“I’ve sent a messenger to the capital already,” Irenka says.” Considering your relation to House Dire, will you also be in touch with His Majesty?”
Count Bernek twists his hair again. “It would be my pleasure to inform the crown of all that has transpired today.”
“I’m very grateful,” Irenka says.
“We are all grateful for your service, Wing-Captain,” Bernek says. “I’m sure you will be justly rewarded for apprehending this traitor.”
Rakos can’t help snorting behind the leather bit. Of course. Irenka doesn’t just want to capture him. She wants the credit. No wonder she didn’t reveal his presence at the bloodmasque. Too many of Vana’s men were around. Irenka wouldn’t have been able to guarantee she was the hero in that engagement.
Every war has a hero. Every battle has a leader. No matter how hard everyone works, sometimes one name rises above the rest. Rakos was hardly the only dragonrider who fought the Long Summer War. But from the stories, it would be easy to assume otherwise.
How long has that fact itched beneath Irenka’s skin? If only she knew Rakos hates it as much as she does.
Maybe Rakos shouldn’t have hidden his discontent for so long.
A door across the room bursts open. Rakos nearly falls over trying to twist and look at the messenger racing towards Irenka and Bernek. The woman bows, then whispers something to both of them.
Bernek jolts in his chair. Irenka recovers her composure more quickly, waving to the guards at Rakos’s side.
“Secure the traitor,” Irenka orders. “He’ll await His Majesty’s judgment.”
***
At least this time Rakos is awake for his imprisonment. Bernek’s soldiers and a squad of drasgard drag him to a high tower cell, where they chain him to a stone chair complete with rings to lock his wrists and ankles in place. Another chair sits empty across from him. Cold, thin air blows in from the room’s narrow windows.
Rakos’s neck itches under the null-collar. Every time his magic flares in protest, the binding enchantment withers it away. The foul-tasting bit is starting to rub the corners of his lips.
Maybe enchanted sleep was the preferable form of imprisonment after all. This is very uncomfortable, especially with four drasgard watching Rakos from each corner of the room. There’s no avoiding their scrutiny.
Rakos doesn’t doubt that he’ll escape again. He can’t permit himself to doubt, because he needs to make sure Bell and Sarka are both safe.
Fuck, how could he drag Bell into this disaster? Bell is far too good for him.
The drasgard remain as still as statues, until after an unknown amount of time, the guard changes. Rakos uses the moment of distraction to tense his limbs against the manacles, trying to find any weak spots. He finds none.
Absurd plans coalesce and evaporate in Rakos’s head, one after the other, until the guards move again. It’s too early for another shift change, unless more time has passed than Rakos realizes.
The drasgard to Rakos’s left lifts her hand in a signal. The drasgard to the right nods and gestures to drasgard behind Rakos.
That’s when Rakos recognizes the two in front of him, and he freezes. He would have recognized them earlier, if they hadn’t dyed their hair a more natural dark brown—Vana’s lackeys Indra and Zuzana.
Indra glares at him, while Zuzana tosses him a wink. From her belt hangs the very knife Rakos stole from her in the waystation. Along with the other two drasgard, she and Indra file out of the cell, and Rakos isn’t surprised by the man who enters next.
Vana takes the seat across from Rakos. “Free his mouth.”
Daromir, the prince’s Kaiskaran bloodguard, removes the bit from Rakos’s mouth. Rakos doesn’t try to bite him. That wouldn’t end well.
“And his hands,” Vana says.
“Your Highness,” Daromir says in rebuke. They share a look, and Vana silently acquiesces. Rakos’s hands remain bound as Daromir returns to the doorway.
Rakos stretches out his jaw and swallows his pooled spit. He’s unable to keep the resentment from his voice when he says, “Your Highness.”
Vana rests his hands on the chair arms. He isn’t bound, but in this room, he looks like a prisoner too. “I owe you an apology, Rakos. I’ve handled this matter poorly.”
“Keep your fucking apology,” Rakos says. “But you can attempt an explanation.”
Vana avoids Rakos’s gaze for a moment, as if embarrassed. “I caught word that General Gabra plans to retire next year. You were a shoo-in for the title unless something happened to disqualify you. Which is why Irenka Miraz collaborated with certain factions to frame you for scalestone smuggling.”
