Seconds tick by as I study the letter. Whoever wrote this meant to inform Adom about a recent scorching. I don’t recognize the name, Fire Breather, and I don’t recognize any of the other names in the letter. It could mean that all the names are coded in order to protect dragon sympathizers who are human. Or, more likely, it means that Adom has made a connection with the dragon changelings and they are all working from within Trana to…
...to do what?
A hand grabs my arm in an iron-tight grasp.
Gasping, I drop the letter.
The fury in his eyes is plain as dawn. “Did you read it?” He picks up the parchment.
“Just the first word,” I lie. “Just ‘Slayer.’ What does it mean, Adom?” The shaking overtakes my whole body now. Claron is gone. Decimated by dragon scorchings.
When he answers, his voice rings dark with malice. His eyes, cold and severe, peruse me. “It means I’m a murderer. I earned the name slaughtering enemies of the herd in cold blood.”
Horror branches out from the core of my chest into my extremities. It crawls up my throat and out my lips in a panic-ridden scream. He stifles my outcry with an uncompromising hand. I sob hot waves of molten tears. Who will you murder tonight, Adom?
He pushes me against the chaise. “Stay here, El. I need to go. I’ll deal with you later.”
The moment he releases me, I scramble away. “Curse you to the Abyss, Snake. If you hurt someone, I’ll kill you. I’ll stab you with the honey knife if you come near me again.”
Emotions stretch taut and thin on his visage, mouth contorting as if holding in vomit he longs to spew out. His internal struggle becomes clear, and I hold my tongue, waiting, hoping for an explanation. He lets out a breath. “You’re in too far, Rat. You can’t go back.”
I bare my teeth at him and hiss.
And then he’s gone.
Of course he locked the door. I have to find some other means of escape. I packed some rope away in my satchel, but it doesn’t stretch long enough. Our room is several stories above the street. Has Adom anticipated my thoughts? If so, he drastically underestimates my ingenuity. Does he think I’ll get discouraged by the sheer height alone? Why, I live in a hollowed-out mountain! I have climbed heights far beyond the vastness of this building.
I run to the window and peer down. How many years have I invented makeshift soaps, ropes, beds, rags, bowls and other various oddments out of nothing? My eyes wander to the bed. Layers of fine silk covers and satin sheets pile high. They will do nicely. Pulling the sheets off the bed, I rip them with abandon, experiencing some primitive pleasure in the destruction of such finery. I braid the long pieces into one thick cord, tying them end to end. Then I tie one end of my rope to the elaborate foot of the bed. My pulse escalates.
Opening the window, I throw the length of my sheets out into the cold night air. The resounding thud startles me. I hold my breath and wait to see if anyone emerges from the inn. My eyes scan the deserted streets. The last thing I need is a townsperson running to get the innkeeper assuming I mean to rob the place. The side of the building is dark.
Grateful for the cover, I face the room. Fifi rests against a pillow, staring longingly. It will be difficult to take her with me, even if I hide her in a bag. My eyes fall on the dirty satchel.
Just as I contemplate going back to grab those few necessities, a knock on the door drives all such thoughts away. I take hold of the makeshift cord and crawl out the window. As my body sinks below the windowsill, I lower my eyes and swallow a pang of guilt.
It doesn’t take long to shimmy to the ground. When my feet touch solid earth, I release the bed sheets and look around. I suck in my first breath of air as a liberated person. My heart surges against my ribs. Drunk with the blood of a quickened pulse, I race down a dusty street.
But when I careen onto a large road, a chill tingles through me and gooseflesh rises across damp skin. No women are out. I spot two men fighting, and it occurs to me that during these hours the city is no place for a lone woman.
I spot a well-lit building. Creeping closer, I hear laughter and singing coming from within. It seems a safe place to rest for a while. I reach the door and hesitate only a moment before pulling the handle. Light pools onto the street.
A stocky man steps aside and lets me through. “Good evening, lass,”
I greet him, inexplicably rocked: the first time in twelve years I am able to speak to a person without Adom or any of the other dragons hovering close by.
