She replaced her mouth with her ear and stood rigid and still. Silence filled the pipe. Cam’s heart was beginning to wane with disappointment.
Then, a desperate-sounding hiss hit her ear just as she was pulling away. She jerked her head back to the pipe to catch the words. “The traitorssssss…she locked us awayyyyy…”
Cam allowed the words to sink in. “Traitors,” she repeated to herself. Finally, she put her lip to the pipe once more. “What did you do?”
The answer was a long time coming. “What did you do?” “Who are you?” Cam asked again.
The answer was more immediate this time. “Who are
you?”
“Someonelookingfor a wayout,” sherepliedat last in the
loudest whisper she would dare. A thoughtful silence passed
through the pipe. Cam could feel the wheels turning in whatever
brain the creatures she was communicating with had. Wheels
that seemed to turn in the very walls.
When Cam offered no further reply, they finally spoke
again. “The Scarrrrlet Sssssspy has left ussssss. You do not wish
to seeeee usssss.” These words were uttered with disdain. Cam held a hand to her mouth. Her eyes widening. “The
Scarlet Spy? Why?” was all she could think. And again, Cam
realized how Ilea’s other name was so very imprinted in this
place. There was far more to their supposed ally than they knew
and would ever know as long as they were in Silva’s clutches. “We are left here to rot forever,” the voices echoed. Cam’s voice was firm even while her was resolve shaky.
“Not if you can help me.”
“Choose only one of your company. If it is you, then so be it.
The one you choose will battle one of my own. To death. The one to emerge alive gains victory for their side.” Silva’s nails tapped the edge of her throne. Her expression this time was hardened like steel. No false smile appeared. No niceties to make Cam’s insides squirm. This was the first time Silva bore her real face. No mask whatsoever.
Camaria stood before her with patches of bruises on her face and neck. The guards had beaten her even as she had thrashed when they had interrupted her dealings with the creatures at the other end of the pipes.
She forced her voice to firmness, the echoes of those hissing whispers still ringing in her ears clanging with the screams of those around her when the Shadow Bearers had slammed her into bars.“Where will this battle occur?” Cam hoped not in Silva’s courtroom. Not where assassins would appear out of nowhere and slit the throats of her friends.
“Oneofthede serted cities. For the one who will battle my own ally, the city will be similar to a maze. They will battle when night falls.”
Something in Cam shuddered. It fled to a shadowed corner to hide. What nightmare would await her in a city that had been left desolate? She turned on her heel to meet the guards at the door.
The Spirit Followers were gathered before the cell doors when she returned. “One of us...will walk to our death tonight,” she murmured even though while in her mind she had resolved it to be her. “I was the one who made the deal with Silva. It has to be me.”
She paused, her eyes roving to the individuals clustered before her.
“Only one?” Peter asked, stepping forward.
“Yes, and that someone is me. I will not allow another sacrifice to be made for me”
Peter cut her off. “Howselfishofyou, Cam! Youaren’t the only one on this mission. Yes, you are the official person making deals with the queen, but we’re all here to save our people.” He was stepping towards her, his eyes flashing.
“I’m going in,” she stated simply as she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Where? Where are you going?” Peter whispered, defeat threading his tone.
Cam tried not to look into his steady gaze as she explained Silva’s arrangements loud enough for the rest of their company to hear.
“She will no doubt set upon you the greatest of her Shadow Bearer warriors. You have no chance at survival alone.”
Cam shrugged. “But I won’t be alone.”
“You’re right. You won’t be alone because you will be in this cell with these people. I am going in,” Peter declared.
“No, Peter! I won’t allow it!” Cam cried out.
Peter edged closer, his face hovering just above hers. His eyes flared. “Try and stop me.”
She swallowed. She felt the ache in her chest begin to expand again. She glanced beyond Peter at her own sister who normally jumped to Cam’s aid. But Fiera was making no protestations to Peter’s declaration.
Cam said nothing to Peter, only pushed past him.
Dreamsdrifted into Cam’s mind.
She sat against the wall, away from the others. Though her eyes were open, her mind was muddled. The sounds of low speaking from the other end of the cell were vague and lifeless in her ears.
A face was smiling at her. In her mind. In a memory. Her father. And his beard was lighter in color, his skin smoother. He was younger.
She saw her father in a vague outline. His mouth was open, his eyes sparkling. Singing. He was singing in words that drifted in and out of her consciousness. They were not strung together in sentences like she knew they should be. A tune drifted from her mind to her lips. The music parted them, easing into the still air around her. Everything about the tune was familiar and warm.
“But when did I hear it?” A song sang to her as a baby, perhaps. She pressed her eyes shut in an attempt to draw the memory fully before her. It only perturbed her. The memory was distorted, fractured by a new life that Silva and Kazbek had ruled.
For some distant reason she did not know nor comprehend, Cam felt as though she should understand the words. They seemed to her to hold great importance. She struggled against this feeling for what seemed an eternity.
