The Rock of Ivanore (22 page)

Fredric stepped out of the rainbow of light into the darker hues of the room. “The night of your exile I threatened to destroy the child. I looked on him as a mongrel, and I cursed him for his impure blood. I was angry! My words were impulsive! You cannot know how deeply I regret them now. No doubt fearing for her child's life, Ivanore ran away. I have not seen her since that night.”

He lowered himself into his chair and let out a low, pitiful sigh. His hands, crooked and swollen with age, clenched the armrests. “I will soon pass from this world,” he said with resignation. “I have no heir, and the realm will become subject to anarchy. Perhaps it is better to be conquered by our enemy than to disintegrate into chaos.”

“You have an heir,” said Jayson. “Will you not mention his name?”

“My son is dead to me!” Fredric's voice exploded with a force of which no one in the room thought he was capable. But the outburst took its toll, leaving his limbs trembling. He continued with restrained emotion. “I do not wish to speak anymore of treachery. I am feeling ill and will retire to my chambers.”

Jayson tried to stand. The guard jerked him back with his chains, but Jayson could not be swayed. “Don't you know what your hatred has done?” Jayson said. “You have driven your son to treason! Arik is behind this invasion. The scroll I bring with me testifies of it. It contains the ancient map of the Black Forest, as well as details of the invasion—written in his own hand.”

A guard presented the scroll to Fredric, who read it silently. “My son . . . declares war on Dokur?” he said finally.

“Yes,” answered Jayson. “And you can hate him for that as well—or you can make your peace with him and possibly save Dokur.”

Lord Fredric remained silent for several minutes. When he did speak again, it was with the voice of a man whose soul bore a heavy burden. “Should Arik come to me, I will pardon him. But it seems that events are already in motion and war is inevitable. Yet I cannot defend Dokur,” said Fredric. “As you know, we have not been attacked in nearly a century. We have become apathetic. Our navy is manned with only minimal forces. Our army is scattered throughout the land. If our enemy comes by sea, as you say he will, and the tower is breached and captured, we have no way to signal our troops in the neighboring valleys. Even if we could contact them, it would take days to gather an army sufficient for battle. All is lost.”

Jayson lowered his head, his chest and shoulders expanding and contracting in steady rhythm with his breathing. There was silence in the room, a heavy silence that felt to Marcus as a millstone about the neck of Dokur.

“How many slaves work in the mines?” asked Jayson, raising his face to look at Lord Fredric. When no answer was given, he spoke again. “I know what you have done to my people. I have seen the mine with my own eyes. Now, tell me—how many are there?”

Lord Fredric looked to Chancellor Prost for the answer.

“We have four hundred Agoran and two dozen armed human guards,” said the Chancellor. He stepped forward until he stood over Jayson. The bird with the red band cooed contentedly on his arm. “Are you suggesting we place weapons in the hands of slaves?”

“If we were to release them, surely they would join our enemies,” said Fredric. “Or they would flee.”

Jayson rose to his feet, his chains clinking loudly. “This is their land, as well. The Agoran are a proud people. Give them their freedom, and they will fight.”

Chancellor Prost guffawed. “Give them their freedom?! You
are
mad!”

“Free them—or be destroyed. There is no other option.”

Prost opened his mouth to protest again, but Lord Fredric held up his hand to silence him. “I have been their captor. They will not follow me,” he said.

“I will lead them,” said Jayson.

Prost's face grew crimson, yet he held his tongue in check as Lord Fredric ordered the guards to release Jayson from his bonds. As the chains fell to the floor in a loud clatter, Jayson knelt before his king. Fredric, visibly moved
by his action, bade him to rise. Then he spoke to the guards. “Arnot, Thyren, you will accompany this man. Gather weapons from the armory.” Then to Jayson he said, “You must go to the mines immediately. Tell your people they are free. You will need proof of my declaration. My seal, perhaps?”

“I will show them this,” said Jayson. He reached into the pouch at his waist and retrieved a flat object the size of his palm, a half-circle of sea-colored crystal. Though the design on it was broken, Marcus recognized it immediately as the same seal that appeared on the banner behind which he stood.

Fredric's eyes widened when he saw it. “Ivanore's royal seal!”

Jayson ran his fingers over the embossed design. “She broke it in two and gave half of it to me before we were separated,” he said. “She said it was to remind me that my other half waited here until the day we could be reunited.”

Fredric reached out his withered hand and wrapped it around Jayson's hand, clasping the seal. “Perhaps, if the gods be willing, this may still come to pass. Now go swiftly. Take my guards with you. Bring back whatever army you can gather,” he said, “and pray we may all live to see another day.”

ord Fredric excused himself from the council chambers, leaving Prost to oversee Jayson's departure for the mines. Prost ordered fresh supplies along with Fredric's fastest horses. The two guards assigned to Jayson were given the charge to protect him at all costs—and to see to it that the authorities at the mine heeded his message.

