Dawn came cool and dewy. Idris stood, shivering and damp, hands bound before him, waiting for the convoy to move. Out of the five men and their squires who had accompanied the carriage two weeks ago, only three remained, and a handful of soldiers from the barracks who had seen it sensible to flee rather than stay. The group made eleven, in total. They regarded Idris with cruel derision, spitting on him, slamming bags and errant elbows into his ribs in feigned accidents. He took it. There was not much else he could do.
Kurellan surfaced from the inn with orders for the men.
“We ride.” He pointed to Idris. “He walks. We will contact court from Harran Pass in two days’ time. Stop for nothing but my signal, understood?”
The soldiers nodded. Kurellan gestured to Idris.
“He does not get use of his hands. He does not get to make a sound from his lips. Any soldier who disobeys those orders gets to walk with him, just like him, as a traitor.”
Idris wanted to be a model prisoner. He wanted to show Kurellan that he had nothing to hide. The prospect of walking all the way to Harran Pass, though, with his stump already smarting from his foolish jump, made him want to scream. He was not going to make it, and he was scared of what that meant.
I should have left Lila a note, he thought. Lila was not stupid – she could track a horse – but by the time she mobilised it could already be too late.
“Sir Idris,” said a soldier, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His two colleagues snickered as he tied a rope to Idris’s chained hands and attached it to the back of a pony that was carrying supplies. “This is your new attendant. We called the pony Lila, so you wouldn’t be too lonely. Ain’t that thoughtful?”
Idris made no sign that he had heard, but he felt the blood rush to his cheeks.
“Aw look, he’s embarrassed,” said the soldier. “Don’t you worry, Sir Idris. She walks real slow.”
“These magicians aren’t nothing,” said another soldier, tutting. “Take their hands and tongues and they’re useless. He can’t even fight back.”
Embarrassment, yes. Rage, more so. Idris was less angry at Kurellan and more at himself. He had three good minutes to explain himself and he gabbled and garbled like an apprentice at the judge’s feet, not like an equal. If he had opened his mouth and explained, he would not be here.
“Judge Kurellan?” said one of the captains, one eyebrow raised at Idris’s plight.
“Make it quick,” said Kurellan, climbing onto his horse.
“You don’t think that keeping Her Majesty’s favourite tied to the back of a mule is a mistake?”
Kurellan did not turn to look at Idris when he spoke.
“It will teach Her Majesty not to have favourites,” he said darkly.
The convoy set off.
Idris watched the line of steeds before him. The squire in charge of the pony tugged her rein, and she obediently plodded forwards, jerking Idris into motion behind. He walked as carefully as he could, watching the pony’s shoed hooves, glancing nervously around them.
After an hour, he was already limping. After two, the stabbing sensation in his stump was so fierce that he was blinking dots from his eyes with every step. The landscape was a dim wash around him. He kept his eyes on his feet, one before the other, thinking about his breathing with the gag in his mouth. Eventually, time was meaningless, so he measured in the sapping of his strength. Soon, the pony was faster than him, and his arms were being pulled parallel with the road as he dragged his aching body after her.
When they paused to eat, Idris was dizzy and still shivering. He hated that he could not take more punishment than this. Carefully, he dropped to his good knee and closed his eyes, attempting to summon some reserve he knew he did not have. His legs throbbed; he could feel the muscles spasming. The grinding, gnawing fire in his stump was tear-inducing. Through his muted hearing, the voice of the squire inquired of his superior if he could give Idris a cup of water.
“Necromancer,” said a stern voice. “Look at me when I am talking to you, boy.”
Idris lifted his head, blinked into the sunlight. He could have been mistaken, but he thought he saw a flash of pity in the soldier’s face.
“A cup,” he said to the squire. “And no more.”
“Yessir,” said the squire, pulling a ladle from beside the waterskin.
The gag was drenched with spit and sweat, but the squire did not flinch when he shifted it out of Idris’s mouth.
“Here, sir,” he whispered, putting the edge of the ladle to Idris’s sticky lips. “Quick now, before His Honour sees.”
The water was not cold, but it could have been the finest wine as far as Idris was concerned. He slurped it down, gave himself hiccups in his eagerness. The squire placed a couple of dried quail figs into Idris’s cheeks, too. They were hard to chew but would be softened over time, allowing him some sustenance.
