Chapter 15
Collins froze, pressed against the garderobe, with three swords hovering in front of him. His mind raced. He braced himself for the rush of panic that had assailed him just before his near-hanging, but his thoughts remained strikingly clear. The world seemed to move in slow motion, while he mulled the situation. If I go with them, they’ll execute me. If I fight, they’ll kill me. There appeared no choice at all, but memory assisted him. Falima had claimed only the king’s guards could use weapons, which meant, in most situations, they only had to raise them in a threatening manner. Since they had come through the door, these three had to be royalty, even less likely to possess true combat knowledge.
Based on this train of thought, Collins took a chance. Hands up, features displaying honest terror, he begged. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
The men edged closer. As they did, Collins dove beneath the raised swords. His shoulder crashed against the king’s legs, staggering the Barakhain and sending pain screaming through Collins’ arm.
“Are you all right?” The men instinctively went to the aid of their king.
Collins rolled to his feet, then made a crouched sprint back into the king’s bedchamber.
Terrin bellowed. “Get him!”
Collins cleared the room in three running strides, then wrenched the stairwell door open and hurled himself through it. Only then he realized he had just tossed himself into a mass of armed palace guards. “Shit!”
“Get him!”
Collins flailed wildly, arms connecting with flesh in several directions. His vision filled with a chaotic forest of arms, legs, and swords. A fist slammed his cheek, and cold steel sliced his hip. Pain clipped through the site, and he howled, balance lost. He felt himself falling, control utterly beyond his grasp. He tumbled, stone steps slamming bruises across his back, his face, his limbs. He grabbed for support, fingers opening and closing like fish mouths, capturing nothing.
“The portcullis!” someone yelled, the sound a dull echo amid the shouts of the guards.
A clanking reverberation joined the other crisscrossing sounds in the tubular stairwell. Collins caught his fingers in cloth. He jerked to a stop, clinging desperately to this anchor, chest and belly splayed across several stairs. Then, the stabilizing object whipped suddenly upward, breaking his grip. Before Collins’ dizzy mind could register that he had been clasped to someone’s leg, it swung back. A heel struck him in the eye, stealing vision and sending bolts of white light flashing through his brain. He tumbled, fully out of control again.
Collins had so many wounds, it all numbed to a single overwhelming agony that encompassed his entire frame and made coherent thought impossible. He registered only the savage plunge and the rumble of voices dulled by a steady ringing. He forced both eyes opened. Ahead, he saw the falling portcullis, with barely a body length remaining between it and the floor. I’m a Musketeer. On all fours, he launched himself for the opening.
It disappeared as he arrived. His face found delicious freedom an instant before the heavy wooden portal slammed into his skull. Vision shattered, hearing crushed by buzzing, limbs too heavy to lift, he lay in place fighting a losing battle with unconsciousness. His neuroanatomy professor’s words cycled through his mind: The difference between causing a brain bruise and a deadly hemorrhage is incalculable. Guy goes out longer than a minute or two, it’s a murder charge for hero. A murder charge for hero . . . a murder charge for hero . . .
Hands seized Collins’ britches and tunic, hauling him back to the landing. Got to stay conscious. The movement proved too much. He closed his eyes, and darkness descended upon him.
Collins awakened to a limbo that dissolved in a fierce rush of pain. His breath emerged in agonized grunts, and he dared not move for fear of worsening any of them. Tears dribbled from his eyes. His mind seemed to work, though hopelessly overwhelmed by a throbbing headache and distracted by his myriad other wounds. “Oh, God,” he managed to huff out. “Oh, God.”
Collins opened his eyes, but they refused to focus. He blinked several times, catching a blurry impression of metal bars, a stone floor, someone standing nearby. The presence of another human might mean imminent danger, but Collins found himself unable to care. At the moment, they could slowly dismember him and he would consider it a favor. The cold of the stone floor seeped through his clothes, offering some relief from the bruises on his chest, arms, legs, and abdomen. His lids became heavy, and he let them drift closed. Once he did, sleep overtook him again.
