Chapter 23
Aweek of restless waiting had done little to calm her nerves.
She had barely left Beranek manor, choosing to fill the days with sparring sessions with Varka until her muscles screamed.
When her body was exhausted, she haunted the library, poring over old castle blueprints, looking for any and all vulnerabilities she could commit to memory.
Now she lounged against the stone wall of the dungeon, hands knitted behind her head, deliberately avoiding Tivan’s smug gaze as she awaited the briefing for the third challenge. Whatever asinine task Bohdan had devised this time, she was as ready as she could be.
She cracked one eye open as her fellow competitors filtered into the room.
Tivan was tailed by a blonde man who incessantly wrung out then smoothed his tunic, and finally a man with a shaved head who strode to the front of the room with wide steps.
The remaining four.
“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” Bohdan’s fingers snapped softly from his seated position at the desk. “Today, we’ll be visiting a location that the Envorsen are well acquainted with.” A dozen crimson uniforms entered the room.
She could hear the burlap bag rustle and before it was pulled over her head, she quickly spun on the balls of her feet, away from the guard behind her.
“What is going on?” she snarled, but Bohdan merely shook his head.
“The Envorsen will be transporting you blindfolded to the location. The more you struggle, the more drained of energy you’ll be for the third challenge.”
A growl scratched in Ksenia’s throat as she allowed the guard to pull the bag over her head and bind her hands.
Voices crawled around her, and her face mottled red.
“Who gets the honors?”
“At least she’ll be pleasant to carry.”
“Watch the bag though, I heard she bites.”
Their banter was cut short—a single, slow tap of a finger upon the desk cut through the noise.
An ice-cold trickle started at the top of her head and made its way down her spine.
“I will transport Senka, since you all lack decorum.”
Gods, she hated herself.
She could feel the curve of his smile behind her, and tension snapped through her spine.
She expected a hard shove from him and braced to fall, flinching when he scooped one strong arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back.
Blood rushed to her face and neck, and now she was extremely thankful for the bag. Her heart hammered in her rib cage, begging to be released from this torture.
Instead, she was forced to succumb. Bohdan’s pulse was steady where her cheek pressed against his chest. Her nose filled with his scent: sharp sage with a hearty note of pomegranate.
There was a fluid and rolling quality to his gait, like water flowing downhill, inevitable and smooth. She could sense the change in their elevation; her body bouncing slightly in his arms as they descended a staircase.
The scuff of his boots on stone led to a crunch of gravel, then the soft padding over grass.
The creak of carriage wheels perked her ears along with the stamping of horses’ hooves. The air transitioned from hay and dust to the crispness before a storm.
Rolling thunder sounded in the distance, and the air was damp and charged.
The squeak of the carriage door swinging open was her only warning before she was lifted onto a soft, cushioned bench. This was undoubtedly nicer than she had expected.
He blew out a long sigh as he also entered the carriage and the seat creaked opposite her.
Ksenia flinched as his knee brushed against hers, tucking closer to the edge.
He spread even further.
Silence fell between them, stilted and tense.
Fssssssssht.
A match was struck, sending a deliciously spiced haze wafting through the space.
Ksenia tilted her head. That smell—she hadn’t assumed he was the type.
A long, slow sucking sound filtered through the carriage. Through her burlap sack, she could faintly make out the ebb and wane of the ember at the tip of his cigarette.
“So, the perfect captain does have some vices.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” He exhaled smoke toward her covered face.
“Mm.” She laughed darkly. “What a gentleman.”
“Speaking of secrets, how did you know it was three?” His fingertips drummed on the polished wooden arm. Each tap disrupted her attention, his question swirling in her mind.
“Three?” She tilted her head.
“Three men who were murdered. That’s what you said last week, right? That those ‘three’ deserved it…but we never disclosed that three people were killed. Only Dmitri.”
She stopped breathing.
“You assigned me a decorative yet invisible position,” she said evenly. “Servants talk. Guards talk. The nobles are the worst for it.”
But she was dancing on a knife’s edge. A dangerous balancing act of being a spymaster candidate, treasonous bondsmith, murderer, and would-be-assassin of the king and his bastard son before her.
He hummed again, then let her anxieties consume her for the remainder of the trip, enjoying his cigarette in silence.
Through the burlap sack, she could feel his eyes rake her like coals.
