A man’s voice echoed softly off the walls of Corvan’s prison cell. “The law is unchanged, but you and I both know it is the Chief Watcher’s interpretation of the law that matters. Both of us would be in a difficult position if he found out about your visit.”

“I will take that chance,” the woman replied, “Unlike you, I am not afraid of what that creature might do.”

There was a short pause before the man quietly continued. “These are difficult days, Tyreth. We need to play this out carefully in a way that is good for all of us.”

“There is no ‘us,’ Morgan,” Tyreth responded crisply. “Those days are over. You made your choice.”

“I had no choice at that point,” Morgan answered tensely. “Now there are new decisions to be made.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tyreth shot back.

Morgan lowered his voice. “Major changes are about to take place. I cannot say more right now, but I need you to consider what could be if things were resolved between the palace and the priests. If I were able to take over the palace and rule the Cor, I would need a wise and confident counterpart. Together, we could free Kadir and rebuild it.”

“Do you honestly believe I would join with you after what you’ve done to the priests and my family? I would rather go to the Wasting before I would agree to be your counterpart.”

“Things are not as they seem.” Morgan spoke so quietly Corvan could barely hear him. “Very soon I will be able to make it all clear to you. Promise me you will attend the Wasting ceremony, and I can assure you that you will see things differently.”

“The High Priest’s daughter cannot be seen at that blasphemous event,” Tyreth retorted.

“She need not be seen there,” Morgan said, “but she needs to be there if she would like to speak with her brother before he goes to trial.”

There was a long pause. “Fine. I will observe the ceremony from the back of the amphitheater. I need to see Tarran right away.”

The man’s tone softened. “Thank you, Tyreth. You won’t regret it. I will awaken him and then wait for you outside the open door. I must fulfill my duty as his guard.”

Hard-heeled boots crossed the room, and a rough hand shook Corvan’s shoulder. “Tarran, wake up. Your sister is here to see you.”

Corvan rolled on his side and watched as Morgan strode back to the door. His broad shoulders were set like a matador going out to challenge a bull. The man touched the outside of the door jamb, and a band of amber light encircled the cell a few feet off the floor and illuminated the form of a woman just outside. “You must be quick.” Morgan said to her. “The change of guards will arrive shortly.”

Corvan sat up as the woman entered the cell. She wore a pale blue cloak. Silver tassels hung from the drawstrings of the hood onto a white scarf. As she approached, she swept the hood back, revealing an intense face framed by shoulder length black hair that swayed with each step. To Corvan, it was as if she had stepped off the front cover of one of the science fiction magazines he had tucked away in his chest at home. A warrior princess, he thought to himself, but as she drew near, he noticed she wasn’t much older than him—although she was at least 6 inches taller.

She smiled and his heart warmed until he reminded himself that she was under the impression he was her brother—the same brother he had let die. He dropped his head and looked to the floor.

Tyreth pulled him from the bench into an embrace. “Tarran, I am so glad to see you.” The words were full of concern, but the hug was loose and aloof. “Have they been treating you well?” she said in a loud voice as she let him go and took a step back between him and the door.

Before he could stop her, she pushed his hood back and looked directly into his face. He waited for an expression of surprise, but she looked resolutely at him without flinching. Her eyes were as blue as a prairie sky in winter, but they were full of cold sorrow.

“How can they accuse you of killing Harmon?” Tyreth said, glancing over her shoulder. “This is a terrible mistake,” she said as she was turning back to him.

Corvan opened his mouth to talk, but she gave her head a slight shake and touched his lips. Her fingers smelled of sweet spice.

“Tarran, you look terrible,” she said. “These cells are so cold. Here, take my scarf.” She unwound the white cloth from around her neck, looped it around his, and tucked it down the front of his cloak.

The kindness of her gesture brought a tear to Corvan’s eye, and he lowered his head again.

Tyreth put her fingertips under his chin and raised it. “Don’t give in to fear,” she whispered. “Be brave and do exactly as you will be told.” She tugged on the side of his hood and then spoke loudly again. “Keep your hood on and stay warm.” She stepped back and nodded to him. “I will try to come back to see you before your trial begins.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

She stood looking at him, and her eyes filled with tears. “I loved you … Tarran.” Her voice faltered. Clenching her jaw and giving her head a tense shake, she flipped up her hood and turned for the door.

When she reached the cell door, she said something to Morgan about her brother being very ill and that he should be left to rest before it slid closed.

Corvan sank down on the bench. Tyreth knew he was not Tarran, and she appeared to know her brother was dead. How could she know that since Harmon was dead as well?

Corvan untucked her scarf, and the soothing scent of her spiced perfume swirled about the cell. Her last words were to keep his head covered, so she must want him to keep up the ruse that he was Tarran. Yet she had left his face uncovered when she went out, which didn’t fit. Morgan might have noticed he wasn’t Tarran were he not so preoccupied with his own plans for her. He didn’t know anything about the man but found himself strongly disliking him.

