Chapter
32
Aodren
IT’S A FEW HOURS AFTER MIDNIGHT AS I SNEAK through the castle corridors, avoiding Jamis’s men, until the dungeon entrance is in sight. I figure most people will be sleeping in the castle. Unfortunately, two men stand watch beside the door. It would’ve been ridiculous to expect that Jamis would leave the dungeon unguarded. Still, I was hoping. That feeling deflates when I consider there may be more guards inside.
Behind me, a rustle of fabric hisses along the granite floor.
I dart behind a column and wait for the person to approach.
A hooded figure, shorter than me with narrow shoulders, passes by. She lifts her chin, and I catch a brief side view of the same lake-ice eyes that haunt my sleep. The scant hall light reflected in Phelia’s pale blue irises makes them look dead.
What is she doing up at this time?
A sneer slides over my mouth and, instinctively, my hand shifts to the sword at my side, palm grinding against the steel. Desire to end this woman’s life roars through me. Never have I had such a visceral reaction to someone.
Her cloak flaps behind her. As she approaches, the guards’ postures go stone-still.
Though my time under her bind is hazy, I remember black swirls like plumes of smoke covering her arms. There were moments that Phelia’s bind had somehow weakened. She’d reach for me to increase the strength of the bind and send me into another stretch where I had no control over my mind or body.
If I had the courage Saul Flannery possessed, I’d kill her now, regardless of the two guards. Except the men open the dungeon, and Phelia disappears down the stairs.
My chance is lost. I unclench my fingers from the sword and shake out my hand, ashamed at the contradicting feelings coursing through me—disappointment and relief.
It’s difficult not to see my hesitation as weaknesses, especially when the woman I’m intent on saving likely would’ve ended Phelia’s life the moment the Spiriter was in sight. The thought sobers. I cannot hesitate when fighting for my kingdom. As king of Malam, there already is blood on my hands. It’s been that way every day I’ve ruled while the Purge is still in action.
Chest pressed to the pillar, I peek at the two guards. Knowing what I have to do, a cringe starts at the back of my neck. The shadows provide the best camouflage, allowing me to sneak within dagger-throwing distance.
I’m a better swordsman than a marksman with the dagger, but I’ve no other choice. Gripping the handle, I take aim at the center of the larger guard’s chest, whip my arm back, then thrust forward, releasing. The knife sails through the air, nailing the man in the hollow of the neck. No sound escapes his lips when he falls to the ground. I charge with my sword drawn before the other guard fully realizes they’re under attack.
He reaches for his blade and manages to get it up in time to block my swing. But swordsmanship is where I excel. I parry his next thrust, swing and slide my sword between his ribs before he’s even given a thought to alerting anyone else.
My breath powers through my chest as I step back. Blood seeps around the men like spilled wine, which seems to shine redder in the lantern light. I recognize the larger fellow. Though we haven’t exchanged words, the familiarity churns low in my gut. I take my dagger from the first guard. Luck or the gods were with me tonight. I had missed my intended target—I’d meant to take him in the heart. Aim is something I’ll have to work on.
I wipe my blades off on the traitors’ royal coats and open the dungeon door to descend into the pit. Moans and snores of prisoners echo from the depths. Having been down here just days ago to seek out evidence surrounding the dungeon master’s murder, I am familiar enough with the space to not entirely lose my sense of direction.
At a dead end, I pause, close my eyes, and allow the tug to guide me toward Britta. The connection was a shock, at first. When I’d visited her after waking up, my intention was to express gratitude. Only, upon drawing nearer to her cottage, I could feel the twist of something around my chest, leading me toward her small home on the outskirts of Brentyn. The strange sensation didn’t make sense until she opened the door. I was certain a magical bond had formed between us because I recognized the similarity to Phelia’s bind. Although hers had been more akin to a ghost that haunted me day and night.
Britta’s face mirrored my surprise, so I was certain she hadn’t intended to link us magically. Part of me was enraged at first, wanting nothing to do with Channeler magic, but it didn’t take long to recognize the difference in Britta’s connection. Hers is a comforting hand, warm and gentle, compared to Phelia’s cold one.
Though we’ve never discussed the technicalities, it’s clear we are both aware of the bond. Without the tie to Britta, I’d be lost. Literally. The dungeon walkways are black as pitch.
I take a rickety stairwell that is more ladder-like than stable stairs to the lowest part of the dungeon. The farther I descend, the more despair gathers. It’s unimaginable that anyone would survive a week in this hell, let alone longer. If anything, Jamis’s survival proves he’s as tenacious as the roaches that infest the seedier taverns in Brentyn.
I’m nearly to the bottom of the steps when that voice, tree bark and scraped metal, echoes across the cavern. A harsh shock of light bobs ahead. I watch the movement of the lantern through the void, my feet freezing to the dungeon stones when it illuminates a woman’s silhouette. Phelia.
My lungs refuse to fill with a decent breath. My body’s immediate reaction whenever the woman is near is paralysis. I cannot allow fear to hold me back. Not when I’m this close to Britta. I slam down the anxiety creeping up inside me and force my feet forward. It’s time to act.