You tell him, Hamil replied, but he looked back up to Sarth and relayed the message.
“Surrender!” Caellen snapped. “I will not ask again!”
Moving slowly, Geran unbuckled his sword belt and let the weapon drop to the ground. He backed away from the sword. Beside him, Hamil snorted in disgust, but he began to divest himself of his daggers, dropping several of the weapons to the ground. Sarth shot Geran a murderous look, but he laid his scepter on the flagstones and likewise backed away. Caellen motioned to his soldiers. Some hurried forward to scoop up the weapons, while others approached to take Geran and bind his arms behind his back. He winced, but made no effort to resist; Hamil and Sarth were treated in the same way.
“This is not necessary,” Sarth grumbled to the elves. “We have hurt none of your folk.”
“That will be for the coronal to decide,” Caellen replied.
In Elvish, the soldier who’d picked up Geran’s weapon addressed Caellen. “Captain, have a look at this,” he said. He drew Geran’s sword from its scabbard, unwrapping the false leather grip from the hilt. The gleam of the elven steel was bright in the dim vault.
Caellen peered at the sword for a moment, and his eyes narrowed. “I know this blade,” he murmured. He spun and closed on Geran, reaching up to jerk the hood from Geran’s shoulders. For a moment he stared at Geran in astonishment, and then his lips twisted in a cold sneer. “Geran Hulmaster. I should have known! The coronal shows you mercy by banishing you when she might have ordered your death, and you repay her by defying her law? Oh, you will have much to answer for, my friend-and your companions as well.”
“They’re not guilty of defying my banishment,” Geran answered.
“At the moment, I care not,” the captain said. He stepped back and nodded to the guards. “Take them all away!”
SEVENTEEN
20 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Of all the prisons that Geran had been in-and he regretfully had to admit that that was a substantial number-the Jailer’s Tower of Castle Cormanthor was certainly the least unpleasant. The furnishings were reasonably comfortable and there were no vermin at all. He was confined with Sarth and Hamil in the same roomy cell, which took up most of one floor of the tower. They even had a pair of slitlike windows that offered an excellent view over Myth Drannor’s treetops and spires. Unfortunately, it was still a cell, and Geran and his friends were not likely to leave it any time soon.
When their jailers locked them in and left them to their devices, Sarth sat down on one of the bunks, holding his horned head in his hands. “Far be it from me to say I warned you against acting in haste,” he growled at Geran, “but I seem to be in a prison because of your rashness. Do you have any idea how difficult it is for someone of my appearance to obtain even the slightest hope of a fair hearing? It will be years before I am released!”
“This was not how I hoped it would turn out, Sarth,” Geran replied. He threw himself down in the opposite bunk. “It might have helped if you’d avoided the earth-shaking thunderclaps and dazzling flashes of lightning when we were trying to slip in and out of the Irithlium ruins without being noticed.”
“You would rather I’d allowed the cornugon to slay you?” Sarth demanded. The tiefling glared at Geran, red anger flashing in his eyes.
For a moment Geran wondered if he’d presumed too much on the sorcerer’s friendship; he doubted very much that Sarth was used to being spoken to in such a manner. In the last few tendays, he’d persuaded Sarth to become a renegade, ignored his counsel about dealing with Aesperus, and finally disregarded the danger his friend worried about-rightly, as it turned out. He sighed and shook his head. “No, I suppose not. Forgive me. I haven’t listened well of late.”
The tiefling glowered a moment longer before his anger faded. “You’ve had many things on your mind,” he admitted. “I know this isn’t your fault alone.”
“Good,” Hamil interjected. The halfling looked from Geran to Sarth, and back again. “It would have been damned annoying to be locked up with the two of you not speaking to each other. Now somebody magic us out of here, and we’ll be on our way.”
“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid,” Geran said. He gestured at the chamber around them. “These cells suppress most forms of magic. I can’t speak for Sarth, but I know I couldn’t light a candle in here without a match.”
Sarth nodded glumly. “I will investigate carefully, but I fear it is the same for me.”
The three companions passed a good deal of time in the next day or two by searching for any weakness in their confinement. Castle guards came by to check on them frequently; Hamil prevailed on them for a deck of playing cards, which helped to alleviate the tedium. Neither Geran nor Sarth could muster anything more than a cantrip in the cell, while the bars and walls seemed to be in excellent repair. Geran finally had to admit that there would be no quick escape from the coronal’s palace. He’d have to hope that their hearing, when it came, would offer the opportunity to beg for leniency and perhaps get at least Sarth and Hamil released.
On their third day of confinement, the tedium was interrupted by the arrival of several Coronal Guards, who climbed swiftly up the steps to their cell. “Ho in there! You have a visitor,” the first guard cried. “Make yourselves presentable!” Geran exchanged glances with his companions, and stood to face the hallway outside the cell. A moment later, a slender elf woman in a dress of green and gold appeared. Her hair, a glorious autumn red in color, was bound at the brow by a gold fillet, and flowed to the middle of her back like a river of molten copper.
“The coronal,” Geran whispered to his friends. He lowered his head and dropped to one knee. Sarth and Hamil looked at him, more than a little surprised. Then Sarth put his arm across his waist and bowed stiffly, while Hamil swept his hat from his head and gave an extravagant flourish.
Coronal Ilsevele Miritar studied the three of them through the bars of the cell, and raised an eyebrow. “I am flattered by your courtesy, Geran Hulmaster,” she said in the Common tongue, “but I seem to recall that you are no subject of mine.”
Geran rose, and his friends straightened from their bows. “Old habits die hard, my lady,” he said simply. As a Coronal Guard, he’d pledged his sword to the coronal and served her to the best of his ability for more than four years. He would still be in her service to this day if his duel with Rhovann hadn’t happened.
The coronal regarded him coolly for a long time, and he did his best to meet the measuring gaze of those emerald green eyes without flinching. Finally she sighed and said, “What am I to do with you? I have to confess that it never crossed my mind that you would simply defy my banishment. On those few occasions in which I have had to impose that punishment, it was understood quite clearly that there was to be no return. And I know that you are well acquainted with the laws against delving into the ruins without permission. Do you have so little regard for my authority that you feel free to do as you please in my realm?”
He winced; having attended Ilsevele’s court even for the brief time he’d been in Myth Drannor, he recognized that she was about as angry as he’d ever seen her. “I only did so in desperation, my lady,” he said. “My homeland is in grave danger, and the key to setting matters right happened to be here.”
“I am familiar with your reasons. Daried Selsherryn has already come before me to argue for you. Unfortunately, your belief in the necessity of your actions does not free you of my judgment-or free me to set aside the laws of the realm.”