Silverdun smiles knowingly. He returns to school the next day and finishes his term with excellent marks.
Silverdun awoke to the sound of singing, the ethereal wail of Chthonic hymns. The tune was an old one, and familiar. Silverdun knew the same tune but with different words; the Arcadian peasants in Oarsbridge had sung it in the fields when he was a child. His mother had told him once that it was the singing that first drew her to Aba. Silverdun couldn't understand these words, sung in the vowelless glottal language of native Annwni, but he assumed it was about more or less the same thing: freedom from suffering, the walk of the soul, release.
There had been a few Arcadians at Crete Sulace, the prison where Silverdun had been held with Mauritane and the others. They sang the same sorts of songs. Silverdun had resented it then, and he resented it now. The notion of freedom in captivity, of the release of earthly bondage. How long were you supposed to keep singing before deciding that nobody was listening? Silverdun had left the monastery, so he supposed he'd reached his limit, assuming he'd ever truly been singing to begin with. Still, it was pretty music.
He opened his eyes and struggled into a sitting position to find Ironfoot awake, and eating. Ironfoot glanced over and pushed a tin plate of bread and greens toward him. Silverdun wasn't hungry, but he ate anyway, taking great care with his right arm.
'Does it hurt?' said Ironfoot, indicating the bandaged stump.
'Not really, no,' said Silverdun. 'Itches like a bastard, though.'
Ironfoot nodded. If he had stories about amputees he'd met during his years of service in the army, he wisely kept them to himself. Silverdun knew that he should be focusing on their present predicament, but his thoughts kept coming back to his missing hand, and how thoroughly his life had been ruined. He couldn't go on with the Shadows like this; if they weren't hanged or imprisoned for life, his career was over. He might well be returning penniless to Oarsbridge to become one of those nobles, 'reduced in circum stances,' who survived by selling off his titled lands bit by bit until there was nothing left.
'Well, I'd say that our first mission has been an unqualified success,' he said. 'Wouldn't you agree?'
Ironfoot took a while in answering. 'Oh, yes. We'll most certainly be lauded as heroes for this,' he finally said.
'I've been a hero before,' said Silverdun. 'It's a wonderful way to meet women.'
A pair of guards appeared in the hallways outside the cell, one aging and grizzled, the other young, barely out of his teens. The older of them opened the cell door, and the other came in to rouse Silverdun and Ironfoot.
'Come on, then,' the young guard said, pulling Silverdun to his feet.
'Where are we going?' asked Ironfoot.
'You're being brought before the magyster,' said the older guard.
Once Silverdun was on his feet, the young guard grabbed his forearm roughly and smashed the stump of Silverdun's wrist into the stone wall of the cell. Silverdun shrieked.
'You killed two of my best friends,' the young guard snarled in Silverdun's ear.
'Now, now,' said the older guard, stepping into the cell. 'That'll be enough of that.'
Chastened, the younger guard allowed the other to lead Silverdun and Ironfoot out of the cell and into the hallway.
'I apologize for young Bryno's conduct,' said the old guard. 'But you must admit he's got a legitimate complaint.'
The guards led them past a row of cells, nearly all occupied. Many of the prisoners were paupers, perhaps caught stealing food or pickpocketing. Some were drunks; some were religious types who'd probably picked the wrong day to inject politics into their worship. They all watched Silverdun and Ironfoot pass with open interest. As far as any of them knew, Silverdun and Ironfoot were Unseelie bureaucrats: something they doubtless seldom saw here.
They were walked through another row of cells, then into a dark corridor and up a dim flight of stone stairs. Guards were placed here and there along the halls. Even if Silverdun had the strength to attempt overpowering his current escorts, there was nowhere to run.
After a few more turns and stairs they were deposited in a featureless, windowless room, where a man in a maroon robe sat on a dais in a highbacked wooden chair. A large book was open on a stand in front of him. A pair of guards stood on either side of the man, who leaned forward when Silverdun and Ironfoot entered. He was in his early middle years, with a bit of a paunch. There was an eagerness in his eyes that made Silverdun uncomfortable. This was a man who wanted something.
The old guard bowed to the man, who nodded back. The younger guard forced Ironfoot and Silverdun to their knees on the floor before the dais.
