CHAPTER II


INTO THE DUNGEONS OF TORTURE


	Since the night of the seizure he had not been allowed even once to look upon the 
outside world.  His captors had blindfolded him with a strip of tough, black cloth, and 
manacled his wrists with a short chain.  At nights they also fettered his ankles in irons.  

	They brushed off his efforts at conversation but they treated him well enough.  He 
was given food and water at regular intervals and jealously guarded like a stolen treasure. 
Slung over the back of a steed in semi-consciousness he could not remember much about 
that murderous flight across the Plains.  His abductors did not pause once, not even when 
the rays of daylight pricked the exposed parts of his face.  By then his head was spinning 
madly, the back of his skull still smarting from the blow.  His arms and legs felt as if they 
were being separated little by little by an abominable tug of war, and the dust of the 
Plains blistered his throat like sulfur.  Still the hooves of the steeds fiercely thundered 
across the Hungry Plains without stopping.  

	Finally, when the heat of the sun no longer touched him did the ordeal crunch to a 
halt.  He was unslung from the steed's back and loaded onto a musty interior smelling of 
rusting metal, sweat and sour food.  Still they handled him with care and, apart from the 
peremptory brusque words of command he was left on his own for most of the time.  The 
journey became more bearable, although not entirely comfortable; instead of the hard 
flanks of a horse, there were the jolts and sways of a sort of, certainly not a wooden cart, 
rolling mobile.  His hands were now fettered in front of him so that he could take 
nourishment by himself, but the steel bands were intolerably tight and with each 
movement chafed the skin of his wrists.  

	He lost all sense of space and time during the course of the journey in the 
Rumbler.  The extraordinary taciturnity of those who shared the spaces of the Rumbler 
with him shed little light on his situation, but somehow from snatches of conversation he 
came to know that his abductors were Magni-Xandians and he was being taken to the 
Dominion of Magnificent Xandia.  

	In this void of imposed blindness and restraint Leoynar continued to drift along a 
seemingly endless pattern of waking, eating and sleeping, quietening his dread and terror; 
only the shackles on his wrists and ankles reminded him of what lay in store.  Waking up 
one time from an uneasy sleep he found that the Rumbler had stopped, its engines 
switched off.  They had reached their destination.  

	Fresh air trickled to the interior from an opened hatch; a group of voices were 
deliberating outside the Rumbler.  Someone climbed in, enquiring in an authoritative tone, 
"Has he been searched?"  The answer was affirmative and after a short pause the terse 
voice remarked further, disgruntled: "Not a shred here which is useful. Pills, bandages, 
tranquillizers.  What is he besides a spy, a medic as well?  And you have managed to 
catch only one?  Never mind!"

	The man stood so close that Leoynar could smell his sour breath. "I have to do 
one more physical checking.  You know what to do if it is negative.  Since he is quite 
good-looking, maybe we should have a public garrotte this time.  Stand back!"  

	A pair of rough hands yanked the jacket off his shoulders.  With equally cruel 
determination the hands tore the back of his shirt in two halves.  And then there was 
silence. 

	The man hissed sharply: "I wouldn't have believed it if I am not seeing it with my 
own eyes!"  The jacket was slipped back on with gentler fingers and the man was edging 
away, his voice trembling with agitation: "Soldiers, take the prisoner to the dudgeons, to 
the special quarters.  I'll make my report to the Syndic."  

	They knocked the chains off his ankles.  Even so, the prolonged immobilization 
had temporarily stunted his blood circulation; he experienced difficulties in standing up 
and using his legs properly.  Two soldiers seized him briskly by the arms and he was 
dragged and carried down the ramp of the Rumbler.  

	No light filtrated through his blindfold but he could feel the coolness of nocturnal 
dew on his face.  Other people seemed to mingle with the soldiers who had accompanied 
him on the passage, a considerable crowd judging by the many jibes and jeers.  By and by 
he felt that his feet were leaving the rough surface of a concrete pavement and he was 
walking on the smoother skin of a panelled floor, and smelling the dank and rancid air of 
a closed building.  

	Here his custody changed hands.  The soldiers withdrew and warders stepped 
into their boots.  He was led through corridors swamped with the odours of vomit, 
excreta and old blood.  Outside the curfew sirens wailed, as shrill and desperate as the 
screams between the walls, and as grim as the lashing of whips on flesh, which he could 
hear sometimes from afar, sometimes nearby.  

