Sunbolt (The Sunbolt Chronicles)

by Khanani, Intisar

  He must not hear me properly, or maybe he can’t imagine that at this precise moment I couldn’t care less about him. Or me. “That was very foolish, girl. Did you really think you could escape me?”

  I launch myself to the side without a thought for the mage in front of me. I only make it a step or so, given the number of soldiers hanging off of me, but it’s just enough to see the woman’s back as she departs, her shining black hair cascading over cobalt and turquoise silk. And I know, I know it’s her. But I still need to hear it.

  “Her,” I gasp, wishing I could point. “Who is that woman?”

  He shifts uncertainly, glancing over his shoulder and then back at me, momentarily forgetting his ire. “Do you know her?”

  “Who is she?”

  Blackflame smiles, a lazy turn of his lips that brings me back to myself: restrained by soldiers and at his mercy. “That is my current pet. Hotaru Brokensword. A pretty thing, isn’t she? Though a bit obtuse. It’s always helpful when they are so exceptionally blind and stupid.” He chuckles, watching me.

  Even though it’s the name I expect, even though I recognized her the moment I saw her, the name slams through me with the force of an earthquake. It’s a name I know as well as my own, just as I would know the fall of her hair, the way she walks. Just as anyone would know their own mother.

  “Oh,” Blackflame says, his voice sweetly malicious. “She’s still alive. Had you heard differently?” He leans closer. “She’s simply chosen to stay with me.”

  “Liar.” I bare my teeth at him, wishing I had Kol’s fangs and could rip his throat out.

  “What do you care?” he asks. He pauses to study me, really study me. If he hasn’t recognized me yet, I’m certainly not telling him.

  “Brokensword has more honor than you,” I say to distract him. “She can’t know what you really are. She can’t know what you’ve done here.”

  He laughs. “Ah, but she does. She knows precisely what I do.”

  I shake my head. He can’t be right. My mother would never—but I had seen her a handful of minutes ago, healthy and strong, and unrestrained. No one’s forcing her to stay here. If she’d wanted to find me, she could have. How hard can it be for a mage of her caliber to find her own daughter? But she hadn’t bothered.

  Blackflame leans towards me. “She has even become an advisor of sorts to me.”

  The fight goes out of me. I sag in the soldiers’ grip, sick with his words, with my mother’s desertion. Blackflame chuckles as he watches me. I pretend to ignore him. The anger that burnt through me has gone out, quenched by the realization that my mother chose this life over me. Chose Blackflame.

  Still smiling, he gestures to the soldiers. “Put her under guard and find the Degaths. I don’t care what you have to do, I want them back.”

  I clamp my arms against my side and stare at the cobbles in Blackflame’s courtyard, trying not to consider what Kol has in store for me. I’ve spent the last hour under close watch in a cell of a room, unable to coax any information from my guards. Blackflame’s guards had been almost immediately relieved by Kol’s: the fang lord’s bid to assure he doesn’t lose his claim on me in the unfolding chaos of the Degaths’ escape.

  Kol is, of course, far more dangerous than his escort, but I suppose he must keep up appearances. What human lord would travel alone? The guards are useful, at least, for handling prisoners.

  The guards straighten to attention as Kol and Blackflame cross the courtyard towards us. In the gardens, Blackflame had been calm, still relatively certain the Degaths wouldn’t evade recapture. Now he vibrates with pent-up fury. I keep my face down so that he doesn’t notice my pleasure. They just have to make it to tea house I’d told Tarek about, and they’ll be all right. With the help of a mage-healer, Alia should recover.

  They have a much better chance of surviving than I do.

  “If I had not already given you away,” Blackflame tells me, “I would look forward to taking you apart, bone by bone, sinew by sinew.”

  Is it strange to be grateful that I’ve been traded like a goat, especially when I can hardly expect mercy from Kol? I glance towards my unlikely savior. Kol has added boots and soft leather gloves to his attire of the night before. As further protection from the potentially damaging rays of the sun, he wears a short cloak that brushes his thighs, the hood pulled up to shade his face. The morning is bright enough that I can still make out the faint quirk of his lips revealing his amusement. What does he care if his meal escaped? He still has me. If I had the energy, I would fear him, fear that smile, but as my delight in the Degaths’ escape fades, I feel hollowed out, my heartbeat echoing in my lungs.

