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bonds were not crafted from silver.
    “An excellent fit,” sneered one of the guards. “They certainly improve his appearance.”
    “If an Abanshi is going to walk among us he should be chained,” said another. “People might think the warlord is managing a lodge for any western worm that crawls in.”
    “You have completed your duty,” Siyer said from the other room. “Now leave.”
    The guards snorted at the command, but turned and left.
    “You'll become accustomed to the chains in time,” Siyer said.
    Quintel gave no reply.

     
    Chapter 6
     
    The days lived and died. A month passed. Then another.
    Quintel was allowed to leave the cell only to bathe. Every few days they took him to the stables and gave him a bucket of soapy water. Although Siyer came and went as he pleased, Huk believed the young Abanshi required more restriction.
    He spent most of his time performing small tasks for Siyer — pulverizing herbs, separating leaves from stalks, cleaning instruments. Occasionally, he would attempt to read the books and scrolls scattered about their quarters, but the languages were strange to him and the bits he grasped made little sense.
    Only once did he exit the prison by Huk's bidding. Several weeks into his stay, the warlord commanded that Quintel remove the heads of his fellow exiles from their posts in the courtyard. He had done so without protest, although the task tore at his soul, just as Huk had intended.
    Their heads sat atop three poles placed in front of the main gate. Rauk, Toren and Zurah, all side by side. A fourth post stood without decoration at the end of the row. What flesh remained upon the skulls was dried to brown leather. Their teeth were bared in the lipless grins of the dead, and wind whistled through their eye sockets. Still clinging to his skull, Zurah's white hair flailed in the breeze like a banner.
    Once finished, he placed the heads in a canvas sack and tossed them on a garbage wagon.
    Aside from that, the schedule of his day remained constant. In the evenings, he shared conversation with Siyer. They would talk of their homes and the people they missed, of the things they did when they were free. Quintel spoke of Aran. He told Siyer of his journey to Vaer for the Winterlift and described the awe he had experienced at the wonders he saw. Siyer made him describe every detail of the trip, asking if he had seen certain places, or if a certain tavern or bazaar still stood. During these discourses, Quintel became melancholy, not from the things he left behind, but from the realization that he had left nothing behind.
    As the weeks passed, Siyer helped him understand greater portions of the scrolls, but their contents were mathematical and dull. All of them dealt with medicines, elixirs and cures of various sorts; nothing that would hold his interest for long. If his apothecary training was to keep him alive, then the value of his life was not worth odds. He was learning nothing.
    On the evening of Quintel's ninety-ninth day under Huk's mercy, Siyer entered the cell holding a leather satchel. The satchel was wide enough to fill his arms but did not seem heavy. Something clattered inside.
    “What's is it?” Quintel asked,  eager for distraction.
    “It is a game,” Siyer answered. He set the parcel on the floor and went to the work area. After transferring a collection of bottles and flasks to the crowded shelves, he carried a squat table into the more spacious sleeping area. Upon it he set the leather case and began removing its contents. He first removed a large game board checked with squares. He then turned the case upside down and poured out what Quintel guessed to be game pieces. Several spilled from the table onto the floor.
    Quintel picked up one of the stray pieces. It was a wooden cylinder, crudely crafted from pine. A jagged mark, which might have been a letter or numeral, was carved on what he assumed was the top. All the pieces were identical except for their distinctive