27
Whelp, I guess we know where everyone went. I thought the makeshift village was depressing, but that has nothing on the mines. Everywhere I look, men, women, children, and even a few fae, covered in dust and grime, bustle about what appear to be three shafts cut into a massive rock wall. Something like fifteen blood Fae guards, wearing the same all-black uniform, weave in and around the throng screaming obscenities and striking the humans with thin canes when they aren’t moving fast enough. As a result, the slaves part around the guards like south magnets around a north pole. It’s all sort of surreal, like at any moment I might wake up and realize this is all just a bad dream.
In the great custom of big, fat chickens, I stand behind Aemon and wait while Gabin speaks to an especially tall fae guard wearing a red belt over his uniform. Does that mean he’s some sort of leader? After a few minutes, Gabin returns and shoves Aemon forward. I’m honestly surprised Aemon hasn’t tried to choke theguy out with his bare hands, but he just grits his teeth—albeit hard enough to crack a tooth—and obeys. The fae with a red belt calls to another guard, who comes running, carrying two more sets of shackles and chains. Now what? Are they going to chain our feet?
The answer is yes. Yes, they are. The new fae guard unlocks the shackles from our wrists and attaches new ones around our ankles. They allow just enough room for walking—with short strides—but running would be virtually impossible. This certainly puts a crimp in any future plans for escape. The guard points to a nearby cave.
Clear enough.
The cave is just barely large enough for us to walk side by side. Every couple of meters or so, we pass steel support beams I’m assuming are meant to keep the mountain from falling on our heads. This way, only a section of the tunnel will cave in, blocking our escape and leaving us to starve in the dark.
So much better.
For some reason, I’d expected it to be cold, but the inside of the mine is hot, and it seems to just be getting hotter the deeper we go. Sweat beads along my brow and upper lip and rolls between my shoulder blades. There’s a weight to the emptiness, as though I can feel the mountain bearing down on me from above. It doesn’t help that everything’s so dim. Lanterns dangle from the ceiling every few meters or so, but their weak flames do little more than faintly illuminate small swaths of floor. I hang onto the back of Aemon’s shirt, even though my half-fae eyes can probably see better than his, as we cross in and out of the pools of light.
Aemon’s right, of course. In his own way, he’s been trying to help me. And weirdly enough, I do trust him. He could havehurt me in a million different ways since he caught me. Instead, he’s protected me. Anyone else would have just told me to stay put when we were attacked, but Aemon removed the prisoner’s bracelet. My safety was more important to him than getting me back to Ranook.
And I believe him when he says he’ll beg the king to release me. What I’m not so sure about is whether Troi will listen. He seems like a bit of a loose cannon. I’m already convinced he hired the assassin that killed his mother. If he cares so little for his own flesh and blood, what possible chance do the rest of us have? Does Aemon know about that too? Did he arrest Leodin knowing he’d done nothing wrong?
Besides hitting you? says the irritating voice in my head.
But Aemon wouldn’t do that. Right? He wouldn’t set up a man to be executed because he struck a female.
Not just any female.
I toss that thought away. It’s idiotic. Yes, he seems to care about me for some odd reason, but to think he’d do something like that because of me is silly.
The clank of pickaxes against stone grows increasingly louder by the second, along with the stink of unwashed bodies. There’s a well-lit area up ahead, but all I can make out are silhouettes moving about like the shadow puppet theater Mama used to take me to before Max was born.
Aemon stops suddenly, and I, lost in my thoughts, plow right into his back. He looks at me over his shoulder, his brows knitted in confusion.
Yes. I don’t know what I’m doing either.
I release his shirt and smooth out the wrinkles my hands left behind. I can’t be sure, but I think the corner of his mouth quirks. Stepping around Aemon, I realize what I thought was a large concentration of lamps lighting the area is actually the light from a few lanterns being reflected and amplified by the mass of sythra crisscrossing the space. I’ve never seen so much of it in my life. Usually, the gems are doled out in tiny fragments for insane amounts of money, but here, the clear crystals stretch from floor to ceiling, jutting out of the stone in columns as thick as tree trunks. It doesn’t make sense. This much sythra—being mined by slave labor no less—would easily meet the needs of the doms, the crown and all the peoples of Solstyr.
