He began to dream. A crown was laid on his head, and he was seated on a throne, and a man clad in black pulled the throne from under him and set it ablaze. He ran, still wearing his crown. Then a man with a whip for a tongue made him stick his head in an oven to fetch out a loaf of bread. His robes burned and he had the dress of beggars, but the crown, unblackened by the flames, was still upon his head. Then men seized him and struck him and spit upon him and threw him in a cage. He became a silhouette, curled up like a fetus, but the crown was of dazzling gold.
“He’s the one,” a voice called out.
Jaysynn sat up in his bed to see the room flooding with armed men, men with swords on their hips and torches in their hands.
“What’s this about?” Jaysynn asked, sweat beading on his forehead.
“You’re being transferred,” said one of the men. They grabbed him by the arms and pulled him out of the bunk, dragging his feet across the floor for a few feet before he could react and walk in pace with them. Soon the intruders were out of the room, their light vanished with them, and the other men in the bunkhouse soon shut their eyes again and returned to the delights of a good sleep after a hard day’s work.
Once outside the bunkhouse, the men drove Jaysynn to the ground and held his face against the dirt. They then tied his arms behind him and told him he was either going to go on a long march, or he was going to get dragged for ten miles.
Then they stood him up and their feet started moving—and his, too. The gate at the entrance to Tarc’s camp was open, and when these men were through it the guards stationed in the towers pulled it shut again.
“Where are you taking me?” Jaysynn demanded.
The answer to his question was a fist to his gut. He fell to his knees. The torchlight blurred together with the darkness and with the outlines of the men. One of them spoke, but Jaysynn couldn’t see or feel who it was. “That was your one warning. Every time you speak, a rib is going to break.”
The men pulled him to his feet again. They held him in the air by his arms and carried him along, dragging his feet along the ground, until he began to walk again on his own. His legs were weak from the blow, but he fought to keep up with the pace they set.
The warning was well taken, and for the remainder of the hike, not a sound was heard except for the huffing of a dozen soldiers on a fast-tempo march. They extinguished all but one of their torches as well, so very little was seen either.
The moon, which grew smaller each night, cast little light on their path: the tree roots at their feet were hidden in shade and the stones before them were invisible obstacles. The camp was on something of a plateau, but the further they got from it the rougher the terrain became—yet Jaysynn’s captors slowed their pace for nothing.
One of them stumbled when he ran the front of his foot into a stone. He cried out and then laughed. “Our feet will all be bloody tonight,” he said.
It was not a joke that this man was sharing with his friends. He had said it for Jaysynn’s sake, to cut the young man to the heart. It is easy to forget about pain, and this man wanted to remind him of it. It is easy for the mind and body to grow numb and suffer no more. After six miles or so into their trip, Jaysynn’s feet were miserable. They’d been crashing into rocks for a couple hours now. And now he remembered their terrible pain. And thinking of the pain in his feet made him realize how badly his legs burned, how much his side stung, and how heavy were his lungs.
He was reminded, too, that his body was still sore from his run into Falcon Point two nights ago, and that his body had not slept well for three days. And that all of his pains were magnified by the fact that his arms were bound. His shoulders ached from it, but also his whole movement was thrown off, making the work that much harder.
The thought of his aching body reminded him how much worse off he would be with a broken rib, so he kept his mouth shut and pushed on.
Soon they reached a road, and it quickly led them into the edges of a city, of Falcon Point. They passed through the board homes, even shoddier than the bunkhouses in the camp. As they walked on, the homes grew bigger and their materials, stronger and straighter. At last their march led them past the buildings of brick and mortar, and of hewn stone.
They did not rest until they had come into the Old Fort, climbed the stairs, and arrived at a closed door where two more guards were posted.
“The prisoner is here,” one of the guards called out as he knocked on the door.
The knob turned and the door opened. The man who had done it stayed out of sight behind the door, so what was revealed to Jaysynn and the guards was a big room, a long desk, and a broad man.
This man stood up, held out a hand cordially to his visitors, and greeted them, “Jaysynn Kyzer, Emperor of Thyrion—welcome to the arms of your enemy.”
“Tarc?” Jaysynn asked.
“Not at all,” said the man. “I’m Vac—Governor Vac. Tarc and I are both the spitting image of our father. But you will find we’re two very different people. For example, he thought a person’s past didn’t matter—that he could utilize anyone. I, on the other hand, think that people should hang for the crimes they committed yesterday, or ten years ago, or, say, two weeks ago.”
“I had nothing to do with the destruction of the wells,” Jaysynn said. His arms were bound and his body was weary, but against all reason his stance was strong. He was as bold as a non-Select child challenging the heir of Thyrion to a duel.
“You were the youngest of Thorynn’s sons, were you not?” Vac walked around the desk and leaned on the front of it.
“You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t know.”
Vac nodded. “The last in line for the throne.” He stared at Jaysynn and Jaysynn stared back. “And in this great disaster, every single person that stood in your way died. And you survived. Explain that.”
Jaysynn took two steps closer, anger in his eyes, but the guards grabbed him and threw him down. They pressed his head against the floor and put the weight of their bodies through their knees and onto his legs and shoulders.
“None of that,” Vac said, waving the guards away with a hand. “I trust you ran him hard. There’s no need to beat him on top of that.” The guards looked up at him. “Well, let him up.”
They released him, and helped him to his feet at Vac’s instruction.
“Now you may leave,” Vac told his guards.
“But, sir—”
“You’ve tied good knots. You’ve exhausted him. Coonhil will still be here.”
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