He has no idea what he should say instead, but he can’t tell the truth. Peace between Draskora and Silaise is a thin layer of ice over a rushing river. If House Dire or the drasgard knew they had a Silaisan prince in custody, who knows how they would use him to manipulate Mother.
Bellamy’s been a hostage before. He doesn’t care to repeat the experience.
He tries to breathe. Tries to think. What if they aren’t even drasgard? What if they’re random brigands? Should he attack, revealing his telltale Sandry magic? He has no combat experience, and if he dies out here, Julien is going to kill him.
“Answer the fucking question!” Green lifts her hand, sparks flaring into visible flame.
“I’m a wandering minstrel,” Bellamy says without thinking. “And I’m, um. Wandering.”
Another woman emerges silently from the underbrush. Bristling with weapons, she’s lean and brown, her hair unnaturally red. She signs something Bellamy doesn’t understand to Green. Is the dyed hair a clue? Draskoran dragonriders traditionally dye their hair. But plenty of other Draskorans dye their hair to imitate dragonriders, so these may or may not be—
“Never mind, we’re on a time crunch. We’ll interrogate you later.” Green gestures, and a burly man sheathes his sword and steps forward. “If you scream, you’ll lose your head.”
“What are you doing?” Bellamy steps back instinctively, then freezes at a series of audible clicks. He can’t remember how crossbows work—was that click a bad thing? “Actually, I have some money after all. I can give you everything I have.”
“Shut up,” Green says, and Bellamy shuts up. “Nothing personal, got it? Wrong place, wrong time. The trouble is you’ve seen us.”
“I wouldn’t have seen you if you hadn’t told me to turn around,” Bellamy points out, before realizing he shouldn’t have. “Sorry, I’ll shut up.”
He stands still, trembling with nerves, until the burly man yanks a burlap bag over his head.
Claustrophobic, musky darkness chokes him. Panic tears through him, and he flinches back on reflex. He cries out, and his power reaches—
Pain explodes in his stomach. Bellamy staggers back, every nerve hot and cold and buzzing. Not a crossbow bolt, he realizes when there’s no blood. Just a punch to his stomach that knocked the air from his lungs.
Only a wheezing gasp escapes his lips. The back of his throat tastes sour.
“Toss him in the cell for now.” Green’s voice barely filters through Bellamy’s ringing ears. “I’ll ask the boss what to do with him when we’re gone.”
“Yes, sir,” Burly says. Maybe they’re soldiers after all.
Burly or someone else shoves Bellamy forward. He staggers along, forced upright by the iron grip on his arm. Branches tear at his legs again, but this time he doesn’t dare magic them out of the way. Each breath hurts so much, it’s hard to think.
Has Gregoire noticed he’s missing yet?
Where did Bastard go?
At least these Draskorans don’t know who Bellamy is. They seem as surprised to capture him as he’s surprised to be captured. They haven’t put a null-collar on him, so he still has his magic. He just needs an opportunity.
Earth gives way to stone beneath his feet. Light flares, visible through the weave of the burlap. Magic. Probably some sort of stationary enchantment since there’s no sudden gale or fireballs. Bellamy tries to think about what that might mean, but he stumbles over a rock, then another. No, not rocks. Stairs.
Burly or whoever yanks him to a halt.
Bellamy swallows dry. “Where are you—”
Another blow to his stomach doubles him over in a painful wheeze. Spit and tears dampen his face, sticking the itchy burlap to his skin. He doesn’t fight as someone yanks his arms behind his back and starts tying his wrists together.
“Why does this place only have one cell?” someone new says.
“Shut up,” Burly says, and shoves Bellamy once again.
Bellamy crashes against cold stone, wrists burning beneath the rope with the futile instinct to break his fall. Darkness swims past the burlap, and the next moment, metal clangs. Bracing himself with his shoulder against the stone wall, Bellamy listens as more metal scrapes and footsteps fade away.
He’s alone.
That realization hits him with greater force than any blow to the stomach, freezing through his marrow. He’s never been alone before, not without knowing an oathguard was waiting on the other side of a door. Even when he was kidnapped as a child.
“Focus,” Bellamy tells himself, hating how pathetic he sounds. “You’re not a child anymore.”
