Chapter 57
Arkyn flicks Kaan’s weald open and closed, over and over again, producing bursts of fiery light while we trail his fluttering cloak down the long and winding tunnel.
While I scream, thrash, and snarl every step I’m dragged, not missing a single opportunity to slash my fingernails into the arms of the two fae hauling me along.
“You’d think she’d be more thankful,” one of them drudges out, heaving me past a flaming wall torch that glints off his bronze mask, exertion heavy in his strained voice. “Given her wounds were just mended.”
Laughter bubbles out of me, hitched with mania.
Arkyn may have ordered my wounds fixed, the infection flushed from my blood, but I paid for it tenfold—mind sliced open and pried wide. Poked and pinched so much my brain feels like it’s one big, swollen lump barely contained within my skull.
Paid for it with secrets stolen. Humiliated as my private moments were inspected—slowly.
Painfully.
Then, to add insult to injury, my pockets were emptied. Kaan’s weald scavenged, appearing to be Arkyn’s new favorite toy.
I kick harder, tossing about with such gusto blood scribbles across my face, leaking from the sleep-repressing runes dug into my temples.
My left arm slips loose.
I’m just about to put all my weight into trying to flip the fucker on my right when Arkyn spins, thrusts his hand forward, and grips my neck, his fingers gouging deep like dragon claws.
I slash and grab at him, trying to pry free, certain my tendons are about to fray beneath the might of his crushing grip. All the blood rushes to my swollen brain, making it bulge against its confines …
Dark spots blot my vision.
Arkyn sighs, holding me still even after the other male regains his grip on my arm. “He’s right, you know.” He flicks Kaan’s weald open, igniting his gnarly face. Closes it again. “The mender said you were barely holding on to life.”
I start slipping off the edge of consciousness, falling headfirst into those black blots, when the runes on my temples begin to burn like metal brands pressing deep.
Melting.
My eyes bulge, mouth agape with a silent scream. The smell of fried flesh taints the air, smashing me with memories that make my guts tip.
Arkyn lets go.
I slump into the firm grips on my arms, tears slipping down my cheeks while I heave breath, Kaan’s weald click, click, clicking away. The more I come back to consciousness, the less the runes sizzle.
Again, I’m dragged forward through intermittent bursts of firelight, my limbs leaden. Mind muddy.
Soul screaming.
The tunnel walls drop away. In my peripheral, I catch glimpses of empty cells lining both sides, the reek of rot, mold, and excrement souring every breath I drag.
We come to a sparsely lit cell that looks much like the others, door hinges squealing.
Shit.
I find another surge of energy, and my surroundings blur as I thrash and scream and kick my legs, trying to boot theirs out from under them.
I’m flung forward, lashing against the wall so hard that all the breath shoves from my lungs, crumpling into a heap. Though I barely feel any pain, too high on the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I’m just about to clamber up when someone steps on my back.
Elluin’s diary digs into my gut, making a rise of vomit burn the back of my throat.
“Stay down!”
I growl into the wet stone my face is smushed against as my shackles are tethered to a hook in the ground. The moment the male lifts his boot, I shove up and charge. Smash against the barred door that slams shut in my face.
The sound of it locking clangs through me, echoing off the oppressive walls that press in like a book slamming shut.
The key is handed to the Scavenger King before the guards charge off into the darkness, leaving Arkyn standing on the other side. His hooded eyes glint in the firelight spilling from a nearby lantern.
Although he stands on the free side of the bars, I stare him down like we’re on a battlefield. Like I’m about to take him to the ground with nothing but my bare hands, snap his neck, then rip off his head.
I don’t care that we’re blood. He’s intent on hurting Kaan; has been tossing folk to their doom in the Pits of Khindard for phases to build up the funds to usurp him.
He’s no brother of mine.
He flicks the lid of the weald, releasing the bulb of flame. Ignites his cruel, twisted face.
“If you so much as lay a finger on Kaan,” I slur, wobbling, “you’re just as bad as him.”
Pah.
Arkyn’s head cants to the side. “How many brothers, sons, sisters, and daughters did Kaan kill when he took the bronze throne, Veya?”
I snarl.
He grunts, eyes shifting right, narrowing on the next cell. “Convince her to eat and I’ll tell the Mindweft to be gentle when she resumes her efforts to retrieve whatever it is you’re hiding in that shadowed corner of your mind.”
He snaps the weald shut. With a dash of his tattered cloak, he spins, storming off into the darkness that swallows all but the intermittent bursts of firelight spilling from Kaan’s clicking weald.