Collins did not know how long he drifted in and out of consciousness, but he knew he had awakened on several brief occasions. His dreams had seemed more surreal than usual, taking him from home to school to Barakhai in moments that defied logic or consistency. He thought he remembered someone sewing the gash in his hip, the pain flowing into the mass that had come to define his current existence. Now, when he opened his eyes, the world came into instant focus. Prone on the damp, stone floor, he felt stiff as well as physically anguished. Enclosed by three stone block walls and one barred gate, he saw no other cells. Shackles and collars hung from chains, apparently the usual method of separating, controlling, or punishing prisoners. Collins shivered, certain he could not tolerate that kind of treatment in his current condition. As opposed to what? Hanging?
Having visually explored his quarters, Collins glanced beyond them. Two guards sat in the space between his cell and the door to the stairwell, watching him. Both men, they wore matching uniforms that differed from the ones of the tower guards. They had mail but no helmets, and the white portion of their tunics carried no design. A slight blond with swarthy skin and dark brown eyes, the one on the left followed Collins’ every motion. The other, a dark brunet kept his sword drawn and in his lap. Though he had no reason to know, Collins guessed them to be dog-guards. A station below, they likely would wear simpler uniforms.
“Hello,” Collins tried.
The guards studied him blankly, without replying.
Collins attempted to move. He hurt in every part, but he bulled through the pain to gather his limbs beneath him. They all seemed to function, at least, and he did not believe he had broken anything. A small miracle. He ran his fingers over his hip, through the tear in his britches, and touched a line of knots that confirmed his waking realization. Someone had tended the sword cut, stitching it in whatever clumsy, dirty fashion they did those things here. If it did not fester, it would scar badly. The irony raised a grimace. So my executed corpse has a boo-boo. He shook his head at his own stupidity. Like it really matters.
Only then did it occur to Collins to worry about Falima. He drew some solace from his solitude. Zylas’ floor plan did not include two dungeons, so they should have brought her here if they’d captured her. Unless they executed her. He shoved that thought aside. They’d have far more reason to execute me, and I’m still here. He wished he could leave things at that, believing Falima safe and well; but reality intruded. He could imagine that treason might carry a stronger and swifter sentence even than murder. Or, as a trained warrior, she might have fought in a more directed and lethal manner than he had managed.
“Hello,” Collins said again, not certain where to direct the conversation. He desperately wanted to know Falima’s fate, but he did not want to place her into danger by mentioning her if the king and his guards had not yet made the connection between them.
The guards continued to study Collins in silence.
Collins eased himself into a sitting position, grimacing and grunting with every movement. Using the wall for back support, he regarded the guards with the same intensity as they did him.
The quiet stalemate continued for several minutes before a knock at the wooden door sent both guards leaping to attention. Wishing he could still move that fast, Collins remained in place.
The door winched open cautiously, and a helmeted head poked through it. “Jiviss?”
“Here, sir,” the blond said with a salute from around the door.
The newcomer glanced at Collins. “Has he changed?”
“No, sir,” Jiviss said.
Collins disagreed. He had awakened and even managed to sit.
“The king wants to see him. In the upper quarters.”
Jiviss shrugged, hiding the motion behind the door.
“Shackles?” the brunet said, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.
Jiviss returned to his scrutiny of Collins. “I hardly think they’re necessary. In fact, someone’s going to have to carry him, I’d warrant.”
The newcomer frowned. “He fights, I’ll deliver his bloody pieces to the king myself.”
Tired of being discussed in the third person, Collins promised, “I won’t fight.” Realizing he would say the exact same thing if he did plan to fight, he added. “I can’t fight. Just breathing hurts.” He sucked in a deep lungful of air, sending agony shooting through his ribs, and reassessed the possibility that he might have broken something.
“He’s not going anywhere.” Jiviss seemed convinced that Collins’ anguish was no act. He added emphatically, “And he is, apparently, royalty.”
That caught Collins by surprise, though he swiftly realized it should not have. They had captured him in an area magically prohibited to switchers, and he guessed they had kept him in the dungeon long enough to ascertain that he had no switch-form. Even though the king did not know him, what else could they assume?
The helmeted man’s demeanor softened. “You’re right, of course.” He addressed Collins directly.
“Sir, you need to come with me. The king wishes to speak with you. No one will harm you if you come freely.” He stepped fully into the area, revealing the aqua-and-stretched-clover pattern against white that Collins had first come to associate with royal guards.
