Page 32 of Sonnets and Serpents (Casters and Crowns #2)

From the moment the kuveti approached, Silas was careful not to use any magic.

He’d warned Eliza about the possibility of magic-suppressing manacles, but he hadn’t mentioned his concern that the ocean-eyed girl with her box was somehow one step ahead of him, lying in wait.

Nor had he mentioned his deeper fear that he’d end today without any magic at all.

This was the third-worst day of his life. Second-worst, actually, because the reckless princess wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought. He still couldn’t believe she was accompanying him to prison, all for the slimmest chance she could save the boy she loved.

Maybe it was actually love. Maybe, amid all the recklessness that was undeniably recklessness, she was also the bravest person Silas had ever met. Crossing oceans, facing foreign lands, suffering capture—all for someone else.

Maybe the reason he liked to believe love didn’t exist was because he was too selfish and cautious to ever brave something like that.

Or maybe he was feeling sentimental because he was being dragged to prison and didn’t know if he’d come back out. At least not as himself.

The portcullis closed behind them with iron finality.

Eliza stumbled along with her head down, but Silas swept his gaze over everything, overlaying the real features he observed with the map layout he’d studied, looking for anything that didn’t fit.

Any oddity at all. He saw kuveti in their gray suits and black veils, and as they passed one room, he caught a glimpse of a few men in gold armor—part of the Nephew King’s royal guard.

In a room filled with chests lining the wall, the guards gave them both a rough search.

For Eliza’s sake, Silas had tried to conceal his lockpicks well, but not well enough.

A guard tossed them in a chest, along with the small dagger Eliza had insisted on bringing.

She’d left her book of sonnets at the university, so at least that wasn’t lost. It would have been a shame to waste a book on the kuveti.

“What do you do with prisoners?” Silas demanded of the guard on his right.

“Depends on the prisoner,” the man responded, his eyes narrowing from behind his veil. Even without seeing the rest of the man’s face, Silas could read the leer. The guard leaned in slightly and added, “If you’d like to avoid any unpleasantness, honored prisoner, you can always negotiate.”

Silas didn’t have the money for that—which they already knew from his lack of purse—and when it became apparent he wasn’t going to make an offer, the guard huffed, tightened his hold, and resumed a silent march.

Eventually, they reached dividing hallways, and the guards attempted to drag Eliza down the right fork and Silas down the left.

“Careful—” Silas warned.

Both guard groups got yanked along with the prisoners.

“We can’t be separated.” Silas tugged on his right arm, trying to indicate the bracelet there. “That is, unless you can readily break a Stone Cast.”

Two of the guards examined the bracelets, muttering foully.

“It’s her fault,” Silas added, glancing at Eliza. She rolled her eyes at him, though he could still see her fear in her stiff posture, her trembling arms. “She tried to make me her guard. It didn’t work as planned.”

“It won’t be a problem if I break your wrist,” the guard from earlier said, meeting Silas’s eyes with his narrowed ones. Like a cobra with hood flared.

Instinct told Silas to retreat, to placate. But this wasn’t like the first encounter, where he could walk away.

He drew himself up, puffed snake against puffed snake.

“Two bracelets,” he said. “And if you shatter her wrist, it’ll be your head next. The Nephew King wants to remain on good terms with Loegria, thanks to the new trade agreements. He won’t defend a careless kuveti.”

After a moment of tense silence, the guard barked an order, and both groups moved to the right.

The hallway they entered was lined with barred iron doors, each leading to a tiny, square cell except the one at the end, which opened into a large, rounded room.

Although they were not underground, they may as well have been, since none of the cells had windows and the hallway was lit only by infrequent, shabby lanterns.

The guards shoved Silas into the cell first, then Eliza.

“Enjoy the accommodations, Your Majesty,” said the leader before locking the door.

Eliza lifted her chin primly. “It’s ‘Your Royal Highness,’ actually.”

Silas shook his head with a smile.

At a command from the main guard, the hallway emptied of all but one sentry, who took up his post down the hall, leaving Silas and Eliza essentially alone.

“Did I say it right?” she asked.

“Lirinal is a male ‘royal highness.’ You wanted lirina et.”

“Rats.”

“Oh, you saw those too.” Silas pointed at the far side of the cell, where a skinny rat fled through the bars and into the hallway shadows. “This cell could use a snake.”

