to enter.

In two blinks, he made out the man’s sharp but overly shadowed features. The guard’s attire was much like any other, but as Leesil’s vision cleared slightly, he made out a wide gold sash. The man’s face looked faintly familiar, and realization came without any shock.

This one had been among those who’d dragged him into the domed chamber in the palace’s heights on the day of their arrest. The man covered his nose and mouth, as if the stench in the cell was too much. He turned his head, eyeing all three prisoners, one by one.

Leesil kept silent, waiting to see what the man wanted, what he would do. Finally the guard lowered his hand and opened his mouth, as if about to speak, but the words never emerged. Instead, a solid thud sounded and he collapsed. His knees struck the floor with an audible crack before he toppled face-first against the stones.

Leesil rolled back to push up the cell’s wall into a crouch. What game were these guards playing now?

Another man stood in the doorway holding some kind of club. Though he was cloaked, with his hood down, the bright red scarf wound around his head marked him as another guard. A second, similarly dressed man stood a few paces behind him. The tall guard on the floor appeared to be breathing, though unconscious.

Leesil’s eyes adjusted more to the dim light flooding the cell. The first newcomer—the one with the club—was in his late thirties and muscular, with black eyes and a rough complexion. The second guard out in the passage was perhaps ten years younger and more slender. He carried several bundles in his arms.

The first wasted no time and stepped into the cell.

Dropping his club, he pulled the keys from the fallen man’s hand. Flipping quickly through the keys, making a tinkling sound as he did so, he pinched a small one before he looked up at Leesil. His expression was tense and reluctant, as if he didn’t wish to be here.

“I have orders to take you to the front entrance,” he said in perfect Numanese. “Do as I say, and you will be free this night. If you attack me or cause a disturbance, you will bring down the prison wardens and then the imperial guards, and we will all most likely die here. Do you understand?”

Leesil stared hard at the man. “Who are you? ... Who sent you? ... Why are you doing this?”

The man just looked back at him, waiting.

Leesil heard Wayfarer’s quick breaths somewhere at the cell’s far side, beyond the fallen guard. He was desperate for any chance to find Magiere, and to get Wayfarer and Chap out of this cell. What if he led them all into another trap? Was this simply a way to execute all of them and circumvent whatever orders had kept them all alive so far?

“Why should I trust you?” he croaked.

Turning his head, the first guard nodded to the second. Coming to the doorway, the younger man knelt and set down his burdens. The objects appeared to be two heavy cloaks, but one of them was being used as a kind of sack. Opening that cloak, the guard revealed Magiere’s falchion, her Chein’âs dagger, both of Leesil’s sheathed winged blades, and his white metal bone knife and stiletto. The latter two weapons had been stolen from the dead body of an anmaglâhk.

He heard Chap struggle up, and words rose in his mind.

—They are ... telling the truth— ... —They have been sent—

The muscular leader then asked, “Will you come?”

Even without Chap’s words, at the sight of his weapons Leesil held up his chained wrists.

“Get me loose. Where’s my wife?”

Without answering, the guard inched in and unlocked Wayfarer first, then Chap, and then Leesil—who tried to rush the door.

“Wait,” the guard ordered, holding up one hand. “We must prepare.”

Turning, he said something to the younger man and handed him the keys. Leesil couldn’t follow the Sumanese, but he did make out the first word, “Isa,” perhaps spoken like a name. The younger guard took the keys and left the cell.

Leesil didn’t want to wait. He fought to hold himself in place, and the elder guard took off his cloak and held it out.

“Put this on and pull up the hood,” the leader ordered.

Without his cloak, his sash was exposed. Leesil had never seen a silver one before. To his surprise, the elder guard removed that sash and shoved it inside his shirt. Crouching, he stripped the gold one off the unconscious man and arranged it over his own left shoulder. And as he stepped out of the cell door ...

“Have the girl don a cloak as well.”

“Léshil?” Wayfarer whispered, sounding terrified.

“It’s all right,” he answered.

He had no idea if anything was all right, but he wasn’t about to stop now. The cell was small, without much room to move, now that there was a tall, prone guard on the floor. As he tried to step over the body, he realized that his legs were weak and it was more difficult to move than he’d expected. He put on the cloak and managed to strap on his weapons—and Magiere’s as well.

