Knowing he had found the princesses’ room, Collins took some solace in the realization that even royal children had to share. An only child, he had not had to endure that discomfort, a fact that had endeared him to his friends and eased the pain of having no siblings. Retreating from the room, he closed the door, then escaped back to the landing.
Half done. The realization brought a smile to Collins’ lips. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe he might actually succeed. It’s going to work. It’s really going to work. Collins headed up the stairs, this time not surprised to find no one on the landing. Thus far, his luck appeared to be holding.
Collins had gone through both of the fifth-floor doors in the past. The left one, he knew, led to the guestroom where he had spent a peaceful night as the king’s visitor while they very nearly swayed him to their side. One door from that room opened onto another garderobe. Two others led to the shared bedchambers of the king’s male relatives. The right door from the landing led to Carrie Quinton’s bedroom.
Collins’ blood ran cold at the thought of entering that room again, so he turned his attention to the other one. In no time at all, he had established that the guest and male royal quarters had no dragons in them. Forced to confront Quinton’s room, he sucked in a deep, calming breath, releasing it slowly from his pursed lips. Memories descended upon him again, of the exquisite hour they had spent alone together here. He could picture her beautiful, high-cheeked face looking up at him, the baby blue eyes filled with desire, the dark blonde curls falling around the sweet curve of her neck. It had been an hour of perfection floating free from the day of terror surrounding it. The most stunningly attractive woman in the world had given herself to scrawny, average-looking Benton Collins. In moments, though, that joy had shattered into pain. She had fashioned a vast future for them in Barakhai. He had tried to convince her to hand over the crystal she wore as a necklace and escape back to their own world. When she refused, he had tried to steal it, and she had called in a mass of hidden protectors. Images rolled through Collins’ mind in an instant, bittersweet, rife with an excitement that spanned both ecstasy and terror.
Steeling himself, Collins tripped the latch, and the door swung open to reveal the bedchamber of the Otherworld adviser to the king. Unlike the rest of the castle, this room had changed a lot. The tapestries full of cavorting animals, cheerful forests, and happy people had been replaced with more somber images. Only one remained the same, an enormous portrait of a ginger tabby cat luxuriating on a bed similar to the one that took up most of the rest of the room. One depicted sad-eyed children plucking flowers in a desolate field, another a dull still life of stunted vegetables and flowers. The last was the most animated, but also the creepiest. Carnivores dominated the otherwise muted colors. In the foreground, a sable wolf crouched menacingly in front of a roaring tiger, and a lion flew toward a rearing leopard or jaguar. In the background, a mass of surging claws, teeth, fur, and feathers blended into a bloody, riotous war of color. Once painted to resemble a night sky in their own world, Quinton’s ceiling now held only flat, blue paint. Curtains lay draped around the bed, missing the golden tassels that had tied them back. A new chandelier hung in the center of the ceiling, and the wall brackets that had once held the torches he had used as weapons were gone. Only the carved wardrobe and matching chest remained unchanged.
A shiver racked Collins as he crossed the room to peek into the garderobe and the royal women’s quarters, where he found no dragons. He closed those doors and prepared to leave; but, once again, the wardrobe grabbed his attention. It seemed unlikely that he might find the dragons there, yet foolish not to check every possible place while he was here. One unturned stone meant eternal doubt that could only be quenched by another foray here. Catching the clasps, he wrenched open both doors.
A figure inside sent Collins leaping backward with a gasp, heart galloping dangerously fast. He glanced wildly around him, awaiting the inevitable scream. When it did not come, he dared to peek into the wardrobe again. His own eyes looked back at him from behind the dangling clothing. A mirror. Warped and scratched, it reflected Collins in imperfect detail, yet he could still make out the familiar features and the distinctly unfamiliar garb. He looked silly in a dress. Then, he remembered the purpose for it, and terror froze him. He focused in on his face as ice streamed through his veins. That’s my face, not Orna’s. The spell has worn off! Stock-still, he tried to think of a solution to his dilemma, without success. A myriad of options ran through his mind, all immediately discarded. He could not remake the features himself, and he had no time to return to Prinivere, even should he make it from the castle alive. He certainly could not stay here.
