Canellian Eye, page 25
Quaylan could barely walk, but his pride was still intact as he respectfully bowed to the king and princess.
“Majesty, Highness,” he mumbled through torn lips.
The crack running through Drel’s heart widened, but she maintained her dignity and silence. Quaylan had never been prouder of her.
“Take this traitor to the cells,” Brewan ordered, “and get what we need.”
Ilvaas smiled at the king’s ominous words. It was a licence to torture the enemy and everyone knew it. As Quaylan was hauled away, Drel’s resolve almost faltered, but the slightest twitch of her hand was the only sign.
“Majesty, I have a better way,” Healer Cal told the king, thrusting the test tubes under his royal nose. “I’ve developed a test. It’s quick and doesn’t require painful methods.”
“That was fast,” Brewan remarked.
Yes it was, thought Frayn. Too fast.
“I’ve been tinkering with blood chemistry testing for months, Majesty. I was curious as to the Canellian genetic structure.”
“Come with me,” the king told him, sailing off in the direction of the dining room. “I’m hungry.” Brewan’s grip tightened around Drel’s arm, dragging her after him. “Time to eat, cousin, dear.”
Drel said nothing and her expression remained fixed, despite the pain radiating through her arm. The ache inside her mind was far worse.
Quaylan, I love you. Please remember, I love you.
* * *
The subterranean areas of the Palace were built at the same time as the tunnel, but, unlike that secret passageway, were clearly marked on public architectural plans. The monarch, at that time, had been ruling on a precarious power base and intended to augment its foundations with a healthy dose of terror. The architect was told to construct a dungeon prison with the express advertisement of exotic forms of torture. He was given no choice as to whether to take the assignment; refusal would result in his being the prison’s first occupant. Bearing in mind the king’s fickle allegiances, the architect built himself an escape route in event of crisis; thus, the secret tunnel was hidden under the guise of a temporary storage facility. The architect and the king would both be dead within a year of the prison’s completion.
Having experienced more than enough violence, courtesy of his father and grandfather, King Mahan insisted on closing the prison, which then succumbed to the dust, sand and pollution of the climate. Ilvaas petitioned the new king’s agreement to re-open the dungeon for alien residents. Given their treachery, Brewan was happy to oblige.
The sandstone cell had one tiny window, near the ceiling. A single shaft of stormy light illuminated swirling dust and fell on a beaten figure, hanging in the centre of the room. Naked to the waist, the tall, emerald-skinned occupant was suspended from the ceiling by his chained hands, toes barely touching the floor. Livid, dark green bruises covered his torso and face; once glossy hair hung, caked in sand, sweat and blood.
The cell door opened with a gothic creak. Quaylan didn’t bother to look up. It wasn’t that he was unable or conserving energy, although his injuries were already severe; he simply knew the identity of the visitor and what he planned to do.
Ilvaas paced around the wounded prisoner, savouring the predicament of his guest.
“Obviously, you have an ability that you’ve kept secret from us,” Ilvaas began, his voice calm and neutral. “How many of us have you replaced? Who are they? Tell me their names and it’ll be over, with no pain. Much better for you.”
“Their Canellian names won’t do you much good,” Quaylan joked, in defiance.
Ilvaas smiled; an evil, depraved thing.
“Good. You’re going to be difficult.”
The door was closed when the first muffled screams echoed through the corridor.
* * *
Brewan was working his way through an array of textured, cured, boiled, fried and raw meats, washed down with an entire bottle of wine made from particularly acidic berries. Apparently, rage made him ravenous as well as impassioned. Drel sat beside him, frozen in place, the blood still seeping through the makeshift bandage wrapped around her hand. Between the pain, the fear and the grief, she felt sick to her stomach, but she stared straight ahead, endeavouring to close her ears to chewing and slurping.
A wrist of skin and bone wobbled into her eyeline, a bottle of wine trembling on the end. Her gaze followed the line of the arm up to the bowed head of Oli. When his eyes glanced up, she shook her head and the bottle shot out of view.
