Stormlord rising

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Scarpen Quarter Warthago Range, foothills How long had he been there? He was no longer sure. Already he had lost track. Watergiver help him, how would he be able to tolerate this? To tolerate the powerlessness of it! No one to command or respect him. No one in fear of him. No one anticipating his whims.

Just endless days of boredom, stretching out ahead… Eight years! And no guarantee he would be freed even then. Using his crutch, he paced the floor, dragging his injured leg. Up and down, up and down.

When he read, the books only reminded him of what he had lost. When he slept, he dreamed of women now out of reach. When he dreamed of Terelle, of her body, he could never carry the dream to fruition. Frustrated, roiling with anger-yet with nothing to vent it on. If he shouted at the world, there was no one to hear.

He'd locked Shale up like this. The Gibber brat hadn't gone sandcrazy. But then, the mother cistern had been luxury to a dirty Gibber urchin. He, on the other hand-he was a rainlord!

But Shale had escaped… There must be a way for me to do the same…

Davim. He had to rely on Davim. Davim would come, Shale would be punished, and he would be released… That Gibber brat would never be clever enough to bring down the sandmaster, the idea was laughable. Davim would come. And if he didn't, Laisa would. Senya would make sure of that.

Senya, of course. She must be his hope. The sand-brained brat was in love with him; she'd made that clear enough.

It was just a matter of time. Of patience. And he had always been a patient man. He had prided himself on his patience. Besides, he still had one more arrow already fitted to his bow. One more way to control Shale. All he needed was to get out of here. When he sensed water approaching, he rushed to the grille. Visitors… He didn't care who it was. His desperation to see someone, anyone, was overwhelming. And it could be Davim and his men. Hope rushed into his throat spasming, choking him with anticipation.

But it was the last person he wanted to see.

Iani rode over the hill alone. He approached the grille, then sat watching Taquar impassively from the back of his pede. "I have a present for you," he said. He took a parcel wrapped in bab matting and threw it onto the ground so it rolled up against the grille. And then he turned his mount and prodded it back the way he had come.

"No!" Taquar called. "No-wait!" He gripped the bars of the grille. "Iani-please, come back-"

Iani did not even bother to glance over his shoulder.

Taquar took a deep breath. How could he lose control like that? He was the Highlord of Scarcleft. He would be strong. He was strong. He would not beg.

He stood erect, his hands clutching the grille, a spider caught in an iron web not of his own making, and watched the man ride away.

He knelt at the grille and tried to pull the parcel inside. It was just too large to fit through the squares of the grille, so he put his hands through and started to unwrap it. As the last wrapping fell away, he sat down on the ground with a thump, his heartbeat skidding violently in his despair. A stench of rotting meat tainted the air.

"No," he moaned. "Nooooo-"

Davim's head stared back at him, mouth grinning wide to mock the man behind the bars.