She was sweating, rocking against the wall. No one paid her any mind. They assumed she was merely anxious, sleep deprived, and weary of the struggle, which was all true. She finally gave in to the feeling, relaxing her muscles. She let the warmth of her father’s voice wash over her. A melody of safety surged through her.
“I am holding you.” The silent voice echoed through her. She did not hear it. Rather, felt it. And it was not Cole, not her father. Not a memory. It was now.
And she had no need to question who had spoken them.
Cam’s eyes sprang open at the horrendous sound of metal
doors swinging apart. The light of blue flames hurt her eyes. “Good fortune to you, Peter,” Caleb called as the guards
clasped chains upon Peter’s wrists. Cam scrambled to her feet.
She rushed across the cell floor and flung herself out of the door.
A long, scaled hand jerked her back. “Peter, wait,” she gasped.
With whatever strength was left in her she tore her arm from the
grip of the guard and darted towards Peter. She reached him,
panting, and pulled his chin towards her.
Her lips met his, and her grip on his face softened. Her
other hand reached for the inside of the cloak draped over his
shoulders. The cool blade of the dagger not yet confiscated from
her left her palm and entered a fold in his clothing as well as four
small vials bound by a spare piece of rope.
The remaining magic of Mirabelle would aid him.
Medulla for injuries if he were to suffer. Cinis Lumen to enhance
his senses and make him more aware. Gnosi to help him
memorize the maze the cities created. And lastly, some poison of
his own. They did not know which of the three Imber Fel poisons
it held.
“A weapon to give you some chance,” she whispered on
his lips. When she pulled away and met his gaze, she found his
mouth hanging open, his eyes wide with shock and face
reddening to the tips of his ears. An instant later, he collected
himself.
“I will return,” he stammered. His fingers brushed her
cheek before Cam was jerked mercilessly back. She was flung
into the cell to be caught by Owen before she crashed into stone. “You kissed him,” Fiera said, somewhat amazed. “And so boldly too,” Caleb said with a grin. “But I don’t
blame you. He must be fine”
Cam cut him off. “I was only making it look like I was
desperate for one more kiss when...” she trailed off, but Fiera
knew what she had been planning.
“You gave him the rest of the Mineral Magic.” Fiera’s
expression was grim, but something sparkled in her eyes. Pride.
Cam glanced at Caleb. The grin he had borne in order to distract
her was fading.
After the words died from her lips, Owen, Caleb, and
Fiera donned cloaks and insisted that Cam do the same. “Silva
wishes to have a moment alone with the prisoner before the
game begins,” Fiera explained. “She will allow us to watch from
outside. We’ll be able to see over the city.”
“Alone. Peter is alone with Silva,” was all Cam could
think.
Several minutes later, more Shadow Bearers glided into
the dungeons and each escorted a prisoner in the vast ascent to
the main level of the fortress once more.
The world awaiting them outside was tainted in eerie
blue once more. Cam had nearly forgotten how frightening the
superiority of Silva’s stronghold over the surrounding cities
really was. They were escorted in a single file line up yet another
curving staircase, this one on the exterior of Silva’s stronghold. They emerged onto a level overlooking a city to the south
beyond which was more forest and then the desert lands. Air,
separated by bars locked them into a structure almost like an
enormous birdcage.
Silva was awaiting them. Her gaze shifted from the city
below to Cam, who had just entered, her hands clamped in cold
iron behind her. The queen’s lips turned upward slightly and her
eyes held a devious sparkle. “Come, Camaria. Watch the prey
enter the cage set for it.”
Cam was forced forward so that she was pressed to the
chilling bars. Biting night air nipped at her flesh. She gritted her
teeth against the cutting of the shackles upon her wrists and
ankles.
Below her, she viewed a lone figure walking resolutely
towards a pair of iron gates. Beyond the gates was the outline of
a nightmare. The very sight of the city far below caused Cam to
tremble slightly. Peter glanced back and then up as if searching
for her. Though his eyes did not catch Cam’s, he touched his lips
to his fingers and saluted the persons above him.
He entered what could quite possibly be his death.
Halfan hour earlier, Peter had entered Silva’s dimly lit throne
room. Hesquintedagainst thelight. Thelightwas not blue. “Why does she use fire, not of Shadow Bearers?” Peter wondered. But the thought was merely a distracting one floating through his mind.
“I admire you for your courage,” Silva was saying, that smile appearing on her very red lips. He whipped his gaze up to lock with the queen’s. Her eyes were glittering green. She was taunting him. She cooed. “I heard Camaria gave you quite the goodbye.”
Peter stiffened. He knew his face was growing warm. His lips still tingled with Cam’s touch.
What had he thrown himself into? With only a short blade and very minimal amounts of magic within his cloak that may fall out at any second, he felt exactly like the prey Silva meant to send into the cage that was the cities below them.
And yet, there still flickered a flame within him. “Elyon will aid me. Ever will He be by my side.” He closed his eyes as if to allow these words to keep repeating themselves in his mind.
