by M. L. Greye
But there was no way to escape this camp – this soul-sucking island. He was trapped.
Trapped. The word echoed inside his skull. That was what he was. Until who knew when. Probably until he died – until he withered away into dust.
A frigid, barren void stretched out within him. Colder even than the night air pricking through his clothes.
Despair enveloped him – ripping and clawing through him. A single, strangled cry slipped out of him. He clamped his eyes shut.
But it was like an awakening – a crack in a wall he’d been trying so hard to keep intact. Sobs erupted out of him – as if he were a little boy again. He couldn’t stop them. His body shook, his breathing turned shallow. He knew he was breaking, but there was no one to put him back together.
His distress consumed him so thoroughly he didn’t even notice when sleep claimed him.
:::::
Emry was in a forest … stars above but no moon. Wisps of darkness swirled and sped by her in a blur, urging her forward and wanting her to go faster, faster… But she had no idea where she was going.
She came into a clearing with a pond and ragged boulders jutting out of the ground in odd patches. Even though there was no moon, the stars lit the place as brightly as if there had been a full one. Emry stepped toward the pond and spotted a lone figure curled up beside its edge, shaking and sobbing.
Slowly, she approached, keeping her footsteps as muffled as she could. As she neared, she discerned the figure was a man. When she was to him, she knelt beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
In a single blur of motion, he whirled and pinned her down on her back. His hand clamped over her throat as he straddled her.
Emry was so startled it took a heartbeat for her trained instincts to take over. She readied her legs to move in defense but then glimpsed his face and froze. “Declan?”
At her voice, his eyes seemed to clear from whatever haze he’d been in. “Emry?” He glanced down at her – at his own hand at her throat – and jumped off of her, landing on the packed soil with a thud. “Emry?” He repeated.
She pushed herself up and stared, swallowing in his features. He was exactly as she remembered, and yet, not at the same time.
His gaze was drawn back with fatigue, and his face had a wild, feral edge to it. Tears stained his cheeks, and his eyes were wet with them. Gone was the boyish charm. The easy smile.
They sat there silent for a moment, and Emry realized he was taking in her own face, guzzling it in.
“How are you?” She broke the silence between them, needing to hear the smooth, deep tones of his voice again.
“You’re here,” he said quietly, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Am I imagining you again?”
Emry stilled at that. She smiled out one side of her mouth. “You imagine me?”
“What?” He blinked twice and leaned back against the boulder behind him, lifting his knees and resting his arms on top of them. He shook his head as he scraped his scalp with his fingers. His hair was a little long for him – like he hadn’t cut it in weeks. The hair on his face looked like he hadn’t shaved in just as long. “How have you been, Emry?”
She almost pointed out that she had asked him first, but that strange, desperation in his eyes stopped her. Instead, she answered, “It has been interesting since the last time we saw each other. I’ve been learning how to defend myself better.”
He winced. “I’m sorry for jumping on you.”
“I’ll know better than to sneak up on you next time.” She let out a short laugh.
“Next time,” he repeated slowly, sadly. He rubbed at his eyes with his palms and released a bitter, dark bark of laughter. “This is why I need you around more often, Emry. To make me laugh.”
That edge of despair in his eyes was now in his voice. Emry frowned. He was in pain. She could feel it practically oozing out of him. Maybe she could help. She could take some of his anguish away.
Gently, Emry slid towards him, worried that any quick movements would startle him. He watched her near him silently. When she was right in front of his knees, she reached out tentatively and placed one hand over his heart.
Without removing his eyes from hers, he covered her hand on his chest with one of his own. His fingers were rough, but warm on her own cool ones. “I’m sorry you’re hurting,” she breathed, and then drew out his pain.
There was so much darkness within him. Fear, anger, agony, sadness … Emry took out what she could handle, which wasn’t nearly enough. But it would lighten his burdens at least a little. When she’d taken all she could, she sifted through the emotions to the strength found behind them – to their source of power, and compressed it down inside herself, storing it up for later.
