Fear of magic prompted his captors to be creative, lest he strike at them. Because he was an Anturasi, they feared killing him outright; torturing him was simply erring on the side of caution. They also drugged the meager rations they gave him, hoping that between the beatings and narcotics, he would be unable to work his foul arts.

If they only knew.

Lying there on the cold stone floor, Keles drew his consciousness inward. He retreated from the pain and the cold. His teeth chattered. Cold water dripped from his nose. Hunger gnawed at his belly. Gooseflesh covered him, but all these seemed abstractions. They were part of his physical nature, but that was all.

You have figured it out. You must do this now, while you still have some strength.

He focused on the water and sought its true nature. It wanted to flow to the lowest point in the cell. He encouraged it. He gave it a little push, and then another, registering the tingle at the base of his brain. He was touching magic very lightly, but it was enough. The water that had puddled around him slowly flowed away.

He next turned his attention to the stone under his cheek. It was just a slab of stone, hardly remarkable, but he sought inside it. He’d made this journey before and found the path easier with each repetition. He pushed into the stone’s past to a time when it rested in a dry riverbed, soaking up sunlight. Keles caught it at the moment of its greatest heat, and tickled that energy into the present.

The stone warmed beneath his cheek.

He lifted his head and pushed himself back as steam began to rise. The stone began to glow softly. He stared at his battered hands for a moment, then began to laugh.

The laughter came softly. Though not yet that of a madman, it still carried enough menace that rats squealed and sought sanctuary in the walls. If his captors were listening they likely thought him unhinged-and their work completed.

Keles could have healed his hands. It would have been a simple matter of returning them to their true nature. He had enough knowledge of anatomy to know how they should be, but that was not enough for him to invoke magic. To make a change, he needed to know his own true nature. And as much as he tried to identify it, he could not. Perhaps it was because he was changing.

“It’s not healed hands I need.” He levered himself into a sitting position and shifted his shoulders. Stiffness had already begun to set in. Combating that problem didn’t require magic, so he didn’t even consider using it. He focused on the larger problem and sought solutions to win his freedom.

After their capture they’d been transported to Vallitsi to await the pleasure of the Helosundian Council of Ministers. The Desei he’d transformed had willingly set their arms aside, but each morning they rose, clad again in their armor, weapons at hand. The Helosundians didn’t know what to make of that. The Desei weren’t hostile, so the Helosundians decided not to slaughter them.

Tyressa and Rekarafi had remained with the column for three days, then disappeared just as they reached the capital. Neither of them had surrendered their weapons, so Keles had little fear for their safety. Even unarmed, they would be in no danger.

At Vallitsi the beatings had begun, no doubt at the behest of Ieral Scoan. Keles was fairly certain the man was trying to reach an accommodation with Jasai that would give his patron an advantage over the other ministers. He tortured her with the idea that Keles was being beaten and offered to stop the beatings in exchange for her cooperation.

Keles took the beatings simply because he had no realistic alternative. He tried to use magic to escape earlier, but it wasn’t working. When rats refused scraps, he guessed he was being drugged. Once he stopped eating, he could work magic again, and slowly set out to escape.

And it has to be now.

Overhearing a chance comment by one of his torturers made things urgent. The man admonished another not to strike Keles in the face and to refrain from breaking a leg. “He has to be presentable to the full Council.”

While the other torturer had agreed, he’d countered with, “They’ll have their hands full trying Pyrust’s whore.”

The guard’s remark meant the full Council had gathered in Vallitsi. Jasai was in serious trouble. Keles-tired, aching, and starving-had to act.

Part of him remained detached and distant as he invoked magic. He used it to draw himself to his feet and steady his limbs. Taking a deep breath, he glanced back and slowly nodded. Now it begins.

He touched the water and shifted its nature from fluid to vapor. The steam drifted through the dungeon and poured into the iron lock. Once vapor touched metal, the water condensed.

Keles pushed his sense into the lock. He could have touched the iron and, as he had with the stone, recalled it to a time when it was very hot, but that would take too much of his strength. Instead he concentrated on the water, making it eat into the metal. The water coursed through worn spots and tiny fissures, spreading like rusty ivy through the bolt. In no time at all, the bolt parted.

The door sagged, then the hinges, which had also rusted through, snapped. The dungeon door fell inward, then burst apart on impact. The door’s nails disintegrated into rusty stains. The din of planks rattling against the dungeon’s stone steps echoed loudly.

A wave of exhaustion staggered him. Too sloppy. I have to be more careful. I don’t have that much strength.

The door’s collapse brought shouts. Feet pounded along the corridor. The guardsmen’s shadows fell across Keles, eclipsing him. “What deviltry’s this?”

One guard dropped a hand to his sword. Keles touched magic and caressed more of the water. A fluid stream stabbed up into the man’s nostrils. He sputtered and choked, his hands flailing. He tried to scream, but more water choked him. Eyes bulging, he shoved himself back, slamming the other guard into the wall, then dropped to his knees. His face darkened as he noisily tried to suck in air, then fainted.

The other guard rebounded and went for his sword. Keles forced water into the wooden scabbard. The wood swelled, holding the sword fast. Confusion knotted the man’s brow, then gave way to rage. The guard pulled sword and scabbard free, then charged.

Keles took one step forward and stamped down. An oaken plank levered up, smashing the guard in the knee. Screaming, the man crashed face-first into the floor. His sword bounced from nerveless fingers. It rolled to a rest in the puddle and slowly dissolved into an orange stain.

Fatigue wrapped Keles in a leaden cloak. He wavered and caught himself with a hand. Pain arced up his arm, shocking him to clarity. He rested for a moment, then staggered forward, slowly picking his way up the steps. He stepped over the other guardsman and continued up the corridor.

At the guard’s station he stripped a rough woolen blanket from a pallet. He pulled it tight around himself, scratching his raw flesh. Shivering, he worked his way up the next flight of stone steps.

He stopped near ground level, peering through the narrow, barred window in the door. The guardroom doubled as a barracks. He couldn’t see any soldiers sleeping or sitting around the lone table. A fire still burned in a central pit, and a pot of broth bubbled there. Four bowls of steaming rice sat on the table. Whoever had been on duty had been recently called away.

Probably to attend the Council. Lucky me.

But why they had left did not matter. A key ring hung on a peg set in the wall. His freedom depended upon getting his hands on those keys.

But how?

Then he smiled. A leaky bucket of water sat by the fire pit. He concentrated and pushed. A stave cracked. The bucket emptied, and Keles channeled the water to the wall beneath the keys.

Once the puddle had grown large enough, he shifted the water from fluid to solid. An icicle stabbed up and lifted the key ring from the peg. Caught at the pinnacle, the keys jangled discordantly.