“Thank you,” Idris whispered, his voice cracking and distorted by the figs, and the squire smiled and put the gag back in.
“Can you stand? Here, let me help you.”
So the day passed. The figs rehydrated and disintegrated in Idris’s cheeks, meting out their tangy, earthy flesh in tiny chunks. Occasionally, he was sure he whited out, and awoke some miles down the road, still obediently walking, unable to do anything else.
And then, as the sun started to make their shadows long and violet, Idris felt the whiteness coming back over him, and then it was grey, and then black.
When he opened his eyes, he expected to still be moving, but he found himself on the ground, his cheek and brow pulsing with new pain. His arms were outstretched, upwards by the pony. The pony had stopped.
“What’s the hold up?” shouted Kurellan’s voice.
“Necromancer,” called the soldier. To Idris, “Up, boy.”
Idris blinked and tried to do as he was told. He slid his knees up and begged his left foot to take the weight, but it was too much to ask. He had no upper body strength to pull against the taut rope and every other ounce of his pride was attempting to stop the tears from falling.
“Whelp,” said Kurellan’s voice. Idris breathed through his nose, glanced up. In the twilight, it was difficult to see anything on the old man’s face. He crossed his arms. “Get up. Or we drag you.”
“Got yourself too comfortable at the palace, didn’t you?” sneered a different soldier, hurriedly hushed by his peers. Kurellan did not move.
Idris could not protest. He could not scream or cry out or beg. Either he got up, or he let them drag him. If Kurellan’s plan was humiliation, it had worked already, better than he could dream.
“Sir,” said the squire awkwardly. His master waved him down.
“Nobody asked you. Keep your mouth shut.”
“You can’t see the blood, sir?” the squire said.
It was quiet, all at once. The soldier looked partially ashamed. Idris did not know where he might be bleeding, but he hoped it was not his hand, again.
“What cut you, necromancer?” said Kurellan. Idris shrugged. “On your leg. What cut you?”
My leg?
He glanced at his trousers. Around the outside of his right leg was a thin ring of dark stain.
My prosthetic.
He had worn it too long and done too much, and cut away some of the calluses, most likely. Either that or it was blood from the necrosis.
Kurellan tutted, addressed the squire.
“Put him on the pony. Be careful with him.”
“Yessir, Your Honour.”
“We’ll make better time,” said Kurellan, turning away to return to his horse.
The squire, noting that Idris was too weak to sit, tied his bound hands around the pony’s reins and his feet into the stirrups. Idris, grateful, lay with his head buried in the mane and his eyes shut, feeling the throb through his whole body.
They travelled this way for the better part of two days. By the evening of the second day, Idris was lucid and stiff, and he was surprisingly relieved to see the dark ridges of the Harransee mountains, heralding the appearance of Harran Pass. From the carriage almost two weeks ago, he had not paid much attention to the view outside his window, bar the fact that suddenly it was too dark to read. This time, from the back of the pack pony, he picked out details that stilled the churning anxiety in his gut. Mountain flowers huddled at the edge of the road in clean whites and yellows. Above, soaring eagles searched for prey, darting between the twin crests of the pass that cut through the hills. It was beautiful country. Idris wished he could share it with Lila. The old stories and the discovery of huge bones said that once, dragons lived in the peaks before him; she would have loved to theorise about that. Now, Harran Pass was home to a few stone and gem mines and the only road through the mountains, guarded by a small, walled town. It got its money from tolls meted out to travelling merchants and diplomatic envoys and the occasional stroke of luck in the caverns.
It was also where the kingdom’s first true bureaucratic outpost sat. Kurellan was likely counting on that to get a quick response from the Queen about what to do with his prisoner.
For the first time in several days, Idris heard the comforting sound of aria bells. He moaned softly, shut his eyes. Civilisation. Air arias, breathy and high, and rock arias with staccato tones, solid melodies that interwove in complex bars. The cool mountain climate was so soothing that he almost fell asleep again.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Soldiers called to their companions that helped the convoy down the road. Kurellan, somewhere, barked orders and made demands, immediately adhered to. The huge wooden gate in the grey-rock wall rumbled open, and the line of soldiers headed inside. Shadow passed over Idris’s head; he blinked at soft candle-lit lanterns and thick resin braziers, burning lilac and blue. The sound of hooves became more tuneful on cobbled roads, and sturdy dark-beam buildings built into the side of the mountain formed a tidy huddle, almost blocking the minimal evening light from above. The sky seemed unreachable. A pinprick of a hawk zipped across the thin crack.