Finally, the carriage came to a halt.
It shifted back and forth as Bohdan stepped out before his hands and arms returned, pulling her tense body close. Like a lover, but more likely her executioner.
She lifted her head and listened, detecting voices and raucous noise in the distance.
His feet carried them closer to the source. Rain began to fall, puckering the flagstone path on which he walked.
It seeped through the bag and matted her hair to her face as she blinked the water from her eyes.
Several bolts clicked and then humid, stale air washed over her as heavy doors groaned open.
Noise assaulted her from every direction: jeers, screaming, yelling, and catcalls blended with the banging of metal on metal, and the stamping of feet.
A prison.
She shifted uncomfortably, and he readjusted her with a chuckle. “You’re not getting out of this one.”
She tremored and loathed that he was there to feel it.
They descended a stairwell, and the riotous noise of the prisoners fell away, but it returned with less fervor on the next floor, and the next, and the next.
After five flights, she was immersed in complete silence, save for the footfalls of Bohdan and his men escorting the other competitors.
He set her down on the cold, hard floor and lifted the bag from her head.
The octagonal room was low and dark, with eight cells lining the walls. Across from her were four prisoners that Ksenia didn’t recognize, and by her side were her compatriots.
The prisoner in the farthest left cell was a young man with a bandaged arm and cuts on his face. He hunched in the corner, rocking back and forth, muttering prayers with an unfocused gaze. He flinched at the sound of the shackles that clicked around the competitors’ wrists and ankles.
The cold iron bit Ksenia’s skin as Bohdan fastened her restraints.
In the second cell was a grizzled, older man with a few missing fingers. He was seated upright, his gray eyes sharp and gleaming as the Envorsen walked past.
The third cell contained a malnourished man, crying softly. His hands were delicate and frail as they clutched the bars.
The last cell contained a man with several deep wounds on his bandaged torso. He lay prostrate on his threadbare cot, arm draped over his eyes.
Bohdan’s hand grasped her shackled ones, and he took his time lifting her wrists overhead to affix the chains to the wall.
“Enjoying that a bit much, aren’t you?” she spat.
“I’ll send Varka your regards,” he tossed over his shoulder as he locked her cell with a resounding click.
Damn it, if she wouldn’t live to crack that perfect mask. To dig underneath his skin and drive him insane.
He walked to the center of the room and addressed the competitors.
“Welcome, candidates, to the third trial: Molehunt. You now find yourselves in the Maw.”
An infamous, beast’s mouth of a high-security prison that swallowed dissenters, treasoners, and other convicts of the highest crimes. The justice system didn’t apply to anyone who found themselves here. The king played judge, jury, and executioner.
Quite literally.
“Across from you are traitors of Kraal. Except, there is a spy from Drenvar mixed in. Your task is simple. Identify him.” Bohdan’s steps were calm and even as he paced before their prison cells.
“If you guess right, you are free to go, and the spy is executed. If you guess wrong, you’ll be bodily harmed for your answer and left to rot here. ”
Ksenia’s mind disconnected from her body at his words. The color drained from her cheeks, her brows drawn tight.
Her fellow competitors pulled back, eyes darting between Bohdan and each other, searching for the punchline of this cruel joke.
This competition was designed to imprison them for life, one way or another.
“You have twenty-four hours.” Bohdan smiled wryly, pivoting on his foot to leave.
His men fell in line behind him as they exited the floor.
The last prisoner cracked an eye open, earning a glower or two back.
An eerie silence fell over the cluster of cells—competitor and prisoner held in a long stare.
The grizzled older man’s face creased with lines as he horked up spit and launched it through the bars to hit the ground of Tivan’s cell.
Tivan sneered. “Disgusting bastard. I bet you’re the Drenvar spy, aren’t you?” He leaned away from the wet splatter. “Someone as old as you has to be keeping secrets.”
“Your generation is a cowardly, spineless breed. What’s the matter? Need to torture unarmed men to feel strong?” The older man leaned forward, his coiled hair wild and unkempt, his gray eyes taking on a delighted gleam.
A grin tilted his wide mouth as he continued. “That’s right, I’m the spy. Been selling medical goods to both sides for decades—that’s how I survived so long. Karsan’s gold is as good as Radmila’s.”
The ruse spread like wildfire.