But in the end, she tried. Narienneh and Jeres Geliadde and the king’s own bodyguard and the king himself all listened to Leilis’s careful attempt to explain what she had thought and guessed and seen and surmised of the Kalchesene’s heart. All four listened with nearly identical neutrality, yet she knew she must at best sound like an impressionable girl, and at worst like exactly what Lily had accused her of being: a treacherous fool concerned with nothing but her own advantage.
At last, finding herself at the end of her ability to express herself, Leilis simply stopped. There was a pause that seemed to scroll out for a long time.
Then the king leaned his chin on his fist and said, taking Leilis utterly aback, “Do you know, young woman, you resemble your father amazingly.”
Leilis simply stared, for once utterly forgetful of elegant keiso manners.
“He was a close, mmm. Not friend. A close ally of my father, and then of mine. He, too, could see through all duplicity to the indwelling truth at the heart of a man.” This did nothing to resolve Leilis’s amazement, but Narienneh seemed enlightened. “Oh,” she murmured. “Yes. That was Nasedres Perenedde. Yes. He was a faithful client of Cloisonné House, and so fond of Coralberry.”
“And a fine mage,” murmured the king. He continued to gaze at Leilis, his chilly eyes thoughtful. “As you noted earlier, young woman, I was indeed present in the dragon’s chamber.”
CHAPTER 17
Taudde woke into silence.
At first he thought he had been made mute. Then, as he realized that more than his own voice had been silenced, that there was no sound anywhere, he thought he had been made deaf. The horror of these thoughts was so great that when it finally dawned on him that he was merely imprisoned in a soundless prison, the realization came as a relief. He traced the lacy edges of the muting spellwork with sideways glances—the spellwork could not be seen straight on—traced them again and again, compulsively, not because he hoped to break the spell, but simply as evidence that sound still existed in the world, that only his own prison was soundless.
Aside from its silence, the prison was not terrible. It was the sort of apartment a guest of rank might be given. The bedchamber where Taudde had awoken was small, but it boasted a bed that, though narrow, was well supplied with good blankets and coverlets. There were two other rooms. The first of these was a private bath, where the basin possessed six taps that ran with fresh water. One of them offered hot water, one cold, and the other four warm water that had been perfumed with musk or floral scents. Clothing had been laid out on a chest. His own clothing, Taudde observed with a tremor of disquiet. This was the gray outfit he had purchased himself… how many days ago? That trip to the Paliante seemed far in the past.
The water ran soundlessly from the tap and splashed equally soundlessly into the basin. When Taudde tapped his fingernails against the porcelain, there was no resulting sound. He bathed and dressed in total silence. His clothing did not rustle, his soft boots did not whisper against the floor. Taudde set his teeth against a desire to shout, to scream: He could not have borne proof of his own voicelessness. He went out into the final room with deliberate calm.
This room was the largest of the three. It held two small tables, a desk, and several chairs, all of polished wood inlaid with lapis and pearl. It was also the only room with a window. The window, of course, was barred—but the iron bars were chased with silver. Or no—he saw on closer examination that what he had first taken for silver decoration was the lacework of the muting spell. So outside that window, sound existed: voices and music, the simple calls of birds and the whisper of the breeze… Taudde went to the window and stood looking out at the world beyond. Rugged cliffs and a glimpse of the city, and beyond both, the endless sea. Below him, waves climbed the shore and broke into froth, but he heard nothing.
The bars were too closely spaced for him to reach a hand through to the outside air. Though that would avail him nothing, even if he could. This was a good prison. It might easily hold a bardic sorcerer for a hundred years, Taudde concluded. Exactly as he had been warned. He put a hand on the windowsill and leaned his forehead against the cold bars, closing his eyes. If Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes left him in this prison for so long as a hundred days, he knew he would go mad.
Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes left him there for three. They were the longest days Taudde had ever known. Well-prepared food was delivered at intervals, but he had no appetite for it. Clean clothing—his own, mostly—was delivered as well, and Taudde kept himself neat out of habit and pride and the hope that eventually he would find his respectable appearance useful in persuading someone that dramatic measures were not necessary to keep him imprisoned. But he also slept as much as he could, trying to drown the silence of the world that surrounded him with the remembered sound and music of his dreams. By the third day he found, to his despair, that sound was leaching out even from his memory, leaving his dreams as silent as his days.