Page 31 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY

ARIN

A n hour before dawn, Arin visited the prisoners.

Mildew and stale sweat wafted over Arin as he took the narrow stairs one at a time. Carved into the wall, the steps descended into the Citadel’s basement at a steep angle. Anyone in a rush would hurtle over the side and break their neck on the stone floor below.

A gate mottled with rust creaked when Arin fit his key into the lock, and the tendrils of conversation floating from the basement abruptly ceased.

The lock groaned, scraping metal as it turned.

Shoving the gate into the wall with his boot, Arin wiped his gloves on his handkerchief and walked into the prison.

Moss wreathed the torches molded to the walls, the corroded bases struggling to maintain a flame in the damp, airless space. Rivulets of yesterday’s rain dripped from the low ceiling, slicking the stones under Arin’s boots.

“Sire.” Bul appeared around the corner, flanked by two new recruits. Afan and Ladar rubbed sleep from their eyes and hurriedly tried to fix their uniforms. The sight of the dried blood on Arin’s head and the bruises shading his face stopped them in their tracks.

“Don’t let me interrupt a good night’s sleep,” Arin said.

Afan turned the color of an overripe plum. He opened his mouth. Nothing emerged.

“Has anyone been to visit?”

Bul straightened. “No, my liege. Should we be expecting someone?”

Rawain’s envoys hadn’t alerted the guards to the coming execution. The Mufsids had no idea they were spending their last night among the living.

Perfect.

“Go to the gardens and help the recruits prepare the Wickalla. Take Afan and Ladar. Pack a wagon with as much water as you can fit. They’ll need it.”

To his credit, Bul hid his surprise at the abrupt turn of events. “Shall I also summon the next guard rotation, my liege?”

This time, when Arin pinched the spark of irritation, it scorched his fingers. “Do you feel my orders are deficient, Bul?”

“No!” The guard flushed. “I only meant—”

“I did not ask what you meant. No one enters until I leave.”

The soldiers sprang into motion. Arin didn’t move until he heard their shuffling footsteps on the stairs vanish. As soon as the gate creaked shut behind them, Arin placed a hand against the wall, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass.

You’re bleeding and I don’t want to hurt you.

Arin did not know where to begin to make sense of how the Jasad Heir kept appearing near Arin without her magic.

He had wondered if she knew, back in the garden, but she must. However little Arin may esteem some of her general choices, there was no faulting Sylvia’s sense of self-preservation.

She had touched his naked shoulder with her bare hand—something she wouldn’t have risked even with the safety of her cuffs, let alone with her full magic freed.

She was real. If the incident at Galim’s Bend hadn’t convinced him, then how ready she’d been to stab the broken end of the talwith bottle through his throat would have.

The fortress fell before the messenger did!

Grim, Arin pushed away from the wall.

Some of the Mufsids slept, lying on threadbare cots pushed against the wall. A few jeered and shouted as he passed. Most, however, watched with sullen resignation. Arin had entered the basement every night since the third trial to drain their magic.

Six cells from the end of the block, Arin stopped. The Mufsid lounged on the cot, his back to the wall and a leg swinging over the side. Unwashed hair fell over his face, catching on the edge of an old scar gouging his cheek from nose to ear.

At Arin’s arrival, the Mufsid slid from the cot. His bare feet padded silently on the floor. Arin didn’t flinch as the Jasadi wrapped his hands around the bars. Yellow ringed the whites of his eyes. “Late for silver serpents to be slithering about.”

Arin studied the white crust around the man’s peeling lips, the nail marks scattered around his chin. Coming down here may very well have been a waste of time. This Mufsid had been mad for years. Maybe decades.

“At dawn, you and the rest of your coconspirators will be put to death.” Arin delivered the news without inflection.

Pity would fall falsely from his tongue.

If it hadn’t been for Arin’s interference, the Mufsids would have been put to death two weeks ago.

Their lease on life had ended the day of the third trial.

The prisoner laughed. A white-coated tongue darted out, licking a long stripe in the air. “Do you know what I’m tasting in the air tonight, young man?” He grinned. “The sweet, sweet flavor of desperation.”

“I’ve come to make you an offer.”

The Mufsid wagged his finger. The remarkable length of his own nail temporarily stole the man’s wafer-thin focus before he returned to Arin. “You walk into our grave and try to steal secrets from the dead? Slither back to your den, boy.”

“No, I don’t believe I will,” Arin said thoughtfully. “Who destroyed the Jasad fortress?”

The reaction was instant. A clawed hand struck through the bars, falling inches short of Arin’s face. The Mufsid strained, clawing at the space in front of Arin’s nose.

Arin waited.

The Mufsid snarled. “How dare you?”

Arin’s smile was colder than the mist melting down the walls. “Are you ready to hear my offer?”

Distrustful yellow eyes darted around the cell, but the man stayed silent. It was as close to a yes as Arin expected from him.

“Tell me what you know of the fall of the fortress. Every detail. In exchange, I will leave this basement without draining a single one of you. When you are taken to the gallows, you will possess whatever meager amounts of magic you can build up by dawn.”

The Mufsid curled his lip. “Why should it matter if we die with or without magic?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Our magic will not be enough to escape.”

“No,” Arin agreed.

“Your soldiers will descend on us as soon as we break from our restraints. It will be a slaughter.”

“Indeed.”

The Mufsid scuffed his nail against the manacle, considering, and Arin silenced the warning bells in his head. Why was he here? He didn’t have a plan, nor a theory he needed confirmed.

Standing on the other side of treason, Arin only had doubt.

“Come into my cell, boy King, and I will tell you the tale of how an unassailable fortress falls.” The mania seemed to drain out of the Mufsid, leaving only an intent so quiet, so singular, that it steadied the very ground beneath him. The Mufsid retreated into the dank space and waited.

The challenge was clear. Arin tipped his head, a mirthless laugh silent on his lips. He supposed it was fair play. The Mufsid’s magic wouldn’t hurt him. To demand honor from a man, the same should be offered.

Turning the lock, Arin stepped into the cell and closed it behind him.

The Mufsid sank to the ground and gestured for Arin to join him. Arin remained on his feet.

The Mufsid shrugged. “You should sit. It can be disorienting the first time.”

“My patience with your games wears thin. If you intend to speak, do so now.”

The Mufsid tilted his head, an eerie mimicry of Arin from moments ago. “Dear Commander, who said anything of speaking?”

Unease pricked along Arin’s neck.

“I kept asking myself why you never demanded to know what we are,” the Mufsid said.

“But you did not even know to ask, did you? You don’t know what a Bone Spinner is.

You don’t know that we had a Portalist, a Visionist, a Hayagan, a Sahir.

Then again, I suppose he never expected his favorite sword to start cutting the hand that forged it. ”

Arin’s eyes narrowed. He slid his hand into his coat pocket, closing his fingers around his blade.

Gold and silver erupted in the Mufsid’s eyes.

“Now, now,” the Mufsid said. “We made a deal.”

The cell disappeared.