Part 22 (1/2)

A clanking reverberation joined the other crisscrossing sounds in the tubular stairwell. Collins caught his fingers in cloth. He jerked to a stop, clinging desperately to this anchor, chest and belly splayed across several stairs. Then, the stabilizing object whipped suddenly upward, breaking his grip. Before Collins' dizzy mind could register that he had been clasped to someone's leg, it swung back. A heel struck him in the eye, stealing vision and sending bolts of white light flas.h.i.+ng through his brain. He tumbled, fully out of control again.

Collins had so many wounds, it all numbed to a single overwhelming agony that encompa.s.sed his entire frame and made coherent thought impossible. He registered only the savage plunge and the rumble of voices dulled by a steady ringing. He forced both eyes opened. Ahead, he saw the falling portcullis, with barely a body length remaining between it and the floor. I'm a Musketeer. On all fours, he launched himself for the opening.

It disappeared as he arrived. His face found delicious freedom an instant before the heavy woodenportal slammed into his skull. Vision shattered, hearing crushed by buzzing, limbs too heavy to lift, he lay in place fighting a losing battle with unconsciousness. His neuroanatomy professor's words cycled through his mind: The difference between causing a brain bruise and a deadly hemorrhage is incalculable.

Guy goes out longer than a minute or two, it's a murder charge for hero. A murder charge for hero ... a murder charge for hero . . .

Hands seized Collins' britches and tunic, hauling him back to the landing. Got to stay conscious. The movement proved too much. He closed his eyes, and darkness descended upon him.

Collins awakened to a limbo that dissolved in a fierce rush of pain. His breath emerged in agonized grunts, and he dared not move for fear of worsening any of them. Tears dribbled from his eyes. His mind seemed to work, though hopelessly overwhelmed by a throbbing headache and distracted by his myriad other wounds. ”Oh, G.o.d,” he managed to huff out. ”Oh, G.o.d.” Collins opened his eyes, but they refused to focus. He blinked several times, catching a blurry impression of metal bars, a stone floor, someone standing nearby. The presence of another human might mean imminent danger, but Collins found himself unable to care. At the moment, they could slowly dismember him and he would consider it a favor. The cold of the stone floor seeped through his clothes, offering some relief from the bruises on his chest, arms, legs, and abdomen. His lids became heavy, and he let them drift closed. Once he did, sleep overtook him again.

Collins did not know how long he drifted in and out of consciousness, but he knew he had awakened on several brief occasions. His dreams had seemed more surreal than usual, taking him from home to school to Barakhai in moments that defied logic or consistency. He thought he remembered someone sewing the gash in his hip, the pain flowing into the ma.s.s that had come to define his current existence.

Now, when he opened his eyes, the world came into instant focus. p.r.o.ne on the damp, stone floor, he felt stiff as well as physically anguished. Enclosed by three stone block walls and one barred gate, he saw no other cells. Shackles and collars hung from chains, apparently the usual method of separating, controlling, or punis.h.i.+ng prisoners. Collins s.h.i.+vered, certain he could not tolerate that kind of treatment in his current condition. As opposed to what? Hanging?

Having visually explored his quarters, Collins glanced beyond them. Two guards sat in the s.p.a.ce between his cell and the door to the stairwell, watching him. Both men, they wore matching uniforms that differed from the ones of the tower guards. They had mail but no helmets, and the white portion of their tunics carried no design. A slight blond with swarthy skin and dark brown eyes, the one on the left followed Collins' every motion. The other, a dark brunet kept his sword drawn and in his lap. Though he had no reason to know, Collins guessed them to be dog-guards. A station below, they likely would wear simpler uniforms.

”h.e.l.lo,” Collins tried.

The guards studied him blankly, without replying.

Collins attempted to move. He hurt in every part, but he bulled through the pain to gather his limbs beneath him. They all seemed to function, at least, and he did not believe he had broken anything. A small miracle. He ran his fingers over his hip, through the tear in his britches, and touched a line of knots that confirmed his waking realization. Someone had tended the sword cut, st.i.tching it in whatever clumsy, dirty fas.h.i.+on they did those things here. If it did not fester, it would scar badly.

The irony raised a grimace. So my executed corpse has a boo-boo. He shook his head at his own stupidity. Like it realty matters.

Only then did it occur to Collins to worry about Falima. He drew some solace from his solitude.

Zylas' floor plan did not include two dungeons, so they should have brought her here if they'd captured her. Unless they executed her. He shoved that thought aside. They'd have far more reason to execute me, and I'm still here. He wished he could leave things at that, believing Falima safe and well; but reality intruded. He could imagine that treason might carry a stronger and swifter sentence even than murder.

Or, as a trained warrior, she might have fought in a more directed and lethal manner than he had managed.”h.e.l.lo,” Collins said again, not certain where to direct the conversation. He desperately wanted to know Falima's fate, but he did not want to place her into danger by mentioning her if the king and his guards had not yet made the connection between them.

The guards continued to study Collins in silence.

Collins eased himself into a sitting position, grimacing and grunting with every movement. Using the wall for back support, he regarded the guards with the same intensity as they did him.

The quiet stalemate continued for several minutes before a knock at the wooden door sent both guards leaping to attention. Wis.h.i.+ng he could still move that fast, Collins remained in place.

