by Jen McIntosh
‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered, looking around. ‘They treat their mortal slaves better than this.’
A bitter smile twisted Keriath’s lips. ‘Well, see, there’s your answer. I’m not a mortal slave.’
‘No,’ he spat, ‘you’re far more valuable than that. I don’t care how dangerous they think you are. This is just plain stupid. At the very least you need a healer.’
A choked laugh escaped her. ‘You know that my people were bred to slaughter yours, right?’
Dell just shook his head in disgust.
‘It’s just wasteful. You’re no use to anyone dead.’
‘Careful. Someone might think you care.’
He snorted. ‘Careful. You almost sound like you do too.’ Then he stood. ‘Ylain sent for me yesterday. Had a lot of questions about you – where and how we found you, how we caught you. I don’t think she liked my answers. She’s ordered your rations cut – no food and no water for three days … and no visitors.’ Keriath said nothing to this for a long while, staring up at the cavern roof.
‘Why tell me any of that?’ she asked.
His face appeared over her, staring down. ‘There’s no way you can outlast Ylain. I know what she’s like. She’s older than Pria or Talize. Far older. The years have made her patient. She’ll wear you down slowly. Methodically.’
‘What’s your point?’ she sighed.
He grimaced. ‘I don’t have one. It was more a case of warning you what to expect.’
‘Thanks.’ Even dying from a poisoned arrowhead, Keriath could still muster the strength to be sarcastic. Dell only shook his head in frustration and left, slamming the bridge door behind him.
As promised, they left Keriath alone for what she could only assume was the requisite three days without food or water. She was starving and weaker than she’d ever been, but it was her parched throat that bothered her most. Unable to sleep for the discomfort, and the pressure of all that dark magic crushing her mind, she spent most of her time in a restless daze. She slipped in and out of consciousness while the poison continued to work its way closer to her heart. The Graced blood in her veins was fighting it with all she had, but death was inevitable.
Shaken from her stupor by the sound of a rusty key turning in the lock, she was unsurprised to hear Ylain’s voice outside the door. The three days were up then. She didn’t even bother standing, though she wasn’t sure she could have managed it if she’d wanted to. Even the dim, orange light from the smoking torch burned at her eyes, accustomed as she was now to the dark. She squinted towards the doorway and could just make out the old crone stepping into the light. There was no mistaking the intent in those blood-soaked eyes.
But where Dell’s mind was an open book, this Queen’s mind was guarded. Whether from habit or a deliberate move to shield her secrets from her prisoner, Keriath neither knew nor cared. Dell hovered behind his Queen, brow creased with concern when he saw how much she’d deteriorated since he’d last seen her. She sighed and let her head roll back as she gazed up at the ceiling.
‘I would have thought that even a motherless wretch like yourself would know to stand in the presence of a Queen,’ Ylain noted.
‘I thought you’d prefer it if I grovelled,’ replied Keriath, without so much as a hint of sarcasm.
Ylain snorted. ‘Is that what this is?’
‘Obviously,’ Keriath said with a slight shrug. She regretted it immediately, wincing as the movement sent a sharp pain through the wound in her shoulder. Ylain afforded her a cruel smile before snapping her fingers.
Two guards filed in, each one carrying a chair. The gaudy, gold-leafed and velvet-upholstered monstrosity they deposited behind their Queen, while they positioned the rickety wooden stool close to the edge of the pedestal. Keriath slumped against the guards as they hauled her up to sitting. The crone’s cold eyes bore into her, lingering on her wounded shoulder – which now oozed through the dressing – and glowing red as she inhaled the scent of Keriath’s blood.
‘Bloodrot,’ she grunted, sniffing. ‘Expensive stuff, girlie. You must have put up some fight if you forced Drosta into using that.’
It was Keriath’s turn to snort, trying to hide her fatigue behind false bravado as she swayed on the wobbly stool. ‘Your boy is an idiot,’ she sneered. ‘He put me on one of your barges and took me down river.’
