Eban

15 - Eban

It could have been worse.

The cell was small, damp and cold. But there was space to stand and lie down, fresh air came in through the grate near the ceiling, and he was given blankets, thin though they were. When rats appeared, they were kind enough to grant him news of the outside world, although that predominantly consisted of where the local cats had occupied as their favoured hunting ground.

It could have been worse.

He just wished they would consider feeding him.

It had been three days since the inn and Cadi. He knew it had been three days, because what light came from the grating had faded and returned three times. His gaoler, a thin, older man with greying black hair and a marked limp, had appeared once per day. Each time he came laden with trays of food, ready to feed the few neighbours Eban had down in the city's gaol. On every trip, Eban had tried to get his attention, hoping for news of Cedric and Arran. They had been taken from the gaol after the first night, but he had no idea where they were or what had happened, and the gaoler refused to say anything to him. And, while he was given water, not once did he receive so much as a crumb.

It was clever really, Eban thought. There was no real way of blocking a mage's power. Not unless you had a mage of better ability handy. In a place like Serrant, where magic was all but forbidden, that was not an option. So they were doing the next best thing.

A mage's power depended on the energy available to them. No matter how powerful they were, no matter how efficient their energy expenditure, no mage could safely use their magic without enough energy in reserve.

No food meant no energy, which meant no magic. Simple.

Eban was getting tired of its simplicity.

He was already sick of his dreams.

They had started on his first night, strong and vibrant and with that peculiar metallic aftertaste that told him they were true. In almost all, he found himself in prisons. Some were grand and comfortable, with upholstered furniture and a view of sea and mountains. Some were like this, cold and uncomfortable and dull as anything. And some... the shudder that passed through him was a poor mimic of the terror those cells had instilled. When he woke from those dreams, he was genuinely happy to have a room as comfortable as this.

No matter the type of prison, no matter the life he half-remembered, they all came with the same message.

Stay. Wait. Be patient.

He did not like it but wait he did. For three days. With every second that passed, he felt his energy reduce that little bit more, knew that what magic he could wield was just that little bit less. With every second, he fought against the rising panic that threatened to peak.

What if it's too late?

And then there were the corridor dreams. Honestly, they were almost worse. At least the prisons had a point to them. At least they had an ending, no matter how...abrupt.

The corridor just stretched on...and on...and on.

Somewhere above him, the grating of metal on stone heralded a visitor. Seconds later and footsteps echoed down the stairs that led from the gaol's entrance to its cells.

When the source of the steps appeared, Eban took an involuntary step back. There was something exceptionally malevolent about the man who strode down the aisle towards him. Watching him, Eban could not say what it was. There was nothing outwardly wrong with him – he was average height with features that would have been unremarkable if you excluded the touched of scar tissue that brushed his temple and jaw. He was on the thinner side, but that was hardly unusual in these times, and his uniform, well-worn but clean, marked him out as an officer in the Ferann army. A recruiter, Eban thought. Why else would a soldier be venturing into a city gaol?