Taria returned to the table, smiling fondly at each of them as she poured tea into four cups and arranged the cookies. “You fought beside my Devyn, Tomas?” she asked.
“Indeed,” Dalan lied as he sipped his tea and selected a large cookie. “Though the injuries I sustained at Vathirond required that I retire from active service.” He patted his right leg and winced. “My only regret is that I do not continue to serve Cyre as Devyn does.”
“Devyn only does as his prince commands,” Taria said with obvious pride. She sat down across from them, clutching her teacup in her small hands.
Dalan looked at Tristam meaningfully. “The prince?” Tristam asked. “I didn’t know that Cyre still maintained an army.”
Taria looked suddenly uncomfortable.
“It’s all right,” Dalan said. “Gorbus is half Lhazaarite, hence his revolting name. His father was a mercenary who made Cyre his home, but his mother was a dear friend. He is Cyran, born and raised.”
The old woman nodded and leaned forward in her chair, a conspiratorial grin twisting her features. “It’s nothing official,” she said, “but Devyn told me that the prince has been keeping an eye out for patriots-soldiers who haven’t forgotten what it means to be Cyran. I was worried after the Day of Mourning. Devyn didn’t know what to do with himself. We were …” She sipped her tea quietly and swallowed. “We were the only ones left, but it was like he just kept fighting.” Her distant frown was replaced with a cheerful smile. “Now he’s on a secret mission for the prince. I’m so proud.”
“As well you should be,” Dalan said. “It was mere chance that I encountered him. Of course I can’t say where, for reasons of security.”
“Of course,” Taria said, happy to be part of the conspiracy.
“It must be very difficult for you, Taria,” Seren said. “Has your son kept in touch with you at all?”
“He writes whenever he can,” she said. She rose from her chair, returning to the kitchen and taking a small wooden box from atop the cupboard. “He isn’t supposed to, of course, but since his brothers and father died he’s tried so hard to stay close.” The box was filled with dozens of speaker posts, all neatly stacked.
“He hasn’t mentioned anything about his missions, has he?” Dalan asked.
“Oh, no,” Taria said. “Of course not. Nothing like that. It’s mostly poetry. He’s such a sweet boy. Read some, if you like.”
“Thank you,” Seren said. She smiled sweetly and took the box, leafing through the crisp pages.
“Ah, curse my clumsy fingers,” Dalan muttered as his cup tumbled from his fingers, spilling tea onto the floor. He drew a broad handkerchief from his vest with a flourish and knelt awkwardly to clean up the mess. “Terribly sorry.”
“No, no, it’s all right,” Taria said soothingly. “You sit, I’ll get that.” She rose and walked back into the kitchen, searching for a wash rag.
Seren waited a moment to make sure she was gone and deftly snatched a few of the letters from the stack, folding them and tucking them into her shirt. She continued reading innocently as Taria returned.
“Let me get that,” Tristam offered gallantly, taking the wet rags from her. The old woman smiled gratefully as Tristam began cleaning up the mess.
“These are quite good,” Seren observed as she read. “Simple verse structure, but very visceral. Devyn has a talent.”
“You like poetry?” Tristam asked, surprised.
“I do,” Seren said, seeming slightly offended by the question.
“All women do,” Dalan said. “Don’t be an idiot, Gorbus.”
Tristam blinked in dumb silence. Seren gave him an impish grin and kept reading.
“Odd that Devyn never struck me as the poetic sort,” Dalan said. “Amazing, what you can learn about someone. We all have such depths.”
“He really only started writing on the Day of Mourning,” Taria said. “Petik, my oldest, was the writer. His plays were performed in the Grand Globe of Metrol. I think Devyn feels he should take up where Petik left off.”
“The souls who faded on the Day of Mourning never truly left us,” Dalan said, finishing his cookie.
Taria began to reply, but a the sound of a mailed fist beating urgently on the door interrupted. She looked up with an irritated frown, stood, and moved toward the door. It burst open before she arrived. The old woman drew back with a startled shriek. Six Cyran guardsmen stood at the door, weapons drawn. Their eyes searched the room urgently before settling on Tristam.
“Tristam Xain,” the leader said. “In the name of King Boranel, you are under arrest for the murder of Dalan d’Cannith.”
“Well, this is ironic,” Dalan said dryly.
TWENTY-THREE
The iron door closed with a reverberating clang. The cell was cramped and dark, with a low ceiling and only one small window to admit the light. Dalan seated himself with a long groan. Tristam ignored him, listening at the door until the guards’ footsteps had receded. When they were gone, he rattled the cell door experimentally and leaned against the bars.
“Seren, can you hear me?” he called out. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” she answered from an unseen cell further down the hall. “I’m fine.”
Tristam knelt and studied the lock. He patted himself down, searching for any tool he could use to probe at the door, but found nothing. His wand, coat, and tools had been taken from him, leaving him in just a loose tunic and breeches. All he had remaining was a pack of tindertwigs. He struck one against the wall, sparking a small flame as he searched the floor for anything he could use.
“Relax, Tristam,” Dalan said, leaning back against the wall. “This really is not the time for heroics.”
“I thought you would criticize me for not fighting the guards,” Tristam asked.
“That was understandable,” Dalan said. “We were outnumbered. Though I do not enjoy being imprisoned, I think you acted wisely.”
Tristam looked at Dalan. “But if we weren’t outnumbered, it would have been acceptable to blast them with lightning? With all those children playing twenty feet away?” He cursed as the tindertwig’s flame bit his fingers. He shook it out and threw it aside, lighting another.
“Why must you be so belligerent, Tristam?” Dalan said, sighing. “There are any number of reasons fighting would have been foolish. Do not presume that yours are superior to mine. If you truly wish to take the moral high ground, consider that those guards are not Marth’s soldiers. They were only doing their duty. Remember that you are still wanted for murder and have done nothing to clear your name.”
“You’re the one they think I murdered!” Tristam said, exasperated. “Why don’t you tell them who you are and get us out of this?”
“Because it would serve no purpose,” Dalan said. “Even if I told them the truth, we would be detained here until that truth could be verified. Consider our situation, Tristam. Wroat is over a thousand miles from here. No one knows me in New Cyre. Why would they have arrested you so quickly for a crime committed so far away? Those guards were spurred to action.”
Tristam looked at Dalan, rising from his crouch and leaning back against the door. He shook out the twig, sucking his fingers and wincing. “You think Marth is behind this?” Tristam said.
“Clearly,” Dalan said, surprised that Tristam had not arrived at the same conclusion. “Marth must have had a spy watching the homes of his soldiers here. Upon our arrival, that spy summoned the city guard to detain us on a technicality until his master arrives.”
“We don’t have much time, then,” Tristam said, looking at the door again. He ran his hands over the metal, searching for any flaw, any weakness. He lit another tindertwig and glanced around, eyes widening as he noticed a discarded lantern under one of the rough cots.
“I wouldn’t bother, Tristam,” Dalan said. “This is Cyran architecture. Even with your magic, you’d be hard pressed to escape. The doors are likely warded.”
“I won’t wait here and die, Dalan,” Tristam said. “Seren, how are you doing?”