Feeling even more sickened, Bannon ducked out of the menagerie and went instead to the adjacent tunnel in the sandstone outcropping, hoping that this passage must lead to where the captive fighters were held.
Two steps inside the tunnel, just beyond where the slash of sunlight penetrated, one of the morazeth leaned against the wall, watching him. She didn’t seem overly alert, but her very presence was threatening. Bannon supposed that no other guard was necessary. Her close-cropped hair was light brown, her eyes an intense hazel. All the exposed skin on her arms, her midriff, and her thighs sported designs and spell-forms scarred into her flesh.
As Bannon hesitated, she looked up at him, unimpressed and uninterested. She crossed her arms over the black leather band that covered her breasts. She didn’t speak, forcing him to state his business. “I … I need to see the champion.”
“You wish to fight him?” she said. “I don’t think you could handle the champion. We aren’t taking volunteer combat today.”
“No … he’s an old friend. His name is Ian. I knew him back when he was young, on Chiriya Island. He will remember me.”
“He’s the champion,” said the morazeth. “He needs no other name, and when he is finally defeated and killed, there will be a new champion. Ildakar always has a champion.”
“But he’s my friend,” Bannon said. “I just want to talk with him. I was there when—” He swallowed hard. “—when the Norukai slavers captured him.”
The morazeth snorted. “None of our fighters has a past. Nothing they did before being trained here matters in the least.” She looked at him, searching the beseeching expression on his face. He did not retreat, as she seemed to expect him to do. At last, she straightened. “But this is a matter for Adessa. I’ll let you talk with her.”
With a haughty turn, the morazeth walked into the dark tunnel, expecting him to follow. Bannon hurried after her, seeing that the woman’s bare back was also marked with spell designs. She was lean and well muscled, and the wrap around her waist covered and yet conformed to her tight buttocks. She had an angry sexuality about her as she walked, taunting, tempting. Bannon swallowed hard and forced himself to think about Ian trapped inside these cages, tortured for all those years, forced to fight. What a nightmare it must have been.
Bannon’s life had been torn apart after he lost his friend, and he had suffered many other deep scars as well. He fled Chiriya to seek a new and perfect life out in the world. He could do nothing to save his murdered mother or the drowned kittens, which were a symbol to him of his many losses.
But maybe he could do something to help Ian.
The morazeth led him through the cool sandstone tunnels, finally emerging into a broad, well-lit grotto. Several circular pits in the stone floor were training rings, no doubt. Honeycombed passages in the rock walls led to individual barred cells, separate chambers that served as both homes and prisons for the warriors.
“Adessa!” the morazeth called. “This little whip of flesh wants to see the champion. Claims to be a friend.”
The stern female trainer emerged from one of the large chambers hollowed out of the stone wall. “The champion has no friends—except for me. I am his trainer. I am his reason for existence.”
Adessa was older and more seasoned than the young morazeth guard. The curves in her body were coiled springs rather than feminine softness. Her face was seamed with lines, her dark hair speckled with gray. Her brown eyes fixed on him like the points of crossbow bolts aimed by an expert archer.
Though he nearly quailed, Bannon found strength within himself. He let his fingers touch Sturdy’s hilt and he faced her. “The champion’s name is Ian. He is my friend. He’ll remember me.” Then he lowered his voice and muttered to himself, “Sweet Sea Mother, I hope he remembers me.”
Adessa looked at him, curious. “I vaguely remember that he said his name was Ian, a long time ago. By the time he came to me, the Norukai had mostly burned that identity out of him. But this might be interesting.” Her thin lips pressed together in an implacable line. “Lila, get back to your post. I’ll take care of this.”
The young morazeth flashed a quick glance back at Bannon, then sauntered back up the tunnel to resume her duty.
Adessa led him past the main training grotto to a side tunnel filled with barred chambers. “I’ve given him the largest cell. It is his due as champion, merely one of his rewards for being a fighter.” Adessa looked at Bannon, then glanced at his sword. “You fancy yourself a fighter?”
