Saints, he didn’t want to open that door. And yet, impatience bit at him. A need to throw it open. To get this done and return to the capital. To Amryn.
Several tense minutes later, the search of the upper floors was completed. While they’d found signs of people living here recently, the mansion itself was empty. Unless Tam’s allies were hiding in the cellar, they were long gone.
Cregon sent a few men to guard the entrances, and then—finally—a team of men moved toward the cellar door.
Ford deftly picked the padlock and Cregon pulled the door open. Carver lifted one of the lanterns and moved to stand beside his father, keeping his other hand free in case he needed to draw a blade. His pulse thudded in his ears as he peered into the cellar. He could just make out a rickety staircase that descended into blackness. A chill wafted up against Carver’s face, carrying the earthy scent of the cellar floor and walls.
For one suspended moment, no one moved. Carver wasn’t sure any of them were even breathing.
He took the first step into the cellar, the glow of the lantern dispelling the shadows that would have otherwise swallowed him. He felt his father follow at his heels, Ford lifting another lantern before he followed.
At the base of the staircase, Carver held out the lantern, but it was impossible to see every wall. Crates of food stores were stacked in towering rows, and there were barrels of ale and bottles of wine. He couldn’t see anything beyond that.
“Search every corner,” Cregon ordered to the soldiers gathering at the base of the stairs.
Carver struck out with the others, his father at his side. The cellar wasn’t overly large, but it was crowded with supplies and forgotten items from the house. Scuffed chairs, a broken table, a tarnished mirror . ..
The smell of cold earth was suddenly replaced by a pungent stench. Ford muttered a curse and Carver fought against gagging. It was a reeking smell he knew too well. An unwashed body. Bile and other bodily fluids. Infected wounds. Feverish sweat and dried blood.
He had smelled like that for an eternity in Harvari.
A pained whimper pricked his ears.
Not breathing, Carver twisted to the left, and light fell over a man chained to one of the many wooden posts that helped support the cellar’s ceiling. The man’s head was ducked, hiding his face. Dark, oily hair hung in a tangled, matted mess around his hunched shoulders. He was wracked with tremors, his clothes ripped in places and hanging off his gaunt frame. Scratches marred his arms. A chain was wrapped around his neck, securing him to the post at his back, not allowing him to lie down or move at all. His wrists were shackled in his lap and his legs were stretched out in front of him, manacles at the ankles pinning his legs to the ground, keeping him immobile.
“Help . . . me,” the man croaked.
Carver’s entire world shifted. Because he knew that voice, worn and broken as it was.
Ford let out a strangled curse, and it was a good thing Cregon snatched the lantern from Carver, or he would have dropped it.
He stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside the shackled form. “Argent?” he rasped, a myriad of emotions thickening his throat.
Slowly, the man’s head lifted. Matted hair fell away and bloodshot eyes, narrowly squinted against the light, looked right at him. And there was no mistaking the truth.
Tam hadn’t lied.
Argent was alive.
Chapter 67
Amryn
Amryn’sheartthuddedavicious rhythm as she stared at the knights and the high cleric standing in front of her. She wanted to slam the door. Lock it. But that wouldn’t protect her from the knights and their damning accusation.
“You’ve been a very difficult empath to find.”
Despite the ringing in her ears, she forced surprise into her expression. “What are you talking about? I’m not an empath.”
“I should have known,” Lisbeth said quietly. “Your resemblance to your mother is uncanny, after all.”
Amryn stared at the female cleric, shock freezing her blood. Lisbeth had known her mother was an empath?
“The fault is mine,” Renault said grimly. “I interviewed her myself.”
“Still, I should have said something,” Lisbeth said, her tone contrite. Her eyebrows pulled together as she stared at Amryn. “I think I wanted to see Ferrin in you. And when you passed your interview, I thought . . .” Her eyes darkened. “But no. You’re as much a witch as your mother was.”
Rhone’s jaw ticked, his face more remote than Amryn had ever seen it. “Her trickery fooled us all.”