Handing another cloak to Wayfarer, he said firmly, “Put it on.”

Rising, she did so, though he had to help her fasten it.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“I think so,” she whispered. “Chap?”

The dog was already beside her, and she leaned one hand on his high shoulders. When Leesil emerged into the passage, he saw no one except the muscular guard who’d set them free.

“You are kept in an isolated area,” the leader explained. “So long as we are quiet, no one will come.”

Then Leesil heard another cell door creak open, and before he could move, the younger guard called out softly in Sumanese from somewhere out of sight. He sounded distressed.

The elder guard frowned and strode off toward that voice. Leesil tried to dash ahead but stumbled as his legs nearly gave way, and he cursed beneath his breath. Before he’d managed three steps, the younger guard emerged from an open door.

Somehow Leesil found the strength to rush ahead. When he neared that other door, he saw the panicked expression on the younger guard, shoved the man aside, and looked inside the cell. At the sight before him, anguish choked a sound out of him like an injured animal, and he stumbled inside.

A thin heap lay on the floor with filthy black hair stuck to her emaciated face. Her eyes were closed, and he barely recognized his once beautiful wife. She was beyond thin, and her pale, stretched skin looked gray in the dim light. Her chains had been unlocked but she hadn’t moved, and both her wrists were torn and bleeding.

“Do you wish me to carry her?” someone asked.

Whirling, Leesil found the elder guard, now wearing the gold sash, standing behind him, and anger replaced his anguish. These men might be assisting now, but they were part of the mechanism that had arrested and locked Magiere away in the first place. They were as much to blame as anyone.

“You don’t touch her!” Kneeling down, Leesil touched the side of his wife’s face. “Magiere,” he whispered. He went on whispering her name until her eyelids fluttered open and she looked at him with no recognition.

Magiere’s eyes—irises fully black—went wild. She raised one hand to claw at him. He caught her hand easily, as she was so weakened.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, trying not to think about what she must have suffered. “It’s me. Chap and Wayfarer are just outside. Can you put your arm around my neck?”

She didn’t appear to understand, though her eyes cleared slightly as she stared up at him. At least she let him draw her arm up around his neck. In the past, he’d carried her easily. For all her strength in battle, her body was light, and he’d had no trouble carrying her for good distances when she’d been wounded. Now he could barely walk himself.

And he wouldn’t let one of those guards touch her.

“Keep your arm around my neck,” he urged. “Try to help me if you can.”

He managed to pull her to her feet and hold her there. As he made his way toward the cell’s door, she supported some of her own weight and struggled to walk. When they emerged, Wayfarer, Chap, and the two guards were waiting. Leesil’s anguish returned when the girl saw Magiere and her young face twisted in pain.

Wayfarer barely got out “Oh, Magiere” before she began weeping.

“Quiet,” ordered the elder guard, turning to her.

Wayfarer clamped a hand over her mouth but couldn’t stop crying.

Leesil had no comfort to give her. The girl barely stood on her own, with one hand braced on Chap’s back. Thankfully, the dog didn’t collapse himself, and both guards took action, as if every step had been planned.

The younger one covered Magiere with a cloak, tying it around her throat and pulling the hood up. With little choice, Leesil let him do it. The elder one locked the door of Magiere’s cell, led them back down the passage, and locked the first cell as well, with the fallen man inside. Then he dropped the ring of keys outside that door.

“Now what?” Leesil asked.

He noticed the younger guard hadn’t removed his own cloak. The hood was down, but he kept the front tied closed.

“As I said,” the leader answered, “you were being kept in an isolated area with access in case someone of high rank wished to visit. One floor above us, on the ground level, there is a side door leading out onto the grounds. Once outside, we will take a path to the front gate that offers minimal chance of us being seen.”

Leesil nodded, still afraid of too much hope.

“When we reach the gate,” the elder guard continued, “you will appear to be visitors escorted out by imperial guards. Keep your hoods up, keep the dog quiet, and you will soon be free.” He frowned at the sight of Magiere with her eyes closed and her arm draped over Leesil’s shoulder. “If anyone asks, we will say the woman fell ill and you are taking her home.” He paused and then asked again, “Should I carry her?”

