Gorgoroth (Haladras #2)

FIVE

The Princess Shahra Hira Minka hunched over the ground on all fours, her body trembling convulsively. Blood mingled with sweat streamed down her face, dripping freely to the ground. All about her, the sand was stained with the blood from her wounds and those of the commander. Beside her, face down in that sand lay the commander's body.

Somewhere far away, a mass of voices roared like the storms of a hundred oceans. The sound beat and thrummed in the back of her head, pressed against her temples. Dizziness twisted her senses. Vaguely she was aware that her body was being hoisted off the ground. A flash of red sunlight struck her eyes. The roar grew louder. Cold wetness touched her lips.

Water.

Greedily she drank.

Gradually, her senses regained some acuity. She saw the crowded arena, the people drunk with excitement. Four menservants carried her on a wooden pallet, parading her around the arena as the people cheered on. Not until they had arrived in front of the empress' box did the servants halt and let the princess down from the pallet. Too weak to stand on her own, she was supported by two of the menservants. A deep gash in her left thigh gushed forth a stream of blood. The empress curtly signaled to one of the servants, who promptly bound the wound with a bandage. The princess winched as he tightened it.

With a raise of her arms, the empress silences the crowd.

"People of Gorgoroth," she cried, "I present the champion—The Princes Shahra Hira Minka."

More cheers.

"Today, you have completed the first Trial, Princess. Go now and prepare for the next."

The princess bowed her head, and the manservant carried her to the sanatorium, where her wounds were dressed and her body mended. She had lost a great deal of blood. Wounds on her head, arms, and legs numbered more than she cared to count. No permanent damage, though. And she was alive.

How close the commander came to killing me!

Trembles overtook her body again. The female medic wiped her forehead with a damp cloth, spoke to her in a soothing voice.

Unused to the tender nurture of another woman, the princess tensed and drew back her face from the cloth.

Where is Rizain?

He would not treat her so or speak calming words. Despite her inward protest, however, the princess soon let down her wall of stone. Her entire body relaxed. Shortly thereafter, she fell into heavy sleep. But even as her eyelids closed, and her mind gave way to her subconscious, she saw the body of the commander lying on the arena floor, blood pooled beneath him.

A valiant warrior...

* * *

Rolander stood on his balcony looking out at the gray sky. Spring reigned uncontested on Ahlderon now. With it had come wind and rain from the north. And clouds. They shrouded the heavens and cast their gloomy mood on all the world below. Rolander felt that gloom keenly.

A week had passed since he stood on that balcony, watching the Luna vanish into space. In his mind, he still saw it. He still imagined himself on it, not left behind. He didn't know why he stood there watching. Perhaps deep down, he hoped that Skylar would come back for him. That Skylar would realize what a mistake it was to leave him behind.

He shook his head. Foolish hopes.

"You watch out here often," said a voice from behind him.

The voice momentarily startled him. He had not heard any footsteps, but he knew the voice belonged to Professor Jonobar. He turned around to face his tutor.

"Do you expect your friend to return soon?" asked Jonobar.

Rolander reddened a little in embarrassment. "No...I just..."

Jonobar waved his hand for Rolander to stop.

"I understand. There is no need to explain. We've all waited for something or someone we wished to come sooner than they did."

Jonobar took a step closer and extended his hand.

"The breeze is cold. Won't you come back in? There is a matter I should like to discuss with you."

Rolander noticed the chill in the air for the first time, and shivered a little. Of late, he'd often felt cold. An abnormal sort of cold—something he failed to put his finger on. The weather, he thought. This nasty weather.

Stepping down from the balcony, he followed Jonobar back inside. They sat down in a couple of armchairs around Rolander's coffee table. Even my own room feels cold. He grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around himself.

"Rolander," said Jonobar, his voice official, "I've been impressed, thus far, with your academic performance. I must apologize, again, for the amount of testing. I've been trying to ascertain the limits of your knowledge and the aptitude of your brain. You've exceeded my expectations, frankly."

Rolander stifled a grinned.

"I sense, however," went on Jonobar, "that you are a bored with the core curriculum that I'm to teach you. That is why I'd like you to pick a subject matter of your own liking."

Rolander sat straight up.

"Whatever subject I like?"

"Within reason—yes. What interests you most?"

Rolander hesitated. He knew what he wanted to study more than anything else. But would his tutor deem it appropriate? Or even know anything about it? He sank back in his seat. The professor leaned over to the coffee table, lifted the silver kettle from its burner, and poured two cups of the steaming infusion. He handed one to Rolander, then sack back and began sipping his own. Rolander held the drink up to his mouth but did not drink. The scent of lemon and cinnamon filled his nostrils.

"Go on," said Jonobar, casually. "You needn't worry. I trust whatever it is represents a worthy academic pursuit."

Rolander brought the cup away from his mouth and set it down.

"I've always wanted," he began haltingly, "to study mechanics...automata. But not just read about them. I want to build them. Do you know anything...I mean, can you teach me about them?"

Jonobar raised his eyebrows, took another sip of the infusion. Bringing the cup away from his lips, he took to stroking his unruly beard.

"Automata," he murmured, turning his gaze momentarily to the ceiling. "I have a basic working knowledge of the mechanics of automata. Though, not I think, sufficient to teach you what you are after."

Rolander knew it was too much to hope for. Not trying to hide his disappointment, he slouched back into his chair.

"However," went on the professor, "I do have an old colleague at Strybrn. He's the head of the Mechanical Engineering department. An expert, you could say, in machines and automata."

Rolander sat up again in his chair.

"I could write to him to ask for some guidance in this endeavor. Perhaps he could supply us with a curriculum and materials to build our own contraptions. I'm sure between the two of us, we can learn a great deal on the subject. How does that appear to you?"

"Perfect!"

"That settles it, then. I shall write to him this very afternoon and make the request. That should give you some time to think of a focus project. Nothing drives creativity and learning like the application of knowledge rooted in a worthy pursuit. One must not study to merely gain knowledge, but to create—to change his world for the better."

This idea stuck Rolander. Never had had truly considered what he might build. To build anything would please him beyond measure. He expressed these thoughts to his tutor, who began stroking his beard again.

"Might I suggest, then, that we try building you a new hand?"