The door winched open cautiously, and a helmeted head poked through it. ”Jiviss?”

”Here, sir,” the blond said with a salute from around the door.

The newcomer glanced at Collins. ”Has he changed?”

”No, sir,” Jiviss said.

Collins disagreed. He had awakened and even managed to sit.

”The king wants to see him. In the upper quarters.”

Jiviss shrugged, hiding the motion behind the door.

”Shackles?” the brunet said, his voice unexpectedly hoa.r.s.e.

Jiviss returned to his scrutiny of Collins. ”I hardly think they're necessary. In fact, someone's going to have to carry him, I'd warrant.”

The newcomer frowned. ”He fights, I'll deliver his b.l.o.o.d.y pieces to the king myself.”

Tired of being discussed in the third person, Collins promised, ”I won't fight.” Realizing he would say the exact same thing if he did plan to fight, he added. ”I can't fight. Just breathing hurts.” He sucked in a deep lungful of air, sending agony shooting through his ribs, and rea.s.sessed the possibility that he might have broken something.

”He's not going anywhere.” Jiviss seemed convinced that Collins' anguish was no act. He added emphatically, ”And he is, apparently, royalty.”

That caught Collins by surprise, though he swiftly realized it should not have. They had captured him in an area magically prohibited to switchers, and he guessed they had kept him in the dungeon long enough to ascertain that he had no switch-form. Even though the king did not know him, what else could they a.s.sume?

The helmeted man's demeanor softened. ”You're right, of course.” He addressed Collins directly. ”Sir, you need to come with me. The king wishes to speak with you. No one will harm you if you come freely.” He stepped fully into the area, revealing the aqua-and-stretched-clover pattern against white that Collins had first come to a.s.sociate with royal guards.

Using one of the hanging chains for support, Collins clambered to legs that felt like rubber. I'm sure he does want to speak with me. I've got to be a real puzzle. ”I'll come freely.” He realized he had not done anything terrible yet. The king might forgive a relative's unauthorized presence in his room, especially when he found nothing missing. Collins felt certain his encounter in the stairwell had hurt no one so much as himself. As long as n.o.body made the connection between him and the man who had cannibalized a rabbit/woman, he might bluff his way out of serious punishment. He only wished he had the knowledge to convincingly fake it and wondered how much of his ignorance he could blame on the head injury. It's not over yet. I still have a chance.

The horse-guard took a ring of iron keys and shoved one into the lock. It clicked, and he stepped back. ”Come.”

Collins limped toward the entrance. Every muscle felt strained or bruised, and he tried to find a gait that caused the least amount of pain. Finally, he reached the exit. The horse-guard moved aside, drawing the door with him, and Collins exited into the guards' area. He waited there for them to cue him.

The horse-guard opened the wooden door. The brunet went into the stairwell first, then the helmeted man gestured for Collins to follow. He did so, and the two men settled into place behind him.

Clinging to the wall and scattered torch brackets in lieu of absent handrails, Collins made slow progress up the seemingly endless flights of stairs. He appreciated that the clockwise spiral kept the bracing wall always at his stronger right hand, though he knew the masons had never had him in mind fortheir construction. Likely, it had more to do with defense. Invaders running up the steps would have their sword arms hampered while defenders coming down would gain the advantage.

At last, the procession stopped, and the brunet knocked on the door opposite the king's bedchamber.

It opened immediately to reveal a woman close to Collins' age. He recognized her from the dais table in the dining hall, introduced as one of the king's advisers. She wore a blue velvet dress with colorful embroidery and lace trim that complemented a slender but curvaceous figure. A hammered gold chain around her neck dipped into her bodice. Dark blonde curls fell to just past her shoulders, and strikingly pale eyes made her high cheeks and full lips seem rosier. She was the most beautiful woman he had seen since his arrival in Barakhai, perhaps in his life.

”Bring him in,” she said, her voice a lilting alto. ”Then wait outside, please.”

”I'll see myself in.” Collins hobbled into the room, while the guards settled in behind him and closed the door. Two cathedral windows lit the room, tapered from the inside to the out so that by the time they opened, they had narrowed to slits. The lowest part of the windows began at twice his own height from the floor. A cloth-covered table in one corner held a candle in a silver holder, a pitcher, and two goblets.

Three padded chairs took up most of the center of the room.

The woman gestured at the chairs, and Collins took one gratefully. ”Would you like a drink?”

”Yes,” Collins said without bothering to ask about the contents of the pitcher. He had consumed nothing for at least fifteen hours. Thus far, pain had kept his mind from his belly, but he hoped his internal organs would resume functioning soon.

The woman crossed the room to the pitcher and filled both goblets.

It occurred to Collins that they might have poisoned the drink, but only briefly. They had had plenty of time to kill him if they had chosen to do so. In a spy movie, it would contain truth serum, but he seriously doubted anyone in this world had the wherewithal to create sodium pentothal. ”Thank you.”

She carried over both goblets, handed one to Collins, and sat in the middle chair.

”Thank you,” Collins repeated, sniffing the pinkish liquid. It smelled faintly of alcohol and more strongly of fruit. ”What is it?”

”Watered wine. Or more aptly, wined water. You'll find it's a bit safer to drink than straight city water.”

Collins stared. This woman did not talk like any Barakhain he had met before.