“What might this be?” he breathed in curiosity, his cold fingers making her shiver.
Tears spiked Jahrra’s eyes as she tried to snarl at him to leave her alone.
“An amulet of interest,” the bald mage clucked as he removed the pendant from around her neck.
No! Jahrra wanted to screech. You cannot have that! It’s mine!
Eventually, the mage and his guards left with Jahrra’s spare knife, her dragon scale pendant, her boots and socks, and her extra coat. Boriahs had already taken her other weapons, her cloak, and her pack.
When the spell holding her in place fizzled away, Jahrra collapsed to the ground, the filthy straw taking her weight. She drew in a deep breath, then let all her emotions pour forth, sobbing her misery into her hands as the torches providing the only light in her dank corner of the world slowly petered out.
* * *
The sharp jangle of keys striking against one another jerked Jahrra from a fitful sleep. She shot upright from her pile of rotting straw and regretted it immediately. Pain pierced her head, just behind her eyes, and she hissed in a breath. By the time her vision cleared and the dizziness passed, the dark dungeon room had grown a little lighter. Jahrra blinked at the brightness, her eyes so used to its absence. How long had she been trapped beneath Vruuthun’s Castle? Hours? Days?
A figure emerged from the shadows, a shape very different from that of Boriahs and his thugs. This one was slender, shorter, and wore a dark red gown. Not the horrible mage from before, but someone else. Shock rippled through Jahrra when she realized her visitor was a woman, and not another prisoner, going by the looks of her. For a split second, Jahrra’s heart leapt into her throat, but a closer look at the newcomer’s hair proved her first initial thought was wrong. This was not Denaeh. She was too tall, and her red hair was the wrong shade, darker, not so bright.
Disappointment stung Jahrra’s senses, but curiosity still lingered. Who was this person? Why was she here? The dress was made of fine materials, velvet and lace. A necklace of deep red rubies draped the woman’s throat, and a gold circlet rested above her brow. She moved with the speed and ease of someone who had all the time in the world. Someone who was free and not rotting away in a dungeon cell.
When she was only a few feet from the metal bars framing Jahrra’s cage, the woman stopped. She stood there, tall and regal, hands clasped behind her back, one dark red brow arched over snapping brown eyes. Her skin was pale and smooth, her nose small and straight. High cheek bones finished off a face of sharp beauty, but the taint of cruelty lingered in her dark eyes. Jahrra wrapped her arms around her knees and remained sitting where she was. This woman, whoever she was, was no ally.
“Oh, how far the mighty have fallen,” the woman crooned, her voice clear and edged with haughtiness.
She raised one of her hands, each finger encrusted with golden rings set with precious stones. She lifted one of those fingers and ran it along a metal bar.
“I had always hoped to see you locked in a cage, little Jahrra.”
Jahrra’s eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about this woman. She was certain she had never seen her before in her life, but something about her malicious aura, the way she spoke, the tone of her voice, her eyes …
Jahrra flicked her own eyes back up to her visitor’s, her mind whirling. Those eyes had glared at her before, but where? Nimbronia? Cahrdyarein? Somewhere on the road during her time journeying with her friends? Among the courtiers in King Vandrian’s castle? A long time ago in Oescienne? She couldn’t puzzle it out and trying to do so was only making her headache worse.
The woman sighed and turned to pace slowly in front of the bars. “The nice thing about being the future queen of Ghorium, and all of Ethoes for that matter, is I can do pretty much whatever I want.” The woman shot a sneer over her shoulder in Jahrra’s direction, revealing the edge of her teeth. “There were far too many restrictions in Lidien, especially when Jaax was head of the Coalition. And then, that ungrateful little upstart Kehllor thought to replace him.” The woman sighed, throwing her head back and dropping her hands to her hips. “I should have left him to rot in that desert.”
Recognition, swiftly followed by nerve-rattling realization, slammed into Jahrra. The haughtiness, her eyes, the knowledge she had just shared …
“Shiroxx?” Jahrra rasped, her fingernails digging into the skin of her legs, despite her leather trousers.
The woman who was Shiroxx laughed, a tinkling sound that would have been pleasant had it not come from such a hateful person.
