“Would you, though?” Jaxor had asked quietly. “Pardon me if you could?”
“You are my brother,” Vaxa’an had said, his tone final. And then he’d left, but Jaxor still wasn’t quite sure what he’d meant.
Did he mean that Jaxor, who shared the Prime Leader’s blood, was not above their laws? Or that Vaxa’an would undoubtedly do anything he could to save him?
On top of it all, Jaxor kept trying to search for Erin. As if theyhadblood bonded, as if they had performed thefellixix. Jaxor cursed himself for it now. If they had performed theirravraxia, their mating ceremony, under the eyes of the Fates, he would be able tofeel her. To sense her.
But all he felt was a dark emptiness, as if she should have been in his mind, but had already gone.
He punched the wall of his prison at the thought, wondering for the thousandth time whether he’d made the right decision in coming to the Golden City instead of straight to the Caves of thePevrallix.
Jaxor could’ve reached her by now. His brother, on the other hand, was chained by responsibilities, by plans. He had the lives of his warriors to think of, whereas Jaxor only had his own. And he would undoubtedly give it up, if it only meant Erin was safe.
He punched the wall again, cursing softly at the agony coursing its way through his body. His Instinct was restless. He felt all wrong, not having her close, not knowing that she was safe. They were wasting time. They should have already started their journey towards the Caves—
The door to his quarters opened and his brother stepped back inside, followed by Kirov. Seeing him, Jaxor paused, his brow furrowing. How long had it been already? Kirov wasn’t supposed to be in the Golden City until later that night.
Had the hours passed without Jaxor knowing?
Immediately, Jaxor asked him, “You checked that there were no Jetutian vessels on the planet’s surface? You ran your scans?”
“Tev,” Kirov replied, inclining his head, though he never took his gaze away. “The surface is clear.”
Relief, however brief.
Vaxa’an said, “We need you to come to the war room.”
Jaxor was already approaching the door. Vaxa’an stopped him with a firm grip on his upper arm. He had something in his hand and when he held it up, Jaxor knew it was the key for the shackles.
He knew what Vaxa’an asked. Gaze narrowed, Jaxor said, “You think I would risk her life and try to flee now?”
Vaxa’an studied him. Kirov studied him. Jaxor could feel those eyes sizing him up, trying to see something that even Jaxor couldn’t. Kirov had always been that way. Too intelligent, too observant, tooknowing, perhaps even for his own good.
“The council wishes to speak with you. We need information on theMeviraxbase, information only you can give,” Vaxa’an told him, unclasping the shackles that bound his wrists. Jaxor rubbed them, the skin raw, but when he tried to step past his brother, Vaxa’an squeezed his shoulder, keeping him in the quarters. “You should wash first. And eat something.”
Jaxor paused, cutting his brother a look. Did Jaxor look as terrible as he felt? Shame bit into his chest. He must look like one of theMeviraxin his brother’s eyes, untamed, unpredictable, uncivilized with his well-used clothes and shorn hair. He hadn’t bathed in two spans, hadn’t eaten in just as long.
What would the council think? That was what Vaxa’an was asking him. Because sometimes, appearance was everything, especially in the Golden City. If he looked like an untamed barbarian, then that was the only thing the council would see. But if he looked like a son of the Luxirian throne…
Was Vaxa’an already anticipating the council’s verdict in his trial? Was he already trying to sway their opinions of Jaxor?
Something lodged in his chest at the thought and he reached out, clasping his hand around his brother’s wrist. Understanding was dawning, now that he was thinking about it. He only wished he hadn’t wasted time, that he had thought of it before.
He had to play the part of the Prime Leader’s brother. Not Jaxor, the traitor who’d left to seek out theMevirax, who had their ink on his skin, but rather, Jaxor’an, son of Kirax’an.
Jaxor made for the washroom quickly. He turned on the bathing tube, marveling at the steady, warm stream that poured out. He’d forgotten about the tubes, so used to the iciness of the waterfall back at his base. He washed quickly, scrubbing at his dirty skin and unwashed hair. The water went cloudy before it ran clear and the moment Jaxor felt clean, he stepped out and dried himself off.
When he stepped from the washroom nude, Kirov was sitting on the sleeping platform. Vaxa’an had been speaking with him, but they ceased whatever conversation they’d been having when he reappeared. Next to Kirov on the cot were clean clothes—a dark tunic with long sleeves and hide pants, along with sturdy boots.
Jaxor pulled them on quickly, lacing the pants in a tight knot, his fingers remembering the pattern he’d always used, the same pattern of knot his mother had taught him before warrior training, the same pattern Vaxa’an no doubt still used.
Alongside the clothes was a tray of fresh, braised meat, still steaming, with fatty broth and a goblet of watered Brew. Jaxor made quick work of the food. Though it was delicious—he’d almost forgotten the skill of Luxirians when it came to braised meats—the moment he swallowed the last of it down, he nodded at his brother.
“I am ready.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Erin tracked time with three things. The first was the light through the sliver in the ceiling—though at times it could be misleading. It was so small that sometimes it was difficult to ascertain whether it was moonlight or sunlight. So she also tracked the temperature in the dungeon—warmer in the days, cooler at night.
