Cole left this curiosity for later and turned to the high counter with the mirror above it, hoping to find some water to drink. The surface was made of the same strange material and came almost to his chest. He gave himself a comical appraisal in the mirror, hitched his sheet tight with one hand, and leaned over to survey the deep bowl cut out of the stone.
The only feature beyond the basin were three cylinders vertically slotted in a neat row. Cole twisted the one on the left, and it spun freely, but did nothing. He pressed down on it, then tried pulling it up. The plug slid out of the hole easily and water began flowing through the channel and splashing into the basin. Steam rose from the fluid; he didn’t need to touch it to verify the danger.
He replaced the cylinder and pulled the one on the far right. There was a gurgle, then he was rewarded with bone-chillingly cold water. He forced his sore calves to lift him to the stream, wiggling his stomach up on the edge of the counter so he could reach a sample. It tasted excellent; he drank it in large sideways gulps as it dripped from his cheek and ran back toward his ear.
Raising his head, Cole wiped the moisture from his chin, then cupped one hand and gathered enough to splash on his face and push through his hair. There weren’t any towels nearby, so he made do, wiping himself dry with the edge of his sheet.
Cole picked up the plug from the counter and dropped it back into place, stopping the flow of water. The workmanship was remarkable, to create stone that could prevent seeps while sliding so smoothly. He ran his hands along the counter as he turned toward the exit, walked back to the bedroom and gave the door a slight push, watching it intently as it swung shut with a satisfying click.
This place was outrageous. Cole felt like he could soak it in without an ounce of stress. Surely his friends were being treated just as well.
Was this their thanks for rescuing Anlyn? Or were the Drenards trying to make up for the spot of miscommunication from earlier?
He double-checked his silky coverings and went to the next door. It stood alone on the adjoining wall, right across from the foot of the bed. Larger than the other two, Cole’s innate sense of layout and aesthetics suggested this one would open into a marble hallway. He could imagine the plush runner that would lie beyond, Molly padding down the middle of it, a silk robe fluttering behind. She was probably coming right then to pull him by the hand, the two of them rushing off to see marvelous, alien, things.
I’m back on Glemot, Cole thought to himself, more of the dull aches in his muscles and joints slipping away. He reached for the gold-colored doorknob on the massive slab of rock and it clicked open with a twist. Making sure he had his silk sheet tightly clutched, Cole pulled the door toward him and began to step around it—into the exact hallway from his imagination.
But the gold bars that ran vertically through the doorway were too narrow to squeeze through. Cole looked them up and down, confused. One hand reached out to touch the cold metal barrier in his way. He lingered on the poor design of the passageway before it finally hit him:
This wasn’t Glemot.
It was Palan.
7
Cole shouted down the hallway. He tried Molly’s name first, then ran down the list of crew and friends, thinking of each. Hopefully they were rolling around in their beds, enjoying their captivity with all the bliss ignorance could provide.
But, now that he knew, what was he supposed to do? Lie in bed and wait on his captors? Or was he even being held here? This seemed like an unlikely prison. Perhaps the bars were for his safety? To keep something from getting to him!
The thought put a shiver up Cole’s spine. It seemed the only way to solve the paradox presented by the room. It was too lush for ill intent, but obviously he wasn’t meant to go anywhere else. Until he found out for sure, Cole decided to choose the option that made the lump on the back of his head cease its pounding. He was here as a guest, he decided. Protected in a room he’d never be able to afford for the rest of his life.
He was going to enjoy it.
He returned to the bathroom to investigate the larger basin sunk into the floor. Dropping the silk sheet, he knelt and inspected the three stone stoppers along the wall. Going with his hunch, he pulled the center one out and warm water began flowing into the large rectangular pit. He let it fill a meter up, adding quite a bit of the pure hot water as well. When it was deep enough to cover him, Cole replaced the stoppers and lowered himself into the steaming pool.
“If this is prison,” he said to himself, “I’ll join Walter in a life of crime.”
Almost instantly, the soreness from his capture began melting away. He let out a long groan of pleasure and forced his legs straight, elongating every muscle and tendon to allow the heat in. He lay like that for over an hour, hovering on the border between sleeping and waking, his brain not able to dream or think. Just be.
It wasn’t until his hands felt callous from the pruning that he decided he’d had enough. He rubbed them up across his face and through his hair, pushing tepid water across his skin. With a series of protesting grunts, he pulled himself out of the tub, then removed the stopper by his feet.
The liquid relief swirled away with happy gurgles; he moved in front of the mirror and began stretching, both arms raised high as his muscles cooled. Looking at his reflection again, Cole noticed he’d lost a bit of muscle over the last month. He was too lean. Being on the run didn’t seem conducive to good health, and eating out of pouches had taken its toll.
But his face… it looked right. He looked like he ought to look. Happy. Relaxed. He wished Molly could be there to feel it with him, to see him in such good spirits.
Then he remembered he was completely nude.
He grabbed the silk sheet and tried to wipe away most of the water before wrapping it around him. After attempting a few more configurations, he gave up again. The “garment” was destined to be a precarious wrap on his slender hips, one hand formed into a fisted buckle.
Back in the bedroom, he checked the bars again and found everything as impenetrable as before. He looked around for anything meant to entertain, and found nothing. Going back to the large window, Cole pressed both hands to the glass and cupped his face. He still couldn’t see anything through the blinding glare.
The silk sheet hit the floor.
He bent to pick it up, wondering if he should just poke two holes in the fabric, drape the damn thing over his head, and walk around like a ghost.
Surveying the room one more time, Cole figured this was one of the most perplexing jams he’d ever been in. He was being forced to luxuriate in conditions beyond his upbringing. Nobody seemed to be expecting anything of him right now. He could crawl back in bed and sleep for days or take another bath until he was one giant wrinkle.
But those bars made it hard to relax. Especially since he didn’t know what they were for.
As tempting as it was to laze around until the answers came, Cole decided to prepare for the worst. He went back to the bathroom and drank as much water as he could, then splashed some on his face to jolt his senses. Setting his bed-sheet aside, he launched into a standard-grav exercise routine: stretching, push-ups, sit-ups, and an hour of tai chi.
The Drenards came for him just as he was switching from his tai chi routine to shadowboxing. He threw out his fists in snappy jabs, the head in the mirror ducking and weaving to avoid each blow. Combining uppercuts, elbow strikes and body-blows, he imagined a roomful of foes coming at him one at a time. With each punch, he blew out his breath, tightening his stomach muscles to absorb every possible counter from his opponent.