by Raye Wagner
“To the library I’ll go,” I quipped.
Ty was still silent.
“What happens when Jotun comes and sees a garden in my room?” I asked. This was my real problem.
Ty cursed. “Ryn, you need to get rid of everything. Right now.”
The urgency in his voice spurred me to standing. “Al’right. But why? It’s not my fault.”
“I know,” Ty said. “But I can’t predict how Jotun will react. I’ve never heard of anything like this. Who knows what he’ll do.”
Drak. He was right. I stared at the garden, hating what I had to do to stay alive here. Gripping the corn stalk, I ripped it up.
The barley was next, and the rest of the sunflower stem, then the moss. But the moss clung to the rock and resulted in bleeding knuckles and torn feet from doing my best to scrape it away.
“Someone’s coming. Under your bed,” Ty urged. “Put it under your bed.”
“Who is it?” I hissed, heart pounding because I hadn’t heard the door open. My hands grew slick with trepidation. Please be Tyr . . . please be Tyr.
A cold voice answered me from the front of my cell. “Who would you like it to be?”
A sense of doom sank into me as I turned, hands full of leaves and stems, to face Lord Irrik.
I’d never seen him truly angry before. As I backed away from where he stood radiating fury on the other side of the bars, it astonished me that there was a more terrorizing level to this man than I’d encountered before.
“They just appeared,” I blurted.
His eyes were slits—he’d partly shifted to Drae—and he studied me with his reptilian eyes. “What have you done?”
My chest rose and fell as I hyperventilated. As he unlocked the door and entered my cell, I dropped the plants, and clasped my hands together. “Please, it wasn’t me. I have no idea what happened.”
“No idea?” he asked, his lip curling in a sneer.
The door clanged open down the hall, and Irrik’s eyes widened. He grabbed me in an iron grip and threw me from the cell. I rolled across the stones of the outside passage, crying out as my hip struck solid rock.
The Drae was on me in a beat, gripping me by the back of the neck. He directed me past a few empty cells before he shoved me forward to the ground and snarled to someone over my head, “Make it good.”
Gingerly getting to my knees, I tilted my head to look at Jotun.
“Why do you help me, Tyr?” I slurred.
He wiped the tear trickling down my cheek then bent over me and kissed my forehead in answer. I felt the warmth of his feelings for me radiating from his tender touch.
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” I complained as he lifted one of my arms.
A wry smile showed under his hood, but it was tight and lacking in humor. I must be a sight, so I could hardly blame him. Jotun had taken Lord Irrik’s command to heart. By now, I’d learned Jotun obeyed all the king’s orders, except when it came to Irrik-related matters. The mute guard seemed to hold an all-consuming hatred towards the Drae. I had no idea why. Maybe Jotun was jealous of him. More likely, there was politicking I’d missed while in the torture chamber. One thing I did know: Jotun’s deep-set grudge did not bode well as long as he believed Lord Irrik favoured me because that made me an Irrik-related matter.
Games. Always games.
I groaned as Tyr reset my dislocated shoulder, and then I asked, “How long will I live?”
My question was rhetorical, directed to the universe that allowed such atrocities to occur, not the man caring for me.
When Jotun dragged me down here, I never expected to live longer than a week, and I couldn’t bear the thought of this abuse going on endlessly. The game between Lord Irrik and the king surely couldn’t continue much longer. Soon, the king would realize I was worthless to him. . . If he even recalled he’d put me down here.
Either way, I was dead. It may take a week or a month or a year, but I was dead.
Maybe it would be better if Tyr stopped healing me, if the healing only put off the inevitable. How much could one body take before it simply failed?
Tyr paused, and I realized I must’ve said at least part of this aloud. As I looked around, I saw the room was now back to its stony, plant-free self. Too little, too late. I hoped the plants didn’t come again.
A drop landed on my arm, and I startled, glancing up at Tyr’s hooded face. His strong jawline wasn’t clean shaven, not like it usually was, and his full lips were twisted as if trying to contain . . . A tear trickled from his cheek to his chin and then dripped.