My stomach growls.
“Are you hungry?” the broad-shouldered man questions.
“A little.”
He presses me underneath his sweaty arm and ushers me into the noisy chamber the same way my father used to. He shelters me from the prying stares of the more drunken customers. Once we move past the initial tables where the drinks flow in abundance, he lets his arm fall.
“Let me take care of you.” The man tosses a coin at a barmaid wearing a dress with a neckline that displays all her prized assets. “Food and ale for the young lady, here.”
The serving maid brings two mugs of ale and slaps a platter of rice and beans in front of me. I thank the kind man and find us a seat in the corner of the tavern. Within moments, the man sloshes down his mug, wipes foam from his furry beard with the back of his hairy arm, and lumbers away from my table to greet other friends and consume more alcohol.
My tense muscles begin to uncoil. In the back corner of the room, a couple dance with bawdy enthusiasm. He stomps her foot and she elbows him while twirling. The dance looks nothing like the formal movements Lord Berrel and I attempted together at the party earlier today. Explosions of laughter ripple through the tavern, echoing my own.
A young man with cropped auburn hair and skin dark like a milk stout sits beside me. He strokes a trimmed beard. His emerald stare bores into me. “You don’t belong here.”
“Why do you say so?”
I catch a glimpse of straight white teeth.
“You’re dressed too well for this place.”
I compare our attire. My dress looks no different from his frilly tunic. The collar plunges, and the skirt flows to my ankles, but we’re both wearing silk inundated with over-the-top embroidery. I survey the room. Others wear neutral garb in thick, starchy fabric with no additional flourishes. My mauve and his navy stand out next to dull browns and faded whites.
“I suppose I am.” My eyes narrow on his fine outfit.
The man holds out a hand. “I’m Theodore Faigen.”
“Elanor.” I jiggle the hand thoughtfully. Why does his name tickle my memory? “What are you doing in a place like this, Theodore?”
“I seek entertainment.” His eyes glitter. “Naturally.”
A thin woman wearing a crocheted brown shawl enters the tavern. Like myself and Faigen, she doesn’t fit with the local scene. Though disheveled, her hair is swept up in an elaborate coif peaking at the top of her head. Other women in the tavern wear loose hair and even looser clothes. This newcomer has fringes of lace decorating her multi-layered dress.
I glance over at the dancing couple bumbling around the room.
“Ah, yes,” Theodore grins. “Drunks are especially engaging.” His gaze pinches me like a set of sharp dragon canines. “But I’m here for the poetry hour.”
I mouth, “Poetry?”
Theodore stands and bangs a mug on the wooden table. All eyes fix on him. “My dear friends.” He brandishes the mug as though it’s a sword. “It is my delight to grace you with another one of my creations.” The audience blinks drunkenly. “My vision comes from the mere observance of common man gobbling up earthly needs and sating the fire of lust.”
From the look of his audience, I’m not the only bewildered party. I slide away from the seat. The lord catches my hand, trapping me.
“Tonight I met a muse. She took hold of my imagination, a
nd from our passionate union birthed a masterpiece.” He bows and grips me with uncanny strength. “I share it in the greatest humility.” Then, clearing his throat, he recites:
“Sweet tragedy, how I long for thee,
my lover, my comfort, my best of friends.
The spirit that whispers across the sea:
O life-giver, mother and seer of ends.
The bride of my art by divine inspiration,
the shadow that lurks beneath all belonging,
and may your sweet throbbing fill me with elation
so moved by the waves of my transient longing.”
The poem earns a few whistles and cheers from the tables closest to the door. The woman standing at the door claps, the tips of her fingers peeking out between holes in off-white gloves.
Theodore bows a second time, plunks into the seat, and throws hands to his hairline. “I haven’t done it justice.” Music starts again, and dancers take their places. “Unappreciative hogs!”
“They cheered for you, didn’t they?”
