Chapter Eight
It was a fair question, but he didn’t want to answer it.
The other alternative was to leave, yet he found himself reluctant to go. That would leave her alone for almost an entire day, and he hated the idea of her sitting alone in this cell. Propping his elbow on an upraised knee, he rubbed his forehead as he grappled with unruly emotions.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, very low. “You shouldn’t know anything about Avalon, you shouldn’t be imprisoned, and you should never have been tortured. You should never have met Modred or Isabeau, or me either, for that matter. You should be free, living a totally oblivious life. Playing your music, falling in love with someone clever, kind, and educated, sightseeing all the beauty in the world. Your music is passionate and wildly brilliant. It’s some of the best I’ve heard in generations. Everything about you shines with bright colors, and yet look where you are right now. It is an abomination.”
As he spoke her hand stole onto his knee.
At her touch, the words backed up in his throat, and it took him a moment before he could speak again, through clenched teeth. “Your presence here offends me. It goes against everything inside me to have to walk away every time I leave and to know I’m leaving you behind. To know I can’t do anything to break you free from this. Robin did his work all too well.”
“What did you do to him?”
The breath left him in an angry exhalation. Bitterness laced his reply. “I did everything I was ordered to do.”
“Everything,” she repeated blankly. Then, in the barest thread of sound, she asked, “Did you torture him?”
She asked like she was afraid to hear the answer, yet all the while her hand never moved from his knee. He forced himself to breathe evenly, although it was a heavy, audible sound.
“No,” he answered. “My services were required elsewhere. But I was the one to capture him, and I would have tortured him, if I had been ordered to. If Isabeau ordered me to service her in her bed, I would obey—and never mind that the very sight of her makes me nauseated with rage.”
Her fingers tightened until he could feel each separate one, digging into his skin. She breathed, “That’s horrible. The thought never occurred to me.”
“Thankfully, the thought has never occurred to her either.” He wiped his mouth, trying to get the idea out of his mind. “Or if it has, she would never act on it. She’s too bigoted. Bedding me would be akin to bestiality to her. She’d as soon have sex with one of her dogs, and while she has her own aberrant behaviors, she’s not prey to that particular perversion. Also, if she tried something like that, I might have to obey, but she knows I would find a way to retaliate. The problem with a geas of control is you can never quite issue enough orders to cover every eventuality that may arise.” A dark note entered his voice. “She’s learned that lesson the hard way a couple of times.”
She whispered, “‘He who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount.’”
Curiosity stirred. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s an old Chinese proverb. Nowadays, people say somebody has grabbed a tiger by the tail as a way to describe a difficult or dangerous situation. It sounds like Isabeau has got you by the tail and doesn’t dare let go.” Although he knew she couldn’t see him, she twisted to sit facing him. “Have you noticed something? Even though you weren’t able to tell me about the compulsion, once I guessed, you’ve been able to talk about it.”
“The geas is like that,” he replied. “Sometimes I can find my way around orders to certain freedoms. I’ve been expressly forbidden to help prisoners escape, but that doesn’t mean I can’t aid them from time to time, like I am with you. I’ve been ordered to never tell anyone I’m acting under a geas, but you and I can discuss a fact you already know. If she had ordered me to never talk about the geas with anyone, I would be mute right now. One of her greatest flaws is her own carelessness. I hope it will be her downfall one day.”
“Specifics matter,” she whispered. “How you phrase things, what elements you choose to put in a spell or a bargain, or what you choose to leave out. I don’t know anything else about magic, but dealing with the Djinn has taught me that much. When the first Djinn approached and wanted to bargain to attend one of my concerts, I consulted with a negotiating expert before striking a deal. I learned a lot from her.”
Despite the heavy topic, he found himself smiling again. “That was smart.”
“Now several Djinn owe me favors.” She emitted a ghost of a laugh. “I keep them as my safety net. The funny thing is, they could have just taken physical form and bought a concert ticket like everyone else.”
He chuckled silently. “I remember when a few of the Djinn bargained with me to listen to my music. Gods, I haven’t thought of that in ages. It happened so long ago. One of them told me they experience music in an entirely different way when they’re bodiless in their natural form. The vibration of the sound suffuses them entirely. They have a way of appreciating music that’s completely alien to us. I doubt a single Djinn would consider attending a concert in an embodied form. That would be like trying to listen to music with earplugs, or appreciate a work of art while wearing a blindfold. It’s simply unthinkable if you have the alternative.”
He had lost himself so deeply in reverie, her surprise came like a dash of cold water to the face. She exclaimed, “You never said you were a musician! What do you play?”
His pleasure faded. “I’m not, at least not anymore. I haven’t played anything in centuries.”
