Yet he also knew that if he challenged his father outright, he would not come out the victor.
“I don’t know what it’s going to take, or how long it’ll take, but I will do everything I can to make this right,” he softly swore to himself.
The image of Lhora’s face rose in his mind’s eye. At the same time, the memory of her body pressing against his when she fell on him made him ache.
He wanted her. He wanted to fill her with himself. He wanted to see her stretched out before him so he could see all of her. He wanted to run his hands over her soft flesh and taste every inch of her. He wanted to feel her writhing beneath him, and he wanted to claim her for himself. Claim her so that no other man could have her. And as the Sarpi’s son and heir, he had that right to do what he wanted with her. After all, she was his prisoner, and legally his to do with as he pleased.
A sinking sensation entered his chest and plunged into his stomach. “Yes, she is my prisoner, but somehow she’s managed to make me hers.”
He recalled an oft-repeated bit of wisdom his father had espoused for as long as Duren could remember.If it is yours, do with it as you will. Ultimately you’ll grow tired of it and toss it away. Or find something newer or shinier to replace it. People are no different. They’ll eventually accept it as part of their fate and move on.
“Only until I take her and use her will my hunger for her be assuaged. And then I can forget her,” he told himself. “I’ll have to have her before I’m able to get her out of my mind.”
The first tenuous steps began forming into a plan. It was nebulous, but the longer he dwelled on it, the more coherent it became. “But I can’t do anything about it until we reach Avergild. There, I’ll have the capacity and ability to follow through. In the meantime, I must have patience. For the reward I will reap in the end will be well worth the torment.”
12
Sentence
When the ships arrived at Avergild, the prisoners were loaded into a large wagon, and a battalion of armed Coltrosstian soldiers escorted them to the dungeon located on the outskirts of the city. Lhora stared at the low, rocky building, and wondered how many people it could hold. It didn’t appear to be all that big.Unless there’s more than one of them.
It wasn’t until they were marched inside that she realized her mistake. The building looked small because the majority of the prison was underground.
Once they were processed, everyone was taken one at a time through a narrow corridor to a small cage-like construction. The guard accompanying her slid the door closed and pressed down on a lever, and the cage descended to the next level. It was there he stopped the cage and ordered her out. She was made to walk ahead of him until the soldier had her stop in front of the wooden door to her cell. After he locked her inside, he peered at her through the small, barred window in the door.
“You will be brought before the High Council in the morning.”
“In the morning? Will I be allowed a change of clothing?” She held out her arms to emphasize the fact that she’d been wearing the same set since she’d been kidnapped, however long ago that was. She was unsure as to how many days it had been. And speaking of days… “When can I get something to eat? I’m hungry! And I need something to drink, too!”
She could barely make out the sound of the man’s tread on the dirt floor. But the clang of the cage door echoed down the corridor, as well as the grinding noise of the winch and chain that lifted the cage back topside.
The cage returned several more times, one time with Vadris Lon, who was placed in the cell next to hers, and with groups of two or three of his crew. Like they had been in the brig, those crewmen were stuffed into the adjacent cells. Lhora checked the size of her tiny, confined cubicle. Two people would feel crowded in one. Putting four or more inside was abominable.
Sometime later two guards appeared with a cart bearing a large covered tub and a stack of wooden bowls. They stopped at her cell first, ladled a helping of whatever was in the tub into a bowl, added a wooden spoon, and slipped the bowl through the little opening at the bottom of the door, along with a mug of water. Lhora took it back to the dingy pallet meant to be a bed and ate the gruel despite its rank smell and bitter taste. Finally full after not having eaten for so long, she curled up on the pallet and fitfully slept.
She was awakened the next morning by the sound of keys unlocking her door.
“Get up! You’re due to appear in front of the High Council!”
Lhora glanced down at herself. She was dirty and sweaty. Her hair hung in matted strands. She probably stank to the heavens. Sighing, she shook her head. What did it matter at this point anyway?
She, along with Vadris Lon and his crewmen, were taken back up top, loaded into the wagon, and carted into town. Conversation among them was nonexistent, which was fine with her. She used the time to study their whereabouts. To observe the roads and methods of transportation. To note the architecture of their buildings. She stared at the people she saw coming and going, making mental notes of the differences and similarities between Beinight and Coltrosstian culture from what she could see. Few Beinights had been to Coltross, much less to its capital city, Avergild, where the Sarpi and his family lived and ruled. Those who had been here had mainly been ambassadors, dignitaries, or other top officials sent by the Esstika for some political reason or another. But their visits had been limited by the Sarpi, and they’d been restricted as to where they could go when they were here. For Lhora, she figured this would be her only chance to see what people had told her all her life was a beautiful, majestic, and overwhelmingly modern city, filled with all sorts of economical and artistic achievements.
So far, she was bitterly disappointed. If anything, Avergild was dingy and depressing to look at. Its buildings were short and squat, and made of gray or brown rock. What art she could spot, including statues, was nondescript. One could almost say bland.
“No wonder they dress in such gaudy colors,” she whispered to herself.
Vadris Lon reacted behind her. “What?”
“Nothing. Just talking to myself.” She glanced up at him. “You know the charges are fraudulent, don’t you?”
“Yes, but there is some truth to them.”
“Owcher crob. Sarpi Sov is hiding something that he doesn’t want to get out.”
Lon stared at her. “Like what?”
“Like the fact that he never fired those cannons in the first place. Why didn’t he? He had to know that by withholding his attack, the Tra’Mell would inevitably overwhelm him.”
