Dark Humanity

by Gwynn White

  The only hope was Raith appearing. He would not want to lose his place in Ryferia. But where he was, she didn’t know.

  “I say we hang her,” another of the Intelligentsia called out.

  Artemis smiled at her. “You see?” he asked in a low voice only she would hear. “And you thought to take my throne.” He bellowed, “The princess is a murderous traitor! That makes me king of Ryferia.”

  As one, every Able man on that platform bowed to Artemis.

  Then the musketeers shuffled forward, clearly awaiting the commands to slap her in irons.

  Artemis waved at them. “Arrest her.”

  The musketeers didn’t hesitate. Quickly, they circled her and Zandor. One jerked her arms back. Despite wanting to show no emotion, she hissed.

  At the sound, Zandor rammed his fist into a musketeer’s nose. His other hand pulled out an arrow. In a blur, he had it nocked and aimed at the captain of the guard. “No one harms my princess.”

  She wanted to roll her eyes at his misplaced gallantry, but this was Zandor, and protecting her was what he did. Despite knowing what was at stake, it had to be killing him to stand back and let Artemis treat her this way.

  She kept her voice steady. “Zandor. No.”

  His face blazed fury, but then he dropped his bow to his side.

  One of the musketeers ripped the bow from his hand. Zandor allowed the man to pin him to the metal wall while his hands were bound with cords.

  She hissed through gritted teeth, wanting nothing more than to run to his aid, to beat the men until they released him.

  She fought her body to remain still. Her hands were bound with cords, too.

  That was some relief. Cords could be cut. Iron shackles would have been impossible to escape from.

  Then she held her breath, waiting for Artemis to say what she hoped he would say.

  An imperious wave of his hand. “Take the traitor and her Infirm dog to the dungeons. If either of them attempts to escape, kill them.”

  She gasped before she could stop herself. How could she have been so stupid to think that Artemis would afford her any courtesies when he hated her so much? As far as she knew, there was no escape from the dungeons.

  But then, she hadn’t known there was an escape tunnel in her bedchamber, either. She had to keep up hope that she and Zandor would find a way to freedom.

  Artemis stood back to gleefully watch as she was dragged away to the stairs—just as Raith clambered over the railing.

  “What in Maleficent’s name do you think you’re doing to my bride?” Raith yelled, disheveled, sweaty, and out of breath.

  Artemis gestured to a couple of musketeers, who hurried to him. “Your precious little flower has been arrested for the murder of her king. Your bride will be hanged for treason.”

  Raith’s eyes flew to her, disbelief clouding their beauty. The same beauty that shone only to lure the Magical in so he could feed off their blood. For a moment, she thought he’d defend her against Artemis as he had thus far.

  He didn’t.

  As he lurched toward her, those eyes fixed on her.

  On her neck. To drink her.

  She spat in his face.

  He danced back. “You’re mine. I earned you. Fought for you. I will have you.”

  Artemis laughed, little understanding the interaction. “Find a whore, boy. There are sure to be some pretty ones in the brothels in town. This one will never see the light of day again.” To the musketeers, he said, “Take them away.”

  A ring of soldiers barred Raith from getting at her and Zandor as the musketeers elbowed them down the stairs.

  Through the cogs, she strained to see if Jorah had moved.

  Niing and Keahr had gone to his aid. Even Peckle stood by. Her heart soared. They would know what to do.

  And then the cogs clattered closed, and she saw no more.

  It was now up to her and Zandor to plot their escape, not just from the dungeons, but from Ryferia. Perhaps if they made it to Warrendyte, Jorah’s council would allow her to muster an army willing to fight for Ryferia. To fight Raith and stop him from reaping the Magical unfettered.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Jorah heard Niing calling his name. He stirred and cracked open an eye. Niing and Keahr’s faces hung above him, worry creasing every line. Even Peckle hovered.

  His mouth gaped, and the tendons in his neck strained as he tried to breathe. Finally, he coughed and sucked in a breath.