  My mother is here. And well. My mother, who was supposed to be dead, who came here for help and never returned. I swallow the bile in my throat, barely registering Blackflame’s threats, his ire washing over me like water over a stone. Four years I’ve thought her dead, scrabbling to find my next meal and keep a roof over my head, while she has dressed in silk and wandered sunlit gardens. How could she have forgotten me? How could she be here?

  Blackflame turns on his heel, leading the way from the courtyard. Kol falls into step beside him, the guards prodding me along after them. Instead of approaching the gates, or calling for horses, we make our way through the gardens to an unpretentious square in which a quaint stone arch has been built, a hedge grown up around it. The white wooden gate, latched closed with a hook, gives the impression of some prosaic, feminine hand at work. Which is ridiculous. There is nothing prosaic or gendered about a magic portal.

  I lick cracked lips, staring at it. I could be wrong, of course. I’ve never seen one before. But why else would we have come to a stop before this particular arch? What other purpose could it serve than to allow Kol and his men to arrive and leave unremarked, without a carriage and, now that it occurs to me to look, with no more baggage than a few large packs strapped to the guards’ shoulders?

  Blackflame unhooks the gate, swinging it open. He casually sets his hand on the stone of the arch, his lips shaping a single word. The view through the gate shivers, rippling as if what fills the gate is more water than air. Kol nods to Blackflame and steps forward, the light bending around him and pushing him through to another place. It is as if the sunlight has suddenly failed him.

  The guards follow after Kol, and before I can think whether it would do any good to struggle, I’m shoved into the portal. The sunlight falters within the portal, black strands spidering out to wrap around me in a vortex of darkness starred with light, intertwined and spun into a whirlwind of impossibility. I am pulled and twisted, invisible hands squeezing my lungs until I think my heart will stop, and then I am propelled by unseen forces out—into the normal world.

  I stumble slightly, but the guards around me are equally disoriented, and they allow me to regain my balance on my own. I take a gasping breath and smell the fresh scent of pine. It shocks me in a way that Kol’s stronghold, a towering edifice of ugly gray stone rising above us, does not. There are no pines in Karolene, nor on the nearby mainland. I inhale again, but catch no trace of the sea.

  Kol pauses on the path leading out of the muddy courtyard where we arrived. He glances back to me. I look away, fighting the urge to turn all the way around and see what the other end of the portal connects to—a doorway? Or another arch? And can it be activated from this side? But then, even if it can, I don’t know how to work one, and I don’t want to risk the consequences of bungling it. I’ve heard more than enough stories of left behind limbs or people accidentally falling off cliffs they never meant to step out on.

  “Bring her inside,” Kol says. “Have her fed and see that no one touches her.”

  Fed? How uncommonly generous. It must not be a kindness at all, I think as the guards take me to the kitchens, just a different approach to brutality. But where is the cruelty in feeding a person? It’s only as I sit on a bench, a bowl of stew warm in my hands and a heel of bread beside me, that I realize the viciousness of it: if I a
m strong, I will be able to fight longer and harder before succumbing to the death he has planned for me.

  But no fear of the future can stop me from tearing into my food. It’s a simple meat and vegetable stew seasoned with herbs I have no names for. Despite the seasoning, it tastes bland as oatmeal cooked in water. Where am I that the people know nothing of spice? Still, all I’ve eaten in the last day is the food I’d snared from Rafiki’s house. While a meal a day is about average for me, after the day and night I’ve had, I’m ravenous.

  A servant refills my bowl twice. None of the cooking staff speak to me, or to the two soldiers who remain with me, eating their own meals while they wait. But the workers talk amongst themselves, and their language is not one I’ve heard before. Karolene’s language has become the lexicon of trade for most of the Eleven Kingdoms, what with the vast majority of shipping routes passing through the island’s port. Both Kol and the guards he had brought on his visit speak it fluently. But it is not the language of conversation here. Further, I cannot place the looks of the people. They are light-skinned, though not as light as the northmen, their hair ranging from sandy brown to deep chestnut.

