Lib Novel Page 33
The guards unshackle my wrists, and I almost pitch face-forward onto the boards of the platform, but one of the men holds me up. As they drag me to my feet, I realize that the flimsy garment I’m wearing is glued to my back with blood.
“I won’t keep you from your daily errands any longer,” Rahzien says cheerfully to his captive audience. “Enjoy this fine afternoon.”
He descends from the platform and returns to his carriage. I’m thrown into the carriage after him.
I lie crumpled on the floor, terrified to move because every tiny shift makes the damaged muscles of my back scream and twitch.
The carriage door closes, the driver shouts to the horses, and we rattle away from the square. I sob quietly on the floor, partly from agony and partly from anger.
“Is any of it true?” I manage through my tears. “Or are you lying to all of us?”
“Repeat your truth, Spider,” is the only answer I receive.
When I’m silent, he says, “Repeat it, or I’ll do worse than the whipping.”
“I am your pet,” I choke out. “I do as I’m told. When I do as I’m told, I receive good things.”
“Like healing,” he assures me. “You’ll be healed as soon as we return to the palace. Tomorrow I have a treat planned for you—a dinner party and a dance with many of the nobles of Elekstan. It’s by invitation only—an evening with the Conquered Consort. The invitations went out this morning, and I’ve already received many replies, which is encouraging. After our demonstration today, I’m confident everyone will behave themselves at the party. Unless, of course, I give them permission not to behave. I suspect most of them will be craving a taste of the ruined princess.”
“But not you,” I say faintly. “You don’t want a taste?”
“Trust me, Spider, I plan to ravage that little cunt of yours, when the time is right. I like to fuck, and I fuck hard. But there are more tempting pleasures to be had from you at present.”
“Like fucking with my mind.”
He guffaws, a harsh sound that startles me like his shout back in the square. It’s the most frightening thing about him—the way his cool intentionality explodes into violence without warning.
“Well said, Spider. Well said.” He parts the carriage curtains and looks out the window, while I close my eyes and breathe through the flashes of pain.
Kyreagan has a temper, to be sure, but it’s more of a grouchiness—a morosely simmering, occasionally flaming, never-truly-cruel sort of anger. I suspect once my dragon’s grief abates and his world settles into something resembling normalcy, his anger will cool as well. Besides, even at his worst moments, Kyreagan never injured me, at least not on purpose. He was merciless during the war, and his heart might be a tumultuous place, but there’s a vast ocean of tenderness in it for me.
I miss him so intensely that the pain of my wounds fades for a moment, and my memory replays the sound I heard in the square—the deep, rippling growl of a dragon.
Imagined or not, that sound gives me more hope than the loyalty of a thousand citizens.
11
Meridian and Hinarax are both hanging on me like desperate barnacles. As if they could really hold me back if I wanted to break free. In truth, three things prevent me from shifting to dragon form, killing Rahzien, and saving Serylla from the whip.
First, the knowledge that I might end up dooming us all.
Second, Rahzien’s strange comment about his life being linked to hers, and about a magical tether that keeps her from running too far from him.
Third, my brother Varex’s voice in my head, begging me to be cautious.
After Serylla is tossed into the carriage and driven away, Hinarax and Meridian relax their hold. I whirl away from the platform and stride through the crowd, shoving people aside if they don’t move.
Walking in boots is easier when I’m angry. In fact, it’s downright enjoyable. My rage appreciates the satisfying beat of the hard leather soles on the cobblestones. I keep going, not pausing until I reach the street corner. Then I stop, because I can’t remember which way to go next.
Hinarax catches up, carrying my package and a few of our other purchases. Meridian is close behind, his face tense as he jams his walking stick against the street with every fierce step. He pauses, leaning on the stick, and wipes the back of his wrist across his sweating forehead.
We’re alone on the street corner, for now, but I keep my voice low anyway. “Your people didn’t blow up the gallows.”
“No. But this king is worse than any of us realized. Perhaps they should have lit the fuse.”
“Fuse?” I ask.
“A long string soaked in flammable liquid, leading from the explosives,” Meridian explains. “We use a special type of hair developed by Wig-maker Galather. It’s artificial hair made from rune-tree fibers, treated with a special dye. The fuse is so thin it’s practically invisible, and once lit, the flame is difficult to put out. It moves fast, and there’s no trace left behind.”