These Jorensens will be the death of me, Captain Torren thought as he walked to the guardroom where the visitor was waiting. First the younger shows up wishing to see the Prisoner, now the oldest. For the same reason, I bet.
Granted, the brothers were vastly different. While Malgrid was an arrogant fool, Fredric was a brave warrior and an honest man whom Torren genuinely respected. This, however, mattered little when it came to the Prisoner, the warden, and the warden’s complicated duties.
Torren still wasn’t sure what had happened when Malgrid was here—or, to be more precise, what happened after that. The governor’s visit had turned into a disaster. Malgrid was furious: he’d threatened to report Torren to the king as incompetent and no longer trustworthy. Then, just in a day, Malgrid had come back, looking like a beaten dog. Avoiding the captain’s eye, he had asked to see the Prisoner again, alone. Unlike the first time, he was shaking like a leaf when he’d entered the cell, yet he refused to let Torren or a guard enter with him. A kind note from the king and a pay raise shortly after that indicated that Malgrid had sent a favorable report. It was clear that the Prisoner had done something, but what? When? And how? These were the questions Torren had no answers to, and he dared not ask.
And now this. What was he supposed to do with Fredric? Why did Malgrid send him here? How much of whatever had happened did Malgrid share with his brother?
“Good afternoon, Sir Fredric,” he greeted the knight. “What can I do for you?”
“Good afternoon, Captain.” Fredric’s strong-featured face was serious, and a little tense, it seemed. “I am here to see the prisoner I have captured. I have, of course, the governor’s written permission.”
Just like Torren thought.
“Why, if I may ask?” he inquired, reaching for the sealed letter. “Isn’t the governor satisfied with his own personal inspection?”
The knight’s eyebrows went up. “My brother was here? When?”
So Malgrid hadn’t told him anything. Not even about the visit itself.
“Yes, not that long ago,” Torren replied. “About a month or so. You did not know that?”
“I didn’t.” Fredric looked even more worried now. “What happened? Did he speak to the prisoner?”
“Before I say anything else, Sir Fredric, allow me to check the paperwork. It’s only a formality, of course, I’m sure everything is in order, but I must examine it first, nevertheless. I’m not allowed to discuss prisoners or their matters without proper authorization. I hope you understand.”
“Yes, of course.” The knight nodded, but his impatience was obvious.
Torren opened the package. In addition to the standard formal permission to visit Prisoner 34 there was a smaller letter, marked: To Captain Torren, Private and Confidential. He broke the seal on that one, as well, and read.
Captain Torren, my brother suspects that the elf allowed him to win the battle on purpose. He insists on speaking with him to find out why he did it. I tried to dissuade him, but it’s no use. He will probably question you, too. Do not tell him anything. Don’t tell him about my visit.
Hmm, a bit too late for that, Torren noted to himself.
If he finds any confirmation to his suspicions, the letter went on, he will go straight to the king and have the whole thing come tumbling down on our heads. You know what I mean. I hope the elf has no reasons to reveal anything to him, either. Please see the elf first, before letting Fredric into his cell, and tell him that I have nothing to do with it. Tell him I tried to stop Fredric. Make sure he understands that. Burn this note as soon as you’ve read it.
Governor Malgrid Jorensen.
You bet I’ll go see him first, Torren thought. He had all the fancy furnishings back in the cell; that alone would give it all away. He’d have to ask the Prisoner to move to a different, empty, cell for this meeting.
Torren pretended to continue reading, then looked at the first document again, trying to buy a bit of time to ponder the situation. So, Malgrid had somehow discovered the true extent of the Prisoner’s power. The elf had let him have his way here, but he must have conjured some… thing, and sent it home with the governor. Tucked it in Malgrid’s pocket, or something like that. Keeping in mind the tricks he played with Torren’s sword, he was well capable of it. The governor had come home, the thing hopped out and did a bit of explaining. Now he was terrified of the elf. And, just like Torren, Malgrid now knew that Fredric, strong as he was, couldn’t have possibly defeated him.