Using one of the hanging chains for support, Collins clambered to legs that felt like rubber. I’m sure he does want to speak with me. I’ve got to be a real puzzle. “I’ll come freely.” He realized he had not done anything terrible yet. The king might forgive a relative’s unauthorized presence in his room, especially when he found nothing missing. Collins felt certain his encounter in the stairwell had hurt no one so much as himself. As long as nobody made the connection between him and the man who had cannibalized a rabbit/woman, he might bluff his way out of serious punishment. He only wished he had the knowledge to convincingly fake it and wondered how much of his ignorance he could blame on the head injury. It’s not over yet. I still have a chance.
The horse-guard took a ring of iron keys and shoved one into the lock. It clicked, and he stepped back. “Come.”
Collins limped toward the entrance. Every muscle felt strained or bruised, and he tried to find a gait that caused the least amount of pain. Finally, he reached the exit. The horse-guard moved aside, drawing the door with him, and Collins exited into the guards’ area. He waited there for them to cue him.
The horse-guard opened the wooden door. The brunet went into the stairwell first, then the helmeted man gestured for Collins to follow. He did so, and the two men settled into place behind him.
Clinging to the wall and scattered torch brackets in lieu of absent handrails, Collins made slow progress up the seemingly endless flights of stairs. He appreciated that the clockwise spiral kept the bracing wall always at his stronger right hand, though he knew the masons had never had him in mind for their construction. Likely, it had more to do with defense. Invaders running up the steps would have their sword arms hampered while defenders coming down would gain the advantage.
At last, the procession stopped, and the brunet knocked on the door opposite the king’s bedchamber. It opened immediately to reveal a woman close to Collins’ age. He recognized her from the dais table in the dining hall, introduced as one of the king’s advisers. She wore a blue velvet dress with colorful embroidery and lace trim that complemented a slender but curvaceous figure. A hammered gold chain around her neck dipped into her bodice. Dark blonde curls fell to just past her shoulders, and strikingly pale eyes made her high cheeks and full lips seem rosier. She was the most beautiful woman he had seen since his arrival in Barakhai, perhaps in his life.
“Bring him in,” she said, her voice a lilting alto. “Then wait outside, please.”
“I’ll see myself in.” Collins hobbled into the room, while the guards settled in behind him and closed the door. Two cathedral windows lit the room, tapered from the inside to the out so that by the time they opened, they had narrowed to slits. The lowest part of the windows began at twice his own height from the floor. A cloth-covered table in one corner held a candle in a silver holder, a pitcher, and two goblets. Three padded chairs took up most of the center of the room.
The woman gestured at the chairs, and Collins took one gratefully. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes,” Collins said without bothering to ask about the contents of the pitcher. He had consumed nothing for at least fifteen hours. Thus far, pain had kept his mind from his belly, but he hoped his internal organs would resume functioning soon.
The woman crossed the room to the pitcher and filled both goblets.
It occurred to Collins that they might have poisoned the drink, but only briefly. They had had plenty of time to kill him if they had chosen to do so. In a spy movie, it would contain truth serum, but he seriously doubted anyone in this world had the wherewithal to create sodium pentothal. “Thank you.”
She carried over both goblets, handed one to Collins, and sat in the middle chair.
“Thank you,” Collins repeated, sniffing the pinkish liquid. It smelled faintly of alcohol and more strongly of fruit. “What is it?”
“Watered wine. Or more aptly, wined water. You’ll find it’s a bit safer to drink than straight city water.”
Collins stared. This woman did not talk like any Barakhain he had met before.
She set her goblet on the floor beside her chair, rummaged through a pocket in her dress, and pulled something out. “You look like you could use some of these, too.” She opened her fist to reveal a flat metal pillbox with Advil emblazoned on the side.
Collins’ eyes widened, and understanding struck like lightning. “You’re . . . you’re . . . Carrie Quinton.”
“Yes.”
“Demarkietto’s previous assistant.”
The woman smiled. “How is ol’ D-Mark anyway?”
The use of the professor’s nickname dispelled all doubt. “Oh, my God.” Collins chugged down his drink, too thirsty to set it aside. “Oh, my God. How . . . how . . .” He meant to ask about her arrival and subsequent life, but he only managed to finish with, “. . . are you?”
Quinton laughed. “Well enough for a woman trapped in a godless, primitive, louse-infested world . . .”