	The blindfold was still not taken off and his custodians tugged him along without 
stopping, passing, it seemed to him, endless rows of interrogation cells.  At long last he 
was brought to what felt like fresher, less oppressive spaces where the sounds of torment 
did not reach.  They shoved him across a metal threshold, onto a hardness which felt like 
a bunk, reshackling his ankles, and his wrists behind his back.  After a final grating of a 
key in a lock he was left alone.

	Leoynar remained without stirring with his face down on the bunk.  They had 
linked the bonds on his wrists and ankles with a short chain, constraining him from either 
stretching out, standing up or tearing off that vile constriction around his eyes.  As much 
as he wanted to see he also wanted to hear what his captors had to say about him, but 
apart from that cryptic exchange in the Rumbler everyone was as silent as deep-seated 
fear.  

	Worn out Leoynar moved his bound limbs about so that he could rest his head 
against the wall.  Slowly his mind started to function again.  They seized him as a so-
called spy but the physical examination in the Rumbler revealed the darker side of the 
story, the hunt and capture of beings like him.  It seemed that maltreatment was so far not 
intended although the walk along the torture cells implied in abundant terms what fate 
awaited captured spies.  They were preserving him for a special occasion, torture more 
horrifying, an execution more spectacular, the shame of a public display, bait?  

	'This has happened before', he thought, his brain struggling against strain and 
fatigue.  Seasons and a world away was he similarly beguiled and taken by surprise, 
imprisoned and let loose, let loose to lead, to lead into a trap…

* * *

	The clang of the metal door and the crunching of the lock shook him out off his 
torpor.  A crashing of heavy feet and a jumble of voices shattered the peace of his cell.   
The warmth of a light nearby temporarily flared in front of his face.  A storm of hands 
meaning business grabbed and jerked him to his feet, the chains around his ankles jangled 
to the floor, then the cuffs around his wrists, and with a tug his eyes were free.  

	Staggering, he momentarily shielded his eyes with a shaking hand.  After so long 
gazing upon blackness the flickering light of the torch in the wall seemed to dazzle like 
the tips of a hundred spears glinting in sunlight.  For a while he was unable to distinguish 
the shapes, or faces, of the warders milling in his proximity.  Oddly, it seemed to him, 
they were re-arranging furniture, and tidying up, speaking in low and grumbling voices.  
His chains were swept off the floor, and the crisp command given, "Do your stuff, old 
man!" 

	Leoynar regained his composure as his sight improved.  He was standing in a 
windowless cell of austere dimensions, four walls of unwashed brick and mortar, and 
nothing else but the hard, wooden bunk.  Someone had put a basin of fresh water on the 
bunk, with a pile of towels and clothes beside it.  A man with hunched shoulders shuffled 
near the open, massive iron door.  

	"The warders have gone," he announced tonelessly.  "I'll close this door so that 
you can wash and change your clothes in private.  Come out when you are ready.  
Breakfast is on the table."

	"What time is it?"   

	"Eight o'clock in the morning," the man answered with downcast eyes and 
withdrew.  

	Hesitating no longer, Leoynar stripped to the waist, flinging away his torn shirt, 
and bathed his face, the sore spot on his head, his upper torso, and the chafes on his 
wrists which stung agonizingly for a moment in the cold water.  He picked out a clean 
cotton shirt, a pair of woollen trousers, shook off the dirt on his jacket of which the 
pockets had been taken inside out by the soldiers, and put it back on.  For a moment he 
was pained by the thought that they had also seized his rephar.  Then he recollected.  He 
had left his weapon behind when the hirelings lured him away.  At that time a foolishness 
maybe, presently a blessing that the superior design of the rephar had not fallen into 
enemy hands.   His optic strip insignia seemed undamaged but he dared not use it.  

	He strode out of his cell entering an adjoining wider room with narrow, barred 
windows through which the pale sunshine struggled through.  On a small table with a 
surface like sandpaper stood a tray with a jug of juice, bread and half-burnt omelettes.  