“That would kill me.” Her whisper shook. “They killed me when they broke my hands. I can’t live without my music.”
He put his hand over both of hers as she twisted them together in her lap. “You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. You have no idea what you can survive until you’re pushed to find out.”
Underneath his palm, her clenched hands opened, unfurling like a flower. She cupped his hand between hers, and in a gesture that shocked him to the core, she slid to his side and put her head on his shoulder. “I really can’t trust you, can I?”
He let the sadness in that whisper sink in, breathing through the pain like he had breathed through every other pain he had experienced in his very long life.
He could have told her that she could trust him to do everything he could to fight the geas, to work his way around direct orders, to do for her whatever was in his power to do, and in a way, all that would have been true.
But fostering false hopes would not serve her any good purpose. Putting an arm around her, he drew her close.
“No,” he said gently. “You really can’t.”
* * *
What on earth was she doing?
Why was she cuddling up to a man who had just admitted she couldn’t trust him?
A man who had alluded to the fact that he could be ordered to do monstrous things—and no doubt had done them in the past?
He could be ordered to torture her, to kill her, and he would do it. All of it.
What kind of magic had such a terrible hold over him?
“I don’t know how you’re still breathing.” The words slipped out of her as she tried to imagine what his life must be like.
“I’m still breathing, because I was ordered to.” A dark, sardonic note entered his whisper. “And I happen to be extremely hard to kill, so no one has managed that feat yet.”
She sank into the horror of imagining his suicidal despair while being forbidden to act on it, a right that was so basic she had never thought to question it before. His life was literally no longer his own.
That kind of shackle could crush the music out of a man. It should have crushed all decency, moral code, and sense of compassion as well, but somehow he had managed to hold on to those things, and he acted on them, at least as much as he was able.
Nestling against him, she turned her face into his shirt. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you.”
Something dropped briefly onto her forehead. Had he just kissed her?
While she felt like screaming on his behalf, he sounded perfectly composed. “Instead of being sorry, what you should be is wary.”
The full import of that was beginning to settle in. It clashed with all her sensory impressions.
The heavy weight of his arm circling her shoulders was a shocking comfort. After being chilled for most of her time in this cell, he radiated heat that suffused her with a sense of well-being. She reveled in the simple, animal pleasure of feeling his muscled body against hers, the hard pillow of his shoulder underneath her cheek.
She didn’t know his name, or what he looked like. She hardly knew anything about him that wasn’t self-report, except that Robin thought he was terribly dangerous.
He had gone out of his way to warn her, himself, but he had also healed her. He brought food and water, and kept his word as much as he was able, and even more importantly than all that, he offered her hope and encouragement at a point when she had been so devastated she couldn’t even bring herself to get up off the floor.
No matter what he had done—or had been forced to do—those were not the actions of an evil man. And while she might not be able to trust him, her life had been shattered so thoroughly she was learning to grab on to any piece of something that felt good, no matter how small or fleeting.
This moment of feeling warm with her belly full, whispering confidences to someone who didn’t judge her, leaning against a strong body that seemed to welcome her presence—this moment was so good it bordered on the miraculous. She concentrated fiercely on soaking in every impression to shore up the time when she was alone and cold again.
But if she was going to have any future at all, it was also time to start laying plans.
She whispered, “Tell me more about Isabeau.”
He stirred, his restless body signaling clearly the distaste he had for the subject, but he also answered. “Modern psychologists would probably call her a narcissist. Every thought she thinks, every move she makes, is all about herself. She will lie, manipulate, steal, kill, do whatever it takes to get what she wants. If you are on her good side, she’s all sweetness and smiles. If you get on her bad side… Well, you know something of what can happen if you get on her bad side.”
“Yeah.” She rubbed her eyes. “It must be terrible to deal with her.”
“I’m often away, carrying out her orders, which provides some relief. Long ago, she embarked on a crusade to destroy another demesne with crossover passageways near Avalon’s—that of Oberon and his Dark Court.”
“What kind of Elder Race are they?”
“Officially they’re labeled Dark Fae, which is why Oberon’s court is the Dark Court as opposed to Isabeau’s Light Court. But the reality is, Lyonesse is a society made of mixed races. They offend Isabeau’s racist and xenophobic tendencies.”
“I’m half Vietnamese,” she muttered, repelled by the very concept. “So I must really get up her nose.”
He tightened his arm around her shoulders. “She has no idea what a Vietnamese is. You offend her because you’re a dark-haired human, and she believes the Light Fae are the superior race. And while she must hate to admit it since you’re clearly of an inferior race and your looks are so different from those of the Light Fae, you’re also breathtakingly beautiful, and she’s always jealous of other beauties.”
Well.
