“Here, eat something while I go find you something to wear.”
CHAPTER 72
The term “basement,” I learned, was a euphemism for the word “dungeon.” We climbed down endless flights of cobblestone spiral stairs illuminated by the lantern Aegir held out before us. The heavy air became cooler with every downward step, turning my exhales misty.
Flickering torchlights illuminated the basement’s passageway as we walked past prisoner after prisoner who occupied both sides of the iron-barred corridor. None of them were Marshen.
Aegir opened a bolted door that stood solitary at the end of the corridor. It led to another set of stairs and to another bolted door. Two guards tensed on either side of it. Then I realised thatthiswas the basement—the dungeon’s basement.
“Your brother locked him down there, on his own?” I asked, starting my way down and giving Aegir a sideways glance. He did not have to reply. “Your brother’s a dick.”
“Tell me about it,” he mumbled, following my steps.
“What are you waiting for? Open it,” Aegir ordered.
“Sorry, we cannot let anyone through,” the left guard said. “We have strict orders from King Ryvar,” Right continued.
“As if you don’t know who I fucking am. We’re obviously getting in whether youlet usor not.”
“But the king—he threatened us. We would lose our jobs,” Right stammered.
“But did he threaten to snap you in half and feed you to the wolves?” Both stiffened. “Didn’t think so. Now open this godsdamned door before I make an opening through it the shape of your bodies.”
Left gave in and spent awkward seconds trying to find the matching key. He let out a relieved exhale as soon as the key found the bolt’s entry. He rotated the lock thrice.
“You two, wait upstairs.”
“Yes, Prince,” Left and Right said in unison before scurrying away. Aegir lifted the metal crossbar with his right arm and threw it to the side. The effortlessness of it made the solid piece of steel seem like it weighed the equivalent of a wooden log.
I was about to go in when Aegir wrapped his hand around my arm and tugged me towards him. “I warn you, in there is not for the fainthearted.”
I nodded. “It’s all right. I would like a few minutes alone with him. Will you go fetch your brother?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” He leaned in and brushed a soft kiss on my lips.
More stairs.
The first thing that hit me the second I landed was the smell of damp stone and rusted iron. It clung and conveyed as old suffering, instantly confirmed by the long walls mounted with a cornucopia of tools of torment. Ropes, whips, hooks, chains, a collection of knives and swords, not to mention the guillotine that occupied the centre of the prison cell.
Barred and caged at the very end of it was Marshen Deucane. He sat on the cold, damp floor, his back to the stone, his arms wrapped around his bent knees. Strands of platinum hair partly covered his lowered face.
I could tell that he lifted his head as I moved closer to the metal bars, but I refrained from fully meeting his gaze.
“Delia?” He rushed to his feet and moved as close to me as the metal bars allowed him to. My gaze remained directed at his boots.
“Thank Boreas you’re alive!…Delia?…Are you all right?…Delia?”
My low words were aimed at his feet. “I’m here, aren’t I? Quite the convenience for you.”
“I overheard the guards talking. They said you fell into one of the king’s traps. I thought you were dead.”
“I survived.Again.”
“Did you melt the ice?” And that was when I finally met his stare.
