Page 37 of Heart of Night
I try again, harnessing the general air of vengeance filling the dungeon to push myself to my feet. This time, I make it all the five paces to Royad’s cell where I lean against the bars, panting as weakness threatens to take out my legs all over again. My cousin’s hand lands on my shoulder, a familiar touch that has helped me through a century of misery. He doesn’t deserve to be in this hole of disgrace with me. No one does. Not even the fairy general, whose alliance might be as fleeting as his interest in my wellbeing on the roof of the Fire Fairy estate.
“How exactly does one take a fae’s magic away?” Silas grumbles from his cell, his outline coming into view another few paces behind Royad. Those aren’t cells, they’re cages.
Above our heads, the bars bend inward to form a slanted roof following the angle of the low stone ceiling beyond before they blend into the wall with the window out of my reach. Whether they believe we could break through the stone ceiling even without our magic or because it was built this way to begin with, I don’t care. I’m in a cage like the animal I am—I used to be.
For long, long centuries, my Crow nature dictated my actions, my entire being, while the curse kept me from shifting out of my bird form entirely. Not anymore. Ayna freed me, and if I deserve this cage, it’s not because of the monster I am but because of how I’ve failed her.
“Stop wallowing over there, and participate in some strategizing, King, or we’ll rot down here while your precious woman is being handled by the King of Tavras.” Astorian’s remark brings me right back to the present where the stench is near-overwhelming.
My head is gradually clearing as I pace along the bars, grabbing onto them for support. Royad follows me on the other side of the steel fence, worry furrowing his brow.
“I’m not wallowing. I’m making a self-assessment. As a warrior, you, if anyone, should know how important it is to understand your physical and mental state before thinking about breaking prison—without access to a weapon.”
Free hand gliding over the belt on my hips, I confirm that I was stripped of all blades I brought on this journey. This will make things even more difficult.
“I self-assessed during the time it took you to get over yourself to stand up,” Astorian retorts, obviously grumpier than even Silas when he’s woken early from a bad night’s rest. “My head is hurting. My balance is shit. My magic is a song in the wind above the Quiet Sea. I haven’t eaten in days, and the aftereffects of the drug they gave us make me wish I hadn’t drunk in days either. My left ankle is bruised—no idea what they did to it, probably pinched it in the carriage door—and someone cut open my forearm—probably to taste the sweetness of fairy blood.” His growl makes me wonder if he is serious about that last part. I don’t know about Eherea, but stories about ancient Neredyn suggest that a lot of out-of-hand situations with the Crows occurred because they let humans taste their blood.
“Just kidding, Myron. No one will drink us dry in this shit hole.” Astorian’s teeth flash like moon-cast pearls in the darkness. “So, any ideas on how to get out of here?”
“And by out of here you mean wait until we have our powers back before we blast the entire palace to rubble?” Silas supplies so drily I barely realize he’s being sarcastic.
“Odds are we won’t have our powers at our disposal by the time we need to face the Tavrasian guards,” Royad argues, pragmatic as always. “There are no loose rocks or other items we could employ as weapons.”
“So hand-to-hand it is.” Astorian folds his arms over his chest, swaying slightly on his feet before bracing his shoulder on the bars as if to mask his imbalance.
Silas snorts. “You don’t look like you could do shit with hand-to-hand right now.”
The glare the fairy general throws him is anything but. “That’s because I can’t do shit right now. You’re not any better off, by the way.”
I slide down the bars into a sitting position, resting my head against the cold barrier cutting me off from Royad’s cell. “This is worse than presiding over the Crow assemblies,” I groan, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Both Silas and Astorian ask at the same time, and I can’t help but grit my teeth at an involuntary grin.
“Focus on that strategy of yours, General. I need to wallow some more.”
Astorian is smart enough not to push me. We are all weak and drained of our powers from the drug the humans gave us. Right now, it hardly matters how the substance works, only that we need to work around our limitations. Without food or water to recover our strength, it will be difficult to break free from our confinements. The alternative is to wait until someone comes for us and surprise them with an attack. For that, they’d have to open all four cells at once so we could fight together to overpower them. And again—without our strength, we might not be a match for armed human guards.
“We’re fucked, aren’t we?”
Royad sighs in response, and Astorian kicks at a pebble which his magic could have turned into a liquid projectile with half a thought.
“From all directions.” Silas sits back against the wall, grimy black hair falling into his face as he shakes his head. “From all directions, my king.”
Nineteen
Ayna
The palace is tinted in light like liquid gold as Herinor escorts me down the stairs to the throne room. In front of me, Odja sets a pace that keeps me thinking he’s not satisfied with the limited speed my ridiculous heels allow.
The pain in my shoulder nearly pushed me to black out, had it not been for Clio who helped me breathe through it like she’s done that a hundred times. She examined the tattoo with much curiosity but few words, merely wanting to know if I’ve always had that and if it was the first time it hurt. The skeptical expression on her face, as she traced the inked bird’s outline, didn’t help with my confidence, but eventually, she smoothed the frown off her face and helped me into a dress made of a lighter shade of red satin for the flowing A-line skirts and silk blossoms patched together to make up the bust. The neckline is too low for my liking, and the large hoop earrings keep tangling with the loose strands of my hair falling from the bun she coiled to the back of my head. Not a lady’s maid, the warrior princess, but she did an incredible job hiding the red blotches from the tears I’d spilled when we discussed the future Ephegos and Erina have agreed upon for me.
Maybe this is a different sort of torture Erina has come up with—let me go through the horror of believing he wants to marry me, let me believe I will live rather than die a painful death, just so he can strike with even more cruelty when the time for my execution comes.
How far will he take it? How long will he let me hope there is a chance at survival? Does he have his henchmen ready in the throne room? This might be my final walk, and there is only one thought swirling in my mind:
I’d rather die than marry the King of Tavras. Even if I’d never fallen in love with Myron—and lost him—I couldn’t marry a man who despises my family, let alone someone I don’t know or don’t have feelings for. So perhaps it’s the more merciful option if Erina is awaiting me with a blade to run me through and bleed me out because my heart couldn’t take betraying Myron’s memory even in name only.
Vala help me, my hands are shaking as we reach the bottom of the stairs and the golden double doors of the throne room come into view. The formerly empty hallways are filled with courtiers and guests—nobles residing in and around the city, I assume—their conversations forming an atmosphere of amusement and too much wine by the end of the night. I experienced such events from the sidelines as a child.