But he just lay there, unmoving.
Then the unmistakable smell of feces and urine filled the air as the man’s bowels emptied. Lord d’Refan made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort of derision before stepping in front of me to address the two men in black cloaks.
“Clean up and dispose of the body. Make sure to record your observations in the master log.” He sounded almost bored. Disappointed, yes. But there was no remorse within his words for the man who passed.
I watched, dumbfounded, as the robed men unstrapped the man and carried him to the door at the back of the room before cleaning the space with a detached efficiency.
Within minutes, the table was disinfected, the body removed, as if the man had never existed at all.
All the while, the sounds of pleasure and pain bounced around the room. No one stopped to mourn the man, no one even paused.
I’m not getting out of here alive.
I broke from my trance, my head whipping to where General d’Alvey stood against the door we entered. His emerald gaze refused to meet mine.
Look at me. Is this what you brought me here for? Am I a sacrifice to be made in madness? Is this why you saved me?
But I could voice none of my questions.
One of the robed men came to my right side, firmly grasping my arm and pulling me in the same direction as the body of the dead man minutes previous. I tried to dig my heels in, tried to stop the forward progress, but it was futile. He was clearly an Air Mage because, as I tried to halt our progress, he simply lifted myfeet into the air and pulled me along by my arm like a toddler with a balloon.
Never once did I pull my eyes from General d’Alvey. Never once did my gaze falter.
At the last moment, General d’Alvey raised his head.
The last thing I saw as the man in black robes pulled me through the open door into a dimly lit space, was his emerald eyes.
His gaze full of worry.
Of love.
Of regret and apology.
And, at the last second, a flicker of hate as his eyes fell on Lord d’Refan.
Part Two
SIX MONTHS AGO, SHORTLY AFTER THE FALL OF HESTIN
Chapter 7
The Bondsmith
The heat inside the tent—or what I assumed was a tent—was nearly unbearable. It was all-encompassing, suffocating. The air was so rife with it that it felt like an actual weight on my chest, constricting my lungs and forcing me to take shallow breaths. Sweat rolled constantly down my temples and neck, through my hair, and down my back in rivulets rivaling the creeks that coursed through the woods near my home.
I was shocked that I had anything left to sweat.
Every few hours, someone would enter my tent, kneel before me, and shove a cup of brackish water in my face. Inevitably I would choke, both from the taste and the assault on my tired and worn throat, spilling the precious liquid down my chin to soak the front of my dress.
Eventually, that wet spot near my breasts would dry from the oppressive heat, and I would lose the momentary cool reprieve it brought.
Time passed in slow motion and all at once. Whether from the physiological effects due to the intense heat and lack ofsustenance, or the sensory deprivation induced by the rough blindfold tied tight around my eyes, I couldn’t say for certain.
Long ago, I stopped trying to loosen it against the wooden pole my hands were bound to, instead choosing to keep my eyes closed. The blindfold forced me to rely on my other senses completely, something I hadn’t practiced since before the Sundering.
The longer I sat on the hard earth, my muscles screaming in protest, the more acute my hearing and sense of smell became. I knew the difference in gait for each of my jailers simply by listening to the crunch of sand underfoot as they approached my prison.
Their unique smell was another identifying factor.
