Damon hardly heard him. Eleutheria, he called this place. It meant “freedom.”
Freedom from Erebus. But not for him, or Alexia.
“You have one more chance,” Sergius said. “If you—” Before he had finished speaking, Damon was spinning, striking out at the least protected part of Sergius’s body. The side of his hand slashed into Sergius’s neck in a disabling blow. The Opir staggered back, choking and coughing as he reached up to protect himself. Damon ripped the prod out of Sergius’s hand.
He had no chance to use it. There was a flash of movement behind him, and he felt a stunning blow to the back of the head.
After that there was nothing but darkness.
Chapter 15
Damon woke up with a head as heavy as the great statues of the Sires in the Grand Concourse and a clot of intense pain at the base of his skull.
“Get up,” a masculine voice ordered.
Faint light seeped through Damon’s half-closed lids. The floor on which he lay was hard, and the room was dark, but that dim glow gave him a sense of the details before his eyes came into focus.
The holding cell was perhaps two by two meters, bare except for a wooden chair in one corner and a heavy door, currently blocked by the Opir—Sergius—standing over Damon. The sliver of light came from outside, where the door must open onto the commons. The smells were those of night, and Sergius wore not the protective daygear of before but a long, loosely belted tunic and close-fitting pants tucked into high boots.
Damon struggled to his knees, gasped as a white lance of pain plunged into his skull, and planted his hand on the wall for support as he stood. His formerly broken wrist protested the incautious movement with a deep throb of discomfort.
“I see you have survived,” Sergius said in a dry voice. His eyes reflected red in the darkness, and though Damon’s vision was slow in returning, he knew that the Opir was smiling. More or less.
“How long?” Damon asked, resisting the urge to rub the back of his skull.
“Six hours,” Sergius said.
Blinking several times, Damon struggled to make out the Opir’s face. Though the details remained blurred, Damon recognized the long elliptical shape and finely sculpted features typical of high-rank Opiri. Sergius wore his hair cut level with his shoulders and swept back from his forehead, held in place with a small silver circlet that might have represented a dragon. Everything about him exuded elegant disdain.
It was difficult to believe he was the same man who had behaved so roughly before.
Sergius’s stare suggested that his opinion of his prisoner had not improved over the intervening hours. Damon was keenly aware of the fact that his vision had not yet recovered, but he had no intention of letting Sergius know he was vulnerable.
“Where is Alexia?” he asked.
Sergius sighed. “We’re back to that again? Nothing has changed.”
“Are you taking me to Theron?”
“Not like that. ” Sergius moved away from the door. “You will clean yourself first.
You stank even before you came through the gates.”
Damon bowed mockingly. “I will endeavor to correct my condition.”
Without comment, Sergius indicated that Damon should precede him out the door. If he was armed, he made no attempt to advertise it, and he offered no threats. He followed Damon out onto the commons, lit with lanterns hung on sturdy poles spaced just closely enough for night-blind humans to find their way from one area of the settlement to the other. The windows of the several dormitories were mostly dark, and only a few Opiri were abroad. Vague shapes—sentries—moved along the battlements.
At the end of one of the dormitories was a lavatory, where Damon and Sergius met a human coming out. The human, a young male, raised his hand to Sergius, glanced at Damon and continued on his way without any further sign of respect, let alone the wariness or outright fear most serfs displayed in the presence of strange Opiri.
Sergius waved Damon through the door and pointed out the clean towels hanging on racks along the wall. Damon did the best he could to scrape off the dirt and blood he hadn’t been able to wash off after the fight with Lysander. As he worked, he listened for voices within the building.
There were none, nor could he identify any trace of Alexia’s scent. He assumed she was in another building and reminded himself that he would learn nothing unless he controlled his emotions.
When he was finished, Sergius nodded grudgingly and took Damon back across the commons, this time toward a small wooden house which, like the holding cell, was set apart from the others. Damon lengthened his stride.
“Stay behind me,” Sergius said. “Theron—” Damon ignored him and went on to the door. He hesitated only a moment and walked in, Sergius at his heels.
Theron sat behind a neatly made but very plain desk, a stack of papers on one side and a statue of a graceful woman on the other. There was no sign of a computer or any other technology more advanced than the humming generator that stood against the wall and the portable intercom on a table beside it. The generator provided the only light, which outlined the shape of a narrow cot against the back wall.
As soon as Damon had crossed the threshold Theron was on his feet, his mouth stretched in the grin that had always set him apart from any Opir Damon had ever met.
“Theron,” Sergius said, anger in his voice, “this Darketan—”
“Damon!” Theron exclaimed, coming around from behind the desk with arms outstretched. “My dear boy.” He embraced Damon briefly, nodded to Sergius and stepped back.
“Forgive me,” Theron said, his smile fading. “This is quite unexpected. When Sergius said a Darketan by your name had come to Eleutheria claiming to know me—and with a dhampir prisoner, no less—I didn’t believe it at first.”
Damon examined the Bloodmaster’s face. Though his vision was beginning to clear, he found it difficult to accept that Theron could have aged so much in the two years since they had last spoken. Yet the fresh lines were there, lines that would ordinarily indicate extreme old age in an Opir.
Theron was old, but he was not one of the Elders, who were rare and usually lived alone in their towers. His face was still handsome, more rugged than that of most Opiri, his hair still thick and his gaze direct. He was only worn down, bent under the care of bringing together Opiri who would normally resist living in such close quarters.
“You didn’t see us before we entered the valley?” Damon asked. “You didn’t shoot at us?”
“We don’t have the resources to send our people out to shoot at passers-by,” Theron said. “This is all quite a shock to me. Only when the young lady—” He broke off, looking Damon up and down. “You have not been treated well, and for that I apologize.”
He indicated the chair facing the desk. “Sit. Sergius, would you find us some refreshment?”
Damon could hear the Opir’s sharp intake of breath, as if he were about to argue. But after a moment Sergius opened the door and walked out, leaving Damon alone with his old mentor. Theron went back to his seat, but Damon remained standing.
“I am at a loss,” Theron said, the words steeped with weariness. “I have been told that you have come to bring some warning to us, but I have difficulty understanding under what circumstances you would arrive without orders from Erebus. You have been observing us on their behalf, have you not?”
“It is true,” Damon said, holding Theron’s gaze. “I was sent to observe your settlement, but I am not here under orders from Erebus. The instructions under which I was operating no longer apply, and I have had no direct contact with other Council agents for days.” He leaned over the desk. “There is war going on outside your walls, Theron, and it is about to sweep you up.”