Harran Pass lived in perpetual darkness. From his position on the pack pony’s back, Idris could hardly see a thing. Footmen with lanterns on poles came to attend to the Queen’s men, taking horses to stables and gathering items from the pony. In all of the bustle, Idris was ignored, until finally it seemed that there were only two people left in the whole town – him, and Kurellan, who stood beside the pony, glaring at him.
“We have business,” the old judge said.
He loosed Idris from the reins and lifted him, bodily, to the ground. When he set Idris on two feet, Idris instantly cried out and failed for Kurellan’s shoulder. Whatever had been bleeding in the prosthetic still stung. To his surprise, Kurellan did not let him fall; he gripped Idris under his arm, sighed sharply.
“This way.”
Idris blinked through the fog that the continuous aching forced into his brain and walked, step by excruciating step, towards the outpost. The building’s face was lit with resin fires, highlighting the coral marble inlaid in the columns and the silver in the Queen’s sigil, hung above the door. Usually, seeing Cressida’s sea serpents gave him hope, but when he saw them here, above the iron-clad door, he only felt despair.
Cressida would believe him. She trusted him. But what if he did not get the chance to explain himself? He already ruined his chance with Kurellan.
Stepping into the outpost, past the guards, it was clear that the fascia of the building was just a façade; the interior was so deep that it must have been dug into the mountain, and the lack of windows on any side indicated that there was nothing outside worth seeing. The ceiling of marble tile was held up by warm dark beams that ran all the way to the balustrades of the upper floor, where diplomats walked with scrolls and missives, in and out of rooms, further into the mountain down corridors that stretched out of sight. It was lit by giant lanterns, hanging from the beams, and had the quaint impression of an upper-class jail, rather than a tax house.
The first round of guards passed Kurellan a curious glance, looking at his clothing and sigil.
“Prisoner,” he said clearly. “Magician.”
The guard nodded. “Of course, Judge Kurellan.”
He picked up a lantern on a pole and gestured for him to follow, down the thin corridor through the cell door to his left.
The walls smelled of sulphur and iron, scents that Idris usually associated with work. There was hardly any sound through here, no aria bells, only the slow shuffle of the three men as they went further and further in. It got warmer, stuffier. With the gag in his mouth and the pain, Idris struggled to keep awake and keep moving. His head felt giant and empty, save a dull throb in the back of his skull.
At long last, they emerged in a low-ceilinged, smoky guard room, filled with the accoutrements of magician imprisonment. Idris saw mouth-cages and manacles, sapping crystals for the imprisoned to clutch continuously between two bound hands. Kurellan placed Idris into a chair opposite the prison guard, who licked the end of his quill before he started his business.
“Prisoner’s name.”
“Idris of Gleesdale,” said Kurellan.
“Position.”
“Court Necromancer.”
Here, the guard hesitated, glanced at Idris, who closed his eyes and begged for it to be over.
“Crime?”
“Treason.”
The prison guard raised his eyebrows, but he wrote it down.
“Remove his chains and gag, we’ll take it from here,” he said.
The gag was replaced with a wax bit that Idris had to bite in place, and joined with a leather neck brace which held his chin up so he could not speak; it fit snugly around his ears and was buckled at the back. His hands were bound behind him. Effectively, it was impossible for him to perform any sort of aria magic in this state, and partially, he was glad. He needed rest, even if it was in a prison cell.
Kurellan watched stoically the whole time. As far as Idris could tell, he did not look like he was enjoying this. Rather, he seemed disappointed, or tired, but resigned, as if it was always going to end this way. Necromancers were no good, after all, and no good could come of them having any sort of recognised power. Idris wondered if he was surprised that imprisonment had been so easy.
Once he was fully restricted, the guard and Kurellan took Idris to his cell. It was a small, private cubby, with a wooden bench to sleep on, a stool, and a bucket, no blankets or wash bowl. Idris sank gratefully onto the bench and closed his eyes again, ready to sleep.
