by E. C. Jarvis
Ahead, she could see the outline of Elena disappearing through a doorway, her slender frame outlined by a golden, silky slip dress. Larissa smoothed her hands down her own dress—or what remained of it. After all the chaos, it was now a single layer of ripped red fabric. She looked like a poor homeless woman who’d been dragged from the gutter—hardly the best attire to wear for a meeting with an Empress.
They entered the building and the interior instantly felt cooler. The walls and floors were made of white granite stone slabs. Larissa watched Elena turn corner after corner up ahead. Eventually, they reached an arched room with several stairwells leading both up and down. An older man emerged from a stairwell and brandished his sword at Larissa. She stopped, only to be shoved in the back by her guard.
“Move,” he barked again.
She bit her tongue, refraining from snapping back a retort about not wanting to be skewered by the man in front. She wasn’t entirely sure either man would speak her language other than to bark move at her. What she did know for sure was that backchat was not acceptable.
“Gumthel.” The older man lowered his sword and yelled in her face, giving her a sniff of whatever awful substance he’d been eating for breakfast. He poked his sword in the direction of a staircase leading down. She headed straight for it, narrowly avoiding another thump in the back from behind.
“These fellows aren’t the friendliest bunch,” she heard Cid muttering. “Where are we being herded to now?”
“Dungeon,” Kerrigan called.
“Charming. Don’t suppose that cat of yours wants to show up and eat a few people?” Cid asked.
Larissa was about to explain she had no control over Imago—she wasn’t even sure he was still around—but her response was silenced as they reached the bottom of the stairwell and came to a heavy iron gate. The pristine white walls turned to black tiles; the floor along the corridor ahead was covered in a thick layer of sawdust.
An ugly-looking man appeared behind the gate, his teeth so crooked that his mouth wouldn’t shut properly. He pulled a set of keys from his belt and unlocked the gate. Larissa was unceremoniously shoved through and immediately bundled into a darkened cell. The cell door was locked shut, and she was plunged into a sickly cool darkness.
She heard two more doors being slammed shut nearby, keys jangling on a chain fading into the distance, and then silence. With a heavy sigh, she squinted at her surroundings, hoping her eyes would adjust to the darkness quickly. Her cell seemed to be nothing more than an empty box of a room. There was no bed, no table, no chair, no pot to piss in, and no window, save for a small crack in the middle of the cell door. She strained to see through it to no avail.
“Cid?” she called.
“Bloody hell,” Cid answered, his voice muffled.
“Kerrigan?” she called again.
“I’m here. I can endorse Mister Mendle’s sentiments.”
“Well, we’re together, at least,” she said, leaning her forehead on the door.
“For all the good that will do us.”
Minutes passed in silence. Larissa strained to hear any noise, any sign of footsteps, or muted discussions in foreign voices—anything to give her hope that they hadn’t been completely abandoned.
“Fuck sake,” Cid said.
“Are you all right, Cid?”
“No commode.”
“Oh.”
Silence surrounded them again. Larissa sank to the floor, an uneasy feeling seeping into her bones. The silence was not pleasant and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of panic at being so trapped and alone. Despite Elena’s plan to convince the Empress to speak with them, she couldn’t help but wonder if it were just some ruse to make them compliant. Her mind raced with awful thoughts and harrowing visions. What if they were trapped down here indefinitely? Who would know, or care enough, to come looking for them? If Holt were alive, she might dare to hope he could come up with a rescue attempt, but without him, she had no one. She clunked her head against the wall, trying to physically punish herself for being so naive once again. Her only hope was that the Empress would be suitably impressed enough with Cid’s modifications to the ship to let him out. That was something, at least.
In a vain attempt to block the negativity, she cleared her throat and tried to fill the void with light conversation. “Why is the floor covered in sawdust? I suppose they ran out of money to have nice tiles down in their dungeon?” she asked in a loud voice, flicking a few strands of sawdust between her fingertips.
