Chapter 2
two
Isahn and George visit the basement.
Head throbbing in pain, Isahn awoke confused.
He reached up and nearly screamed as sharp points bit into his wrists, restraining him.
Wriggling his feet, he found the same issue and bit back a hiss.
Bound—by barbed shackles. He couldn’t move anything but his arse, and he could only move that a little.
Isahn only had a year and a half of military training.
He’d gone in after finishing his credits at the Institute and was discharged after being called up to take his family’s seat as earl.
Still, he’d learned a fair amount in his short stint: things like ice knives, using his magic to listen in from afar, and how to handle regaining consciousness in an unfamiliar setting.
He didn’t think he’d ever need that last one, but there he was.
Remain calm, control emotions, formulate a plan.
One: If possible, don’t let the captor know you’re conscious. Eyes closed and breathing steadied, he hoped it would still sound like he was knocked out.
Two: Assess your physical state. Aside from his headache and the stabbing manacles trapping him to his chair, he felt all right—not dead, at least.
Remain calm, control your emotions, and formulate a plan.
Three: Assess your mental state. Isahn felt fine—enraged at being held captive—but fine. He could work with rage.
This whole thing had to be Peros’s doing. That weasel would be going down as soon as Isahn got free. But he wasn’t free—a major problem. Cold hands of panic clawed at his heart as reality closed in.
I’m going to die here. Fuck.
As fear coursed through Isahn, tightening his muscles, he fought to keep his breathing soft and steady.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was going to be murdered in fucking Gramenia. Solaelia would never know what became of him. Sure, she’d suspect Peros was behind it and likely be right... but—
Fuck! Isahn clenched his fists and flinched when points bit into his wrist.
Come on. Remain calm. Control emotions. Formulate a plan.
He breathed slow and deep.
Four: Assess your surroundings. A sharp sound, like steel on rock, echoed around him, like he was sitting at the mouth of a mine. He could also make out distant, muffled voices, a few of them—at least four different people—bickering.
Remain calm, control emotions, formulate a plan.
Inhaling slowly, he frowned. In spite of the metal biting into his flesh, there was no smell of blood. If anything, the air was earthy and fragrant, like he was in some sort of greenhouse. He sniffed again just as a putrid odor wafted through. A greenhouse with rot.
Creaking his swollen eyes open, Isahn blinked, taking in the strange surroundings.
He wasn’t where he expected to be at all.
Sitting in a chair, he was shackled; he could feel that.
He could hear a mine and the workers. He could smell the strange mustiness of an abandoned garden around him.
But he could see that he was standing in the crook of an enormous tree, surrounded by quaking leaves and vibrating branches.
A powerful wind whipped around him but didn’t brush his skin.
He should’ve been able to feel the breeze.
Nothing matched. Was he dying?
On a whim, Isahn sent out a fine thread of water vapor from the tip of his little finger. If others were in the room, they wouldn’t be able to see the mist, but he could use it to feel.
He pushed the vapor toward the tree trunk beside his head. It went straight through the bark with no resistance whatsoever. Mirage. It was a bloody mirage, he should have known.
Clenching his fist, he grimaced as metal bit back. Isahn urged his water vapor to trail down over his wrists to explore the shackles.
What felt for all the world like cold manacles with horribly serrated linings were not that at all.
He was shackled, but his magic told him his flesh was unharmed.
The inner rings of the bands around his wrists and ankles were smooth and harmless.
The knowledge his pain was a phantom dulled his reaction significantly. Odd.
Reality was clearly different from what his senses claimed, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around precisely what was real and what was false. He’d experimented with some of the more colorful varieties of mushrooms back when he was a student. Who hadn’t?
This wasn’t the same at all.
Fucking Domossan mindmages.
Isahn bit his tongue in frustration, the taste of blood sharp and immediate, grounding him in reality, however painful. Around him, the room’s scent changed to a briny, balmy air replete with a hint of seaweed. A scent mage.
He sat with that for several minutes, fighting through the knowledge the sea smell was false. Then the tree around him shifted, and he found himself sitting at a fine dining table in a chamber fit for a king. Sight mage.
