Chapter 31
I don’t know what I expected the most notorious and lethal prison in Tamarynth to look like.
The Hawks deliver Morphic prisoners to Malachite but are never allowed inside.
Parents tell children stories about inmates peeking into windows to keep them in bed.
Across the provinces, separate divisions of Hawks bring their Morphic prisoners to Credence.
I always begged Leith to tell me what it looked like from the outside, and he always found a way to change the subject.
As far as I knew, the only people allowed inside were my father, a few of his trusted prison guards, and the prisoners themselves.
It’s only after our captors drag us beyond the estate that I realize how close the prison has truly been all this time. During a short carriage ride, we travel past a grove of thick-trunked willow trees, past a black water creek, and arrive at a massive, rectangular expanse of groomed, dead earth.
Colossal stone gargoyles sit at the four corners of the dirt field. There are no carriages hauling prisoners here now. Only the stone gargoyles overgrown with moss and twisting vines interrupt the empty space.
“Where is it?” Alana asks in a trembling voice. After losing her emotions during the attack, she struggles to contain the overwhelming fear now coursing through her. Her teeth chatter, and Ivander reminds her to breathe.
Lord Damarcus has not accompanied us to the prison. All the times he told us he was leaving to deliver a potion to Alexandrite Estate, how often was he coming here?
Gray points to an oval-shaped crater in the center of the dirt field. “Underground.”
Only I seem to notice how his finger shakes as he points. Anxiety must be gnawing a hole in his gut. The thought of seeing Leith like our captors, unfocused and unaware, scares me too.
Our captors pause beside one of the gargoyles. As I wonder what we’re waiting on, the gargoyle with a square, ghoulish face, curled talons, and large ribbed wings framing its muscular body moves.
It stretches its front paws into the dirt, sinking its talons into the dry soil.
The gargoyle yawns, revealing pointed teeth on its mossy face.
Its eyes glow green as its gaze finds us.
Upon scanning our group, it sinks into a low bow, and our captors are allowed to drag us over the perimeter of the dirt field.
Ivander and I lock eyes. No crafter should be able to create such a large, sentient object without the council approving it.
But not many council members pay visits to Malachite Prison.
Once again, I’m shocked by the depth of my father’s deception.
It must have taken several crafters to create something so large.
The four of us shuffle our feet as our captors prod us toward the oval-shaped pit. A voice in the back of my head warns me not to go any farther. Not to let myself get dragged into whatever waits beneath the surface.
But I don’t have much choice. Even if I managed to break free and make a run for it, one of the captors would catch me. I’ve tried reaching for my resurrection magic, but it lurks beneath the surface of my skin, unable to emerge within the confines of the cuffs.
Our captors stop at the mouth of the gaping crater in the ground. Alana and I exchange a glance. Her hands tremble against her cuffs. With trepidation, I peer into the hollow abyss. As I look down into the depths, I begin to make out a miniature city in the darkness.
It makes sense, knowing that every province’s Morphic prisoners are sent here.
Still, I’m unprepared for the sheer size of the underground prison.
Two towers of endless cells stand tall in the pit.
The only surface connecting the towers to each other is a bridge at the top supported by an iron bar that stretches down to the lowest depths of the prison.
The cells have stone floors but are covered on all other sides by a patchwork of bars.
Every level has a landing connected by staircases.
The landings extend to tunnels carved into the walls of the pit that I assume are used for prison staff and supplies.
Guards traverse the staircases with torches in their hands, hauling large potion canisters.
“This can’t be real,” Ivander whispers beside me.
Given the moans and cries of discomfort, the potion must not be as effective as Lord Damarcus hoped.
Our captors push us from the ledge, and I try not to scream.
There is only a narrow stone staircase with no railings leading down to the bridge connecting the towers.
One misstep, and we fall innumerable stories to our deaths.
It’s a sickening way to ensure no one can make a quick escape.