“How?” Jahrra breathed, her mind reeling.
“Oh, little Jahrra, you try to portray yourself as such an intelligent girl, but you are so naïve and ignorant it makes me cringe just to think about it.”
Jahrra was still too stunned to do much more than scowl at her tormenter.
Shiroxx rolled her eyes and exclaimed, “Do I have to paint you a picture?”
Jahrra refused to respond, knowing full well this vile creature wanted nothing more than to brag about her new lofty position and how she got there. Clearly Shiroxx had been human once, long ago, and had been one of the many Tanaan to suffer the curse Ciarrohn had cast over her kind. And, if he had initiated the curse, could he not reverse it if he wished? Jahrra had always known Shiroxx was corrupt, she just didn’t realize it had run this deep. Her silence must have irritated the woman, for in the next breath she proved Jahrra’s assumptions correct.
“Oh, very well! I’ll tell you if you won’t ask. In exchange for feeding information to the king of Ghorium over the past few years, I was promised freedom from the vile curse my fellow humans currently suffer. Are you surprised at my treachery, little girl?”
This time, Jahrra did reply. She shook her head, her eyes meeting Shiroxx’s dark ones. “No,” she rasped. “I always knew you were a traitorous harpy. I’m just surprised the Tyrant wasted his time on you. I would think he’d seek out someone less ruled by her obsessions.”
Those dark eyes sparked with anger, but Shiroxx did not rise to the bait. Instead, she sniffed and laced her arms over her chest.
“I am truly going to enjoy watching you suffer, Jahrra,” she hissed, teeth bared in a manner that brought to Jahrra’s mind an image of her dragon form. “You and that insufferable Raejaaxorix. He was an utter fool to take me for granted.”
The mention of Jaax’s name sent a cold prickle of fear through Jahrra’s heart. At least now she was certain he was still alive. She clamped her jaw shut, refusing to let the emotion show on her face. Either she failed miserably, or Shiroxx was better at reading her than she thought.
“Oh, you poor little innocent child. That is why you were so easily captured by Boriahs and his men, isn’t it? You came to rescue your dear guardian. What would it do to you, I wonder,” she murmured, straightening as one tapered nail tapped against her bottom lip, “if someone were to hurt the dragon Jaax? How would you scream should I take a knife to his wing and cut the membrane away?
Jahrra couldn’t help the snarl of rage that burst forth at that comment. Leaping to her feet, she slammed herself against the cage, her fingers curling around the bars so tight her knuckles went white.
“Don’t you dare touch him!” she hissed.
A cruel smile played across Shiroxx’s lips, and she tsked at the other woman. “My, my, my, a little overprotective, aren’t we? Cierryon will be pleased. He sent me down here to see if I could discern any of your weaknesses, and look at what I discovered? Not that I didn’t already know, girl, but it’s good to see the evidence.”
She turned on her heel then and strode back to the door, drawing down a bell pull. When the door swung open, the woman who had once been the Tanaan dragon Jahrra loathed more than any other, turned to cast her one more smirk.
“Sweet dreams, Jahrra. I hope whatever sleep you manage to gain isn’t haunted by dark images.”
The door slammed, cutting off the light from the corridor and pitching Jahrra into darkness once more. As
the minutes and hours dragged on, as the nagging, echoing drip of water and squeaking screeches of whatever inhabited her cell with her threatened to drive Jahrra mad, she furiously clung to all the good memories she’d shared with Jaax.
“I won’t let them hurt you,” she breathed, teeth chattering against the bitter cold. Curling into a ball, she pressed herself up against the driest portion of the rock wall behind her and played those memories over and over and over again: The time Jaax delivered Phrym, the pride in his eyes when she’d struck the scale from his toe, the evening he took her to the theater in Lidien, the look on his face when he first set eyes upon the spirit stone ring she had given him for Solsticetide, the way his overbearing protectiveness drove her to insanity, yet left her feeling cared for, loved.
Jahrra pressed her cheek to her knees and rocked back and forth, hot tears spilling from her eyes. “I’ll find you, Jaax. Somehow, I’ll find you, and we will defeat the Tyrant. I promise.”
