“What was that?” Julian asked, the torch in his hand flickering as he jumped. His other hand slid down to rest at a sword in the sheath on his belt.
“Torture room,” said the man, as if he were talking about a heated game of chess. “Lord Iryse is back there now—he and two others came down earlier and he’s been going like that for quite a bit now.”
“What kind of torture?” Sathryn asked. Her voice trembled.
“Well . . .” The man stopped and waited, and for a second Sathryn thought he was done speaking. But then, another scream shook the room, and he nodded, as if dissecting the sound with his ears. “If my good and proper judgment is accurate today, I would wager that they’re doing the boiling-oil thing. The scream for oil is a bit louder than the simple ones—knives under the nails, or that spinning wheel . . .”
Sathryn’s disgust and fear were overruled by her curiosity. “What boiling-oil thing?”
“It is my understanding that they tie you down on an iron board and drip boiling oils over you.”
The old woman piped in. “And—and it’s usually all over your stomach and your back, but sometimes, whenever those kings are feeling really nasty, they’ll drip it over your nose and eyes.”
Another prisoner chimed in too—a wild-eyed, younger woman with scraggly, brown hair and a scar along her throat. “And if Iryse has had a bad day, he’ll tie your hands and feet to horses and the horses walk slowly away so that they’re ripping yo—”
Images of her father sprang into Sathryn’s mind. “Stop!” she yelled with her hands over her ears. “Stop . . .”
The scarred woman and the older woman shared a crackled laugh. “They aren’t heroes. They aren’t invaders! They’re weak!” And then they started singing—loud and boisterous and out-of-tune melodies that Sathryn didn’t recognize.
But the rude man from earlier spoke up now, his voice softer and more gracious. “You might be able to find whoever it is you’re looking for down closer to the torture rooms—they have a few prisoners locked up in single cages, where they wait for their turn to be tortured.”
Sathryn tugged at Julian’s shirt again. “Julian,” she whispered. He and Colette were staring in blatant revulsion at the two women screeching out notes from their dried little mouths. “Julian. We have to go back there.” She pointed farther into the gloom.
“What?”
“My family . . .”
“But you heard them—the kings are down there. What happens if they find us and torture us instead?”
Sathryn walked down farther into the tunnel, trying as hard as she could with what little light shone from the walls of the prison to avoid reeking puddles and piles of questionable origin and the hungry hands of prisoners as they reached for her. If Julian wanted to turn back, that was okay, but she had made up her mind a while ago that she was going to keep moving.
But then a hand rested on her shoulder, and it wasn’t the cold, gnarled hands of a prisoner either. It was Julian, Colette by his side, staring down at her with a soft smile. He turned back around to look at the hordes of caged people behind them, waved, and then continued walking.
When they passed all the lines of prisoners, it was quiet. Her ears had been ringing with voices and screams for so long that quiet seemed unnatural and empty. The dirt walls absorbed all the voices, all the screams, and—thankfully—most of the smells.
But as they trekked on that same path, voices arose again. The older man had said there were individual cells lining the walls leading farther back, and he was right. Now, rather than too many people crowded into a large cell, one person was crouched in each of the small cells lining the walls—cells so small that a tall person could place each palm flat against the opposite wall. Like the larger cells, these cells were lined in iron and blocked by iron bars.
As they walked through the long aisle of cells, Sathryn peered down at the solemn faces as best she could, even though many of the single prisoners faced the back wall or lay so that their heads were tucked down into their chests. Unlike the ones packed in the large cells, many of the prisoners looked as if they had just been locked up a day or so ago—their clothes were not yet nibbled on by the rats that scuttled along the floors, and their faces, though sad and dirty, did not carry the weight of years of encumbrance and pain, nor did their skin lack the outside air or the spring sunrays.
Nor did anyone here seem to care what three people were doing there, wandering through an underground cavern so close to where the kings were torturing an unfortunate someone. They all ignored them, or stared at them with haunted eyes, or bustled around their cages. Some, like the two old women they had left behind in the large cells, were singing soft, slow melodies to themselves, while others talked to and laughed at their own hands.