He squared his shoulders. “I have killed many with my sword, but only when necessary.”
“Killing is always necessary when fighting is warranted,” Adessa said. “I doubt you’ve been trained properly.”
“The wizard Nathan Rahl trained me. He is an expert swordsman himself.”
“I hear he is not even a wizard,” Adessa said. “The champion is our best. I am a harsh trainer, but I am proud of him. I have rewarded him in many ways.”
“Then you can reward him by freeing him,” Bannon said, sounding much braver than he felt. “He was captured as a boy on Chiriya. He’s not a slave.”
The morazeth trainer’s eyes widened with bitter amusement. “You don’t understand the meaning of ‘slave.’ His life is not his own. Ildakar possesses him, and he serves his purpose. I possess him. I train him. I reward him—until he fails me. And then we will have another champion.”
“His name is Ian,” he insisted, then added, “and my name is Bannon.”
“Names are overrated.” Adessa stopped in front of a wall of iron bars that blocked a well-lit chamber with a woven mat on the stone floor, a sleeping pallet, a basin of water, a chamber pot.
“Champion,” Adessa called, “you have a visitor.”
Bannon’s heart nearly broke to see the young man lying on the pallet. He had recognized Ian during the arena combat, but now he saw his friend up close. When the champion sat up on the pallet and looked at him, Bannon saw that Ian was no longer Ian. He was a stranger.
“It’s me—Bannon,” he said in a raspy voice. “Do you remember me from Chiriya? From home? We were friends as boys.”
The champion swung himself off the pallet and walked toward the barred doorway. He wore only a loincloth. His body was a landscape of hard muscles and white scars. He didn’t speak.
“I’m Bannon,” he said again. He gripped the bars of the cage, pleading, looking into the face of his friend. “We used to play together. We explored the island. We worked in the cabbage fields. Don’t you remember? We would splash in the surf or explore the tide pools. And then that day…” Bannon’s throat went dry. He drew a breath. “That day when the slavers came.”
“Bannon?” the other man said, as if testing the sound of the word in his mouth. His teeth ground together, and his voice became harder, darker. “Bannon.”
“Yes, the slavers tried to capture both of us, but you helped me get away. And I…” He wasn’t sure he could go on. The memory of that day was almost more than he could bear, but he kept talking. “I ran, and they took you. I didn’t help you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Tears streamed down his face. His chest hitched, and he began to sob. “Sweet Sea Mother, I am so sorry!”
Ian’s face remained an implacable stone mask. He showed no reaction, no recognition. Bannon stared at him through the rippling sheen of tears, sickened to see Ian’s transformation. His friend’s eyes looked both dead and full of killing. He had been changed from a carefree island boy into a ruthless fighter.
“I found you again,” Bannon said. “I came back—and I have friends here in Ildakar.” He clenched the iron bars. “I’ll do whatever I can to free you. I’ll get you out of this place.” He reached into the cell, imploring.
“Bannon…?” Ian said. Now a fire kindled behind his eyes, an angry glow. “I remember.”
“Yes, we were friends, and that day—”
“You let me be captured.” Quick as a snake, Ian seized Bannon’s wrist.
Crying out, he tried
to pull away, but kept staring into the face of his friend. “I’ll free you. I promise, I’ll try—”
“I do not want to be freed. I’m the champion. I am a fighter … and I’m here.” He glared at Bannon, but when he looked at Adessa, his features softened into a worshipful expression. “I don’t want to be freed.” His other hand darted between the bars and wrapped around Bannon’s neck, like the jaws of a pit-fighting dog.
Bannon gurgled and fought, trying to pull away. “Please…”
Adessa watched for a moment, amused, then whipped out a black-handled cylindrical tool from her hip. It had a thin, needle tip, like a shoemaker’s awl. She jabbed the tiny point into Ian’s forearm, and somehow it set off a burst of pain like a lightning bolt. Ian released his grip and staggered back, dropping to the floor.
Bannon collapsed in front of the bars of the cell. “Ian…”
“He won’t bother you again, Champion,” Adessa said.
