Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
They are mortal. And yet, not quite. There is something distorted about them.
Their faces bear a strange amalgamation of wounds new and old—some scars long healed, the others freshly stitched closed.
Their sightless eyes are beady as a vulture’s, and unnatural in color.
Strangest of all is their skin. Even before their hearts ceased beating, it was not the tone of healthy flesh but the bluish gray of a corpse.
Beneath the pallor, the veins appear black and mottled.
It reminds me of meat gone spoiled at the butcher’s shop—the rotten hunks only fit for hounds and hunting traps.
No wonder the soldiers of Efnysien’s red army are so reviled.
Just the sight of them on the field of battle would surely be enough to make any enemy troops turn tail.
I wonder briefly what sort of hideous experiments led to such an appearance of flesh and form, then quickly decide I don’t want to know.
We move single file through the chamber, exiting to the ramparts on the other side, where we continue our slow slink through the darkness.
The prison is square in design, with four equidistant lookout towers at the corners.
According to Soren’s spies, the cellblocks are buried deep beneath the inner courtyard, in a light-starved dungeon where the ore is thickest. If Arwen is here—if she is still alive—that is undoubtedly where she will be.
She is alive.
She has to be. Efnysien has been obsessed with her for more than a century. He has been planning this for gods only know how many years. Why go to all the trouble of having her kidnapped from her own wedding, only to execute her immediately?
He would not.
No, he will make this last, draw out this ploy as long as possible.
Not only to sate his own vile bloodlust but to strike at Soren.
Efnysien knows how close they are. He knows that each day his sister spends in captivity takes its toll.
If we do not get her back, I fear Soren will be forever changed.
As for Arwen…I dare to hope she is tough enough to endure whatever horrors have already been inflicted.
A spirit like hers is not easily broken.
We slow as we come upon the second tower, keeping to the shadows as we listen to the voices that spill out the narrow windows.
At minimum three guards, from the sound of it.
We cannot afford to leave them alive. If a single one of them sends up the alarm, every guard on this island will come running, and our one chance to reach Arwen will crumble into dust.
Farley and Harpina both draw their bows, ready to fire as the door is jerked open.
But there is no need for arrows. Soren and Penn move in perfect coordination as they repeat their swift neck-snapping efforts, taking out a trio of scarlet-uniformed soldiers without a whisper.
I avert my eyes from the black-veined skin and slackened faces, examining the tower instead.
This one is slightly larger than the first. On the far wall, a set of steps spirals downward toward the inner courtyard—or, with any luck, the dungeons beneath.
“We’ll take the final two towers,” Penn tells Soren, voice low. His chin jerks to indicate the Ember Guild. “The rest of you go down, get Arwen out.”
Soren nods. “I’m not certain how effective the bond will be once we’re belowground. The ore…” He pauses, brows pulling together. “If you find yourself in trouble and cannot signal for us, get yourself to the boats. We will find our own way out.”
I do not like that.
Not at all.
Penn isn’t looking at me, but even in profile I can see how tightly his jaw is clenched. How the muscle in his cheek ticks with rage. The shadows beneath his eyes look darker than ever. I cannot sense his emotions, but I know just being here, surrounded by water, is sapping his maegic.
“We should not split up,” I interject softly. “Penn, you are not at full strength. The effects of the water in addition to the ore here…”
“Do not concern yourself with me,” Penn says, a hint of bitterness in his tone. “It is no longer your place. If it ever was.”
I suck in a breath, heart panging.
Soren says nothing, but I can feel his anger billowing out, charging the air with new tension. He does not like to see me wounded—not even if it is a lashing I deserve.
“Is this melodrama necessary,” Melité drawls from the corner, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Or can we carry on ahead?”
My glare narrows on her. She is nearly popping out of her dress. I have no idea how she managed to scale the wall in such ridiculous attire. Though Cadogan does not seem to find fault with it. He is gazing at her with the same dopey-eyed affection I’ve seen since they first met.
“Gill-girl has a point. We need to keep moving,” Vaughn mutters, stepping over one of the corpses as he strides toward the stairs.
Alaric is already starting down them.
Melité, whose eyes turned fully black with rage at Vaughn’s flippant nickname, heaves a huge sigh that tests the structural integrity of her dress’s thin shoulder straps, then follows.