After the four of us climb down three or four stories, we make it onto the stable bridge. We are led across to the landing of the uppermost cells in the right tower. For the first time, one of my captors, a woman with cropped, dark hair and dirt smudged into her sunken cheeks, speaks.
“Lord Damarcus keeps us fed and comfortable. We drink our potion in the morning and at night.” Her voice has a dull, leaden quality, as if she’s reading from a book without comprehending the story.
Several low moans erupt from the cells. “Those who don’t respond to the potion anymore have their Morphia extracted. ”
“Then what happens to them?” Gray asks.
The woman doesn’t answer, but my stomach flips. If this is how Lord Damarcus treats his future soldiers, what does he have planned for us?
A prison guard approaches us, and a lightning strike of recognition jolts through me.
His graying hair and rectangular glasses have been present around our dinner table since I was five years old.
He’s determined not to look at me and clears his throat as he speaks to our captors.
“Take them to the high-security rooms on the lower floor.”
“Lord Malechor,” I say, desperate to catch his eye, but he walks away without looking at me. The clomp of his boots on the narrow walkway sends sharp pangs of panic through my body. We’re not going to get help, so we need ideas.
Our captors, along with several prison guards, lead us down several more flights of narrow staircases.
They creak with each step, straining under the force of our weight.
The deeper we descend into the prison, the darker and colder it gets.
At the bottom level of the tower, we arrive at rooms carved out of stone with bars only in the cell doors.
I am as far from escape as I can get. My chest constricts, tight and painful from the effort of holding back my terror.
Torches are mounted on the tower walls, lighting our way.
The prison guards lead the four of us to two separate stone cells.
A prison guard unlocks the cells with a large metal key.
I note he stores it on a key ring on his belt.
Once he swings the cell doors open, our captors shove Ivander and me roughly into one cell, and Gray and Alana into the other.
The bars slam shut behind us. The rattle of them banging shut echoes in the hallway. A guard mutters to another, “Are we giving them a dose?”
Although I can see through the gaps in the bars of the door, I am completely cut off from Gray and Alana by the stone walls on either side.
“Not yet. Lord Damarcus wants to make sure he doesn’t need them.
” I exhale gratefully. He must believe we’ll come over to his way of thinking.
Or he wants to use us as scapegoats for whatever he’s planning.
Either way, I don’t care. I plan never to drink another one of Lord Damarcus’s potions again.
There are two beds in this room, about the same size as those on the ship.
I’ve traded one bunk for another. I sink onto one of them and Ivander sits on the bed across from me, its springs creaking.
There’s a nightstand with a lantern and a few weathered books.
We have a small table and chairs, a bucket of water with a bar of soap, and a chest of basic apothecary items. The groaning of the staircases over our heads supplies a constant stream of noise.
Between the moaning and thuds of prison guard boots, I can’t think.
I put my head in my hands. A body-shaking sob tears through my chest.
I can’t hold it back, and this time, I don’t try.
Tears fall, and my eyes throb, hot and itchy.
How did I go from the elation of earning my retrial to sitting here?
Put here by my own father. A man I trusted.
A man I was proud to call my family. I believed I was part of a long line of alchemers devoted to making Tamarynth better.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ivander asks softly.
I lift my head, eyes burning and raw. Though my throat is tight, I try to croak out a sound. Nothing comes out. I try again. “Why didn’t I see it all sooner? I could have—”
“Could have what? Anticipated your father’s betrayal, and what? Killed him? That’s not you.”
“Maybe it is,” I whisper.
“Listen to me,” Ivander says. “You’re not a killer. You have defended yourself when you needed to. You hurt the people who hurt you. That does not make you your father.”
“What if it does?” My shaking subsides, but now the quiet fears have me in a chokehold. These are the fears I only whisper in the dead of night, terrified to make them real. “He believes in what he’s doing.”
Ivander lets out a dry laugh that vibrates off the stone walls.
