“Shit.” Guilt suddenly flooded her at the thought that she’d let him lie there in agony. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Emerazel will help me heal faster.”
As she wiped off the last remnants of the dust, she glimpsed an angry red scar over his heart—a triangle with a line through it, enclosed by a circle. She gently ran her fingers over the mark. “What’s this?”
“It’s what commits me to the fire goddess.”
“And it gives you power?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “And once I free myself from the red dust, I will use Emerazel’s power to rip apart the guard who punched you.”
Her heart skipped a beat with the realization that the image brought her a shiver of pleasure. Murder in my blood.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Thomas
Thomas fought every rebelling muscle and joint not to give up and throw himself down the stairwell. The fatigue no longer just drained him. Now, it burned his flesh and smothered his lungs. Pain shot through his neck and armpits, and shards of glass filled his throat.
With shaking limbs, he crawled up the stone steps, one at a time. Oswald had stopped leaning on him several stories below, and he dragged himself up the stairs behind Thomas.
He now understood why they used portals in the fortress. The stairs in these towers went on forever. After a seemingly endless descent in the Iron Tower, they had hobbled through the underground passages. At the end of the first path, they’d reached a three-pronged intersection. Thomas had struggled to remember Eirenaeus’ zodiac map, to summon a mental image. A sharp left at the Pisces… What sodding metal is Pisces? The agonized look on Oswald’s face had hastened him to make up his mind quickly and press on.
As they ascended another tower, Oswald’s sphere of light still hovered over them, casting a dull glow on the stone walls. Unless he’d wildly miscalculated, they now inched up the stairs of the Gold Tower. A wooden door greeted them at each landing, and Thomas had to wonder which door he was looking for. Bloody hell, Celia. A little help now would be appreciated.
Thomas licked his dry lips, hoisting himself up another stair with a grunt. She must have left a clue as to her location, right? She wouldn’t expect them to open every door in search of her. Hi, everyone. Escaped prisoner here, looking for a princess. Don’t trouble yourselves with getting up. I’ll just try the next door up. Sorry about the blood on your doorstep.
Reaching another landing, he rested his head on his forearms, his lungs heaving. “I’m done,” he croaked. “You go on.” Death wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Surely, it was better than this.
Groaning, Oswald pulled himself up another stair. “Keep going.” His voice sounded oddly distant.
Thomas’s eyes were closing. Oswald said something in his strange dialect. Something that sounded like flittering bird. Thomas had no idea what flittering bird was supposed to mean.
What he needed was a hot toddy to soothe his throat. He could almost taste the lemon and the honey. A hot toddy in a warm bed, a few dozen doses of pain medication…
Oswald smacked his arm. They were level now. “There’s a bird.”
So he’d been talking about an actual bird. Thomas lifted his head, and feathers brushed his cheek. Celia. It was the golden sparrow that she’d used to send her message at the banquet.
The bird circled his head, then hovered by the landing’s wooden door. This is her sign. He closed his eyes again, pulling himself further into the landing. A thick iron bolt blocked this door. Celia was locked into her tower room.
He clambered up, leaning against the wall, and forced himself to stand. Behind him, Oswald was engaged in similarly herculean efforts to right himself. Apparently, he didn’t want to meet a Throcknell princess on his knees.
Thomas yanked the iron bolt across. The door swung open, and he tumbled into a dark room, collapsing on the floor. I am perfectly content to greet Celia from down here. Night had fallen while they’d traveled through the tunnels, and silvery moonlight shined through arched windows.
Delicate footsteps approached, and Celia’s blond hair streamed above him, a lantern blazing in her hand.
“Thomas?” she whispered. “What happened to you?”
“What do you suppose happened, Princess?” Oswald snapped from the doorway. “Thy sweetling parents clanked him in the Iron Tower, and now he ha’ the token.”
A look of horror flickered across her face at the sight of the shattered young man in the door. “You brought a prisoner with you?” Her eyes lowered to his chest. “Ragman.” She grimaced. “Who are you?”
“Tobias’s friend,” croaked Thomas. “Eden’s brother. I have the plague.” That’s the introductions over, then.