	The old man sat hunched on a low stool near the entrance of the door.  His rough 
clothes, his shallow demeanor and his lifeless eyes somehow did not fit with his role as 
guard.  There was a flare of interest when Leoynar emerged from his cell, clean and 
refreshed, a spark of amazement on his face as he took in the prisoner's lofty gait and 
build.  A second later however his face resumed its glassy stare.  

	"Come and join me," Leoynar coaxed, taking his seat on the only chair at the 
table.  

	The man bowed his grey head and said indistinctly:  "I've taken my meal 
already."

	"Then come and talk to me.  Nobody has said a word to me since I came here.  I'd 
love some conversation."

	"I may not, sir," the man whispered. "I am a prisoner, like you.  Prisoners are not 
supposed to talk with one another."

	"But they have put you in charge," Leoynar argued, with a gentle smile.  "What 
good is there for two people being together and not talking?  Let me introduce myself to 
you, that will break the ice.  My name is Leoynar Trevarthen.  And yours?"

	The man raised his eyes, tremulously blinking.  "You don't understand.  It's 
absolutely against the rules.  I'll get into trouble for this."  His voice lowered in sadness.  
"How can you understand the dangers when you haven't seen the worst?  But I beg of 
you, don't put yourself, and me, in jeopardy.  I am only a helper around here.  Finish your 
breakfast, please, and I will tidy up afterwards."

	Making no more attempts at joviality and momentarily blocking out the brutalities 
that still lay ahead, Leoynar devoted his attention to the contents of the tray.  It was his 
first full meal since his capture which he consumed in no time.  Afterwards he strolled to 
the barred windows which overlooked the melancholy of a narrow deserted yard, and the 
man, the helper, first took his tray out, then the basin of washwater, and lastly the 
crumpled heap of clothes.  

	"Wait here," he instructed Leoynar with a nervous twitter of his eyes.  He was 
only gone for a short time when the door of the room opened once more and a woman 
stepped inside.  She was dressed in a riding coat and breeches; a silk purple veil hid her 
features.  She locked the door, making sure they were left entirely alone, and with her 
gloved hand flipped her veil aside.  

	In stupefaction Leoynar glared at her, then he spoke slowly:  "Lisaloran."

	She twisted her bloodred lips into a smile.  "I wonder.  Have I changed so little 
that you recognize me with so little difficulty.  But the same goes for you, Leoynar.  You 
have remained exactly like you were when we last met.  How long ago that seems, in 
Myaron, but a little more learned perhaps, a little more savage?  But such an image suits 
you, would suit all Trevarthens, I'd say." 

	Leoynar grimly frowned.  "Seeing you, I now understand why I was brought 
here."

	"Do you indeed?  We didn't know at first that the captive they brought in was 
you, only someone who has passed the physical test, and you know what that means.  
Now we know that the spy they captured in Penari is you, it seems to me more like a 
happenstance, a wicked mockery, but on the other hand hardly surprising.  Far in Myaron 
how easily were you lured, here likewise how easily were you taken but naturally you are 
untrained, ill-prepared for the treacheries of this Sphere.  I wouldn't expect Captain 
Schurell to be so readily deceived, or so effortlessly snared in the trap."

	Leoynar's face turned pale and hard, and Lisaloran broke into a sardonic laughter. 
 
	"At ease, Leoynar!  We all knew he was coming.  Now we know for certain he 
has come.  YOU is the proof we needed, we only need to know his whereabouts."

	"We?" Leoynar said, playing for time now that the gauntlet had been thrown, 
"you, and Byrull?"

	A shadow of wrath passed through the face which had lost little of its former 
sculptured perfection except perhaps that the features had somewhat sharpened and the 
vivid eyes looked dimmer.  

	"He is no more!" she rasped. "The great Hern Byrull who aspired to be Lar 
Protector, he who had the audacity to build the secret stronghold under his palace.  Had 
he acquired the first taste of killing like I had, he would not have been so appalled by the 
butchery and slayings on Vesparan streets during the height of the popular revolt.  The 
mere sight of it shattered his sanity.  On the eve of our evacuation from Okrane, he 
jumped from the highest tower of the Governor General's residence.  Are you glad for 
this justice, Leoynar?"

	"Have you learnt so little from this tragedy that you cannot understand, even 
now, how to temper your hardness of heart with mercy?  I feel only sorrow for Hern 
Byrull."

