He crept through the near darkness, the torture area lit only by a few dim coals still glowing on the ash-filled hearth. It seemed as though he held his breath the whole way; his nerves stretched into taut wires, ready to snap at the least provocation.
No one heard him. No one came awake. No one raised the alarm. He crept, ghostlike, up the steps into the palace itself and emerged into the cold, clean air of the night.
CHAPTER 9
Pressed against the door of his cell, his shoes soaking up squalid mud, the snores of his cellmates rattling the air, Leon watched through the grille as Noel slipped away to freedom. Leon battled the urge to sound the alarm. It was almost more than he could bear to see Noel escape, but he pushed down the hatred surging through him. If Noel was caught now, they would likely maim or kill him.
Unconsciously Leon rubbed his right side where his ribs felt bruised and sore. Noel might have the injuries, but Leon felt them. Not strongly, not enough to incapacitate him, but he feared what might happen to him if Noel died. Just how closely were they linked?
He hated the thought of being dependent upon Noel. The fact of Noel’s existence was enough to pour rivers of anger and hatred through him. When they first came upon each other tonight, it had been all he could do not to seize his twin by the throat and choke the life from him.
He could not bear the fact that Noel was the original and he the copy. Copy… something less than whole… something imperfect… something that could never stand alone as long as the original existed for comparison.
He tipped back his head and shut his eyes a moment, trying to slow his breathing. Even now, emotions boiled raw and furious within him. His legs were unsteady at the knees, quivery, as though he had been running for miles. His heart jerked too fast. He rubbed the right side of his chest to slow it down. Although he had known he must soon meet Noel, he had been filled with a mixture of dread and excitement. Nothing, however, had prepared him for that actual moment of standing face-to-face with him. Because while gazing into Noel’s gray eyes, so steady and keen, like tempered steel, he had been filled with the dreadful certainty that he should not exist at all.
Then Noel had actually said the same thing.
“I live!” said Leon through gritted teeth. His fingers dug at the coarse, mildewed grain of the door as though to claw his way to freedom. “I belong.”
But in his heart he knew better, and that made him all the more determined to get rid of Noel. For if there could only be one of them in existence, then Leon intended to be the one who survived. He had to figure out how to do it, how to put an end to Noel that would not kill him as well. There had to be a way to cut the link between them.
Was it the LOC that made Noel special? Leon had listened to him consulting it. He knew the LOC had made it possible for Noel to escape.
Leon frowned at the copper bracelet on his own wrist and rubbed it angrily. Why couldn’t he have an operable LOC? Why did he have only this fake copy?
Because you are an anomaly, a freak, an accident.
He shoved the thought away with fresh resentment. Very well. He might not have a LOC of his own. He might have come into this world with a purse of fused, unusable coins. He might have other flaws-other differences — but he could make a place for himself here. He liked Mistra, liked Sir Magnin and the events that were happening around him. He liked shaping history, feeling it flow and re-form under his influence like modeling clay.
The key to success lay in possessing Noel’s LOC. The knowledge it contained would give him almost limitless power. And because he was Noel’s duplicate, the isomorphic properties should work for him. The LOC would protect him, and Noel could be eliminated.
It was indeed poor jail design to have the hinges set on the inside of the door, but Leon was unable to remove them anyway. They had long since rusted into a solid mass with the hinge, and even prying and scraping with the thin edge of his bracelet could not budge them.
Gasping and fatigued, he finally gave up. Thirsty, he went to the water pail and scooped some of the water into his mouth. It was probably stale, but it had no taste to him. Earlier in the day he had drunk wine for the first time, and it had had no taste either. Cold and wet, going down his throat; that was all. He had eaten with Sir Magnin’s men. They proclaimed the steamed grape leaves stuffed with seasoned rice to be delicious. Leon could feel the textures upon his tongue, but there was no taste for him, no enjoyment.
It seemed there were other flaws besides the lump of fused, unusable coins in his purse and the inoperable LOC on his wrist. Flaws in him.
He felt panic unraveling the edges of his mind and shoved it away hastily. Not flaws, he told himself with all the force he could muster. Differences.
A trickle of sound caught his attention. Cat-quick, Leon went to the door and listened. It was the turnkey, yawning and shuffling, his torch flaming high in the cross drafts of air. No more than half awake, he made his rounds slowly. At random he inserted a long staff through the door grilles and poked an occupant. Curses, moans, or dead silence responded to this ploy. He twisted the iron maiden about on its chain, then let it spin free, chuckling softly to himself as the occupant sobbed in agony. Then he came over to the last cell block.
By now, Leon had his plan worked out. He reached his hand through the grille. ‘Turnkey!“ he called softly. ”You there, listen. He’s gone.“
The turnkey stared at him and scratched his head. “Eh?”
“He’s gone. My double is gone.”
“Be it so?” The turnkey peered at Noel’s door, half ajar, and scratched his head again.
Sweat broke out upon Leon as he pressed with all his might. But this man’s mind was too simple to be affected. “He’s a sorcerer,” said Leon urgently. “I heard him calling on his demon, and it answered him plain as plain. It opened the door for him. He’s free. Don’t you understand?”
“Got loose, eh?” The turnkey finally seemed to comprehend. He touched the door with wonder, then backed away. “Jailer!” he shouted. “Jailer!”
He ran for the jailer’s quarters, crying out loudly.
In moments both of them returned. The jailer took one look at the empty cell, and his craggy face turned grim. “Roust the guards,” he said to the turnkey. “Hurry, man! Don’t stand there gawking.”
The turnkey shuffled off, and the jailer stared at the empty cell with his torch held aloft. He crossed himself.
“Aye,” said Leon eagerly, pressing hard. He could affect this man’s wits. He’d already done it once, and that made new persuasion easier. “Sorcery. I heard him at it. I heard the demon talking to him. It tore the hinges off the door for him, and none of you heard.”
The jailer was sweating. He bent and picked up one of the bolts from the floor, turned it over in his thick fingers, then dropped it. “Witchcraft!” he whispered.
Leon had been experimenting all day. Already he had found that when he willed it he could walk past people without them able to remember seeing him. He could also persuade them to do what he wanted, regardless of where their own best interests lay.
“Witchcraft,” he echoed now, feeding on the jailer’s fear as though it were ambrosia, taking small sips, drawing out the moment to its fullest. “He’s called his demons down upon Mistra. Sir Magnin must be warned. Only I can protect him from the sorcerer.”
“You!” The jailer blinked and came over to stare very hard at Leon through the grille. He put the flaming torch close to the grille, and the heat drove Leon back. “You are his double. If he is a sorcerer, then so are you.”
“I command no demons,” said Leon sharply, displeased by this argument. “Unlike him, I possess no special powers. But because I am his-”
“What is all this?” demanded Sir Magnin’s voice, booming loudly enough to awaken all the inmates. He strode in, a long, billowing cloak draped over his bare shoulders. Guards with drawn weapons trotted behind him. “Jailer, an explanation. Your minion has broken my sleep with the babblings of a madman. Who has escaped and how?”
The jailer bowed low. “My liege, forgive me for failing my duty. I do not know how this man-”
