Chapter 48
Zarek
THE DRAGON MINE
Iflicker in and out of consciousness, dimly aware of motion and the murmur of voices. Mostly aware of every single part of my body screaming in pain.
Breathing hurts, so I think at least a few of my ribs might be broken.
My mouth tastes like blood, and I can’t open my left eye; my face must look delightful.
I feel hot, then cold, which implies I could have a whole new round of problems to deal with if I survive long enough for an infection to make me sick.
And everything smells like a fucking horse.
My head throbs as the world shifts, up and down, up and down. One side of my face rubs up against something coarse, and my ribs spasm in pain as my weight shifts. Men laugh around me.
I close my one functional eye, then open it again. The world reels. Sun through the trees. Hooves against stone. Cold wind, and cold voices.
I’m on a horse. Or, not exactly on a horse. I’m draped over the back of a horse like a gutted deer, I think. That explains the smell. I close my good eye and try to make out the voices.
Trying to place them drags up memories. There’s the voice that drove his fist into my ribs until they cracked. There’s the voice that hit me over the back with a piece of firewood.
Lovely. I try to swallow. My spit tastes like blood.
I flirt with unconsciousness for what feels like a long time, and then the horse stops moving. I jolt fully awake as a familiar voice cuts through the cold air.
“You’ve brought him?”
Syvan. I open my one functional eye as rough hands grab my shoulders and drag me off the horse. My legs collapse when I hit the ground, but not before I see the second prince of Vsenrog astride his white stallion. His crown glints in the light of the setting sun.
I spit blood onto the stones, then stumble up to my feet. I’m still wearing pants, thank the gods, but my feet and chest are bare. I don’t dare feel for the dagger strapped to my thigh, but I do bring my left hand to the hollow of my neck.
It’s gone. The metal vial I’ve carried for so many years no longer hangs from my neck.
The realization that I am about to die slides through my rib cage like a blade, silent and dark. After all these years, I never thought it would be Syvan. I didn’t think he had the balls to kill me.
The king’s second son turns his horse toward me and smiles.
“The snake of Vsenrog,” he says, tilting his crowned head like he’s introducing me to someone. “My father’s favorite little pet.”
I smile back at him. My busted lip cracks open. Blood seeps down my chin.
“Fuck you,” I reply.
Syvan laughs. The man who pulled me off the horse grabs my arm and yanks me back, as if a half-naked, mostly unarmed man poses any sort of threat to a prince on horseback.
“You know, I’ve never liked you,” Syvan says.
“The feeling is mutual,” I reply.
“To think, my father was actually sad about this,” Syvan continues, shaking his head. “He’s always had a weakness for mongrels. It’s a flaw I’ll have to correct when I’m king.”
A shiver runs up my back, and I wince. It’s not exactly news that Syvan wants to become the king of Vsenrog, but all the same, it leaves me feeling hollow inside. I think of Rose in her brothel, of Alia in the stables. They don’t deserve Syvan as their king.
“Bring him,” Syvan calls.
With that, he turns his horse toward a steep, narrow path.
The man holding my shoulder shoves me forward.
I pick my way slowly up the mountainside, passing a rough collection of half-assembled wooden shacks.
Is this some kind of prison camp hidden on the Marion border? And if so, why haven’t I heard of it?
Syvan’s horse clomps over the final hill, and suddenly I realize exactly where we are.
The Dragon Mine.
A great black hole in the mountainside yawns open before me.
I flinch, and the man behind me shoves me so violently I stagger down the slope toward the mouth of the mine.
A dozen or so men are standing in front of the hole.
None of them look like miners; in fact, I swear I recognize a few faces from Syvan’s military outpost in the Devil’s Arse.
I’m shivering as two of the men approach me with their hands on the swords strapped to their waists.
Behind them, Syvan dismounts. His white stallion seems uneasy this close to the mouth of the mine.
I don’t blame the creature. All mines are terrifying holes in the ground where people bury their youth and bodies for gold, but this one seems especially ominous.
As the soldiers march me toward the gaping maw of the mine, I remember all the wild stories I’ve heard about this place.
A dragon revealed this mine, right? Showed up at dawn and told someone this was the spot?
Some dragons are friendly, I’ve heard, but after seeing this mine, I doubt that particular dragon showed it to humanity out of benevolence.
I swallow, and it tastes like blood. Syvan tosses his cloak back over his shoulder as the soldiers light lamps hanging in the mouth of the cave.
“He’s still down there?” Syvan asks. “That asshole in white?”
His voice is strong and arrogant, but the echo of it wavers. One of the soldiers nods in response.
“Good,” Syvan replies. “I’d hate to think we went to all this effort for nothing.”
He laughs, and a few of the men chuckle.
It’s a tight sort of laugh, something you might hear as men prepare for the battlefield.
I glance up at the setting sun burning in her brilliant blue sky, the same sun I saw through the door of our family’s cabin, with Petrys and Gerrart, waiting for Father to return.
