All that had happened since leaving the Fortress went slowly, repeatedly through his mind. Tomaz, the Exile girl, the Death Watchmen, Banelyn, the Path of Light. Pine trees, hunger, sunlight, darkness. Tomaz, the Exile girl, the Death Watchmen….
The thing that he felt most, as he sat alone in the darkness, was shame. Shame that he had somehow been negligent in his duty as a Prince. Shame that he had disappointed his Mother. Shame that he hadn’t seen the betrayal for what it was. Shame that he had wandered stupidly into the hands of the Seeker. But as hours passed, then days, the shame hardened into anger. What had he done to deserve it all? What had he done to offend the Empress? Nothing.Nothing! He had been a model son. True, he was no Rikard. But he had been a good Prince. He had been a good son. So why? What had he done?
WHAT had he DONE?
He shot to his feet and let out a scream of anger mingled with despair that reverberated around the cell, bouncing off the unfeeling walls. He knew no one would hear him, and even if someone did, he was in the bowels of a Seeker’s lair, and all here were convinced of his guilt to a crime he didn’t even know he’d committed.
He screamed again, pulling against his chains, the manacles digging into his skin and drawing blood that began to flow down his arms in hot rivulets. He continued shouting, cursing the Seeker, cursing the world, cursing himself for being so stupid as to deliver himself up for slaughter, walking right into the Seeker’s trap.
Into his Mother’s trap.
He continued to rage alone in his cell, trying to deny what was true, trying to convince himself that it was all a dream, but coming back again and again to the hard reality of his imprisonment. Hard reality. He had to be harder to deal with it. That was the answer.
He pushed his emotions into a small ball in his stomach. He wanted to refuse to accept what had happened, but he couldn’t. He wanted to lose his mind, but some last shred of himself—whoever he was—kept him clinging to sanity.
In the end, it was the nothingness of sleep that claimed him, the mercy of empty dreams. He slept fitfully, in between bouts of rage. Sometimes there was food waiting for him when he woke, just at the edge of the length of his bonds. Sometimes there were rats that shared the cell with him. And sometimes fleas bit him as he lay on the straw that was his only bit of comfort.
During moments of lucidity, he wondered which of the Children would come to retrieve him, and how long it would take them to arrive. How many days did he have left to live? How many days until he reached the Fortress, this time inchains, and was killed? He wondered how he was to be killed. If his Mother would do it, or one of the Children.
His mind began to slip in and out of consciousness with no apparent preference. He sat in the same position regardless of sleeping or waking, slumped against a cold stone wall. His back grew cramped and hunched. He did not care, though… things like a straight back didn’t matter anymore. What point was there is appearance when he was soon to die?
To die. He knew what it was to die. He had experienced it so many times before. And yet this time it would be truly his experience.
Finally, as he sat in the dark with his black thoughts, the door to his cell creaked open and he knew that his time was up.
He stood, his legs weak but still strong enough to lift him to his feet. He would face whoever had come to retrieve him standing. He had been the Prince of Ravens, and he swore that whoever had come for him would not forget it as they led him to his death.
Two Lesser Seekers came in, with black robes and cloaks and the single gold rope of their office. Their faces were covered with black cloth masks, meant to remind them of their own insignificance, and golden seven-point stars hung around their necks to remind them of the Empress at all times.
The Prince examined them and found himself amused: one, hunched over with age, was in robes and a cloak far too small, and the other, standing as tall and straight as possible, was trying to fill in robes that were far too large.
“Is money scarce?” he taunted them, his voice coming out in a croak past chapped lips and a raw throat. “You know you could always deliver me to Empress yourselves. I’m sure there’s a bounty to be had.”
“Don’t tempt me,” said the smaller of the two in a female voice. She pushed back the hood of her cloak and removed the black mask. The Prince’s mouth dropped open as long black hair fell down to frame the face of the Exile girl.
The bigger of the two stopped hunching over and stood up straight, pulling back his hood and mask to reveal Tomaz’s bearded face.
“What… how… what are you doing here?”
“Being stupid,” grumbled the girl, casting a long-suffering look at Tomaz, who had turned back to press his ear against the door. She reached into her stolen robes and produced one of her long daggers, moved to the Prince’s right, and began to pry at the locks that chained him to the wall.
“But—you’re impersonating Seekers! You could be exiled for that!”
Both of them paused and turned to look at him.
“I… well, I…” the Prince felt his cheeks grow hot. “Why are you risking your lives for me? You shouldn’t be here—you should be halfway back to wherever it is you were taking me in the first place.”
The girl didn’t respond, but he felt her hesitate for the briefest of seconds before attacking the lock with renewed vigor. Tomaz turned slightly and responded in a quiet rumble.
“You’re one of us now,” he said simply.
The statement brought everything crashing back down on him that the shock of seeing the Exiles had momentarily driven out. Some tiny shred of his loyalty to the Empire remained, though—not to his Mother and the Children, but to the Empire and what it represented. He felt a surge of anger against the two outlaws. His resentment was still hot, and the rejection too new.
“No,” he said. “No, I will never be one of you.”
He twisted as much as his chains would allow, throwing the girl off of him. In the next second, her dagger was pressed against his throat.
“Try that again, princeling,” she snarled.
