I’m a better swordsman than a marksman with the dagger, but I’ve no other choice. Gripping the handle, I take aim at the center of the larger guard’s chest, whip my arm back, then thrust forward, releasing. The knife sails through the air, nailing the man in the hollow of the neck. No sound escapes his lips when he falls to the ground. I charge with my sword drawn before the other guard fully realizes they’re under attack.
He reaches for his blade and manages to get it up in time to block my swing. But swordsmanship is where I excel. I parry his next thrust, swing and slide my sword between his ribs before he’s even given a thought to alerting anyone else.
My breath powers through my chest as I step back. Blood seeps around the men like spilled wine, which seems to shine redder in the lantern light. I recognize the larger fellow. Though we haven’t exchanged words, the familiarity churns low in my gut. I take my dagger from the first guard. Luck or the gods were with me tonight. I had missed my intended target—I’d meant to take him in the heart. Aim is something I’ll have to work on.
I wipe my blades off on the traitors’ royal coats and open the dungeon door to descend into the pit. Moans and snores of prisoners echo from the depths. Having been down here just days ago to seek out evidence surrounding the dungeon master’s murder, I am familiar enough with the space to not entirely lose my sense of direction.
At a dead end, I pause, close my eyes, and allow the tug to guide me toward Britta. The connection was a shock, at first. When I’d visited her after waking up, my intention was to express gratitude. Only, upon drawing nearer to her cottage, I could feel the twist of something around my chest, leading me toward her small home on the outskirts of Brentyn. The strange sensation didn’t make sense until she opened the door. I was certain a magical bond had formed between us because I recognized the similarity to Phelia’s bind. Although hers had been more akin to a ghost that haunted me day and night.
Britta’s face mirrored my surprise, so I was certain she hadn’t intended to link us magically. Part of me was enraged at first, wanting nothing to do with Channeler magic, but it didn’t take long to recognize the difference in Britta’s connection. Hers is a comforting hand, warm and gentle, compared to Phelia’s cold one.
Though we’ve never discussed the technicalities, it’s clear we are both aware of the bond. Without the tie to Britta, I’d be lost. Literally. The dungeon walkways are black as pitch.
I take a rickety stairwell that is more ladder-like than stable stairs to the lowest part of the dungeon. The farther I descend, the more despair gathers. It’s unimaginable that anyone would survive a week in this hell, let alone longer. If anything, Jamis’s survival proves he’s as tenacious as the roaches that infest the seedier taverns in Brentyn.
I’m nearly to the bottom of the steps when that voice, tree bark and scraped metal, echoes across the cavern. A harsh shock of light bobs ahead. I watch the movement of the lantern through the void, my feet freezing to the dungeon stones when it illuminates a woman’s silhouette. Phelia.
My lungs refuse to fill with a decent breath. My body’s immediate reaction whenever the woman is near is paralysis. I cannot allow fear to hold me back. Not when I’m this close to Britta. I slam down the anxiety creeping up inside me and force my feet forward. It’s time to act.
Chapter
33
Britta
SOMETIME AFTER THE GUARDS RETURN ME TO my dungeon cell and I’ve fallen asleep, a door scrapes open, jarring me awake. Surely, the whole night cannot have passed. I’m too groggy to have gotten much sleep. The stairs crack and creak under the advancer’s weight, waking me a little more.
Could it be Aodren? Our connection goes taut. I drag myself to my feet, relief forming a knot in my throat. I don’t know how he made it past the guards, don’t know how he managed to make it through the castle unseen, but I’m grateful.
He holds a lantern out in front of him, blinding me with the light and making it impossible to see his features until he reaches the bottom of the stairs.
Only, it’s not Aodren.
The relief I felt is eclipsed by confusion. Where is he? Has she captured him as well? Phelia sets the lantern onto a holder and withdraws a blanket from under her cloak. Her fingers spider over the material as she turns her focus to Finn’s sleeping, huddled form. She pauses. Then shifts her attention to Gillian, who lies unconscious in the cell beside me.
Phelia glides forward like a dark angel of death, her cloak flapping out around her as she approaches Gillian’s cell. She takes out keys and opens the cell door.
“What are you doing? Leave her alone.” I rush to the bars separating us.
Her icy eyes flick to me. In a deceptively maternal move, Phelia lays the woolen blanket over Gillian. Then, reaching out with fingers that uncurl from her palm like spider legs, Phelia touches the swollen lump on my friend’s cheek.
I’m frozen, confused, and tired from the endless passage of time in this death hole. I think we’ve been here two nights. What does Phelia want?
I want to scream. There’s nothing I could do from this cell should Phelia harm Gillian. I don’t know how I bent the bars earlier. Last time I ate was the morning of Winter Feast. Was that a day ago? Perhaps two? The lack of food and sleep has weakened me. Even if I knew how I’d done it, I don’t have the energy to do it again. I’ve never felt so useless in my entire life.
“This wasn’t my decision.” Phelia’s gravelly voice is soft. Imploring. “No one is all good or all bad. I didn’t allow the guards to harm you when I returned you to your cell last night.”
Is she saying that they would have? I wonder what the guards would’ve deemed an appropriate punishment for not having located the king.
“I want you to see that you can trust me, Britta. No matter how many years pass, I am your mother.”
I was once a little girl who dreamt of nighttime kisses and bedtime stories. In those dreams, Mama held me tight before she tucked me in to bed. In those dreams, I was never alone. Stepping away from the bars, I scrub my fists against my eye sockets to erase the image.
Don’t trust her. Don’t even consider it.
The blanket, the soft-spoken words—it’s all a part of her act to reel me in. She is the master of manipulation, evident by the way she controlled the king for nearly a year with no one the wiser. She doesn’t care about me. She doesn’t want a relationship.
Phelia exits the cell and locks it, dropping the bulging ring of keys into her cape pocket. “She doesn’t have to stay here. If you were to help Lord Jamis . . .”
If. I recoil from the hook of her words while guilt and anger thrash beneath my frozen surface.
“He won’t be patient much longer.” Phelia tucks her arms into her raven cloak. “I’ve given you time to come to me of your own free will. But time is running out. It’s a simple trade. Aodren for Finn and Gillian.” Her eyes rest on Gillian. “Given rest and medicine, she’ll recover. I cannot promise the same if she remains here.”
Truth.
She withdraws my dagger from another pocket in her cloak.