Mind just coming to terms with his incongruous setting, his shackles became snakes; cold and slithering, they wrapped tightly around his limbs. Touch mage.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Why did life throw the dumbest shit his way?
Savoring—in some sick way—the blood in his mouth, he reminded himself he could handle this.
Something would shift or change and carry him along to his next destination.
Life was funny like that. All he needed to do was wait it out, avoid drawing unnecessary attention to himself, and get out.
Easier said than done, since he had no idea where he was or who was holding him.
There were mindmages who could manipulate each sense—five types in total.
He’d picked that up, and what other information was available, from the Institute, the military, and his brilliant friend, Kas.
But Domos kept its secrets well. Rumor had it that a full group of five could melt a man’s brain, but he wasn’t sure he believed the veracity of those tales.
While the need for caution wasn’t lost on him, a desire for answers drove him forward.
With his eyes closed to block out the confusing and changing scenery, he produced a thin stream of water and pushed it slowly toward the voices in the distance.
His magic hit a solid surface, the ceiling, and he willed the liquid from his finger to his ear.
It was far less discreet than holding his hand up, but then again, he’d already thrust a cord of water through the room around him.
If anyone were currently looking, they’d see his magic.
“This is fucking insane, Mira,” a frustrated woman ranted, muffled through the water.
A second woman with a raspy voice replied with something inaudible.
The pickaxes still hammered away but were dulled. They weren’t real; the mining was an audible mirage. If it were really happening, his magic would’ve echoed the noise down its warbled line. Feeling smug, Isahn leaned into his magic.
“It’s the smartest thing we’ve done in weeks,” a smooth male voice intoned.
“It was reckless,” the gruff woman retorted. “Why’d you do this? What are we supposed to do with him?”
A second man, his voice grittier, offered, “Because George said—”
“George isn’t here,” the raspy-voiced woman chided.
“Sorry, because of the king— Ow! Sorry, sorry. We need to do something, we’re running out of time.”
“We aren’t running out of time,” the first man chimed in. “It’s been this way for ages.”
“We need to get back to Nowosmont,” the first woman intoned.
“Yes, and George needs this done.” Mira’s firm statement ended the conversation. “Get some sleep, then question him.”
Stomping footsteps announced the retreat of the people above. Isahn withdrew his magic and pretended to be asleep, in case they came to visit.
Remain calm, control emotions, formulate a plan.
With his head tipped to his chest and his eyes closed, Isahn fought to steady his breathing. It sounded like his jailers worked for the King of Domos. What the fuck had he gotten himself wrapped up in?
Time passed strangely when he couldn’t trust his senses.
Isahn thought he’d been there a full night already, maybe longer.
If they came to speak with him, he couldn’t recall.
Someone who smelled exquisite, like roses and incense, stood in front of him for a few minutes before drifting away, and he wasn’t certain if they’d actually been there or if the scent mage was fucking with him.
Once, when he opened his eyes, strange horrors flooded his vision: winged serpents crawled from treetops and great beasts scraped themselves together from earth to stalk toward him.
From somewhere in the woods, a man asked over and over who he was and who he worked for.
Isahn didn’t reply except to ask for water.
The whole situation was maddening. He’d talk to the guards eventually but wanted to glean more information from them first. Though Isahn was fairly certain he was alone in a basement, he wasn’t precise on how many people were involved in watching him at any given time.
Whenever he could use his mist to confirm he was alone, Isahn pushed a cord of water up to the ceiling, eavesdropping for details.
The gritty-voiced man who asked a lot of questions was called Odos.
The one with the smooth voice was Tocco, and the stern woman, Melody.
Then there was raspy Mira and someone named George.
Odos kept mentioning George, then getting scolded by the group, which was funny to listen in on, but assured Isahn he must be a fearsome man.
That day—or night, or hour—he checked in after an orchestra, perpetually off-key, started tuning up in his ears.
“I don’t think he has any magic,” Odos said, his voice warbling through Isahn’s water.
“He could be hiding it from us,” Melody suggested.
“He must have magic. The odds that he doesn’t are slim to none. But, we don’t know if he’s Gramenian or Selwassan.”