It looks like somebody’s holding back the supply and inflating the cost. The only ones with access to the precious gems at this stage in the process are the blood fae and the crown. So, which one is it? And how convenient is it for the royal family to complain about the price of spelled gems being so high when they’re the ones selling them to the doms for far more than they’re actually worth.
I’m about to ask Aemon about it, when a stinging swat to my back steals my attention. I spin around to find a guard or soldier or whatever they are, with bright pink eyes and a full white beard shouting at me in Ümbrian. “Get moving, you lazy—” I don’t know that last word, but I’m pretty sure I can guess its meaning. He points for us to keep going, so we continue deeper into the mine. At least thirty humans line the wall on one side, hacking away at the precious stone while children—ages ranging from maybe six to ten—dart around their feet, snatching up the fallen pieces and tossing them in wooden buckets. The children are able to move freely, but all the adults’ left feet are shackled to one large,massively thick chain, making it impossible for any single person to move very far without taking the entire group with them. We angle around them, carefully avoiding swinging picks until we find an open spot at the back of the line. There’s another guard standing here, shouting at one of the children. He lifts his cane, but the child’s too fast. He lunges between the adult’s legs and the crystal wall, and I watch in fascination as the slaves close ranks around the boy, hiding him with their bodies while he scurries down the line. It’s a small sort of rebellion, but effective, nonetheless. The boy makes his way to the other end of the line and the guard—either struck by a moment of altruism or simple laziness—lets him go. My gut tells me it’s the latter. He turns his attention to us, shoving first Aemon, then me, toward the wall and latches our left shackles to the thick chain. Then, he shoves a pickax into our hands and shouts at us to “get to work.”
They’ve literately handed me a weapon, handed all of us weapons, and yet there are only two guards for all these people. I wonder if they’ve ever rebelled, like really rebelled, something more than hiding a little boy. Already, I can see how difficult that would be. Even if their left feet weren’t shackled, these people are emaciated, their cheeks sunken and their bodies shriveled up to skin and bones. It’s a wonder any of them can lift their tools at all.
Aemon must notice this as well because his hands flex around the handle of his ax and the muscles around his jaw jerk from where he’s undoubtedly clenching his teeth.
Is that going to be us?
Are they going to starve us and work us day in and day out until there’s nothing left but skin and bones?
This whole situation goes from surreal to real in an instant and suddenly my palms are sweaty, and I can’t breathe. I draw in air and blow it out, draw it in and blow it out, but I can’t shake this feeling. It’s like I’m suffocating, like all the oxygen has been sucked from this cave, and I’m breathing in everyone else’s recycled air. I step away from the wall. My heart’s pounding, pounding, pounding and my chest feels as though my corset’s been strung too tight. The collar squeezes my neck like a noose. I yank at it, not caring if the damn thing rips. Right now, I’d happily tear the whole dress to shreds for a moment of relief. My head’s getting fuzzy. I step back, hand searching for the wall. My heel lands on something hard and round, and my foot slips out from under me. I crash onto my back, my spine cracking against the hard stone floor.
“Katya.” Aemon’s voice pierces my mental fog, but the sound is distant, removed, as though we’re underwater. Black spots spring into my vision, and my heart is crashing against my ribcage like it’s trying to break free. Am I dying? Gods, please. I don’t want to die. “Katya,” Aemon repeats, pushing the hair out of my face. He cups my cheeks and forces me to meet his eyes. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”
“I. Can’t. Breathe,” I say between gasps. The black spots are expanding, filling my vision. Everything is going dark. There’s a scuffle of some kind above my head, and my back stings, but all I can think of right now is the need to breathe.
Aemon’s warm hands disappear from my face and the melodic notes of a woman’s voice fill my ears. Her words are soft and soothing. She tells me I’m safe. “Breathe with me,” she says. “Deep breath in,” she draws in air, loudly enough for me to hear, and I do the same. “Do you feel your lungs expanding?” she asks.
Yes. Yes, I feel it.
“That’s right,” she continues. “Now, hold it in. Good. And breathe out.”
