Silverlight

by Jesberger, S. L.

  “Finish your damned story,” I growled.

  “When I heard you’d killed Beshum, I knew I had to have you. The strongest woman in Calari would be mine, bent to my will. I had you followed night and day, but you were never far from T’hath or Tyrix.” Garai lifted my chin with two fingers. “I had my spies call upon Tariq, to see if he could be bought. It was so easy. Offer enough gold and anyone will do your bidding. Marilian was staged. A contrived battle so I could snatch you up and keep you for my very own. And it couldn’t have gone any better if I’d planned it.” He gave a tittering laugh. “Oh, wait. I did.”

  It was a more detailed version of the story Tariq had told me in Adamar. I truly had been one of his damned parrots. Another unfortunate soul trapped in a cage.

  “I killed Tariq when you sent him to Adamar.” I don’t know why I said it. Garai wouldn’t care. Tariq was simply a means to an end.

  “Oh, too bad. Was it fun for you?” he asked in a singsong voice.

  I met his stare. “My fun hasn’t even started yet.”

  Garai pointed at my feet. “Get them off. Now.”

  My boots – and the shoe nail embedded in the right sole – soon topped the pile of clothing. When I stood completely naked, Garai addressed his guards. “I don’t have time for this now. Take her to the dungeon and shackle her. This one too.” He pointed at Magnus. “Put them next to each other, so they can commiserate when he finally wakes up. I’m going to kill him, but I want him to know just how much he’s lost first. And I want her to think long and hard about what she’s done.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Welcome home, pretty girl,” Tavia purred. She blew me a kiss just as the guards took hold of my arms and spun me toward the door.

  54: KYMBER

  Pain, cold, hunger. Three familiar acquaintances.

  Two of them were riding me hard. I lay on the stone floor of the dungeon, my wrists and ankles shackled to thick, black iron rings in the floor, and wondered when the dull pangs of hunger would begin. When I faced all three, would I fight back?

  Good question. At the moment, all I wanted to do was close my eyes and go to sleep. Permanently, if possible.

  My battered ribs ached every time I moved to look at Magnus in the next cell. He was on his side. All I could see from my vantage point was his lower back and buttocks. I thought he was breathing, but perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me in the half-light.

  They’d kicked Magnus in the ribs as well, but only after the cowards had shackled him. He wasn’t even awake when they did it. Groaning, eyes shut tight, he’d rolled onto his side, drawing his knees up in a defensive position.

  That was the last time I’d seen him move.

  “Magnus,” I whispered. “Magnus, please wake up.” Ignoring the pain in my chest, I took hold of the bars and dragged myself closer to him. “I need you to wake up.”

  No response.

  I didn’t know anything about parinthian root. Magnus might sleep for days, and that would be damned inconvenient.

  The shackles around my wrists were forged from thick iron, too thick to break by banging them on the floor. The links in the chain were the circumference of my little finger. Without the shoe nail, I had no hope of getting them open.

  I glanced at Magnus again. He was also chained wrist and ankle. We were doomed. Magnus would be executed, and I’d spend the rest of my days paying for what I’d done.

  Wait a minute.

  My gaze trailed across the bottom of his boots. The silver head of the horseshoe nail shone like a star in the sky. I released the breath I’d been holding.

  Oh. If I could just pull his foot toward me, I might be able to pry the nail out of his boot.

  I reached into his cell, but my chains brought me up short. I curled my hands around the cold iron bars separating us. “Think, Kymber, think!” There had to be a way.

  The bars were spaced far enough apart to push through up to my shoulder. If I could force myself in another inch or two – say, up to my collarbone – Magnus’s boot would be within reach. Just barely.

  I couldn’t do it shackled though. I had to get the damned things off first. How? The only way was to pick the lock, but I had no scrap of iron, no nail, no nothing.

  I pressed my face between the bars, stared at Magnus’s buttocks, and felt sorry for myself.

  How many times had I lost heart while training and stomped away, angry enough to chew shoe leather? How many times had I been so tired I couldn’t sleep?

