“You'll be glad to know that he died after the interrogation.”
Oh, Enos save me. She had left him, and he had been tortured, bad enough that he had given her away. What could the prince have done with the elements at his disposal? She imagined burns and breathless lungs and swirling water and crumbling earth. She heard Merek scream and beg and finally, mercifully, give in. She was nearly blind with rage and guilt and sadness, but she forced herself to speak. “What of my family?” she asked, trying to get him off her trail.
“They're fine,” he answered, a small smirk returning to his face. “King Innis and the crown princess are en route to Orabel, and Prince Rin and your mother are safe in Dusk, as always.”
He let her drop the rest of the way until her feet finally touched the ground. She was glad that he didn't let her go, though. She wasn't sure her shaking legs would hold her up. But then he pulled her close.
“Your concern for others is touching,” he said in a low voice meant only for her.
His breath was warm on her ear and sent a charge down her spine that she didn't like. Composing herself, she stepped back, putting an arm's length between them. “Of course,” she answered, swiping at an errant curl that had crept into her eyes. “I have worried about them for years, ever since my capture.”
“Indeed,” he answered, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “And yet…five years…” The words hung in the air between them, the moment suspended in time until finally a soldier approached cautiously, his posture rigid, eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the two of them.
“General,” he said, “we're ready to depart. At your orders, sir.”
General? A banded general?
No.
Realization dawned suddenly. He wasn't a banded general. He was a bound general. The only way a slave soldier would be a general would be if he were a powerful wielder, and if his power were in someone else's hands. In this case, Prince Danyll's. This garrison wasn’t just a garrison; these men were Sons of Enos. But she hadn’t felt his power. Was that because most of it was in the hands of the prince?
“Load the captives,” the general was saying. “I want to make sure they all make it on board.”
The captives? Had they taken hostages? Rayne saw them then, the huddled group with downcast eyes, their hands bound together in one long chain. Most of them were Knights, though there were a few civilians, but no one gave any hint of recognition when they saw Rayne gaping at them. In the midst of them, taller than any others, was Imeyna. Strong, larger than life, her black hair slick with blood and her face set in a stern scowl. A guard tugged on the chain and they stumbled forward just as Imeyna's eyes met Rayne's. Rayne opened her mouth to say something—anything—but Imeyna shook her head. It was a small, barely visible gesture that left no room for argument. And behind her, hiding in plain sight, was Wido, playing the part of an old, helpless man, his wrists bound and his head bowed. He didn't even lift his eyes as he filed past behind his daughter, shamelessly using her as a shield, a distraction. Who wouldn't suspect her to be the bigger threat? Tamsin was nowhere to be seen.
The hostages waded through knee-deep water before reaching the gangplank that would take them aboard. “What will you do with them?” Rayne asked, watching Imeyna struggle to walk with the chains around her ankles. Chains that her father didn't have. Wido pushed past his daughter and disappeared onto the ship’s deck, not looking back.
The general took her by the arm and dragged her forward behind them. “Again with the concern,” he said. “But it's not up to me, is it?”
No, it certainly wasn't. Their fate was up to her father. And Rayne saw only slaver’s bands or a gallows in Imeyna's future, and neither was really any future at all.
? ? ?
The general had locked her in a small room below decks, leaving her with only a bed and desk, both bolted to the floor, a wash bin, and a bedpan. After depositing her in the room, he had stepped away from her, putting the distance of the room between them, and held out a hand. She had been confused until she felt the sudden swell of warning in her stomach and then her daggers had flown from their sheaths with the sound of ripping cloth. The traitorous blades landed one after another in his waiting hand.
“Am I a prisoner or a princess?” Rayne had demanded, still trying to look indignant in her torn skirts, feeling naked without her weapons. She should have drawn them on him when she’d had the chance.
The general had paused before shutting the door. “Is there really a difference?” Then the door had banged closed, the iron lock turning with a finality that made Rayne's heart sink. She had never been on a boat for an extended period of time, but they would be riding this ship down the Tor River to where it joined the Clement River at Alas, and then turning south to Orabel. It would be a long journey, and this was a small, lonely space for someone who was so used to freedom.
The hours passed slowly. In her pocket, she had Merek’s map book but she dared not pull it out to examine the pages. She couldn’t think of him, not now. She had to shut him out of her mind or she would be lost to grief. So Rayne spent the day trying not to throw up, but eventually, she fell asleep. When she woke, there was only darkness through the small porthole. A small oil lamp burned feebly on the desk, but the light did little more than depress her, exposing her bare surroundings.
She paced for a while as the moon rose higher. The movement helped quell the sickness. She was standing beside the lamp, her fingers dancing over the flame, when there were footsteps beyond her door. She froze, hurriedly extinguishing the light with a pinch. What would the general have to say to her this late at night? In her experience as a shadow-lurker, the darkness only brought danger. On the other side of the door, there was the unmistakable sound of metal on metal, the hollow clang of a key in a lock. It had to be the general, but why was he here? Surely if he was bound to the Ashsky prince, he would be under strict orders to deliver her to him. He wouldn't dare kill her or sell her to the highest bidder. That would be justice, though, wouldn't it? The slaver king's daughter banded and bought.
She would never let that happen. It was a sobering realization that there were fates worse than death and that some people lived them. Her only weapon in the room was the empty bedpan, and she was debating whether or not to risk going for it when the door creaked open and a familiar voice ripped through the silence.
“Little Crow?”