“The sawdust is easy to replace when it gets covered in blood or other fluids,” Kerrigan answered.
“Charming.” She let her head knock back against the wall again. “Next time I ask a question, just tell me not to ask, please.”
“So the incontrovertible Captain Markus has finally gotten herself into a situation for which she has no solution?” Kerrigan asked.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t sound quite so happy about that, Colonel.”
“No magic cat to appear from thin air? No crazed Cleric desperate to keep you alive? No disappearing pirate ship to whisk you away? No William Holt to charge in and murder a palace full of Eptorans and rescue you?”
Larissa didn’t answer. The silence returned, and this time she felt glad for it. She wished she’d followed after Holt in the volcano. At the least, they’d have kept each other company during their last moments alive. Death was surely better than the option of spending years locked in a dark cell, wasting away to nothing.
“William,” Cid said quietly.
“Yes,” Larissa responded after a while, trying her best to hide the waver in her voice.
“I never knew his first name.”
“It was a secret.” She felt her face pull into a smile that didn’t last for long.
Her eyes closed, replacing the black void of the cell with another void of darkness, and her back slumped down the wall. She imagined a ticking clock counting the seconds and then the minutes, watching the hands tick round with dull monotony, the image lulling her into sedation.
She was awoken with a start. The door swung open; there’d been no warning that people were coming, as their footsteps were masked by the sawdust-covered floor. Larissa had been curled into a ball in one corner and slept, but she had no idea for how long. The same grizzly-looking, older Eptoran man who’d ordered them into the dungeons stared down at her, a burning torch in his hand.
“Rifar,” he barked. “Daltonian Rifar.” He scrunched up his wrinkled face, pulling his greying eyebrows into a scowl. He was clearly disgusted at the notion. “Mitharon,” he barked again, pointing towards the stairwell.
“I don’t understand,” she said inanely before realising she wasn’t supposed to understand, just obey. Scowling Face bared his teeth. It would have been comical to see if she weren’t so terrified that he’d ordered her to some torture chamber. She stood and stepped into the hallway to find Cid and Kerrigan had emerged from their cells as well and were being shoved into formation by their guards.
“Throne room,” Kerrigan translated with a hint of relief on his face. He was answered with a swift clunk on the back of his head by the hilt of the guard’s sword. By the grimace on his face, he would have liked nothing more than to thump the guard straight back.
They were hastily ushered back up the stairs, through a maze of corridors twisting and turning until Larissa felt so disorientated she wouldn’t know which way to go if the chance for escape ever arose.
Eventually, they reached a tall archway with carved stone plinths etched in gold. The white tiled floors turned to golden wood, so highly polished it glistened in the chandelier light. Larissa felt her jaw drop as the arch opened into the expansive Throne Room. It was a huge hallway with a strip of pale cream, velvety carpet leading all the way to the oversized throne at the opposite end.
Her grumpy old guard switched position, placing himself in front, blocking her view ahead. She glared daggers into his shoulder blades as they marched along in a line, pausin
g to look behind for Cid or Kerrigan. Instead, she found the sullen face of yet another guard. Her head snapped round to the front again as the guard gave her a glare. She was getting quite sick of their habit of thumping people at every opportunity. She tried to picture their Eptoran guard training regime—morning exercises followed by sword-thumping sessions, then lunch, with afternoon lessons on torture and beheading. The visual went from horrific to absurd in a matter of seconds, and in her distraction she almost didn’t notice the guard stopping. She skidded to a halt, her nose inches from his back, the smell of salty sweat through his dark brown shirt assaulting her senses.
She heard voices ahead speaking in Eptoran—a male and a female. She pushed up on tiptoes to try to see over the guard’s shoulder and just caught sight of Elena standing beside the throne and not much else.