“The papers are fine,” Torren said. “To answer your question, Sir Fredric, yes, the governor did exchange a few words with Prisoner 34 when he had inspected his cell, but it could hardly be called a conversation. The visit didn’t go well. The governor had gotten angry and ordered the prisoner whipped.”
“Whipped?” Fredric repeated, looking stunned. “What for?”
“He thought the elf was changing his eye color on purpose, to defy him.”
“Is that true? Was he defying him?”
“In all honesty, no, I don’t think so. From what I’ve observed, his eyes change by themselves, he has little or no control over that—which I had pointed out to the governor. But it didn’t help.”
Fredric shook his head. “This is so like Malgrid,” he muttered. “I apologize for my brother’s imprudent actions, Captain. I will apologize to the prisoner, too.”
“There’s no need for that,” Torren said. I’m sure Malgrid already did, he added in his mind, and profusely, too, when he’d come back a day later. Fredric, however, didn’t need to know about the second visit, so Torren didn’t say it aloud.
“There is,” the knight firmly said, unaware of Torren’s reasoning. “He is not human and he is the enemy of the Crown, but captives shouldn’t be hurt for no reason, just because someone is in a bad mood and has the power to do it. Being a warrior yourself, Captain Torren, I am certain you understand and agree.”
“Indeed, I do,” Torren nodded, wondering, and not for the first time, why the king hadn’t chosen this Jorensen for the governor. “I only meant that I don’t think you need to deliver the apology. Especially since the prisoner has already received one from me.”
“Is that so?” The knight’s face softened. “We do think alike on the matter; I am glad to hear it. Well, if the paperwork is in order, may I go see him?”
“Certainly.” The warden folded the letters and tucked them into his inner pocket. “I’ll just go check on him first; it’s a part of the procedure. One can never be too careful here in the Dormigan. Would you please wait here?”
***
Fredric entered the cell. The elf was sitting on a straw pallet on the floor, leaning against the wall. The knight had seen enough captives to instantly notice how clean and well nourished this one was. His coarse sack cloth shirt and pants looked new, as if he’d just put them on; his long dark hair, which Fredric thought would have been shaven off, was neither tangled, nor greasy. Even the scar on his left cheek seemed less noticeable. The elf was not in any way restrained—no chains, shackles or ropes. Fredric didn’t expect that, but he wasn’t concerned. He trusted Captain Torren to know how to handle his prisoners; besides, he had his blade.
The elf was looking at him with calm brown eyes. There was no hatred in these eyes and no fear, only mild curiosity.
“I want to apologize for the way my brother has treated you,” Fredric said.
The captive kept studying him for some time before he replied. Fredric had the odd, unsettling sensation that his mind was being probed.
“How strange,” the elf said.
“What is?”
“Not so much the apology as the fact that you obviously mean it.”
“I do,” Fredric nodded. “I disapprove of my brother’s behavior, and I want you to know it.”
He felt more probing.
“That’s not why you are here, though.”
“You are right.” The knight had the next phrase ready; he had rehearsed it many times on the way to the Dormigan. He focused on the elf’s eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the truth in them as he spoke.
“I am here to ask you a question. I fully realize that you have no reason to answer it truthfully, and, if my suspicion is correct, you have a good reason not to. Still, I will ask. Why did you let me capture you?”
The eyes revealed nothing. “You were holding a blade to my throat. What choice did I have?”
It was a predictable answer. Just as Malgrid had said, and as Fredric himself anticipated, the elf wasn’t going to open up easily, if at all.
“From what I understand, you have special powers,” the knight said, once again carefully watching for the elf’s reaction. “Why didn’t you use them?”
“I tried. But you were protected.”
This came as a surprise.
“Protected? By what?”
The prisoner shrugged. “By the Light you serve so resolutely, I suppose. Do you wear any trinket, a ring, or perhaps a medallion, that represents it?”
“…Yes, a chain necklace,” Fredric replied after a pause, his hand involuntarily going up to his chest where the thin golden chain was hidden under his shirt. It was his mother’s gift; her prayer chain, as she’d called it. He always thought it was just a token of her affection, although she did tell him she hoped it would keep him safe.