Well now, wasn’t that something.
He thought she was breathtakingly beautiful, did he?
Sid felt her cheeks warm with pleasure and was glad for the darkness that hid her blush.
Before she could figure out how to respond, he continued, “She—we—drove Oberon’s people out of Great Britain and imprisoned them in their own lands, or so we thought. There were only a few knights of the Dark Court left in England, until they found some way to reopen one of the passageways to reach their demesne and bring back reinforcements. All summer they’ve been strengthening and reinforcing their presence along the Welsh Marches in England. It’s been a huge setback for Isabeau, and her moods have become more dangerous and volatile than ever.”
As he talked, he wound a strand of her hair around his finger. The sensation from the small gesture rippled gently through her body. Surreptitiously she rubbed her cheek against the softness of his shirt, enjoying the feel of the thick, broad muscle underneath.
She was… she was…
She must be really messed up, because she was attracted to him.
She didn’t even know what his voice sounded like, not really. The only clue she could gather was that the low, rich timbre in his whisper indicated it would be deep.
And his scent was… odd. Slightly chemical, but that might be from medicine used to treat whatever injury the bandages were needed for. Come to think of it, the only thing she could really smell was a touch of fresh air on his shirt, as if it had been hung out to dry in the sunshine, along with the lingering aroma from the meat pies they had just eaten.
What if she asked to run her fingers over his face, so she could get an idea of what he looked like? She almost asked, until she realized that knowing some details might give her clues to his identity, and she knew instinctively he would reject that possibility.
Besides, none of that was going to get her out of this cell.
Yanking her unruly thoughts back into line, she asked, “How does Modred fit into all this?”
His chest moved in a silent snort. “Modred is just like Isabeau, a complete opportunist focused on his own gain. They are in a relationship, of sorts. If you can call it relating. They’re not faithful, but they pretend to be, and they often partner in mischief together.”
“Modred is the one who found me shackled in the stable,” she whispered, clenching her hand in his shirt at the memory. “I’d been chained with the rest of the trolls’ tribute, and then they forgot about me until the next day. When he took me to the castle, I thought at first he was going to help me—feed me something, let me wash up, or take me to someone who would listen to my story so I could make a case for going home.”
“It was a perfectly reasonable expectation.” His voice was clipped, angry. “It’s also what any decent man would have done.”
She broke into a light sweat as she thought about it, and a tremor ran through her muscles. “Instead, he took me straight to Isabeau. I didn’t know who she was at first, although the richness of her dress and her surroundings should have given me a clue. Looking back, there were all kinds of warning signs, but I didn’t pay attention to any of them. She’d even said she’d had a bad morning, and she had a headache… but then so had I. I was dizzy with hunger, scared, and exhausted, and I’d been in a state of perpetual outrage for days. She called me ugly and bad mannered, and she fingered my hair like I was a dog or a horse. After having been kidnapped, spending several days on the road, and being treated like chattel, I lost my temper. And you know the rest.”
His arm tightened around her. Cupping the nape of her neck, he pressed his lips to her forehead and held the position for a long moment before he relaxed. When he spoke, his murmur sounded pragmatic. “Modred did that on purpose.”
She lifted her head. “What do you mean?”
“There were even more clues in what you told me, if you knew how to look for them. You said yourself that you were exhausted, hungry, and it sounds like you were at the end of your rope.”
She sighed. “I was dirty too, and I smelled like a barnyard.”
“What he did was wildly inappropriate,” he told her. “One should never go into an audience with the Queen like that, unless there’s some overriding reason or dire emergency. Recently I had to meet with her in just such a state, and she was quite displeased… until I reminded her I was there because of her orders, and she had left me no other choice. You said she was having a bad morning and had a headache?”
“Yes.”
“Modred watches her moods with the same kind of intensity that a fisherman watches the sea. He would have known she was having a bad morning. When he took you to her, there was no way he could lose. Isabeau loves music, so if, despite everything, she took to you, he gained credit for pleasing her out of her bad mood. If things didn’t go well, then he had given her someone to take her ill temper out on. It never matters to him who becomes the brunt of Isabeau’s temper as long as it isn’t him.”
“Which was exactly what happened.” Her hands curled into fists. She would give a lot for the opportunity to plant a first in Modred’s handsome, smiling face.
“Yes. Isabeau might be manipulative, but she’s also prey to manipulation, if you know how to handle her, and Modred has been handling her for a very long time.” He shifted position and eased away from her. “I should leave.”
She scowled. They had taken their time eating, but surely they hadn’t talked the night away. And anyway, how could he tell what time it was down here? “If you must.”
“I don’t want to, but there’s something I need to do while it’s still dark,” he whispered. When he stood, she did as well. “Here, drink as much as you can before I go.”
