On the third day, he was again standing by the window, gazing out at the soundless world. When a hand landed on his shoulder, Taudde leaped and whirled, his heart pounding. He had, of course, heard nothing of the man’s approach. Three black-clad men had entered his prison. Two stood near the door, and the other, of course, had come to get his attention with a touch, since a word could hardly do so.
This one was, he saw, the same senior officer of the King’s Own guard who had been with the king in the dragon’s cavern. The man didn’t look amused by Taudde’s startlement. The man’s hard face did not lend itself to expressions of amusement, but even accounting for this, he looked grim. He looked like he thought Taudde was dangerous. Taudde had never felt less dangerous in his life. He bowed his head, trying to show that he intended only to cooperate.
From the ironic crook of his mouth, the officer was not convinced. He stepped back and gave a jerk of his head, and one of his subordinates came forward, drew a sword, and stepped behind Taudde. A hard hand came down on Taudde’s shoulder, pressing him to his knees, and the sword was laid against his throat. For one dizzying moment, Taudde thought that despite the elaborate prison, he was simply going to be killed out of hand. But then the door of his prison opened again.
This time Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes himself entered, with his son at his side. Another man, a thick-bodied older man with the black overrobe and long white underrobe of a mage, trailed a step behind.
The king. The Dragon of Lirionne… The king was thinner than he had been before the caverns. The bones stood out starkly in his harsh-featured face. His ivory-pale hair was streaked with pure white. That, too, was new. But the king’s eyes were still cold and opaque, and he still wore expressionlessness like a mask.
Prince Tepres was very like his father, if not so hard to read. His gaze flickered to Taudde’s face and then away—and then, as if unwillingly, back again. The prince looked fine drawn and strained. His dark eyes had become, Taudde thought, a shade darker, as though the memory of shadows had crept into them and remained. And yet there was a sense of ease between the prince and his father that to Taudde seemed new.
The king glanced at his officer and gave a small nod, then glanced in command at the mage who had accompanied him.
The mage took a short wooden rod out of a pocket in his robe and broke it. The spell of silence surrounding the prison relaxed.
The return of sound—the proof that sound still existed in the world—was a relief so shattering that Taudde nearly cried out. The rustle of cloth, even the sound of men breathing, seemed loud; the creak of leather as one of the guards adjusted the sheath of his sword was a sharp counterpoint. Taudde drew a hard breath, suppressing an exclamation that might have been nearly a sob. At his throat, the sword shifted.
Taudde bowed his head again and held very still, certain that the mage could restore the muting spell as quickly as it had been eased. Even if that was not true, he would hardly be allowed to sing a note, or whistle, or tap out a rhythm. He waited to see if he would be allowed to speak.
Then the king made a small gesture. The sword lifted away from Taudde’s throat as the black-clad guards eased back a reluctant step.
Taudde promptly used this new freedom to cast himself prone at the king’s feet. It was a dramatic gesture, one Taudde hoped might incline the king toward clemency. He was glad the prince had come with his father; possibly in his son’s presence, the king would be less inclined toward ferocity than if he had been on his own. Taudde pressed his face against the floor and waited.
The king broke the pause. His voice was quiet, overlain by harsh tones that called to mind the powerful tones of the sea. “Do you plead for pardon, Kalchesene? Do you believe you deserve pardon of me?”
Taudde rose as far as kneeling, lifting his gaze to the king’s face. He might have reminded the king, I saved your life, and your son’s life, and your dragon as well. But of course Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes knew that, and Taudde did not need to be told that the gratitude of kings was not merely fickle, but on occasion actually dangerous. He said instead, “I have permitted myself to hope for generosity, eminence.”
The king inclined his head the merest fraction. “I wish you to explain to me, Kalchesene, why you came to Lonne. To kill my son? Despite the Treaty of Brenedde?”
At least this was a question and not a statement. Taudde answered at once, slipping subtle layers of sincerity and truth into his voice. “No, eminence. I never intended to break the terms of the treaty. I came… I came to Lonne because I found myself driven by a desire to learn the magic of the sea.”