Zylas! Thoughts of his companion spurred Collins to action. If his wears off, he’s dead. Desperate to capture the leader of the renegades, the king would spare no man to do so, would show no mercy once he did. I’ve got to get Zylas out of here. Snatching up one of many veils hanging in the closet, Collins sprinted from room to landing, pausing only to shut the door.
To Collins’ relief, he met no one in the stairwell. He charged downward, feet thundering on the steps, pulling the veil over his face as he ran. Momentarily blinded, he misgauged the uneven stairs. His foot slammed on wood higher than he expected, and he stumbled. The sole of his cloth shoe skidded down the edge of several stairs, and he scrabbled wildly for balance. For an instant, he hovered between recovery and collapse, arms pitching, body weight hopelessly committed. A flash of heat surged through him, then he regained his equilibrium and continued his headlong rush. He still had not encountered anyone else as he adjusted the veil in front of the dining room door.
Only then, logic finally caught up with Collins, worming through the panic. Most likely, the magic of the warded doors had stripped his face of Prinivere’s magic, which meant Zylas still looked like Narladin. Hidden behind the veil, he would have to quietly inform his companion of the problem, and they could both slip safely beyond the castle walls.
At that moment, a dog-guard burst through the dining hall door, dancing sideways with a surprised gasp to keep from colliding with Collins. Several heads jerked toward the pair in the entryway, as the guard eased around Collins with a gruff epithet. Revealed, Collins caught the door, scanning the interior for Zylas. On first inspection, he did not find the albino. He adjusted his search for the man of Prinivere’s illusion and, this time, found him sitting among the guards and servants. Zylas stared at Collins with the same incredulity as some of the others, but his strange features contained a trace of fear.
Forcing himself to keep his composure, Collins glided across the room to Zylas, trying to give his movements a bit of femininity.
Zylas met Collins halfway, then hissed into his ear, “What the hell are you doing?”
“The spell’s worn off. It’s worn off!” Collins struggled to keep his voice at a whisper. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Zylas peeked beneath the veil. “What are you talking about, you moron?” He spoke directly into Collins’ face. “You look fine.”
Quinton’s voice wafted over the gentle music. “Hey! That’s mine. How did you get my—?”
Zylas whipped off Collins’ veil. The breeze of its movement chilled his exposed cheeks, and a shiver spiraled through him. He shielded his face with his hands. “What are you doing?”
A serving dish crashed to the floor, splashing stew and hunks of bread over the nearest diners. Instead of attending to the mess, the servant who had carried it rounded on Zylas and Collins, arms flailing. “It cost me a week’s wages to get you that food. I don’t care if you did come all the way to pick it up yourselves. You’re still paying.”
Confused and growing frantic again, Collins backed away. “Wh’what?”
Zylas tried to salvage the situation. He took Collins’ arm, dropping the veil. “Sorry. Day off. Too much to drink.” He addressed the servant. “You’ll get your money, don’t worry.”
But the servant stopped gesticulating, ar
ms falling to his sides. He studied the pair in front of him with eyes dropping to wary slits. “There’s no way you could have got here so fast. You were in the middle of a dice game when I—”
King Terrin sprang to his feet. “Seize them!”
The scrape of shifting chair legs filled the room.
Zylas took slow backward steps, voice strained. “Easy now, friends. I can explain everything.”
The room surged toward them like a tide. Past reasoning, Collins whirled and ran. He slammed into a burly man. His head snapped backward, and pain shot through his tongue. He staggered into a sea of arms. Callused hands grasped his wrists, scratching and pinching flesh. His first instinct, to surrender to them, passed swiftly. The whole situation overwhelmed him. He had seen his own face, yet Zylas assured him the disguise remained intact. And, somehow, the king had seen through it all.
