And it has to be now.
Overhearing a chance comment by one of his torturers made things urgent. The man admonished another not to strike Keles in the face and to refrain from breaking a leg. “He has to be presentable to the full Council.”
While the other torturer had agreed, he’d countered with, “They’ll have their hands full trying Pyrust’s whore.”
The guard’s remark meant the full Council had gathered in Vallitsi. Jasai was in serious trouble. Keles-tired, aching, and starving-had to act.
Part of him remained detached and distant as he invoked magic. He used it to draw himself to his feet and steady his limbs. Taking a deep breath, he glanced back and slowly nodded. Now it begins.
He touched the water and shifted its nature from fluid to vapor. The steam drifted through the dungeon and poured into the iron lock. Once vapor touched metal, the water condensed.
Keles pushed his sense into the lock. He could have touched the iron and, as he had with the stone, recalled it to a time when it was very hot, but that would take too much of his strength. Instead he concentrated on the water, making it eat into the metal. The water coursed through worn spots and tiny fissures, spreading like rusty ivy through the bolt. In no time at all, the bolt parted.
The door sagged, then the hinges, which had also rusted through, snapped. The dungeon door fell inward, then burst apart on impact. The door’s nails disintegrated into rusty stains. The din of planks rattling against the dungeon’s stone steps echoed loudly.
A wave of exhaustion staggered him. Too sloppy. I have to be more careful. I don’t have that much strength.
The door’s collapse brought shouts. Feet pounded along the corridor. The guardsmen’s shadows fell across Keles, eclipsing him. “What deviltry’s this?”
One guard dropped a hand to his sword. Keles touched magic and caressed more of the water. A fluid stream stabbed up into the man’s nostrils. He sputtered and choked, his hands flailing. He tried to scream, but more water choked him. Eyes bulging, he shoved himself back, slamming the other guard into the wall, then dropped to his knees. His face darkened as he noisily tried to suck in air, then fainted.
The other guard rebounded and went for his sword. Keles forced water into the wooden scabbard. The wood swelled, holding the sword fast. Confusion knotted the man’s brow, then gave way to rage. The guard pulled sword and scabbard free, then charged.
Keles took one step forward and stamped down. An oaken plank levered up, smashing the guard in the knee. Screaming, the man crashed face-first into the floor. His sword bounced from nerveless fingers. It rolled to a rest in the puddle and slowly dissolved into an orange stain.
Fatigue wrapped Keles in a leaden cloak. He wavered and caught himself with a hand. Pain arced up his arm, shocking him to clarity. He rested for a moment, then staggered forward, slowly picking his way up the steps. He stepped over the other guardsman and continued up the corridor.
At the guard’s station he stripped a rough woolen blanket from a pallet. He pulled it tight around himself, scratching his raw flesh. Shivering, he worked his way up the next flight of stone steps.
He stopped near ground level, peering through the narrow, barred window in the door. The guardroom doubled as a barracks. He couldn’t see any soldiers sleeping or sitting around the lone table. A fire still burned in a central pit, and a pot of broth bubbled there. Four bowls of steaming rice sat on the table. Whoever had been on duty had been recently called away.
Probably to attend the Council. Lucky me.
But why they had left did not matter. A key ring hung on a peg set in the wall. His freedom depended upon getting his hands on those keys.
But how?
Then he smiled. A leaky bucket of water sat by the fire pit. He concentrated and pushed. A stave cracked. The bucket emptied, and Keles channeled the water to the wall beneath the keys.
Once the puddle had grown large enough, he shifted the water from fluid to solid. An icicle stabbed up and lifted the key ring from the peg. Caught at the pinnacle, the keys jangled discordantly.
Another push and the ice cracked at the base. It fell toward the door. Two more times the water melted and froze, raising the keys, then dumped them in a jangle. Finally, the ice lifted them to the tiny window and Keles unlocked the door.
Then, just as he emerged from the dungeon, the guardroom door opened.
Water flowed into Keles’ outstretched hand and froze into a short dagger.
The woman coming through the door glanced at him and smiled. “Your weapon is melting.”
“Tyressa?” Keles’ weapon shattered against the floor. “What are you doing here?”
“Have you forgotten Prince Cyron made your safety my responsibility?”
“No.” He leaned heavily against the doorjamb. “We have to find Jasai and save her.”
“Already done.” She crossed to him and scooped him up in her arms. “I’m getting you out of here.”
“Put me down. I can walk.”
“We need to run.” Tyressa toed the door open and slipped into the night. She cut down an alley heading east. Other shadows detached themselves from buildings and moved with her. A sliver of light revealed Grand Minister Rislet Peyt-an ally. Keles relaxed and Tyressa laughed gently.
“My job was to find you after we’d freed our companions.”
“Now you go back for Jasai, yes? I can help.”
“No need.”
Tyressa slowed, then set Keles down in a small courtyard near one of the city’s eastern gates. It stood open, and several wagons waited near it. The Desei from Tsatol Pelyn held the gate and, at Tyressa’s signal, headed out.
“I don’t understand. Wagons? Supplies? How did you accomplish this?” Keles sagged against Tyressa’s shoulder.
The clatter of hooves on cobblestones echoed through the night. Riders were coming fast. Tyressa lifted Keles into the back of a wagon, then turned and drew her sword. The Desei warriors spread out, sinking back into shadows, ready to attack if required.
Riders came into view and Tyressa’s triumphant laugh signaled that no fighting would be necessary. Most of the riders swept past and out the gate, but one drew rein at the wagon. Tyressa plucked the woman from behind the rider and deposited her beside Keles.
“Jasai?” Keles wanted to say more, but the lump in his throat choked him.
“Yes, Keles.” The Princess leaned over and gave him a firm kiss.
That brought a laugh from the rider. “You’re the Anturasi she was on about.”
Jasai fell back as the wagon jerked and started through the gate. “He saved us at Tsatol Pelyn.”
“You have my thanks, then.”
“You’re welcome.” Keles peered hard at the rider. “Who are you?”
“Prince Eiran, at your service.”
“But you’re dead!”
“The Council of Ministers certainly intended me to be.” The Prince laughed. “While they’re all having a banquet to celebrate my sister’s capture, we’ve gone and stolen her away. I doubt that will help their digestion.”
Keles arched an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt that concerns you terribly.”
“You’re right.” The Prince glanced back at the city and the open gate. “I’m more concerned about what they’ll do to get her back. I’m hoping we’ll get far enough away that we’ll never have to deal with the consequences.”
Chapter Sixteen
32nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Plains of Tsengui, Nalenyr
Prince Pyrust recognized Virisken Soshir as a kindred spirit the very moment he laid eyes on the man. Though Soshir appeared unkempt and harried, having retreated from the fall of Tsatol Deraelkun accounted for his condition. Rumors casting him as an ancient Mystic returned to help the Empress destroy her enemy intrigued the Prince-as any military experience was quite welcome.