The Furnace.
Its reputation rivaled that of Devil’s Island. Not the main prison, which contained petty criminals who would be released upon serving their time. It was the infamous cells at its center that put fear into hearts. Cells where those who would never again know freedom were incarcerated. It was said there were thirty of them. Small cells made of solid stone set into the earth within which prisoners were sealed withonly a small hole left open for food, water, and waste. There was no way out of them, no locks to pick, no bars to break, no guards to bribe. Because there was no way out unless the masons were called to break a cell open.
And that only happened when the prisoner was dead.
James was not one to dwell on fears, but the idea of being effectively buried alive for the balance of his existence filled him with irrational terror. A terror made worse with the knowledge that the woman he loved would be confined in the cell next to him, which he knew would be a fate worse than death for Ahnna Kertell.
Yet as her hazel eyes gave a slow blink, he knew it wasn’t herself that she thought of. It was Ithicana. Her people.
If Carlo and his soldiers had heard any updates on the escalations of tensions between Harendell and Ithicana, they’d said nothing. Yet James could only assume that in the time that had passed, William, on Alexandra’s urging, had escalated to blockades. Possibly all-out attacks, though at this time of year it was possible that the storms were keeping the Bridge Kingdom safe. Likewise, James had learned nothing about Cardiff, but that concerned him far less. His mother’s homeland was in a much stronger position, and right now, James did not think that Cardiff was Alexandra’s primary focus.
She wanted the bridge, as did Katarina, and they would stop at nothing to get it. Even if it meant working together.
The wagon bounced and jostled, the quality of the noise telling James they were crossing over a bridge. Wind rustled the canvas, smelling of surf and sand, and faintly, he heard the cry of seagulls circling above.
Ahnna’s eyes sharpened into focus, and she struggled to prop herself upright on the moldy straw. Her head turned into the wind, her eyes closing as she inhaled the scent of the sea. For her, he thought, it must smell like home. No sooner did the thought pass through his mind than a tear leaked out of the corner of her eye, rolling down her cheek to soak into her gag.
Don’t give up,James silently chanted. Not at Ahnna, because he knew she never would. But at himself.
There has to be a way out. A way through this.
The cart stopped. A portcullis rattled, and muttered conversation filled the air. Dozens of footfalls against stone, and then the canvas was jerked back and Carlo looked down at them.
“Hello, my friends,” he said, his tone loud and not unlike the ringmaster in a traveling circus. An effect ruined in no small amount by his gaping eye socket. “It has been an exciting journey, so I am pleased to share that we have made it all the way to the end. Welcome to Amarid’s Furnace!” Carlo held his hands wide.
James blinked, taking in thick limestone walls and ceiling, which was all he could see of the prison from this angle.
“Get them out,” Carlo barked. “Get them washed. Mother’s nose is easily offended.”
The Beast stepped off the back of the wagon, and men and women approached. Not uniformed prison workers, but black-clad individuals, their plain and unremarkable faces turning James’s palms cold. Because unlike prison guards, Katarina’s dark guild made no mistakes.
Two men reached for his ankles and yanked, dragging James out. They hauled him upright while two of the women reached for Ahnna.
The best-trained members of Katarina’s military, they were infamous for their ability to blend in and call no notice to themselves, their faces carefully selected to be so ordinary that no one remembered them. They served as spies and as assassins, but also as Katarina’s bodyguards and her jacks-of-all-trades for anything she didn’t trust anyone else to achieve. Which James supposed was why they were here.
Yet Carlo only wagged a finger at the women who had Ahnna suspended between them. “Clean as a whistle,” he sang. “And perhaps some cosmetics to cover up the most exciting moments of our adventures. Mother does hate ugly things.” Reaching over, he dragged a finger along the scar on Ahnna’s face.
“Yes, Your Highness,” one of the black-clad women said. “She will be pristine.”
“Wonderful!” Carlo snapped his fingers at the men restraining James with an iron grip. “Bath time!”
Ahnna lifted her head. “Where is my horse?”
“On his way back to Harendell with James’s mount.” Carlo grinned. “Those who sought your deaths will understand the message.”
With his bare feet bound, James had to shuffle across the empty yard while Carlo sang children’s bathing songs about ducks before moving on to one about sea creatures and sponges. James forced the noise out of his head, taking in the prison’s defenses. The walls were thick, and the portcullis was solid steel. Beyond it a bridge stretched over what he expected was a moat, with another heavy set of gates on the far side. Their progress took him out of sight of the entrance. The dark guild soldiers led him into a chamber with a floor of polished stone that was slightly sloped toward a drain in the center. They proceeded to fasten him at ankles and wrists with steel manacles set into thick posts, and then began cutting his filthy clothes off him.
Carlo sat on a stool, now singing a song about muddy animals being instructed on washing by their exasperated parents. As James met his gaze, the Beast broke off and grinned. “I used to sing to my babies when they were little and did not want to wash. They never said no when I sang, so we shall see if it works for you.”
Carlo had three daughters. All by different wives.
Every one of those wives had met a violent end.
James said nothing, only ground his teeth and stared at the drain as the men tossed buckets of water on him. All dignity was lost as they set to scrubbing him with soap that smelled like bergamot, of all things. The men were thorough, their eyes bland in the way of someone performing a mundane task of little interest, and they inspected him down to his fingernails, which were cleaned and clipped and buffed.
All while Carlo keptfuckingsinging.
They dressed him in the cropped coat and tight trousers favored by Amaridian lords, the short red boots they shoved on his feet possessed of long pointed toes that looked entirely ridiculous. When they took pomade to his hair, James’s tolerance reached its limit, but his violent protest was brought to a swift end by the arrival of two more men who helped hold him steady while one slicked his hair back from his face, another painting him with cosmetics.
