Part IV
Sevris stood on top of the straw cot he had shoved to the side of the prison cell and looked out the tiny slit that served as a window. It was evening and he could barely make out the moon and stars winking among the straight pine trees encircling the castle. A cool breeze from outside wafted across his face and something sad welled up in his throat. No one knew he was trapped in the dungeon of his own home—not his people, his only remaining relative—a cousin, or even his advisors. They all thought he was on some sort of extended magical vacation.
The wizard-king slumped against the wall and ran his fingers through his dark hair in frustration. What could he do? The traitorous Duke of Corona, Lord Ordon, had tricked him. Self-consciously he tugged at the golden collar at his neck. The collar had supposedly been a gift, but it had been a trap created by the duke's aunt, a witch-hag who had the power to prevent other magicians from wielding their own gifts. And here he was, moldering away as Ordon tried to wait out the information for the key to the scepter room.
The prison cell was plain and a bit drafty, but it could have been worse, Sevris conceded. There was the cot as well as a desk and a chair. He had been supplied with pen and paper to while his time away. Unlike a criminal, he was given meals and baths and clean clothes. For that, the duke understood him somewhat. He would be even less likely to give any information about the key if he were treated miserably although in whatever circumstance, Sevris would rather die than tell the duke about the key. If the scepter fell into Ordon's hands, a lot more people than just himself would suffer. But Ordon would never be able to get the scepter if Sevris was dead.
There must be something he could do, anything. He had been trapped in the cell for almost a month and he was sure he was slowly going mad. Perhaps, he thought, he could write a message and throw it out the window for someone to find. But he had gone over that idea ever since the beginning and he could never be sure that anyone would find the scrap of paper and connect it with him and not some madman. He slammed a fist against the stone wall, heedless of the pain. If only he still had his powers—then he could do something!
The lock to his cell rattled and the door opened, revealing a short man in a fashionable green velvet suit and an even shorter woman in heavy robes. The short man was Ordon—neatly combed back brown hair, impeccable sense in clothing, glittering rings on his fingers, and eyes the color of ice. Sevris was at least two heads taller than the duke and still fit from his daily training with the captain of the guard before he had been ensnared. If it had just been Sevris and Ordon, even without the magic, the wizard-king would have easily tackled the duke and gotten out of the mess.
It was the woman that Sevris was leery about. She was old and ugly—the only indication that she was related to Ordon was the color of her eyes. Elma the Mole had straggly gray hair, unkempt and in disarray, and sharp, grimy nails. Her hooked nose sprouted a prominent mole and she walked with a twisted cane. The hag was powerful in her dark magic, powerful and cunning. Without his own powers, Sevris could not hope to stand a chance. Elma had the key to the magic collar and that was the price that the duke dictated. The key for the scepter room in return for the key to the collar. But from the duke's previous underhanded tactics, Sevris had no doubt that Ordon would fail to keep his end of the bargain if he told him where the scepter room key was.
"So have you changed your mind yet?" the duke asked him.
The wizard-king simply gave him an angry, golden-eyed stare.
"Petulant, aren't we? Well, I'm really tired of waiting. The month's almost up, you know. And I've been thinking about what to do to make it more convincing to you that it is of utmost importance that you give me the location of the key."
"Bastard," said Sevris. "There is nothing you can do to make me tell you where the key is."
Ordon stepped forward and struck his face with the back of his many ringed hand. The sparkling jewels he wore were sharp. Gingerly, Sevris touched his raw face with his fingers and came away with blood. "You will not speak like that to me," the duke seethed. "I have the throne."
"You are not king," Sevris said coldly. "You will never be king."
"Silence, you imprudent pup!" Ordon gritted his teeth and turned to Elma who was observing the scene with bloodthirsty interest. "Aunt, give him a taste of what I will start doing to his precious subjects if he does not reveal the key."
"My pleasure," the hag grated. She raised a hand.
Sevris stared at the duo wide-eyed when he felt power raising his body up in the air. And before he could protest, his body was flung against the wall like a rag doll. His head banged against the stone and blackness spilled into his vision and consciousness.