“Young warrior, may for your sake, your death come quickly and no torture precedes it,” Silva had said her tone mocking.
“Go to Hell,” he had thought.
His jaw clenched against the nipping air when the Shadow Bearers flanking him escorted him from the stronghold. He soaked in the sights of all that was around him. Blues and blacks bombarded him. The world was a bruise. A wound turned inside out and rubbed with the sharp side of the blade. Blue blood spilled from the split sky.
He did not allow room for fear of the city. He kept his head clear by murmuring thoughts of hope in his mind. “For Cam,” he said. “For our people.”
The gates of one of the sixteen cities surrounding Silva’s lair were spiked with steel. The gates sounded of ancient mystery. Their creaks and groans were the most unwelcoming sounds to reach his ears. The shackles fell from his wrists, clanging to the stone he was planted on. The Shadow Bearers paid no mind to the fallen chains. They scurried like frightened mice, clanging the gates behind him. So even the Shadow Bearers were frightened.
Peter was trapped inside the city.
“Come out wherever you are,” he murmured, though he knew no one was listening. The chains at his feet gave him a thought. Peter swung them over his shoulder. He would use anything as a weapon. He picked his way down what once was a street threaded between mountains of stacked houses.
Shafts of what used to be homes were blown outward and debris littered the ground, blown about by a soft wind. The streets smelled of the dead. Yellowed bones were stacked against the fading houses. Peter kept his gaze fixed ahead and tried not to swallow too hard. With one hand reaching inside his cloak for the knife, his other steadied the chain hanging from his shoulder.
He took small, even breaths through a parted mouth and kept his eyes scanned on his surroundings. His shoulders were tense as he had expected they would be. Fortunately, panic had not yet seized him.
“Elyon, be with me,” he murmured as he trod on. “Direct my steps, for I do not know where I am going.” Peter prayed for the safety of his company and the hostages lying to the south. He prayed for the survivors of Mirabelle. He prayed for himself. He prayed for safety and courage. He...prayed.
Just prayed.
Peter shifted the chain from one shoulder to the other every now and then to ease the ache that crept into his muscles. He kept his eyes open, but his mind turned from the scene around him. He remembered.
A rumble of laughter reached his ears.
The sound was the color of warmth. It seeped into him, turned his stomach to soup. Daniel’s laugh was familiar and bright.
Emma was before them, sitting before the fire with a baby in her arms. Saffira was suckling milk into her mouth, her doe colored eyes wide and wandering the log ceiling above her. Emma smiled.
The boy remembered that smile. With round doecolored eyes and ebony hair, his mother had been beautiful. Emma rocked in her seat while rocking the child in her arms. “Amelia says her niece is now three years of age.”
Daniel nodded. “We should introduce her to Peter someday.” Peter was propelled in the air by a jolt of his father’s knee. He landed safely in his father’s arms. Daniel’s chuckle tickled his ear.
“Tell me the story again, Abba. Tell me about the beast you fought.”
Daniel settled the boy upon his lap once more.
Peter shook the thoughts from his mind. “Merely a memory,” he mumbled. He had refused before to listen to the whispers of the past. The warmth only brought him pain, but in this instance, he could not compel himself to ignore the flashing images from years ago.
His father’s words drifted in and out of his consciousness. He recounted the story to himself, having memorized the words, its tones, its detail, and the expressions that went with
it. He had locked it into his memory, forever to dwell vaguely and nearly neglected. He would no longer neglect it.
Peter remembered what he had been told. He listed the facts out in his brain.
Daniel had battled the beast out of the Mingroth with four others beside him, two young males and two females, all warriors for a unified cause.
Daniel had described the creature.
The vile thing had been composed of a slithering tale, hollowed eyes, exterior flowing objects that resembled thorny branches, slimy flesh, and webbed feet. It had worn a crown of seaweed and had crept from the waters.
His daughters, the merfolk of the lake, had remained behind, their intoxicating voices drifting through the yellowed fog. “Careful that you mind your step. Careful to extinguish the song fromyourears.Gripthe sword. Swing. Elyon is with you,” Daniel had whispered.
Even now, as Peter recalled the story, he shuddered. He had begged to hear the story every day even when nightmares were inflicted due to its telling, and his mother despised the gory tales Daniel told.
Peter halted.
His memory blanked. “Father did win, right?” He nodded as if to assure himself. “He did not die. He defeated the beast.” And yet, something foreboding stole hope from him. Daniel had never said that he had defeated the beast. He had fought him and fled from the valley. Sickening realization swept over Peter. Trickles of cold perspiration trickled down his neck, tingling his spine and erupting goosebumps upon his flesh despite the smoldering air he breathed.
He whispered aloud to himself. “I did not enter this city for Silva’s game. I came here to find out the truth. To find out how the story really ended.” He swallowed the forming stone in his throat. “I am revisiting a past. A past I never lived.”
Peter stepped forward, then ceased, for the world dropped before him.
Keepers of the Crown Page 29