“Tyr,” I whispered.
He was crying. For me.
My heart squeezed, and my throat clogged with emotion. He held one of my hands gingerly, stroking his thumb over my palm. Instead of pulling it up to his face, he brought his face to my hand.
Ryn, he thought, full lips pressed together. I’m going to get you out of here. I swear. Please hold on.
16
I’ll get you out of here. I swear . . .
The words tumbled over and over in my head, even after I fell into an unquiet slumber. At some point in my dreaming state, my learned terror twisted the errant hope I’d felt at Tyr’s promise, morphing it into a nightmare of fear and pain.
Hours later, I stared at the low stone ceiling, heart thundering in the aftermath of a horrific dream I couldn’t recall. I took deep breaths, closing my eyes to the dreadful reality that was my living nightmare.
Tyr was going to get me out. I’d be free from Jotun, free from Irrik, and free from Irdelron. I dug my torn nails into my palms and tried to imagine what my life could be like if that happened. I tried to picture what that would mean, but there was a solid barrier in the way of that dream— cold fury.
I wanted to kill the king. I wanted to kill Jotun. How could I leave without making them pay for what they’d done?
I squeezed my fist tighter, the pain in my hands nothing compared to the pain in my mind, until warm blood oozed between my fingers. A drip rolled over the pad of my thumb before falling to the floor. The idea of revenge was even more dangerous than the hope of escape. Those were dreams I couldn’t have.
With a groan, I rolled onto my side and sat up. “Ty? You there?”
The silence that met my question filled me with guilt. If Ty wasn’t answering, it meant he was being tortured, and he’d endured more frequent torturing since I arrived. This was the second time . . . this week? I still couldn’t tell time in the dungeon. Around five weeks had passed, by my guess, but I couldn’t be sure.
My frustration solidified my determination. If Tyr snuck me out, there was no way I’d leave without Ty. Second rule of torture club: Don’t leave friends behind bars.
I circled my shoulders in an attempt to relieve tension and moved my neck side to si—
No!
I gasped for breath as I stood. My blood pooled with the sudden motion after being supine for so long. I sank back to the mattress in response, but my mouth hung open as I stared at the far corner in disbelief.
This couldn’t be happening.
I blinked, trying to clear my vision, but the three huge pumpkins still remained, sitting there by my chamber pot, ensnared in the voluminous green tangle of their vines.
I lifted trembling hands and covered my mouth. Pumpkin seeds . . . from my bread yesterday. This time it took no effort for my mind to connect the dots, but the how, or more accurately when, of the new growth had me stumped. The pumpkins hadn’t been here when Tyr was in my cell. Or maybe they hadn’t been here before he’d been in the room, but they’d grown immediately after.
I’d fallen asleep straightaway, hadn’t I?
I shook off my daze. Because the how mattered less as the moments passed, and hiding the large squash became increasingly urgent.
“Ty?” I choked out and then called louder, “Ty!”
I crawled to the corner, at a complete loss over what to do. The vegetables were up to my knees and bright orange, though, like the sunflo
wer, the green of the vines was pale and unhealthy, a sure sign the plants shouldn’t be growing in the dark.
How could I possibly hide them?
“Ty,” I begged, moving to our wall. “Please. Please, wake up.”
The only answer was the weighty silence, a clear message that no help was to be found next door. If he’d answered? What could he, a prisoner as I was, do to help? Would he hide the pumpkins for me and incur another beating on my behalf when the ruse failed? Impossible. I couldn’t even get the pumpkins out through the bars.
Dread blanketed me, swallowing me whole. As I settled deep within the beast’s belly, I knew there would be no escape.
I returned to the pumpkins and sank to my knees in front of the largest one.
And awaited my fate.
I didn’t move from my kneeled position in the far right corner of the cell as the rattle of the lock drifted down the damp hall. When the dungeon door creaked open, I didn’t even shift my position. What was the point?
I had a fleeting hope the person wouldn’t be Jotun, but his heavy tread announced him as he crossed the room.