It took Frayn, in his guise as Cal, an interminable amount of time to convince an uninterested Brewan of the merit of his new test. He was forced to maintain a calm exterior, even though he knew that every passing minute spelled agony for the captured Quaylan.
“Majesty, if I could just...” he began, yet again.
“Drel, eat,” Brewan ordered, cutting off his healer’s request.
“I’m not hungry,” Drel whispered.
Brewan slammed his glass on the table, splashing the contents over his chest and Drel’s face. He snatched a wad of meat from a platter and rammed it into her mouth. She choked and spat the food back up into her bloody hand.
“Brewan, stop, please,” she whimpered.
The watching Frayn twitched, conflicted as to whether he should intervene. He had no fondness for Drel, but it was clear that Brewan had already injured her hand.
“Get on with it,” the king threw at Cal, before snatching the wine bottle from Oli’s tremulous grasp and filling his glass to the brim.
“Majesty, this test can differentiate between the genetic strains in Elyacian and Canellian blood...” Cal began.
“Can’t we just cut everyone?” Brewan snapped. “See who’s got green in their arteries?”
“Not really. We don’t know if their change includes blood,” Cal pointed out. “They could bleed red too. I won’t know that for sure until we find a live one who’s changed. What they can’t hide is the genetic history.”
Drel stared at Cal as he placed his rack of test tubes in front of Brewan. Knowing that Frayn was within, she wondered what he was up to.
How can exposing his people help them?
Cal held up a test tube filled with a clear liquid.
“May I take a small sample of your blood, Majesty?” he asked. “This will show you the base reaction, as we can be sure that you are Elyacian.”
“Will it hurt?” Brewan asked, his bravery disappearing with his sobriety.
“I only need a tiny amount.”
Cal pricked Brewan’s finger with a needle point and dripped a couple of drops into the liquid, which immediately turned a murky shade of dung brown.
“Should it do that?” the king stammered, his tongue beginning to turn numb from the acid wine.
“Yes. That’s the correct reaction to the levels of metals and pollutants allied to...”
“I don’t care,” Brewan interrupted. “What about the aliens?”
Cal lifted a vial containing a sample of green blood.
“I’ve had some samples for a while to test. Watch.”
Cal dripped a little green blood into another tube of clear liquid. The reaction was instantaneous; the liquid frothed violently and turned completely black.
Brewan dropped the meat bone he was holding and clapped with greasy glee.
“Very good,” he laughed, before hollering, “Get Klay!” at Oli.
The servant jumped and raced out the door, taking the plate of meats he was holding with him.
“Idiot,” said Brewan and downed another glass of wine.
Calling for Klay was precisely what Frayn had expected Brewan to do. So far, the tests had been completely bona fide and the results truthful. Now would come the most dangerous part of his plan.
“Test her,” Brewan ordered, waving in Drel’s direction.
The king’s request interrupted Frayn’s train of thought, but he swiftly rallied.
“Of course. I need a little blood, Highness,” Cal requested.
Drel unwrapped her hand, exposing the cut across her palm.
“Help yourself,” she said, staring him straight in the eyes.
The resulting test was, of course, negative.
“Are you satisfied?” Drel asked Brewan. “Uncle Mahan would be ashamed of you.”
“My father was a fool,” Brewan snarled. “You can go now. I don’t care where.”
Drel took the opportunity to flee the room, passing the arriving General Klay in the doorway.
“Klay, Cal has found a test that works,” Brewan told his general and took another swig of wine.
Maybe he’ll help us all and poison himself, thought Frayn.
Cal turned his back to the king, allowing Yix to see his eyes. “It’ll be fine, General. Just a little blood and you’ll be cleared.”
“Get on with it then,” Klay commanded.
“Hold out your hand.”
Cal pricked Klay’s finger and collected a sample of scarlet blood. Yix forced himself not to twitch, placing his trust, and his family’s fate, in Frayn’s hands.
