Zandaril’s eyes bleared open, and he commented thickly, “What are all those birds doing, singing at night?”
And what am I doing sitting by the side of the road? Where am I?
He shook his head to clear it, and discovered he was bound to a young tree, just off a narrow road. He tried to raise his hands to his throbbing head, but they didn’t budge.
The sun was rising to his right, and he turned his head aside to keep the piercing light from his eyes.
I was talking to Dzantig about Veneshjug, then I headed to my room for something before joining him in the square, and then… what?
He couldn’t make sense of it, but the pounding in his head told its own tale.
The ropes that held him to the tree were coiled around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. His bound hands protruded in front of him, below where the coils ended. What is this, the goat in the tiger trap?
He scanned his surroundings and found the mind-glows of small animals, but only at the edges of his range did he detect other people, and none of them were Penrys.
If someone’s taken me, they’ll have gone after her, too.
He wore himself out for a couple of minutes struggling with the rope, but it was a professional job, and he achieved nothing other than to wake himself up thoroughly and sharpen the pain in his head.
Something rustled overhead, and he ignored it, taking it for leaves on the tree, but when he glanced up, he saw a piece of paper, tied to the tree above him.
Probably written in Rasesni. Can’t read it anyway without one of them around to draw on.
Looking at the low wooded ridges rising in front of him, on the other side of the road, and the trail out of them that joined the road directly across from him, he felt the hair rise on his skin.
I’m facing north, and that’s the Craggies, isn’t it? And that trail, where does it come down from?
Just to hear the sound of his own voice, he muttered, “The road to Linit Kungzet, I bet that’s what this is. And I’m a present, left for the Voice when he comes on by.”
He froze, then tried to stand up and move the ropes further up the tree to loosen the coils, but he found his knees had been tied to stakes, out of his reach.
Can’t even run away this time.
Zandaril lost track of time for a little while, before he could control his breathing. Maybe they won’t come this way. Maybe they won’t find me.
Despite himself, he chuckled. Of course, if they don’t find me, maybe I’ll just starve out here. He smiled crookedly. Well, there are worse fates.
If he does come, I can’t let him know about Penrys. Maybe he won’t remember me from last time.
He passed the time scanning for people, but it was the animals that told him of the people coming, as they scurried out of the way before them.
The first ones down the trail were scouts from the Khrebesni. They broke into coarse and casual laughter at the sight of him. One adjusted his clothing as if to piss on him, but a command from behind stopped him, and quieted all the activity.
For the second time, he saw Surdo, and this time there was nowhere else to look. The chain recalled Penrys’s—don’t think of her! —but not his face, not at all. Dark unbraided hair framed his clean-shaven face, but his was thin where hers was not, his eyes slightly aslant and the eyebrows sparse instead of shaggy.
His shield was torn away, and Zandaril heard that awful voice again, this time in his head. *Ah, the Zan is back. What are you doing here, eh?*
At his gesture, one of the tribesmen brought him the paper tied over Zandaril’s head, and he read it in good humor, and cocked his head at Zandaril. “It seems you are a present, from an admirer. I shall have to remember him.”
And then his eyes narrowed.*Where is the woman you were traveling with?*
*WHERE?*
The probe expanded to fill his mind, until he could hear or think of nothing else. Finally he screamed back, *I don’t know!*
The pressure withdrew. Zandaril screwed his eyes shut and hung his head.
Behind the Voice, the captive wizards, and then the horde came pouring out of the trees, spilling over the path on all sides as they came. They were strangely silent, except for the sound of their feet and the breaking of branches. The scouts maintained a clear space around Zandaril and their leader, leaving the road on both sides for the followers.
Zandaril felt the ropes being cut from him, but a loop around his neck kept his hopes from rising. He would have felt the truth of my answer, and that must have puzzled him.
He opened his eyes again and found Surdo staring at him. Then the man turned to one of the tribesmen. “I have a use for him with the others, so do nothing that will reduce his utility. But I want to know where his companion is. Find out.”
But he knows the truth, he saw it. Why do this?
The first blow to the stomach drove the thought from his mind, and the strikes to the kidneys that followed drove him down in agony. Throughout the beating, a man stood by and shouted at him, “Tell him! Tell him what he wants to know!”
They kept their fists from his head and wouldn’t let him escape into unconsciousness, but there was nothing he could tell them. They left him alone eventually with a couple of well-placed kicks.
Surdo returned and looked through his mind casually. *Where is she?*
From the ground, Zandaril muttered, “I don’t know.”
Someone bent over him and hammered shackles on his feet. The clank of them closing and the clink of the chain smothered his heart.
He felt the draw of power from his core, the way Penrys had done it, but this time it didn’t stop. He was left with the barest ability to feel other minds. But then, he didn’t want to feel any other minds now, not here.
Hands hauled him up, and he swayed on his feet. The Voice led his people off to the east, and when the other captive wizards reached him, he was shoved into their ranks. He shuffled along with them as best he could, trying to muffle the sound of his chains in the dust, as they did.