Chapter 26
Saxon
Sixty-seven days have passed since my capture. Sixty-seven days of pain and silence. Silence on my part. My interrogators have been excessively loquacious. They’ve repeated their questions and accusations so many times I know them by heart.
The best I can hope is to die soon. I trust no one, and there’s no chance I’ll put Rosomon, Tynan, or the dragons—any of them—in danger. It’s best if I’m gone.
These dungeons haven’t been used since this old castle on the outskirts of Verax was converted into the dragon camp.
Perhaps they haven’t been used since the veil was completed.
Based on what Zogar told us, I’m certain no dungeons or prisons were meant to exist in the Light, and even as a dragon master, I didn’t know this horrid place existed at camp.
Clearly the dungeon is controlled by the klericks. The guards blindfolded me while they dragged me across the final section of the field back to camp, but I know camp well enough to be certain I’m deep under the Chapel of Othrix.
The only other place I’ve seen a dungeon was when I was at the Seminary. But even there, we children were not chained to the walls and left for days, like I’ve been here.
Instead, we boys were taken down to the dungeons to be whipped or caned. And the targets for our punishments were either the palms of our hands, reminding us never to use them for magic, or our backs and buttocks, simply to remind us that the klericks were in charge.
I raise my chained hands to cover my nose as I draw in a breath.
The air is damp and wretched, rank with mold and foul with sewage.
The only sound is the near constant drip of water, falling through a grate across the room.
The constant plops were comforting at first, providing company, but now each one echoes in my mind and threatens to steal my sanity.
The room has a second grate, this one in the floor near me, and its smell is particularly foul. It’s over a sewage tunnel, and I stand over it whenever I need to relieve myself—which is rare given how little I consume.
A thin line of light appears through the ceiling grate in the corner, my only indication that it’s morn.
Throughout the day, I watch that thin line slide across the floor to mark the passage of time, but when the sun is down, I have no light.
Not unless I have visitors. And while my visitors bring more light, they also bring agony and torment.
But no matter what my captors do, I won’t breathe a word of what I’ve learned about dragons, nor about what lies beyond the veil.
My inquisitors’ questions haven’t altered over all the time I’ve been held here, which makes me believe that Rosomon and Zogar aren’t yet back, and that Tynan and Xendus haven’t begun to fly more dragons through the veil.
I worry what that means. What are they waiting for?
The heavy door into my dungeon room swings open, revealing a large silhouette that turns toward the light behind him. It’s Treacher. They’re calling in the big guns now.
“Leave me,” he says to someone outside. “I’ll pound on the door when I’m ready to go.”
Thus far, the vast majority of my interrogators have been klericks, accompanied by burly guards. Guards who are all new here at camp, as are many of the klericks.
Many days, my religious interrogators are joined by Roule. His questions are softer, gentler, as if the klericks believe he’ll be able to use our friendship and mutual respect to soften me. It hasn’t worked.
There’s no such friendship between Treacher and me. The man has always resented me and fought against me for power, even though I never cared which one of us issued which command.
“Bring food and clean water,” Treacher says to someone outside the room. “Now!”
He takes a few steps into my cell and then covers his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. “This is fucking inhumane.”
I glare at him.
“Listen.” He sets down an oil lamp, and I squint against it, as if I’m staring into the midday sun. “I’m not here to make accusations,” he says. “I’m just here to talk. I need to understand what’s going on. It took me two moon cycles to even find out where they’re holding you.”
A guard shuffles into the room, carrying a pitcher of water and some bread on a pewter plate.
“Bring chairs, man!” Treacher barks to the guard.
This is starting to feel similar to when the klericks first sent in Roule to soften me up. But while showing compassion is within Roule’s character, it’s not in Treacher’s. What kind of game is he playing?
The guard carries in two wooden chairs. Treacher positions one of them within reach of my chains, and the other a few feet away from the first.
“Sit,” he says taking a seat on the far one.
“Please, man. Eat something. Drink. Had I known how bad it was down here—” He shakes his head.
“I’ll return with real food, not this moldy crust of bread.
And a woolen blanket.” He leans forward.
“If you tell me what’s going on, I’ll have a better chance to get you out of here. ”
There it is. Bribes to urge me to betray the others or confess to my heresy.
