Ilvara draws a shivering breath at the sight. She makes for the window before Sylvia is up the ladder. She has no time to think. She throws herself against the waist-high ledge. It’s a drop she will not survive, but that might be preferable at this point.
Sylvia grabs her from behind. She yanks her back into the room. With arms like iron, she rips off Ilvara’s dress, taking with it the few small weapons she kept with her. She shoves Ilvara, wearing only a band around her chest and a pair of trousers cut off mid-thigh, into the cell, and holds her by her throat up to the manacles.
“Lift your arms,” she orders lowly.
Ilvara obeys, and Sylvia bolts the manacles in place above her head.
“Gods, Sylvie,” Ilvara gets out, “say something. Or can you only speak to order me?” She sucks in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry for all those years ago. I was a child. I was selfish.”
A blow across her face sends Ilvara careening to the side. Her captured hands press against the manacles. Her cheek stings.
“I’ve waited eighteen years to do that,” Sylvia says through her teeth. “Eighteen years.” She kneels before Ilvara, raising trembling hands. “If I wouldn’t be executed for it, I’d strangle you to death right here and now.”
“I’m sorry, Sylvie,” Ilvara gets out.
Sylvia hits her again. “Sorry?” she asks loudly, then drops her voice again. “They dragged me on the rocks back to Nequa. They threw me into a dungeon for weeks. No food. No water. No sunlight. I had to drink the rainwater that came through the grate just to survive. And it wasn’t always rainwater. At one point, I got so sick I nearly died. Still, they never healed me. They left me, through the cold, through the illness, through starvation. You left me.”
“Sylvie I—”
She grabs Ilvara by the throat, silencing her. “Call me Sylvie one more time, and I won’t care about being executed. My name is Sylvia. And I did nothing to deserve what you did to me.”
Ilvara shuts her mouth. Saliva drips down her chin.
“Are you going to marry him?” Sylvia suddenly asks.
Ilvara blinks at her. “I…I don’t—”
“Of course you are.” She releases Ilvara’s throat roughly and steps back. “Vara has to have her kingdom back. You must rule something, mustn’t you? You even ruled me. You decided where we went, what we ate, what we did. You always ignored my suggestions.”
“I was ordered around my whole life.” Ilvara struggles to rationalize things, to make Sylvia see her side. “So, I suppose I wanted to do the ordering, since you listened to me.”
“Your brother probably listened, too. That’s were you were upset when he died. Your little slave was gone.”
Hot tears burn Ilvara’s eyes, but she doesn’t speak.
Sylvia smiles at the obvious struck nerve. “You talked in your sleep about him a few times. Talked about how you blamed yourself for taking him to the physician in the first place. You knew your mother was a demon, that she wanted him gone. You probably planned it from the beginning.”
“Stop,” Ilvara says, unable to resist. “You’re making a fool out of yourself.”
“Me? A fool? I’m not the one tied up in manacles, awaiting marriage to…” She shakes her head. “It sickens me that you’ll have power once again. If you have power, you’ll get rid of me in an instant. Just like you did then. Do you know how I got out of that prison?”
“No.”
“I bribed the guard. It took nearly ten months, but I finally convinced him to let me out. In exchange, I would be his concubine. I thought the prison was bad. I thought dying slowly of starvation was bad. Do you know what it feels like to be barely alive? Your body is fed and hydrated, not wasting away with disease, but your soul is dead? Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
“It sounds horrific.”
Sylvia slaps her again, the sharpest yet. The blow aggravates a muscle in Ilvara’s neck. She tastes blood on her lip.
“I had to kill him in his sleep to escape, just like Uncle Byron.” Her voice rasps now, like she’s struggling not to shout and alert the guards. “I’ve never been free, until Gilbert found me at my lowest point and saved my life. Gave me purpose.”
“In a bandit army.”
Sylvia glares at her. Her dark eyes are open, but there is such infernal hatred in them that it’s difficult to keep her gaze.
“I found a reason not to drive a dagger into my own heart, or drink poison, or fling myself off a mountain. I’m a human being again, with a strong stomach and some powerful friends. I’ve built myself into something worth keeping alive. Because even at my lowest points, I had a reason to live.”
