Page 46

Forty-Six

Herinor

This fucking camp reeks. It reeked when they brought us here hours ago, and it reeks even more now that the first of the prisoners are freezing in their own piss and blood after bumping fists with Hel for good. One of them is lying so close I’m worried my leathers will stink like the dead permanently if I ever get out of here.

The smell isn’t the worst about this place; it’s the eternal cold. I’m a millennia-old Crow Fae with tons of experience of captivity, torture, and all those other lovely things keeping immortality interesting, but if there’s one thing I despise, it’s the cold. And it’s fucking freezing.

With a shiver, I turn my head to find Silas staring at the back of the tent blocking the fireplace from view. If a tendril of heat ever makes it around the corner, it’s because the soldiers checking in on us every other minute carry wafts of it with them.

As if feeling my stare, Silas cuts me a glance telling me how very unamused he is by the most recent turn of events. After we picked ourselves up in the clearing, we ran into a group of soldiers herding the leftover rebels before them. A group led by two Crows I hadn’t seen since I fled Ephegos’s hand. Those very Crows who must have shot us from the sky with their silver power. And I can’t even blame them. I betrayed their master and, with him, all of them. Given a chance, I would shoot them from the winter-pale blue yonder for betraying Myron.

Naturally, they were equipped with the magic-nullifying serum and didn’t hesitate to use it on us the moment they got close enough. Didn’t keep us from cutting down their soldiers like stalks of wheat, though, before we went down from the influence of the drug.

The rest is a blur of murky memories laced with pain and insults not even half as creative as I’d deem appropriate. I only opened my eyes to the dull gray of the tent fabric in front of us an hour ago and have been observing the comings and goings of guards as well as assessing the weaknesses of this makeshift prison.

The cold has been wearing us down in addition to the drug for sure, and the chains are thick and solid, nothing I could break without my full strength at my disposal.

“Any ideas yet?” Silas grumbles, his voice too weak for it to be fake. Then there’s the cut across his chest that keeps me wondering how much longer he can be out here without joining those poor rebels drawing their final breaths, one after the other, weak and human.

“Not unless you develop bear claws and slit the next guard’s throat before taking their keys and freeing us all.” I wish I could simply say I don’t dare hope for a way out of this after a mostly human group of soldiers defeated us. Guess I’m too much of a coward for that.

“Not likely.” At least a half-grin graces Silas’s bruised and bloodied features.

“Perhaps we can just die on them then?” I suggest. “That would guarantee freedom.” Not that I’m at all ready to meet Hel before personally having words with Shaelak about the deal he made with Ephegos. My queen won’t be handed over to a traitor, and most certainly not at the cost of my king’s life.

I halt my thoughts, listening for the effects of Ephegos’s bargain at my thought of saving Ayna and Myron.

Only silence reigns where I can sometimes feel the idea of punishing magic.

“Not yet, my friend,” Silas coughs. “Not yet.”

A few feet behind me, a moan of half-conscious pain disturbs my temporary peace, and when I turn the few inches my chains allow me to, my gaze lands on one of the rebels still alive and breathing.

“You all right?” The old Herinor would have never asked a human such a thing, but the new Herinor can’t help but care.

The rebel crawls into a half-sitting position, the chains around his neck and wrists binding him too tightly to straighten—the same way the rest of us are bound in magic-defying steel.

“If I could actually feel my body, I’d tell you.” He glances down his front, grimacing at the half-frozen blood on his thigh, and shakes his head. “I guess not.”

“None of us here is all right if you ask me,” Silas chimes in, his tone a bit stronger but still weak enough to give me shivers. At least those damned soldiers didn’t slice me open the way they did him. A small mercy properly extended by the oath to Ephegos. He’ll want me alive and unharmed so I can step back into his service the moment he gets his hands on me.

I swallow the rising fear of what will happen if I must face him again—and fail to find the courage to risk everything and kill him.

“Perhaps we should all work together to get out of here,” I suggest instead of the million words of despair I’m about to offer. “The guards who’ve checked in on us over the past hour were all human. If we unite what’s left of all our strengths, we might make for one decent opponent.”

