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not recognize.
    He realized that, for a prison cell, the two rooms offered considerable living space. In fact, aside from the barred door and windows, the quarters did not resemble a prison, but a room for a guest of at least minor importance. Even a few decorative tapestries and maps adorned the walls.
    “Boy, come to the door,” he heard a voice say. Looking around the corner he saw the old guard, Fletcher, standing in front of the heavy door. “Come here.”
    Quintel took a few steps to the entrance. Fletcher was old and his face bore the scars of a veteran.
    “Listen,” Fletcher said. “Siyer treats you as a guest, but you must never forget you are a prisoner. Should you make any attempt to escape or present any resistance, we have orders to kill you where you stand. Many of the guards are looking forward to it.”
    Fletcher took a few steps forward and rested his hand through the metal lattice of the door.
    “I have been Siyer's keeper for more than fifteen years,” he said. “In that time I have come to know him like no other inside these walls. I would even call him a friend.”
    His voice was flat, bearing no mistake of his gist.
    “Should you do anything that would endanger his life, I will cut your throat myself and be done with it. Do you understand, Abanshi?”
    Quintel gave a single nod, but his eyes did not drop.
    “Make certain of it,” Fletcher finished, letting his gaze linger as he stepped away from the door and sat back at his small station.
    Quintel returned to the sleeping area and sat on the bed. From peasant to prince, every citizen of the Abanshi kingdom was trained in the art of war. It was said that even an Abanshi farmer was a match for any five Forestland swordsmen. Death in battle against Sirian Ru’s allies was a welcomed destiny.  Quintel was no exception. He was steeped in hatred for the god and his upbringing did not make compliance with his imprisonment easy. He did not want to cause Siyer trouble, but he was not going to spend decades in a prison cell either. His training told him to wait for the right moment, kill as many guards as he could and die trying to escape. Another part of him, something deeper he did not quite recognize, said to be patient.
    Siyer was gone for almost an hour. He returned carrying the empty flask and a look of worry.
    He set the flask on the worktable and said nothing to Quintel.
    “What happened?” Quintel asked.
    “Huk is reconsidering his actions regarding you,” he said. “His advisors think you should be killed and displayed as an example of his feelings for the Abanshi.”
    “Let them!” Quintel stood. “I cannot remain in this prison for seventeen years as you have, Siyer. It is better they snuff out my life and spare me years of slavery. Why did you even save me?”
    Siyer grabbed him by both arms. His gaze was piercing.
    “Listen to me. You have come here for a reason, Quintel. Just as I have. There is a purpose to your imprisonment. It may take years for you to understand, but you must be patient. We are trapped here so that you may learn. Do not fight Huk’s will. In time it will become meaningless.”
    Quintel said nothing. Years?
    “I am not speaking of intangible, philosophical matters,” Siyer continued, his voice was a slow, urgent whisper. “This is where we need to be for now. Do not think beyond today.”
    He released Quintel and returned to his work.
    Siyer did not speak to him, but would occasionally mumble as he bent over his lenses and herbs. Quintel slept fitfully for a few hours, but the past days had replenished him and the slumber was unsatisfying.
    Light faded from the room. Again, the sound of the door opening clanged through the cell.
    Four guards with cudgels entered and subdued him by each limb. A fifth followed behind them carrying a heavy set of rusted iron shackles. Quintel did not resist.
    They snapped the bands around his wrists. Now, like Siyer, he carried the adornments of a prisoner, although his