The Iron Ring (24 page)

Tyvian pushed himself to his feet. “Mark my words, Eddereon—­this isn't over.”

Eddereon smiled. “Of course not. Allow me to pay for the drinks.”

Tyvian fished a few silvers from his purse and slapped them on the counter, glaring at the mountain man. He then left the gaming house, stumbled across the street and pounded on the door to the doctor's office. There was no answer.

Eddereon came into the street. “Doctor Wich went missing five months ago. No doubt kidnapped, like so many other such professionals of late.”

Tyvian glared at Eddereon. “Is that your angle, then? Did you rig this ring to bring me here to unravel a mystery you were too dense to solve yourself? Am I supposed to save the practitioners of the Low Arts all across Freegate and then earn my freedom?”

Eddereon shook his head. “Noble of you, but that is not the ring's intent. It wishes only to make you whole.”

He reached out and touched Tyvian's broken leg. Tyvian would have jerked away but was exhausted, hurt, and foggy with lack of sleep to manage it. Incredible warmth spread throughout his body, but then pooled in his broken bone. In an instant the feeling had passed.

Tyvian's leg felt fine. “How . . . how did you . . .”

Eddereon smiled. “The ring, Tyvian. You, too, have this power. You must merely have the true and honest goodwill to use it.”

“And buy into this entire ‘goodness' charade? Is that it?” Tyvian snorted. “I either do it your way or Artus dies, eh? That's moral extortion.”

Eddereon nodded. “How clever of you to identify it.”

Tyvian backed away from him, his eyes wide, his legs wooden. “Kroth take you, you infernal bastard. I won't do it, do you hear me? Tyvian Reldamar is nobody's slave!”

Eddereon watched him go, his bearded face grim. “Then Artus will die. It is your choice, but there is only one right path. This, whether you admit it or not, is something you already know.”

Tyvian turned around and left. He did not look back.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

DEATH'S DOOR

“T
hat wretched boy,” Tyvian growled. He was seated in his living room, a cup of bitter tea in his hand that he sipped in sharp, sudden movements. His hand throbbed. Over the crackle of a fire, he could sometimes hear the desperate moans of Artus, deep in the throes of fever's delirium.

He had summoned Myreon Alafarr from her room. The Mage Defender sat with her arms crossed, scowling at the floor. She appeared to have been brushing her hair—­it glittered like gold wire in the rays of early morning sunshine. “Did you call me out here just to complain?”

“Yes.”

“You won't get any sympathy from me. You know that.”

Tyvian set down his teacup. “Myreon, am I an evil man?”

Myreon looked up and blinked. “Is that a trick question?”

“Just answer it, dammit.”

“Yes, you are an evil man.”

“There, you see! Ha!”

“I fail to see what I have just proven.”

Tyvian held up the ring. “I contend that this little trinket does
not
make me a good person. Do you agree?”

“Agreed.” Myreon nodded cautiously. “It merely constrains you to act as a good person.”

“You will note that it is not hurting me now as much.” Tyvian twiddled his fingers to illustrate. “It feels that, by torturing me into trying to find a doctor, it has somehow improved me.”

Myreon shrugged. “It has.”

“Nonsense.”

“Believe me, Tyvian, were it not for that ring, a great many terrible things would have already been done by the hand it occupies. From my own perspective, my murder stands out as the foremost among them. I thank Hann that it remains in place, as with each passing day the swelling and pain in my fingers subsides, and one of these days I will be able to work a Binding spell on you in the midst of one of these chats, drag you back to Galaspin or even
Saldor
, and the entire world will be better for it. My only regret is that it will not be soon enough to save that boy's life.”

“Your delusions aside, Myreon, what you have described is not an improvement upon me, per se, but a change in behavior dictated
for
me. There is a difference. I do not think or feel any differently with it attached than I did without it.”

Myreon narrowed her eyes. “What are you driving at?”

Tyvian sipped his tea and tried not to cast a glance at the closed door to Artus's room. “You are a woman of education and a student of human nature, of sorts, and so I am curious about your opinion on the following: given prolonged exposure to this ring, would I actually change, or would I simply submit to an exterior will greater than my own?”

