Free Shadow War by Deborah Chester Page A

lay in his face. “I—I
don’t know,” he said at last. “I cannot explain why I should care what befalls
you. But. . . Ah, gods, what lies in a man, that he can convince others to help
him? Why do the gods give one man qualities that they deny to others? Why have
you succeeded in the arena beyond anyone else? How have you survived, and how
have you kept your spirit that will not be tamed? What makes you different and
unique?”
    His expression
deepened into a scowl. Suddenly he looked angry and embarrassed. “I’m a fool,”
he said gruffly.
    Caelan was
touched. He reached out, but Orlo flinched away from his hand.
    “Why,” Orlo asked
heavily, “did you have me train you?”
    “Because you’re
the best trainer in Imperia. You could keep me alive.”
    “No. I meant, why
ask for me when you have never heeded anything I’ve said to you?”
    “I heed you when
what you say is useful,” Caelan retorted, annoyed again. “Otherwise, I follow
my own judgment.”
    Orlo’s gaze
dropped to Caelan’s wounded side. To the side that was now healed by a
mysterious process that Orlo, in his fear of foreign religions and ways,
probably didn’t understand.
    “Thank you for
your trust,” Caelan said. “I will not betray your confidence.”
    Orlo shot him a
look of despair mingled with exasperation. “You will not learn from it either.”
    Caelan had no
answer.
    “You will continue
to follow him,” Orlo said bitterly. “You great, stubborn lout. You cannot be
taught. You cannot be shown. You cannot be warned. Always you will do things
your own way.”
    “My way works best
for me,” Caelan said softly. “All my life others have tried to shape me to
their will. I cannot do that.”
    “Then he will destroy you,” Orlo said. “Perhaps he will even get you killed. Be damned, then,”
he muttered, and flung himself out.
     

Chapter Four
    Caelan turned
around too fast, nearly lost his balance as his knees went wobbly on him, and
sat heavily on the bed to save himself from falling. For a few seconds he was
so dizzy he had to grip the side of the bed; then his head cleared again.
Breathing hard, he wiped sweat from his face.
    The door opened
quietly. Inwardly Caelan groaned, and he forced himself to lift his head. “Orlo,
I—”
    It was not Orlo
who returned, but the healer. For the first time the man stepped into the light
where Caelan could see him clearly. It was Agel. His cousin and boyhood friend,
whom Caelan had not seen since being expelled from Rieschelhold, the school of
healing arts.
    Agel... the
steady, dependable one ... grown to manhood now ... more gaunt and austere than
handsome. His face had the etched clarity of an ascetic. He stood tall and
still, his hands folded out of sight in the wide sleeves of his white robe.
    Caelan lost his
breath. Thoughts tumbled through his mind without making sense. He had believed
he would never see any of his family again, yet now he had found Agel. It was a
miracle, a return of hope.
    Consumed with
happiness, Caelan smiled and tried to speak. But his throat choked up, and
unmanly tears blurred his vision. Caelan averted his face sharply, struggling
to master himself.
    Agel’s hand
settled gently on his shoulder. “You are overwrought,” he said. “Rest and let
the healing finish.”
    Caelan gripped
Agel’s hand in both of his. “I cannot believe you are here,” he said in Trau,
his words running  eagerly over each other. “I have often thought of you,
wondered how you did and where you were. And now, to find you here, in Imperia,
is—”
    “Rest,” Agel said.
His voice remained calm and serene. He continued to speak in Lingua, and his
hand lay slack in Caelan’s grip. “Loss of temper destroys the balance of
harmony, and healing cannot finish. I should have denied you all visitors until
you were stronger.”
    Caelan stared at
him. There was no joy, no recognition in Agel’s face. When Caelan’s fingers
loosened, Agel withdrew his hand and tucked it back