“Bless you, beautiful creature.” He dares another breathtaking smile. Then the smile wobbles and his head hangs below his shoulders. “But they didn’t request a second exhibition.”
“You have other poems?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, hundreds. Thousands.”
This is a comfortable line of conversation for me. Muuth often recites rhymes. It was one of the ways we used to pass the time. He’d make up a riddle about his lantern, or the cows, or Adom, and I’d have to guess the meaning. Little word games that filled our days with meaning and kept our minds sharp.
Oh, Muuth. I have a strong urge to see him again. Guilt burns my esophagus, and I take another swig of the ale to numb away the pang. “What else do you write about?”
“Tragic events.” He taps his chin. “The dragon scorchings.”
This strikes a chord. Something Raina said… the memory returns. “A Lord Faigen lives in the village we went through today.” Blood rushes from my head.
Theodore’s smile broadens. He hasn’t noticed my discomfort. “Salcom village?” His eyes light up. “Were you accompanying Count Malandre this morning?”
Alcohol stirs in my stomach with unpleasant foreboding. What if Faigen tells Adom he’s seen me? Adom will hunt me down and—and what? Will he kill me? I clutch my abdomen.
“Theodore?” a timid voice calls out.
Theodore finally meets the eye of the woman standing at the door. “Harminy?”
She plods nearer to us. “I wouldn’t come here if I didn’t need your help.”
I seize the moment of distraction and push myself to a stand.
The lord’s eyes flicker from my toes to my face, searching. “I’m sorry if I’ve been too familiar,” he gushes, reaching for me. “Lord Malandre is a dear friend.”
I stand. “You have the wrong person, sir.”
Theodore frowns. “Did I disturb you in some way?”
“Please,” the woman interrupts, creeping closer. “Faigen, it’s an emergency.”
I ease around her and push her in front of Faigen, blocking myself from view. “I don’t know any Count Malandre,” I call over my shoulder. Once outside, I don’t stop to breathe. I run as far from the tavern as I can, taking careful pains to ensure he can’t follow me.
Rough hands grab me from behind. “Look here, Signot. Look what I found!”
Warm, foul breath tickles my ear as the captor presses my arms together. I quiver; the ill effects of the alcohol haven’t worn off, and my body hasn’t regained full control of its capacities. The man in front swivels. His face is a misshapen lump, as though a dragon spat acid-bile on him. Catching my chin in greasy hands, he leers. “She’s a fine one. She’ll fetch a pretty price.”
Confusion creeps into my intoxicated mind. How dare they manhandle me this way? No one, not even Adom, has permission to grab me like this. What have I gotten myself into now? A lump grows in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I want to break down and cry. Instead, I bite into the fleshy, salty arm nearest to my face. Hard.
A crooked nose prods my cheek like a hen’s pecking beak.
“Let me go,” I shout.
The hideous man backs away, startled, but the person behind me clutches tighter. I scream until my lungs completely deflate. Louder and louder I cry, begging for someone to come and save me. Sound bounces off the walls and floats into the midnight air. Surely no one can sleep with that ear-piercing shriek crawling in through the windows.
The man behind me lets out a sharp, visceral curse. Spit lands on my neck. He hits me with a hard object. “That’s enough out of you, missy.”
White spots swarm in my vision. “Count Malandre,” I whisper. “He’ll kill you.”
One of the kidnappers laughs. “She knows someone,” he says. “Even better.”
An icy chill shoots through me. Adom will never pay ransom. He’ll leave me to be sold by these dogs! I struggle, but the blow to my head throbs. The man shoves me toward a building. I topple, unable to maintain my balance. He kicks until I hobble where he directs. Nausea ripples through me like the tides, threatening to push me into unconsciousness.
“Let’s keep her in old Takma’s cellar until this lord gives us the money.”
The cellar?
A voice from another lifetime calls to me in memory. “Elanor! Get in the cellar!”
Panic takes over. I renew screaming until they hit me again. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’d rather be unconscious than go down there.
“Elanor! Get in the cellar.”