The healer trembled, taking a long moment to spot the scratched marking on the rack and retrieve the correct tube. He was grateful that Ilvaas wasn’t present to watch him choose. Cal dribbled a few drops of Klay’s blood into the tube and it immediately turned murky brown.
“You’re clear,” Brewan announced, slumping further into his chair.
“Of course,” Klay snapped, as though the outcome was never in doubt.
Frayn was beyond relief at the success of his subterfuge, but he maintained Cal’s youthful enthusiasm as a mask, hiding the stress.
“Did you find that computer of theirs?” Brewan mumbled, barely awake.
“Not yet,” Klay replied. “It’ll take a while to go through the ship.”
“Tear it all out,” the king yawned.
“Do we have to carry on interrogating the Canellian?” Cal ventured, hoping to catch the inebriated king off guard. “We can find the changers with the blood test. If their leader dies, it might to harder to deal with his people.”
“Oh, let him have his fun,” Brewan murmured. “Ilvaas has no breeding; he should have some rewards for being loyal...”
The king’s voice faded away as eyes closed and chin dropped forward in slumber. Frayn and Yix glanced at one another and immediately looked away. Neither wanted to see the truth in the other’s eyes; they couldn’t save Quaylan. They left the monarch snoring into his glass and closed the door on him.
In the corridor, Yix snatched a brief moment to whisper the news, before turning his back and striding down the corridor. Frayn had believed that this situation couldn’t get any worse. Yix’s words proved him wrong.
“Ilvaas killed Axil.”
* * *
Lara Klay was busy dusting her home. No matter how much cleaning she did, the yellow sand always managed to find its way into the house and settle in the most annoying places. At least, that’s what she was always doing whenever a delivery arrived, or she had a rare visitor. In truth, Palaxa ran around the house, giving it a perfunctory once over with a duster, before settling down to research the Elyacian market system and, more importantly, how to exploit it for the advancement of her people. Yix may have the difficult job of impersonating Klay, but his decisions were all overseen and orchestrated by his politically intelligent wife. The plotting and scheming was nerve-shredding, but had the virtue of keeping the parents’ minds off the absence of their daughter.
A gurgle caught Palaxa’s ear. She dropped the portable screen, with its latest digital run down of the price index, and peered into the nearby cot. The wide open hazel eyes of her adopted daughter stared back up at her.
“Hello, Tooyla. You’re awake then,” she trilled. “Come to mother.”
She lifted the smiling baby into her arms and tucked her tufty haired head neatly under her chin, struggling not to imagine that it was Jave. Tooyla gurgled and reached out to clutch a fistful of her mother’s hair.
Palaxa moved over to the window, gently rocking the content baby, and peered out at falling rain. The sight never grew too familiar. Most of her life had been spent on an ice planet and free-flowing water from the sky was a blessed gift that appealed to an organic soul. This planet was hot, dusty and unwelcoming, but it still had moments of bliss.
As though the Universe heard her thoughts and conspired to shatter her reverie, the discarded screen suddenly began to pump out its latest lurid newsflash. Palaxa had listened to a flood of these ridiculous, so-called, news items before and learned to ignore them... but not this time.
“The Canellians revealed as traitors at last!” bellowed the presenter. “Engineer Dolice has died in an accident and transformed into a Canellian in full view of horrified parents and children.”
Palaxa spun on her heel and snatched at the screen, still cradling the confused baby girl. The flickering lights and colours fascinated Tooyla and she stretched out tiny fingers to touch the screen. Palaxa was not so enthralled; she was stunned by the flashing images.
The film was slightly out of focus, but the stricken Canellian was clearly identifiable, as was Axil, leaning over him. Her friend suddenly sprinted out of camera shot.
“King Brewan instructed... Wait... We’re receiving the latest... Canellian Leader, Quaylan, has been captured by General Klay at their camp. There was resistance and Council Member Ilvaas was forced to defend himself from vicious attack... Canellian Chief Engineer Axil was shot dead...”