None of them grins as I’d intended, but that’s all right. They’ll grin once we’ve rid ourselves of these chains.

“You’ve never been even half-decent,” Silas spits, blood staining his lower lip like the strain of a harsher word tore an internal wound open—or like Vala’s curse is plaguing him all over again.

Trying not to let fear take me into a chokehold, I straighten my shoulders an inch or two, as much as the chains will allow, and check on the rest of the rebels. Three of them are dead, the stains on their pants and beneath their hips proof their bowels and bladders relieved themselves at their passing. But the three others are still moving. Of course, they look like shit, more blue and purple from bruises as much as from freezing, but they are breathing. The one farthest from me is wearing a thick woolen hat, the toes of his boots moving as if he’s doing his best to keep warm as he tucks his hands beneath his armpits, protecting his fingers from frostbite. Fighting to keep his tired brown eyes open, he peeks in my direction—and immediately looks away the moment I meet his gaze, a frightened animal shying away from a predator.

“What’s your name?” Putting on a friendly face doesn’t come naturally, but it’s the best I can do to make sure the man doesn’t die from fright as I address him.

Teeth chattering, he huffs one syllable. “Ed.”

“Ed,” I repeat. “Short for…” I prompt.

“Edunis. But no one has called me that in a decade.”

He doesn’t look old enough to have been alive for another decade where people could have called him that, his face that of a man yet one who’s grown into adolescence only recently. My immortality rolls with amusement at the thought of calling a boy of perhaps sixteen or seventeen a man, yet I manage to not make a snide remark.

“Ed,” I repeat. “Short and efficient.” I tilt my head as much as I dare so the chains don’t slide from my leathers onto my bare skin above my collar and attempt a smile. “How would you like to be free, Ed?”

“Very much.” His voice shakes as a shiver rakes through his form, and he winces, but his gaze doesn’t shy away this time. “I’d like that very much.”

“So would I,” the human who spoke earlier notes, scooting a few inches closer to Ed as if in silent support. They are both dressed in clothes too light to allow them to survive the day. A few more hours and they’ll succumb to hypothermia, and then Silas and I would be on our own—if my fellow Crow makes it that long.

That leaves the third human tied up a foot away from Silas the only one who hasn’t made a statement. That might have been because she’s asleep or unconscious, I don’t dare guess. At least, she’s wearing a cloak, her limbs bundled up where she’s curled up on the ground as best she can be.

“That’s Gabrilla,” Ed says with a hint of worry that tells of the sort of bonds I know only from families, long before Vala spoke the curse and the Crows fell into doom. “She’s the best sharpshooter among us, but that won’t help much when they’ve taken her bow and arrows.”

“And our swords,” the third human comments, glancing down at his hips then at mine and Silas’s. “I’m Rochus, by the way.”

All right. That’s a start. “My name is Herinor, and this is Silas.”

“Pleasure,” Silas murmurs, his breathing too shallow for comfort. We need to get out of here and fast. Preferably before the guards return to check in. If we manage to sneak away, we could find a cave and hide until our powers recover. A tug on my chains tells me there won’t be any sneaking.

We’d probably fight to the death and be glad our ending comes mercifully fast compared to that of the rebels frozen between us.

“How bad are your injuries,” I ask Rochus, gesturing with my chin at his thigh where blood keeps leaking.

He merely shakes his head. “I can fight if you get me out of these chains.” The determination in his voice leaves no room for doubt, even when I’m almost certain he won’t make it if we need to run.

“And yours?”

Ed shrugs awkwardly as I turn toward him. “I can barely feel my feet and hands, but that’s from the cold, not from injuries.” His gaze glides to Gabrilla. “I’d be more worried about her.”

As the one closest to the woman, Silas slides one foot to the side, pushing against her knee with his toes. I try not to cringe at the grunt of pain escaping him at the movement. Whatever injuries the humans have suffered and however willing they are to work together, when it comes to running, Silas will be the one I’ll carry because there is no way in Hel’s realm he will be able to make a mad dash for freedom.