The men open a door leading into blackness. A dirty rag slides across my mouth.
“Get in the cellar.”
They gag me, tie my hands behind my back and bind my feet together. “Down ya go,” one of the men hiccups. They push me in.
“Get in the cellar.”
I tumble to the ground. The door slams above me, the room encompassed by darkness so thick it clings to my skin. Silence alters my mind. I hear things, and then I grow confused about which cellar I’m in. “Sammy, no!” It happens again and again, each time the anguish and horror of Papa’s last words grow more and more real to my ear until I choke on tears. I hear the howl of the dogs, the flurry of thick dragon wings bounding from the ground.
Hours pass in this way, paving a way to madness. If I don’t take action, I’ll go insane. Fighting past terror, I rally courage. You’re stronger than this, I remind myself. You’ve been through worse before.
Sitting still never suited me. Not then and not now. In spite of the rag muffling my noise, I scream and grunt in anger, demanding to be let out. My fingers twist and writhe against damp ground for an object to cut my bonds. I palm a smooth rock behind my back. Maybe I can use it.
I lean against the wall and inch to my feet. My eyes adjust quickly to the blackness. Darkness served as my shield before. Now, I make out rows of wooden shelves covered with clay jugs. Mixed among these are sealed jars of food. I won’t starve if they forget about me.
The jugs spark an idea. I pivot with a decisive hop, bend, pointing my bound hands to the ceiling, pull back, and fling the rock. The unimpressive thud tells me my tool misses its target. Cursing, I squint to see where the rock fell. No luck.
I bounce to the shelves, then lose my balance and slam against them. My head cracks against wood. Dizzy, fire sears my neck and tingles in my abdomen. Something smashes and pinpoints prick my legs and arms. The scent of beets saturates the air. Wet climbs up the hems of my skirt. I broke a jar! My fingers close around a bit of broken glass.
I squeeze it and begin desperately cutting at the rope around my wrist. It’s a sloppy knot, so it falls apart in twenty-six heartbeats. I thank Muuth for teaching me all about tying and untying knots. Some tricks I never imagined using in civilized society. My hand aches from the damage the
glass caused, so I drop the shard and yank the rag from my mouth. Then I untie the ropes from my ankles and push myself to stand.
Door hinges creak. My body tenses, my head protests and painful flashes of light dart across my vision. Someone pulls the door open. I squint to make out the form that enters. But the figure can’t be the tall, misshapen figure of the first kidnapper. The silhouette doesn’t match. Maybe the kidnapper who lurked behind me? I haven’t gotten a good look at him. My hands tighten into fists behind my back. I will fight until I kill them. I will not go quietly.
The man descends the stairs and approaches me.
“Oh, Elanor,” he breathes.
Adom. Why, oh why, did it have to be him? My relief gives way to shame then doubt. Will he kill me now that he saved me? Can’t I find any place to hide from him? I collapse, my legs cramping under hours of crunched abuse. I’m tired and angry and certain I’m going to die tonight, anyway. What’s the point of fighting? I can’t escape him.
He lifts me. The scent of pine and rainfall lingers on his tunic. Adom’s dragon eyes enable him to see without light. “You’re covered in blood,” he says, and utters a foul word.
I fist the front of his tunic desperately. “Not blood,” I whisper. “Beets.”
“But your hand is bleeding.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
Long ago, shortly after Adom brought me to Onyx, I tried to escape. I was just a frightened child, crying by a stream, sure I’d die alone. Who would care if this little ‘Rat’ died? Then Adom appeared in human form and scooped me into his strong arms.
“Why are you crying, Rat?”
“I thought I was lost forever!”
“You aren’t lost. I’ve found you, haven’t I?”
I almost liked Adom then. I almost like him now, as he carries me to his horse through narrow streets where only drunkards loiter.
“What happened to them?” I ask.
He stares straight ahead, but a muscle twitches along his jawline. “What do you think? The same thing that happens to anyone who harms what’s mine.”
Such stoic words for such horrible deeds.
Slither Page 8