Zylas’ acting voice sputtered over the shouts. “Stop, you fools. It’s me! Narladin. What are you doing?” His sword rasped from its sheath, and Collins suddenly remembered his own.
If they catch us, they’ll kill us. Energized by the realization, Collins clamped his teeth onto one of the restraining hands. The man jerked back with a curse, releasing Collins’ right wrist. He swung wildly into the crowd, connecting with a meaty thud that sent pain searing through his fist and down his arm. “Let go of me!” he howled, lashing a kick toward one’s face. The guard retreated, sparing his mouth, but several others moved in to take his place. Collins twisted, making a bold leap for the door.
Hands gripped his left wrist and ankle jarring him up short, kindling a fire through his knee. He crashed to the ground. Fists pounded into the back of his head, smashing his chin against the floor, and someone relieved him of his sword. My fault, he realized. All my fault. He caught a dizzy, sideways view of a now-silent, disarmed Zylas being carried through the door by three guards. “No. Nooo!” He lunged again but, this time, gained no ground at all. A half-dozen guards held his limbs or pinned him to the floor. “I didn’t do anything—”
The hands slammed into the back of his head again, this time driving his face to the tiled floor. Pain exploded through his head. His entire body went limp, beyond his control. Urine warmed his thighs, then merciful oblivion descended upon him.
Benton Collins groaned awake, the agony in his head momentarily overwhelming all other pain. Nausea roiled through his gut, but he managed to keep from vomiting with an effort that hardly seemed worth the result. Acid burned his throat, and as he became more aware of his body, pain screamed through his left knee, his nose, and his arm. He tasted blood. He scraped his tongue against his teeth, discovering a sharp bite on the right underside toward the front. I don’t believe it. I don’t frickin’ believe it. He clearly had passed out for longer than a minute or two, which meant he had suffered a concussion, at the very least, perhaps even a brain hemorrhage. He knew he might die in this accursed place, but it seemed unfair. Somehow, he had expected his brave words to carry him, for poetic justice to see his mission safely done. He opened his eyes.
Light flooded in, accentuating Collins’ splitting headache. He groaned again, narrowing his gaze to a slit that admitted only a pair of curious dark eyes looking back at him. Startled by the sight, he wrenched his eyes fully open again. A man crouched in front of him, on the opposite side of heavy, iron bars. He held his head tipped sideways to meet Collins’ gaze, his expression quizzical. A huge nose disrupted an otherwise softly contoured face, and wispy brown hair scarcely covered his jutting ears. He wore a sword at his left hip, a key ring at his right. “Who are you?” the other man asked.
For a moment, Collins did not understand the question. Panic crowded his thoughts. Do I have amnesia? He dismissed the thought at once. He knew his identity. It was not a question of who, but of where. Afraid to move his head, he rolled his eyes, trying to see around his prison, which consisted of three windowless stone walls, a granite floor, and the barred gate. Dangling collars and shackles, and a dented dingy chamber pot, completed the image. “I’m in hell,” he whispered.
“Opernes Castle,” the stranger corrected, looking perfectly comfortable low to the ground. “Now, who are you?”
Collins shook his head. The charade was clearly over.
“And don’t say Orna,” the guard cautioned. “We know you’re a man.”
Collins’ hand went instinctively to his privates; if they had looked, they might have meddled. A quick touch revealed no pain. Everything seemed intact, even his underwear; though they had confiscated his sword, its belt, the cloak, and the objects he had carried in his pockets. “I’m not telling you anything.” He tried to keep his tone defiant, though fear shuddered through him. Zylas might have trained to withstand torture, but Collins would probably fold like a warm candle.
The guard only shrugged, rising. His position had made him seem small; but, now, Collins could see the man stood probably no more than an inch to either side of his own five feet eleven inches. “Your choice. We’ll just wait for your switch, if you wish.”