When she was finished, Declan loosed a breath, and his shoulders deflated, as if a small bit of tension had been released. “It’s easier with you here.”
She smiled. She opened her mouth to reply, but a hand on her shoulder yanked her backwards.
Emry woke to sunlight. Fanny was standing above her, a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to wake you, dearest princess, but you must rise if we are to depart on schedule.”
Blinking back the morning light, Emry stared at her for a moment. She felt like she had yet to fully return into her own body – like she’d been somewhere far, far away.
Her dream had felt so real – so lifelike. She swore she could almost smell him – balsam and cedar and something else that was purely Declan’s. His scent was like running through a darkened forest at midnight. It was glorious.
Waking up was not so glorious. Emry moaned and sat up, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips. Her mind was playing with her sanity. “Thank you, Fanny,” she muttered.
“Your bath is waiting for you,” her maid said, stepping back away from the bed. “Also, your hair is blonde.”
“Thank you, Fanny,” she repeated, but then realized what she’d said.
Fanny’s tone had been so matter-of-fact that it took a moment for her to remember how she’d gone to bed the night before. Emry pulled a face and traded the blonde for her natural black. Fanny watched without a hint of surprise. Emry was torn between wanting to laugh and the urge to applaud such a steady woman. Emry would have been surprised.
“I’ll bathe quickly,” Emry said.
“As you please, dearest princess,” Fanny replied with a dip of her head, clasping her hands calmly in front of her.
Emry did chuckle at that. As she eased herself out of bed, she couldn’t explain it, but the power roiling within the depths of her felt a little off. A little heavier – a little fuller than when she’d sunk into the sheets the night before. A dream shouldn’t have actually given her more power. The thought unsettled her, making the skin on her arms itch. Emry suddenly couldn’t wait to leave Pragge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Declan was lighter, but it had nothing to do with his weight. He’d dreamt of Emry – the first time since coming to this camp. Yet, just like that dream on Night’s Crown with her glowing eyes, this one had not been a nightmare. It had been unique. Realer. More vivid. As if she’d actually been there beside him. Because of it, Declan felt different.
He’d risen just before dawn all on his own. He witnessed the sunrise – the sky brightening the thick cloud cover overhead into paler shades of gray – and discovered he wasn’t cold. The night must had been milder than he’d anticipated. Even stranger than that, though, Declan no longer felt as if he were breaking. He was calm.
Dreaming of Emry had soothed his soul in a way he couldn’t explain. He still dreaded what new horror Kearns would inflict on him today, but the thought of it didn’t hold as much of a bite as it had before. He was more alert. It was like dreaming of Emry had made him now awake.
It didn’t make sense and sounded ridiculous even in his head. Yet, he did feel like he could face another day, which in and of itself was a victory. He hadn’t felt this good in days. Maybe even weeks.
When Kearns came to claim him,
he was staring out toward the river leaning back on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him. She snarled and barked out her usual command to follow her. Unconcerned, Declan eased up to his feet and trailed after her through the camp. The fire embers from the night before had been rekindled in their pits. Declan watched their sparks fly up into the crisp morning air, disappearing into ash, enjoying the warmth they offered him as he passed by them through the maze of tents.
Kearns led him to the rounds. Today would involve more duels, apparently. Declan guessed she assumed since he hadn’t bled the day before he was healed enough for another beating. Or she just didn’t care.
Another Backwards Ruby was already there – the one who sometimes gave Kearns attention. Simon. Declan had overheard the man’s name once.
Simon currently had a younger man by the collar of his clean white shirt. He was no more than eighteen. The fair-skinned, pale-eyed boy made Declan painfully aware of how dirty he actually was. The Pale must had been there for a while. The more seasoned prisoners were in far better shape since when they won a duel they were rewarded with clothing and shelter. The Pale was grimacing and staring with a look of terror in his eyes at a man in black leather on the edge of the round.
