16. Another Bad Day
ANOTHER BAD DAY
WREN
“The Blessed is waking.” The words come from behind me, sounding oddly distant.
I groan. My mind and body feel separate, untethered from each other. With each unsteady beat of my heart, my awareness trickles in, and I come back to myself in bits and pieces.
My head is pounding again. My throat is still a dry desert, crying out for moisture. And my mouth . . .
Suns take me.
A fucking gag is in my mouth, absorbing the pitiful mewling sounds crawling out of my aching throat. I move to pull off the gag, but I can’t, because my hands are tied and bound behind my back.
Every new discovery is worse than the last.
My vision is the final sense to return to me as my eyes open. And when they do, my heart plummets. If I weren’t gagged, a flurry of curses would slip from my lips. As it is, they race through my mind.
Two dozen people are scattered through the cavernous space, mostly men, although there are a few women. Each one is armed, and they’re all glaring at me.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. What did I do to deserve their hatred?
The cell was downright awful, but maybe . . . maybe it was better than this?
Several warriors—because that’s what they are—have wilted roses tattooed on their necks and hands. Some are as pale as the moons, others are tanned, and a few have ebony skin that reminds me of Yvette, my sister-in-law.
My stomach twists. If the last few days are any sign, I’ll never see my family again.
Gabriel was right in sending my sisters away—the suns only know what would’ve happened to them if they’d been here with us.
Hedran would’ve probably killed them—if we even made it out of the capital.
It’s better that they’re far, far away from me.
Forcing painful thoughts of my family away, I return my attention to the warriors. All of them, including the women, are wearing tunics and tight, form-fitting pants. Each carries a minimum of two visible weapons, and I’m sure there are more I can’t see.
A woman with bright turquoise hair hanging in a braid over her right shoulder is scowling at me as though I murdered her favorite pet. I shrink back, grateful she’s on the other side of the room.
Turning my attention away from the hateful woman, I take in my surroundings. The walls are made of dark grey stone, and there’s a peculiar crimson shimmer to them as if someone scooped up handfuls of red sand and stuck it to the walls. There is no natural light, no windows at all.
A fire burns in a low pit in the middle of the room, the steady crackle and hiss of logs the only sound I can hear other than my thundering heartbeat. Several torches hang in sconces, their flickering firelight casting ominous shadows on the walls.
An earthy scent lingers in the air, mingling with the smell of burning wood. This place is strange, unlike anywhere I’ve ever been, and it’s quiet. Unnervingly so. No one is talking or moving. Every person, young and old, is staring at me, and I am not enjoying being the center of their attention.
Gabriel isn’t here, which means . . .
Well, actually, I don’t know what that means, but it can’t be good. Sweat coats my hands, and panic spreads through me. A fist squeezes my lungs.
Where could he be?
Footsteps come from behind me. They’re soft, barely more than whispers against the stone floor, but the air shifts.
One by one, the warriors turn their gazes away. Everyone, that is, except the angry woman. She’s glaring at me, and I’m so over being stared at that I return her venomous expression.
“So this is the Blessed.” The words are a quiet murmur, coming from my left, and I angle my head to see the speaker.
My eyes widen. I’m not sure what I expected to see, but it wasn’t a short, elderly woman hunched over a cane, hobbling towards me. She’s wearing a long lilac dress that brushes the ground, swishing with every movement.
Sleeves fall past her hands; her tanned skin is wrinkled with age. White hair with pale green highlights streaking through it falls in an intricate plait to her waist, and three golden hoops hang in each ear.
She is beautiful, but that’s not why I sit up straight, ignoring the pain that shoots through my bound wrists. Suddenly, my thirst is of no consequence. I barely remember that I’m gagged, and my panic at not having seen Gabe dulls from a roar to a steady throb at the back of my mind.
I lean forward as far as my restraints allow, staring at the woman before me and the glowing violet swirl sitting prominently at the center of her throat. She’s Marked.
She’s fucking Marked.
My heart stutters. I can’t breathe. I can’t look away.
She’s Marked, and she’s here.
This woman, whoever she is, isn’t dead or bleeding out on the floor of Esyn’s temple. Nor is she being attacked by an evil king who has it out for her.
Somehow, she avoided the slaughter and made it past her twentieth year.
Somehow, she’s just like me.
I stare at the jeweled Mark for so long, trying to make sure it isn’t a figment of my imagination, that my eyes cross.
I blink several times, and it’s still there.
I haven’t hallucinated it; I’m not losing my mind.
Her Mark doesn’t look like the stickers the priestesses wear—there’s a shine to it that cannot be faked.
Like mine and Kadyn’s, it glows as brightly as a star.
My mind is fucking blown, and I can barely string my thoughts together. How is this possible? How did she get here? How did she avoid being Given?
The woman circles me, her green eyes locked on my Mark, and I get the distinct impression she is inspecting me. For what, I’m not sure.
After several minutes, the woman reaches for my cheek, her bony fingers outstretched.
I flinch. I can’t help it. She may be an elderly woman, but I’m bound to a chair, my hands are tied behind my back, and I’m gagged.
She freezes, her hand hovering a few inches from my face, and shakes her head, a frown tugging on her lips. “Don’t worry, child. I will not hurt you.”
The way I’ve been treated over the past few days would beg otherwise, but I’m not in a position to say anything.