  How does one count the number of tears shed for a future beyond reach? It had always been beyond my reach. Why? Why, when I’d wanted it so badly?

  Magnus should’ve let me quit, but he dug and pushed and prodded until . . .

  Until I finally found the strength locked inside me.

  It had been quite a journey, but there were a few miles to travel yet. My final destination was a choice.

  It was all up to me, literally do or die. If we were going to live, if we were ever going to get home and raise Tori and Mia, I had to fight. The odds were not in my favor, but I couldn’t let the bastard upstairs dictate how the rest of our story played out.

  All well and good, but I faced a number of problems that seemed insurmountable. Magnus was injured and unconscious. I was naked and shackled. Even if I managed to free us from this miserable place, we had a long walk back to our horses. We’d never make it off the castle grounds alive.

  Not without weapons. Where would I find a blade in this shit hole? Somehow, and despite the risks, I had to get upstairs and retake Promise, at least. If I got that far, I wasn’t leaving Bloodreign and Silverlight behind.

  An entirely foolhardy plan, but what did I have to lose? The end result was the same. Stay . . . and die. Escape without a weapon, be recaptured . . . and die. Get caught trying to reclaim a weapon . . . and die.

  Was there a way for us to live and go home? Fate would decide. All I had to do was get out of the chains. I tentatively jiggled the metal cuffs around my wrists, then eased back against the wall to get a better look at them.

  They weren’t tight, but I couldn’t push them any higher than the first joint of my thumb. Not even that far on my scarred right hand.

  Push them off over my hands – it was the only way I was going to get out of the shackles. Could I contract my hands enough to do it?

  It didn’t seem likely, but I had no choice. If I could free my left hand, it might be easier to free the right, so . . . I folded my hand over on itself and I pulled. I pulled and tugged, wiggled, swore, and tugged again.

  Too tight. It was too damned tight. This was never going to work.

  Never is a long time. Try again.

  I spit on the back of my hand for lubrication then rolled the cuff around until the moisture worked its way between my skin and the metal. Gritting my teeth, I continued to wiggle, tug, pull, spit, spin, and swear.

  My hand soon went numb. Blood welled up as the sharp metal cuff peeled the skin from my knuckles. Fortunately, blood was an effective lubricant, excellent for sliding the cuff forward toward my fingertips. The tang of blood and sweat and metal combined in my nostrils, but it smelled like a battle to me. Little by little, painful inch by inch, the shackle moved upward, upward, upward . . .

  . . . and finally slid free of my fingertips.

  The cuff hit the floor with a harsh clank. I cradled my left hand against my chest, waiting for the pain to subside. I then rubbed as much blood as I could all over my right hand.

  The cuff was tight, due to the scarring. I huffed and bit my lip as I pushed, willing my stiff fingers to straighten. “Please,” I begged no one. “For me. For Magnus.”

  Unfortunately, that hand didn’t bend as neatly as the left. No amount of blood, no amount of spit and determination would move that shackle. It banded around my thumb and remained tight just below my fingers.

  Now I had a dilemma. This was my sword hand. I couldn’t scrape it up too badly or I wouldn’t be able to fight. The way I saw it, I
had two choices: push it back down or do whatever I had to do to force it off the rest of the way.

  No choice at all, really. I wasn’t about to give up the ground I’d gained. I laid my right hand on the floor and pressed a foot on either side of the shackle. I placed the heel of my hand against the wider part of the lock, then I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed as hard as I could.

  I thought of Tariq and his betrayal. I thought of how much Magnus loved me, and how much I loved him. The man had suffered when he thought I was dead. It should matter.

  I thought of all the times I’d nearly frozen to death in my cave, scrounging for food, fighting to get a fire started. I’d endured Garai invading my body and whipping the flesh from my back. He’d handed me over to others despite the plea he surely saw in my eyes. He’d eaten in front of me when I was starving and drank in front of me when I would’ve cut my own throat for just one swallow of water.

