A man’s voice spoke into the round cell. “The law remains unchanged, but you and I both know it is the Chief Watcher’s interpretation of the law that matters. Both of us would be in a difficult position if he found out I let you visit Tarran.”

  “I will take that chance,” the woman replied, “Unlike you, I am not afraid of what that creature might do to me.”

  There was a short pause before the man continued. “These are difficult days, Tyreth. We need to play this out carefully in a way that benefits both of us.”

  “There is no ‘us,’ anymore Morgan,” Tyreth responded crisply. “Those days are over. You made your choice.”

  “I had no choice at that point,” Morgan answered tensely. “Now there are new decisions to be made.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tyreth shot back.

  Morgan lowered his voice. “Major changes are about to take place. I cannot say more right now, but I need you to consider what could be if things were resolved between the palace and the priests. If I were able to take over the palace and rule Kadir, I would need a wise and confident counterpart. Together, we could free the city from the Chief Watcher and rebuild it.”

  “Do you honestly believe I would join with you after what you’ve done to the priests and my family? I would rather go to the Wasting before I would agree to be your counterpart.”

  “Things are not as they seem.” Morgan spoke so quietly Corvan could barely hear him. “Very soon I will be able to make it all clear to you. Promise me you will attend the Wasting ceremony, and I assure you that you will see things differently.”

  “The High Priest’s daughter cannot be seen at that blasphemous event,” Tyreth retorted.

  “She need not be seen there,” Morgan said, “but she should be there, after I let her speak with her brother before he goes to trial.”

  There was a long pause. “Fine. I will observe the ceremony from the back of the amphitheater. I need to see Tarran.”

  The man’s tone softened. “Thank you, Tyreth. You won’t regret it. I will awaken him and then wait for you outside the open door. I must fulfill my duty as his guard.”

  Hard-heeled boots crossed the room, and a rough hand shook Corvan’s shoulder. “Tarran, wake up. Your sister is here to see you.”

  Corvan rolled on his side and watched as Morgan strode back to the door. His broad shoulders were set like a matador going out to challenge a bull. The man touched the outside of the door jamb, and a band of amber light encircled the cell a few feet off the floor, illuminating the form of a woman just outside. “You must be quick.” Morgan said to her. “The change of guards will arrive shortly.”

  Corvan sat up as the woman entered the cell. She wore a pale blue hooded cloak with a white scarf around her neck. Silver tassels hung from the drawstrings of the hood. As she approached, she swept her hood back, revealing an intense face framed by shoulder length black hair that swayed with each step, along with the sheathed sword at her waist. To Corvan, it was as if she had stepped off the front cover of one of his favorite science fiction magazines he had tucked away in his chest at home. A warrior princess, he thought to himself, but as she drew near, he noticed that although she wasn’t much older than him—she was at least 6 inches taller.

  She smiled and his heart warmed until he reminded himself that she was under the impression he was her brother—the same brother he had let die. He dropped his head and looked at the floor.

  Tyreth pulled him from the bench into an embrace. “Tarran, I am so glad to see you. Have they been treating you well?” The words were full of concern, but the hug was loose and aloof. Letting him go, she took a step back between him and the door.

  Before he could stop her, the young woman pushed his hood back and looked directly into his face. He waited for an expression of surprise, but she gazed resolutely at him without flinching. Her eyes were as blue as a prairie sky in winter, but they were filled with cold sorrow.

  “How can they accuse you of killing Harmon?” Tyreth said, glancing over her shoulder. “This is a terrible mistake,” she said in a loud voice, then turned back to him.

  Corvan opened his mouth to speak, but she gave her head a slight shake and touched his lips. Her fingers smelled of sweet spice.

  “Tarran, you look terrible,” she said. “These cells are so cold. Here, take my scarf.” She unwound the white cloth from around her neck, looped it around his, then tucked it into the front of his cloak.

  The kindness of the gesture brought a tear to Corvan’s eye, and he lowered his head once more.

  Tyreth put her fingertips under his chin and raised it. “Don’t give in to fear,” she whispered. “Be brave and it will be alright. Do exactly as you will be told.” She tugged on the side of his hood and then spoke loudly again. “Keep your hood on and stay warm.” She stepped away and nodded to him. “I will try to come back to see you before your trial begins.”

  She stood there looking at him and her eyes filled with tears. “I loved you … Tarran.” Her voice faltered. Clenching her jaw and giving her head a tense shake, she flipped her hood up and turned away.

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  When she reached the cell door, she said something to Morgan about her brother being very ill and that he should be left to rest, then the door slid closed.

  Corvan sank down on the bench. Tyreth knew he was not Tarran, and she seemed to know her brother was dead. How could she know that since Harmon was dead as well? It could only mean that Rayu had arrived at the temple building with Kate and had filled Tyreth in.

  Pulling her scarf free from inside his cloak, he held it close to his face. The soothing scent of her spiced perfume swirled about his head. Her last words were to keep his head covered, so she must want him to maintain the ruse that he was Tarran. Yet she had not covered his face when she went out, which didn’t fit her plan. Morgan might have noticed he wasn’t Tarran if he weren’t so preoccupied with his own plans for her. Although Corvan didn’t know anything about the man, he found himself strongly disliking him.