“. . . that considers bugs a delicacy,” Collins could not help adding.
“Actually, those aren’t bad, once you get used to them. Aside from fish, milk, and eggs, they’re the only source of protein.”
Collins grimaced. “I think I’d stick with the fish, milk, and eggs, thank you very much.”
Quinton rattled the pill case. “Go on. Take them. You look like you owe money to two guys named Guido.”
Collins imagined he had to look a fright, bruised from head to toe, coated in travel grime, scrawny even before he skipped a few meals. He accepted the case and flicked it open to reveal four enteric-coated tablets of the proper size and shape. They even had Advil clearly written across each one, which fully allayed his suspicions. He dumped three into his palm, put one back, then popped the two remaining into his mouth. Quinton refilled his goblet, and he drank them down with the full contents. His belly felt stretched, but the meager calories in the two drinks only aroused his hunger. “Thanks.” He thought back to something Quinton had said, “Once I find what I came for, you’re no longer trapped. We can go home.”
Quinton met the news with none of the excitement Collins had anticipated. “Is that what Zylas told you?”
Shocked by her knowledge, Collins stammered. “Wh-what?”
“Zylas. The white rat.” Quinton studied his expression. “Or did he give you another alias?”
Quinton fumbled at the chain around her neck. “This is what he sent you after, isn’t it?” She dangled an irregular peach-sized hunk of bluish-hued quartz from the necklace.”
Collins could not find his tongue. “How could you . . . ? How did . . . ?” He licked his lips. “What . . . ?”
Quinton answered one of the unspoken questions. “I was working alone in the lab, and I followed a white rat here. Sound familiar?”
“Very,” Collins admitted.
Quinton dropped the stone back down between her breasts, giving Collins a casual glance at well-shaped cleavage. “What did Zylas tell you it was for?”
“It?” Collins probed, averting his eyes too late.
“The stone.”
“Oh.” Collins turned cautious, bewildered by the situation. “He said it would get me home.”
“It won’t.”
The abrupt cold pronouncement sank Collins’ hopes and raised too many quandaries. “How . . . how do you know?”
Quinton smiled. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but,” Collins started, then caught himself. He had suspected that his companions had withheld information, but he had trusted them enough to believe it nothing significant. Now, he knew they had lied outright. Zylas had claimed no one from Collins’ world had come to Barakhai before him, yet he sat talking to evidence of that deceit. Unless she’s the one who’s lying. Lives might be at stake depending on what he revealed. He shoved aside rising irritation. It made no sense to get angry until he knew for certain who had betrayed him. “You’re still here, indeed,” Collins finished lamely.
Quinton crossed her legs. “Zylas told me he needed that stone to rescue innocent people from the king’s brutal regime.”
“He did?” Collins clamped his hands over his spinning head, the abrupt movement awakening a whole new round of pain. He tried to sift logic from a sea of bewilderment, to find the truth hidden amidst so many lies. He studied Quinton. “Can you prove you’re who you claim to be?”
Carrie smiled. “He’s good, isn’t he, that rat.” She reached into the folds of her dress and extracted a battered wallet. She tossed a handful of cards into Collins’ lap.
Setting aside the goblet, Collins sifted through the pile. Among Visa, Hallmark Gold Crown, and PetCo P.A.L.S. cards, all in the name of Carrie A. Quinton, he found two with picture identification. A Missouri driver’s license showed her with shorter hair and a crinkled, quizzical expression. The student photo ID held a more flattering picture of a smiling Carrie Quinton with permed hair and the familiar pale eyes. No doubt, this was the same woman. Collins gathered the cards and returned them.
“Convinced?”
Collins nodded.
“Bill Clinton was president when I left.” Quinton stuffed the cards back into the wallet. “You’d have a new one now.”
“George Bush,” Collins said.
“Again?”
Collins opened his mouth to explain, but Quinton waved him off.
“Kidding. I know it’s gotta be George W. And no surprise, there. They knew that years before the election, before I left. Not sure why we even bother to vote.”
Collins wondered what Quinton would think if she knew about the legal and political wrangling that had resulted in that squeak-by victory, but decided not to broach the subject. They had more important things to discuss, matters of faith and survival.