‘And you called up waterhorses to help you escape,’ Ylain finished, nodding. ‘I hope you at least killed a few of Drosta’s Hunt before they put you down? Death is the only way to deal with such carelessness.’
‘Sadly, no,’ Keriath replied with a bitter smile. ‘I was more interested in escaping.’
Ylain’s answering smirk was as cold as it was brutal. ‘How disappointing,’ she murmured. She glanced back at Dell and tutted, before turning to her prisoner once more. ‘Drosta’s second has requested a healer for you. What am I to make of that?’ Keriath resisted the urge to let her gaze flick to Dell and continued to stare impassively at the Queen.
‘He thinks I’d give better sport. I think he’s an idiot myself. I’ll be far more docile with one foot in the grave.’
‘No doubt.’ Ylain chuckled, leaning back while she examined her prisoner. ‘But I have always found that it requires a certain amount of awareness to extract information from a subject. I imagine it has something to do with needing to understand the gravity of the situation.’
‘I understand the gravity of my situation just fine,’ Keriath assured her.
‘Where did you get those scars, girl?’ the Queen asked, changing the subject. Keriath had expected the question at some point, and the memory flashed savagely through her mind. But the Queen could never learn the truth. Ylain had to know that only magic could leave a mark like that. Keriath couldn’t hesitate for a second, or she might suspect.
‘Beauty is a curse,’ she snapped. ‘My father knew that better than anyone. He thought this would protect me.’
‘And did it?’
Keriath held her gaze. ‘What do you think?’
The Queen inclined her head in understanding and let the matter drop. Then she raised her hand and snapped her fingers in summons. Two serving boys trotted forward, each one bearing a silver platter they held out to their Queen. Keriath felt her mouth water as the scent wafting off those trays hit her. She sniffed. Smoked fish served on herb-crusted bread. A selection of cheeses with oatcakes. Mushroom pasties and a tart with cheese and … bacon? She inhaled again. Yes, there was definitely bacon on one of those platters. Her stomach growled while Ylain examined the fare before cutting herself a piece of the savoury tart. The old Queen was smirking as she turned to the source of the noise, slice in hand.
‘I’m afraid I have quite a boring palate,’ she said, nibbling at the pastry. ‘But I suppose if you’re starved for long enough, you’d eat anything that was put in front of you? Wouldn’t you?’
Irritation gave her some strength, and Keriath folded her arms across her chest, the chains rattling, while she stared dispassionately at the old Queen.
‘This is tedious,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you just get to the point?’
‘Alright,’ the grim-faced Queen conceded. ‘You have information I want. You’re going to give it to me. We can be civilised about it, or I can carve it out of you one piece at a time. It’s entirely up to you.’
A kernel of fear settled deep within Keriath’s gut, but she refused to acknowledge it.
‘What makes you think I have anything of value?’
Ylain pursed her lips. ‘In the last hundred years the once-mighty, all-conquering Graced have become little more than a fairy tale – a bedtime story for children. Your cities lie in ruin, shadows sit upon your thrones, wearing your crowns, and your people are claimed by darkness and night. Only a handful have survived untouched. But I remember all too well how quickly a single spark can incite the fires of war. We must stamp those embers out, or they will rise again and destroy us.’
Keriath stilled at the words. Yl
ain’s knowledge was far greater than she had anticipated, though perhaps the Queen did not grasp the significance. Prophecy without understanding was just a collection of random words.
‘I know the history.’ Keriath sneered, hiding her unease beneath disdain. ‘What I don’t know is what you think I can offer.’
‘I think you know where we can find those embers.’
Perhaps Ylain did grasp the significance. Not that it mattered. Even if Keriath had the knowledge the Queen was after, she would die before giving it up. Snorting, she shook her head in disgust.
‘You think they let us stay together after that day? After you slaughtered our families? They separated us a long time ago – for this very reason. The bloodlines had to be kept safe, and only a fool puts all their eggs in one basket. So, you do what you want to me. I can’t tell you a damn thing.’
