Water was plentiful, so it was available to those who worked, but Ambrose Moor, the owner of the prison mine, did not waste his profits on food. They were lucky to receive a single small meal a day, usually the spoiled remnants of what a crew of indentured sailors refused to eat. This was just one of many deals Ambrose arranged to minimize operation costs. Royce would fall asleep to dreams of killing Ambrose and the thoughts lingered throughout the day. In the two and a half years he spent in Manzant, he killed Ambrose five hundred and thirty-seven times—no two alike. He killed many people in Manzant and not all of them were imaginary. He never thought of them as people. They were all animals, monsters. Whatever humanity a man had possessed going in was leached out by the salt, pain, and despair. They all fought for rotten food, a place to sleep, a cup of water. He learned how to sleep light and how to appear like he was sleeping when he was not.
Never seeing daylight, never breathing fresh air, and being worked to exhaustion each day, and beaten for mere recreation, had killed many and driven others insane. For Royce, Manzant was only part of his prison, the latest incarnation. The real walls he had been building up brick by brick for years. Escaping Manzant was impossible, but it was ultimately easier than escaping the prison of his own making.
Nim had started him on the path, and later Arcadius and Hadrian had guided his way, but it was Gwen who had finally unlocked the cell door. She shoved it open and stood just outside calling, assuring him it was safe. He could smell the fresh air and see the brilliance of the sun. He was almost through, almost out—almost.
The whispering came from near the pool.
He thought everyone was asleep. They had traveled a long distance that day over hard terrain. No one had called for him to stop, but he had seen them stumbling—all except the dwarf. The little rat never seemed to tire but continued to scurry, and more than once, Royce had spotted a little smile behind the mustache and remains of his beard.
He had almost killed Magnus that first night they had spent at The Laughing Gnome. The thought had danced teasingly on his mind. That was before Myron came back from dinner and got all chatty. Royce would not admit it to anyone, but the dwarf was useful, and on surprisingly good behavior—which showed even more good sense. More than that, he discovered he no longer had the desire. Like everything else, the dwarf’s crime had been made trivial by Gwen’s death. Both love and hate were banished from him. He was a desert, dry of all passion. Mostly he was tired. He had one last job to do and he would do it, not for the empire, not even for Hadrian—this was for Gwen.
He got to his feet silently, out of curiosity more than concern. The whispering was definitely coming from the party—not some intruder. He spotted the princess lying on her side, wrapped in twisted blankets. She was jerking and thrashing again, that creepy robe glowing different colors, fading out and lighting up. He had no idea if the robe was causing her to dream so violently or if her dreams sparked the robe’s response. He did not see how it was any of his business and moved on.
At first, he thought it might be Magnus and Gaunt whispering. He frequently spied them traveling together and talking when the rest were too far to hear. Drawing closer, he discovered the source—it was Elden. He could see the huge reclined form up on one elbow under the blanket. His conspirator was on the far side and blocked from view. Wyatt lay a short distance away. He too was awake and watching.
“What’s going on?” Royce whispered to the sailor. “Who’s Elden talking to?”
“The monk.”
“Myron?”
Wyatt nodded.
“Is it normal for him to talk to strangers like that?”
Wyatt looked at him. “He’s talked more to that little monk in the last three days than he has to me in the last decade. They were doing this last night too, and I swear I heard Elden crying. I once watched while a ship’s surgeon put a red-hot poker to a wound on his thigh. Elden didn’t make a sound, but last night that little monk had him weeping so bad his eyes were red the next morning.”
Royce said nothing.
“Funny thing, though, he was smiling. All day long, I saw Elden grinning from ear to ear. That’s just not like him.”
“Best get back to sleep,” Royce told him. “I’ll be waking everyone in another hour.”
Royce stopped again.
Hadrian could see him over the heads of the others from his position at the rear. This time, Royce knelt down, placed the lantern on the ground beside him, and scraped the dirt. Alric approached and stood slightly to one side.
The party spent most of that day, like the one before, traveling in a single column in the narrow corridor. Overhead, water dripped, soaking their heads and shoulders; likewise, their feet felt pickled from wading through ankle-deep pools.
“What is it this time?” he heard Degan mutter with disdain. “He’s stopping every twenty feet now. This is the problem with monarchies and the whole feudal system, for that matter. Alric is in charge by no other virtue than his birth, and the man is clearly incompetent. He lost his own kingdom twice over in a single year, and now he is in charge of us? We should have a leader who is elected on merit, not lineage. Someone who is the most talented, the most gifted, but no—we have Alric. And the king in all his minuscule wisdom has chosen Royce to guide us. If I were in charge, I would put Magnus out front. He’s obviously far more gifted. He’s constantly correcting Royce’s mistakes. We would be making twice the time we are now. I’ve observed that people respect you.”