Chapter four
Redemption
Dripping water echoed through the dark caves that stretched underneath Rikaydian Palace, tormenting the parched prisoner with the memory of tasting its unique, mineralized flavor. Cold air kept Hatan’s senses sharp but sleeping was difficult.
It had been many years since he’d been a prisoner here. Not since Tilayna Rikaydian had sent him here for using her first name in public.
Amenities were still lacking just as they were back then.
Despite the loneliness, he’d forgotten how peaceful it was. It provided excellent conditions for performing Joa-Tem, a combat form Hatan had learned from his father. But that was years ago, he thought as he slid his left foot across the stone floor, his bare skin numbed to the cold. His arms rotated in the dark as he pivoted, right foot now drawing an arc. The gash in his leg had sealed over. It should have gotten stitches, but they’d only given him a cloth that he’d wrapped over the wound to hold it shut. He was lucky there’d been no infection.
He estimated that he’d been in the dungeon now for several cycles. They’d brought food to him roughly every five marks. If Migo had traveled to Mazanib, he wouldn’t be returning to Jehubal for another year at least. Would they really keep Hatan in the dungeon for that long? He reckoned they’d tire of him well before then. It was only a matter of time. Perhaps after the new king was installed.
A distant clattering of metal signified the opening of the dungeon’s gate.
He halted his Joa-Tem and retreated to the back of his cell, clasping hands behind his back. He wasn’t expecting food for another couple marks. Perhaps the darkness had diminished his sense of time.
Torchlight reflected off the smooth cave walls as the sound of four sets of feet rang against the floor. He waited, hoping they weren’t coming to deposit another prisoner. He could only wonder what had happened to his men. Perhaps Captain Falshon and the others had all been ambushed and executed, but he wouldn’t give up hope. He would pursue his own liberation and the security of Migo’s throne all the way to the end.
As the group turned the corner and came nearer he could tell there was no prisoner among them. Three soldiers armed to the teeth, and one lady. The traitor. The puppet. Hatan let out a long breath.
Penym.
She’d warned him not to go rescuing Sinteya, and he’d done so anyway. Despite her betrayal through supporting the Kesten’s coup, she hadn’t wanted Hatan to get hurt. But she should have come to him. He could have protected her. They could have stopped this before it got too deep.
Now why would she have come to see him? He couldn’t imagine she was happy about the current circumstances, but maybe she was. Maybe the Kesten’s had promised her greater wealth than he could have offered.
As they stopped before his cell however, the firelight reflecting in her eyes told him all he needed to know. She was still afraid. His fists tightened behind his back. Queen Tilayna had ruled by fear, and what had that gotten her? The Kestens would be no different.
Using fear was the inferior way to rule. That kind of loyalty did not run deep. Migo hadn’t overthrown his mother just to have her replaced with another brute. Perhaps Penym had served the queen for too long and fear had become the only sense of loyalty she remembered.
If only Hatan had more time as regent, he could have hoped to heal the people.
His fists clenched even tighter.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Hatan said, tone even, free of sarcasm. “Though I must apologize that my amenities aren’t more accommodating. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Penym swallowed tightly before speaking. She gestured to the soldiers. “These men have come to beat you. One of your renegade loyalists attacked Vitori, and he’d promised you’d be met with double the pain.” She looked away from him, letting out a heavy breath.
So one of his followers attacked Vitori? He held back a smile. They were still out there. That was all he needed to know. Whatever they did to Vitori must have been worth it.
“I am here,” Penym said after a moment, “to let you know that a council of nobility is meeting in a few marks to propose a new king or queen. They intend to follow the rules of council and provide opportunity for each noble family to place their vote. You are the only representative of House Padarro—”
“Then I vote for King Rikaydian.”
“Of course,” Penym said, her eyes softening. She’d expected that response from him. He could see it in the slight uptick of her expression. She was as much a captive as he was, and he intended to free them. All of them. Jehubal would not be ruled by terror. “Do you swear your vote, then?” she asked, stepping up to the metal bars.
A soldier grabbed her shoulder, holding her back. “Do not approach. He is dangerous.”
“I do not fear him,” Penym said, shrugging off his hand. “Not every man has forgotten the meaning of honor.” She reached out her hand to Hatan, palm facing down, but he could see the trembling in her arm. “Do you swear your vote?”
Hatan took careful steps toward the bars as the soldiers bared their weapons. Shaking hands had nothing to do with swearing in a vote to council, but the soldiers wouldn’t know that. Penym was up to something. “I swear it,” he said, taking her hand. The touch of long, sharp metal chilled his palm.
A knife.
She nodded and he pulled his hand away, deftly tucking his hands behind his back.
“That’s all you need?” a soldier asked.
“Yes,” Penym said, stepping back.
The soldiers moved to unlock Hatan’s cell, their weapons drawn and ready. They hadn’t opened his cell since throwing him in. Fighting them would be no small matter.
Penym retreated through the dark.
“Not staying to enjoy the show?” Hatan called after her.
“I haven’t the stomach for it,” Penym said, “but I will deliver your vote.”
“Move to the back of the cell,” a soldier ordered Hatan as two soldiers entered, one of them remaining by the open door.
Hatan shuffled back, taking deep breaths. He was malnourished, with poor sleep, and was still recovering from his worst injuries. And yet, Penym had handed him a knife. Sands. Maybe he’d built other’s confidence in him more than he should have.
“Let’s see, where to start?” one soldier asked in his light-pitched voice.
“The nose,” said the other. “Break his nose like the girl did Lord Kesten’s.”
Ah. Shanon. She must have been the one. He’d scarcely felt such relief to know she was still out there fighting. It gave him the final invigoration he needed.