	Lisaloran shut her eyes for a moment.  "Now you know what has become of 
Councillor Byrull, don't speak of him anymore, or what I should have done.  We have to 
learn to live with our mistakes.

	"I wedded Carlomon.  I am Lady Consort of the Dominion of Magnificent 
Xandia, or Lisaloran, the Flower of Granite, as the commoners call me, and so I want to 
be remembered.  And so I came to Ostracis, to meet you, to try if we could come to an 
agreement without needless violence."

	"Whatever cruelty you have planned for me, there can be no agreement between 
the likes of us, Lisaloran!"  

	"Don't throw away your chances so soon, Leoynar!  Trajan is your nephew.  For 
his sake I will try to hold off Carlomon who has indeed been thinking of more cruel 
measures.  There was a time when I thought I could persuade Trajan to join me.  However 
he was restrained by his sense of duty, and honour.  But now that he has arrived in this 
world, where the Spacio Command's code of conduct means very little and his honour 
even less, he might be of a different mind.  He might be in grave danger."

	Lisaloran resumed her winter haughtiness as she continued with an icy smile on 
her lips. "You know what we want, and even if I do not always agree with Carlomon's 
highhandedness, I cannot prevent him from using any means, fair of foul, to lay his hands 
upon it.  On the other hand, if Trajan would give himself up willingly, we might come to 
a mutually beneficial accord.  Isn't such a solution so much better than living like hunted 
prey, with a price on his head?  The roles have been reversed, he is no longer the hunter 
but we are.  But in spite of everything, Iucari-Tres still haunts me in my dreams, and I 
don't want to see anyone harmed, or killed, needlessly."  

	"Lisaloran," Leoynar said gravely, "by now you ought to understand that I'd 
rather be killed than deliver Trajan into your hands."

	"Leoynar, we have instruments at our disposal that will kill you slowly and 
painfully, and maybe not even kill you so conveniently but let you live on, like a wreck 
just as that old man who has served you breakfast.  At that time death would be a 
blessing indeed."

	Leoynar turned his eyes to the windows, to the dudgeon walls pressing all around. 
 "I have had a foretaste of what you are capable of," he said dully.  "I was aware of the 
horrendous risks when I insisted to come along although you are right in a sense, I was ill-
prepared.  Here they thrive on treachery and how can I be sure of your word of honour, 
or that of your new Paramount.  How can I be sure Trajan won't be sharing my fate?  No, 
better me, than him.  He is so much better off as hunted prey.  I assure you, he won't be 
taken so easily!" 

	"How protective you are towards your nephew!  He has taken the place of the son 
you never had.  Is this why you came on this trip, the instincts of fatherhood?" 

	"I HAD a son, Glynmoran, and I wish I had taken him with me to the Steppes, 
but like you said I have to live with my mistakes.  You should learn from the grace of his 
cousins who accepted him as a brother, but once more you are so wrong.  I can never be a 
father to Trajan.  I came with him because I thought at that time two minds was better 
than one on such a mission.  I didn't think at that time I could be the chink in the armour, 
but whatever you do to me I will not let him fall into your hands!"

	"Then, further acquaintance with the torture chambers, a couple of days listening 
to the screams and groans of the condemned, will hopefully persuade you to change your 
mind.  What is your final response, Leoynar?"

	Receiving no reply, Lisaloran swung round and left the room.  

* * *

	When she came out into the corridor two warders locked and barred the door of 
the prison room.  Exiting the corridor she stormed up a flight of stairs, and pushed her 
way through another, longer, passageway.  Throwing open a door, she stood in a carpeted 
guestroom, where the curtains were drawn across all the windows.  The dim and cold 
interior was heated by a fire in the hearth before which stood a gaunt and sombre figure.  

	"He didn't fall for either your threats, or cajolements."  Carlomon swung round 
resting his coalblack eyes upon the flustered face of his Lady Consort. 

	"You, no doubt, have listened in our conversation."

	"No doubt."

	"What are you going to do with him?"

	"You know what we do with spies."

	Lisaloran slowly pulled off her gloves and walked to one of the windows, 
drawing the curtains aside.  At one time, long ago, she would have seen from her vantage 
point streams of traffic running north and south along the avenue below; now she gazed 
upon a yard where a podium of gibbets was being erected. 

