I picture the memories coming back into her life, crowding her head. She must be in her workshop now, furiously sharpening her tools.
“I’ll visit her tomorrow,”I tell Jeran.“I’ll apologize in person.”
We finally reach the lowest floor. There are only a handful of cells down here, all arranged in a circle around the central spiral of steps. So little light reaches this floor that the walls around us seem to extend into blackness beyond the glow of torches. Guards stand at attention before each steel door.
Prisoners from the Federation are kept down here. One of the cells holds a Ghost that had been captured alive months ago. I used to hear its shrieks echoing beyond the gratings five floors above, the rhythmic clang of it throwing its body against the steel doors. Now it is quiet, stirring into a rage only when people enter its cell. I’ve never seen its face, although I know the Speaker has authorized us to experiment on it to understand how the Federation could possibly have mutilated a human into such a creature.
There are Federation soldiers down here too—or, at least, there used to be. Their screams would fill the air for weeks as they were tortured for information, for any desperate lead we could get in order to help us fend off the Federation for another month.
But now, as we make our way to the last cell, I hear nothing. Guards nod at us in silence, wary of disturbing the captive Ghost. We give them our silent salute as we stride by.
There are four guards standing at attention before the prisoner’s—my Shield’s—cell. Jeran approaches one of them so quietly that he jumps, drawing his blade before he sees the cut of our coats.
“Striker Jeran,” he mutters in greeting. “Hells, you blue coats sneak up like a rogue wind.”
“Hello,” Jeran says politely, blinking. “I’m sorry for startling you.”
The second guard snorts at the sight of me. “A nice display you put on in the arena yesterday. I’m surprised the Firstblade didn’t cut your throat right then and there.”
Common soldiers are also trained to sign, so I could respond if Iwanted to, but I choose just to glare instead. We wait for them to slide a metal disc along the edge of the cell door. A series of clicks echo through the space. Then the door creaks open, and we walk past the guards and into the prisoner’s room. They shut the door behind us.
The cell reeks of mold and death, torchlight from outside coming in through the door’s grating and weakly illuminating the back wall, where the prisoner sits.
He’s wearing the same shackles I’d seen him in yesterday, thick bands of metal clapped around his neck and wrists and ankles and waist, the chains nailed to the wall behind him. The strange, metallic texture of his hair is noticeable even in this low light. His head is down against his chest, as if he’s asleep.
Perhaps he didn’t hear the door open, or us step in.
Then he lifts his head. Beneath his dirty, mussed hair glitters a pair of near-black eyes. Now that I see him alone, without the distraction of the arena, I can tell he has the physique of a fighter—tall and well-muscled, built solidly underneath his prison suit.
Jeran hesitates beside me, reluctant to come closer.
The prisoner says something to us that I can’t understand. I find myself taken aback by his voice—deep, gritty as the scrape of stone on stone, but with a tone so refined that I wonder for a second if he’s a trained singer.
When I just stare, he turns to Jeran and gestures impatiently at him, then repeats what he said.
Jeran clears his throat, eyes darting uneasily away from the prisoner. “He’s wondering why we didn’t bring any weapons with us.”
I watch the prisoner, careful not to let my hands stray to where the hilts of my weapons should be. He doesn’t need to see that he makes me wary, or that I hate being without my blades. I take a few steps closer to him, listening to the rhythm of my boots against the stone floor.
“I didn’t think we needed them,” I answer. My hands move in slow, measured movements, so that the prisoner doesn’t think I’m about to attack him.
He watches me as Jeran translates into Karenese. There’s a challenge in his eyes, but he doesn’t move a muscle. My gaze goes to the chains still wrapped tightly around his chest.
He mutters something.
“He can tell that you regret stopping his execution,” Jeran says for him.
I shrug. The light filtering in is so weak that it barely outlines the silhouettes of my hands in orange. “And you hate that I did,” I answer, looking directly at the prisoner.
His eyes flash at that, dark and angry. “You had no right,” Jeran says, adding a softness to the prisoner’s words.
“Or you could say ‘thank you.’ Some gratitude for saving your life would be nice, you know.”
I watch Jeran as he translates my reply.“Did you actually repeat what I said?”I ask him when he finishes.
Jeran is embarrassed enough to trip over his feet as we edge closer to the prisoner. “I said, ‘My duty is my duty,’ instead,” he replies.
I give him an exasperated look.“Being polite for me now?”
