Chapter 43
When Kathreen looked all shocked asking what happened to me, I told her I was fighting in the infantry pits. She must’ve written to Dagen, because in his letter he called me a little shit for fighting in the pits, claiming I’d be safer jumping off the castle’s tallest spire. He told me I’m not allowed to die. Ever. Because I’m all he’s got. He had Preysee pick up a box of my favorite pastries. Not from our kitchens, but from Zem. He also informed me the next time I endanger my life I do NOT get expensive pastries. Maybe I did get a little bit of our mother, because I kept his stupid letter. The past few days I’ve been holed up in my room reading the books I stole from Zo while I recover. I’ve determined gods with foresight are jerks, especially when it’s unclear which god wrote the prophecy, like this one: “The King of Kings will begin his reign, with the blood of Zo, whether it’s shed or bred will remain with two First-Mades and those who know.” Don’t get me started on what the gods have to say about Skeeves.
Father is here, whip in hand. His eyes are a glossy black, but every so often a flicker of pain and regret enters before snuffing out again.
He reaches beneath his stool and clutches two dark bolts of fabric. The cloaks I gave to Palko.
“Where is your necklace from Zo?”
I freeze. How does he know about that?
“I thought you were beginning to overcome your weakness!” he yells, throwing the cloaks at me.
My fists clench at my sides as the cloaks flutter to the stone floor. “What weakness is that?”
He kicks the stool. “Caring for anyone but yourself!”
The muscles in my neck and jaw strain as I grit my teeth. “Caring is not a weakness.”
He jabs his finger into my chest, but I don’t offer an inch of give. “It is,” he says. “And I’m going to show you exactly why it is.”
A small knock comes from the door. Father opens it with a puff of black smoke.
The door swings to reveal a pair of ice-blue eyes and white hair.
Yisabell.
“Enter and kneel,” he orders.
I throw myself between them. “No! She’s done nothing wrong. I took the cloaks to Palko. Punish me.”
His smile curls as if he holds a priceless gem in his hands. “Oh, Nizzara. This is your punishment.”
I square my shoulders. It hurts to move. “No.”
Yisabell’s hand touches my shoulder, and I turn to face her. She touches the snake ring still wrapped around my finger.
“I will take this pain for you, my friend,” she says in Awom.
I shield her with my body, but father’s black tendrils reach out from his hand, curling around my feet, threatening. They climb my body. I raise my chin, and a flicker of softness enters my father’s eyes. He sends his smoke away from me, out the door, and it returns with someone in tow.
“Sorren,” Father says when the door opens to his tall, muscled form in the doorway. He appears to belong down here in the dark, amongst the shadows. “Restrain my daughter.”
Sorren’s jaw tightens. He looks down at the silver vessel on his hand before he stalks forward and hauls me against his chest, cranking my arms back in a bone-crushing hold.
Father releases the whip, and Yisabell cries out as it cracks. I throw my head back, trying to dislodge Sorren, but it thuds uselessly against his chest.
Another whip cracks, and another cry breaks. Gold and black trickle into my senses, offering whisps of power to me, but looking at my father, brimming with power and fever in his hard eyes, is like looking at a mirror should I touch it.
Yisabell stiffens with each slice, her cries building each time, and I am breaking. I reach out mentally toward those wisps of power, but with a flicker of the black gems sewn onto my father’s jacket, the power snuffs out, inaccessible to me.
I watch each snap and crack of the whip over and over as I sob and thrash against immovable arms. Not strong enough to disengage Sorren. Not strong enough to face who I might become.
I scream and cry with each shove of my arm or kick of my leg. Each slash of the whip I try jerking free, but Sorren adjusts his stance and grip to restrain me more each time.
I don’t stop fighting.
When Yisabell rises from the floor, her back a bloody mess, Father sends her to clean the dungeons.
She makes eye contact with me as she leaves, and I swear that is love in them. Father orders Sorren to release me and he does.
Father discards the whip and tugs on his black gloves with matching gems that no longer glisten. “I have informed Sorren to place guards at the bottom of your tower and throughout the dungeons. So, no sneaking off to visit your Awom friend or the prisoners. Not that there are any prisoners left to visit now.”
My fists curl at my sides.
“I think I’m beginning to get my point across.” A sad smile takes over his face. “Stop caring for her, Nizzara, and I will have no power over you.”
Father turns to face me, a grim line on his face. “As for Lekk, stop messing around and gain his hand.”
Before I can scream at him, he disappears into a spray of darkness, into nothing. He’s gone, just like the time before.
Sorren nudges me out the door and guides me up the steps. His voice is gruff when he says, “Is it still better than the alternative?”