	"You owe me a lot, Carlomon," she said, turning from the ominous scene and 
looking the Paramount straight in the face.  Two wills clashed like two thunderbolts 
hurtling from one eye to the other; a fierce battle fought in silence, then it dissipated.  
Carlomon looked away with a phantom of a smile shivering on his pale lips.  

	"How can I forget when you repeatedly remind me of it?  Although you 
continuously surprise me with your innovative tactics of government control, for instance, 
arranging accidents for prospective pretenders is more politic than executions.  I also can't 
forget that you are still Iucarian, heart and soul.  Disposing of earthlings won't turn a hair 
on your beautiful head, but where Iucarians are concerned, that's another matter.  
Naturally, I am not to forget either that once, even only for a short time, you were 
married to Leoynar Trevarthen, but I am afraid, my dear, in this case government security 
must come first."  

	"I don't see how Leoynar Trevarthen can be a factor in destabilizing the 
Paramountcy.  You know as well as I that he is no spy." 

	"All right he is not," Carlomon consented suavely, "but since he has refused to 
cooperate, what shall we do with him?  Apply more drastic methods of persuasion?  Are 
you willing to go so far?"

	"No.  Frankly I find your methods revolting, even when you administer it to your 
own kind, but there is no harm in introducing him to the horrors of your dudgeons.  If he 
still remains unswayed he is still valuable as a hostage.  He will serve us better alive than 
dead, or halfdead."

	Carlomon stared into the fire and the glow of the flames writhed upon his 
haggard face.  "Do you still think your Captain is so naive that he will come crashing 
through the Plains in search of his uncle?  If the well-being of Leoynar Trevarthen is 
foremost in the Captain's mind, admittedly he will do as you expect, but there are larger 
issues at stake.  He knows he has to sacrifice even those dear to him."

	Carlomon walked to a tabouret in a corner and picked up a folder.  "I am being 
forthright with you as I know nothing will escape your eyes, My Lady Consort.  In here 
you will find the report of the Syndic, with the results of the interrogation of one of the 
two hirelings who helped in the capture of Leoynar Trevarthen.  One was killed in an 
escape attempt, the second one, the one called Voht, had the misfortune of keeping alive. 
He was brought to the dudgeons of Ostracis by a different route.

	"If the origin of the so-called spy had proved otherwise, a quick and merciful end 
would have been meted out to him and the spy.  Unfortunately, in the hireling's case, his 
end had to be painfully delayed.  In short, here is his story:  Leoynar is one of group of 
four Aseurans his Overman had befriended.  On the night of the abduction they were still 
trying to book passage across the Main to Vespar.  He was not in a position to know, of 
course, whether that was successful but there is another report of our agents in Penari that 
a couple of ships had sailed out of the harbour before it was sealed off.  My suspicion is 
that the Captain has departed on one of those ships and arrived in Vespar, beyond our 
reach." 

	"Then all your efforts have been in vain."  

	Carlomon's eyes glinted with mysterious mirth. "Not entirely, now for sure we 
know that he has landed.  Before that we could only postulate."

	Lisaloran flicked through the folder, wrinkling her brow in unease.  "Four, you 
said, he took only four with him.  He is taking such a terrible risk!"  

	Carlomon enquired in a silken voice: "Are you disappointed, my dear Lisaloran, 
that we cannot bring your young Captain before you, humbled and defeated?"  

	She rebuffed him in a voice of glass:  "And you, dear husband?  This desperate, 
almost maniacal, hunt for spies is only a smokescreen, isn't it, for seeking out Iucarians 
who might have landed.  Carlomon!  I killed Trajan's father but he saved me, and you.  
Can you treat him with the same mercy?"

	"My Lady, you know very well he is one capable of destruction.  As an enemy 
across a battlefield I will find it impossible to look upon him with mercy, but maybe as 
my prisoner I will try to treat him less severely.  And I am acting such for my, and for 
your own good as well."

	Lisaloran flung the folder back on the tabouret.  "For my own good, for my 
conscience, I demand that you deliver Leoynar into my custody.  He has no use for you 
now.  Once I let you do as you please with my son, I am no longer able to let you do that 
with Leoynar."

	"Very well."  