Declan turned and realized he recognized the man in black. It was Rand – the Gray who had mocked Simon a week or so ago. Declan had noticed how the other prisoners gave him a wide berth. How they backed out of his path. He’d witnessed Rand take down multiple opponents either from electrocuting them by calling down lightning or slicing them up with his personal blades.
At the moment, Rand merely stood beside Simon – a smirk contorting his mouth up into a sneer. The sinister slave waiting to do his master’s bidding. To be the inflictor of pain, rather than the receiver as Declan was.
“Who are you playing with today, Simon?” Kearns asked, pulling up behind him.
“My Pale doesn’t think he can give Rand the beating he deserves,” Simon retorted, clearly disgusted. He released the Pale’s collar, flinging him to the ground, and turned to the gathering clusters of Backwards Rubys and their prisoners. “I’ll upgrade the residence of anyone who can make Rand bleed today.”
A murmur of surprise rippled around Declan but no one moved. The Backwards Rubys didn’t care what their prisoners slept in, and everyone else knew what Rand was capable of. No one wanted the added damage. But an upgraded living quarters…
Before Declan had time to think about what he was saying, he asked, “Can it be with blades?”
Simon spun around. “What was that?”
Declan swallowed. “This duel with Rand – can it be with blades?”
The man took in Declan’s filthy state. Declan was clearly new to the camp. Simon probably thought he was just making a desperate move. In a way, he supposed he was. Yet, Simon nodded. “You think you can bleed Rand with a blade then be my guest, Teal.”
“How much blood do you need me to spill?” Declan had to make sure he understood –needed to know the requirements that would land him a tent. He didn’t want any sort of misunderstanding or catch. From what he’d gleaned, the taken didn’t win tents for weeks sometimes months. That Kearns had offered him one and he’d refused had been a bigger deal than he’d originally thought at the time.
Simon raised his eyebrows, surprised by the question. As if Declan would be lucky just to walk off the round. “You give me a trickle, and I’ll be happy.”
He nodded once. It was doable enough. “Which round?”
At that, Rand twisted around slowly. When his cold gray eyes landed on Declan, his smirk widened into a grin. He laughed darkly, raising his left eyebrow. Declan noticed a thin scar through it – almost an inch long. “You’re desperate for shelter, aren’t you?”
“Pick your blades,” Simon ordered Declan.
Kearns stepped into Declan’s path – glancing up at him while still somehow managing to also glare down at him. “Don’t embarrass me, Sharpe, or I’ll make you regret this little stunt for weeks.”
Declan didn’t respond, didn’t even nod. He simply stepped around her to the table of blades. Rand already had his in his hands. The ones he always used – his own straight, serrated ones. Rewarded to him from some past victory Declan didn’t know about. Declan selected the best options he could find, squared his shoulders, and headed to the round Rand waited on.
Rand didn’t waste a second. The instant Declan’s foot touched the clay, Rand dove for him. But Declan was a Teal. Rand knowing this had tried to catch Declan off guard. If Declan had been new to swordplay or even a little bit slower, it might have worked. Rand moved incredibly fast for a non-Teal.
As he sidestepped Rand, he aimed his sword to graze Rand’s arm. The Gray, guessing the move shifted his body so that Declan’s blade came within an inch of him but missed his skin. He whirled back around to face Declan in one fluid movement.
“You said a duel with blades,” Simon called out from somewhere to Declan’s right. “You’re not to tap into your speed.”
“I wasn’t,” Declan retorted. It was the truth, but he knew why Simon might have thought that he had. He’d made his move within a heartbeat of when Rand should have made contact with him.
Rand sneered. “I don’t even care if you were. No one bests the lord of lightning.”
Declan blinked at the title, but before he could comment, Rand flung himself at Declan again. Rand was hoping to keep Declan on his toes – to keep him constantly on the defensive. Honestly, it was a good strategy. On any average Teal, it would have worked. Declan had never just been an average Teal, though, and the past week of Kearns running him to as close to death as she could get him had actually made him a little faster than before. What Rand didn’t know, was that Declan hadn’t lost in blades to anyone in a very long time. The last person to have bested him had been a Teal before Ewan had died. Declan had since improved.