“Well, there you have it,” the elf said. “A necklace filled with the power of the Light. My power comes from a dark source. No wonder it had failed me.”
It sounded reasonable, but Fredric still wasn’t sure.
“And yet just a moment ago, you were trying to… I don’t know, read my mind, or something like that.”
The prisoner gave a thin smile. “See? It’s the necklace working. Without it, you wouldn’t have sensed it.”
Fredric stood there, considering it all. Yes, the explanation made sense—well, it would have made sense if it wasn’t for Malgrid’s words. And for the ambush.
“You’re not convinced,” the elf observed, “and you mentioned you have a suspicion. What is it?”
Fredric figured he wouldn’t lose anything if he laid it all out in the open.
“I think you might have been paid to let me win. I was—”
“Paid?” the elf interrupted, indignation flaring up in his eyes. “And who is it, dare I ask, that you think has the capability to hire me?”
His surprise and anger seemed genuine. Fredric would have reacted similarly if someone accused him of such a thing.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But, unfortunately, I do have adversaries. Some of them would go so far as to try to compromise my honor. I was knighted for capturing you. If they now come out and state that my victory was false, few people would care to look into the matter and see whether I knew it or not. They might even claim that I had paid you—and if you’re instructed to support such a claim, well, that would be a sure way to mar my name and keep me out of the Jewel Quest. I value my reputation. So, if any of what I’ve said is correct, I want to be the first to bring it to the king’s attention and give up the knighthood.”
The elf was studying him as he spoke; no mind-probing this time, just watching.
“You’ve got quite an imagination, Sir Fredric. Allow me to reassure you: I care nothing for money and make no alliances. No one paid me. No one is trying to ruin your reputation, at least not through me.”
“Then why did my brother say that my knighthood is undeserved? Granted, he was drunk, but I can’t disregard such a statement.”
The elf smiled again. “Ah. So that’s what has stirred your doubts. Well, as you know, the governor was not very nice to me when he came here. He wasn’t protected, so I had allowed myself to show him I didn’t appreciate it. Apparently, he was very impressed, so much so that he now thinks me all-powerful. I must say, it is flattering. I would rather have him continue to believe so.”
“What did you do to him?”
“It was a harmless warning, nothing more. I will not share the nature of it. Other than that, are you satisfied with my explanation?”
Fredric weighed it all once again. He would be, if he knew he could trust the elf’s words. There was no such assurance, no way to verify anything—and no point to continue the questioning. He got his answer. Whether truthful or not, there wouldn’t be any other.
“Yes. I think so.”
“In that case, thank you for visiting. Allow me to wish you the best of luck with the quest, unless it involves any elf-killing.”
Fredric couldn’t help but wonder about the prisoner’s peculiar manner. This was so unlike the hateful brute he had fought; back then, he’d never believe the elf could be so eloquent, telling him to get out in a way that would be fitting for the royal court.
“No, no elf-killing,” he replied distractedly. “I will be fighting draccans.”
“Draccans?” the prisoner asked, his tone suddenly different, eyes turning red. “Where?”
“In the Gallean forest,” Fredric said, surprised and intrigued by the change. “Why?”
“There are no draccans in Gallea.”
“There are, according to recent reports. People went missing from nearby villages, then mutilated bodies were found.”
“Mutilated in what way?”
“Twisted, torn in half, charred. With teeth or claw marks, too, usually on the legs. Clearly draccan work. You probably know how the beasts like to play with their victims.”
The elf remained silent for a few moments, his face dark.
“Have you ever fought draccans before?” he asked. “Do you know how to kill them?”
“I have not fought them, but I do know. One must aim for the softer spots—armpits, belly, under the chin.”
The elf nodded. “Correct. The best and surest way, though, is to grab that large spike on the back of their neck and rip the head off, but you probably wouldn’t have enough strength for that.”
Fredric stared. “Are you telling me you have fought them?”
The prisoner wouldn’t look at him. “I am telling you nothing. Please leave.”
***