Glen Cook - A Path to Coldness of Heart

“Thank you, O Celestial.”

Mist was taken aback. Was he making mock? No one had used that title since her father and his twin, the Princes Thaumaturge, had overcome their father. Celestial had been one of Tuan Hoa’s many titles. “I’m not my grandfather, Candidate. Relax. I’m just here to see the prisoner.”

“Uh… Which one… Great One?”

“You’re holding more than one?”

“Seven. Al politicals.”

“The westerner.”

“This way. I’l have refreshments brought.” She ignored a temptation to be malicious. “Tea and rice cakes. Then show these two to the kitchen. Feed them lots of meat.”

Legionary discipline triumphed al round. No one questioned her decision to see the prisoner alone. But, then, no one thought the Empress might need help.

...

Ragnarson believed he understood the caged tiger’s mood. In the main, it would be rage.

It had been a while since he had been instal ed here, wherever here might be. He had fal en asleep in a place where they had healed his war wounds. He had awakened here with no sense of time having passed. The few keepers he saw were strangers uninterested in chatting.

He was not uncomfortable. His cel was an oval room thirty feet on its long axis, twenty on that with the one flattened side. There were three tiny windows. Each overlooked an unfamiliar city. The windows faced north, south, and east. There was no window in the flat west wal .

Each window boasted thin bars and a vigorous sorcery that kept out al odor and noise. He thought he was about eighty feet above street level in an area that was sealed off.

Only once had he seen anyone down there, and that had been one of the Tervola.

The room was furnished sparsely but not cheaply. He had a bed, large and comfortable. He had a table for eating, chairs, several quality rugs, and another table where he could sit and read or write. That came equipped with several books, a stock of pens, paper, and ink in three colors. His captors al owed him a penknife.

There was a luxury garderobe. The waste went away when staff removed dirty dishes and cutlery. Meals were regular and adequate.

There were pitchers and porcelain bowls at opposite ends of the room, with ladles. There was a metal tub that could be dragged out and, once a week, fil ed with warm water so he could bathe. A specialist servant would deal with fleas and lice. His captors had an aversion to parasites.

There was an area for dressing. He had a choice of apparel. Like dirty dishes, soiled clothing went away, then came back clean.

He could shave if he wanted. The tools were available.

Not a hard life. But he could not leave.

So mostly he paced, like the caged tiger, and he raged.

Hour after hour, day after day, back and forth, paying little heed to his surroundings, fantasizing about what the world would suffer once he escaped.

Little thought went toward actual y accomplishing that. That was work for the rational side of his mind. And the rational side had to operate in the realm of reality.

Rational y, it was obvious that there would be no leaving without outside contrivance.

Rational y, he could do nothing but wait.

The prisoner’s routine was rigid. Food arrived at predictable times, virtual y taunting him: construct an escape plan around this, fool! So when the door in the flat wal opened at an unorthodox hour Ragnarson was so surprised he actual y retreated.

He gawked. He failed to recognize Mist for several seconds. She was radiantly gorgeous. He had not been near any woman for so long that his response was instantaneous and embarrassing.

Then his mind clicked.

Mist, aged in spirit but not in that timelessly beautiful flesh.

He arranged himself so as to conceal his arousal.

She smiled. “Hel o. The war has eased up. I thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

Off guard, disturbed by his response, he was flustered.

Neither fight nor flight were options.

“Bragi! It’s me! Good gracious. You aren’t very good at being a noble prisoner, are you?”

Her tone, the amusement edging her voice, dispel ed the intel ectual murk. “I got it made,” he croaked. “Relatively speaking.”

They could have shoved him down an oubliette and fed him spoiled pig manure for the rest of a very short life.

He drew no cheer from the thought.

He glared at the achingly beautiful woman.

“I’m beginning to think you’re more than just a man, Bragi Ragnarson. You’re maybe an elemental who is no longer sane and stil headed downhil .”

Ragnarson said nothing. He did not disagree.

A face came to mind. Sherilee. That sweet child, younger than his oldest boy. Their liaison, brief as it had been, had reminded him that he was stil alive.

He shook like a dog fresh in from the rain. “I’m sane right now but it won’t last.”

“I’m pleased. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is trying to communicate with someone who can’t see that they’re caught in reality’s trap.”

“You have me for now. It may not last. Something shook me off my foundations.”

“We weren’t responsible.”

He got no sense that she was lying.

She said, “I came for several reasons. First, to see how you’re doing. We were friends. You helped me.” He kept his expression neutral.

“I tried to support you, too. I failed. Then you put yourself into a position where this was the best I could do.” He thought this was more the work of Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i.

“Cynical response noted.”

Ragnarson betrayed a smile.

“I’ve brought news from home. Which is hard to come by, these days.”

“I’ve known you a long time…”

She stopped him. She knew he never believed much that she said. “It would be more kind to leave you ignorant. The heart I found while I was in exile disagrees.” Ragnarson focused. Time to be careful. The Empress of Shinsan was going to give him something because she wanted something. “Do tel .”

“Last month your grandson Bragi seemed certain to become king of Kavelin, instead of Fulk. It was just a matter of time. The Itaskians were being neutralized. Inger was losing support fast. The Nordmen were distancing themselves from her and Greyfel s. Your cronies were dead or fled, but that wasn’t hampering Kristen.”

“But?” That required no genius to see.

“Credence Abaca died. And everything began to fal apart.” Ragnarson resumed pacing. “Abaca died? Real y?”

“He’d been il for some time, apparently. Once he went the tribes had no recognized chief of chiefs. With them out of it Kristen’s Wessons began to waver. There have been massive desertions. The men who haven’t yet left the regiments have no good reason to stay. They aren’t getting paid. They don’t want Inger but Kristen fled the kingdom once she no longer had the Marena Dimura to protect her.

Kavelin seems ready to fal apart.”

It looked like Shinsan had a fine opportunity—that Mist evidently did not view in that light.

Why give her ideas? She had plenty of her own. And Kavelin’s torment was his fault.

“I’m sorry. It’s a sad thing I caused. Aren’t there appropriate sayings about hubris?”

“In almost every language. It’s a popular pastime, smal men criticizing the stumbles of giants.” Ragnarson glanced out the nearest window. It would be time to eat, soon. What would it be? Outguessing the cooks was a favorite exercise.

Derel Prataxis said men grew introspective with age.

Ragnarson had tried it. He could not get interested in his own interior landscape, nor could he make himself care.

Mist broke the protracted silence. “You have no response?”

“Should I? It’s sad. My fault. I said that. It is what it is. I can’t do anything about it. Or is that why I’m honored with your presence?”