Part 8 (2/2)

”I know that. I'll learn what I have to learn, Soren-I only ask to be treated as fairly as anyone else, and not as an outsider.”

”As long as you understand you won't be treated more fairly.”

”I wouldn't expect to be. For one thing, the primary duty of a Raen is to destroy Kseleksten. I'd like to find a way to reach Graxmoar, if anyone can help me.”

Soren raised his brows. ”The Broken Lor'yentre! You aim high, newcomer. How will you succeed where so many others have failed?”

”Maybe because of my unique perspective,” Caleb answered. ”Or maybe I'm too ignorant to realize it can't be done.”

The old Raen turned a sly grin. ”Of course. Such a deed would remove all doubt in Ada regarding your ability or allegiance.”

”You make it sound like a bad thing. Besides, I'm not so naive to think there aren't any other obligations to fulfill.”

”Indeed there are other things.” Caleb heard the faint ring of steel, and found himself staring at a burnished, engraved sword a mere hand's breadth from his nose. A stranger walking by paused in his stride, brows raised, then hurried along. Soren barked. ”Could you take this blade and plunge it into the vitals of a man you've never met-not to save yourself, not to save your son, but simply for the good of Ada? Could you, stranger from the sky?”

Caleb stepped back from the fire in Soren's eyes, nearly stumbling over the park bench, his instincts quicker than his will. ”Perhaps. But if I didn't, it would be out of simple fear or reluctance, and not from lack of loyalty.”

Soren sheathed his Fetra. ”An honest answer. The first lesson of any soldier is to know where his fears lie. The second is to overcome them-and a strengthening of loyalty is one of many ways.”

”Of course. But I don't see how I can prove my loyalty until I join the Raeni.”

”What do you mean?”

Caleb pointed at Soren's weapon. ”You seem to place a lot of emphasis on wielding a Fetra. A citizen isn't allowed to use one, or engage in any combat other than defense.”

”And if you had the opportunity?”

Caleb shrugged. ”A moot point.” Soren stood fast, and he added, ”Are you saying-”

”You're very good at clever answers. Time to put your words to the test.”

”How?”

”Follow me,” he answered, and headed down the path.

”Wait,” Caleb said. ”I need to let Telai know first.”

”She already does. Follow!”

Caleb took a deep breath and obeyed. Soren led the way out of the park at a brisk pace, heading for the side street flanking the right side of the inn. Caleb made a show of keeping up, marching alongside over the sun-baked cobblestones, his clothes soon soaked in sweat and his dark locks plastered over his brow. Had Telai's visit been a setup? After that scene in Gerentesk he could picture her cooperating with whatever test of loyalty Soren had in mind. But it didn't really matter. Caleb was determined to see it through.

Heading west through a few twists and turns they arrived at Ekendore's market grounds: a triangular plot bustling with a colorful myriad of tents and their merchants, bickering customers, and crates and crates of blackberries. From there Soren turned left over an arched wooden bridge, where the Quayen churned between granite walls on its way to the Tarn.

They soon arrived at a long, one-story building of plain gray stone on the right-hand side; a stranger would have pa.s.sed it without a second look. Two guards snapped to attention as Soren approached. They swung the doors open at his command, casting furtive glances at Caleb as he followed. The interior was equally plain, a low-ceiling hallway and adjacent room separated by a wide arch, each dimly lit by free-standing torches. A collection of battered old chests lined the floor along the walls of the room, with an array of bows and scabbards hanging from iron hooks.

”Wait here,” Soren said with hardly a break in his stride, and disappeared through a smaller arch at the end of the hallway. Only a minute pa.s.sed before he returned, accompanied by a short, middle-aged woman. Scars lined her face, and there was a rigor about her that told Caleb she was no less loyal or courageous than her superior.

”This is Edai, the Weaponmaster of Ekendore. There's a good chance you'll be training under her, so mind your manners.”

Caleb bowed, half in respect, half to hide his reaction to Soren's patronizing. ”My lady.”

Edai stepped forward. ”If you're lucky enough to earn Soren's approval, you'll soon realize I am no lady.” She turned her back on him. ”My lord, I must protest. I cannot allow anyone but a Raen to wield a Fetra, much less this man.”

”If I may speak-”

”You may not!”

Soren placed his hand on Edai's shoulder. ”I believe your armory holds other blades besides the Fetra-ones still sharp enough to kill.”

A s.h.i.+ver ran down Caleb's back. ”Sir-”

”-another word, and your hope of joining the Raeni dies!” Caleb glared at him, but nodded.

Edai headed for one of the chests along the wall, muttering. She flung the lid open, and after rummaging around for a bit straightened and returned to Soren.

A dagger with a charred hilt and a long, tarnished blade exchanged hands. ”Good enough for the job. And no one will care if it goes missing,” she added with a sideways glance.

Caleb fumed as the Master Raen stuck the dagger under his belt. ”Shouldn't we bring two?” he asked, forgetting Soren's warning, but the old soldier ignored him and headed back out into the sun.

After a few more turns they halted at another single-story building, much like the armory, standing all alone at the southernmost end of town.

A tall, iron fence surrounded a wide yard of brown, foot-worn gra.s.s; a pair of Raeni guarded the gate on each side, the first one unlocking it at Soren's command. The second one escorted the visitors down the brick-laid path toward the doors. Caleb stopped. Two words in the common tongue were stamped above the lintel: Military Prison. He wiped the sweat from his face, read the sign again to make sure, then hurried forward, his stomach in knots.

Another set of guards unlocked the door; beyond, crude lamps lit the walls of a large foyer. Several corridors branched off in different directions, iron-clad doors on either side receding into darkness. A table and two chairs stood at the back near a row of hooks and dangling keys.

An old man with a stubble of grizzled hair, presumably the turnkey, lifted his wiry, k.n.o.b-jointed frame and approached. ”Your visit on such a hot day honors me, my lord.”

”Your service honors us all, Fdarel,” Soren replied. ”Do you still have the Hodyn prisoner we captured a while back?”

”My lord?”

”The spy we found hiding in one of the towns in the valley.”

”Ah, yes, that one. Do you wish to interrogate him?”

”No,” Soren answered. ”I wish you to give me the keys to his cell, and forget about our visit after we leave.”

”I see,” Fdarel said, casting a doubtful look at Caleb. ”Your command is law, my lord.”

Keys jingled, and Soren led the way down the nearest corridor, lamps along the wall throwing his shadow this way and that as Caleb followed. They stopped at the last door on the right. Soren drew his sword, then struggled with the key for a moment until it clanked into place.

Hinges squealed, and the door swung wide to reveal a room barely ten feet square. Long scratches and faded graffiti covered the walls, dimly lit from a tiny candle burning on a stone shelf. The heat was stifling, and a tall metal bucket in the corner stank of urine and feces.

A short, heavily muscled man sat hunched on a low cot of straw against the opposite wall. Chains trailed from his feet to a large iron ring in the middle of the floor. His wide face, grimed and half covered in a mop of black hair and wiry beard, looked as if it had never smiled, never known anything but the hatred so evident in his deep-set eyes.

”What an honor,” he croaked in a hoa.r.s.e voice. ”The Master Raen visits a lowly Hodyn prisoner.”

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