At the last cell of the first row of many cells, there was a figure lying on the cold, stone floor. Had Julian not pointed out the figure’s shiny, black hair, Sathryn would have kept walking, would never have stopped to look closer at the body.
But Julian tugged at her shirt, then pointed at the black-haired body.
They had passed plenty of black-haired young men already, but something about the way that this one lay, the way he moved ever so slightly, the way his body rose and fell with each breath . . . Something made Sathryn run up to the bars—dirty and grimy and beginning to rust over—crouch down, and quietly call out a name.
“Etzimek!”
The figure didn’t move.
“Etzimek!”
The figure was still motionless.
Sathryn stood and glanced at Julian, who smiled sadly and wrapped his warm arms around her. She thought that she had felt something, a tug in her blood that told her that the body was someone she knew and loved, but perhaps it was just false hope. She stared into the cage a little longer, but the more she stared, the more she convinced herself that there was no way the figure was Etzimek—Etzimek’s hair was two inches longer, Etzimek’s hair was two inches shorter, Etzimek’s hands were a shade darker . . .
At the sound of another shriek, closer and louder this time, Julian nudged her toward the second row of prisoners. She knew what he was thinking—We must move quickly before the kings get us instead.
Sathryn turned into the second row of cells, Julian beside her. Colette still stood by the black-haired prisoner’s cage, and having heard Sathryn, was calling out his name louder this time.
“That isn’t him,” Sathryn insisted. She walked back to the cell and tried to grab Colette from her stance on the floor, but Colette pointed inside the cell.
The figure was stirring.
Sutra
e can’t find King Iryse” were the first words Sutra heard when he woke up.
He had dozed off behind a book in the library, a wineglass sitting on the side table, and now a squadron of guards stood before him with scared looks on their faces to tell him that they could not find his brother.
“Or King Tyru, or King Rowyn, for that matter, Your Majesty.” The guard speaking wasn’t General Thoro, who, according to the others, had not given up looking for Iryse.
Sutra said nothing in response. He just stared at them. What did they expect him to do? If Iryse, Tyru, and Rowyn wanted to run off and disappear as they had millions of times, let them.
“We’ve looked everywhere, Your Majesty. Forgive us, but we even had to search in the—um—forbidden areas of the castle. We felt this was a dire situation, Your Majesty.”
Sutra rolled his eyes. They all expected him to yell at them for venturing to the “forbidden areas” of the castle. Those areas were where many of the brothers’ second rooms were—Iryse’s, Rowyn’s, and Tyru’s, as Sutra and Nya did not have a second room—where they would fool around during long, late nights after taking the drug.
A few years back, Iryse, Rowyn, and Tyru began taking the drug more times than was needed, so they made the guards build them separate rooms to take the drug, string out their high in alcohol and parties and private brothels and whatever
else they wanted, then wait for the drug to wear off. Iryse had made them the “forbidden areas” after a guard stole a bottle of Lucifer’s drug and almost emptied the contents into his own blood. Almost.
“Everywhere?” Sutra asked. The guards all nodded. “Even under the beds?” He laughed to himself.
The guards looked on edge. “Your Majesty, what if the invaders have already killed them all? What do we do then?”
“Iryse isn’t dead,” Sutra said. There hadn’t been a giant, golden dragon breaking through the walls of the castle yet, and Iryse always turned into one before he let someone try to kill him.
And then an idea occurred to him.
“He’s in the prison.”
The guards’ eyes widened. “Ah,” said one of the men. “Yes, Your Majesty, that makes sense.”
Sutra stood and set down his book. “What of the redheaded man I told you to take to Iryse?”
The guards looked at each other. “We just locked him in his room, Your Majesty. We left him with another guard.”
“Take me to him.”