Someone shoves me between the shoulder blades. I grunt as my ribs protest, and then I shuffle forward like an old man.
The darkness of the mine swallows me. The air in here smells stale and damp, like it’s been holding secrets. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim flicker of Syvan’s lamp. Even with the lamp, the darkness inside the mine feels like it’s pressing down around us, hungry for the light.
The men behind me carry torches as well, casting little pools of light over the cold stone beneath my feet.
Syvan leads us down the narrow passageway chipped from the granite heart of the mountain.
I’m expecting the path to branch and twist, searching for gold ore, but I see no side passages.
It’s just a straight tunnel leading straight down.
The ground grows wet and slippery, and the air gets thick. The scent of smoke rises from the lanterns, mixing with the unwashed bodies of the men around me. No one speaks. Water drips off stone in the distance.
Suddenly, the tunnel widens. The men behind me fan out, and darkness pools between the light of their torches. From the echoes of their footsteps, I guess we’re in the middle of a vast cavern.
A weak light flickers in the distance. There’s a sound, like a voice, and then the proper clip-clip-clip of boots on stone.
A figure clad in white robes appears in the pool of torchlight. He glances at me, then at Syvan, and memory whispers from the back of my mind.
I last saw this man in the palace when King Malrik’s tailor fitted me for the outfits I’d wear on our Unity Tour. Fyrris, the king called him. He came in with Malrik, stared at me like I was a side of meat on a butcher’s table, and said something about how I could be quite useful.
My gut shifts. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to feel worse about my situation than I did when I was strapped to the ass end of a horse, but here we are. Worse.
“That’s him?” Fyrris asks. “It’s a bit hard to tell with all the blood.”
Syvan grunts, like I’m not even worth using words to acknowledge. One of his men swings a torch toward my face, momentarily blinding me.
“It’s him,” Syvan finally says. “The last prince of Dungal. That blood you see? It’s royal.”
Syvan makes the word royal sound like an insult. I try to suppress the shiver that races up my spine.
“Excellent,” Fyrris replies. “Thank you, Your Highness. Bring him here, if you please.”
Syvan nods. Fyrris turns, and I follow before the men behind me get any ideas about encouraging me with the warm end of their torches. Shadows leap and dance around us, making it hard to tell how big this cavern actually is.
The man in white leads me to a table set with several torches and strange metal instruments. Behind him, thick silver wires cross an expanse of flat stone.
The wires lead to a chair with a pair of delicate silver manacles attached to each arm.
I swallow hard as the taste of blood fills my mouth. None of this makes any sense. This doesn’t look like a mine; it looks like a torture chamber.
I glance over my shoulder at the man standing behind me. He grins like he can’t wait to see what would happen if I try to run for it. I turn back to the table and the man in the white robes.
“Please,” Fyrris says, giving me a cold smile. “Have a seat.”
He gestures toward the chair with its silver manacles, as if it were unclear what he wanted to do with me. Panic squirms in my gut, and I think of Lilias, of the kiss she gave me when I left the tent. I turn back to Syvan as panic flutters in the base of my throat.
“My wife?” I ask.
Syvan rolls his eyes. “My father wants her alive.”
Every part of me screams to barter, to promise Syvan anything I have, everything I have, in exchange for Lilias’s life and safety. But what do I have to promise?
At least she’s still alive.
My head drops, and I shuffle forward. A few of Syvan’s vicious guards chuckle when I lower myself into the chair. It’s cold against my naked back and arms. Fyrris approaches me with that same hard smile. His robes rustle and hiss when he walks.
“Your wrists,” he says, with a pointed glance at the open manacles.
I grit my teeth and lower my wrists into the open metal circles.
My skin prickles and pulls tight when it touches the metal.
Fyrris takes a large ring from his pocket, chooses one of the dozen keys hanging from it, and locks the manacles, tying me to a chair for the second time in as many days. Then he turns back to Syvan.
“Leave us now,” he says.
Syvan frowns like he’s going to disagree.
“If you would, please,” Fyrris continues, in a much more civil tone. “The ritual specifies royal blood, Your Highness. It would be dangerous to have you here as well. I’ll do my best to direct the magic toward the captive, of course, but still. We wouldn’t want any accidents.”
Several of Syvan’s soldiers glance at each other nervously. My skin feels like it’s trying to crawl off my body. Gods, I always knew I’d die violently, but not like this. Anything but this.
Syvan grunts. “Of course,” he says. “We’ll wait for you outside.”
“I would be most obliged,” Fyrris replies with a tight smile.
“Oh, and, Fyrris?” Syvan says, smiling with all his perfect teeth. “If you don’t come out of this pit with the weapon, I will kill you myself.”
With that, Syvan turns away from Fyrris. His cape flutters as he strides across the cavern, his boots echoing off stone, and his soldiers scurrying to light his path.
“Asshole,” I grumble under my breath.
“They all are,” Fyrris replies as the light from Syvan’s torches fades into darkness.