There was a pause, and Arcturus waited, his fate hanging in the balance.
“Put him under armed guard,” Barcroft said. “I’ll decide what to do with him in the morning.”
CHAPTER
42
ARCTURUS SHIVERED IN THE cold darkness of the room they had thrown him in, rubbing his shoulder where it had hit the cobblestone floor. It was a closet, filled with brooms, mops, buckets and the sickly scent of soap.
They had taken his weapons, which were now stacked beside the guard outside. He felt naked without them, but armed himself with a broom handle nonetheless.
First, he summoned Sacharissa, grateful that the guards had not bothered to take the summoning leather from his pocket. Then, after a moment of excited yelping, wet licks and a shout from the guard outside to keep it down, he settled in the corner with Sacharissa, drifting a wyrdlight around the room and considering his options.
He had managed to free his hands, for their wrapping had been interrupted when he had switched sides. Even so, he knew his mana levels were low, and even if he succeeded in overpowering the guard at the door and attempted to escape, there would still be hundreds of rebels to beat, scattered throughout Vocans.
In all honesty, he did not even know if he wanted to escape. The rebels had the king and his allies between a rock and a hard place. Barcroft had said that the nobles were too scared to fight back, for fear of hurting the hostages. If he were a gambler, he would bet on the rebels winning. They were the right choice.
But, in the moment the decision solidified in his mind, it instantly dissolved at the thought of his friends. The very idea of joining Crawley and his minions filled him with revulsion.
When he weighed the nobles against the commoners in his life, it was clear to him who had mattered most. He had been made a virtual slave by a common man, and had received little kindness from that tavern keeper and his family. In fact, the only people who had shown him kindness were noble: Edmund, Alice, Lieutenant Cavendish.
And of course Elaine. Twice she had saved his life, and wanted nothing but his friendship in return. He could not imagine the terror she was feeling right now, locked away by cruel men who hated her. All he could do was hope she had been able to keep Valens for company, or at least had Alice to comfort her.
No. He was not a rebel. But the only way he could help his friends was by pretending to be one.
“Hey,” Arcturus called, knocking on the door. “I need to speak to Crawley. I have important information that will help the rebellion.”
“He’s busy. Tell him in the morning,” the guard outside snapped.
“I need the toilet too,” Arcturus said.
“Piss in a bucket,” came the reply.
“And I’m hungry,” Arcturus argued. “I haven’t eaten in days.”
“Then another day won’t hurt you,” the guard replied. “Just be quiet. They pulled me out of bed to watch you, so don’t make my life any harder than it has to be.”
Arcturus sighed and slid down the door. He pulled his cloak closer around him, and tugged the hood over his head. The warmth was comforting, and Sacharissa rested her big head in his lap, looking up at him with her four blue eyes. He kissed her on the snout, and sensed that she was cold. Sadly, the room had no linens or towels inside for him to warm her, so instead he flapped the end of his cloak over her shoulders and pulled her in close.
“I wish I had another cloak for you, Sacha,” he said, rubbing the soft fur of her back.
His cloak … an idea struck him then, like a bolt of lightning. If he got past the guard outside, he would look like any other rebel, and he imagined that most of the men here didn’t know each other. He could hide in plain sight.
The problem was overpowering the guard without any signs of a struggle. Arcturus pushed Sacharissa’s head from his lap, earning himself a whine of annoyance. Then he peered through the keyhole.
On the other side of the door, a black-clothed rebel dozed against the wall, leaning on his spear as if it were a shepherd’s crook. Arcturus’s weapons were stacked beside him.
Arcturus considered his options. He could not pick the lock—there was a spell for that, but he had yet to learn the symbol for it. Nor could he blast the door open with the last of his mana; that would send every rebel nearby running. He might be able to shatter the lock with a controlled kinetic blast—but the sound of it would mean the guard would be ready for him on the other side when they barreled through.
Ideally, the rebel would come into the room to check on him, but with Sacharissa having made so much noise upon their reunion, the guard would know there was a demon waiting for him on the other side of the door.
A lightning spell was too erratic to aim through the keyhole, and the guard would scream blue murder before a fire spell killed him. A controlled thread of kinetic energy would be the best way to do it. But Arcturus had never tried to shape a spell before. Nor did he have sufficient mana to practice.
The keyhole. That was the solution. If he could get the guard close enough, an uncontrolled blast of mana might do the trick. The question was how.
“Sacha … let’s make some noise.” Arcturus grinned, still peering through the keyhole.
Arcturus brandished the broomstick and smashed it into a nearby bucket, whooping as he did so. Sacharissa howled like a wolf, though Arcturus kept the sound contained enough that it wouldn’t alert nearby rebels.
On the other side of the door, the guard jumped awake, his face twisting into a scowl. He was a mean-looking young man, with a potato-shaped nose and beady eyes.
“If you don’t shut that creature up, we won’t feed you for a week,” the guard growled. “No water either, and you and that bucket will become very familiar.”
“Help me,” Arcturus wailed. “My demon’s gone crazy.”
Arcturus sent an order to Sacharissa with a thought, and the howl turned into a snarl, low and threatening. She took the end of a mop and began to savage it, and Arcturus accompanied the noise with a choking, gurgling sound.
“Hey,” the guard said. “Stop that. I know what you’re up to.”
Arcturus drummed his feet against the ground, his choking more frantic now. For good measure he scraped his fingernails along the door. Then, with a swift mental order, both he and Sacharissa fell silent, and Arcturus pressed his cheek against the keyhole.
The guard stared at the door, his face a picture of confusion.
“Come on,” Arcturus whispered under his breath. “Come see.”
His finger swirled in the air, etching the spiral that powered the telekinesis spell. It fixed to his finger, and he held his hand ready beside the keyhole, waiting to strike.
Now the rebel looked up and down the corridor, as if looking for someone to help him. Seeing nobody, he crouched down and shuffled closer to the door. Arcturus held his breath, then grinned as the man lowered his face toward the keyhole. Curiosity had gotten the better of him.
Arcturus waited. Waited until the lumpy face had filled the small circle of light on the other side. Then he pushed his finger into the lock and unleashed a blast of kinetic energy.
There was a dull whump as the spell was funneled through the mechanism and out the other side, shattering the lock with a crackle of snapping metal. Arcturus threw the door open and burst through … only to find the guard crumpled against the wall, his neck snapped back at an odd angle, eyes glazed over in death. There was no blood—the very force of the blast had killed him.
Arcturus felt the gorge rise in his throat. He ran back into the room and emptied the contents of his stomach into a bucket.
He had not meant for the man to die. In truth, he had thought he would knock the man unconscious, or at worst blind him in one eye.