  Niing placed a hand on his shoulder. “Steady, my friend. Steady.” Normally, the gesture would have been out of comfort. Now, it was out of fear—it poured out of Niing’s every pore.

  He tried to sit up.

  “It’s happened,” Keahr spluttered. “Aurora and Zandor have been arrested. But instead of taking her to the villa, she’s headed for the dungeon.” She didn’t wait for her coughing to subside. “We need to save her and Zandor.”

  She wasn’t saying anything he did not agree with.

  Jorah forced himself onto his hands and one knee while his head danced. His other leg, the left one, throbbed something terrible. Away from the Guardian, even in Ryferia, he would have started the healing process to some degree. Now, all his senses were dulled.

  The Untalented and their foul constructs had held Ryferia and destroyed his people for far too long.

  And today, taking Aurora crossed a line he hadn’t even known he’d drawn.

  Jorah would make them pay for it.

  And as for the parasite and his brother—

  Keahr grabbed his arm with a bandaged hand. “Get a move on!”

  He glared at her. “Then help me up.”

  Despite her lacerations, she pulled him up onto his good leg.

  Spears of pain shot up from his ankle into his femur. “Maleficent’s arse,” he muttered to hide his swaying and his pallor—he could feel the blood draining from his face.

  Anger at himself burned even fiercer than the fire turning the dryad in its endless circle. He hid it as best he could behind a mask of physical pain.

  For once, Niing didn’t chastise his language. His eyes were wild with panic. It had been a long time since Jorah had seen that look on Niing’s face. He liked it even less the second time.

  “Your leg?” Niing asked. “You’re favoring it. Why?”

  “Fractured.”

  Usually so self-assured, Niing wrung his hands. “How in Maleficent’s name are we going to get you to the caravel? Let alone rescue our friends?” He looked around.

  The crowd had thinned. And even if it hadn’t, no one in Ryferia would help a loser.

  Jorah cringed at that title. Worse, he had failed in his quest and Sabrisia would call in her death bond.

  Pity the fae didn’t stipulate a timeframe.

  Even the Silver-Tongued Oracle would have to agree to that loophole.

  Or so Jorah hoped.

  But first he had to get his mate to Warrendyte. She could go alone, of course, on his caravel, but although she was probably more powerful than most of the fae on the council, they would scorn her for being a mere nymph, a creature they considered below them.

  Somehow, he had to rescue this situation. His mate could never be allowed to say that he let her down. Twice.

  Keahr clicked her tongue in frustration. Quick as a flash, she wriggled under his armpit and hoicked his arm onto her shoulders. “We are doing this. Now. We have to find them.”

  Jorah grimaced but didn’t argue. Once propped up by Keahr, he said, “In my current state, the chances of us breaking into the dungeons are zero. We need an insider to help us.” He looked around for Peckle.

  The cat sat upright with his tail curled around his feet.

  “You once knew the palazzo better than anyone living. I bet you still do. Can you help Aurora and Zandor?”

  A smug curl of his mouth, followed by a quick baring of teeth, and Peckle slunk away.

  “Do you think he’ll do it?” Keahr asked, watching
him go.

  “It’s always a risk with a cat,” Jorah bit out. He called to Peckle, “Be at the mermaid, or I swear I will skin you next time we meet.”

  A flick of Peckle’s tail, and then he vanished into the undergrowth.

  Jorah huffed a breath. There was nothing more he could do. What would it help if the cat did find and rescue Aurora and Zandor, and they arrived at the Guardian and no ship awaited them? As it was, his ship was at least three miles away, and he couldn’t walk. The best he could manage was a slow, laborious hobble with Keahr propping him up.

  Once hidden from the stragglers milling around the Guardian, Keahr stopped.

  “And now?” Jorah demanded.

  She rasped in breath after breath. “Guardhouse. Stables. I’m going to steal three rides.” Her voice was little more than a wheeze.

  “A horse?” Jorah gulped. Would the humiliation never end? He couldn’t ride. Why should he when he had wings to fly?

  “You have a problem, dragon?” Keahr snapped.

