Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
The soldier slowly stands up. “That cannot be.”
The guard shakes his head. Points at me. Flutters his hands.
This time, when my tormentor looks down, his expression is remote, instead of lascivious. “Well, we shall see about—”
The figure who strides into the open area makes me think of the difference between power that is truly held and a person who needs to believe they have authority. Interestingly, it’s a woman who’s entered, and she’s dressed in black robes that fall to the slick stone floor. Her silvery white hair is pulled back and plaited in a complicated way down past her shoulders, and her face is as hard and sharp as blade.
When she speaks, it is without emotion.
I don’t understand her words, either, but going by the ugly red flush that travels from the collar of the soldier’s jacket into his face, I guess she’s dressing him down. Sure enough, he goes over to the cell entry—which was not locked, as it turned out—and steps through to stand just off to the side.
The woman stares over at me. And one would think the fact that we share the same sex would lead to clemency of some sort. Instead, I feel my situation has not improved.
And has possibly worsened.
She addresses the soldier tersely, and there’s only the most subtle of pauses before he bows in a deference he clearly does not feel, and then strides past the front of my cell. His head tilts in my direction as if he’s glaring at me. I will not meet his eyes, but I don’t doubt he looks at me with the promise of a rematch.
After his departure, orders are issued to the guard who ran in. As his eyes widen once again, it’s clear he does not want to be anywhere near me or her. Still, he enters the cell, helps me to my feet, and frees my wrists. Then he salutes her with a brisk flat hand to the brim of his hat.
The woman doesn’t so much leave as dematerialize: She’s there and then she’s gone, only her white plaited hair glowing in the darkness as she disappears on a float through some doorway.
“Follow me, missus.”
Except the guard puts himself behind me and points over my shoulder. “This way, missus.”
My legs are stiff, and one ankle is screaming, and I’m figuring out my balance as I step forward—only to stop short.
The center space around which the cells are set is filled with gruesome torture devices and stations. The buckets? They’re to catch the blood and slop of intestines and organs, and several of them are half filled already. Fates, everything that is made of wood is stained red and brown, all the metal is sharp and tarnished, and anything that is leather has buckles and spikes.
“Please, missus. This way.”
The guard points again.
As I shiver until my teeth clap together, I realize I’m soaking wet, and if I have any hope of loosening up, I have to get warm. Thank fates they didn’t take Lena’s felt skirt from me. The makeshift cloak is all that’s keeping my body temperature up.
Am I in shock? I wonder.
“Walking, please. Missus.”
Limping past the horrible display makes my stomach turn over again, and the drains in the floor with their congestions of gore make me gag. Trying to keep control of myself, I glance back at the guard. He’s averted his eyes, not that I had any intention of looking into them, and as he points to a lantern-lit archway off to the right, he puts even more distance between us.
This allows me to discreetly pass my left hand inside the felt cloak and feel for the pocket of Julion’s jodhpurs—
Thale’s crystal knife is where I put it after I used it on the webs.
My gasp hisses through my locked teeth. How did they miss it? Probably the bulky red felt that covers me, I decide as I enter a tunnel marked with many more archways.
For a brief moment, I consider palming the weapon and wheeling around to gouge out the guard’s stomach. But I have no idea where I am or how to get out, and I can hear the voices of what I’m assuming are other guards emanating from different offshoots of this subterranean maze we’ve entered.
This is a vast prison, and it’s better to bide my time: I now fully intend to kill that soldier—but I’m going to need an escape plan.
And as long as they don’t find the knife, I have a weapon. The weapon, as it were.
What I need additionally is information.
“Sir,” I say, in my best subordinate tone, “may I please know where my husband is?”
When he doesn’t reply, I glance back. “I beg of you. I know there is naught I can do, but I must know what has happened to him. Are you mated? Surely you’d feel the same if your wife was separated from you.”