30. In the Care of Dragons
In the Care of Dragons
Blinking, I emerge groggily from the cling of darkness with a yawning stretch, wincing at the discomfort and kinks in my body, nebulously aware of the very hard and unforgiving surface beneath me—along with my other hurts. An aching head. Stinging cheek. Sore ribs. Clawing stomach.
Reality eludes me.
I’m not in Isstad anymore. Not in my familiar woods. Not in my room. Not in my bed. Not home with my father. Not in Maretta’s or Linnea’s homes.
Then it all comes back. Crashes over me. Sorrow engulfs me as I remember.
They are all gone.
Everyone in the village . . . gone. Ashes.
My chest lifts and expels a ragged breath that is instantly snatched up by a cool draft speckled with infinitesimal motes of rock and debris.
I am no longer home. No longer in the place that equally sheltered me and kept me prisoner for so many years. That place no longer exists.
And yet I still exist.
I’m still here, strange and unfair as that might be. I’m no better than any of those who died in Isstad. Faces flash across my mind like little bursts of distant lightning. They deserve to be alive every bit as much as I do. Maybe more.
I recall the spoiled child I had been in that other life, the terrible words I had hurled at my father like poisoned darts before I ran from home and into the woods.
I adjust my arms and grimace at the immediate pull against my raw and chafed wrists.
I don’t bother trying to free myself anymore.
My previous attempts had only managed to tighten the bonds around my skin and bones.
My wrists burn like fire, as though a blade had scraped up and down every inch of exposed flesh.
I sit up slowly, feeling like a very tired, very old woman as I move my aching and cracking joints into position. My vision is slow to acclimate to the murkiness.
The fire smolders low. Feeble light seeps in from the vents . . . so it takes a moment before I identify the large shape in front of me and grasp that it’s not a shadow but a flesh and blood body.
Cyphus.
I cringe. He’s come to heap more abuses upon me in the morning.
A familiar voice tumbles over the air, and I know instantly. It is not Cyphus.
“Arden?”
My heart jumps to my throat. I can only croak out, “Tage.”
Relief overwhelms me. Somehow, he has come to represent safety.
Unwise, I know. He’s still a killer even if he’s decided not to kill me.
Even if I pulled a sword on him twice, even if I slapped him.
Even if he kissed me . . . even if I rocked against his body in the hot spring like a touch-starved wanton.
He’s alive.
He returned.
He survived whatever he faced outside this cave.
He’s here.
I hold back from flinging myself against him. Not that I can move anyway. I’m well and firmly shackled to the boulder that sits like a hill beside me. His gaze doesn’t miss this, sweeping over the pile of stone, then over me, trailing up the leather cords keeping me in place.
The broad line of his shoulders tenses, and even in the shadows, I detect a darkening in his expression.
Inhaling, I grab for my composure as the loamy scent of the outdoors—wind and snow and vapor—hits me.
“You’re back,” I breathe, detecting another scent clinging to his naked body .
. . smoke and something else. I work my mouth, tasting metal.
I train my attention on his face, to his shoulders and chest—not anywhere else.
Not anywhere lower. Not on that part of him I felt in the hot spring, imposing and daunting between his steel thighs.
“I was worried something happened to you.”
“What happened to you?” he counters.
I glance down at my bound hands, believing the sight served as explanation enough.
“Did Cyphus do this?” he growls, his gaze snapping back to my face.
“And this?” His hand cups my cheek, angling my chin and forcing my face higher for a more thorough inspection.
His thumb brushes the long, jagged tear gently.
I know it will likely leave a scar, but in this world where I’m only visible to dragons it hardly signifies.
“It doesn’t matter.” Not anymore. Not now that Cyphus can’t hurt me anymore.
“It matters,” Tage snarls, shaking his head in disgust. He squats before me, ripping free my leather bonds with vicious movements like they’re no more substantial than lace ribbons. I wince at the tug on my abused wrists.
Once free, he lifts my hands to examine the damage closer. The fresh air on the exposed flesh has me sucking in a breath. His glittering gaze flies to my eyes.
“It’s not that bad.” I attempt to pull away from him. I don’t know why. It’s not as though I’m trying to protect Cyphus and hide the evidence of what he did to me. Maybe it’s just my unwillingness to look weaker, to appear more frail than I obviously am compared to them.
His voice lashes out. “Not bad? Your wrists look like raw meat, Arden.”
I flinch while simultaneously softening at the sound of my name. It still wakes something inside me to hear it being used after all this time. It rivals being seen.