Quinton continued to vocalize proofs. “Before Clinton was Bush, Reagan before him, and Jimmy Carter the smiling peanut guy was president when I was born. And you and I are the only ones in Barakhai who know the difference between a dominant and a recessive gene.”
“All right.” Collins made a gesture of surrender. “You’re the real deal. Now tell me how you wound up here.”
Quinton gathered her cards, replaced them, then shoved her wallet back into its pocket in the folds of her dress. “I told you. I followed a white rat. He gave me this.” She withdrew a hunk of white quartz from another pocket and deposited it on the arm of her chair. “I assume you have one, too?”
Collins did not reply.
Quinton continued, “He convinced me to try to steal this.” She inclined her head downward to indicate the crystal. “I got caught, found out the truth, joined the right side.” She shrugged. “Been here since.”
Collins gripped the sides of his chair, the implications sinking deeply into him. He ran a finger along the stone. “It’s a translation stone?”
“The guards searched you but didn’t find yours.” Though not a question, it begged answering.
Collins thought fast. Just because Quinton came from his world and time did not mean he could trust her with information that might harm people who, though more alien, he had come to consider friends. She would never buy that he had learned the language so quickly, and she apparently did not know about Prinivere. Recalling Falima’s early dilemma, he tried, “I . . . swallowed it.”
Quinton reclaimed the stone. “You did?”
Seeing no reason to swear to a lie, Collins shrugged. “The guards didn’t find it. Did they?”
Quinton studied the rock. “I just didn’t know it could work that way.”
“Try it,” Collins suggested.
The woman’s features remained pinched with doubt. “Doesn’t it . . . well . . . eventually come out.”
Worried they might start collecting and examining his excrement, Collins shrugged. “Mine hasn’t. Maybe it got stuck, but it hasn’t come out. At least, not yet.” Needing to change the subject, he questioned. “So you’re saying Zylas—?”
“Maybe I will try it.” Gaze still fixed on the stone, Quinton did not seem to realize she had interrupted. “As soon as I’m with someone who can’t understand every word I say without it.” She smiled. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to talk to someone in English. I mean real English. And to hear the answer in good old English, too.”
“Real English?” Collins laughed. His aunt and uncle had once visited Great Britain, returning with quaint stories of loos and lifts, windscreens and tellies. “I’m not sure anyone outside the United States would call what we speak ‘real English.’ Not enough u’s, for one thing. Slangy and sloppy for another.”
Quinton smiled. “It’s real enough for me.” She slapped the stone down on the arm of her chair, deliberately not touching it. She stretched luxuriously, showing off a long, lithe, and very feminine figure. It seemed almost impossible that she and Falima came from the same gender and species, though, in a way, they did not. “So,” she purred. “How is Zylas doing?”
Collins shrugged, too vigorously this time. The movement ached through his body. “He seemed fine, but I have nothing to compare it with.”
“Too bad.”
Collins’ brows rose. “You don’t like him, I take it.”
“No,” Quinton admitted, then clarified. “Oh, he’s charming all right. Friendly, easy to get along with, seems like a real straight shooter, right?”
Collins recalled times when he thought the rat/man might be hiding things from him; but, for the most part, he found the description accurate. “Yeah. Are you saying it’s an act?”
“You betcha. And a damn good one.”
“Why do you say that?”
Quinton met Collins’ gaze with directness and sincerity. “Because he’s a famous troublemaker, a rebel leader with plans to destroy the natural order and the kingdom.”
“What?” Laughter jarred from Collins before he could think to stop it.
“It’s not funny.” Quinton’s horrified expression gave Collins instant control.
“I’m sorry.”
“He lured me here. He lured you here.” Though it seemed impossible, Quinton’s gaze became even more intense. “And I was not the first.”
Now, Collins could not have laughed even had he wished to. “What?”
“Don’t you remember?”
Collins shook his head carefully, though it still increased the ache. “Remember what?”
“The janitor. The one who disappeared about five years before I did.”
Collins tried to recall. “The papers said he ran off with a young coed. Left a shrewish wife and three in-and-out-of-trouble teenagers to make a new, secret life.”
Quinton’s expression remained stony. “Want me to show you his body? And the coed’s, too? Her name, by the way, was Amanda.”
“Not . . .” Collins gulped. “. . . necessary.”