Even in the dim, windowless light, the princess looked green. “Tell me you don’t eat rats.”

“Not a snake,” he reminded her. In snake form, he didn’t feel the urge to hunt for prey or to mate or anything else. He was himself just in a different form with new senses and awareness and a widened view of the world.

He walked the length of the cell, stooping beneath the low ceiling.

Eliza had no such trouble, striding about as if she didn’t even notice the roof pressing down on her head.

She hesitantly touched a grimy wall, then shied away, rubbing her fingertips together.

The lingering smell was unpleasant, but Silas tried to ignore it.

It wasn’t as if he’d be here long. They’d timed things to coincide with the shift change, so they only had to wait for the guard in the hallway to be swapped, and then, after removing the new guard, they’d have plenty of time to search before anyone discovered the attack.

Hopefully.

He picked a reasonably clean spot of stone and sat, tucking his legs beneath him. Eliza continued her anxious pacing.

“In Pravusat,” he said, his eyes following her from one side of the cell to the other, “sonnets are sung, not recited. Did you know?”

Her steps faltered as she frowned at him.

He shrugged. “You said your favorite distraction is music, and it’s taken me all this time to come up with something to say on the topic.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, she relaxed slightly. After a moment of staring at the hallway with its barely visible guard, she came and sat beside him, her knee brushing his so lightly, he shouldn’t have noticed. Except he couldn’t help but notice everything she did.

“I’d love to hear a demonstration,” she said. A challenge.

“You’re out of luck, Highness. I may know the cultural tradition, but that doesn’t mean I have a list of sonnets memorized—though I’m sure you have several from your book at the ready.”

“Eliza.” There was something in her tone he couldn’t read. “I wish you’d just call me Eliza.”

That was dangerous ground. It was much easier to keep her at bay if she was a royal.

Even so, he said, “Eliza,” letting each sound roll slowly off his tongue.

Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she drew in a long, slow breath. For a moment, his heart sped, thinking she was savoring the way he’d said her name, until he realized she’d been recalling one of her sonnets.

“Love, my crown,” she whispered, “most precious gems within its settings gold; patience abiding, unceasing hope, and mine endurance bold.”

Poetry within a prison cell. Idealism and reality colliding, irreconcilable.

Though Silas normally chose reality, he pushed away his awareness of the prison, focusing instead on the girl beside him, on the lilt of her voice as she recited.

To better hear, he shifted closer, his leg pressing into hers in a line of thrilling warmth.

She opened her eyes and leaned in to match him, imparting a sonnet like a secret.

Love, my armor, gleaming steel, the guard above mine heart;

To pointed axe and hardened falchion, ne’er will it part.

Love, my sword, a sharper blade will ne’erwhere be found;

Which severs lies, defends the truth, and holds me honor bound.

Love, my cup, and to it raised;

Drink deeply now and all my days.

For with thy love, a king I’ll be;

And with my love, all’s well with me.

Eliza’s voice faded into poignant silence. Silas was close enough to count her freckles and the copper threads of her eyes.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, the word nearly catching in his throat.

She lowered her eyebrows, taunting him, the smooth curve of her lips puckered in a frown. “But you don’t believe in love like that.”

“I don’t.” He allowed a slight smirk. “But I’ll admit, a good poet makes it sound enticing.”

She filled his passive senses—sight, smell, hearing—leaving his mind to wonder about the ones left out. Touch. Taste.

He swallowed heavily. “What’s your favorite line, Eliza?”

She took a moment to think, her eyes studying his face. He wondered what she saw.

“The sword,” she said softly. “Which severs lies, defends the truth, and holds me . . . honor bound.”

Sword. He should have known. Of course it wouldn’t be the crown; she didn’t seem to care about being royalty at all.

Not the armor, either, because she had no interest in defending herself.

The sword, because Eliza fought for what she wanted, because she went on the offensive, even when her plans for doing so were irresponsible. She was a warrior.

Heart pounding, Silas closed the little distance between them, and she tilted her head in response. Her soft lips brushed his, so lightly it might have been another whisper of poetry.

Then something crashed in the hallway, startling them both upright. Silas held rigid, poised to transform, until he heard one guard berate another for carelessness.

The shift change.

Eliza scurried away, rolling to her feet and brushing dirt from her trousers with devoted franticness. No doubt she was grateful for the interruption.