“The boy is bleeding,” Kurellan said.
“We’ll send a –“ the guard started, but at this, Idris firmly shook his head. It was difficult, with the brace on, but he managed well enough.
It was silent, then. Idris opened his eyes, looked sideways at Kurellan, and shook his head again. He could not speak, but he wanted to express as clearly as he could that he did not want any strangers tending to his wounds.
“You think you’re in a position to bargain, whelp?” Kurellan said, brow furrowed.
“He can deny treatment,” the guard said, but Kurellan tutted.
“He must have some plan in place.”
Idris shook his head.
“I cannot be seen to leave him to fester,” Kurellan told the guard. “Inform me once his meal is prepared. I will bring bandages myself.”
Again, Idris shook his head, desperate for Kurellan to stop being stubborn, but the old man turned on his heel. The guard followed, and finally, Idris was alone.
He took stock. His one real foot was blistered and chafed in the boot, and his right half-leg was ragged and raw beneath the trousers, thudding with blood. The cup of the prosthetic was sticky and crusted with scabs. The stink from there, combined with his general odour, was rancid. His clothing was filthy, muddy and dusty and sweaty. The brace around his neck and chin was hot and itchy and he craved relief; his teeth were awkwardly dug into the wax and he did not have enough moisture in his mouth to wet his cheeks. He could breathe, though. If he wanted to sleep, he would have to do it sitting up. Outside of that, he was starving and thirsty, and he wanted to cry.
There were no aria bells, here, but the death aria pervaded, stirring in his spine. It felt faint and faraway, as if it was playing through a window some streets away. He could not do anything with it, even if he had use of his hands.
He thought instead of his purpose. Cressida had a spy in court. It was his job to draw them out. Perhaps, his absence had already lured them into the light and the threat was gone. Still, the persistence of the thieves, the need for ‘good steel’, was troubling. Then, with the green glow and the black figure arriving from across the border…
Was it a declaration of war, so soon to the anniversary of the peace treaty? If it was, and Kurellan was successful in jailing Idris for this crime that he did not commit, then the kingdom was already on its knees. A court with no necromancer fighting a necromancer was doomed to fail.
Willard and Lila had a slim chance of finding him, and even if they did, their odds of releasing him were minimal. With his body the way it was right now, his ability to cast accurately was reduced, too. He desperately needed an aria healer and two weeks of rest.
All he had to do was get home. Once he was home, Cressida would side with him. He would have all of his resources and all of the time he needed to prepare to do battle with… with whatever the green glow really was.
Blood magic. Kurellan thought I was doing blood magic.
Idris did not know much about blood magic beyond his initial lessons with Magus Arundale, several years ago. It was pervasive and it would kill you with its sheer force and unpredictability, but several prominent aria magicians in history had used it as a last resort. Blood magic did unto the user what the user wished to do to others. It wasted bodies into husks. It levelled towns. Magus Arundale was particular in his warnings to young Idris: as a necromancer, it was utterly forbidden to use blood magic. It discredited his profession and it was too easy to slide into for someone who worked with death, where blood was plentiful. He was already feared enough.
Could the green glow have been created by blood necromancy?
Considering the possibilities made his head hurt more. He shifted his weight, dropped his stance. If he was lucky, he could get some sleep.
Idris was not sure he drifted off. He felt aware of everything that happened, every pull and tug and twinge in his body, every odd sound or far-off cry. Mere minutes seemed to have passed when he was awoken by a clanging at the cell door. He blinked, peered across.
Kurellan was back. He had a tray of food, accompanied by a sapping crystal, and a basket which Idris assumed contained some medical supplies.
There were no pleasantries exchanged. He placed the tray on the bed beside Idris and plopped the sapping crystal into Idris’s bound hands. Immediately, the aria in his ears dimmed and dulled, and there was an ache that came from the sole of his left foot all through to his fingertips. He groaned involuntarily at just how unpleasant the sensation was, at how much he craved the crystal gone. It was like his very soul was being dragged through his hands. Kurellan tutted and put the basket down, pulling a stool across to sit on.
“I am going to remove your cage,” he said. “And you will not say a word. Understood?”
Idris nodded.