Recovering from the surge of pain, Ian climbed back to his feet and stood in his cell, just staring at Bannon. His expression roiled with anger and disgust.
Adessa grabbed Bannon by the back of his loose brown shirt, as if she were seizing an animal by the scruff of its neck. “I can’t let my champion be unsettled. You must go away.” She hauled him from the cell.
Bannon kept shouting, “But Ian! I’m sorry.”
“He wants nothing to do with you,” said the morazeth trainer. “Now leave him alone.”
CHAPTER 22
As night closed in, Nicci walked alone through the spacious tiled corridors of the grand villa, looking up at the glittering spray of stars visible through open vine-framed skylights. In alcoves and corners she found marble statues representing Ildakarans in various walks of life: a slender young woman carrying a jug of water on her shoulder; a broad-chested huntsman with two hares slung at his side; a guard wearing the same short cape, scaled chest armor, and shoulder pauldron as High Captain Avery; even an old crone with a back bent from a lifetime of labor and a bitter expression of spite, her head turned to one side as if to criticize anyone who walked past.
Nicci had never bothered to appreciate art, although when she’d taken Richard as her sham husband to Altur’Rang, she had seen him make wondrous carvings in stone, especially the inspired and uplifting statue called Truth, whose artistic power was so undeniable it had sparked a revolution in the oppressed city.
These statues in the grand villa, though, did not seem merely decorative. While not as horrific as the abominations Brother Narev had commissioned to show the flaws of mankind, they were still unsettling. Nicci guessed that these had once been actual citizens of Ildakar, petrified in punishment for some perceived misdeeds, like the boy yaxen herder. Wizard Commander Maxim considered himself Ildakar’s master sculptor, though he worked with magic and flesh instead of stone.
Bannon was away from the villa, presumably out with his newfound friends, so Nicci dined privately with Nathan in his room. Noticeably reticent, the wizard reported his work with Andre. “I believe the fleshmancer may have an answer for me. Today we created a map that showed the lines of my Han, and we could see an obvious flaw. I need to keep working with him to get my gift back.”
“That is why we came here, Wizard.” She saw how he brightened when she used the title, regardless of whether he could still touch his magic. “But I don’t want to dally. This city makes me uneasy. Although we must spread the news about Lord Rahl, I fear the rot in Ildakar goes deep.” In many ways, it reminded her of Altur’Rang.
Nathan licked his fingers after finishing a honeyed pastry for dessert. “I couldn’t agree more. I’m not certain that Ildakar can be saved by one defiant sorceress and her wizard companion … even if I do get my powers back. We need to be away from here before they raise their shroud again and seal the city out of time.”
Unsettled and fearing she might eventually have to stand against the wizards of Ildakar, Nicci returned to her quarters to consider her original training—the many skills she learned from the Sisters of the Light, as well as the terrible Subtractive Magic when she became a Sister of the Dark, serving the Keeper. Nicci had an arsenal of spells that surpassed that of most gifted opponents, but the wizards of Ildakar had already proven their extraordinary abilities. They had turned hundreds of thousands of men to stone and sealed their entire city away from time. Even Nicci couldn’t compete with that.
Since the star shift, she wasn’t convinced that all of the intricate magic she had learned—verification webs, spell-forms, actions and consequences and interactions—would work exactly as it once had. Now alone in her quarters, she stood before the shallow reflecting basin filled with water and studied her intense blue eyes, the blond hair she had brushed back and fastened with a jeweled Ildakaran pin. Her features were lovely.
Countless men had looked upon her with lust, and many men had used her. The one man she loved, though, had never seen her as desirable. Richard Rahl respected her and appreciated her help. He admired her as a companion, advisor, and one of his greatest allies in his quest for peace and freedom throughout the world. But Richard’s true devotion was reserved for Kahlan.
Love was not measured on the simple scale of human beauty, though. No objective jury could claim that Nicci or Kahlan was more attractive. Both were beautiful women, but Kahlan’s beauty was for Richard alone, while Nicci’s was her own.