“Tage, you’re back.” I recoil in familiar self-preservation as Cyphus hastens toward us. “What happened out there?” He never once glances to me, and I realize it doesn’t occur to him that he has anything to hide from Tage. As far as he’s concerned, he did nothing wrong.
He did nothing because, to him, I am nothing.
Tage ignores him, focusing on me. His hands slide down my arms, grasping my elbows, lifting me gently to my feet.
After three days without standing, I haven’t my legs yet.
My knees wobble and give out. He catches me, sweeping me up into his arms. I whimper in pain at the movement of my ribs, and I feel him stiffen against me.
“What is it?” he demands.
“Just . . . my side.”
One of his hands goes there, and I can’t even absorb how it is he can hold me with just one arm, too distracted at the sensation of his fingers gently prodding and walking along my ribs.
I draw in a hissed breath.
“Broken?” he asks in a lethally soft voice.
I shake my head. “I think . . . just bruised.”
“Tage? Won’t you answer me?” Cyphus presses.
Tage looks at him then, spitting out, “You did this to her.” Not a question. A hard fact. An accusation with fangs that sinks deep and sharp, drawing blood.
Cyphus hesitates, finally scenting that something is off, that his world just turned precarious.
The light continues to grow, flooding into the space, revealing Danhy as she enters the cave, her unbound hair flowing around her like a banner. Her dusky nipples peek out between the abundant strands, and they feel like another set of eyes staring at me.
Apprehension fills her gaze as she takes in our tableau. “Tage?” She says his name like she’s testing the sound of it. Her steps slow to a shuffle as she nears us. “Is everything . . .” Her voice fades at the sight of me.
Viggo emerges behind her, and I feel his focus on me, on my face. Both he and Danhy fixate on me, and I resist the impulse to cover my cheek with my hand, hiding the ugly evidence of what Cyphus did.
“I said to take care of her.” Tage’s voice reverberates in the wide space, his hands flexing against me. “And this is what you do. This is what taking care of someone looks like?”
Viggo blinks rapidly. “Cy? What did you do?”
Cyphus shoots him a nasty glower.
Danhy clears her throat nervously, answering for Cyphus. “Nothing that won’t heal. She will survive.”
Tage swings on her. “You think this is acceptable? You heard my instructions. Would you have done this to her?” Then to Viggo. “Or you?”
Danhy looks to Cyphus almost apologetically and then drops her gaze. “No.”
I tense as another sound scratches the air, coming from the tunnel.
Was it an intruder? Soldiers that followed them here? What more could this day bring? It was barely even dawn.
“Steady now.” Tage nods reassuringly, clearly sensing my unease, and I glance over his big shoulder at the lanky figure emerging cautiously through the mouth of the cave, from the shadows where he had been lurking, observing the drama unfold. “This is Merik. I’ve invited him to join us.”
He might be bone-thin without a whisker to sprout yet on his face, but the lad stands nearly as tall as Tage with eyes a similar prismatic black, although less violet. A sheen of magenta winks from the depths of his dark gaze.
He’s the onyx they all spoke of earlier. Apparently, Tage encountered him in the days they were gone and decided to bring him into the fold.
Merik nods a hesitant greeting.
“Was I not going to be consulted about this?” Cyphus blusters.
Tage smiles then, a ruthless and cruel curve of his lips. “You think you deserve a voice here? Why should I need to consult with you?” His gaze flicks to me, seeming to say, Especially now.
Cyphus does not miss the direction of his gaze. His chest lifts on a great inhalation. “I don’t see the problem. I fed her and saw to her needs . . . for the most part. She won’t—”
“And beat her. And kept her shackled.” I recoil at each announcement, as though feeling the pain and degradation of those things all over again.
“And that’s just what I know about. What else will I uncover?
” Tage shakes his head, disgust drawing out each word.
“You understood my orders and you went against me anyway. It cannot stand.”
Alarm crosses Cyphus’s face before the brutal coldness resettles on his features. His nostrils flare. “I did nothing wrong.”
“And that,” Tage declares with biting concision, “is why you cannot remain among us.”
I feel my eyes widen.
No one speaks.
The silence stretches, only the pop of the fire, the faint dripping from the stalactites, and the distant wind of the Crags perceptible.
I search the unforgiving lines of Tage’s face, trying to understand if he means that. Is he banishing Cyphus? Surely not. A pride’s strength is in its numbers. He would not cast out one so valuable. Not because of me.
I hold my breath, waiting for what’s to come next.