In the center of the soldiers stands a tall, metal cage. And there is no mistaking what’s inside.
People.
A gasp of horror stops somewhere in my throat. The warlord haspeoplecaged, pressed against each other as if they are nothing more than livestock. So many of them that their skin presses into the metal of the bars. Most so thin that their bones protrude at odd angles. Some lie down unmoving, and the sound of their keening is so unbearable that it takes everything in me not to cover my yamardu-ravaged ears against the misery. To close my eyes and block it out.
Dumi notices my hesitation and turns toward me, her eyes narrowed. She doesn’t even look at the people in the cage. To her, they aren’t a novelty. She is so well acquainted with the cruelty that it no longer registers as something inhumane. “Is there a problem?”
Oh, Covinus help me, there arechildren.
Children, dressed only in ripped trousers despite the cold nip of the evening. They are silent, the tracks of tears on their faces now dry. As if they have nothing left in them, even to wail.
“Do you wish to be safe?” Dumi implores with a tick of impatience, “because if you wish to earn the protection of this camp, it’s only through the Praeceptor’s will.”
Earn. For the first time, it occurs to me that the cost may be too high. Too high to pay for even Easton’s life.
Shaw said there were no lines, no morals that mattered when it came to saving those you care about. Is he right? Am I able to force myself past a cage full of battered children, if it will save my brother? The selfishness is shameful, but I force my feet to move.Easton, Easton, Easton,I repeat to myself until his name is a mantra in my head. I try to focus only on his face, but every time I blink, the sight of those children is branded into the back of my eyelids.
Dumi leads me away from the cage and toward the far side of the camp, her saunter as unaffected as ever. She stops in front of a canvas tent, neatly crafted and larger than the others. It is nondescript and I only glean its importance by the number of soldiers posted around it.
Eight. Eight men and women who refuse to meet my eyes.
The truth of it unfurls inside of me, like a serpent in wait. I misread Shaw’s rage and fear as a vindication of his own guilt. Shaw may be a lot of things, but something evil crawls in this camp. It is the twisted Darkness of lore that mutilates and warps. Slithers and scratches.Please.It wasn’t entirely for himself that he pleaded.
Dumi ushers me toward the tent flap. My legs have gone numb and only instinct keeps them moving. As I dig my heels in and open my mouth to protest, the cold of shackles bites my wrists.
ChapterThirteen
Mirren
Dumi delivers me to the hands of one of the guards and disappears between tents without so much as a backward glance. I want to scream at her for the betrayal, but it would be foolish. She owes me nothing. She lives by the same rule as every other Dark Worlder; every man or woman for themselves.
The heavy iron of the shackles bite at my skin as I struggle against them, and they are clamped so tightly that my shoulders already ache. The guard deposits me inside the tent, forcing me into a seated position against one of the support poles.
The tent is sparse but brutal in its efficiency. There’s no furniture, save for a steel medical table in the center of the room and a small drink cart on the far side of the wall. It looks nothing like I’d imagine a warlord’s accommodations would look, containing none of the luxurious comforts that would come with such power. Dread sinks low in my stomach along with Shaw’s words about the Praeceptor.
You don’t want to know what that man does toanyone.
The flap of the tent pulls back and a large man ducks in. It appears I’m about to find out.
Obviously someone of import, the guard immediately straightens his posture, avoiding the large man’s eyes.
“At ease, soldier,” the man says in a voice that sounds like the rumble the ground sometimes makes near Similis. Deep, dark and angry.
The man crosses the tent in less than two strides. He pauses in front of the tray to pour himself a generous amount of amber liquid from a carafe. “Dismissed.”
The guard glances at me cagily before disappearing through the flap. Whatever hesitation he possesses about leaving me with this man clearly doesn’t override his sense of self preservation.
“I hear you demand an audience with our Praeceptor,” the man says. He stands with his back to me as he tips his head and pours the contents of the glass down his throat. He is tall, as tall as Shaw, but at least twice as wide. His body is wrapped in thick, gnarled muscles that are apparent even beneath the red of his uniform.
I clear my throat, trying to forget the images of the man on the pole. Of the children in the cage. I can’t think of them and think of myself. There may still be a way to salvage this.
“I do. And I do not appreciate being made to wait in chains like a common slave.”
The man turns to me for the first time. His eyes are gray, and they are like hard chips of slate as he examines me. His face is as gnarled as the rest of him, with weather beaten skin and a wide nose that appears to have been broken more than once. His cold gaze trails from my forehead to my toes, lingering overlong in places that bring an embarrassed heat to my skin.
Finally, he lifts his eyes back to mine. Something dark flickers in his gaze, fathomless and greedy. I shift in my seat, but don’t look away. Thanks to Shaw, I’m practiced at staring down dangerous men without flinching.
“You are far from common, that much is apparent,” he says as his eyes travel along my jawline. My skin feels oily where his gaze trails. I resist the urge to wipe at my skin. “I am Shivhai, the Praeceptor’s legatus.” He looks at me expectantly.