At least my mind had broken partially free from stunned disbelief. The time spent gazing in astonishment at the pumpkins had unlocked one truth.
I knew why this had happened. Rather, I knew who made it happen.
I knew what Tyr was.
He’d healed me more times than I could count. Brought me back from the precipice of death. Not only that, in the last week he’d begun to heal my heart of its wounds, too. At least it felt that way.
Tyr was a Phaetyn, a healer. His powers could be used on land or mortals. He could halt death in its tracks. He could make plants grow. He’d done something to the seeds. Unwittingly, I assumed. I knew he’d never intentionally hurt me, not after experiencing his meticulous care firsthand.
Tyr was a Phaetyn.
Phaetyn weren’t dead.
Jotun wrapped his hand around my upper arm, hauling me upright. My gaze stayed on the pumpkin, even as my hated guard ripped one of the orange squash from its prickly vine. Then Jotun hauled both me and the pumpkin from the cell.
The dark, rough dungeon walls blurred into the dark, rough walls of the stairwell, but we kept going up past the torture floor, and then the dark, rough walls blurred into the smooth, gray walls I hadn’t seen in weeks. The windows became more frequent and larger, and light—glorious, blinding, vibrant light—slapped me to my senses. I threw my free hand in front of my eyes to shield them from the onslaught of the sun. After so long in the dark, the light was unbearable.
Tyr was a Phaetyn.
I kept up with Jotun, knowing he would simply drag me to our next destination if I didn’t, but as my eyes adjusted to the light, I began to recognize the grand furnishings. Blood pounded in my ears as Jotun directed me into the one place I feared even more than the torture chamber.
Rows of the king’s guard lined either wall of the magnificent, dreadful, deadly hall. I stared at the ceiling-length double doors ahead and readied myself for what most certainly lay beyond.
I would not betray Tyr. My hooded protector’s secret would not cross my lips. He was a person I owed many times over for my life, and—as I remembered his tender kiss on my forehead—someone who grew more important to me with each passing day. The king drank Phaetyn blood to stay young, I could only imagine what he’d do to Tyr after discovering the truth. I would take his secret with me to my grave. No matter what.
Jotun dragged me and the pumpkin to the entrance, and when the two guards closest to the looming doors failed to anticipate his desire, Jotun struck the smallest guard with the pumpkin, the gourd cracking on the man’s head. The guard on the other side surged forward to open the door as the other guard slid to the ground, unconscious.
I lowered my gaze to my filthy tunic and the scabbed skin of my legs underneath as we crossed through the hall, the voices inside silencing as we passed the mountains of food, and stopped in front of the king.
“Jotun, to what do I owe this pleasure?” the king’s mild voice rung out.
Roughly translated, I guessed this meant: There better be a reason you’re wasting my time, or you’ll pay for this interruption.
I couldn’t help peeking at Jotun, but I wished I hadn’t. An eerie smile spread across his face.
Jotun dropped the pumpkin at my feet.
I fidgeted on the spot. The absence of sound was dreadful, and my palms itched with anxiety. Deciding to risk the king’s wrath, I took a quick peek in his direction.
Irdelron’s eyes were wide, and his lips parted in a look of shock that rocked me to the core.
“Look at me, girl,” the king whispered.
The hoarse command slithered over my skin and turned my insides to quaking jelly. I hesitated, fearing what more he would find to torture me with.
“Now,” he shouted. He pounded down the dais steps, making me quake.
Inhaling, I obeyed.
The king stood at the base of the raised platform, his gaudy throne extending several heads above his crown. One bejeweled hand was raised to his chest, adorned in silk layers, with a gold chain stretching between his shoulders, holding a cape in place.
But none of this grandeur distracted me from the nausea churning within at his expression.
His mild face wasn’t mild anymore. It wasn’t angry or mocking, or drenched in cruelty.
His complete attention was fixed . . . on me.
“Out,” he shrieked, making me jump. “Get out!”
A wave of servants washed past us in a mass exodus, leaving Jotun and me behind.