“I think, in the end, they are the same.”

“No, they aren't.” Tyvian waggled a finger. “Allow me to produce an analogy appropriate to your expertise. Suppose you capture a criminal and he is sentenced to one week's petrification. While petrified, he is and does exactly as you say—­he is a model citizen of sorts. You even place him in an area where he will do good, like educating children or providing shade or some such tripe. While thusly constrained, can he be considered reformed?”

Myreon sighed. “I suppose not.”

“And when he is released, will he be changed by his experience, or will he revert to his old ways?”

“I think that depends greatly on the type of person the criminal is. On the one hand, if the man was a criminal out of desperation, ignorance, or constraint, it seems unlikely he will continue on his former path, given that he has seen the results of his actions. On the other, if the man is a criminal by way of philosophical choice or inherent mental depravity, he will undoubtedly revert to his old ways, as the consequences of his actions are of little concern to him—­he is either consciously aware of them and finds the risks they represent acceptable, or he simply does not care what happens to him.”

Tyvian nodded. “Well said—­I agree entirely. Now, which of those two kinds of criminal am I?”

“The second,” Myreon stated.

“You have no doubts about that?”

The Defender looked Tyvian in the eye. She was about to speak but then stopped. “Why are we having this conversation?”

Tyvian shrugged. “What difference does it make? Just answer the question, please.”

Myreon shook her head. “No. This is all part of some kind of plot, isn't it? You're trying to manipulate me.”

Tyvian chuckled. “I assure you, Myreon, that if I were trying to manipulate you, you would never realize it until too late.”

“No, no—­I see what you're up to. Very clever, of course.” Myreon stood up. “This line of questioning is meant to provoke in me the suspicion that you, Tyvian Reldamar, smuggler and blackhearted villain, are supposedly having some kind of profound change of heart due to that contraption affixed to your hand.”

Tyvian stiffened. “That's ridiculous—­”

Myreon shook her head, her voice rising almost to a yell. “
It is not!
You bring me out here and ask me questions about your moral caliber, as though
you yourself
were holding such things in doubt. You want me to think you are reluctantly facing the possibility that you are not, in fact, a soulless monster who, not more than a few hours ago, was going to let a young boy bleed to death on his front doorstep had he not been controlled by a magical device. I'll tell you one thing, though:
it isn't going to work!
I know you too well, Tyvian Reldamar! You are a wretched blight upon the good ­peoples of the West, and I will not rest until you are installed in a statuary garden for the rest of eternity!”

With that, the mage spun on her heel and, with a flip of her hair, stormed back to her cell-­room. Tyvian sat on the couch, watching her go, and picked up his teacup again. He murmured quietly to himself, “Well, that's all I wanted to know, thank you.”

Quiet descended. The crackle of the fire, the muffled moans of Artus. The ring pulsed and raged.
Do something,
it seemed to say.
Try.

“I don't care about him. I don't,” Tyvian hissed.

The ring flared. He felt as though his hand had been thrust in the fire now for hours. He could scarcely think about anything other than the pain and the ring and himself.

And the boy.

Tyvian found himself on the threshold of Artus's room. The boy's face was a sickly shade of gray, glistening with sweat. He moaned but did not move. Tyvian watched him suffer, his hand blazing.

Eddereon's letter sprung to mind. Sentimental garbage, of course. It called him embittered and angry, as though his whole life and personality could be explained by some kind of petulant grudge. It claimed he needed friends, though he had many friends scattered across the West. He knew pirates and smugglers, rogues and thieves, tyrants and rogue wizards and . . .

. . . well, perhaps not friends, per se. Tyvian had never felt he needed friendship in its traditional sense. He didn't need others to enjoy his company—­he enjoyed his
own
company well enough, thank you.

Artus let out a low, sobbing sound. “Ma . . . Ma . . . no . . . lemme stay . . . lemme stay . . .”

Tyvian had watched a man die like this before—­in Illin. He'd been tagging along with a caravan coming back from Tasis when they were ambushed by bandits. It was a quick hit-­and-­run. They had shot a few arrows and injured a few camels, not trying to kill. The weapons had been poisoned, and within a few hours anyone who was wounded dropped into a deadly fever.

