Chapter Sixteen Siyala
“Stop worrying about me, child.” Despite the old woman’s command, the croak of her dry voice and slight slur to her words only increases my concern. It’s been days since she was thrown into that cell, the time marked by meager meals and the water I had been given. Immie was given nothing.
“How is your wrist?” I ask from where I lean against the bars, my chin resting on my drawn-up knees.
She had woken hours after the guards brought her down, quietly moaning out in pain.
I called out to her, wanting to let her know that she wasn’t alone.
I think I startled her, likely because I used her name, and she’s been quieter since.
Only engaging in conversation that has nothing to do with why she’s been captured or how she is feeling.
She hasn’t ventured to ask how I know her name.
Then again, I haven’t given her mine either.
“It is as it was the last time you asked. Fine.”
I blow out a breath, scratching at the dirty fabric of my trousers.
Lately, my daydreams have been filled with figuring out a way to trick one of the guards into bringing me fresh clothing.
More rags and water for a makeshift bath.
Anything to help me feel as if I am clean again.
“I will ask that you be given meals too when the guard returns to speak with me.”
“You will do no such thing.” Even through the clear exhaustion of her voice, her resolve is strong, and I wince at her curt tone. “I can take care of myself. I have been doing it for far longer than you’ve been alive.”
I run my fingers through the knotted strands of my hair, attempting to brush them out. “What makes you think I am so young?” I counter, smothering a smile when she makes a tutting noise.
“Don’t insult my intelligence. I can hear the naivety in your voice.”
“Ouch.” She chuckles, but it sends her into a coughing fit. I stare at the waterskin at my feet, only a few sips of water remaining within it but enough to likely soften the dryness of her throat. “Stick your hand out through the bars of your cell,” I tell her, reaching for the soft leather pouch.
“What are you talking ab—”
“Don’t argue with me. I’m trying to help you.”
Though she grumbles, she does as I’ve asked, reaching a shaking hand out into the dimly lit corridor. My heart stutters at the sight of the bruises on her arm. Those bastards. What sort of men hurt an old woman? Those who work for the king. Men like Xander.
And you might be surprised to find that, for some guards, there is no fondness to be found for the king. Even if they vowed in blood to be loyal to him.
It was far too convenient a thing for him to say.
He wanted information and would do anything—say anything—to get it.
Despite what Immie said, I am not naive enough to think I lucked out by getting assigned a guard who harbored no true loyalty to King Dolian.
He will lie to get what he wants, just as I will.
“Are you going to do something, or do you have some kind of weird hand fetish?”
“Sorry,” I rush out, standing and gauging the distance between her cell and my own. “I’m going to toss you my waterskin.”
“No, no. You need it.”
“The guards will bring me more water as part of my deal with Xander. I can afford to give you what remains in this one. Now, be quiet so I can concentrate.” Sticking as much of my shoulder as I can through the gap between two of the bars, I wind my arm back and throw the waterskin in the direction of her hand, the smile that has been taunting my lips finally breaking through when it lands just outside her cell.
She grabs it, and I retreat back to my cot, sitting on its edge as I exhale.
“That was kind of you,” she breathes, her voice already softened. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Immie.”
I hear a door open as someone enters the dungeon, their footsteps steady.
“Well, child, you know my name. Seems only fair that I get yours, yes?”
I contemplate not answering but there is no harm in telling Immie a name Xander already knows. “Bella,” I say, clearing my throat and coming to a stand again. “You can call me Bella.”
Immie doesn’t respond as she finally hears the footsteps too, and my heart races as I stare at the shadow shortening in front of my cell until it’s replaced with a man. Xander halts in all his glittering glory, his golden armor covering nearly every part of him today.
I make a show of looking him over, my disgust more than evident. “Guardsman,” I say in greeting, folding my arms over my chest.
“Bella,” he returns, making me sneer.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“But you’ll let the random prisoner do so? Interesting.” He tilts his head, those dark eyes piercing beneath the torchlight. The torch nearest to me went out hours ago. “In any case, I do not want to resort to calling you by what you are, so until you give me something else, Bella will do.”
Annoyance flares, kindling to an already deeply burning flame within me.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I bark back, but he ignores me, instead taking in the state of my clothes and the empty tray of food at my feet, a sharp smirk tugging at his lips.