  Annoyed and not really knowing why, Corvan flipped his hood up over his head. A small packet dropped past his face and fell into his lap. Picking it up he looked closely at cloth pouch tied to a stick that looked like a short, thick pencil with a brown eraser. Untying the cloth, he found a small knobby pebble inside. He held both items up to the light from above, then tried pressing the eraser bump on top of the stick. A tinny voice spoke, and he held the stick closer to his ear.

  “We must get you away from the guards before morning comes.” A man was speaking in clipped phrases, as if he were on a scratched record. “Your only chance is for the guards to think you have died of a sickness. You must immediately swallow the pill we have given you. It will make you appear as if you are dead. We will come for your body before the Chief Watcher calls for your trial. Make sure you drop this message stick and the cloth down the waste hole right after taking the pill, then lie down on the bench. We shall speak with you after we give you the antidote and bring you back to life.”

  Corvan pushed the knob again, but the stick remained silent. Bring you back to life? Tyreth was part of this strange plan, and he wanted to trust her, but how could she know this pill wouldn’t accidentally kill him?

  Placing the pill in a small indentation on the stone bench, he tossed the stick and pouch down the hole. Returning to the bench, he stood looking down at the pill. Even if he chose to take it, his mother always said he should never take medicine on an empty stomach. Digging to the bottom of the pack, he pulled out the wide can of fruit he had saved. Now that he had made it to the city, he should likely throw it down the hole as well. On the other hand, Kate still had the Swiss Army knife to open the cans, and she would appreciate whatever was inside the can.

  Putting the can back in the pack, he opened the side pocket of the pack, pulled out the last piece of beef jerky and stuffed the pack back under the bench. The jerky was a bit soggy, and the salt had risen to the surface in a white crust, but it tasted great and helped curb his growing hunger. He washed it down with a long drink from the stone tap, before returning to the consider the pill.

  “It’s likely bitter,” he muttered to himself. “If mom was here, she would give me a teaspoon of honey to help get it down.” But he had something sweet as well. Retrieving the last of the chocolate chips, he poured half of them into a small pile next to the pill, rolled down the top of the bag and stuffed it back into the pack beneath the bench. He would save the last bit for Kate; she loved chocolate.

  “Don’t move.” Morgan’s deep voice growled in his ear, and a sharp point pressed into his back. How long had the man been standing there?

  “So, you’ve been holding out on us? In these difficult times, with so little food, the Chief Watcher has decreed that hoarding food a crime punishable by death.” The knife pushed harder. “Move over to the wall.”

  Corvan slid along the bench and tight against the wall. Morgan sat down but kept the point of a black bladed knife hovering between them. His intense face was framed with thick curly hair, and his grey eyes studied Corvan’s every movement.

  “I regret that it has come to this, Tarran. You and I should have been brothers, not enemies.” Morgan peered into the recesses of Corvan’s hood. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me truthfully. Is it true that you’ve defected to the palace, or is your presence here just another one of the High Priest’s insane plans?”

  Corvan lowered his head, and the piercing eyes disappeared under the leading edge of his hood.

  “Your silence says it all. He may be your father, but the High Priest is a fool. In time you will all be destroyed by his schemes. The Chief Watcher does not tolerate treachery. He will not let you live after your trial.”

  Corvan remained mute.

  “So, what are these?” Morgan poked at the chocolate chips with the tip of his knife. “Something your sister brought you? Tyreth is as clever as she is beautiful.” He picked one up and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger.

  Corvan shifted his weight, and Morgan instantly raised the knife to Corvan’s chest. “Don’t try anything, Tarran. I don’t believe you are ill. You’ve never been sick a day in your life.”

  Morgan sniffed at one of the chocolate chips, then nibbled at it. “Sweet, just like Tyreth,” he said, poking his knife toward Corvan.

  Morgan cocked his head to one side, then reached out and pulled the white scarf from Corvan’s neck. “You won’t need this in your crypt. Nothing will keep you warm there.” Laying his knife next to the chocolate chips, he looped the scarf around his own neck before picking up the chips one-by-one and dropping them into the palm of his hand.

  Corvan glanced at the knife. Should he try to grab it? Morgan seemed intent on the chocolate but when Corvan raised his eyes he found a smirk twisting at the corners of Morgan’s mouth. The man was baiting him into a fight.

  Morgan plucked the last of the chips along with the small pebble. As Morgan added Tyreth’s pill to his handful of chips, Corvan twitched. In an instant, Morgan swept the knife off the bench and pointed it at Corvan’s heart. “A little too slow, Tarran. Perhaps you are actually ill.” Leaning back, he tossed the chocolate chips and the pill into his mouth.

  “The night guard will be here shortly. If you will not answer my questions …” Something crunched in his mouth, and he grimaced. Jabbing his tongue into his upper molars, he pulled out half of the pebble pill and held it up between his fingers. A cold sweat broke out on his face. “What have you—” He lifted the knife to Corvan’s throat, his hand shaking as the tip touched Corvan’s skin.

  Corvan jerked back, tossing his head and sending his hood flying off.

  Morgan’s eyes widened at the sight of Corvan’s face. He jumped from the bench, stumbling, then tripping as his heel caught in the toilet hole. The man crashed to the floor; his black knife skittered toward the open door.

  Corvan stood to help him, but Morgan tried to crawl away, clawing his way toward the knife and the door. His hand reached out and brushed the door frame, then he collapsed on the floor.

  The door slid shut with a soft click. The room was silent.

  https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/90135/the-cor-series