He helped Uthey to his feet, and they stumbled through the forest along the riverbank. It was well past midday when they came to a low point where the bank disappeared, and they trudged across a sandbar to the river’s edge. Tam lagged behind to the extent their chain would allow to cover their tracks, and Uthey was in no condition to argue. They drank and bathed, and then Tam reapplied the paste to Uthey’s wounds.
The former mercenary said, “I think I’m feeling a bit better. The water helps.”
Opening another pouch made of leaves, Tam examined the last of the previous day’s berry harvest. He handed half of them to Uthey then unceremoniously shoved the other half into his mouth.
Uthey said, “This might be our last meal. We should savor them.”
Tam watched the river. Did it look normal? He said, “I don’t plan on dying.”
Uthey tugged at the collar shackle. “Well, when I die, you can cut off my head.”
“You’re not dying, either,” said Tam. “Besides, I no longer have a sword with which to remove your head.”
“Yes, your slippery fingers,” said Uthey.
“If you hadn’t fallen over the ravine, nearly yanking my head off, I wouldn’t have dropped it.”
“It was not my fault that I lost my balance due to the fever,” said Uthey.
“No matter,” said Tam. “We will rid you of the fever soon enough.” Then, he lurched to his feet and dragged Uthey from the sand. Wiping their tracks as they shuffled along, he pulled Uthey back into the forest on the other side of the sand bar. They had walked a few dozen feet into the thicket when Tam tugged Uthey down to crouch behind the undergrowth.
“What are we doing?” said Uthey, “I thought I was the one who was supposed to go mad from fever.”
“Sh,” hissed Tam, and then he pointed toward the river.
A boat came into view. It carried only nine soldiers, but it was followed by at least a dozen more like it. The soldiers pulled the boats onto the sand bar and then set to making camp. Tam watched them for a few minutes and then motioned for Uthey to leave. They hurried deeper into the forest, trying to make as little sound as possible. Once they were far enough away, Tam allowed Uthey a moment to catch his breath.
Uthey looked at him and said, “What are Ashaiian soldiers doing this deep into Verril?”
Tam said nothing as he listened to the wind and trees.
“Maybe they’re here to rescue you,” said Uthey, his chuckle becoming a wheeze, but he continued to jest. “Maybe it’s your king.”
“They do not serve my king,” said Tam. “They are the enemy—for now.”
They both jumped at the sound of branches crackling behind them. When they turned around, they were confronted by three grinning men in armor bearing weapons. One stepped forward as two more appeared behind them.
“What do we have here?” said the leader.
“Looks like two escaped slaves,” said one of his men.
Uthey whispered, “What are they saying?”
Tam realized the men were speaking Verrili. He knew he could not defeat them all. If Uthey had been well, they might have put up a fight; but, as it was, any protest would end in pain and suffering.
“I think we made a mistake,” he said in Gendishen.
Another man with broken teeth, who also spoke Gendishen, said, “I’d say you’re right.”
The man nodded for them to move. After another ten paces through the forest, they reached the edge of the tree line where the land dropped off a cliff. It looked to be more than a hundred feet to the base. At the bottom was a massive pit where hundreds of slaves were pushing carts, hauling rocks, and breaking boulders. Some disappeared into caves in the sides of the cliffs, some were whipped as they worked, and others were thrown into a smaller pit for the dead.
The man with the broken teeth leaned over Tam’s shoulder so that Tam could smell his putrid breath as he spoke. “Welcome to the quarry.”
There was only one way in and out of the quarry, and it was by a platform on the other side of the pit that was raised and lowered with ropes. Once Tam stepped off the platform onto the rugged detritus, he knew he would have to find a way to escape. He was practically as far from Cael as he could get—on the complete opposite side of the Souelian. No one knew where he had gone. No one had witnessed his kidnapping; and even if they had, no one in Uthrel would talk. To his friends, he had just disappeared. In the unlikely event that someone tracked him to the Isle of Sand, they would never know where he had been sent afterward. He would be trapped in the quarry for the rest of his short life. There was no way Rezkin could find him. Not even the Rez, himself, would find him.
“I’ve found him,” said Connovan, and Tieran looked up with a sigh of relief.
“Where is he?”
“He was taken by slavers to the Isle of Sand,” said Connovan. With a mischievous grin, he said, “Perhaps I should go after him.”
“No,” said Tieran, a little too hastily. “Rezkin should return soon. He will decide what to do.”
Connovan tipped his head. “I leave it to you; but, remember, many do not survive the Isle of Sand. He will eventually be sold, if he has not been already. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to find him.”
Tieran exhaled heavily. “Tam is strong. We must have faith that he can hold out.”
Connovan tilted his head in the same unnerving way he had seen so many times from Rezkin. “Perhaps he is, perhaps not. If he fails, he was not worthy of his apprenticeship. Testing Rez’s pet is not your motivation, though.” His tone shifted to accusation. “You have orders to keep me from leaving.”
Tieran sat back and tapped his finger on the desk. He forced himself to meet Connovan’s predatory gaze. He said, “I was not supposed to allow you off the island. I permitted your trip to Uthrel due to the exceptional circumstances.”
“Permitted? You practically begged.” A small silver knife appeared in Connovan’s hand. He spun it over his fingers, seemingly without effort. “If I desired to leave, you could not stop me.”
Tieran sucked in a breath. He felt a shift in the space around him as if something was there but just out of sight. He said, “No, but they can.”
Two of the shielreyah materialized, one beside him, the other next to Connovan. The former Rez’s gaze traveled the length of the vaporous warrior. He said, “I was not aware they respond to your call.”
Neither was I, thought Tieran.
“We respond to the will of the Spirétua Syek-lyé,” said the one closest to Connovan. Tieran thought his name was Cikayri, but he found them difficult to tell apart.
“He is not here,” said Connovan.
“He is everywhere,” said the Cikayri. “You will not leave Caellurum. You will not harm the kin of the Spirétua Syek-lyé.”
Tieran scowled at Connovan. “You were considering killing me?”
“Of course not,” said Connovan. “Maiming, perhaps—just a bit.” He glanced at the shielreyah next to Tieran. “These things do present a challenge. Still, they can be fooled. I heard about the attack. People were kidnapped. People died.” He glanced at the one next to him again. “They are not infallible.” Connovan stood and performed an unnecessary courtly bow. He paused as he was about to speak. Then, he said, “You really should decide on a title. People do not know how to formally address you.”
Tieran grumbled, “Must we lean so heavily on titles?”
Connovan said, “You are not sounding like yourself, Lord Tieran. So many years of your father’s teachings spoiled. Has being labeled a traitor caused this destruction? It is such a little thing, really.”
Gritting his teeth, Tieran said, “My father did not seek to make me a great man. He only wanted to make me like him. Rezkin has shown me a better way.”
Connovan nodded. “I believe he has, Lord Tieran. The question is why?”
When Frisha lay down, she thought she would never be able to sleep. As it was, though, she slept soundly through the evening, night, and half of the next morning. She wiped the sleep from her eyes then washed and combed her hair before reapplying the face paints as Celise had shown her. She then headed to the king’s office in hopes of finding Tieran. She opened the door to find him slumped over the desk.
“Are you busy?” she said.
He lifted his head. “I am excogitating.”