“How do you feel, sir?” Medan asked, regarding Gerard with concern.
“I am much better, my lord, thank you,” Gerard replied. “I want to tell you, sir, that there is no need to continue with this pretense, which, perhaps, you do out of concern for my health. I know I am your prisoner. There is no reason why you should believe me, but I want you to know that I am not a spy.
“I am—” “—a Solamnic Knight.” Medan finished, smiling. “Yes, I am aware of that Sir—” He paused.
“Gerard uth Mondar, my lord,” Gerard replied.
“And I am Marshal Alexis Medan. Yes, Sir Gerard, I know you are a Solamnic.” Medan pulled up a chair, seated himself near Gerard’s bed. “I know you are my prisoner. I want you to keep your voice down.” He glanced at the dark mystics, who were moving about at the far end of the room. “These two pieces of information will be our little secret.”
“My lord?” Gerard gaped. If the dragon Beryl had plummeted out of the skies and landed in his soup, he could not have been more astonished.
“Listen to me, Sir Gerard,” Medan said, resting a firm hand on the Solamnic’s arm. “You were captured wearing the armor of a Knight of Neraka. You claim that you are not a spy, but who will believe you, do you suppose? No one. Do you know the fate that would befall you, as a spy? You would be interrogated by men skilled in the art of making other men talk. We are quite modern and up to date here in Qualinesti. We have the rack, the wheel, red-hot pincers, bone-crackers. We have the iron maiden with her painful and deadly embrace. After a few weeks of such interrogation, you would, I think, be quite glad to tell your interrogators everything you know and a lot of things you didn’t. Anything to end the torment.”
Gerard opened his mouth, but Medan exerted painful pressure on his arm and Gerard kept silent.
“What would you tell them? You would tell them about the queen mother. You would tell them that Laurana was harboring a human mage who had discovered a valuable magical artifact. Because of Laurana’s intervention, this mage and the artifact are now safely beyond Beryl’s reach.”
Gerard breathed an inward sigh. Medan was watching him closely. “Yes, I thought you might be glad to hear that” he said dryly. “The mage escaped. The dragon Beryl was thwarted in her desire for the magical artifact. You will die. You will be glad to die. Your death will not save Laurana.”
Gerard was silent, taking this all in. He wriggled and squirmed in the grasp of Medan’s logic. The Knight could see no way out. He would have liked to think he could withstand any torture, go to his death mute and silent, but he could not be certain. He’d heard of the effects of the rack—how it pulled the joints out of the socket, left a man crippled, for the injuries would never fully heal. He had heard stories of the other torments they could inflict on a man; he recalled Palin’s twisted hands, deformed fingers. He pictured Laurana’s hands, white, slender, marred with the calluses where she had once held a sword.
Gerard cast another glance at the black-robed mystics. The Knight looked back at Medan. “What do you want me to do, my lord?” he asked quietly.
“You will go along with the tale I have concocted about the battle with the elves. In return for your heroic actions, I will take you on as my aide. I need someone I can trust,” Medan said wryly. “I believe that the life of the queen mother is in danger. I do what I can to shield her, but it may not be enough. I need an assistant who has the same regard for the queen mother as I have myself.”
“Yet, my lord,” said Gerard, bewildered, “you yourself spy upon her.”
“For her own protection,” Medan returned. “Believe me, I do not enjoy it.”
Gerard shook his head, looked up at the marshal. “My lord, here is my answer. I ask that you draw your sword and kill me. Here, where I lie in this bed. I cannot offer any resistance. I absolve you in advance of the crime of murder. My death here and now will solve all our problems.”
Medan’s grim face relaxed into a smile. “Perhaps not as many as you might think. I refuse, of course. I have taken a liking to you, Solamnic. I would not have missed seeing that fight you put up for all the jewels in Qualinesti! Most other Knights I know would have flung down their weapons and taken to their heels.”
Medan’s expression darkened, his tone grew bitter. “The days of glory for our order are long dead. Once we were led by a man of honor, a man of courage. A man who was the son of a dragonlord and Zeboim, Goddess of the Sea. Who is our leader now?”
Medan’s lip curled. “An accountant. A man who wears a money belt instead of sword belt. Those he makes Knights no longer win their places through valor in battle or by deeds of bravery. They buy their rank with cold cash.”
Gerard thought of his own father and felt his skin grow flushed and hot. He had not bought his way into the Knighthood, at least he could credit himself there. But his father had certainly bought his son’s way into every soft-cushioned assignment that came along. “The Solamnics are no better,” he muttered, lowering his gaze, smoothing out the wrinkles in the sweat-soaked sheet.
“Indeed? I am sorry to hear that,” Medan said and he did sound genuinely disappointed. “Perhaps, in these last days, the final battle will be fought by men who choose honor instead of choosing sides. I hope so,” he added quietly, “or else I believe that we are all lost.”
“Last days?” Gerard asked, uneasily. “What do you mean, my lord?”
Medan looked about the room. The mystics had departed.
They were alone, the two of them.
“Beryl is going to attack Qualinesti,” Medan said. “I don’t know when, but she is gathering her armies. When she does, I will have a bitter choice to make.” He looked at Gerard intently.
“I do not want the queen mother to be part of that choice. I will need someone I can trust to help her escape.”
This man is in love with Laurana! Gerard realized, amazed.
Not so surprising, he supposed. He was a little bit in love with her himself. One could not be around her without becoming enchanted by her beauty and grace. Still Gerard hesitated.
“Have I mistaken you, sir?” Medan asked, and his voice was cold. He rose to his feet. “Perhaps you are as devoid of honor as the rest.”
“No, my lord,” Gerard said emphatically. Strange as it seemed, he wanted the marshal to think well of him. “I worked to become a Knight. I read books on the art of warfare. I studied strategy and tactics. I have held my place in tourney and joust. I became a Knight to defend the helpless, to find honor and glory in battle and instead, because of my father’s influence”—Gerard paused, a shame-filled pause—“I guarded a tomb in Solace.”
Medan said nothing, looked down at him, waited for his decision.
“I accept your offer, my lord,” Gerard said. “I do not understand you, but I will do what I can to help the Qualinesti,” he said pointedly, “and the queen mother.”
“Fair enough,” said the marshal. With a curt nod, Medan turned, started to walk away. Halting, he glanced back over his shoulder. “I joined the Knighthood for the same reasons you did, young man,” he said, and then strode to the door, his footsteps loud, his cloak sweeping behind him. “If the healers pronounce you well, you will move into my house tomorrow.”
Gerard settled back into his bed.
I do not trust him, Gerard reflected. I will not allow myself to trust him or admire him. He could be lying about the dragon.
This could all be a trick. To what end, I do not know, but I will remain watchful and on my guard.
At least, he thought, feeling a strange sort of contentment wash through him, I’ll be doing more than freeing some damn kender who manages to lock himself in a tomb.