“What ails you, woman,” the soldier mutters. “Are you diseased then—”
Moaning, I fall to the side, my mouth gaping as I suffocate and strain with pain. My eyes blink as I look up and—
I see myself.
Standing over me.
My clothing is wet and dirty, my hair in a tangle, and the expression on my own face is a combination of horror and vengeance.
In my hands… the crystal knife Thale gave me to protect myself with.
And it appears that I use it in the exact fashion he advised me to.
As I struggle to stay conscious in the midst of the death throes, I fight against the terrible conclusion that cannot be denied. This is the next evolution past asking Merc to do what he did to the cook. This ismeas a murderer.Except it has to be wrong. How could I ever get out of this cell if I kill him—and anyway, there’s no way they left the knife with me. In addition to taking my pack, they must have searched me for anything and everything.
It’s as I pass out that it occurs to me… I am far more concerned about how it will all play out.
Instead of the act of killing itself.
Then again, that bastard murdered the man I love. Right in front of me.
Seventy-FiveWalking and Talking.
When my hearing returns, so, too, does my vision. The latter is spotty, however, so I get fuzzy visuals of the soldier leaning over me with suspicion. Over time—though surely it only feels like hours are passing—I am able to make a full impression of the man.
Of my victim.
He is solidly built and rather tall, and when he isn’t tilted toward me, he has the posture of a straight-backed chair. Not much of his face registers, then again, he has forgettable features that are on the rat-like side. His coloring is fair, his skin tanned as if he spends time out of doors, and for all the grime of the dungeon I am in, and however far we all traveled here from the gates, his navy blue and royal red uniform is pristine: Not a smudge or a streak, the slacks pressed to perfection, the riding boots polished to a mirrored shine.
There’s no reason to ever look into his eyes again. Needless to say, I’m never going to forget those pale irises and black, malevolent pupils.
Or what was revealed to me.
He’s muttering, seemingly to himself, and I use his distraction to get my bearings. My cell has a front face of iron bars with an entry that appears to slide back on runners, and the rest of the floor, walls, and ceiling are grungy stone streaked with mineral deposits. Oil lanterns hang in the aisle beyond, and across an open area full of tables, contraptions, and—are those buckets?—there are more filthy cells, all of which seem to be empty.
I was hoping to see Merc somewhere.
A chest wound is fatal, though. Surely he is dead—
A moan comes out of my soul.
“Oh, you are awake.” The soldier smiles with all the warmth of a reptile. “I was afraid I’d lost you there.”
As he puts his hands on his hips, I note there’s a pistol mounted on each side of him, and I lock on to one of his ornate sidearms.
Forget the crystal knife. I want to kill him with what he shot Merc—
“Now, where were we.” His knees pop as he drops down to his haunches before me. “Ah, yes. I was about to enjoy the pleasure of you begging me—”
The footfalls are heavy and urgent, echoing around all the dungeon walls. And then comes the shouting. A heartbeat later, a guard skids to a halt in front of my cell, and he speaks fast, in a foreign language—and even though I don’t understand the words, I can tell whatever it is, it’s urgent and important: His arms are flapping like he’s trying to take flight and his eyes are so big, I wonder if they aren’t going to pop out of his skull.
The soldier slowly stands up. “That cannot be.”
The guard shakes his head. Points at me. Flutters his hands.
This time, when my tormentor looks down, his expression is remote, instead of lascivious. “Well, we shall see about—”
The figure who strides into the open area makes me think of the difference between power that is truly held and a person who needs to believe they have authority. Interestingly, it’s a woman who’s entered, and she’s dressed in black robes that fall to the slick stone floor. Her silvery white hair is pulled back and plaited in a complicated way down past her shoulders, and her face is as hard and sharp as blade.
