“Did you see a carving on the wall?” I ask. “A woman riding a direwolf, wearing a crown made of leaping wolves?”
He gives me a blank look and my stomach sinks.
“No. It’s an old servant’s passage,” he says. “There are no carvings in the servants’ passages.”
To my surprise, Anassa stirs at this—her low growl fills my head.
“What the hell does that mean?” I demand of her.
No answer from the wolf, of course. Did she see the carving, too? Was it real, or can Anassa see my delusions?
Meanwhile, Killian is gazing at me expectantly, fresh worry knitting his brow.
“Oh,” I say faintly, hoping he can’t sense my rising panic. “I… must have dreamed it, then.”
Killian sighs. “I asked you to come here for a reason, Meryn, but I’m thinking we should save it for when you’re feeling better.”
“Just tell me,” I say. “If it has anything to do with my sister, I want to know.”
He levels me with a deep stare and then, finally, says, “We caught one. A Nabber.”
My heart lurches. “What?!”
The carving, the whispers, my impending madness—they’re instantly forgotten. I’m up and out of the bed, ignoring Killian’s protests.
“Wait, Mer, you need to rest?—”
“Where’s the Nabber?” I demand. “Are they here in the castle?”
“Meryn,” he says, trying to herd me back toward the bed, “your health?—”
I cut him off with ferocious intensity. “Take me there—now!”
The castle dungeonsare a shock after the opulence of Killian’s royal chambers. The place smells of piss, shit, old blood, and unwashed bodies—not unlike parts of the city. I feel a twinge of self-disgust, wanting to withdraw from the squalor.
In reality, the dark stone walls and straw-strewn floors are cleaner than some of the streets I grew up on.
Have I already become so accustomed to luxury?
Two royal guards stand at attention as Killian and I pass by. I glance at them nervously, though Killian already reassured methey’re loyal to him and won’t tell anyone we were here. I hope he’s right.
Most of the cells are empty, their heavy iron bars black in the dim light. We pass a large communal cell with a pair of sleeping drunks inside, stinking of potent liquor; then a series of smaller cells. Finally, we reach the end of the row. The smell of fresh blood fills my nose.
A pale-skinned man sits slumped in a rough wooden chair, his arms and legs bound with heavy rope. He’s been badly beaten. His face is swollen and bloody, the features unrecognizable. There’s a little wooden table just outside the cell door. On it lies an assortment of bloodied implements. Pliers, knives, something that looks like a corkscrew.
The man lifts his head, eyes nothing but a black gleam in his ruined face.
Killian nods to me.
“Are you a Siphon?” I demand through the bars.
There’s a pause as the man looks at me with exhausted wariness.
“No.”
I step closer to the bars, anger crackling through my veins. “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” he rasps. “Just a man from the slums in the Southern Quarter.”