  I am too tired to grapple with the possibilities now. I can worry about it once I’ve gotten home. There are much greater things to worry about than that for now.

  By the end of my meal, I’m slow and heavy with contentment. Whatever cruelty Kol may intend in granting me this reprieve, I plan to take full advantage of it. As the soldiers set down their bowls, I rise, ready for them to escort me on.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, hoping their meal has loosened their tongues.

  “A holding cell,” one of them says, his voice gruff.

  “And then?”

  We leave the kitchen in silence. Finally, he says, “To the tower room, I expect.”

  A tower. Not the easiest place to escape. I watch him from the corner of my eye, attempting to assess whether his expression is any grimmer than before. “What’s there?”

  He doesn’t answer. It’s the other one, a younger man with an ugly gleam to his eye, who says, “You’ll see soon enough. We’ll be listening for your screams.”

  “Oh,” I say, pretending good humor, “I wouldn’t wait around for that if I were you.”

  “You’ll scream,” the young one says. His smile makes my blood run cold. “Won’t she, Ger?”

  “Only if she fights it,” the other soldier says.

  We’ve reached the holding cells, a stretch of rooms with bars as their fourth wall, lining a hall that’s bookended by a blank wall at one end and a guard room at the other. I’ll be stuck here as long as I’m too weak to take on the contingent of guards assigned to the cells.

  “She’s a fighter,” the younger soldier says in response. “Just think of the screams we’ll hear.”

  The first soldier doesn’t answer as he unlocks an empty cell, but his hand on my arm as he guides me in is unexpectedly gentle. That unsettles me more than anything he might have said.

  There are two types of fugitives, the Ghost once said: the kind who sleep so that they can face the unknown well rested, and the ones who stay up for fear of what may come. It turns out I’m a sleeper.

  Having ascertained that any attempt at escape would be an exercise in futility, I wrap myself in my cloak and lie down at the back of the cell. I have no idea when Kol will come for me, and I’ve spent the better part of the last day and night alternately running and getting bruised and beaten. I need as much rest as I can get. I move only to make sure my improvised lockpick set is still safe in my pocket before drifting off to sleep. I rouse a few times, rising to relieve myself or drink more water from the bucket left for me by the door. Unable to tell the time of day and still exhausted, I quickly slip back into slumber.

  I wake finally to the sounds of conversation from the guardroom, voices echoing down the hall. It’s an argument about who has to go somewhere—with me, I suspect. While the soldiers bicker, I stretch out my muscles, pain rippling from the myriad bruises I’ve collected in the last day or two. Thankfully, as far as I can tell, all my ribs are still intact. The bruises are dark, but none are so deep that they make movement difficult. I can still run.

  The quarrel winds down, and two soldiers start down the hall, their shadows long, the lantern light from the guardhouse bright at their backs. I don’t recognize either guard from the escort Kol had with him. One of the guards unlocks my door and jerks his chin at me. I don’t make them wait; there’s no point. It’s well within their ability to force me. I’d rather stand on my own two feet and avoid more bruises.

  I keep careful watch as we walk, counting turns, glancing down halls and up stairwells, trying to map out the building so I can find my way to an exit if I manage to escape. But I needn’t have bothered.

  We leave the castle proper and cross an open yard to the base of a tower built into the castle walls, its ramparts lit by torches. At one time it might have been a watchtower as well as a defensive point; now it’s nothing more than a prison with a view—one with dark windows. A cool night wind blows, bringing me the scent of pine once more, as well as wood smoke.

  The sky is full dark, but I’d guess dawn is near, which means Kol has allowed me almost a full day’s rest. As much as I needed it, every one of these “kindnesses” unsettles me further.

  The fang lord meets us at the foot of the tower. I keep my gaze averted, steadily watching the wall. I’m careful not to let my eyes drop. I’m not looking down; I’m looking away. He chuckles as if I’ve shown some endearing trait and unlocks the door with a key from his belt. Simple lock, I note.

  Then he pulls back a bolt.