The caravan master had known the tactic—­the idea was to slow them down, weaken them, empty their already flagging water supplies. It hadn't worked. The caravan master had ordered all the ill to be left behind with all the sick camels. All except his son, who had been among the wounded. He was carried to the master's private wagon, and there he cooked himself into an early grave. Tyvian, who had been posing as a doctor at the time, was forced to watch. It had taken less than a day.

This was the same poison, this was that same terrible death. This situation was different now, though. Then, Tyvian had an obligation to save the boy but could not, whereas now he supposedly had the ability to save the boy but not the obligation.

“Kroth take the boy,” Tyvian snarled, but he could not leave the room. The ring burned him and burned him, but he did not advance.

Eddereon had said he had a good heart, that the ring was bringing out the best in him, but Tyvian knew it was a lie. All he needed to do to prove it was walk away, close the door, and have some dinner. Maybe take a nap.

But he did not budge.

He took a deep breath, his eyes watering with the torture being inflicted on him. He knew there was another option—­he could stay here, by Artus's side, and watch him die. It would only take a few hours, and then the pain would be gone, simple as that. By doing nothing, he could beat the ring. He could endure it.

And then Artus would die.

Tyvian wiped sweat from his forehead with his good hand. “You force me to do it, you miserable trinket.”

The ring did not answer; it merely burned, oven-­hot, between the tender flesh of his fingers. Tyvian hated that he was speaking to it again.

“I'll beat you,” he said. “I swear by every god, named and unnamed, I will beat you.” He closed the door behind him and sat beside Artus's bed. The boy did not stir save for his chest rising and falling with increasing difficulty. The room was hot.

“Tyv . . . Tyvian . . .” Artus mumbled.

His name struck him as a blow. He stood up, turned his chair around and sat back down. He stared into the fire and let the ring burn.

He was no one's slave. He would prove it. It was merely a matter of time.

 

INTERLUDE

A TASTE OF THINGS TO COME

S
ahand stood in the midst of what had been a sumptuous feast hall in the sleepy hills of northwestern Eretheria. A land of pretty castles and picturesque villages, this place had been the perfect storybook image of a rustic hunting lodge on the edges of a great black forest. Deer, elk, and wood-­drake heads were mounted against thick oak pillars. These pillars supported delicate wooden arches carved to look like the boughs of trees, and the ceiling was painted with pictures of leaves and forest animals where it wasn't stained black by centuries of wood-­ and pipe-­smoke. Just before Sahand had arrived, the long table had been strewn with tray upon tray of roast quail and cured ham as well as pitchers of cider and bowls of candied fruits. Men and women in the house of Viscountess Renia Elons had been laughing and talking about the day's entertainments, stuffing their faces with all the pleasant foods that their puffy cheeks could accommodate.

Sahand now stood on the table so that he was eye-­to-­eye with the Viscountess herself, who dangled by the wrists from the rafters of her own dining hall like a chicken trussed up for plucking. Joining the smell of roast meat and delicate soup was the smell of blood, now coating most of the floor and soaking the tablecloth crimson. As Sahand paced down the length of the table, he kicked the body of a man out of his way and sent the corpse toppling to the floor. “I find it hard to believe that I need to say this, Renia, but spying on me was not in your best interest.”

Of all the methods of torture devised by man, strappado was perhaps the easiest and most portable. All the torturer needed was a rope, a beam, and a strong man. The victim's hands would be tied behind the back, the rope thrown over the beam, and then the strong man would hoist them up by the wrists, pulling their arms painfully out of their sockets from behind, tearing ligaments, mashing nerves, and, if the man were strong enough, you could drop them suddenly and then stop them with a jerk, breaking bones and ripping muscles to shreds. If they kicked and struggled, the pain only got worse. For someone who wanted to torture their enemies while on the go, there really was no substitute.

At the moment, Banric Sahand was just such a man.

“Again.” He nodded to Gallo, who wordlessly loosened his grip on the rope so it slipped a few inches before jamming down on it again with his heavy armored boot. The Viscountess shrieked as the sudden stop dislocated one shoulder. She flailed and kicked, spitting and howling like a mad cat, as Gallo slowly hoisted her back to her starting elevation.

