At first he thought he had been made mute. Then, as he realized that more than his own voice had been silenced, that there was no sound anywhere, he thought he had been made deaf. The horror of these thoughts was so great that when it finally dawned on him that he was merely imprisoned in a soundless prison, the realization came as a relief. He traced the lacy edges of the muting spellwork with sideways glances—the spellwork could not be seen straight on—traced them again and again, compulsively, not because he hoped to break the spell, but simply as evidence that sound still existed in the world, that only his own prison was soundless. Aside from its silence, the prison was not terrible. It was the sort of apartment a guest of rank might be given. The bedchamber where Taudde had awoken was small, but it boasted a bed that, though narrow, was well supplied with good blankets and coverlets. There were two other rooms. The first of these was a private bath, where the basin possessed six taps that ran with fresh water.