With those lingering words, she finally drifted off into a restless sleep, one that was blissfully free of all dreams.
-Chapter Twenty-Two-
The Prince of the Tanaan
Deep within the bowels of Ghorium Castle, Dervit snoozed fitfully, wedged between a narrow gap in the high, basalt wall far above the soldiers and mercenaries who paced the corridors during their long shifts. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle, every nerve, every fiber of Dervit’s being. But, he was still free. He had not yet been discovered. And, there was still a chance he could find Jahrra, Ellyesce, and Denaeh and get them out of this awful place. The incessant, grimy drip of water from some crack in the stone above was enough to make him lose his mind as it plunked down behind his right ear. He refused to think about what else had been mixed in with that water, because it had not been safe to move from his hiding spot. The Tyrant’s soldiers had been abuzz with excitement over Jahrra’s capture, and these dank halls had been like a beehive with all the extra activity.
Patience, Dervit, patience. Your friends are counting on you. He had been lucky so far to avoid capture. A talent he had once despised had proven so useful these past several months during his time spent with Jahrra and her companions. Sometimes, it was a blessing to go unnoticed.
Dervit wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed since he first entered the dungeons, but he was pretty certain night had come and gone. It was difficult to tell in a place where sunlight never shone. And, he couldn’t tell if the Tyrant’s soldiers preferred the dark of night to the brightness of the day, but he had noticed over the past few hours that his particular section of the fortress had calmed considerably. In fact, it had been a good half hour, maybe more, since the tell-tale crack of boot heels against stone had echoed up and down the chamber below. Nevertheless, Dervit wanted to wait a bit longer. He had studied the activity of the soldiers, coming to the conclusion that the area beneath his perch was a long hallway between posts. When fifteen minutes passed and the corridor remained deserted, Dervit decided it was time to make his move.
Drawing in one last calming breath, the limbit wriggled free of his hiding spot and, with muscles and joints aching and protesting, made his way down the wall, using the small spurs of rock he’d used to climb up. Once both feet were on the ground, he crouched low, ears swiveling, nose drawing in the scents around him. Only that ceaseless echo of dripping water, the muffled laughter of soldiers enjoying a break far away and the even more distant resonance of screams deep in the dungeons greeted his ears. He tried not to think of his friends as those faint cries of agony traveled through the convoluted passageways, but the faint sounds sent shivers prickling his skin anyway.
Pushing against his nagging anxiety, Dervit focused in on the scents pervading the hallway. Most of them were the rank, foul odors of death, filth, and suffering, but settled on top of those ancient odors were newer, fresher ones. Dervit closed his eyes, drawing in the air slowly and carefully. After several moments, his eyes flew open again. There, to the left, the earthy, slightly sweet scent of the Mystic was stronger.
Keeping low to the ground, Dervit crept along the hallway, pressed to the wall and using the shadows cast by the spitting torches as a cover. Ears constantly on alert for the sound of enemies, he followed the cloying scent of the incense, rich earth, and spicy wood smoke that always clung to Denaeh’s skin.
* * *
The dungeons of the Tyrant’s mountain fortress were cold, bitter cold. As if the frigid breath of deadly winter originated there. Jahrra inhaled, the ice-coated air scraping at her throat and lungs. She shivered. Even beneath the many layers of animal skins one of the soldiers had tossed through the bars of her cage, she could not seem to find a scrap of warmth.
I cannot feel my fingers and toes, she thought, wondering if they had turned blue. Or, maybe, they had already succumbed to the ice and broken off. Morbid thoughts, Jahrra. That sort of thinking never got anyone anywhere, she reminded herself. Though, it was very hard to think of anything comforting when she had been separated from her friends for Ethoes knew how long now. Shiroxx, unnerving in her natural, human form, had left her what felt like ages ago. Leaving her to imagine Jaax at the mercy of Ciarrohn. Jahrra gritted her teeth, fighting the panic that once again welled up in her soul.
Before she could dwell on the matter for too long, however, the door at the end of the room clanked open, the iron hinges grating against each other and setting off another flurry of goose pimples across her skin. A globe of orange light cast by a guttering torch blinded her for a few minutes before her eyes could adjust. Not that seeing her visitor brought her any warmth.