He seems different today. Off in a way I don’t know how to quantify, but one that is noticeable from his previous visit.
“Have you been enjoying your meals?”
“You ask as if I should be grateful for them.”
“Shouldn’t you? You are the only one receiving special treatment, after all.” He looks in Immie’s direction, and the sudden urge to protect her propels me forward, my fingers curling over the iron bars. The last thing she needs is any more attention on her.
“Have you heard anything about Rhea?” His face is blank, his eyes dark, fathomless pits as they flick to mine.
Xander takes a step closer to the cell, and my next inhale is tainted with a hint of pine, a subtle note of citrus undercutting it.
“If you want information on the princess, you need to answer a question for me first.” My eyes bounce between his as my heart leaps to my throat.
Temptation to hear even a piece of news about her forces my mouth open, my logic temporarily overcome by the urge to ensure that she is still safe.
That she has found her place in the Mage Kingdom.
“Did you just say Princess Rhea?” Immie’s voice shatters the illusion, knocking sense back into me that is once more replaced with fear when Xander turns her way.
“Yes,” he drawls, walking until he’s in front of her cell. “I heard you were brought in for harboring the princess and the guard who stole her.”
“Stole her,” she muses. I press my face into the space between the bars, forcing my breath to come evenly as Xander lays a hand on the hilt of his sword, his tanned fingers curling around it.
“That’s what happened. She was taken from the tower.”
I wonder if he actually believes that lie.
“For someone supposedly there against her will, the two of them looked to be quite happy and in love.”
“Immie, don’t tell him anything more,” I shout.
“What else did you notice about the two of them?” Xander asks her.
“Well,” she says, followed by a pause to clear her throat, “I know that he is not mortal and neither is she.” I blink back my surprise, Xander looking briefly in my direction.
“How did you come to find that out?”
“Oh, I have my ways,” Immie says. I hear her shuffle, as if moving to lay on her cot. “None of which I will be telling you.”
“If not me, then you’ll be made to tell your king,” Xander snaps, the harshness of his voice startling me. In all the times Xander has visited—whether alone or with the king—not once as he lost his composure like this.
But it only makes the old woman chuckle, the sound tired. “I’m not afraid of the man whose bottom I used to clean.”
She used to work in the palace? I push the thought away for now. I can ask Immie once Xander is gone. “What do you know about Rhea?”
Taking casual steps, Xander resumes his place in front of my cell, somehow appearing even larger than before. “As I mentioned, I will not tell you anything until you answer one of my questions. How long has Princess Rhea had magic?”
“I don’t know.”
“What can her magic do? Besides healing?”
“I don’t know.” I pick up the sound of Immie’s soft snoring. “She deserves to have food brought to her.”
“She is the king’s to deal with. Did the princess have aspirations to rule as the true heir to the throne?”
“I am the king’s to deal with too, and you still bring me food.”
“Because you must be kept alive—”
“How kind of you.”
“Don’t mistake my urgency to spare your life temporarily with me being kind,” he says, a slight snarl to the words. “You will only be left disappointed.”
“You? A disappointment? I couldn’t fathom it.” That seems to set him further on edge; though in truth, he has been walking a fine line since he showed up today. His nostrils flare, the beat of his heart quickening.
“Did Princess Rhea ever talk about being queen?”
I purse my lips, tamping down my own curiosity at his question. “It must be exhausting asking these questions while knowing you are not going to get answers.”
“Perhaps as exhausting as it must be knowing that fighting them is useless, Bella. The king will force answers from you. You’re choosing the option that will only result in more pain.”
Bella. I want to remind him again not to use that name when I pause, an idea forming. “What if I give you permission?”
“What?”
“To call me Bella.”
His gaze narrows as he shakes his head in frustration. “As I’ve already established, I can call you Bella now.”
“You can, but I’m giving you permission to call me that name without argument.” The armor at his chest rises with a deep breath. At least the irritation is mutual. “Ensure Immie is given food, and in return, you may call me Bella.”
As far as leverage goes, it isn’t great, and as he studies me, I think that he won’t agree. But then the guard shifts on his feet and raises his arms to remove his helmet. “Fine,” he says, his deep voice blanketing the dungeon with its echo. “It’s a deal.”