“Or Domossan,” Odos offered.
“Does he look Domossan to you?” Mira asked.
“No.”
Mira with the raspy voice continued in hurried words. “I think he has magic, but it’s weak. Otherwise he would have tried to use it to escape.”
Isahn scoffed. It wasn’t worth the risk. Not yet, at least. He was on this journey to save his life. His magic was far from weak, but he was smarter than to reveal himself before he was in any real danger from this squad of spies, or soldiers, or whatever they were.
“Probably,” the woman called Melody murmured.
“We have to move, though.”
“Yes, how?”
“Questions, Odos.” Mira’s voice held laughter as she scolded the guard.
“I have some ideas, let’s go talk outside where there’s more space,” Melody suggested.
Isahn heard their footsteps thump across the floor before the door opened and slammed shut again. The orchestra ceased.
Sighing into the dry basement, devoid of any strange sensory images at present, Isahn reassured himself it was all a facade.
When he focused on that, the pain, the confusion brought on by the sensory magic hardly registered, because it wasn’t real.
And with his mind clear-ish, he could have some fun with them.
After a full day of failed attempts, they’d blindfolded the prisoner and tried to get a good night’s sleep.
Today, with Hildy still furious they’d abducted a man without her permission, George didn’t really have a choice but to get involved in the questioning, not if she wanted to assuage some of her guilt over roping everyone into her wild scheme.
When Hil told George she’d earned herself the role of lead torturer their next time downstairs, she agreed, as long as she could go in as George-the-man.
Disguised as a lumbering, six-foot-tall warrior sporting a beard that rivaled their prisoner’s, Georgie followed her friends to the basement, steeled herself with a deep breath, and forced her eyes from the captive’s muscled thighs to his mussed hair. She could do this.
Ignoring the group standing behind her subject, she ripped off his blindfold, and he blinked up at her through stunning blue eyes. Silently, she thrust a glass of water into his face, tipped it to his mouth, and spilled half down his dirty tunic as he drank.
Then they brought out the brand.
It wouldn’t leave a mark, being a mirage, but the man before her didn’t know that.
“What’s your name?” George growled, her voice impossibly bassy as she held up the glowing metal spike.
The prisoner remained silent, and if she wasn’t losing her faculties, she could’ve sworn his brow lifted a smidge.
“Who do you work for?”
His eyes darted to the poker, then returned to her face, his lips quirking to the side.
Couldn’t he just answer and make this easier? She jabbed him on the upper arm—Dunstan’s touch magic piled onto hers, adding the sensation of heat. A sizzle crackled in the air, compliments of Hildy, and the stench of burning flesh singed her nose—Burke’s work.
The prisoner jerked back, grunting through clenched teeth, and George nearly vomited. Guilt scrambled her guts as the stranger gripped the wooden chair handles, veins popping from his tense hands. He inhaled slowly as his fingers relaxed, then he moaned.
It was not a sound of pain, and it was so soft she could barely hear it.
More unanswered questions and a second jab to the arm led to the same reaction. His soft groan, almost a whimper, bottomed out George’s stomach as her chest, shielded by the mirage, rose and fell rapidly.
“He’s not going to talk,” she announced abruptly. Maybe he was and she was wrong, but what she did know was she wasn’t built for this, and neither were her friends. No one else was stepping in to take up the poker and have a go. Fates, the only person they wanted to harm was her father.
“Keep your convictions close,” Mamma’s words slipped through her mind, firming Georgie’s resolve and amplifying her guilt.
“Feed him and clean him up. I want his face shaved by the next time I see his sorry ass.” Maintaining character, George-the-man scoffed as George-the-woman sagged behind her mirage, a frown tugging her lips.
“Good call, never trust a man with a beard,” Burke muttered, his voice higher than usual.
“Never,” Dunstan and Hildy agreed in a new monotone.
Ignoring their jokes, ignoring the glossiness in their captive’s eyes and the flush on his cheeks, she swept around the befuddled, silent man and thundered upstairs, dropping the mirage as she entered the kitchen.
George scrubbed her hands through her messy curls and grabbed a glass of water from the table to chug it while panting.
Fuck.