I felt weak and shaky, near to collapse even after my rest. I must have slept for some time; it was evening now and the stars overhead twinkled behind the rainbow colors of Tya’s Veil.
And yes, the Old Man had returned to his perch.
The dragon shifted. My pulse sped up.
“You didn’t bring the harp,” the dragon whispered. “No matter. Sing for me.”
I felt the tug of the dragon’s will, the incredible force of command pushing those sentences into my mind.
“No,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Sing for me!” the dragon bellowed, and I nearly tripped and fell backward.
“Talk,” I insisted.
The dragon curled his tail around his body and beat his wings, sending waves crashing countercurrent against their shore-facing kin. “Talk?” He cocked his head in a way that reminded me of parrots or the hunting drakes the Thriss used. “The Malkath vordredd talk using a method of tapping that carries for great distances over coated copper wires. The vorfelané clan Esiné talk using precise finger movements. The voramer sing in low-pitched notes that carry for hundreds of miles underwater. The vorarras enchant crystals to carry images of the gazers to each other. What sort of ‘talk’ did you mean?”
I cleared my throat. “I want to talk about the Stone of Shackles.”
The dragon twisted on the rocks, the giant loops of his body drawing up under him like a cobra coiling. “Rolumar’s Gem, the Stone of Shackles, Soulbinder, the Crown of Kirpis. Its first power is to warn its owner of physical danger and its second power is to swap souls and its third power makes the taking of gaeshes possible. None of which is of any interest to me, little man.”
I pulled myself up. “But I’m wearing it. And that means you’re not just going to kill me.”
The dragon leaned its long neck forward. “I was never going to kill you, tiny fool. Now sing.”
I shook my head. “You can’t … you can’t control me. That worked once, but it won’t work again.”
The dragon settled down again, resting its head against a clawed hand in a human gesture. “Sing me the Ride of Tirrin Woodkeeper. Oh, or I know, why not sing to me of Sirellea’s beauty, and the tragedy of Kinorath’s ambitions? Do you know ‘The Fall of Dimea’? It’s a newer song…”
I shook my head. “I’m leaving, Old Man, and you can’t stop me.”
A terrible rumbling shook the whole island, shook the water and the waves and caused sand to thrum in ripples. Rocks tumbled down the scree-laden sides of hills.
The Old Man was laughing.
“Ah,” he purred. “Do you not know those songs? Has so much time passed? Very well. My garden, sing for your newest companion. Sing for him so he can learn.”
And then to my horror, the pillars began to sing.
I suppose it would have been fine if they had just been enchanted rocks, but they weren’t. From the center of each pillar, a figure pulled away as if trying to escape mud. They were still covered in rock, but it was a thinner layer, enough to keep them trapped but not to hide their shape. The rock only retreated fully from their faces, letting them open their eyes, open their mouths. They did not scream, even though the horror in their eyes made it clear it was all they wanted in the whole world.
Each of those pillars was a person.
I saw the way their eyes rolled in mad terror—the panic and despair as they were allowed to see freedom, if just for a moment—while they sang for the Old Man’s pleasure. The worst thing was how glorious they sounded: they were a perfect sunrise, a walk through a well-tended garden in spring, the laughter of someone you love. I could have listened to them for hours in rapt wonder if I didn’t understand the atrocity that had been committed to capture that sound.
And I knew at that moment what the Old Man intended to do with me.
“Never,” I whispered in horror. Underneath that initial revulsion dwelt a deep well of dread. I felt an instinctive and infinite terror, akin to the blind panic of those afraid of tight spaces. The worst part was how familiar this feeling was. I knew what it was like to be trapped and unable to move, conscious and yet kept prisoner inside my own body.
I had been through this before. I didn’t know where. I didn’t know when. I didn’t even know how. But somehow, I had been through it before.
And I would rather die a thousand times than go through it again.
Then I wasn’t on the beach anymore. At some point I had started running, and jungle leaves lashed against me as I passed by without pausing. I ran and ran and ran.
It was hours, though, before the sound of the Old Man’s laughter faded from my ears.
52: DARK STREAKS
(Talon’s story)
Fine, we can skip ahead. I enjoyed the next morning more anyway.
* * *
Darzin D’Mon was in a wonderful mood as he walked up the stairs of the southern tower of the Blue Palace. He whistled to himself and contemplated something he identified only through its absence: boredom.
Darzin D’Mon was never the most introspective of men. He was, even he admitted, poorly gifted in the arts of self-examination. In most cases, he found this to be more benefit than hindrance. For he was not the sort to whine about his situation or be moved into bouts of self-pity, reactions that weighed down his father with guilt and doubt. If he didn’t like his situation, he changed it, and if he couldn’t change it, he didn’t let it gnaw at him. But there were enemies even he found himself hard-pressed to challenge. Enemies who snuck up on him not by stealth or means of magic, but through success and wealth and prosperity.
Winning was fun, but after the winning … then what? So often too easy, too often so boring: the victories had tasted stale of late. Darzin found himself venturing further and further afield to find distractions capable of keeping his interest. His forays into his father’s underworld Shadowdancer cartel had stemmed from such a desire. He longed to fill his nights with something other than the same old pleasures and entertainments.
But this—ah, this was different. Darzin warmed at the thought of his young adopted “son.” A challenge indeed. Tricky. It would be easy enough to break the boy. Few had the fortitude to resist the malice and torture that Darzin could unleash if he chose to do so. No, Darzin didn’t doubt for a moment he could grind Kihrin’s will underfoot as thoroughly as a cut flower on hot cobblestones, leaving nothing but a faintly perfumed smear. But destroying the boy’s mind wasn’t the goal. It would, in fact, make the true goal impossible to obtain. If the boy could only give the necklace of his own free will, then he had to possess enough will, enough spirit, to make such a foolish choice.
So then, subtlety was the necessary ingredient, something to which Darzin was unaccustomed and therefore found unexpectedly, delightfully challenging. He needed to make Kihrin miserable, but not too miserable, desperate, but not so despairing that he wanted to end it all. Once Darzin had shown with painstaking clarity that there would be no shelter or happiness for Kihrin within House D’Mon; then and only then could Darzin offer the path of escape—