“I think we should wait for the questioning until Holy Keeper Saleria has returned from . . . well, wherever,” Shanno offered lightly, flicking one hand vaguely. “That way we can question all parties involved.”
“I told you, she went to the Convocation of Gods and Man, to stand as the holy representative of the Katani people before your God Jinga and your Goddess Kata,” Aradin repeated patiently. “They have roughly two hundred and fifty priests and priestesses representing the three hundred–plus Gods and Goddesses of all the nations in the world. It may take her a couple of weeks to return.”
“So you are deliberately obstructing justice?” the guard on his right asked.
“No!” The situation was getting ridiculous. “I am willing to abide by the Laws of God and Man, which grant me the right to speak the truth and have it gauged by true spell. Either bring forth your Truth Stone and present your accusations in a lawful manner, or let me go.”
“Sounds to me like he’s resisting arrest,” Shanno drawled.
“I am not!” Now he wished Teral were still with him, so he could alert his Guide to this new twist.
“What is your name?” the guard on the right asked him.
“Aradin. Why?” he asked
The guard on the left clamped his hand around the Witch’s throat. Aradin struggled, alarmed, but it was too late; not only did both guards tighten their grip, but the left one spoke. “Voche Aradin obstrum obstarum!”
Magic washed over him from that grasping hand, first up into his head, then down into the rest of his body—where it quickly drained to the rune-etched cuffs on his hands. Still, enough remained that when Aradin tried to protest, nothing but the hiss of his own breath escaped. Some sort of silencing spell? And that little blond turd is looking twice as smug now. He glared at the deacon. I wonder how much you bribed these guards . . . and how badly your own Patron Deities will punish you for giving false witness, False Priest!
Daranen started arguing, equally shocked, but the middle-aged scribe was merely shoved aside while the two guards hauled Aradin out of the Keeper’s house. Without his breakfast, and without any way to continue to protest his innocence aloud. Wisely, Aradin did not resist. There was a loophole in his capture; the spell said Aradin, but not Aradin Teral. Wherever they were taking him, so long as he was allowed to keep his Witchcloak with him, or could at least wait for the darkness of night, he could fix everything.
All it would take was a bit of patience . . . when he didn’t want to be patient. Being a priest hadn’t been his first choice for his life’s calling, but he had learned that praying sometimes actually helped. Darkhan, Dark Ana . . . Kata and Jinga, it doesn’t hurt to pray to You, either. You all know the truth. May this idiot get what he deserves, without anyone else being harmed.
He knew it wasn’t the most gracious prayer in the world. Of course, he could have argued that he had just cause, but if there was one thing he had learned from watching Saleria pray, a true spirit put as much power as any rift-spilled magic could. Part of her power came from the purity of her intent. Marched up the street between the two guards, Aradin sighed and strove to do better.
* * *
At least the cell they gave him was clean. Aradin had stayed in far worse places trying to pass themselves off as inns. While he wasn’t completely sure the pallet was free of fleas, the walls and floor were stone, the high, barred window had glazed panes that let in just enough light to have read by if he’d had a book with him, and the facilities were quite civilized, with a porcelain flush-bowl and a small sink behind a chest-high privacy screen. Katani-style corked faucet, of course, but one couldn’t have everything. There was even a small wooden cup for drinking, rather than anything crude like a bucket of stale, possibly scummy water.
The only thing missing was a fourth stone wall. His was one of half a dozen cells, each with one wall of stout, rune-chased bars to keep in the criminals of Groveham. Currently, he was the only prisoner, set in one of the middle chambers. With a cell on either end and the remaining four facing the far wall, there was nothing between him and the two guards lounging at their table but those bars and a few body-lengths.
Clean, but boring. After four hours, he rapped on the bars until he had the attention of the guard who had spell-silenced him, and brought his fingers to his mouth, miming eating. Then he rubbed his stomach and gestured at his mouth again.
“What’s that?” the imperial guard mocked, lifting a hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you! You’re going to have to speak up.” He chuckled.
Aradin planted his hands on his hips and gave the guard his best stern priest’s glare. It worked. Grumbling, the guard flipped his hand.