“The mine keeper is a disagreeable fellow,” warned Prost, “but with Ivanore's seal at your disposal, you should have little trouble convincing him of your authority, though I think it wise to carry Lord Fredric's banner, as well.”

Jayson nodded his thanks and headed for the door, anxious to be on his way. It was nearing midday and time would not keep.

“One more thing,” added Prost, his voice laced with feigned empathy, “I do apologize for Fredric's earlier outburst about his son, but you must comprehend the position Arik has put him in.”

“Arik acted out of grief from a father's loathing of him,” replied Jayson. “What he's done is a terrible thing, but you heard Fredric same as I did. Arik need only admit his wrongdoing, and he will be forgiven.”

Prost preened his bird's feathers with his fingertips, a cunning smile on his lips. “And will
you
forgive Arik as well?”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“Then you don't know,” added Prost, his eyes widening with mock innocence.

“What are you talking about?” Jayson was becoming impatient.

The bird walked up Prost's arm to his shoulder and snuggled against his chin. “That Arik told Fredric where you and Ivanore were hiding, of course,” said Prost. “It was he who betrayed you those many years ago.”

Jayson's expression did not reveal anger or surprise. He did not have time to concern himself about a friendship that was already lost. Instead he turned his back on Prost and left to get on with his duty. Thyren followed.

Outside the chamber door, beyond Marcus and Kaië's hearing, Arnot awaited his final orders. Prost gave them. “It would be a tragedy if Jayson and Arik died in battle,” he said. “See to it, won't you?”

inding the council chambers finally empty, Kaië and Marcus slipped out from behind the tapestry. Kaië hurried across the room to the tunnel's door, but Marcus stopped her.

“I can't leave yet,” he told her. “Yesterday a friend of mine was captured by Lord Fredric's soldiers—a little boy. I have to find him.”

“Can't leave? Can't leave?” squealed Xerxes.

Marcus tried his best to ignore him. “I have to get him out of here or he'll be executed.”

“The holding cells are located in the lower levels of the Fortress,” said Kaië. “Their entrance is on the opposite side of the main corridor, but they are under heavy guard. You won't get through undetected.”

Marcus looked around the room, searching for something he could use to disguise himself, but found nothing useful.

Again Xerxes protested. “I'm not going to any prison cell! I demand we leave this place immediately!”

Marcus opened the door a crack and peered into the corridor. He saw a long, wide hall supported by massive stone arches. At the far end was a narrow, wooden door barred with a solid beam.

“There are guards posted everywhere,” whispered Marcus. He felt in his pocket for the key and considered his options. Magic was limited to manipulating the elements of the earth, he reminded himself. He could not conjure something out of thin air.

“Maybe I could create a distraction,” he suggested out loud.

“What sort of distraction?” asked Kaië.

“Something that would draw away the guards long enough for us to reach the prison.”

Xerxes voice was irate now. “I won't be a party to your killing us all! No, I'll have none of it!” Then he went silent, reverting to his wooden self.

Marcus was too concerned about his present situation to worry about Xerxes. He thought of Bryn locked away behind that wooden door. As Marcus contemplated the possible punishments he might already have suffered, the key's temperature rose in his hand. He knew he had one chance to get by the guards. One chance only.

The key now burned against his flesh. He held it up and focused his thoughts. Beneath him, the stone floor
began to tremble. The entire room shook with such great violence that objects on Lord Fredric's desk wobbled and fell to the floor. Shouts emanated from the hall, and the sound of running footsteps grew distant.

Marcus peered through the door once again. The quake was stronger than he had anticipated, but it had worked. The hall was empty. “The soldiers are gone,” he announced. “Let's hurry before they come back.”

A peculiar weakness seized Marcus following the quake. But though it alarmed him, he said nothing. He and Kaië ran down the hall toward the entrance to the lower levels. They listened to the confused and fearful voices of the soldiers outside. Marcus was out of breath by the time they reached the opposite end of the hall, the magic having drained him of strength. He and Kaië pushed against the beam across the door. In his weakened state, Marcus could only muster minimal effort, but with a few forceful shoves, it gave way.

“We don't have much time,” said Kaië, sprinting down the steps into the cold, damp darkness below. The steps seemed to descend forever, and Marcus fought against the familiar fear that gripped him. He wondered whether they would ever reach the bottom, when suddenly he found himself on level ground. Water trickled down the walls of the chamber, and the dank stench of mildew invaded his nostrils. A single torch scarcely illuminated the area, leaving much of it in shadow.

“Bryn!” Marcus called out. He felt his strength returning. “Bryn! Are you here?” The clanking of irons and the moans of someone roused from sleep broke the silence.

“Who is there?” a voice, weak and strained, called back. Marcus peered into the cell beside him and saw the silhouette of a scrawny man with a shaggy, unkempt beard.

“I'm searching for someone who was taken captive yesterday,” said Marcus.