Ylain sighed. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. I had hoped we could be civilised about this. Pria might delight in such things, but I find torture to be a tiresome task. Unfortunately, she has a tendency to get somewhat carried away, so you’re stuck with me. So. Shall we begin?’
Ylain’s methods were brutally direct, though somewhat predictable. She tried the ploy with the food twice more before giving up when Keriath commented on her transparency. Then, when Keriath passed out from hunger during Ylain’s next visit, she gave up starving her. They weren’t feeding her well, even with the extra rations Dell brought whenever he was able, but it was at least regular and enough to keep her strength up.
She needed it. The poison in her blood was creeping ever closer to her heart, making her every breath difficult. Ylain’s beatings were savage and left her unable to stand. The old crone was an expert with the lash, and her Darkling strength meant that, more often than not, she cut right through muscle and hit bone. The interlacing mass of scars that ravaged Keriath’s side extended across her back: a deliberate attack to mar the marks she bore there. But Keriath didn’t need to look to be sure they were untouched.
Only magic could leave a scar on Graced skin. So long as Ylain stopped short of killing her, she could inflict as much damage as she liked.
Dell was standing in the doorway with his back to her. He couldn’t watch her being flogged. He flinched at every crack of the whip.
Keriath let out a vicious oath as the lash came down once more. She’d given up trying to stay silent. The chains about her wrists had been pulled tight, so she was forced to stand, arms splayed wide to present an unmoving target for the Queen. Her tattered shirt had long since been destroyed, and she was naked from the waist up, her trousers crusted in blood that had run in rivulets down her back.
‘Are you ready to answer my questions yet?’ Ylain asked, wiping Keriath’s blood from the whip. When Keriath offered only a series of blistering curses in response, Ylain raised the lash once more. Keriath screamed as it fell, the whip licking exposed bone, and she finally passed out.
She wasn’t sure how long she had been drifting in oblivion when firm hands shook her awake with equal urgency and tenderness. She groaned as she peeled open her eyes to see Dell standing over her, his brows knit with worry.
‘What happened?’ she mumbled.
‘You passed out. Again.’ Keriath nodded. It wasn’t the first time, though it was the first time she hadn’t been brought back to consciousness with another lash of Ylain’s whip. Dell seemed to read her thoughts, and his frown deepened. ‘She tried. You didn’t respond. She damn near split you in half trying to wake you, but you didn’t even flinch. I thought she’d killed you.’
‘If only,’ she muttered. She tried to sit up, but Dell held her fast. She was glad of it; the movement made her back erupt in agony. She fell back, panting.
‘Your back hasn’t healed,’ Dell explained before she could ask. He shook his head in frustration. ‘She fucking knew those arrowheads were poisoned; she just didn’t care. Said she needed you weak and pliant, for all the good it’s done her. But when you didn’t wake … I got her to agree to send a healer.’ He trailed off as Keriath’s gaze slid to the figure hovering in the doorway behind him.
A middle-aged Darkling woman stepped forward. ‘Her blood’s gone bad. I can smell it from here.’
‘Shocking,’ Keriath muttered, closing her eyes. ‘Tell me, was it her pride or stupidity stopping her from intervening earlier? Not much use to her dead, after all, am I?’
The healer woman crouched down and rolled Keriath over. ‘You shouldn’t bait her so much,’ she warned, crouching down to inspect the wound. ‘She’ll just make you suffer more for it.’
Keriath tried to laugh but lapsed instead into a weak cough as tiredness washed over her. ‘I’m going to suffer either way. It makes me feel better to put up a fight.’ The cool hands probing into the rough dressing around her shoulder were quick and efficient, but firm enough to make Keriath wince.
‘You might suffer less if you told her what she wants to know,’ the healer woman insisted. Keriath peered at her incredulously. The blood-soaked eyes of the Darkling were out of place in that kind, round face, but she seemed sincere.
‘She’s not wrong,’ Dell’s voice murmured.
Keriath sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Really? So if I just tell them everything, they’ll let me go?’
‘Sarcasm is a sign of an unrefined mind,’ he snapped.
‘You should know,’ she chuckled. Dell hissed through his teeth and fell silent.
