Page 88 of Bride of Ash & Dust

A figure clad in white robes appears in the pool of torchlight. He glances at me, then at Syvan, and memory whispers from the back of my mind.

I last saw this man in the palace when King Malrik’s tailor fitted me for the outfits I’d wear on our Unity Tour. Fyrris, the king called him. He came in with Malrik, stared at me like I was a side of meat on a butcher’s table, and said something about how I could be quite useful.

My gut shifts. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to feel worse about my situation than I did when I was strapped to the ass end of a horse, but here we are. Worse.

“That’s him?” Fyrris asks. “It’s a bit hard to tell with all the blood.”

Syvan grunts, like I’m not even worth using words to acknowledge. One of his men swings a torch toward my face, momentarily blinding me.

“It’s him,” Syvan finally says. “The last prince of Dungal. That blood you see? It’s royal.”

Syvan makes the word royal sound like an insult. I try to suppress the shiver that races up my spine.

“Excellent,” Fyrris replies. “Thank you, Your Highness. Bring him here, if you please.”

Syvan nods. Fyrris turns, and I follow before the men behind me get any ideas about encouraging me with the warm end of their torches. Shadows leap and dance around us, making it hard to tell how big this cavern actually is.

The man in white leads me to a table set with several torches and strange metal instruments. Behind him, thick silver wires cross an expanse of flat stone.

The wires lead to a chair with a pair of delicate silver manacles attached to each arm.

I swallow hard as the taste of blood fills my mouth. None of this makes any sense. This doesn’t look like a mine; it looks like a torture chamber.

I glance over my shoulder at the man standing behind me. He grins like he can’t wait to see what would happen if I try to run for it. I turn back to the table and the man in the white robes.

“Please,” Fyrris says, giving me a cold smile. “Have a seat.”

He gestures toward the chair with its silver manacles, as if it were unclear what he wanted to do with me. Panic squirms in my gut, and I think of Lilias, of the kiss she gave me when I left the tent. I turn back to Syvan as panic flutters in the base of my throat.

“My wife?” I ask.

Syvan rolls his eyes. “My father wants her alive.”

Every part of me screams to barter, to promise Syvan anything I have, everything I have, in exchange for Lilias’s life and safety. But what do I have to promise?

At least she’s still alive.

My head drops, and I shuffle forward. A few of Syvan’s vicious guards chuckle when I lower myself into the chair. It’s cold against my naked back and arms. Fyrris approaches me with that same hard smile. His robes rustle and hiss when he walks.

“Your wrists,” he says, with a pointed glance at the open manacles.

I grit my teeth and lower my wrists into the open metal circles. My skin prickles and pulls tight when it touches the metal. Fyrris takes a large ring from his pocket, chooses one of the dozen keys hanging from it, and locks the manacles, tying me to a chair for the second time in as many days. Then he turns back to Syvan.

“Leave us now,” he says.

Syvan frowns like he’s going to disagree.

“If you would, please,” Fyrris continues, in a much more civil tone. “The ritual specifies royal blood, Your Highness. It would be dangerous to have you here as well. I’ll do my best to direct the magic toward the captive, of course, but still. We wouldn’t want any accidents.”

Several of Syvan’s soldiers glance at each other nervously. My skin feels like it’s trying to crawl off my body. Gods, I always knew I’d die violently, but not like this. Anything but this.

Syvan grunts. “Of course,” he says. “We’ll wait for you outside.”

“I would be most obliged,” Fyrris replies with a tight smile.

“Oh, and, Fyrris?” Syvan says, smiling with all his perfect teeth. “If you don’t come out of this pit with the weapon, I will kill you myself.”

With that, Syvan turns away from Fyrris. His cape flutters as he strides across the cavern, his boots echoing off stone, and his soldiers scurrying to light his path.