Wrapped in her thoughts, she dipped her fingers into the still basin, shattering her perfect reflection. She splashed the water on her face.
Nicci had long ago lost her chance to have a warm and compassionate human heart, but now she was stronger, with the proper loyalties, devoted to serving Richard’s cause of freedom, even though Nicci wasn’t sure she would ever find—or even wish to find—real love. Nevertheless, she knew she was more human than she had ever been.
Releasing her gift to snuff out the lights around her room, Nicci lay back on the silky, cool sheets of the bed and sank into sleep, and peace, and dreams.…
For the first time in many days, as her consciousness drifted away, she found the spell bond with her sister panther, Mrra. Her mind’s eye became the cat’s eyes. Her body became lean and feline, and she felt the power of her muscles, the sharp danger of her claws as she loped across the grassy plain. Mrra had found easy hunting in the wild: fat antelopes, jackrabbits, even ground squirrels. She ate well, but she was restless, waiting for Nicci.
Mrra had prowled around the ancient stone soldiers for days. With her enhanced feline senses, she could detect no threat in the statues of armored men, but her real attention was directed toward the great city filled with buildings, filled with people … filled with pain. Mrra could have gone off into the hills long ago, but she had remained, connected by her spell bond to Nicci, even though the city seethed with uneasiness.
The sand panther would not leave Nicci—or even the friends Bannon and Nathan, who had shown her kindness. Mrra wanted to protect them all, but she could do nothing while they were inside the great city. Nicci suffered repeated memory dreams of Mrra’s captivity, how she had been branded by the chief handler, trained as part of a troka with her two sister panthers, how they had killed opponents in the combat arena … visions that Nicci now recognized with the crystal-sharp details of her personal experience.
Though Nicci felt tense as a guest in Ildakar, she was now free again in her dream, connected to the big cat. Mrra experienced life and saw the world through her predatory eyes, ignoring external obligations or politics. She simply existed. She hunted. She ran. She slept.
Connected by the spell bond, Mrra was no longer content with her solitary feline existence. Nicci was part of her. Now that the link had been reestablished, something reawakened inside the panther’s mind. She ran across the plain as dry grasses whispered past her. Her tawny fur was the same color, and she would have been invisible to an observer … until she attacked.
Now at night, when her vision was sharpest, Mrra prowled just outside the city walls, smelling h
umans, the bitter stink of where they dumped chamber pots over the tall stone barriers. Garbage middens were scattered along the piled stone. Mrra explored the perimeter of the great city, avoided the towering gates, which were closed for the night. She climbed up speckled granite outcroppings, leaped onto a high boulder spattered with lichen that abutted a low section of the defenses. Decades ago, an acorn had fallen into a crack in the rock, and over the years a tall oak had grown, reaching higher, splitting the granite further with twisting roots.
Using her claws, Mrra scaled the oak, climbing to the uppermost branches. From a high, sturdy bough, the cat stared at the impenetrable wall, assessed the top, which was still more than fifteen feet higher than the tree. She coiled her muscles, judging the distance. She did not think, did not hesitate. With strength throbbing in her muscles, she sprang, making a mighty leap through the air.
The big cat barely reached the top of the wide wall. She scrabbled with her outstretched claws, gripping the edge of the last stone block, snagging one of the loose vines that grew over the wall. She kicked with her back paws, pulling herself up, thrashing her ropelike tail. With a great heave, Mrra pulled her body onto the top of the wall. She panted, tongue lolling as she rested for a moment; then she began to move, crouching low. She slunk along the top of the wall until she found a nearby rooftop in the lower level of the city.
Springing again, Mrra landed on the enameled tiles. She knocked several tiles loose, which clinked and clattered down in a cascade. Shouts came from inside the dwelling, but Mrra bounded down into a shadowy alley and darted away before a man and his wife emerged, holding up a lantern pot. They called out, challenging the intruder. The panther didn’t understand the words, heard only noises, human voices. Mrra could smell their fear.