That’ll be a long wait.
The guard lowered his head. “But you should know, the king prefers cooperation.”
Doesn’t everyone? Collins kept the snide observation to himself. The less he said, the better. Or is it? Terror fluttered through his chest as he realized delay and time were not on his side. When he did not change within twelve hours, they would know he did not belong in Barakhai. If anyone had recognized him at the portal, before Prinivere had rescued him, they would know his identity as surely as if he had switched. More importantly, Zylas would switch, and they would know the white rat instantly. Collins could only hope the king’s guards had not already discovered the toner Aisa had applied to hide the pallor of Zylas’ albino skin. “Where’s . . . my companion?”
“Who’s your companion?” the guard asked, his attempt to speak casually an obvious sham.
What am I, a moron? Realizing Zylas had called him just that before the charade fell apart, Collins tried to play the game safely. “My companion. The man who came with me.”
“In another room.” The guard straightened his silks, aqua and white, without the stretched clover pattern of the elite force. This man, at other times, was a dog. “You didn’t think we’d keep you together to conspire, did you?”
Clearly rhetorical, the question did not warrant an answer, so Collins did not give one.
“King promised to go easy on the one who talks first, gives up the other.”
Having seen his share of cop shows, Collins wasn’t about to fall for that ploy, especially since he knew Zylas would never let the burden of punishment fall on an innocent companion. On the other hand, he could not see silence working to their advantage. Time would reveal Zylas and, ultimately, himself. His thoughts raced in myriad directions, every one a dead end. With his heart pounding an aching drum-beat in his head, he found it nearly impossible to think clearly. Maybe Falima and the others will rescue us. Collins knew he could not pin all of his hopes on such a thing. The renegades would first have to get word that the mission had failed, then find a way to break into the king’s dungeon, all before Zylas’ midnight change. He could not count on that happening any more than he could that Zylas would escape and rescue him, too. He had to find his own way out. “All right,” he started carefully, “I’ll talk. But only to Carrie Quinton.”
The dog guard crooked an eyebrow, clearly trying to figure out Collins’ angle. The request had to seem stunningly bizarre. “Why?”
Collins stared back. “Carrie Quinton,” he insisted, keeping any hint of insolence from his voice. Antagonism would not get him what he wanted. “I’ll talk to her and no one else.”
The guard bobbed his head, rubbing his chin with his fingers. “Very well. I’ll see if she’s willing.” He headed toward the door Collins knew led to the upper staircase, jabbed one of the keys into the lock, and twisted. It gave with an echoing click. The guard eased open the door and slipped through, then the bolt rang home behind h
im.
Collins sagged, letting the coldness of the floor numb his wounds. He worried about the blow to his head; nothing else seemed worse than a bruise or strain, a nagging background cacophony with the sole purpose of slurring his thoughts. Still incapable of finding a good solution to his dilemma, he focused his hopes on the desperate gambit he had taken. Carrie Quinton hated him. Of all the people in this strange world, she would most like to watch him slowly tortured to death. Yet she alone could fully understand the position in which fate had placed him. The best and the worst of his hopes lay with her.
An eternity seemed to pass while Collins waited, alternately concerned about and glad of the delay. It gave him time to think and to brood, to nurse his wounds and to suffer them, to hope and to worry. He dozed a bit, his anxieties peppering his dreams. Then, when all seemed lost, two new guards appeared, with Quinton in tow. She wore a simple dress that hid her deliciously proportioned curves, and a veil covered features Collins had once found singularly beautiful.
“Alone,” Collins said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
They all knew what he meant. The guards looked askance at Carrie Quinton, who hesitated before returning a decisive nod. “Stay just outside. I’ll call you if I need you.”
The guards gave her a look of fierce concern, then pinned Collins with a pair of savage glares. Without a word, they left the room, closing the door behind them.
Quinton did not waste a second. “Who are you?”
The Lost Dragons of Barakhai Page 11