The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) by Matt Gilbert Page A

managed
to get mixed in with the rock-throwing commoners and gotten his head
cracked in the confusion. That thought had eaten at Salastin's guts
as he made his way to meet with his Patriarch.
    In the end, it was nothing like
he had feared. It was an altogether different sort of disaster.
Davron had no reward or punishment for him, only grim news.
Salastin's cousin was dead, cut down at the palace gates. Two
friends he'd known since childhood had also perished in the fires
and chaos of the undercity. They had all been good men doing their
duty. The Traitor had killed them, as surely as if he had stuck a
dagger in their chests.
    When Davron had approached him
later with the chance of evening the score, Salastin had leapt at
the opportunity. That the Patriarch would invite a slave to do
battle at his side, especially on a secure, black operation, was a
tremendous honor. That alone would have swayed him, but the thought
of avenging his cousin and friends was even stronger motivation.
    Salastin had been volunteering
for this gig since he and Davron had drug The Traitor's rotten
carcass into this cell, and he intended to be here for the duration.
    That being said, guard duty was
usually a crashing bore, and left a lot of time to fill. Salastin
and five others, armed and armored, sat at a small, wooden table,
cards in hand, tossing coins into the pot and daring one another to
meet their challenges.
    “Bastard,” one
growled at Salastin. “You’re bluffing.”
    Salastin said nothing,
inscrutable, giving no sign of his unbeatable hand. After a moment
of tension, he raised an eyebrow, taunting his opponent. It was
sweet, gulling him like this. There was more than a week’s pay
to take from his victim, and Salastin savored the kill. They stared
at one another for long moments, tension mounting, when their stare
down was broken by a cackle from one of the cells.
    It was a small thing, but
enough to end the brief duel. Salastin’s mark broke eye
contact and turned his cards face down.
    Salastin ground his teeth as he
raked in his winnings. The fool would have played on, but for the
laughter.
    He rose, his face dark with
rage, and strode down the stairs to Aiul’s cell. On his way,
he removed a truncheon from its place on the wall. He would make the
Traitor pay for his interruption. That's the excuse, anyway. He's
paying for everything else, too.
    Salastin inserted his key and
turned it, then cursed. The lock was frozen! He slammed the eye slit
open and glared in at his captive. Aiul stood, eyes cast to the
floor, his body shaking in silent laughter, his hands clutching at
his ragged garment.
    “I don’t know what
you’ve done to the lock,” Salastin growled. “But
it will be the worse for you when I get it open!” He slammed a
boot into the steel door.
    Aiul’s laughter grew more
audible, a deep, malevolent chuckle, as he raised eyes of pure ebon
toward his tormentor. “Your name is Salastin,” he noted,
and stepped toward the door.
    “Whatever game you’re
playing, you’re going to suffer for it,” Salastin spat.
    “Suffer and die,”
Aiul agreed, bringing his own eyes to the slit.

    From a distant corner of his
mind, Aiul watched the horror unfold as a child might listen to a
particularly chilling tale being told by a master storyteller. He
saw not with his own eyes, but from a perspective outside himself
entirely, as if he were a disembodied spirit. Perhaps that is
just what I am. I should be afraid, but I am not.
    He saw his right hand rise and
slam against the cell door, the impact like a meteor falling from
the heavens. The sounds of tortured metal, rending stone, and
Salastin’s cry of shock rang out through the cell block as the
door exploded from its jamb, propelling the guard across the room
and dashing him against the far wall in an explosion of blood and
gore.
    The remainder of the watch
charged down the stairs, weapons in hand and ready for anything
except what they actually found. The cell door slowly