He wished he could bathe, and realized how much he had come to enjoy being clean. As a child of the Orosini, he had gone most of the winter without bathing and thought nothing of it, but now he was a “civilized” man and enjoyed hot baths, massages, unguents, and oils.
He had asked Will if he would be given clean clothing, and was told that if someone in Opardum or City of the Guardian purchased clothing for him, and paid a bribe to the captain of the next ship that came bringing prisoners or supplies, then he could have them, as long as there was a bribe for Zirga included.
Realizing that was more than unlikely, Tal knew he would have to do with what he had, unless someone died. Then he might get that man’s clothing, said Will, if they didn’t fit someone else the guards liked better.
Tal fought every day to keep despair at bay, for he knew that he would not give up and let death take him without a struggle. He had also wounded or trapped animals that stopped struggling, that just lay back and let the hunter take their lives. He would not be such an animal.
He would survive.
Fourteen
Cook
Tal awoke.
Sitting in the window was a bird. He moved slowly, so as not to startle the creature. He tried to identify what variety of bird it was, but couldn’t. It looked somewhat like the mountain finch of his homeland, but the bill was different, longer and narrower, and the feathers had a slight white band on the wings the mountain finches lacked. He tried to get as close as he could, but when he approached the wall, the bird flew away.
He jumped and grabbed the bar and pulled himself up. He peered through the window and saw that the last of the ice and snow was gone. The breeze was cool, but not bitter. He let himself down.
Another spring had come.
He had now been in the Fortress of Despair for more than a year. He had come to accept that for an unknown time he would simply abide there.
He had developed a routine to keep from losing his sanity, one based upon three tenets: that despair was the first killer; that his mission in life to avenge his people would fail if he died; and that his mind must remain alert so that any opportunity for escape, even the smallest, would not go unnoticed.
To fill his hours he did mental exercises learned at Sorcerer’s Isle, to remember things—books he had read, chess matches played, conversations with other students and lectures by instructors. He could remember things as if he were reliving them, so for hours at a time he would be submerged in memory, experiencing again things he had already once lived.
He avoided the trap of becoming lost in those memories, though, choosing not to remember the loving arms of women, the thrill of the hunt, the pleasure of winning at cards. Those memories were a snare, an avoidance of the suffering he endured at the Fortress, no aid in preparing him to end his captivity.
And to further avoid the lure of pointless memories, he forced himself to endure an hour a day of bleak observation, either of the stonework of his walls and floors, or through the window of his cell.
He ignored his own filth as best he could. He had convinced Will to bring him a little extra water when he was able, and Tal used that water to try to keep clean. It was a scant comfort, but it was comfort of a kind, and anything he could do to alleviate the unrelenting bleakness of his situation he did. Nakor had once said to him that joy in life often came from the small victories, the tiny triumphs, and while seizing pleasure out of a damp cloth and cold water seemed improbable, he took it.
As best he could, he sought to stay fit. The meager food and constant cold made it difficult. He knew he had lost a great deal of weight, but now that the weather was turning warmer, he felt renewed. He exercised within the confines of his cell, walking and running in place, pulling himself up by his one hand on the bars of his cell. He contrived ways to take the exercises he had learned from Nakor at Sorcerer’s Isle and adapt them to his surroundings. He was not whole, and he was hardly strong, but he was as fit as he could manage under the existing conditions.
He maintained his regime and kept his mind agile. He tried to master patience, and he waited. Eventually, he knew—in a month, a year, or perhaps ten—something would happen. Something would change. And when that change came, he would be ready.
At the end of his second winter in the fortress, Tal had learned to use his damaged arm to the limit of its ability. He could do more than simply use it for balance when he exercised; he had contrived of ways to push, pull, and carry with it. He was sitting on his straw pallet one afternoon, when the door to his cell opened and Will walked in.
Will was empty-handed, and Tal asked, “It’s not time for supper, and you’re not carrying anything. Is this a social visit?”
“I came to tell you supper will be late.”
“Why?”
“Charles the cook is dead.”