Renia Elons was young and vital for a woman of seventy, which was a keen indication of just how much money she had and what manner of sorceries she tended to spend it on. Her face was pale as parchment. “You can't do this . . . you can't!”

“Is that so?” Sahand's mail jingled softly as he looked about at the carnage he and Gallo had wrought of Renia Elons's retainers. It had been a simple matter, really—­hardly an effort. Once he knew where to find her, the only complication was how best to travel here quickly and without being observed. Ironically, the Black Hall had served as an admirably convenient shortcut. “Do you have additional retainers I need to worry about? I must say, this array of overweight farmers was something of a disappointment. I fear it's true what they say: the flower of Eretherian chivalry perished with Perwynnon.”

The Viscountess hazarded a glance over at the passionless, fish-­eye stare of Gallo. Her voice rose an octave. “My cousins! My sons! The Defenders! They will know this was you! I will be avenged!”

Sahand's face was still as a stone carving. “Again.”

Gallo let her drop and caught her again. This time the Viscountess screamed for almost an entire minute, tears streaming down her face. Sahand waited for her to fall silent before seizing her by the laces of her bodice and pulling her so close to his face that he could see the tiny webwork of wrinkles at the edges of her eyes. “Your simpering cousins? Your elderly sons, likewise fat from too much beef and beer? The Defenders, stretched thin and chasing down common thieves like constables?
These
are your threats? Listen to me, Renia, and understand: twenty-­seven years ago I had the world in the palm of my hand. I was poised to conquer the West, and none of you mewling idiots seemed able to stop me. All I needed to do was to sack one simple town . . .”

“Calassa? This is about Calassa?” Renia moaned.

Sahand thrust her away and let her swing, the motion causing the old woman to howl in pain. “
Everything
is about Calassa! Every waking hour since that time has been dedicated to undoing my indignities at Calassa. You, Renia, have endangered that plan.”

“What you're doing is madness, Sahand!” Renia sobbed. “Madness. All those ­people . . .”

Sahand had to hand it to the old sorceress—­she, over and above anyone else in the League, had actually figured it out. He wondered, in that moment, if Lyrelle Reldamar knew. No—­she couldn't. If she did, she would have stopped him somehow.

And there was simply no one who could stop him. Not now.

The Mad Prince thought about explaining this to Renia Elons, but couldn't see the advantage in it. “Again.”

Gallo dropped her so sharply that a bright bloom of red blood appeared at the shoulder of the Viscountess's fine white dress. She was weeping and gasping with pain all at once; Sahand figured her arms were just about ready to pop out of their sockets for good.

“Wh-­What do you want from me?” the Viscountess moaned, “Anything! I'll give you anything! Please don't drop me again. For Hann's sake, mercy!”

Sahand showed his teeth. “And what would you offer me, Renia? Gold? Titles? What, exactly, would I want from a withered old wench in an expensive gown who's too old to tumble and too young to bury?”

Renia Elons drew a shuddering breath. “Then why torture me? Why, gods, why do this? I'm . . . I'm just an old woman . . .” Gallo began to hoist Renia up again; she began to scream. “Oh gods, Sahand! You don't have to do this!”

Sahand reached up and wiped a tear from the Viscountess's cheek. “I have some good news, Renia: I am not going to kill you tonight.”

Renia Elons shuddered with sobs of relief.

“No, you see, Renia, if I were to kill you at this moment, it might look as though I were trying to keep you from talking, and I know I am being watched, and I must keep up certain appearances.”

Renia gasped, “Oh thank—­”

Sahand held up a finger and shook his head. “I hadn't finished, Renia: I can't kill you now, because it will look like
you
learned something about
me
. I
can,
however, slowly torture you to death because then it will look like
I
was trying to learn something from
you.
”

Renia's eyes seemed likely to pop out of her head and roll around. “Wh . . . what?”

“Don't worry—­I'll see to it that you last until morning. I am a man of my word.”

Renia struggled weakly against the ropes. “No . . . no, please . . . no!”

Sahand looked at Gallo and nodded.

“Again.”

T
o be continued in
Iron and Blood: Part II of the Saga of the Redeemed
. . .