“To kill me.”
Sylvia shuts her eyes and flattens her lips, as if she’s just tasted the greatest delicacy. “Gods, yes.”
“And if I do marry him?”
She squats in front of Ilvara again. “Well, if you don’t choose execution, then I’m going to kill you myself, far slower. Maybe I’ll poison your food. Make it look like an accident.”
“You won’t last a day if I marry him,” Ilvara whispers.
Sylvia leans close. She stinks of sweat and smoke.
“We shall see,” she says against Ilvara’s ear.
Ilvara shivers once. Sylvia stands, steps back, and leaves the cell. She scoops up Ilvara’s clothes and weapons and gives a little wave before ducking into the trap door.
Once she’s gone, Ilvara lets out her breath, heaving uncontrollably. The gasps shake her body. She scrapes her bare shoulders against the rough cobblestone behind her. The grit of the iron manacles scrapes her wrists. She jerks her hands, struggling to loosen the binds. Struggling to get away from this hellish nightmare.
She begins to sob, not caring of the open window carrying her voice down below. She tips her head back against the stone and lets each breath rasp through her lungs, coughing it out, weeping as loudly as her heart needs to.
Evelyn’s return. Their separation. Her possible death. Hadrian’s death. Ilvara’s own imminent death, either to the executioner’s block or to Sylvia. And the only way she could stop Sylvia would be to kill her. But how could she live with the guilt of that?
Unless someone somehow discovers where she is and makes it here before dawn, this is it.
Chapter 20
Brothers in Bonds
Caius fiddles with the shiv he made out of a broken pottery shard. Ever since the bandits took his weapons last night after he attempted to open his door, he hasn’t been able to sit still. He’s crafted many small throwing knives from pottery and a sort of mace with balls of string, shards of pottery, and a long, slender broom handle wrapped in cloth. He hasn’t spoken to Silas since yesterday. For all he knows, Silas is back in Esterden.
He stands at the sound of a scuffle in the main room. Asher’s voice pierces the noise, frantic and angry: “Let me go! Put me down.”
The door opens. Caius reaches for his homemade weapons, but Asher is the one who fills the doorway, flanked by bandits.
“Caius, you’re alive,” Asher says, led into the room by a bandit hand gripping his throat.
“Duck,” Caius says lowly.
“What?”
Caius shoves Asher’s head down, smashing the bandit behind him across the face with his mace. Shards of pottery shatter against the bandit’s cheek, spraying blood. He screams and backs away. Asher dives into the room. Caius strikes another man’s head in the doorway. The mace breaks apart against his skull. Pieces of clay embed in the man’s neck. Caius turns the weapon around and breaks the broomstick across the back of the bandit’s neck.
Men in the main room scream outside for help. Caius reaches for the nearest sword.
“Grab one!” he shouts at Asher.
“You’re going to get us killed,” Asher says behind him.
“Then we die with swords in our hands.”
Caius steps out into the main hall and crashes into two Esterden guards. One grapples for his sword while the other lunges at his
waist. He plants his feet, meeting an oncoming sword with his own. He shoves the men back against the wall, swings an elbow into one man’s nose. They tumble down over each other. One guard gets cut across his back; the other, along his side.
Asher finally emerges behind him, engaging with the tangled mess of bandits and guards now crowding the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Caius watches two of their opponents fall by Asher’s sword. For a moment, his heart flies with hope.
Silas enters then, moving to Asher at once. Caius disentangles himself from the two guards, slashing one across the thigh and the other in the throat. He takes one moment to look over at Silas, now toying with Asher, waiting to strike.
Once he catches Caius’ look, Silas whirls behind Asher. A kick behind Asher’s knee sends him down, and a strike at his wrist dislodges his sword. Silas wrenches his sword beneath Asher’s chin.
“Enough!” Silas shouts. The men rushing Caius halt.
Caius huffs from exertion. He looks between the two men, then at the door. “Silas, really,” he says. “You should let us go.”
“I can’t,” Silas says. “You know that.”