  I pushed on that fucking cuff with both feet and my left hand until I felt tendons stretch, until every fiber of every muscle in my body ached like fire. I didn’t care if I injured my sword hand. If I could get my fingers around the grip, I would fight despite the pain. I would do it for Magnus, if not for myself.

  Garai had made this personal, and I wasn’t ready to cry quits. I closed my eyes, threw my head back, and pushed. Grunting, groaning, I struggled to the edge of my endurance and beyond.

  The shackle popped loose and flew, slamming against the bars and falling at my feet.

  It had taken hours, but I’d done it. I’d done it! Slumping to the floor, I buried my face in the crook of my arms. I didn’t even have enough strength left to cry.

  Nothing had ever come easy to me. Getting Magnus’s boot within range of my fingers was no exception.

  I had one shoulder wedged through the bars up to my neck, but I could just barely brush the thick leather sole with my fingertips. I scrabbled for purchase against the narrow edge, where the leather upper met the bottom, but my short, broken nails wouldn’t catch on anything.

  I finally had to concede defeat when the sun went down, throwing the dungeon into darkness.

  Crawling to the small pile of dirty hay near the back of the cell, I fell into a fitful slumber.

  I awoke disoriented in the gray light of dawn, dreaming of home, and so cold I couldn’t feel my toes. I reached for a blanket and, finding nothing, opened my eyes to greet my second day as a captive in Pentorus.

  I could hear Magnus snoring. I sat up and scrambled over to the bars between us. “Magnus. Are you awake yet?”

  He wasn’t, but at some point during the night, he’d straightened himself out. The boot that held the shoe nail was still bent at the knee, lying at an angle and out of my reach.

  The left boot though . . . he’d moved it toward the bars. It was well within my range.

  Holding my breath, I reached out and wrapped my hands around his ankle. He moaned; I braced against the bars and pulled as hard as I could. His big body slid across the floor, barely the width of my hand, but it was enough. I was able to take hold of that right boot and straighten his leg.

  I held him still and pried at the nail with my fingernails. A stubborn bastard, to be sure, but I couldn’t give up. The nail finally let go a little; all I had to do then was rock it back and forth. A moment later, I held it in the palm of my hand.

  It was a small, insignificant bit of metal, but I closed my hand around it and collapsed in the hay, a happy smile on my face. No jewel, no amount of gold was as precious to me as that shoe nail. I took a moment to catch my breath, then got to work on the shackles around my ankles.

  I’d apparently spent enough in blood, sweat, and tears to buy some luck. The shackles fell open with minimal effort on my part. I leapt to my feet, wondering where I might find clothing. Gods, I’d even tear holes in a feed sack if I had to.

  “I’ll be back for you, Magnus.” I gave him a quick glance as I probed the locked door with the nail. “We’re going home.”

  55: KYMBER

  I heard a voice behind me as soon as I stepped out of the cell.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I inhaled and held it. Tavia.

  I turned to find her aiming her crossbow at my chest. “You would have to show up just now, wouldn’t you?” I said.

  She smirked and threw a small burlap bag onto the floor. “I’ve brought your breakfast, but you won’t need it now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I was told I could kill you if you tried anything.” She gave me a vicious smile. “Finding you standing outside your cell fits my definition of ‘anything.’ Hold still.” Tavia’s finger twitched and released the bolt.

  I dove to one side as the projectile whistled past my ear. “I don’t think so.”

  She was shaking so badly she couldn’t reload the crossbow. I had to get close enough to disarm her. Failing that, I had to be extremely fast if she fired at me again.

  “Drakoe wouldn’t give you permission to kill me. He seems happy to see me again.” I rambled, saying anything, and kept moving in her direction. “Did you know he sent Tariq after me? He wouldn’t allow you to kill me no matter what I’d done.”

  “He’ll get over you.” She slid the bolt in place and took aim.

  “I’ll be damned.” I took another step. “Don’t tell me you love that decrepit old bastard. Have you lost your mind? Not only is he crippled, but he’s one of the ugliest men I’ve ever seen. Surely you can do better than that, Tavia, but you’d have to get out of Pentorus first.”

