A great clamor of voices broke out all at once, drowning out the speaker. The door was swung shut with an iron bang at the end of the hall and the ruckus faded to a mutinous buzz. Oliver remained where he was, kneeling, his face pressed against the bars of his cell.
The cold from the metal began to seep into his bones. ‘Tyrant? Did he say Tyrant? It couldn’t have been that man I was talking to. No. It was someone else, it must have been.’
Shock and denial swept through Oliver. It could not have happened. He would have known it if he had just spoken with a traitor to Calamere – a man who would certainly go down in history as one of the most evil men of Oliver’s time.
Hevel had not seemed evil. He had seemed ordinary; perhaps a little sad.