I’ll take his bribes but won’t offer anything in return.
My chains clang on the stone floor, as I shuffle in front of the chair and then drop to its seat.
There’s no need to deny myself this small amount of comfort, or to refuse the bread and water.
I’ve had neither for two days. Bending forward, I pick up the pitcher, take a long drink, and then gnaw at the hunk of bread.
“While you eat,” Treacher says, “I’ll do my best to tell you what’s gone on—both while you were away, and since you returned. Would you like that?”
Against my better judgement, one of my shoulders lifts. My judgement says to reveal nothing, not even a shrug. Not to anyone who comes down here. Thus far, my raised shoulder is the most I’ve shared with anyone.
Treacher gets up and closes the door.
“While you were in the Darkness,” Treacher says as he returns to his chair, “the King of Khotor took full control of the Seven Kingdoms. The fucker declared himself Supreme Sovereign and King of the Light or some shit.”
Treacher shakes his head. “Some kings bent the knee. Those who refused were imprisoned.” He leans onto his knees. “In fact, I don’t know which members of the former royal families remain alive.”
Former royal families. That would include Rosomon’s father and brothers. I want to ask more but will not.
It’s hard to believe that old decrepit king pulled this off. The King of Khotor is the most despicable men I’ve ever encountered, and while it’s easy to imagine that this is something he’d want to do, it’s more difficult to believe he had the guile or means to actually do it.
Deep inside, my love and admiration for Rosomon glows in this dank darkness.
Her instincts to escape marrying that cruel old man were even wiser than I thought at the time.
I’d never say this in front of Tynan, but Rosomon and I have shared that we both saw pure evil when we looked into the old king’s eyes.
Tynan resents the old man’s cruelty—I know that—but he remains deeply loyal to his family and kingdom, and I can only hope that this turn of events will shake him of that.
Treacher’s still waiting for me to respond, so I take another bite of stale bread, my jaw aching as I chew.
“The King of Khotor is now the official ruler over all seven Kingdoms of Light.” Treacher glances toward the door, as if confirming it’s still closed.
“But if you ask me, the klericks are in charge.” His gruff voice lowers, barely above a whisper.
“More in charge than before, I should say. They’ve instigated new tenets and are enforcing old ones, long forgotten. ”
He frowns and the lines on his face deepen. “They’ve even forbidden some of the conveniences we enjoy here at camp—the plumbing, the lifts, the gas lighting.” He shakes his head. “The klericks deemed such amenities to be blasphemy, crimes against Othrix.”
I take another bite of the bread to hide my reaction.
Treacher grunts. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember a Tenet of Othrix against a hot bath.” He grins, clearly trying to forge a connection with me.
I give him nothing.
His fingers drum his knees. “Since the klericks took charge, we’ve haven’t been able to train any new riders.”
My eyes widen.
Encouraged, he leans forward again. “The klericks deemed mounting a dragon pommel to be an obscenity. They confiscated our sphincter trainers, and none of the remaining candidates will be permitted to attempt a mounting.”
I gnaw on the chunk of bread, as I fight to hide my reactions to Treacher’s disturbing news—assuming he’s speaking the truth. Roule shared none of this during his visits.
“For a time,” Treacher continues, “existing riders were permitted to perform daily patrols. But even patrols are forbidden now.”
To hide my reaction, I tip the pitcher to my lips. The water tastes of metal and is full of gritty stone dust. If I told Treacher this, he’d have it replaced—he’s trying to butter me up—but I’m not going to talk. And right now, I’ve caught him in an obvious lie.
When we crossed back through the veil, we were met by dragons. Clearly, there are still patrols. Or were two moon cycles ago.
“Riders are only permitted to mount their dragons when the veil is breached.” Treacher shakes his head. “Hence your greeting party when you arrived.” His hands grip his thighs. “In the past four moon cycles, I’ve only mounted Ersot seven times.”
I set down the pitcher, and the metal clatters against the stone. I fear the action revealed more than I meant to.
“The entire time you were gone,” Treacher continues, “there were no breaches in the veil. Not one demon came through—just like the last time Rosomon and the behemoth were gone.”
He waits for my reaction. I give him none.