When he awoke in the dank, shadowless cell, he did not remember his own name at first. Slowly the memories returned, flitting through his mind like butterflies. He stretched out his arm tentatively, expecting excruciating pain—but the injury was healed. So was his damaged shoulder. He had no recollection of his healing. He did not remember being placed in the cell.
Food arrived once a day, a watery gruel made of millet, the portion tasteless and not enough to strengthen a man. He was weak with hunger and thirst. Lights appeared in the hallway, so painfully bright he had to shield his face while the clomp of boots arrived, delivering the thin gruel, and then retreated. Then the darkness prevailed again and spots danced in front of his eyes.
The cell was too small to practice any of his Bhikhu fighting forms. It was too small to do nearly anything but sit cross-legged and meditate. That worked well for a while, but soon he was chafing because of the inaction. How long had he been trapped there? Why had they not sent anyone to interrogate him? There was no way of counting time. No stars swirling overhead. No rise and fall of moon and sun. The world was a void, and he was trapped inside it.
Maddening. The solitude was absolutely maddening. The air was stale and rank. He could hear no other prisoners, not even the scuttle of rats. He was completely isolated and alone. Being raised in the temple, he had always been surrounded by others. There was no one to talk to, and so he did not speak at all. All his life he had sparred with his fists and feet and tongue. He wanted an enemy to fight, even the Kishion.
How long would they keep him? How long had it been? Sleeping and dozing came fitfully. At least in his dreams there was sunlight and grass. When he awakened, he was met by the horror of the void. He wanted to scream. But maybe that was what they were expecting. Maybe they were trying to break him.
Paedrin exhaled slowly, beginning another round of meditation. His strength was failing. Hunger ravaged his gut. But still there was only darkness, and in the darkness and loneliness lay madness. He felt it there in the cell, crouched in the corner by the stink hole. Gibbering madness.
The flash of light startled him. He shielded his eyes with his forearm; he was used to the searing light by now. He gritted his teeth to avoid seeming too anxious for the gruel. There was the sound of boots on the floor, but it was a different sound. It was firmer. It had a clipping sound. A metal torch was fastened to a wall bracket. Silence.
Paedrin tried to look at the light, but it was too bright. His eyes throbbed in pain, but he forced them to remain open, to adjust to the searing pain that stabbed him. There was a shape beyond the bars. A man.
“Who are you?” Paedrin croaked. His voice was hardly a whisper.
“My name is Band-Imas. I am the Arch-Rike of Kenatos.”
Paedrin flinched at the sound, the delicious sound of a human voice. He craved it desperately. Part of his mind warned him that he should not trust this man. The Bhikhu served the Rikes of Kenatos. He should not have been allowed to languish in a cell.
“Why am I here?”
“Paedrin.”
The sound of his own name startled him. He tried to stare past the glare at the man who was slowly coming into focus. A haze of frosty hair glittered on his scalp, little stubble that did not grow. Eyes that were so gray they were nearly white, except for the twin black pupils. He wore a magnificent robe and the jeweled stole of his office. A velvet doublet festooned with gold buttons and red stitching showed beneath the fur-lined robe.
“Yes?” Paedrin whispered.
“That is your name, is it not? Paedrin? From the Bhikhu temple?”
“Yes.”
A deep exhale came from the Arch-Rike’s throat. “I am sorry then. If you were a Bhikhu from Silvandom, then my ring would have warned me of the lie. When dealing with Tyrus, one must always be on his guard. I am sorry he ensnared you in his treasonous plot. There will be a trial soon, my young friend. Your life will most likely be forfeit.”
Paedrin tried to wet his lips, but he had no moisture in his mouth. “And what treason do you suspect me of? I was sent by my master on the mission. Surely you are not implying he is imprisoned as well?”
“There is much we can discuss, Paedrin.” His voice was patient, yet there was an edge to it. A man used to being obeyed and never mocked. He twisted a large garnet ring from his finger, the stone ink black. “I am sure you recognize the fashion of this ring. It is imbued with a spirit that prevents any falsehood from being spoken or one uttered in its wearer’s presence.” He offered Paedrin the ring.
He looked warily at the Arch-Rike but slowly extended his hand and reached for the ring. He had seen it come off of the Arch-Rike’s hand. The weight of it in his palm surprised him. He slid it on his finger.