	Lisaloran started for the door, and Carlomon's voice came moodily after her.  
"Can you understand that I do care for you, Lisaloran?  I have admired you since the first 
moment of our meeting when I came through the Equation and you stood there, proudly 
and fearlessly with, what do you call it?  Ah yes, a stingthruster, ready to strike me down 
if I had threatened you.  I speak the truth when I say that I am glad you are here with 
me."

	"I believe you," Lisaloran said huskily, "but I also have to believe in myself."

	Shortly after Lisaloran had departed, a half-balding man whose hard-bitten face 
was imprinted with a permanent scowl entered the room.  Without looking at him 
Carlomon addressed the man:  "You examined the prisoner last night. Do you know the 
punishment for divulging state secrets?"

	"I do, My Lord Paramount."

	"Has the Syndic given you your new set of orders?"

	"Yes, sir."

	"I want it done tomorrow night, before my departure.  The Lady Consort has 
demanded custody of the prisoner.  On no account is he to be handed over to her care 
whilst we are still in Ostracis, understood?"  

	"Yes, I do.  He will remain within the dudgeons because it is easier to carry out 
our plan from here."

	"I am satisfied that you know what to do.  Now go, there will be no more 
meetings between us."

	With a curt nod the man went his way.  Carlomon turned to a window and gazed 
upon the prison front yard where a crowd was slowly gathering.  At noontime the 
stripped, mutilated body of the hireling Voht would be the fifth to swing on the scaffold. 
 In his agony the hireling had screamed out everything that he knew, even his dirtiest 
secrets, but he did not know enough; his ignorance had sealed his fate.  Besides Leoynar, 
were the two other companions of the Captain trained commandos, and why only two? 

	Grim-visaged the Paramount withdrew from the window.  Trajan Schurell hardly 
needed more reinforcements.  Starglory was under his control.  

	Since his return, between taking flight from the rebels in Vespar and usurping the 
powers of Xandia, he had made a detailed research of the Forbidden Legend, the history 
of the Lords Laris of Spatium.  Starcasters, genuine and fake, were rounded up and 
questioned, old documents impounded from vermin-ridden hiding holes.  Yet, apart from 
the official version of the Grand Conflict between the Lords Laris and the Terra-Purists 
little was brought to light.  The Old Purists had a way of distorting the facts of history. 

	Then, several weeks ago, when his forces were blitzing across Carmel, a captured 
starcaster was dragged to his presence.  The woman seemed older than the cosmos; she 
threatened to yield the spirit with each step she took, and she told him the Legend as she 
saw it:  the attempt to rob the Lords Laris of their mightiest Core, the unjust demise of 
Lord Filimon Schurell and his firstborn son, the Core's expulsion from the realm, and 
ultimately, its return and vindication.  Then the aged woman went on to tell the 
Phenomenon of the Falling Stars, which she had observed on the Hungry Plains, and 
heralded that the Core had indeed returned, to carry to completion the Annulus of 
Conception which had been disrupted.

	The Syndic was all for cutting out the old starcaster's tongue for picturing the 
exploits of the Fallen Angels in such blatantly glowing terms but out of character 
Carlomon let her go.  He had learned enough, he only needed proof.  Now that he had 
proof, everything was suddenly clear.  

	Whoever, and whatever he had become, there could be no bargaining ground with 
Trajan Schurell.  For Lisaloran's sake, he had toyed with the idea of sparing the 
commander's life, maybe even trying to learn through him how to control the remarkable 
Energy of Starglory.  He had that rare quality that the Paramount found endearing for a 
time but he was one of the formidable breed of the Lords Schurell.  And their Core, the 
Hexstone chooses its own abode, becoming as indomitable, or as mellow, as the flesh that 
has absorbed it.  So far Captain Schurell had not used it here.  He may still not know 
how, but he will know in good time.  Indisputably he had voyaged to Vespar to seek out 
the Opposite End of the IsoMén Equation which, even if damaged, he could effortlessly 
restore with his Core.  By then he would have learned his true power.  The vengeance of 
Starglory would be devastating and no power on earth could prevent the Fallen Angels 
from rising again.  

	There is only one way to make sure that no one, no world, not Trajan Schurell, not 
Iucari-Tres shall be home to the Hexstone, Starglory.