PodCastle 411: Hands of Burnished Bronze - a podcast by Escape Artists, Inc

* Author : Rebecca Schwarz

* Narrator : Cheyenne Wright

* Host : Graeme Dunlop

* Audio Producer : Peter Wood

*

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PodCastle 411: Hands of Burnished Bronze is a PodCastle original.





Rated PG-13.

Hands of Burnished Bronze

by Rebecca Schwarz



Night after night, I lie awake staring into the darkness, listening for the sound of scrabbling fingers on the flagstones outside my door. Sleep, like a young lover who sees how old and frightened I have become, has left me—I fear for good. I hear only the boy’s regular breaths. A new slave brought back from a recent campaign, he sleeps curled at the foot of my bed. Watery pre-dawn light outlines my narrow window, too weak to enter my chamber; soon dawn will drain the black hours pooled in this room.



Voices drift in from the courtyard, then a shout. The boy jumps up as the clamor grows. I rise and pull my shoes on. The boy brings me my fur-lined cloak and swings it over my shoulders, but he will not unbolt the door, so I do.

The hallway is dim and empty. Most of the court has fled; those who remain listen behind their own locked doors. I run my hand along the wall as I walk, the cool stone guiding me through the gloom to the courtyard.

Night watchmen swarm around the body they’ve just lowered to the ground. One of their own. He gapes up at the pale sky with bulging, sightless eyes; a grim gorget of purple welts encircle his neck. King Hroth steps over the body and grips my arm. “Strangled!”

On the wall above, fog eddies behind the remaining watchmen on the wall as they pace the battlements like caged animals. Soon sunlight will lance across the fields surrounding the castle and all eyes will search for dreaded glimpses metal glinting among the flowers that spangle the grass.

“Tell me you have found a spell to lift this curse, old friend.”

What passes between us is many things, but even after all these years, I wouldn’t call it friendship. His haunted eyes search mine from under a brow etched with lines. His beard now streaked with gray. Years ago, when the King swept into my homeland and took me into his service it was with the understanding that I would not leave it alive. In those days, I thought myself a far better magician than I was. It was King Hroth that made me the powerful wizard that I am. Every town and castle he captured, he ordered his men to bring him the resident magician. Some were renowned, others little more than tricksters or court fools. He personally tortured all of them with me by his side to claim the secrets they divulged.

I have no good answer for him, so I remain silent.

“I made you,” he growls low in my ear. “Find a way out of this or I will end you.” I am tempted to kneel before him now; his blade on my old neck would be a kindness. Instead, I bow and retreat, returning to my chambers. The room is empty. I leave the door open and walk to my formidable library, nearly a score of grimoires and spell books. I run a finger over one of the aging spines, the leather hard and smooth as the seat of a saddle and still speckled with brown blood.

“Please, magician, may I lock your door?” The boy stands in my doorway. I thought he’d fled and wish now that he’d taken the opportunity. His presence only makes me realize my desire for solitude. He’s trembling, trying hard not to look over his shoulder. I nod reluctantly, and he closes the heavy wood door, sliding the iron bolt home with relief. I sit at my desk and close my eyes. If I can’t have sleep perhaps I can steal a fe...

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