Minutes passed listening to the muted voices in front. She eyed the throne room carefully, not daring to turn her head. Long, golden silk drapes hung down the sides of arched windows reaching up to the ceiling. Statues of generously endowed nude men and women stood on stone plinths. She couldn’t help but scrunch up her nose. Though she didn’t feel like a prude, she imagined the Daltonian palatial structures would have far less sexual decorations. As her eye roved over a magnificent statue of a man with his arms behind his head, legs spread wide and proud and his manhood standing tall, pointing directly at her, she squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a lungful. The smell from sweaty Scowling Face made her gag.
After a while, her legs itched. It felt hotter inside the throne room than she’d expected. Or perhaps her nerves were manifesting physically. She wondered if she could call up Imago and set him to assault the guards. She could grab hold of Cid and Kerrigan and sprint outside to find the pirate ship. She rubbed a layer of greasy sweat between her fingertips. If only she could figure out how to command an Anthonium-changed ghost cat she wasn’t even sure was there.
After yet more minutes standing around staring at Scowling Face’s shirt, somewhat getting used to his stench and generally avoiding looking at nearby, well-crafted appendages, Larissa shifted from foot to foot. She wondered when she had become so impatient. The Larissa at Greyfort’s would have probably stood there all day, waiting nicely, meek and submissive. The thought of it made her toes curl; she never wanted to go back to being that person. It was so far removed from who she had become. She wondered if it were simply a result of all the turmoil, or if she had Holt’s training to thank.
As the image of Holt flashed through her mind, Scowling Face Sweaty Shirt took a few steps forward. She remained in place, not sure if she was supposed to follow and not doubting the guard at her back would give her a thump in the neck for direction at any rate.
The thump never came. Her guard stopped a few meters ahead, still blocking the view before her and whomever occupied the throne. He spoke a few barked words, then stepped to one side. When he moved aside, revealing the people in front, Larissa went lightheaded, her entire body shook uncontrollably, and she forgot to breathe.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Holt felt his body lifting upwards and then sinking down at a steady rate. His head knocked side to side with the movement but he could not will his eyes to open. His veins tingled with an unpleasant sensation, although he seemed to be getting used to the pain. A strange hot breeze rolled across his naked torso, and with a large quantity of internal yelling, he forced his eyes to open and find out what was going on.
His arms and legs were still outstretched and chained to excess upon a cross of wood, and he was suspended in thin air over an Eptoran city. He looked up to see a rope stretching from the top of his cross to the airship above—he was being lowered down by winch.
He studied the ropes, hoping to find some lose knot or frayed edge. If he could start a swinging momentum and manage to snap a weak point, he could end all the misery with a quick plummet to the ground. Even so, his thoughts were sluggish, and by the time he’d solidified the plan, he felt a thud as he touched the ground.
He landed in a courtyard full of Eptoran soldiers. Each one had either a curved sword, gun, or strung bow aimed at him. He wasn’t entirely sure why they considered him so dangerous, being clearly restrained beyond all use. A rope ladder slapped against the floor nearby, and Solomon Covelle climbed down from the airship. Holt listened attentively as Covelle barked orders at the soldiers in flawless Eptoran, and the men seemed to follow his orders without question.
The ropes were untied and he was turned face down as several men carried his cross through the sandy courtyard. The floor beneath turned to white tiles, the air inside growing cooler, though it didn’t help to quench the fire burning across his skin. He was torn somewhere between a death wish, a fear of being injected again, and a new need for yet another injection. It was as if his body called out for more. That, coupled with the odd sensation of being carried along in such a position, made him feel like throwing up all over the pristine white tiles.
The floor beneath changed to polished wood with a creamy carpet. Holt tried to remember the structure he had seen while being suspended in the air. His first assumption was that it was some kind of fort, but he doubted even the elaborate Eptorans would decorate their military buildings with lavish furnishings, though he did manage to puff a snort of derision at the notion. The world swung out of focus as he was tipped upright again and plopped beside the throne.