When the room was cleared, Irdelron closed the distance, circling me like I was prey.
“Phaetyn,” he breathed.
Wait. He thought I was the Phaetyn?
I kept my face smooth, impassive, or so I hoped. Inside, I frantically replayed the last few seconds. How had he come to the conclusion of Phaetyn so quickly? Jotun had only thrust me in front of him and held up the pumpkin. I was missing something here.
“The pumpkin was in her cell?” Irdelron asked, his eyes bright with excitement.
Jotun inclined his head.
The exchange made no sense.
The king stroked his chin and the blond patch of growth there. “How was this missed?”
But he didn’t seem to be asking me or Jotun, and we both remained silent.
My gaze flitted around the room. The king’s rapt attention only increased my anxiety. A quick peek told me the Drae wasn’t in his usual position behind the throne, and I wondered if he was off terrorizing innocent people.
That was the least of my worries. Jotun’s assumption I was a Phaetyn was understandable. He’d found me in my cell, kneeling in front of a trio of full-grown pumpkins. If I saw someone in a similar predicament, I’d make the same assumption. That wasn’t what bothered me.
If they assumed I was Phaetyn, they would soon discover I was not when I couldn’t make anything grow. Worse than that, they would want to know who had made the plants grow. Which meant they would discover Tyr.
“It was Irrik,” I croaked. “He put them there. I’m sorry he—”
“Irrik?” the king asked. “You’re trying to tell me my Drae made a garden grow in your cell?” He shook his head, bestowing an indulgent smile that made my heart thunder.
I dropped my gaze. If I could convince Jotun and the king that Lord Irrik had done this, it would keep Tyr safe. Despite the slight disquiet I felt at letting the Drae take the blame, I banished the feeling as best I could. I was finally a player in this game, minor player though that was. I would lower myself to the new set of rules forced upon me without hesitation, and that included throwing Irrik off the cliff to save Tyr’s life.
The king looked me in the eye and continued, “The girl who cut her hair . . . she used dye to disguise her eyes, or I would have known straightaway. Such a lovely shade of violet. It has been almost two decades since I gave up on seeing that shade again. My girl,” the king sai
d, navigating the space between us, the silk of his garments whispering across the smooth stone floor, “why did you hide this? Did you not know I would exalt you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I managed. “It wasn’t me. I’m telling you. I can’t even grow potatoes.”
With iron fingers, King Irdelron gripped my chin and, tilting my head, examined me. “The game is up. You can’t hide what you are. It’s as obvious as Jotun’s muteness.” He didn’t let go of me as his gaze cut to Jotun. A dangerous awareness settled over him as thick as the cape he wore. “You could have ruined everything.”
With a quickness I hadn’t expected him capable of, the king backhanded Jotun. The guard’s head rocked to the side, and blood oozed from his split lip.
The king grimaced in disgust as he watched Jotun wipe at the blood, smearing it across his chin. In a mild tone, the king asked, “Did the color of her eyes never alert you?”
The king again dug his fingers into my chin, and my eyes streamed from the pain. A whimper escaped from my lips, in spite of myself, but the king did not stop.
“Did you not wonder that she was alive and well after the torture you’ve put her through?”
I had no confusion in regard to that. Tyr had healed me. He’d rubbed the ointment and bandages on me for weeks. My insides relaxed. For a moment, I’d actually thought the king was—
“You—” the king blinked at Jotun. “Imbecile!” The king’s voice escalated, and he yanked the whip from Jotun’s side and struck Jotun again and again with it, dragging me along using the vicious hold on my jaw. “You nearly killed a Phaetyn. Do you realize what she could mean?” He continued beating Jotun. “You are not so great that I won’t dispose of you, Jotun. I’ve sent my own children to their deaths . . . Drak, I even killed several of them myself. Don’t think you’re safe to make stupid decisions.”
Jotun fell to his knees, hands outstretched, imploring his master. He took every single strike the king delivered, and then when Irdelron was done, Jotun lowered his forehead to the ground and stayed with his hands out to each side.