“Before that was the kid who played that weird game, what’s it called?”
Collins knew who Quinton meant. “Dungeons and Dragons.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Got too wrapped up in the game and lost track of reality.”
“Wound up in a mental institution, as I recall.”
Quinton finished, “Rambling about ancient ruins, magic, and people who transform into animals.”
“Oh . . . my God.”
Quinton fell silent and pressed her hands between her knees, letting the whole scenario sink in.
“Oh, my God,” Collins repeated. “Damn.” His mind moved sluggishly. “So you’re saying that my following Zylas was no accident?”
“Nor me.” Quinton leaned forward. “He led us here on purpose.”
Collins had to admit it seemed right. He remembered chasing the rat into the proper room, losing it several times, only to find it again by what seemed like impossible luck. “Why?”
“To get this.” Quinton dangled and returned the blue crystal again.
“Why?” Collins repeated.
“I don’t know.” Quinton sighed. “No one here does, but it has to have something to do with the rebels’ plan to overthrow the kingdom.”
Collins slumped in his chair, his world crumbling around him. Nothing made sense. The people he had dared to trust, to whom he owed his very life, were frauds. True, Zylas saved my life; but it was his fault I needed it saved in the first place. Other past uncertainties clicked into place. No wonder he shushed the others when they grumbled about my underwhelming gratitude. And why he didn’t dare hold Joetha against me.
Apparently noting his distress, Quinton softened her tone. “I’m sorry. They had me fooled, too.”
“They?” Collins repeated, not wanting to believe Falima had had a hand in the deceit, although she surely must have.
“Zylas and his accomplices. Different ones than you would have met. We caught the snake and the chipmunk.”
“And?”
“And what?”
Collins had to know, could not help substituting Falima, Ialin, and Vernon for the snake and the chipmunk. “What happened to them?”
Quinton hesitated. “You can’t expect traitors in a primitive society to be treated with any more leniency than in our own.”
Collins filled in the detail Quinton had implied but not voiced. “They were killed.”
“Painlessly. And with decorum.”
Collins blinked. When he had faced execution, he had turned a dignified ceremony into a panic-stricken tussle. Decorum seemed insignificant when the end result was one’s own death.
Quinton’s voice seemed to come from a distance. “Are you hungry?”
Barely noticing the abrupt change of topic, Collins nodded.
Quinton rose and crossed the room. She placed a hand on the door latch, then smiled without tripping it. Instead, she turned, walked back to her seat, and scooped up the translation stone. “Oops.”
Collins lowered his head into his palms, thoughts a desperately unsortable swirl. He listened to Quinton’s footsteps as she crossed the room again, heard the door winch open and a soft conversation ensue.
The panel clicked shut, and she returned. She wandered behind Collins, her delicate hands settling onto his shoulders. “Where were we?” she asked.
Collins spoke into his hands. “Discussing execution.”
“Ah.” Quinton kneaded the knotted, aching muscles of Collins’ neck, and he winced. “We’ll come back to that. Am I hurting you?”
She was, but her massage also comforted, a grueling mixture of pleasure and pain. “No,” Collins lied, uncertain why. “It feels good.” In his most testosterone-driven, adolescent moments, he had imagined a woman this beautiful touching him, concerned for his pleasure. The reality of it seemed well worth the torment. “You want to leave, right?”
“I did.”
For the moment, Collins pushed aside the change of heart that answer suggested. “Why didn’t you?”
Quinton’s hands smoothed the tension from Collins’ coiled muscles. “Tried. Couldn’t find my way back, even with the kingdom’s help.”
Collins twisted his head toward Quinton, wishing he had some bulk to the muscles she was working over. Most women claimed they did not like the bodybuilder look, but he had yet to meet one who preferred his bony carriage. Despite the distraction, he found a discrepancy that made her claim seem ludicrous. “The king knows exactly where that portal is. He’s got a contingent of archers parked right in front of it.”
“What?” Carrie’s hands stilled. “That’s ridiculous.” Collins swiveled halfway around in his chair. “Is it? I saw them. They shot at me. Tried to kill me.”
“The king’s archers?”
“Yes!”
“Dressed in white and blue-green uniforms?” Collins considered, forcing his mind back to the scene. Everything had happened so quickly, and he had worried more for his life than anyone’s clothing. “They . . . didn’t have a set uniform. They just wore any—”
“Who told you those were the king’s archers?”