  That will be a problem. There’s no lockpick that can slide open a bolt. And I can’t assume I’ll have the energy to expend any magic on it, not if there’s something upstairs I need to escape from first.

  We start up the stairwell, Kol in front, then a soldier holding the lantern, followed by myself and the second soldier. I count the steps to keep from thinking about what’s waiting above. What can be worse than Kol? Is anything worse than a sadistic fang? I concentrate on the stairs. I’ll have my answer soon enough.

  Two hundred thirteen steps later we reach the top. Kol unlocks a second door. And slides back another bolt. I swallow hard. Okay, I’ll have to use magic on this bolt. Then hide in my cloak, waiting for someone to enter the tower, and slip out behind their back ... After I escape whatever waits within the room. My plan is beginning to sound more and more hopeless.

  Kol pauses to survey the interior before stepping inside. The soldier with the lantern enters cautiously, one hand on his sword hilt. Behind me, I can feel the other soldier tensing. As if I’m not worried enough already, even these two battle-hardened, fang-serving soldiers are afraid of what’s in there.

  A hand prods me in the back. I force myself to continue up the last few steps to the door. Kol is speaking.

  “… can’t have you wasting away to nothing now, Val, my boy. I’ve brought you a little treat.”

  Kol is faster than my eye can follow, his hand clamping onto my wrist and wrenching me forward. I instinctively close my eyes as he shoves me to my knees, facing the room. “I’m afraid she’s wise to our ways, though. It might be a bit difficult for you.” Cold fingers brush my lips and I jerk my face away. Kol’s hands close onto my shoulders again in a vice-like grip. His voice drips false concern as he continues, “You do like to go gently on them. Such a pity she won’t cooperate. Come now, have a sip. I’ll hold her for you if you like.”

  Something, or someone, makes a faint sound, a low animal growl that leaves me trembling.

  “You’ll need the help, Val. I’m afraid your gaze isn’t strong enough,” —a laugh— “even if you could trick her into looking at you. Or aren’t you hungry?”

  A voice rasps from the far side of the room, as dry and brittle as old bones. “I am not so hungry that I can’t enjoy her for some time. Leave her a while.”

  Kol’s hands spasm. He�
�s afraid. My mind races. From what he’s said, his prisoner must be another fang like himself. A starved one, weak enough that even if I do look at him, he won’t be able to mesmerize me with his gaze. But he’s strong enough to refuse Kol’s help. He’s proud. And he’s very, very dangerous.

  “I’ll give you till tomorrow night,” Kol says. “If she’s still here, you can watch me finish her myself. I’m looking forward to her screams. No need to let a sweet little morsel like this go to waste, is there?”

  He’s talking too much, I realize. He’s not merely afraid of his captive, of the strength of will of this creature. He’s terrified.

  Kol turns, effortlessly yanking me to my feet and sending me stumbling towards the soldiers waiting at the door. “Chain her.”

  I try to shove away from them—but the only place to run is towards a creature even Kol fears, and I’m not about to do that. There’s a window, and I could jump, but is certain death really better than a chance, no matter how small, of living?

  In that moment of hesitation, both soldiers catch up with me. They drag me to the wall where a manacle on a chain is bolted. It hardly takes them three breaths to snap the cuff around my ankle, lock it, and retreat together. They’re breathing hard, the whites of their eyes showing.

  In the darkness, something chuckles, a sound like the rustling of dead grasses, the snapping of winter-hardened twigs underfoot.

  “Amused?” Kol asks. “I thought you would appreciate her.”

  “Your men run like startled rabbits. Their noses even twitch the same way.”

  I press my back against the wall, turn my head to face the door, and then slowly, while the lantern still lights the room, slide a glance towards the speaker.

  Kol tries to laugh. “Humans.”

  The creature doesn’t answer. He sits against the far wall, his legs crossed, his back resting against the stones. He is tall and gaunt, so thin his face is but a skull stretched over with skin, his eyes so faintly colored that I can almost imagine they are not even there. His hair falls to his shoulders in a straggly fringe of white. His tunic and pants hang off his frame, and his hands where they rest over his knees are hardly more than bone. If he were human, he would be dead.