The guards led him from the library, down the wide hallways, through the sitting rooms, and down the stairs. Maids and servants bustled across the first floor now, probably still searching and preparing for invaders that were below their feet in the prison. Sutra let them. At least it gave them something to do. As he passed by the servants, the ones not too deeply immersed in their own worlds stopped and bowed or curtsied, then continued their work.
The guards led him to a hallway labeled “KH” by shiny, silver words, and back to the fourth door.
The guards knocked a rhythm on the door, and within a few seconds, another sentry opened it, a smug look on his face until he saw Sutra. He bowed, then opened the door wider.
Inside, the ginger-haired guard lay on the bed with ropes about his arms and legs and a strip of fabric tied across his mouth. On the other bed, there were a few empty black bags, coats, and an array of weapons all scattered on the bed.
The smug guard was standing at attention. “I found those items in this guard’s room, Your Majesty, and I believe they belong to the invaders. There was also a jar of the—um—drug, Your Majesty, so I had a maid return it to the storage room.”
The drug? How had the invaders gotten the drug? He could only hope they hadn’t used any of it. Sutra then made his way to the bed, as he was more interested in the items than he was the struggling ginger man on the other bed.
Whoever had infiltrated the castle had good taste in weapons—expensive weapons, at that. There were two sheathed, short swords and a few daggers, misericords, and even a kujang, something Sutra hadn’t seen in a while.
He picked up one of the short knives and flipped it over in his hands. The handle was carved sapphire, and the blade was shiny crystal. He reached to drag his hand across the surface, but he jerked his hand away at the shock it sent through his arm. Poison.
He picked up the coats. They were not the coats of middle-aged and older men—they were the coats of young people, young adults, ones barely breaching the age required to fight in a rebel group. And the lead guard from earlier had been partially right—there was a woman’s coat and a young man’s coat, but there was also another woman’s coat. At least now Sutra knew how many there were inside the castle.
Sutra moved to the other bed and stood tall over the ginger, who looked up at him with fearful eyes.
“The invaders,” Sutra began, “are in the prison now. You may think they are safe, but three of my brothers are already down there. And might they find whomever it is you are trying to protect, their endings, and yours, will not be pleasant.”
Sutra hadn’t quite meant it as a threat—rather as matter of fact—but his words came out very much menacing.
“As for all of you,” Sutra said, and turned back to the other guards, “some of you will stand outside the prison doors. No one goes in, and no on goes out unless it’s one of my brothers. If something happens, come to me immediately. Some of you will go find Nya and tell him what is going on. And the others—grab those items and put them in the bags. Get the coats. And follow me.”
Sathryn
he head that lifted off the stone floor was so unlike Etzimek’s that Sathryn almost scolded Colette for raising her hopes again.
But fortunately, Sathryn’s head was the same as when he last saw her, more or less—perhaps darker from walking in the sun, perhaps fuller from eating well and dancing and listening to music and training with Julian, but the same nonetheless. So when the black-haired man lying on the floor saw her face and caught her eye, his own eyes brightened in recognition. He stood on wobbly, weak legs, legs that were usually strong and sure and quick, and ran to the thick bars of his cage with tears streaming down his face—which, Sathryn noticed, was blotched with blue-black bruises and blood. His hands reached through the iron bars, grabbed Sathryn, and pulled her into a hug.
“Sathryn,” he croaked.
“Etzimek.” She hugged him back.
They sat like that for a moment. Sathryn couldn’t stop breathing him in—he didn’t smell very good, but he also smelled like Etzimek underneath the grime and sweat—and running her hands through his long, tangled, curly hair. She could feel him doing the same.
He pulled away, clutching her face in his warm hands while his wet, gray eyes looked her up and down. “How did you—how are you down here? Are you okay? How did you get to Kingsland? Are you okay?”
She laughed and nodded. “I’m fine. I think the question should be are you okay?”
“I’m . . . better, now that you’re here.”