She must see something in my eyes because she exhales and looks over my shoulder. “For Esyn’s sake, Atticus, come here.”
There’s a shuffling behind me, and then a warrior is at my right. His golden hair, longer on the top and shaved on the sides, is tied in a knot on top of his head. A jagged pink scar runs down the length of his right cheek, and another peeks through the collar of his black tunic.
“Ma’am?” Atticus’s voice is rough.
The elderly woman huffs. “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Why is she trussed up like this? Can’t you see you’re scaring the girl?”
I’m a woman, not a girl, but this isn’t the moment to debate semantics.
Atticus turns to look me over. “She’s Blessed, Evelyn. This is for your own protection.”
So this is the Evelyn the others were referring to. There’s no time to wonder who she is because the moment the last word leaves Atticus’s lips, Evelyn’s Mark glows. Sparks dance on her fingers and violet light as bright as any sun in the middle of a summer day washes through the cavern.
The brilliant light is gone a heartbeat later, but now . . .
Burning, blessed suns.
Evelyn is leaning on her cane, supporting her weight with her left hand, but her right palm is outstretched. A translucent sphere the same color as her Mark hovers above her hand, the size of a melon. Violet embers fill the ball, shooting around and hitting the sides.
What.
The.
Actual.
Fuck?
Have I died and been transported to another land? I don’t feel dead—my body is ridiculously sore, and one would presume that upon death, bodily functions like the agonizing thirst I’m experiencing would no longer be a problem—but this . . . She . . .
“As you can see, I am perfectly capable of defending both myself and the others gathered here.” Authority rings through Evelyn’s words, and her eyes flash with power even as the violet orb disappears, vanishing as though it never existed.
“Now take off the girl’s gag and untie her.
You can leave the shadestone on for now. ”
Atticus chews his lip. “But—”
“Now, Atticus!” she shouts, voice booming through the space. “Or have you forgotten with whom you speak?”
Color leeches from the man’s face, and he does as she asked. Who is Evelyn that she can command a warrior half her age with such ease?
My hands sting as the ties are removed, and my shoulders burn when I roll them, bringing my arms to my front. The gag comes off next. Gods, I hadn’t realized how much I appreciated the ability to speak until it was taken from me.
“Get her some water,” Evelyn snaps, eyes flashing with violet fire. “We aren’t animals.”
Atticus visibly bristles, his jaw tense, but he dips his head. “Apologies, ma’am,” he says through gritted teeth. “It won’t happen again.”
A clay jug is handed to me, and I wrap my shaky hands around it. Water sloshes as I lift the container to my lips, dribbling down my hands, but at the first taste, tears come to my eyes. I never knew that plain water could taste like heaven and sweetness and life all at once.
“Drink slowly.” The advice comes from a woman standing a few feet away from me. She appears to be around my age, with dark brown skin, a long, narrow nose, and deep plum hair woven in a crown. “Otherwise, you’ll get sick.”
This woman must’ve come in with Evelyn because I didn’t see her among the crowd of warriors before. There’s a shimmer of something akin to kindness in her eyes, and because she isn’t looking at me as though she hates me, I do as she asks.
I sip the water, each cool drop soothing the thirst that had been burrowing deep inside me.
Once my throat no longer feels like I swallowed a handful of dust, I reluctantly lower the jug.
It’s still half full, but the warrior’s warning runs in my mind.
She’s right, getting sick is the last thing I need right now.
Someone hands me thin crackers, and I slip one into my mouth. It’s not particularly flavorful, but it melts on my tongue, providing sustenance I desperately need. I eat three before taking another sip of water.
“I apologize for our rough treatment.” Evelyn arches a brow and glares at Atticus, who huffs. “Now that you’ve had a snack, I’m hoping we can talk.”
“Do I have a choice?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Several warriors look affronted, but the elderly woman sighs. “You could choose to be uncooperative, but it would make things much easier for all of us if you spoke.”
If the way I’ve been treated is considered “easier,” I don’t want to find out what these people will do to me if I refuse to cooperate.
I exhale a long breath. “What do you want to know?”
“Good choice.” Evelyn lifts her fingers, and it must be a signal, because a moment later, the same warrior who advised me to drink slowly produces a chair from suns only know where, placing it beside the elderly woman.
“Thank you, Skyler,” Evelyn says, sinking into the seat with slow, bone-weary movements. The room seems to hold its breath while she settles in and leans forward. “As I was saying, we aren’t animals, and I apologize for my people’s rough treatment.”
A few grumbles roll through the room, coming from Atticus and some other warriors behind me.
I shift in my seat, unsure about what she wants me to say.
“They were . . . surprised,” she says after a moment. “As was I, if I’m being honest.”
I raise a brow. “Why?”
“It’s rare for strangers to enter our territory, and rarer still for one of them to bear an active blessing of the gods.”
A rebuke rises to the tip of my tongue—being Marked isn’t a blessing but a gods-damned curse—but before I can give it voice, she continues, “And then of course there’s the man you were traveling with. The Hunter.”
Blood drains from my face, and I clutch the armrests. “Gabriel? Is he here? What have you done . . .”
My words trail off as Evelyn lifts her hand. “Bring him in.”
Doors open behind me, and I turn. The crackers threaten to make a reappearance, and when I see what several men drag in, I barely tamp down the scream crawling up my throat.