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“Draxen.”
Jeskor’s elder son doesn’t move at the sound of his own name. He sits on the stone floor and stares at the wall opposite the cell’s entrance. Like his brother, Draxen has changed some. Only his changes are for the worse. His black hair hangs past his shoulders in ratted curls. His shirt is too big for him. It hangs off his bony shoulders and pools on the floor behind him. That’ll be from the prisoner diet of cold gruel. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, a rat will wander into your cell.
“Princess,” he says and spits off into the corner. I can see now he has a rock in his hand that he’s throwing up in the air and catching. You’ve got to pass the time somehow. I would button and unbutton my coat. When my hands weren’t shackled above my head, that is.
“Nice weather we’re having,” I say as I shiver from the cold. How can Draxen stand not to have his coat on? It looks like he’s using it as a cushion under his rump.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“Nothing from you. I’m just passing through.”
“Then get on with it.”
“I didn’t realize you were busy.”
He turns at the snide remark and chucks the rock at me. I dodge it as best I can in the darkness, but it still skims the side of my arm.
“Stings, that does, you bastard,” I say.
“To hell with you and your sorcery.”
“Sorcery?”
“You did something to me. And to Riden. You’ve bewitchedhim somehow. And you nearly killed him. So whether you call it sorcery or not, you can go hang by a rope from the tallest tree.”
I laugh. It’s not a mockery, but a sincere response to his foolishness. “You’re furious withme? You do remember you kidnapped me? You forced me to witness the most disgusting tortures I’ve ever seen. You tried to force yourself on me, and your men tried to kill me. All I did was steal a map.”
Despite his foul attitude, I dig into my pocket and throw something at him. I make sure it hits him in the back of the head before continuing on.
I hear his hands scramble furiously in the darkness to retrieve what I threw. Then the sound of his chewing is so loud, I hear it for the next twenty feet.
Fresh bread from the kitchens. I don’t know what prompted me to bring it for him, but I did.
Now, for the reason I’m really here.
Vordan’s cell is tucked into a nasty corner where the tide comes in. Water reaches his ankles. He must be freezing.
Good.
I hate him. I hate that I’m here.
“Alosa,” he says when he notices me. Just the tone makes me cringe. The satisfied, self-assured way he manages to say it even when locked behind bars.
“Tell me more,” I whisper, even though I know we’re alone.
“What? I didn’t catch that?”
“Tell. Me. More.”
“About what?” he asks, toying with me.
I snap. My voice rushes out like a thunderclap. I burry him under a mountain of snow, let him feel a cold so piercing he’ll forget there was ever anything else to feel. I push him from the tallest cliff, let him fall and fall, hurtling down at an impossible speed, knowing he’s about to die and there’s no way to stop it. I thrust him back into his cell, make the walls rattle as the volcano nearby explodes and blistering heat drowns him. On and on, I throw terror after terror at him.
He’s shaking by the time I stop, his breathing shallow.
I tamp down my rage enough to say, “I can still hurt you, Vordan. Tell me what you know or we can keep at this. I’m not feeling particularly patient today, so cut the snark.”
It takes him a full minute to find his voice. “You”—deep breath—“you are a monster.”