“Have they done something to you?” Sathryn rested a finger against his jaw, where a long cut ran the length of it. “We keep hearing these screams . . .”
He hesitated. “No.”
“No what?”
“They haven’t done anything to me.”
Sathryn stared at him. His eyes were not steady on her anymore and instead flicked about the room like hummingbirds. And his hands had let go of her face and were twining about themselves.
He was lying.
She wouldn’t play along. “Tell me.”
Etzimek sighed. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you? They’re looking for you, Sathryn. The kings. Since they didn’t find you in Deadland, they’ve been trying to beat it out of me even though I didn’t know where you were.”
Another scream rang out about the room.
“Why would they want me?” Sathryn asked.
“They want anyone related to Father. He was one of the few survivors in the rebel group, so now they want to punish everyone close to him. And they haven’t been able to get you. Don’t let them, Sathryn. They need a lot of people, they’ve been saying—I’ve been hearing them talk about something called the Phoenix Arena—”
“Where’s Father?”
Etzimek shook his head in sorrow. “I’m not sure.”
“Mother?”
Etzimek shrugged. But it was okay, because at least she wasn’t the last one left.
She didn’t tell him that earlier, she had seen her mother limp in Taz’s merciless arms with a knife to her throat. It wouldn’t solve anything.
“No news is good news,” Etzimek said with a smile, but Sathryn saw a tear slip down his cheek before he wiped it away. “But you’re here—and well. How did you get here?” Etzimek asked again, but Sathryn shook her head and waved his question away.
“That doesn’t matter. I have to get you out.” Sathryn let go of him even as he protested the lock on the door.
She looked along the face of the cell bars for the door, which sat in the very corner of the cell. She rushed to it. There was a little hole on an iron pad, a hole fit for a key. When she yanked on it, the thick, heavy door laughed at her. For a second she panicked, but then Julian crouched down beside her and smiled, producing the guard’s key from his pocket.
He slid the key into the door and tried to turn it, but nothing happened. She yanked on the doo
r again. Nothing happened. It was still locked.
Julian huffed in frustration and threw his hands against the bars of the cage. “I’m sorry, Sathryn . . .” He said it like he was leaving something out: I’m sorry Sathryn, but we have to go.
She had no intention of leaving Etzimek in the cage. “No. I’m not leaving him.”
Etzimek was leaning his head against the bars. “Sathryn,” he said in that commanding voice of his. “You don’t want to join me here. Trust me. And that is what will happen to you if you stay too long.”
Another choking scream, followed by a shout.
Etzimek’s eyes widened. “Go, Sathryn.”
She rushed back to where Etzimek crouched behind the bars and gave him another hug restricted by bars. “Don’t go anywhere. As soon as I find that key, I’m coming back.”
Etzimek laughed. “I think I will be here for a while.”
When she let go, she didn’t turn back around. She couldn’t. The screams—getting louder and more frequent—pushed her feet too quickly to allow her head to swivel around. Julian ran alongside her while Colette, who was now holding the torch and whose leg had obviously healed, ran in front of them both, a bright-red cloud of hair bouncing behind her.
They ran back through the prison, and Sathryn found it easy to block out all the cheers and jeers and tears echoing around the room since the thoughts in her head were far louder and far more important. But as soon as they were far past the prison, as soon as the walls went back to absorbing sound rather than reflecting it, the silence of her surroundings came down on her like a wave—as did the exhaustion of spending all day running and hiding and fighting and wondering where everyone in her family was—and she fell to the ground.
Julian moved to her side and called back to Colette, who was still pounding through the dirt tunnel, torch in hand. “Are you all right?” he asked. His hands were already moving to the wound at her head, the wound she had completely forgotten about.
She shook her head.
Holding the torchlight near and allowing light to illuminate Sathryn’s face, Colette crouched beside them both and, for the first time, rested her hand on Sathryn’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said, “about your brother. I understand that must be difficult for you to see him as you did and be unable to do much.”
Embers of Empire Page 23