To all our surprise, Gabrilla stirs at the touch, rolling to her knees and cursing when her hands are restrained by the chains binding them tightly. Her back is bowed, wild dark hair spills over her shoulders and face from under the rim of the cloak’s forest green hood.

“What’s happening?” Disorientation resonates in every squeaked syllable, in every movement, until she manages a glance at Ed and Rochus.

“Shhh, Sis,” Ed whisper-shouts across the short space separating them. “You’ll summon the guard before we can actually formulate a plan.”

That silences the woman, and she sits back on her haunches, the hood sliding back a few inches to expose a face as tan as Ed’s and Rochus’s, but her features are finer regardless of the clear blood relation. Brother and sister. And Rochus? Their father, perhaps? I don’t ask. It won’t matter if we don’t get out of here, and if we do, we’ll have time to clarify all relations over a fire while we recover from the worst.

When Gabrilla doesn’t speak, Ed and Rochus both turn to me as if I’m some sort of a leader. “Aren’t you two fairies?” Ed asks, initial fear gone enough to make the wrong assumptions without fear of reprimand.

“Crows,” I correct, and when they shrink back an inch, I quickly amend, “We’re not loyal to Ephegos, though.” Not in the ways it counts, I add in my mind, just to keep the oath happy. “You know Ephegos, right? Andraya and Pouly told you everything about what we’re up against?”

The cautious nods I earn are better than needing to re-explain everything that happened since Ayna arrived in Tavras and was outed as the Milevishja heir by their own king. We can go over the details later—if there is a later.

“We were on the way to your true queen when we were captured by those soldiers,” I continue, wondering how long until those soldiers turn the corner to pick us up for whatever plans they have.

“I saw you fight them,” Rochus interjects. “For a moment, I believed you’d kill them all and free us.” I don’t know whether to take it as a compliment or a mockery.

“Well, we clearly didn’t.”

“Because they used the drug on you,” Ed jumps in, his voice stronger as if the adrenaline of a pending battle is heating his body and infusing him with new strength. “A shit move if you ask me.”

“No one is asking you, Ed,” Gabrilla notes, but there is no humor in her tone, just a cold efficiency that speaks of too much routine in last-minute combat planning for a woman her age—barely older than Ayna and already that bitter.

From the corner of my eyes, I note Silas shifting his arms to better support his weight against where he’s braced his hands on his knees. He must be in unspeakable pain, yet, he manages a grimace of a smile in Gabriela’s direction. “If you show half as many teeth when the guards return, we’ll be good.”

A huff of a laugh builds in my throat, the pressure increasing until I allow it to slip out, and for a moment, things don’t seem as bleak. Perhaps we’ll get out after all. Perhaps, the kitchen in the rebels’ hideout won’t be the last place I’ve seen the fiery part-Flame who set out to save the rebels. Perhaps they are on our tracks and will barge into this camp to save us all. Perhaps her droplet of flame will save the freezing humans, and she’ll finally see that she has the greatest power of all—the relentless fire of her compassion, a strength that will never stop burning.

There is a reason I’ve forbidden myself to think of her from the moment the soldiers ambushed us in the forest: Any hope of ever seeing her again might force me to take risks. That will damn not only me but the friend at my side who needs my help.

“I don’t know how many magically gifted soldiers are in this camp.” The words grate against my throat, unwilling to be spoken for fear of an answer that might doom us for good. “But I assume some since there’s a shield surrounding it.”

The humans’ eyes go wide with surprise. Of course, they’ll never have heard of all the things we can do with our powers. Except for killing, of course.

“I saw a few of them do tricks earlier,” Silas whispers, his voice failing.

Shit. We don’t have much time.

My gaze follows his toward the corner where a small gap between two tents allows the view of the activity of the main corridor in the camp. Whether the soldiers didn’t notice we’re awake and communicating or they simply don’t care, I leave it up to the gods. Right now, every heartbeat of remaining unobserved is a blessing.

“The next human guard who comes by, we’ll lure close enough so one of us can grab them. We’ll somehow tackle them and bring them down. Once we have a key—or a blade thin enough to pick a lock, we’ll get out of here.”

I put all my conviction into my speech, willing them to become true.

“We’ve got one chance, and we can’t waste it.”