The healer woman had removed the dressing on the shoulder and was cleaning the wound. Keriath gasped at the sting of whatever concoction she was using.
‘Sorry,’ the woman murmured. ‘It needs to be cleaned before I can bind it.’
‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘Time is never wasted. It is death that is wasteful. Death of your kind, particularly so.’
Keriath had nothing to say to that, so she remained silent while the woman tended to her injuries. The cleansing tincture smarted enough to make her eyes water, but the dressing that followed contained a soothing poultice to ease the pain. The Darkling’s hands had been deft and methodical, if somewhat forceful, but as she examined Keriath further her touch grew gentle, almost tender. She dared to look up at the woman and was unsurprised to see desire in those blood-red eyes. The healer caught her steady gaze and looked away, flushing with embarrassment.
‘Don’t,’ Keriath whispered, catching her hand. ‘It’s alright. It’s not in your power to control such feelings.’
The Darkling looked back at her. ‘I’ve heard tales of your kind before, but I’ve experienced nothing like this. What is it?’
Keriath shrugged and sighed, leaning back to look at the ceiling. ‘Magic. It’s the gift of my bloodline.’ The woman was quiet for a while as she packed up her things. She took a small, crystal bottle from her bag and pressed it into Keriath’s hand.
‘Drink this,’ she said. ‘It will counteract the poison, but I’m afraid you must heal the rest on your own.’ Keriath nodded and closed her eyes. Then, as the woman rose to leave, she spoke again. ‘You are right to resist Ylain. Once she has what she wants, she will give you to Talize and Pria. So endure this suffering as long as you can, because when that happens … well, you will beg for death before the end.’
Keriath nodded in understanding, but the gratitude sat like sour wine in her gut.
‘Mortals are more susceptible to my kind than those with power in their veins,’ she blurted. ‘Don’t come back, not if you can help it. Stronger people than you have lost their minds. Don’t think about me and don’t talk about me to others. Every moment you allow your mind to linger on me, you loosen your grip on your sanity.’
The Darkling fell into stunned silence while she considered Keriath’s words. When she spoke, her voice was little more than an urgent whisper. ‘Why warn me?’ she asked. ‘Why not just let me descend into madness?’
‘Valid question,’ Dell muttered.
She ignored him. ‘You saved my life. I refuse to be indebted to a Darkl
ing. Now leave, while you still can.’ The woman flinched, her eyes wide with hurt and shock. But she did as she was bid, scurrying from the room.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t let her suffer,’ Dell noted, moving to follow the healer out. ‘It would have been her own fault for never learning to guard against the Enchanting. Besides, that way she would have been yours to do with as you pleased. And you need all the allies you can get in this place.’
But Keriath was too tired to care. ‘Fuck off back to whatever dark hole you crawled out of,’ she told him, rolling over. But he didn’t. Instead, he settled down beside her, sharing the warmth of his body with her while she drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
She woke to Dell’s fingers tracing over the scars across the side of her face. His touch was gentle, his gaze tender for once, rather than overflowing with lust. Despite the instincts that screamed at her for the wrongness of it, she leaned into that touch. She needed every bit of kindness she was offered.
‘Was it true? What you told Ylain – that your father gave you these?’
She didn’t reply, but for once, she did not flinch as the memories rose unbidden.
A girl, racing through the woods. Her hair snapping behind her like a pennon, her yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Resari. She and Keriath had been as close as sisters growing up, brought into the world on the same day – along with Théon. Three raven-haired girls, born in darkest night to three noble bloodlines, fated to change the world they stood upon …
The whole idea had been Resari’s – a fact that had haunted her cousin for years afterward. The young Dragon had yearned for adventure. Not to mention the attention of her parents, who had been too caught up in their own pain to pay any heed to the child that neither of them had wanted. Resari had wanted to explore the sacred groves of the Ariundle and visit the altars of the old Gods, so she’d persuaded Keriath to join her. Resari thought they could handle anything that came their way. And had they stayed together, that may well have been the case.