The Tyrant’s most trusted mercenary strode assuredly to her cell, a ring of keys clanking in his gloved hand. He didn’t look cold, what with his warm, thick cloak and layers of clothing. Without the extra furs, Jahrra would have been left to fend off the bitterness with only her deerskin trousers, her worn tunic, and her boots.
“My master requests your presence,” Boriahs rasped, the voice both familiar and terrifying.
Curling up into a ball, Jahrra placed her back to him. She would not dignify his presence with an answer. More scraping of boot heels against ice-encrusted stone, then the whisper of fabric drifting to the ground.
“His majesty has been so kind as to offer you clean, warm clothing for this introductory meeting.”
Jahrra angled her head just enough to spy the fur-lined pants and jacket; the thick woolen tunic. She wanted to weep at the sight. While she was ogling the extra layers that might just save her from a slow, icy death, the mercenary tossed a pair of boots, her boots, through the bars, along with thick socks.
When Jahrra dared look up at him, he grinned at her, the scar on his cheek warping into a grotesque reminder of how this man and his monarch had twisted the world they lived in. A wave of stubborn determination had Jahrra snapping back around. She would not give in so easily, numbing cold or not.
“His majesty says if you give me any trouble, I can use any means possible to get you to cooperate.”
She continued to hold her silence. Somewhere, deeper in the dungeon, the muffled screams of some poor soul managed to reach her ears. Jahrra hugged herself even tighter. Please, please don’t let it be Denaeh, or Ellyesce, or Jaax …
As if plucking her very thoughts from the air, Boriahs gave a weary sigh and drawled, “I could just drag you from this cage. Or, I could make it much more interesting and go fetch one of your companions. The Mystic, perhaps. Or, the elf.”
Jahrra drew in a sharp breath.
“Ah, yes. The lovely couple. Not so lovely anymore. They’ve had a rough couple of days. Perhaps, I’ll have them brought into this room, and my men can give you a demonstration of what happens to those who defy my master.”
“No!” Jahrra cried, sitting up. “No, I’ll go with you. Just leave them out of this.”
The mercenary grinned again, his teeth flashing in the murky dark like a knife’s edge. He held up the ring of keys and carefully picked one, then let the rest dan
gle as he pinched it between thumb and forefinger.
“I was hoping you would say that. I’ll give you a moment to dress first.”
He turned his back and made a show of crossing his arms. Jahrra glared at him, but was grateful for the small bit of privacy. Despite the cold scraping against her bare skin, she pushed off the furs and stripped out of her pants and tunic. They were filthy and itched, anyway. Within a few minutes, she was fully dressed in her new, clean attire, boots and all.
“I-I’m ready,” she breathed, standing closer to the far end of the prison cell.
Boriahs turned and arched a brow at her. “So you are.”
He unlocked the door and stood just within it. No way now for Jahrra to bolt, even if she thought she could get anywhere. Her feet were still numb, and every joint in her body ached.
Boriahs lifted his index finger and made a twirling motion. When Jahrra only glowered, he mentioned her friends again. Cold iron cuffs snapped about her wrists, then the Tyrant’s mercenary fastened a similar band around her neck. A thick, heavy chain attached to the back of the iron collar fell down her back and Boriahs made quick work of hooking it to the wrist cuffs somehow. When he was done, he prodded her in the back with what might have been his sword.
“Move, girl. The king of Ghorium awaits.”
Knowing her defiance would only anger him more and end in her friends’ torture, she did as he asked. Boriahs directed her up several curving corridors and past barred rooms overflowing with prisoners. Jahrra tried not to let her eyes linger on them for too long, but nothing could block the stench from slamming into her. Death, rot, and raw sewage, among other things. She wanted to retch, not just from the smell, but from the condition these poor souls had been left in. What they had done to deserve their fate, she could not tell, but she imagined it was nothing worse than what she herself had dared to do. Soldiers of the Tyrant greeted them every so often, giving Boriahs a gesture of respect but making an extra effort to torment her.
The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Page 31