“What the fuck was that, Em?” Talon asking, running a hand through his hair.
“Fuck if I know,” he rasped. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Iyana. Something is happening with her.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I can feel it,” he said, unwilling to use the energy to explain fully. He had started to suspect it while they were riding to the capital. Iyana had mentioned that a wolf injured her ankle in the Aula Pass. Emmeric had worked out the timing in his head, and it coincided with his own ankle injury. The injury he couldn’t remember. Andit had eased over the next few days, as Iyana was applying a poultice to her own wound.
Now his fingers were in an intense amount of pain, without reason. He and Iyana were connected, surpassing the discomfort of distance; he was experiencing her pain. Emmeric briefly wondered if it went both ways—could she feel his pain? How bad did a wound or injury need to be for him to be affected? Without fully realizinghowhe knew, he was suddenly sure that Iyana was unconscious at the moment. At least she wasn’t in pain now. Emmeric took a small amount of solace in that.
“What do we do?” Talon asked. It seemed like he was full of questions and no solutions.So helpful,Emmeric thought.
His brain didn’t want to function. All he wanted was to curl into a ball, sleeping away the stressful events of the day. Groaning, Emmeric turned his head, gazing longingly at his bed. But his body was glued to the floor. There was absolutely no physical way to demand his muscles to move. He directed his legs to raise him off the floor, but they didn’t listen to him, barely even twitching. Talon took pity, hoisting him up, and flopping him sideways on the bed, all the while complaining about how heavy Emmeric was.
“I’m not taking your shoes off,” Talon said, flinging both his feet onto the mattress.
“S’okay,” Emmeric slurred, already drifting into a dreamless sleep.
He only managed a few hours of sleep until the pain in his hands woke him up. It had to be close to dawn. Emmeric was exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to return to a deep sleep, but his concern for Iyana soon filled his body and won out. If his hands were hurting again; she must be awake and in pain, and he hated that. He hated that he cared. His life would be so much easier if they hadn’t come into contact. Not as exciting, maybe, but there was something to say about a peaceful routine. So what if he’d been ‘stuck in a rut’ according to Talon? He knew the rut; the rut was comfortable.
Sighing, he exchanged his rumpled clothing for a clean uniform, splashing some water on his face to wake up. Today was supposed to be his day off; he’d earned one, especially after the past week and a half. He and Talon had plans to check in with Tal’s parents, but obviously none of that would be happening.
After a brief stop at the apothecary, he went down to the kitchens. While the rest of the castle was cold and drafty, the kitchens were sweltering. Emmeric broke out into a sweat immediately upon entering. Swiping a cup of coffee off the counter, he moaned into the rich and bitter drink. He’d definitely needed a little pick-me-up. Fresh baked bread laid in a pile, the smell so enticing Emmeric broke off the heel of one to eat. People were bustling about everywhere—baking, stirring, chopping, rolling. Clay ovens belched out raw heat. Servants grabbed food and quickly darted to serve their lord or lady. It was always an organized chaos.
On occasion, it had been his job to bring food down to the dungeons for the prisoners and guards. The guards ate well enough, but the prisoners’ typical meal was a slice of day-old bread, with or without mold, jerky if there was some to spare, and water. It wasn’t even fresh water. Every once in a while they’d get a piece of fruit on its way to rotten. Any food that would cause the nobility to cringe if it were to be placed in front of them went first to staff, and when the staff wouldn’t eat it, it was sent to the criminals. So Emmeric’s face was not unknown in the kitchen, and nobody would have reason to doubt why he was there.
A towel whipped out, stinging his forearm, and causing him to spill some coffee. He cursed and turned to the culprit. It was the head cook, Beni, a scowl upon her middle-aged face, cheeks rosy, her gray hair piled upon her head. She was short and plump, and could have been anybody’s grandmother.
“Phaedros take me, Beni, that hurt,” Emmeric said, rubbing the now-red area on his arm.
“Well,” she snapped, “don’t steal my food, you vulture.” She suddenly smiled and laughed, the sound coming from deep in her belly. It was the type of laugh that was infectious, and Emmeric chuckled with her. Beni flicked the towel at him again, playfully. “Come on then, you urchin. I might have something you’d like.”
Finishing his bread and coffee, he weaved through the busy space, dodging everyone within the frenzy. He’d hate to be the reason someone dropped their pot or tray. Beni was sweet, but if you messed with her food or schedule, she would try to sendyou straight to the pit of the nine hells herself. He perked up when he saw the pan of freshly baked lemon bars at her station. These were his absolute favorite.
“Oh, Beni,” he said, grinning, “you do like me.”
“Just shut up and eat one, you lout.”
Emmeric snatched one of the treats and shoved half of it into his mouth, the tangy tartness of the lemons hitting his tongue first, followed immediately by the sweetness of powdered sugar. He closed his eyes in ecstasy.
“What brings you to my kitchens?”
“Dungeon duty.” The words were muffled around the mouthful of deliciousness.
“Well, get on it then, slowpoke. Stop dallying.” She bustled away, yelling out instructions to her staff.
Emmeric grabbed only the one tray; the guard actually assigned to dungeon duty would be along soon enough. Leaving the kitchens always felt like walking directly into a cold front. The sweat on his brow instantly turned frigid, and he wiped at it with his sleeve. He jogged down the rest of the stairs—and there were a lot of stairs—to heat his blood. The usual cacophony of moaning, swearing, and crying became louder as he approached the dungeons. Two guards were there—Emmeric couldn’t remember either of their names, so he wordlessly held up the food tray in explanation.
“Only the one?” asked the man on the left.
Emmeric shrugged. “It’s for the new girl. The prince has taken a…special interest in her.” The insinuation made his stomach churn. Both men chuckled knowingly and allowed him to enter. He really hoped the rumor wouldn’t make its way back to Zane.
Iyana was further down the cavernous dungeon, towards the back, in the coldest, wettest area. There was nobody else in a cell near her, nobody for her to talk to during the long hours. Iyana was slumped on the tiniest pile of hay, completely naked, her body covered in dirt. Her dark hair splayed around her, covering her face, dirty and in knots. Emmeric’s jaw clenched at the sight. Then he noticed her hands. All but two of her fingernails were missing—some had scabbed over, but others continued to ooze blood.
He knew precisely who was responsible for this. Nobody else in this castle was capable of such a perverse act. The torture master was the worst kept secret in Athusia. The entire castle recognized who he was, what he did behind closed doors, and most made themselves scarce when he walked the halls. A murderous rage consumed Emmeric. He was going to fucking kill Azazel for this. His body wanted to storm out of the dungeons immediately to find the sadistic bastard, but he forced those feelings down, down, down. Instead, he knelt directly outside her cell, setting the tray next to him, forgotten for the moment.
“Oh, Mouse,” he muttered, his hands gripping the iron bars. Slightly louder, he asked, “Are you awake?”
“Go away,” came her mumbled response. She didn’t move in the slightest.
