“Open up!” Merik bellowed. He knocked once at the door—a mistake. The newly splintered skin on his knuckles sloughed off. “I know you’re in there!”
No response. At least none that Merik could hear, but that was all right. He let the heat in his body grow. Strengthen. Gust.
Then he knocked again, feeling the wind curl around him as he did so. “Hurry! It’s madness out here!”
The latch jiggled. The door creaked back … And Merik shoved in. With fists, with force, with wind.
The soldier on the other side stood no chance. He toppled back, the whole hut shuddering from the force of his fall. Before he could rise, Merik had the door closed behind him. He advanced on the man, his winds chasing. Tearing up papers in a cyclone that felt so blighted good.
It had been too long since Merik had let his winds unfurl and his magic stretch wide. Fire built in his belly, a rage that blustered and blew. That had kept his stomach full when food had not. Air billowed around him, sweeping in and out in time to his breaths.
The soldier—middle-aged, sallow-skinned—stayed on the ground with his hands to protect his face. Clearly, he’d decided surrender was his safest option.
Too bad. Merik would’ve loved a fight. Instead, he forced his eyes to scour the room. He used his winds too, coaxing them outward. Letting the vibrations on the air tell him where other bodies might wait. Where other breaths might curl. Yet no one hid in the dark corners, and the door into the main prison remained firmly shut.
So at last, with careful control, Merik returned his attention to the soldier. His magic softened, dropping papers to the floor before he eased off his hood, fighting the pain that skittered down his scalp.
Then Merik waited, to see if the soldier would recognize him.
Nothing. In fact, the instant the man lowered his hands, he shrank back. “What are you?”
“Angry.” Merik advanced a single step. “I seek someone recently released from a second time in the irons.”
The man shot a scattered glance around the room. “I’ll need more information. Sir. An age or crime or release date—”
“I don’t have that.” Merik claimed another step forward, and this time the soldier frantically scrambled upright. Away from Merik and grabbing for the nearest papers.
“I met this prisoner”—I killed this prisoner—“eleven days ago.” Merik paused, thinking back to the moonbeam. “He was brown-skinned with long black hair, and he had two stripes tattooed beneath his left eye.”
Two stripes. Two times in the Judgment Square irons.
“And…” Merik lifted his left hand. The skin bore shades of healing red and brown, except where new blood cracked along his knuckles. “The prisoner had no pinkie.”
“Garren Leeri!” the soldier cried, nodding. “I remember him, all right. He was part of the Nines, back before we cracked down on the Skulks’ gangs. Though the second time we arrested him, it was for petty theft.”
“Indeed. And what exactly happened to Garren after his time was served?”
“He was sold, sir.”
Merik’s nostrils flared. Sold was not something he’d known could happen to prisoners, and with that thought, disgusted heat awoke in his lungs. Merik didn’t fight it—he simply let it kick out to rattle the papers near his feet.
One such paper flipped up, slapping against the soldier’s shin. In an instant, the man was trembling again. “It doesn’t happen often. Sir. Selling people, I mean. Just when we’ve no room in the prison—and we only sell people convicted for petty crimes. They work off their time instead.”
“And to whom”—Merik dipped his head sideways—“did you sell this man named Garren?”
“To Pin’s Keep, sir. They regularly buy prisoners to work the clinic. Give them second chances.”
“Ah.” Merik could barely bite back a smile. Pin’s Keep was a shelter for the poorest of Lovats. It had been a project of Merik’s mother, and upon the queen’s death, it had passed directly to Vivia.
How easy. Just like that, Merik had the found the sinew binding Garren to Vivia. All he lacked was tangible proof—something physical that he could hand to the High Council showing, beyond any doubt, that his sister was a murderer. That she was not fit to rule.
Now he had a lead. A good one.
Before Merik could loose a smile, the sound of metal scraping on wood filled the room.
Merik turned as the outside door swung in and met the eyes of a startled young guard.
Well, this was unfortunate.
For the guard.
Out snapped Merik’s winds, grabbing the guard like a doll. Then in they whipped, and he was flung straight for Merik.
Whose fist was ready.
Merik’s torn knuckles connected with the guard’s jaw. Full speed. A hurricane against a mountain. The guard was out in an instant, and as his limp form crumpled, Merik threw a glance at the first soldier.