As Declan brought his blades up to block Rand, he decided to have some fun. The first he’d had in weeks, maybe even months. It’d been a while since he’d stood opposite someone who could keep up. The Teals back at the garrison had speed, but lacked strategy, relying too heavily on their abilities. With anyone else they would have fared fine, but for Declan, who had both speed and strategy, they made easy opponents.
Declan had once been like them, until that Teal soldier brought him to his knees. From then on, Declan studied battle strategies. He hadn’t been humbled in years – not even by Commander Jaymes, who was said to be a phenomenal swordsman.
When Rand attacked again, Declan merely kept pace with him. Parrying strike after strike. Stepping and twisting. Giving his muscles a workout until the adrenaline kicked in, dulling the now constant ache within them.
It wasn’t so much that he was toying with Rand – he really wasn’t. Rand was fast and light on his feet. It was just that Declan wasn’t attacking. He was content to let Rand control the flow of their duel. Declan wanted to savor having someone keep up with him, at least for a few moments. For now.
Rand, on the other hand, looked like he was growing frustrated. He’d mistaken Declan as easy prey. He’d misjudged Declan from his bloody, unwashed clothes as an untalented desperate new prisoner. He should have known better. No one else had volunteered.
They were collecting a crowd now. Declan was vaguely aware of chatter outside of the clang of his and Rand’s steel, beyond their clay round.
“I’m growing tired of watching you play with your food, Rand,” Simon snapped. “Finish the runt off.”
Could Simon not see what Declan could? Rand, for once, wasn’t dueling with an inexperienced fighter. It wasn’t that Rand was taking his time. Kearns hissed something under her breath that Declan couldn’t hear, but he caught her meaning. It was time to end this. He’d spent enough time enjoying Rand’s skill. Now, he’d bring Rand down a notch.
Declan jumped backward, just out of Rand’s reach and crossed both of his blades in front of his chest. Rand stared at him in surprise. It was a symbol of wa
rning, used in both Enlennd and Quirl. For Declan to use it against Rand was practically a mockery. Declan smirked, and Rand snarled.
Before Rand had the chance to come at him again, Declan leapt forward. With one arm he sliced downward, the other upward. Rand brought his blades up to parry, but barely. Declan spun and grazed his right blade across Rand’s back. The leather covering him split open a little, but not deep enough to reach skin. Declan aimed his other blade at Rand’s thigh. The Gray managed to block that blow with a hurried, somewhat stumbling attempt.
“I said no abilities!” Simon growled.
Kearns cackled. “He’s not using his abilities.”
Declan ignored them both. His focus was on Rand. Strike. Lunge. Twist. Step. Strike again. And again and again.
Faster and faster. Until Rand’s eyes were wide. Until Declan could no longer hide his grin. Until he sliced his blade across Rand’s bicep and this time Rand was too slow to dodge his steel.
Blood sprayed out of Rand’s fresh wound. He swore and dug one blade into the clay, so he could clamp his hand over the cut that was deeper than Declan had intended. Declan lowered his blades and gulped down a few breaths. The crowd had erupted into startled murmurs. If the taskmasters hadn’t been there, the other prisoners might have started cheering.
After one more breath, Declan turned to Simon. “He’s bleeding. Where’s my tent?” He knew he was being demanding, but he was coming to understand that that was the way of this camp. It was a take-what-was-yours sort of pit.
“Claim one at the infirmary. Tell them I sent you.” The man didn’t even look at him. He was glaring at Rand in a way that promised pain. Declan almost felt bad for the Gray.
“Go and claim your prize.” Kearns told Declan. She was practically preening with pride – as if she’d been the one fighting Rand. “Set it up, grab yourself some breakfast under my name, and come find me after.”
So, he’d won an extra meal that day along with a tent. Declan had to hide his smile – his joy at winning simple life necessities that in this miserable camp were considered luxuries.