  “Horses are his natural prey,” Niing answered. “It would be like playing with his food.”

  Keahr rolled her eyes. “Is that all?”

  He mumbled, “I don’t ride.”

  “You do today.” Before he could comment, she slipped away through the trees.

  He had nothing else to do but lean against a tree and ponder his failures. He, more than anyone, should have anticipated something like this from Carian.

  My hatred of puny humans has turned out to be my weakness.

  It said something for Niing and Keahr that they hadn’t mentioned his defeat. He would forever be grateful to them for that.

  The sun clipped the top of the trees when Keahr finally returned, trailing three horses. Although drooping from the effort, her eyes glinted. She brushed the sweat off her face with a bloody hand and then tossed the reins to Niing.

  “Hold those.” She grinned at Jorah, making her dimples dance. “I need to help our wounded dragon mount his dinner.”

  He glared at her. “Your hand is bleeding. And I don’t appreciate the humor.”

  “Pity. It’s not every day I get to say that.”

  “For which I am eternally grateful.” He allowed her to prop him up as he hopped over to the docile-looking gelding she’d stolen. Unlike others of his kind, he generally didn’t feed in dragon form, so he had, in fact, never eaten a horse. It didn’t matter. None of this felt right.

  Getting onto the horse proved both painful and mortifying, but finally Jorah was perched uncomfortably in the saddle. His broken leg hung useless in the stirrup.

  “Dragon, hold on tight to the pommel.” Keahr smacked the saddle. “This bit. And use your good leg to hug the horse’s belly—as if you’re trying to stop your lunch escaping.”

  “This joke is going to get old, isn’t it?”

  Another grin from Keahr. “You have no idea. I’ll remind you about it on your thousandth birthday.”

  “At least you’re optimistic that we are going to get out of here.”

  “With me leading that nag of yours? How can you even doubt?” Keahr strode over to help Niing onto his horse.

  The smallest of the three, his legs didn’t even reach the stirrups.

  Then the plucky fae mounted a gray mare in one fluid motion, only to ruin it with a hacking cough. “Hold on tight,” she wheezed. “Don’t fall off. I’m not stopping if you do.”

  Jorah grabbed the pommel. This ride was going to hurt.

  Chapter Forty

  Aurora’s carriage jolted along the cobbled streets of her capital. How soon would the news of her arrest spread? Would anyone rise up and fight for her?

  She doubted it. Not when they weighed all her so-called crimes.

  Her bound wrists were swollen by the time the carriage stopped at a portcullis leading into the dungeon. The musketeers waited until the iron gate had creaked closed behind them before unlocking the carriage door.

  The stench that hit her doubled her over. She retched, almost emptying her stomach into the carriage. Whatever happened, she could not—would not—stay long in this dark, forbidding place.

  Zandor stumbled out first. She followed, barely managing to stand on wobbly legs on a stone floor slick with filth. Water seeped from the canal, which abutted the building, down the age-blackened walls thick with a crust of mold.

  A musket nudged her ribs. “Get moving,” its wielder grunted. The other musketeers peeled off to attend to other duties.

  “Leave her alone,” Zandor snapped, stepping between her and the guard.

  “Easy, Zandor,” she crooned. She started walking in the direction the musketeer had indicated to stop further trouble.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Zandor followed her.

  The guard led them through a wooden door and down a passageway to a twisting staircase. She had to concentrate hard to stop her feet from slipping on the treacherous stone. When she reached the bottom, five narrow cells with bars instead of a front wall loomed before her.

  Four of them held ragged prisoners. In the guttering torchlight, dull, hopeless eyes watched her little procession as the musketeer shoved her and Zandor farther down a narrow passage.

  They stopped at an empty cell. Filthy straw, flung into one corner, was the only furnishing.

  She gulped. This was real. She and Zandor were about to be imprisoned with no hope of escape.

  “Why are you doing this?” she pleaded to the guard. “You have no proof beyond my uncle’s word that I am guilty.”