“You won’t.” Caius shakes his head. “I thought more of you. It is unfortunate that I never liked General Asher all that much.”
Asher gapes at him. “I came here to save you!” he shouts. “And to tell you…something…”
Caius nods. “I’m sure. Silas, how about you let me go in exchange for the general?”
“How about I keep both of you?”
“I thought you were ready to die with a sword in your hand,” Asher grounds out. There is no trace of fear in him. Only anger. Good.
“Not likely,” Caius says. “I have bigger plans than dying in this city. Now, if you’ll tell your men to step aside…”
Silas’ grip tightens on Asher. “I will kill him,” he says.
Caius steps close to Silas. He gives a single, slow nod. Silas’ brown eyes shift to the door.
“I think we all have things we’re ready to die for,” Caius says, “just not the bravery to do it.”
Silas wrenches Asher’s head back. “I think we’re braver than you think.”
Caius smiles. “Prove it.”
At that moment, Caius and Silas both leap forward against the bandits. Swords flash, catching the men off guard. Asher shakily gets to his feet behind them. Caius reaches for a fallen sword and shoves it into his hands. The three men push themselves outside.
Caius kicks out the legs of one soldier. They can’t kill everyone, so they must make it to the gates. They can lose any pursuers in the forest.
Men are trampled in the tight frenzy. Caius gets a sword tip across his arm, and his shoulder still aches from the arrow yesterday, but he fights through the cramping. Someone grabs him around the neck from behind, but he throws his weight forward, flipping them onto the cobblestones. The three men scramble for the gates—their only hope for escape.
Caius stops for a single second. A green-skinned form lies in the street in a pool of blood. The two smaller dragons pick at it like vultures. Grogar.
In that short instance, Silas falls forward onto his chest, an arrow in his lower back, beneath the curving metal of his backplate. Caius reaches for him, but someone behind him screams at them to stop. Asher freezes in place on the other side of Silas.
Silas struggles to his knees. His breath rasps. “Go!”
Caius raises a hand to the man behind with the bow, halting the mighty pursuit. The enemy soldier wears fur armour matted with blood.
“You shot your own trainer,” Caius says, glancing back at Silas.
“I suspected he was treasonous from the very beginning,” the bandit says. “This was months in the making.”
“So, you are above the law?” Asher asks. “You should take him back to Esterden to be tried, not skewer him here.” He turns to the shiny armoured soldier standing to the side. “What will Lord Krassis think of this, Commander?”
But Commander Nathan remains silent, gazing at Silas under lowered brows.
“I’ve always questioned his loyalties, too,” barks one bandit.
“He has never been divided,” says Caius. “He’s just lacked the courage to act on his convictions.”
Silas looks up at him with eyes full of pain.
The bandit lifts his bow again. “And so, his only act of courage will be his last.”
Caius dashes in front of Silas. “Stop! Let Lord Krassis decide. Please.”
“Move, or I’ll skewer you too.”
“Lower your bow,” shouts Commander Nathan. “Lord Krassis wanted the leaders alive. Do not shoot Caius or Asher.”
The bandit’s grip loosens.
Another asks, “What about the traitor?”
The commander’s cold eyes turn to Caius for a long moment. He steps toward him.
“You know him,” Nathan says.
Caius furrows his brow, but does not reply.
“Go, brother,” Silas says. “Save yourselves.”
“You should not kill needlessly,” says Asher. “Then you are no better than these bandits.”
“These bandits helped us secure Lockmire,” Nathan says, turning on him. “These bandits are men just like you, fighting for a cause, passionate.”
“Lawless, destructive, selfish.” Asher glances at the angry faces around him. “Passion is admirable, but with no boundaries set to control it, passion is empty. It needs direction.”
“Save your sermons for the Shrine,” Nathan growls, scanning Silas as if measuring his usefulness. Caius watches him, body tight. Nathan looks back up at Caius. He’s significantly shorter, but most men are. There’s a stability in a short stature, Caius supposes. Harder to knock down. And a short neck is harder to strangle. Tiny, black eyes are harder to poke out.