I wobble. Whip my hand forward to grip a cold bar as I look back over my shoulder. My heart skips a beat at the sight of … someone bound in the corner of the cell beside mine, a torn and threadbare blanket covering most of their body but for a filthy tendril of hair—white.
Long.
A hint of something silver sketched upon the prisoner’s brow, and all the breath blasts from my lungs. A pained sound surges up my throat, every one of my aches and pains obliterating in the wake of my punching horror.
Oh no … Please no …
I fall to the floor and crawl across the stone. Reach through the bars. “Kyzari—”
She moves.
Blurs.
Her hand is through the bars, at my throat, squeezing so tight all the blood in my head bulges to the surface, stressing the seams of my bruised and battered brain.
“Ky—za—ri,” I choke out, placing my hand on hers. “Kyza—it’s—mmm—me—”
My vision fades until only her pupils are still in focus. So dark and empty I’m certain they could gulp the world.
The runes on my temples warm—
Kyzari’s pupils tighten, features smoothing, the crisp blue in her eyes returning.
A vibrant ring that looks like a blow of Moonplume flame, and right now, the most welcomed sight in the world.
But her face is only smooth for a beat before it crumbles, tears lining her lower lids as her grip loosens.
Her hand drops like a rock.
I heave breath, flooding myself with everything I need to keep my brain awake. Keep those runes from burning. Though I don’t let her see my pain, my fear, taking her face in my hands while I shuffle as close to the bars as I can physically manage.
“It’s okay,” I rasp, gaze sweeping between her eyes—vacant, underscored by dark dents that add to her haunted appearance.
Her usual tawny complexion is so pale it’s almost translucent, her cheekbones jutted, lips cracked and colorless.
“Oh, Kyzari … What has he done to you?”
She’s just touching the rune on my right temple when I take her into my arms, pulling her close despite her rigid posture. A bony doll, shoulders so frail I’m certain she’ll break if I squeeze her any closer.
It takes too long for her to draw a shuddered breath, softening on the exhale as she begins to tremble. Her arms finally lift and bind around the back of me, hands clawing for a desperate, sturdier grip.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, scanning her cell. My gaze snags on the shit bucket in the corner, moves to the heaps of uneaten food lumped by the bars—rotting. Discolored bits of meat coated in a layer of pale grubs gorging on the offering.
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
My attention shifts to the blanket she was hiding beneath, spotting two halves of a torn parchment lark tucked amongst the folds.
I smooth her matted hair, gaze lifting to the many moons smudged on the ceiling, then to the sooty letters drawn across the walls.
Certainly not Kyzari’s. Her script is more delicate, the letters effortlessly joined together.
Except—
My stare narrows on a dainty sentence scratched so deep into the gray-stone wall, as if it’s been gone over a thousand times. Definitely Kyzari’s handwriting.
Oh, darling.
I gather her filthy hair, easing it to the side so I can rub her back, rereading those three little words …
“Who—” I clear my throat, still raw and tender. “Who did you think I was, Kyzari?”
She pulls back a little, any softness gone from her posture and the lines of her face as she wipes her cheeks and lifts her chin. “How did you get here?”
The question hangs.
Still for a moment, I push a tendril of hair from her eyes and tuck it behind her ear. “Long story, but I’m okay … You?”
“Oh, I— Ahh … I was hunting for moonshards,” she says, rolling her eyes as she swats a rogue tear from her cheek.
That’s not exactly what I was asking, Kyzari …
“A miskunn passed me a very scrambled message suggesting that I needed to find the remaining bits of Mah’s fallen dragon to—” She sighs and shakes her head, picking up the torn lark from amongst the folds of her blanket.
“Never mind,” she whispers, laying both halves atop her palm before placing her other hand upon them.
“I’m here. I fell into that lunatic’s trap. ”
I study the curl of her shoulders and downcast gaze. The chewed tips of her fingernails. The way her hands cradle that little lark like it’s the most precious thing she’s ever held.
“Who did you think I was, Kyzari? When you first woke?”
Something flickers in her eyes.
“You know,” she whispers, studying her cupped hands, “Pah taught me not to make a sound. Not to argue or even open my mouth unless I was specifically called upon. ‘Be small and quiet,’ he’d say.
‘Small, quiet females are what the world needs. Not loud ones who don’t know how to keep their thoughts to themselves and shut the fuck up. ’”
The last words are spat with such vehemence they bounce off the walls, echoing.
I frown.
I’ve never heard Kyzari curse. Nor have I heard her speak with such a slice to her tone.