Palaxa heard no more.
The screen dropped through her fingers and clattered to the floor, shattering into a hundred jagged pieces. She sank to her knees, not noticing razor shards cutting into flesh. As her crumpled mother began to wail, Tooyla’s little face heralded the arrival of tears that would, for the first time, be ignored.
* * *
Following Yix’s bombshell, Frayn yearned to flee to the sanctuary of his room, but was forced to keep up the jovial demeanour of Healer Cal on a stroll through the Palace. When he finally arrived in his quarters, he lowered his shaking body into a chair. There was a knock at the door and Drel entered, without waiting for a response. She didn’t waste any time getting to the point.
“Will he tell them?” she asked, her voice pleading for the negative.
“Quaylan?”
“Who else could I mean?” Drel snapped.
Frayn hadn’t even begun to process the loss of one friend and the imminent death of another. He had no time at all for this self-indulgent Elyacian princess.
“Is that all you care about?” he snarled, too loudly.
“Keep your voice down.”
Frayn leapt to his feet and growled into her face, “All you think about is yourself and your baby. My friends are dying.”
Drel had taken more than enough abuse from Brewan and wasn’t about to accept any from Frayn.
“I didn’t expose you, when I could. This isn’t my fault. Your people chose to kill and replace us. Blame your own leader.”
“I blame you both,” Frayn admitted. “You took our Eye from us. Now he’s going to die.”
“I know,” Drel barked. Her voice caught in her throat at the finality of her own words. “I love him and I know.” She suddenly threw her arms around Frayn’s neck and hugged him tightly, whispering into his ear, “Don’t hate me.”
Releasing her grip, she ran back to the door.
“Drel?”
She turned.
“He will never give you up. No matter what they do to him.”
Drel nodded, opened the door and fled.
Frayn’s knees buckled and he slumped back into the chair, eyes too dry for tears. Axil’s voice echoed inside his mind, telling him to ‘Get over it and get to work. I’m dead. Whining won’t help.”
He had no idea how long he had been sitting there when there was yet another knock at the door.
“Yes?”
The door opened and a guard’s face popped into view, delivering a succinct and heartbreaking summons.
“The prisoner’s unconscious. The king wants him treated, now.”
* * *
Medical bag in tow, Frayn hurried down a flight of stone steps and along a sand filled corridor that reeked of pollution and foul intent. It was so gloomy that he could barely see the row of corroded cell doors as he passed them. Even so, it wasn’t hard to tell which cell contained his friend; a soldier stood guard, face impassive, bored with his duty.
The door creaked open on rusted hinges. Brewan had one hand outstretched, steadying himself on a filthy wall, a pool of vomit at his feet. Frayn forced his eyeline to follow that of the king. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight.
Ilvaas hovered on the edge of Frayn’s vision, covered in green blood. Frayn had known Quaylan all his life, but he struggled to recognise his once handsome friend. Not an inch of his hanging body wasn’t bruised, cut, swollen or burnt. Frayn was astounded that Ilvaas could inflict so much damage in such a short space of time. He wasn’t surprised at the king’s reaction to the sight; he also wanted to be sick.
Quaylan had obviously passed out from the pain and Frayn found himself hoping that, for his friend’s sake, he would never wake. Unfortunately, Cal was expected to perform just such an act of revival.
Quaylan, I’m sorry. I have nothing left of myself to lose after this.
“He wouldn’t co-operate,” Ilvaas panted, looming up at him from the gloom like a bloody ghoul. “I’ve told him to give up the names of the changers or we start asking other Canellians the same question. The women, maybe, or the children...”
Frayn struggled, with every fibre of his being, to resist attacking that sneering face. He didn’t notice that the king also found Ilvaas’s suggestion distasteful.
“Before you treat him,” Brewan interjected, straining not to retch, “Cal discovered a test for Canellian blood. Do Ilvaas, so I’m sure.”
