Out of the Darkness

He gnawed at the end of the pen when they gave him the new leaf of paper. He’d known exactly what he wanted to say to King Gainibu, even if he’d sometimes had trouble writing it in Valmieran. Here . . . How do I even begin? he. wondered. But that solved itself. By the time you read this, I expect I shall be dead, he wrote. Coming out and saying that, even on paper, felt oddly liberating. He had an easier time going on from there than he’d thought he would.

The guards took away not only the letter but also the pen and the bottle of ink. “We don’t want you turning this into a stick, now,” one of them said, and laughed at his own joke.

Lurcanio dutifully chuckled, too. “If I could, I would,” he said. “But a man would have to be more than a first-rank mage to bring that off, I fear. He would have to be what the Ice People call a god.”

“Those stinking, hairy savages,” the guard said, nothing but scorn in his voice. He took the letter out of the cell. The door slammed shut. The bar thudded into place to keep it shut.

Two afternoons later, the answer from the King of Valmiera to Lurcanio’s appeal arrived. Lurcanio broke the seal and unfolded the leaf of paper. He recognized Gainibu’s script, though the writing looked less shaky than it had when the king drank himself into a stupor almost every night.

Colonel Lurcanio: Greetings. I have read your appeal, King Gainibu wrote. The essence of it seems to have two parts: first, that you were only obeying the orders your superiors gave you; and, second, that you might have done far worse than you did. The first falls to the ground at once. A man who murders again and again under orders remains a murderer. As for the second, it is probably true. No, I have no doubt that it is certainly true. I would not claim that I have forgotten our acquaintance. You might indeed have done more and worse. That you did not was surely due to the fact that you wanted to keep Valmiera as quiet as you could, but does remain so. It being so, I must ask myself whether it constitutes an adequately mitigating circumstance. With some regret, I tell you that, in my judgment, it does not. Aye, you might have done worse. What you did was quite bad enough. The sentence shall stand. Gainibu, King of Valmiera.

Slowly, deliberately, Lurcanio folded the king’s letter and set it down. Nothing left now but to die as well as he could. The guards had watched him read the letter. He nodded to them. “You will not have to worry about my complaints on the quality of accommodations and the dining much longer,” he said.

“Did you really think his Majesty would let you off?” one of them asked.

Lurcanio shook his head. “No, but how was I worse off for trying?”

“Something to that,” the guard said. “Tomorrow morning, then.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Lurcanio agreed. “Can you give me something worth eating tonight? As long as I am here, I aim to enjoy myself as best I can.”

As the guards trooped out, one of them remarked, “Whoreson’s got guts.” Lurcanio felt a certain amount of pride. As soon as the door slammed shut, though, it evaporated. What difference did it make? When the sun came up tomorrow, he would stop caring--stop caring forever--what happened to him.

Time seemed to race. He’d hardly blinked before it got dark. His supper was no different from any other meal he’d had in gaol. He savored it just the same. He found himself yawning, but didn’t sleep. With experience about to end forever, he didn’t care to miss the little he had left. They wouldn‘t have brought me a woman, even if I’d asked for one, he thought. Too bad.

The sky, or the tiny scrap of it he could see through his window, began to grow light. The door opened. A squad of guards came in. Lurcanio got to his feet. “Can you walk?” the guard captain asked him.