Leesil jutted his chin down the passage. “Lead.”

Ounyal’am paced his outer chamber, waiting to hear that his men had succeeded.

If Isa kept the cloak on—as many guards did at night—and Fareed wore the gold sash of an imperial guard, none of the city guards posted at the entrance would question them. The imperial guards patrolling the grounds were so great in number that none knew all of the others. With the exception of officers, they would simply assume a gold sash marked one of their own.

With luck, the prince’s own guards could lead their charges to freedom.

Once outside, the domin would be waiting to take them away. No one would know of the escape until the change of prison guards at dawn, or perhaps not until later. Of course, once Commander Har’ith was discovered, there would be questions followed by chaos. The entire palace compound would be sealed for who knew how long.

Any injuries Har’ith incurred did not trouble Ounyal’am. Possibly no one would be troubled, except perhaps Counselor a’Yamin. That was fitting, considering that the few others of the palace whom Ounyal’am had trusted were gone, one way or another. All that were left to him were Nazhif and his twelve other bodyguards.

This night, he might lose two of them if something went wrong.

Even if a’Yamin uncovered the truth, in part or whole, he would not openly accuse the imperial prince and heir of complicity. If he did, how would he explain that the emperor was no longer capable of giving any orders? To do so would reveal that Ounyal’am’s father no longer ruled the empire.

That would remove the counselor from supreme authority, which would then shift to the prince. Counselor a’Yamin would not easily allow that.

Ounyal’am’s attempts to reason out of his worry were interrupted. At voices out in the corridor, he stepped close to the front door, listening.

“I must see the prince immediately.”

Ounyal’am froze at the sound of Counselor a’Yamin’s voice.

“Pardon, Imperial Counselor, but my prince has retired for the night,” Nazhif replied, still outside the door at his post, and perhaps with a slip of spite he should not have displayed. “All attendants have been dismissed for the night. My prince will see no one until morning.”

“Step aside!” a’Yamin ordered. “Commander Har’ith was due to report to me but never arrived, and now he cannot be found. I was told he had been summoned to the prince’s chambers.”

Ounyal’am knew that Nazhif would never step out of the counselor’s way. The counselor held the power of life or death over nearly everyone in the palace, but he had no authority over an imperial prince’s bodyguards, unless that prince was proven guilty of treason.

Still, Ounyal’am panicked at the danger to Nazhif.

How far would the counselor go if thwarted by a mere bodyguard? He quietly gripped the door’s handle.

“Did Commander Har’ith come to the prince?” Frustration and anger made a’Yamin’s voice tremble.

“Yes, Counselor, they spoke privately, and then the commander left.”

“How long ago?”

“Sometime after the prince returned from visiting his father.”

The silence that followed was such that Ounyal’am grew more chilled. Had Nazhif revealed this before the counselor discovered the truth for himself? Perhaps that was the point: to put a’Yamin on defense.

“Was Har’ith going to see the foreign prisoners?”

Ounyal’am ceased breathing altogether. That was less a question than a statement to be verified.

“I do not know, Counselor,” Nazhif answered. “As I stated, the commander met with the prince in private.”

“You have been most unhelpful,” a’Yamin said quietly, “and I will not forget it, as I am now forced to attend this matter personally.”

Loud footsteps followed and faded. Ounyal’am waited until they were gone before opening the door. For all Nazhif’s calm manner with the counselor, he looked annoyed in silence, which was the same as worried for a seasoned warrior such as him. The other two bodyguards present appeared unsettled. Likely they feared for Fareed and Isa, as did their prince.

“Will he go to the prison directly?” Ounyal’am asked.

The space of two breaths passed before Nazhif shook his head once. “I do not know, my prince, but by now Fareed and Isa should have ...” And he said no more.

Yes, by now the prisoners should be nearing the front entrance. Even if a’Yamin went to the prison and discovered what was left in one of those cells, it would be too late.

Still, if the two bodyguards were somehow caught, and Ounyal’am could be implicated, a’Yamin might decide it was worth the risk to openly accuse him.

Anxiety overwhelmed Ounyal’am. Ever since meeting Ghassan in his adolescence, he had never allowed the counselor a single weapon to use against him. Treason was one of few such effective against an heir to the empire.