  Hard eyes gazed at her. “Everyone knows you play with poisons.” He unlocked the cell door using a key from a bunch tied to his waist with a chain.

  She wished her hands were free so she could grab hold of him. Her voice spiked. “I didn’t do it. I give you my word.”

  “In. Now.”

  She didn’t move. “My mother was poisoned. Do you think I did that, too?”

  No answer. Just a hand gesturing for her to move into the cell.

  “I believe the same person who killed my mother killed my brother. And I assure you, it wasn’t me.”

  Silence.

  All she could hear was the drip of water and moans from the prisoners in the other cells.

  Finally, the musketeer sighed. “I liked your mother. She was good to everyone. Infirm or Able.”

  She snatched at that. “Do you have Infirm in your family? If you do, do you think Lord Artemis will treat them kindly? He hates the Infirm.”

  The man stared at her mutely. Then he gestured for her to turn her back to him. Not sure what he had in mind, she obeyed. He shocked her by slashing her bonds. Her wrists tingled and itched as blood rushed back into starved fingers. Then he did Zandor’s.

  “My wife’s Infirm. I did that for her,” the man muttered.

  “Thank you!” Aurora breathed. “You have given me hope that things could be different in Ryferia.”

  The musketeer snorted. “Get into the cell. Now.”

  Zandor drove his fist into the musketeer’s stomach. An oomph, and Zandor followed it up with a fist to the man’s throat. The guard crumpled to the ground.

  Before she could react, Zandor dragged the man into the cell and ripped the keys off his waist. He clanged the door shut and locked it.

  “Should we free the other prisoners?” she whispered.

  “No. We have a small advantage. I’m not squandering it by having them alert the guards that we are free.”

  Zandor grabbed her hand and ran for the stairs. He shot ahead of her, no doubt to check for threats at the top.

  Puffing, she followed, reaching the landing seconds behind him. She stopped next to him and looked left and right down the gloomy stone corridor. To the right lay the doorway into the cavern that abutted the main portcullis. To the left, more cells.

  A whistle came from one of them.

  “Isn’t that the princess?” someone shouted.

  Zandor swore. He grabbed her hand again and ran—toward the door to the portcullis.


  They had not gone far down the narrow passageway when something flickered in the torchlight ahead of them. It was followed by a low hiss.

  Peckle stepped out of nowhere a few feet ahead of them. Eyes like lamps, his tail flicked—and then he was off, running straight through their legs, back the way they had come.

  “No,” Zandor whispered as Aurora turned to follow him. “Too risky.”

  The cat ignored him and sped on.

  Trusting Peckle implicitly, she grabbed Zandor’s hand and dragged him with her after Peckle.

  Another curse, and Zandor followed.

  She closed her ears to the catcalls as she, Zandor, and Peckle ran past the row of prisoners in their cells.

  And then another stone staircase, this one leading down. Guards could appear at any second. She clattered after Peckle with Zandor following. The final rung opened to a small landing with a wooden door. Rust and verdigris coated the door’s hinges and the metal studs in the warped wood.

  “The key?” she asked. “Do we have it?”

  Zandor fiddled with the key ring he’d stolen from the guard.

  A hiss from Peckle. She looked at him. The cat snarled and then raced to a low arch jutting above the floor. It was just big enough for her and Zandor to crawl through. Although open to the air, six bars blocked their exit, embedded into the floor and the top of the arch.

  Still, the cat rubbed his lanky body against the moldy bars.

  She was about to say that the door was a better option when Zandor shot over to the arch. He knelt next to Peckle and tugged on the middle bar. A grunt; he yanked again, harder this time. Ears peeled for sounds of pursuit, she ran over to join him. Her nose twitched with a new smell—the ocean.

  Her heart broke into a gallop. Quickly, she knelt to look out.

  The restless sea heaved back and forth on a white beach just a few feet below the bars. At spring tide, the waves would crash into this opening.

  Surely a lifetime of that pounding, combined with the salty air, would have weakened the bars?

  She snatched at the closest one. Masonry crumbled, both top and bottom, which held the bars in place.