I cannot lie, I feel uneasy with her in our midst. I’m not certain why she insisted on coming along.
Thus far, she has contributed nothing to the mission except the occasional haughty comment and aloof look.
I watch her hips sashaying out of sight behind Vaughn before Yara, Harpina, and Bretiax follow her down the spiraling steps.
I know I should go, too, but my boots remain stubbornly rooted in place.
My throat is tight with fear as I stare after Pendefyre.
I do not want to part at all, but certainly not like this.
Should something happen to either of us…
This cannot be our goodbye.
It is wrong, all wrong.
Whatever else has changed between us, one thing remains the same. One thing will always remain the same. Pendefyre owns a piece of me—one I have not gotten back. One I am not sure I will ever get back. His pain is my pain.
Even when it is pain I’ve caused.
His gaze moves to mine for a brief moment, then shifts to his men. “Cadogan, Farley, take point. Mabon, Jac, at their backs. I’ll cover the rear.”
They fall seamlessly into step—Farley shooting me a quick farewell grin, Jac waggling his brows, Mabon jerking his chin, Cadogan winking. My answering smile wobbles as they turn away.
“Pendefyre,” I call after them.
He jolts to a stop and looks back at me, brows lifting.
“Please, be safe. Please…don’t do anything reckless.”
The agony in his eyes flares bright, then fades. He does not say a word. He does not have to. I know him well enough to recognize he is in the process of locking down his emotions, shoving them deep inside where they will not distract him from the task at hand. Ever the master of self-containment.
In this scenario, perhaps that is a strength, not a detriment. My own conflicted feelings are tearing me from the inside out.
When the Dyvedi contingent disappears out onto the ramparts, Soren and I follow the rest of the Ll?rian faction down the low-lit steps.
There is nothing to break the shadows besides the occasional torch flickering in a bracket along the walls.
Smoke hazes the stifled air, burning down my throat with each inhale.
I swallow the urge to cough as we descend deeper and deeper.
Gods, I hate this.
No light, no air.
No wind.
“Breathe,” Soren orders silently. “It will stave off the fear.”
My nod is shallow.
I try to take measured breaths, to keep my heartbeats steady and even, but my pulse spikes in alarm when we reach the bottom and find ourselves in a dim, cobwebbed corridor. Water drips from the damp walls. The scent of dust and decay presses in on me.
“Pretend you are in the clouds, skylark. Feel the wind on your face, in your hair. You are not here. You are flying free.”
His words bolster me as we move down a short passage, then turn a corner. We make it only a handful more steps before the way forward is blocked by a thick door.
“Locked,” Yara declares, jiggling the handle.
“There goes our element of surprise.” Vaughn grimaces. “This is going to make a racket.”
He gently steers Yara aside, then braces his huge hands against the hinges. Loosing a muted grunt, he applies one short burst of pressure. There is a metallic groan, a splintering of wood. The door falls inward with a resounding thud that makes us all wince.
“Show-off,” Yara mutters.
Vaughn merely grins and bows her onward. “Ladies first.”
A silent Harpina trails close on Yara’s heels.
Bretiax reaches up to pat the half-Titan on the shoulder as she passes over the threshold.
Alaric hurries through after them, followed by Melité, who seems in no hurry at all.
Soren gestures for me to go before him, bringing up the rear with a hand at the small of my back.
I’ve scarcely stepped into the next corridor when Yara’s anguished howl splits the musty air.
Her petite body jerks, then sails backward into Vaughn. A thick arrow is embedded in her side. It is bleeding profusely.
“Yara!” I cry, racing for her—only to run straight into the immovable barricade of Soren’s arm.
“Soren, she needs help! Let me by.”
“This passage is booby-trapped,” he clips. “No one move.”
We all freeze instantly.
Two more arrows shoot into the space Yara’s just vacated, a mechanized whir their only warning sign.
They ricochet off the thick stone walls and clatter to the floor.
Our collective gaze follows them, scanning as though more traps might spring to life at any given moment.
Soren exhales sharply and points at a flagstone just a few strides ahead.
Upon closer examination, it looks a shade higher than the rest.
“There. See that? It’s triggered to fire as soon as someone steps on it. She’s lucky she wasn’t killed.”