Though Arn could not see it from his cell, a moon waned and waxed in the night skies above Starath. The month crept by slowly, and rather uneventfully. Most days—in the morning—Arn was taken to the questioning cell for Vellek’s attention. Some days, Vellek was called to handle other responsibilities, so Arn spent all day in his metal hole.
A week or two earlier, Gamden began being called upon for his own questioning. He would spend an hour or two away and then would return cursing. Over the last week, Arn’s fellow prisoner had been held by the guards for what felt like the entire afternoon. Arn had awoken to find the cell empty on two separate occasions, though Gamden had been returned by the morning. Perhaps it was the fruits of Vellek’s labours—or perhaps Gamden had revealed something of use to Drowen Deathless and his ilk.
With more hours alone, Arn found himself appreciating Massema’s visits a little more. Simply hearing another voice could be refreshing in that dark, hot, place. He would try not to be distracted by the angry red glow at the other end of the prison cell, long enough to listen to her stories of the other slaves.
One day, as he lazed against the metal wall, Arn heard boots shuffling in the hall. At first, he suspected it was just Gamden returning, but then the noisy prisoner at the end of the hall—the bloodstained one—called out, “Madman—you have another visitor!”
Arn was often the only one with visitors, so it was a safe assumption. He stood up and walked to the bars.
A man strode up to Arn’s grated door—face hidden by a dark cowl. He chuckled quietly and said, “Took a long time to get here, old enemy.” Then he slowly pulled back the hood, revealing a worn scowl and a scruffy chin. It was Nevo—the chief of Master Quenden’s guards.
“Nevo,” Arn said quietly.
The bitter man pulled out a blood-stained dagger and gave Arn a withering glare. “You destroyed it all, you wretch. You ruined everything.” Next, he produced a key.
Arn let out his breath slowly. He was in the woods of Razaad, ambushed by tribe killers. He took a step back, tensing his muscles. He was in those ruins, surrounded by the dead themselves. He took another step back—Nevo fiddled with the lock, ready to come for Arn. The lock unlatched and the door swung out.
Nevo stepped within.
Arn was the Stone Spear to those assassins. He was survivor of the dead. He was a screecher in the forests of Scoa. And—Arn realized—he was standing in the red aura, consumed by its fire.
Nevo thrust out his dagger and Arn sidestepped, caught his forearm with a glancing swipe, and then slammed Nevo against the metal wall. When his enemy lashed out with the dagger once more, Arn ducked beneath it.
This time, a molten red claw seized Nevo’s hand—dagger and all—in its violent grip. Whatever had lurked within the mote of sunlight had climbed out and stood above Nevo like some monstrous sight from another world. Eyes aglow with red light and fanged mouth sneering, the spectre gave Nevo a forceful yank—and snapped his arm in half.
Arn scrambled back as blood splattered from the protruding bone. He cowered in the corner as the thing grabbed the screaming guard-captain by the head and twisted his neck asunder. A sinister chuckle and a slow, satisfied, slinking walk—with these, the creature returned to its fiery bed. The dancing firelight on the cell walls faded.
The broken body of the dead Nevo rested opposite Arn, slack jaw and rolled eyes facing the ceiling. Shakily, Arn grabbed him by his torn collar and dragged the body to the door of the cell, then shoved it out into the corridor. Arn shut the cell door without a second thought—he was safer inside.
Nearly an hour later, Drowen’s guards found the keyholder that Nevo had killed. They came rushing down with blades drawn, but found Arn hiding in his cell and the dead assailant outside.
“Treat his hand,” ordered one of them. Arn realized then that his hand was dripping blood from a gash along the palm. When had he been cut?
Soon, Arn was taken to see Master Vellek. The strange robed man held his hands over Arn’s bandaged hand this time, instead of Arn’s scalp. If he was doing anything, Arn could not feel it. Arn pulled his hand back a moment later and gave Vellek a sneer that said, “Stop bothering me.”
“I can heal it quicker,” Vellek said, quietly.
“That thing in the cell—the fiery spirit—it wasn’t real, was it?” Arn growled.
Vellek grimaced. “No, Arn.”
“Your staring and your hand-holding are useless,” Arn said. They had stopped chaining Arn to the ceiling—he contemplated attacking Vellek to demonstrate the man’s inadequacy. “I am done with it.”
“You were afraid, Arn,” Vellek said. “Your fear is a key to your delusions.”
Arn chuckled bitterly. “I was not afraid,” he assured the strange, robed man. “I beat Nevo before, I could have beat him again. I’m not afraid of him, or you, or Drowen, or death.”
Vellek sighed wearily. “I’ll have them take you back to your cell,” he said, crossing toward the hefty wooden door of the questioning chamber. “Maybe tomorrow you will reconsider.”
Arn hung his head wearily. He did not want to go back to that cell, with that abomination lurking in the metal heat. He just wanted it to end. With bound hands, he had little choice but to let them lead him back—back down into that abysmal chamber.
Gamden was waiting in the cell, back from wherever the guards had taken him. He gave Arn a small smile when he saw him.