  That did it. Her face twisted into a knot just before she loosed the bolt at my head. I barely had the space of a breath to duck out of its way.

  The bolt hissed past me, ruffling my hair. I wasted no time in launching myself at her, catching hold of the stirrup and jerking it hard to one side. I nearly succeeded in pulling the bow from her hands.

  Desperate measures then, or Plan B, as Magnus used to say. I held onto the crossbow’s stirrup with my left hand, drew back my fisted right, and let it fly, aiming for the bone under her left eye.

  She saw it coming and covered her face, practically throwing the weapon at me. My fist connected hard with bone. I heard a satisfying crack as the concussion reverberated down my arm.

  The rest of our fight happened in slow motion. Tavia spun away, cursing and cradling her face. The crossbow briefly hung in the air; I gathered it into my arms. Once I’d secured it, I focused on the bolt-lined baldric slung over her shoulder.

  I only needed one.

  My pulse pounded in my ears. Flawless, you need to be flawless, you need to be flawless, you need to be flawless.

  I stretched and opened my right hand, straightening my fingers as I’d practiced. It worked well enough for me to get my fingers around a bolt, tight enough to ensure that the bolt slid smoothly from the leather loops as Tavia hit the ground.

  I loaded up the crossbow as fast as I could.

  We both froze and stared at each other. Tavia leaned against the wall and gulped air. “You wouldn’t.”

  I did. The bolt slammed into her forehead, right between her eyes. Hurt and surprise crossed her face before she crumpled, dead before she ever hit the floor.

  “I’m truly sorry, Tavia. For the head shot, but you would’ve done it to me.” I bent to strip her. “And I need your clothes more than you do right now.”

  The coat was a little big for me, but it would have to do. I donned her hose – too long – and her boots, which were a perfect fit. I then confiscated the belt bearing her daggers, and strapped the baldric of bolts across my chest.

  Not bad for a naked woman with no plan.

  One last thing to do before I headed upstairs. I dragged Tavia’s body into my cell, rolled her over, and partially covered her head and shoulders with hay. She looked enough like me from a distance to fool any guards who might come to check on us.

  I closed and locked the cell door behind me, then threw a handful of hay over the blood that had pooled on
the stone floor. No sense borrowing trouble.

  The nail I’d pulled from Magnus’s boot would be safer in the dungeon. I pushed it into the soft wax of an unlit candle in a nearby sconce, just in case I couldn’t find the keys to Magnus’s cell on Garai’s dead body.

  Snatching up the crossbow, I pulled fresh air into my lungs and took one last look at Tyrix asleep in his cell. “I love you, Magnus. I’ve always loved you. I just wanted you to know, in the event I don’t come back.” I stared down the long hallway leading to the stairs. “Never mind. I’m coming back.”

  56: KYMBER

  I didn’t exactly announce that I was heading to the throne room, but neither did I hide. It was much too late for that. I dealt with the few guards I met on the way up and kept moving.

  Counting the steps from the dungeon to my final destination –three-hundred-thirty-seven, including the stairs – helped calm me. Soon, I stood before the throne room.

  I stared at the ancient wooden door as doubt crept in. Where was Garai? Did he already know I was loose? Was this a trap? If so, it was a trap of my own making.

  In the end, none of that mattered. If we were going to escape, we needed a weapon. Silverlight, Bloodreign and Promise were in that room. I was going in.

  Fully expecting the throne room door to be locked if not barred, I jerked on the handle, momentarily thrown off balance when it swung open. I narrowed my eyes and peered inside the cavernous room.

  Most throne rooms are brightly lit, sumptuous and opulent. Not this one. It was as dark and filthy as Garai’s heart. Old straw reeking of cat piss littered the slate floors. Stained wooden pews lined both walls, only reluctantly dragged to the center of the room to seat villagers during court.

  A total of twelve torches graced the walls, but only four of them were burning, not nearly enough to chase away the perpetual gloom haunting this place. I entered anyway, my eyes fixed on the oak and velvet throne upon the dais.

  Shouting and banging pulled my focus from the task at hand. I turned my head to listen.