Annoyed and not really knowing why, Corvan flipped his hood back over his head. A small packet dropped out and fell into his lap. He picked up a cloth pouch tied onto a stick that looked like a short thick pencil with a brown eraser. Untying the cloth, he discovered a small knobby pebble inside. He held both items up to the band of light on the wall. He pressed the eraser bump on top of the stick, and a tiny voice spoke. He held the stick closer to his ear.

“We must get you, away from the guards, before the morning comes.” A man was speaking in clipped phrases as if he was on a scratched record. “Your only chance is for the guards to think you have died of a sickness. You must immediately swallow the pill we have given you. It will cause you to appear as if you are dead. We will come get you before the Chief Watcher calls for your trial. Make sure you drop this message stick and the cloth down the waste hole. We shall speak with you after we give you the antidote and bring you back to life.”

Corvan pushed the knob again, but the stick remained silent. Tyreth was a part of this plan, and he wanted to trust her, but how could she know this pill wouldn’t accidentally kill him? Placing the pill in a small indentation on the stone bench, he tossed the stick and pouch down the hole. After returning to the bench, he stood looking at the pill. Even if he were to swallow it, his mother always said never to take medicine on an empty stomach. He dug to the bottom of the pack and found a tin can he’d missed when he’d lightened the load. He was about to throw it down the hole but changed his mind. Kate still had the Swiss Army knife to open the cans, and she would be hungry if he could find her and Rayu.

Opening the side pocket of the pack, Corvan pulled out the last piece of beef jerky. It was a bit soggy and the salt had risen to the surface in a white crust, but it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He washed it down with a long drink from the stone tap.

He looked back at the pill. Most medicine was bitter, and his mother would give him a teaspoon of honey to help get it down. Pulling out the last of the chocolate chips, he poured half of them into a small pile next to the pill, then rolled down the top of the bag and stuffed it back into the pack. He would save some for Kate. She loved chocolate.

“Don’t move.” Morgan’s deep voice growled in his ear, and a sharp point pressed into his back. How long had the man been standing there?

“So, you’ve been holding out on us? In these difficult times, with so little food, the Chief Watcher has decried hoarding food a crime punishable by death.” The knife pushed harder. “Move to the wall.”

Corvan slid along the bench and tight against the wall. Morgan moved around and sat at the far end. He kept the point of a black bladed knife hovering between them. His intense face was framed with thick curly hair, and his gray eyes studied Corvan’s every movement.

“I regret that it has come to this. You and I should have been brothers, not enemies.” Morgan peered into the recesses of Corvan’s hood. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me truthfully. Is it true that you’ve defected to the palace, or is your presence here just another one of the High Priest’s insane plans?”

Corvan lowered his head, and the piercing eyes disappeared under the edge of his hood.

“Your silence says it all. He may be your father, but the High Priest is a fool. You will be destroyed by his schemes. The Chief Watcher does not tolerate treachery. He will not let you live long after the trial.”

Corvan remained mute.

“So, what are these?” Morgan poked at the chocolate chips with the tip of his knife. “Something your sister brought you? Tyreth is as clever as she is beautiful.” He picked one up and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger.

Corvan shifted his weight, and Morgan instantly raised the knife to Corvan’s chest. “Don’t try anything, Tarran. I don’t believe you are ill. You’ve never been sick a day in your life.”

Morgan sniffed at one of the chocolate chips, then he nibbled at it. “Sweet, just like your sister,” he said, poking his knife toward Corvan.

Morgan cocked his head to one side, then reached out and pulled the white scarf from Corvan’s neck. “You won’t need this in your crypt. Nothing will keep you warm there.” Laying his knife next to the chocolate chips, he looped the scarf around his own neck before picking up the chips one-by-one and dropping them into the palm of his hand.

Corvan glanced at the knife. Should he try to grab it? Morgan seemed intent on the chocolate. Corvan raised his eyes and found a smirk twisting at the corners of Morgan’s mouth. The man was baiting him into a fight.

Morgan plucked up the last of the chips along with the small pebble. As Morgan added Tyreth’s pill to his handful of chips, Corvan twitched. In an instant, Morgan swept the knife off the bench and pointed it at Corvan’s heart. “A little too slow, Tarran. Perhaps you are actually sick.” Leaning back, he tossed the chocolate chips and pill into his mouth.

“The night guard will be here shortly. If you will not answer my questions …” Something crunched in his mouth, and he grimaced. Jabbing his tongue into his upper molars, he pulled out half of the pebble pill and held it up between his fingers. A cold sweat broke out on his face. “What have you—” He lifted the knife to Corvan’s throat, and his hand shaking as the tip touched Corvan’s skin.

Corvan jerked back, tossing his head and sending his hood flying off his head.

Morgan’s eyes widened at the sight of Corvan’s face, and he jumped off the bench, stumbling then tripping as his heel caught in the toilet hole. He crashed to the floor, and the black knife skittered toward the open door. Corvan stood to help him, but Morgan crawled away, clawing his way toward his knife and the door. As he collapsed face down, his hand reached out and brushed the door frame.

The door slid shut with a soft click. The room was silent.