Reluctantly, she accepted the flask and drank until she thought she would burst. When she handed it back to him, he tucked it into the canvas bag.
Following him to the cell door, she touched his shoulder. When he turned, she walked forward deliberately to hug him again.
As his arms came around her, she said haltingly, “Don’t scold me for saying this, but thank you again for everything. And be careful, will you? I can tell you have a bandage around your ribs, and I worry about you when you leave.”
His arms tightened. “There’s nothing wrong with my ribs that won’t heal. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back again this evening.”
With any luck, this evening she wouldn’t be here to greet him, but she didn’t tell him that.
Because she couldn’t trust him, after all.
After he slipped away, Sid listened for the bolt sliding into place. Once the sound confirmed he was truly gone, she turned to pace around the confines of her cell, one hand outstretched and the tips of her fingers touching lightly against the wall to keep her from running into it.
Practice your truth, he had said. Practice until you believe it.
So she began to tell a story to herself.
Not a story of what had actually happened, but a story of what she wanted the truth to be. What she needed the truth to be, in order to get out of this cell and back into the sunlight. She whispered it to herself over and over again, pacing and repeating until she had it thoroughly memorized.
She had enjoyed Juilliard. While most of her time had been focused on her obsession with music, she had played with some of her electives and had taken a few acting classes. The classes helped her to find a way to bridge some of the social isolation she had grown up with.
Acting on the stage or in front of a camera was not the same as acting to save one’s life, but if it was one thing she knew something about, it was how to face the pressure to perform, and how to hide her fear in front of a sometimes pitiless audience.
After she had memorized her story the way she wanted to tell it, she sat cross-legged facing one wall and ruined the zipper of her hoodie by running the metal teeth against the rock until she saw small, fleeting sparks.
Unwilling to miss a single precious flash of color, she didn’t blink. Aside from the guard’s torch, those sparks were the first thing she had seen in days.
The blackness in her cell started to lighten to gray. Then the reflection of a far-off fire appeared and drew closer. She listened to the squeaking wheels of the cart and the metallic clang as the guard shoved food trays into the cells of other prisoners down the hall.
Cry, she told herself. She bit the insides of her cheeks until she drew blood, and the pain became bad enough to bring tears to her eyes.
Then the guard was at her cell door, squatting to take the empty tray and shoving a full one through the slot. It was always the same guard, a dull-eyed Light Fae male with a scarred face. She had always wondered what he had done to be punished with such duty.
Jumping to her feet, she rushed to the cell door and grasped the bars as she sobbed, “Thank you! Thank you!”
Curling a lip, he sneered, “What nonsense are you spouting?”
“My hands. They’re healed!” Shoving her arms through the bars, she held out her hands for his inspection while she bit her cheek harder to make tears run down her face. “Someone came to heal me while I slept. The Queen must have decided to show me mercy after all. Please give me the opportunity to thank her in some way!”
The guard paused, the dullness in his gaze sparking with surprise. Staring at her fingers while she wiggled them, he said slowly, “You think the Queen did this?”
“Well,” she replied, “who else would have done it? I don’t have any magic. I certainly couldn’t have healed myself. If there was only some way I could repay her. I’d be so honored if she would give me another chance to play for her, but even if that isn’t possible I just want the chance to apologize.”
He laughed, a cynical, grating sound. “As if she would waste any more of her time on the likes of you.”
“I know, I know, but… just look at my hands,” she said, opening and closing them in front of his face. “Everybody knows how much she loves music. What if she wants to give me a second chance to perform?”
“You’re a massive fool if you think that,” the guard scoffed.
But his frowning gaze lingered on her hands for a long moment before he pushed the cart away.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait. While she could still see, she dumped the bad food down the privy hole, and after chewing her lip in thought, she dumped her good food too.
The familiar dark gray of the day settled around her. Having lost her night sight, she felt her way back to one wall where she sat cross-legged to run the zipper across the stone and watch the sparks again.
I’m getting out of here, she thought. Maybe things will get better or maybe they’ll get really bad again, but one way or another, I’m leaving this particular hell behind.
While she had no ability to tell time, presently the glow of approaching torches lightened her cell again, much too soon for the supper feeding. She listened to the sounds of footsteps as they grew nearer. There were three guards, maybe four.
As they stopped just outside her cell, she wrapped her hoodie around her middle, shaking.
Here we go.
A key grated in the lock, and her cell door was flung open. While the other guards waited outside, a powerful male strode in, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her upright.
“On your feet,” he commanded. “I have some questions I want to ask you.”
It was too late to change her mind now. The pitiless audience had chosen to appear, and now she had to put on the performance of her life.