“Plenty of people believe in what they’re doing.
Those bosses believed in torturing us. They believed it was worth it so they could use our Morphia.
That doesn’t make it right.” He pauses, unclasping his hands.
“I don’t think all of them were that way. Stellan … I think he let us go.”
I hadn’t considered that. The thought of it eases the tension in my shoulders.
Maybe we weren’t the only ones starting to question the way things were running aboard the ship.
Now that I think about it, I’m not sure Stellan was there the night of Elayne’s murder.
He might not have tried to stop it, but maybe he didn’t want to be part of it.
I take a breath. “He’s lied to me. About my brother. About everything I thought I knew about our family. I should hate him. I think a part of me does. But why…”
“Why does it hurt so much to hate him?” Ivander’s lips press into a line. “Because he’s still your father. The one you remember.”
I swallow hard. My mind’s still spinning. Every nerve ending in my body senses more than it should. In the span of less than a day, I’ve been cut down and scattered to the wind. My father was my compass, and I’ve lost my sense of direction. This will break me.
“Why are you okay right now?” I don’t mean for my voice to come out so defensive. I don’t have the right to be angry that he’s not as defeated and hurt as I am. He didn’t know my father before today.
Ivander sits up and leans his back against the stone wall. “Maybe this whole thing has just made me believe in us more. In you.” He motions to the spot next to me on the bed. “Is it okay if I sit next to you?”
“Yes,” I say, watching him in the lantern light. Soft brown eyes and strong jaw made gold by the fire. When he sits beside me, the warmth of his body calms me. His voice lowers, a deep rumbling as he leans closer. “And is it okay if I touch you?”
I nod, the rush of his heat near my body making it hard to speak.
I shudder as he lifts his arms over me, his cuffs settling at the back of my neck.
The firm embrace, the pressure of his arms around me, pieces me back together.
Somehow, I can breathe again. Finally, the touch of skin against mine is a welcome balm for my frayed nerves rather than the source of my discomfort.
It feels like how it did when Leith believed in me. I remember the warmth well, and now I’m desperate to absorb the faith Ivander has in me.
He lifts his arms, and I bow my head, for once missing the contact of another.
We are only parted for a moment, as he then takes my face in his hands, tracing a finger down my freckled cheek.
His hand falls to my hair, tugging gently on a strand, but I stay still.
He leans over and leaves a kiss on my neck.
The pressure of his lips makes me shiver.
He pulls away, tilting my chin up to him.
“You never said we were liars when we told you the truth about the Celestial. It takes some Morphics months to see the ship for what it is. You looked at every part of that ship with your eyes wide open. You saw the parts that were scary. Beautiful. Sickening. You allowed yourself to see it. Don’t you realize how rare that is? ”
I don’t know how he can still believe in me after everything that’s happened.
After all my family has done? His hand drops from my hair and rests on the top of my thigh.
Warm, with just enough pressure to know he’s there.
I expect him to stop, but he keeps going, maybe sensing how close I am to giving up.
“You didn’t make excuses for any of it. All you thought about was how it needed to change. You don’t care about your family legacy as much as you care about what’s happening now. That’s how you’re different from your father. That’s why we all fought for you to get your retrial. Why we’re here now.”
I don’t know if the others even got off the ship alive, but I know I tried to give them their best chance. I squeeze his hand over my thigh.
“The lords and ladies of the provinces don’t have the answers. It’s not the guests on the Celestial who are going to change things. It’s you and me. The school I want to build. People like Gray and your brother.”
Tears sting my eyes, threatening to spill over again. I want to draw him to me and absorb the hope he has for us, but I don’t get the chance.
Someone taps against the bars of our cell.
Those light blue eyes and ringlets of soft brown hair are a surprisingly welcome sight.
Eliza dangles a key between a gap in the bars. “If you want a chance of leaving this place, you don’t have time to kiss him.”