Sitting upon the throne, dressed in a white silk dress which accentuated her dark brown skin, was the Empress of Eptora. A long braid of shiny brown hair cascaded down her back, not a single hair out of place. Holt felt his limbs twitch as his body tried to force the instant reaction of snapping to attention; it was so ingrained into his psyche from all the training to react in such a way in the presence of dignitaries, even enemies. The chains gave little room for movement, instead leaving him to simply twitch against his bindings.
Covelle came to a stop at the foot of the throne. Protocol required he bow before the Empress, yet the man simply stood tall, his wisps of white hair glistening in the soft light.
“Empress,” Covelle said with a slight nod.
She returned the nod, though her face was set hard, no smile upon her lips. “You were to bring me a formula. Instead you bring me this.” She gave a slight flick of her wrist towards Holt, not even glancing in his direction. “I already have Daltonian prisoners. I do not need more.”
“This man is not a prisoner. He is a demonstration.” Covelle pulled a syringe from his coat pocket. Holt clenched his fists. Elena appeared beside the throne, her eyes landing directly on Holt. She placed her hand upon the oversized armrest and gently tapped her sister’s arm, only to be waved off with a delicate gesture.
The Empress spoke an order to one of her guards, and the man marched out of the room. “A demonstration of what, precisely?”
“The power of Anthonium, and what can go wrong if you do not use the correct dosage.” Covelle took a few steps towards Holt, but the Empress sat forward and commanded him to wait.
“How did this man come to be in my Country?”
“I believe he arrived by airship,” Covelle said after giving Holt a slanted glare.
“I was already aware of that. I want to know why he came here? He and the others.”
“To search for the Anthonium, I believe... Others?”
“And where would such an unusual group of people find the information on the source and the means to travel here, undetected?” she continued, ignoring the pertinent question. “You assured me the knowledge would remain secret.” The Empress turned to Holt, her dark eyes shining. “You, why did you come to Eptora?”
“To kill him, Empress,” Holt said, nodding in Covelle’s direction.
“Interesting.”
Movement at the other end of the room tore Holt’s attention away from the Empress. A line of people led by a guard entered the room and came to a stop nearby. Once again, the Empress raised her hand, indicating for the guard to stay put. Covelle seemed to pale un
der his tanned skin, the syringe in his hand twitching.
“And how did you know where to find him?” she continued.
“He didn’t cover his tracks as closely as he should have. He has been playing you and the President of Daltonia like a game of cards.” Holt sucked in a breath between his teeth, the need for the injection starting to burn in his veins almost as intensely as the pain which accompanied the act. “He has been selling off pieces of Anthonium and using the profit to hire pirate ships. They have disguised themselves as Daltonian and Eptoran warships, attacking at will, forcing tensions and making both of you move towards a war.”
“What grandiose nonsense,” Covelle said with a laugh. “Empress, this is one of the lesser side effects of the poison—deep-set paranoia. If you would just let me show you—”
“Hold.” She stood and gave a beckoning motion with her finger to the guard across the room. The guard took a few steps forward, then moved to the side.
Holt felt his heartrate spike. For a moment, nothing in his world made any sense. Perhaps he was dead, perhaps he’d just been dreaming, perhaps the Anthonium poison was effecting his vision. His teeth ached with pain as his jaws ground down hard. He felt his body start to convulse uncontrollably from head to toe.
“Larissa,” he whispered as his vision blurred.
“Come,” the Empress beckoned to the line of people. Larissa walked forwards, her hair a mess of blond curls dotted with sawdust; it looked more like a bird’s nest than actual hair. What remained of her dress was torn to pieces, burnt, and dotted with dried blood. Her boots were covered in holes; she may as well have been barefoot for all the use they were. She was a disordered bundle of chaos and had once again gotten herself captured. But she was alive, and the mere sight of her made Holt’s desire to break free from his chains and finish what he’d started burn even deeper than the pain and craving for the next injection.