Realization dawned. “Zylas.”
“Who had reason to keep you in Barakhai?”
Collins slumped back into his seat. “He wouldn’t—”
Quinton restarted her massage. “Don’t you think that if the king knew the location of the portal, he would want you to leave, not stop you? Don’t you think he would work to close it, to stem the flow of outsiders sent by the renegades?”
Things Collins had not closely considered before became suddenly vitally important: Zylas’ and Falima’s discussion before claiming they knew of no others from Collins’ world, the surreptitious exchanges between his companions when he received Prinivere’s spell, the many little things that did not quite add up and often left him wondering if he were “missing something.” He remembered Falima’s deceit, trying to make him believe her a Regular rather than a Random. “Does this have something to do with the Regular/Random thing?”
“Not exactly,” Quinton said. As Collins became accustomed to her ministrations, he noticed the pain less and the enjoyment more. “Most of the renegades are Randoms, though I think it’s only because they tend toward instability. More undesirables are Randoms, since no one tries to make them on purpose. Of course they tend to be more likely to have a criminal bent, to not like authority or government.”
It seemed logical that the least satisfied would seek the most radical changes, but that did not justify the events of the last several days. Zylas had seduced Collins here, knowing that others he brought had died for a cause in which they held no interest, understanding, or stake. Thanks to the renegades, Collins had to live with the guilt of having not only murdered but eaten an innocent woman, with the hysterical memory of having nearly died on the gallows, and with the knowledge of having become a thief as well. Rage finally stirred. “What does he want that stone of yours for anyway?”
“We don’t know.” Carrie admitted. She ran a hand through Collins’ hair, fussing the overlong, grimy strands into proper position. “We’re waiting for the dragons to mature.”
“Dragons.” Collins perked up at the word. “But they told me dragons were extinct.” Carrie’s fingers in his hair sent a shiver of desire through him that reawakened the aches the Advil had relieved. At least one part of me still works. “Was that another lie?” Though he now intended to reveal some information about the renegades, his vow to Vernon still bound his conscience. He would not give up Prinivere without a compelling reason.
“Dragons are extinct,” Quinton confirmed. “But the king confiscated two Randoms who transformed into dragons at coming-of-age. The law compels him to kill them, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’s hoping that, raised and handled properly, they won’t harm anyone.”
“Wow.”
The pace of Quinton’s speech quickened, revealing excitement. “They’re young now, babies by dragon standards. I figure they’re maturing about one human year for every twenty. It seems the people here grow according to their slowest maturing form, and dragons—” Apparently realizing she had taken over the conversation, Quinton laughed. “Sorry if I’m boring you. I find them absolutely fascinating.”
“I’m a bio grad student, too,” Collins reminded her, interest piqued. “Are they male or female?” Simple statistics suggested a fifty-fifty chance they would come up opposite genders.
“Both,” Quinton blurted, then laughed and corrected. “One of each, that is, not hermaphrodites. I get to train and, eventually, breed them.”
Collins stared. “The king wants more dragons?”
Quinton’s hands dropped back to Collins’ shoulders. “Not yet. But I’m working on him.” She squealed.
“Can you imagine? I’m thinking they’re egg layers, but they’re definitely warm-blooded; and I think I’m seeing rudimentary nipples. Probably the closest thing to dinosaurs we’ll ever see, don’t you think? Imagine what we could learn from them.”
Quinton’s excitement was contagious. Though intrigued, Collins found himself distracted by troubling thoughts. The people to whom he had believed he owed his very life had actually placed it into danger. Those he had trusted as friends had lied to and betrayed him, played him for a fool. He pictured Falima; her silky black mane and startlingly pale eyes no longer seemed so beautiful when he knew they housed a soul that had used him, that found him unworthy of truth or trust, that pretended to like him while manipulating him like a brainless puppet. Zylas apparently made a career out of deception. A rat, indeed. I should have seen through it. His blood warmed, grew hot, and seemed to boil in his veins. “I’m with you,” he said evenly. “Breeding dragons, finding the portal, going home.”
“Revealing the traitors?” Quinton added.
Collins squirmed. I owe the bastard nothing. “What do you want to know?”