Kurellan, eyes dark with suspicion, reached over to undo the buckles. For a man accused of treason, Idris supposed his co-operation must look suspicious. He had not fought or argued or done much of anything except look exceedingly pathetic. Idris doubted highly that Kurellan was remorseful of his cruel treatment, but noted the gentle way he removed the leather brace and how close he was willing to get.
Kurellan held out a hand for the wax, and Idris spat it out and ran his tongue around his dry mouth, stretching his jaw with gusto.
“Eat,” said the judge.
The prison fare was simple – dry bread, a little jerky, some bean broth. Kurellan lifted it for Idris and he chewed it down eagerly, his stomach squeaking and gurgling. When Kurellan lifted the water skin, Idris had to restrain himself from gripping the nozzle with his teeth and spilling the whole thing down himself. He had never been so thirsty.
With the meal depleted, the old man unwrapped the bundle in the basket. Idris knew the implements within – a tourniquet and cleaning tools, bandage and anti-infection salves, some pastes and liquids which might numb the pain – and when Kurellan opened his mouth to say he was going to treat the wound, Idris stamped his real foot hard to get his attention and shook his head firmly again.
Kurellan’s thick eyebrows knotted; his hard cheeks thinned.
“You, of all people, should know the damage an infection can do,” he said. “Personally, I want you alive for a trial.” He sat back slightly, cast his eye over Idris’s state. “Look,” he said finally, with a sharp sigh, “boy, if you did it, just say so. We can get this over and done with swiftly and bring you to justice. You needn’t suffer.”
Idris, true to his word, said nothing. He stared at Kurellan fiercely, as if he could transmit his true intent straight into the old man’s brain. Kurellan was not well known for changing his mind. In his family colours and thick leathers, he looked like a huge carrion bird, waiting for Idris to drop down and die.
“Will you answer some questions?” Kurellan said. “The Queen had questions.”
So he had already spoken to Cressida. Idris wondered how that had been, how she would have reacted. He nodded.
“You have permission to speak.”
Idris licked his bottom lip, cleared his throat.
“I will answer your questions,” he said hoarsely, “if you let me treat my own wound, alone.”
Kurellan scoffed. “You want me to release your hands? It won’t happen.”
“Then I will be silent.”
“This wound is more important to you than the assumption of your guilt?”
“It is.”
“The Queen insisted you were treated.”
“Then she will be disappointed.” Idris sighed. “Your Honour, I have no desire to cast. I am spent. I could hardly raise an ant in this state. I want to rest and sleep and be still. It does hurt and I have the skill to treat it effectively, but I will not do so with an audience.”
“Why not?”
“That information is private. I may be imprisoned but I am still allowed my privacy regarding medical treatment.”
“You have always thought far too much of yourself,” said Kurellan with distaste. “You know that?”
Idris shrugged. “I know my rights.”
“We will move from Harran Pass tomorrow.” Kurellan gathered up the medical basket. “You have until tomorrow to change your mind.”
Idris obediently opened his mouth for the wax.
But something in this movement stopped Kurellan. He frowned deeper, put the basket back down.
“Why are you so insistent that I put you back in chains?” he said.
“Because I bear you no ill will. I did not kill those men or raise those… those spirits, or whatever they were. If taking this punishment will convince you of my innocence, I will take it.” Idris rolled his neck. “Besides,” he said, “nothing I say to you will change a thing. I have no evidence and no witnesses. I do not blame you for thinking what you think. There is no sense in fighting this.”
“How much leeway between your hands do you need to treat your injury?” said Kurellan. Idris frowned, unsure what kind of trap the old judge was trying to lay for him. “Distance. How much?”
“A foot. Maybe two.”
Kurellan lifted his own hands, in a crude copy of Idris’s usual casting stance. “This needs three. Correct?”
“Minimally.”
“I will return.”
Kurellan put the wax in Idris’s mouth, reset the leather brace and left the sapping crystal in Idris’s hands, and he departed. Idris was more surprised than he could say that Kurellan returned, with a different set of manacles.
“You will answer my questions,” he said, taking the crystal, which was now a cloudy black instead of clear. “And you will treat your own bleeding. I will sit outside the door. That is the only way this will work.”
Idris considered it. Maybe, if Kurellan promised not to look…
He nodded.