Nathan seizes the end of the arrow in Silas’ back and jerks it out in one motion. Silas gasps out through his teeth. The bandit points his bow at Caius’ mid-section when he moves to help him. He tightens his fists.
Nathan raises Silas up by his hair. “You can go,” he says. “You’ve been perfectly useless to us, and I’m sure that’s all you’ll continue to be, if that wound doesn’t bleed out and kill you.”
Silas glances between the men, shaking hands pressed awkwardly into the arrow mark in his back.
“Wait,” Nathan barks. “I don’t’ think you need that armour anymore.”
A bandit nearby rips the breastplate off him and flings it at the ground.
“Those weapons, too,” says another bandit.
They tear off his sword, his arrows, his bow. Rip his belt from him. One bandit spills all the gold in his pouch onto the cobblestones. They laugh like wild hyenas as they strip him down, kicking his weapons between them, fighting over his shiny armour.
“Ah, what’s this?” a bandit scoffs, a golden chain and tiny moon charm dangling from his fingers.
“Don’t—” Silas begins, but the bandit has already torn it in half and stepped it into the stones. It is the only item he moves to retrieve. A bandit kicks at him as he does.
He is a poor sight. Armour, weapons, even shoes gone. Shabby underclothes torn and blood-stained. Furious, shameful tears in his eyes. Caius almost wishes they would have just killed him quickly.
“Now, get out,” Nathan says. “If I see you again, I won’t hesitate to gut you where you stand.”
Without looking up, Silas turns to the gates. The bandits shove him toward it, spitting profanities. Caius catches sight of one bandit kicking him in the back before the gate shuts him out.
Nathan lets out a theatrical sigh. “I thought we’d never be able to get rid of him.”
The bandits around break out into hysteric laughter.
Enraged, Caius leaps at Nathan, but the small commander sidesteps him, anticipating the action, connecting with Caius’ blade in a ring of clashing steel. Caius spins around him and tries to elbow him in the face, but he ducks the attempt. He also avoids Caius sweeping his legs. Caius lan
ds one unsatisfying blow on Nathan’s chin before losing him in a sea of encircling bandits.
He knocks one bandit in the teeth, then seizes the loop of animal bones around his neck and twists them until the bones pierce his throat. He uses the dying body as a shield for the onslaught of sword strikes, finally heaving it onto the crowd. He drops, kicks out the legs of two men next to him, and grabs their clubs. He uses one in each hand, beating them against anyone who comes near.
Nothing cuts too deeply. He can hardly feel any of it anyway. There is too much fire inside him to feel anything on his skin. Despite this, his muscles grow weary. His injured shoulder tenses into a ball of pain. The men overwhelm him, nearly crushing him. They no longer try to stick him or cut him. They grab at his arms and legs to drag him down. He jerks against their gaining hold. Someone slips a loop of rope around his neck and draws it tight.
Throat crushed by this new restraint, Caius stiffens, but struggling only pulls the rope tighter. Someone knocks behind his knees, and he hits the ground hard on his injured shoulder. A groan of pain escapes him. Men seize his arms and force him to his belly on the cobblestones. Bandits sit on him to hold him down. The rough stone cuts his cheek. His throat throbs around the rope.
“Gods, man,” he hears the commander say. “I hope you fight as well for Esterden as you do for Lockmire.”
Caius sucks in a small breath to spit at the commander’s boots. “I will die before I fight for your city,” he gets out through his teeth.
“No! Commander, please don’t kill him.”
Caius furrows his brows, his frenzied mind whirring. Asher is still alive?
“Caius,” Asher says from somewhere far away. He sounds like he is also being restrained. “Evelyn is alive.”
Her name is a strange sound here, under the weight of so many men, body aching with exertion and injury, held down and suffocated. Like a bird’s happy melody in the middle of a storm. His mind cannot quite grasp what he is saying.
“What?” Caius fights unconsciousness from lack of air.
“She was resurrected. She’s alive.”
The rope pulls tighter. Caius’ jaw opens to speak, but he only chokes. None of it is clear. Resurrected? Alive?
Of Embers Page 17