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There before me was a man who was not young. The difference between him and the eighteen and nineteen-year-olds either side of him was plain. But neither was he old and wrinkled. I scanned him anew. He didn’t seem to be maimed—though I couldn’t see his legs. He’d asked me a question, so his brains weren’t addled to the level of insensibility. He had sandy-blond hair and an open smile, yet something in the set of his shoulders and his blue-gray eyes spoke of secrets.
All I really wanted at seventeen years old was something different, something more, some interruption to the path of this mundane life.
Something about the night kissed my skin, and I welcomed the black tendrils with open arms. If the dark were a person, I’d latch onto him and never let go. This pull to be in the night was a recent thing.
nodded, trying to peek at our meal. I didn’t care about my hair. In fact, the stuff Mum used to wash it made it all stiff and gross.
I reached to stroke Mother’s hair. Her long, cinnamon-brown hair just like my own.
The girl studied my appearance with obvious disapproval. Then she answered, “The best you can hope for is to find a place they can’t touch and know the rest isn’t necessary for survival. Your body is a shell. Your skin—the wrapping. Your will, theirs. But somewhere deep inside you, there is a place, whether you see it as the corner of your mind, your heart, your soul, whatever, and that part is yours. That is the difference amongst the people here. Figure out what’s necessary, and let everything else go.”
I was on my own at seventeen. I’d wished for excitement, and it brought me this. My heart was broken, shattered. My chest was empty. I had no one.
“What’s your name?” the man asked. His age was hard to place, his voice odd, like a series of blades chopped up his words. He spoke with the inflections of someone from the Harvest Zones, however.
First rule of torture club, don’t talk about torture club.
“You can’t talk?” He nodded. Straightening, the hooded man strode to me and wrote three letters on my palm. “Tyr,” I deciphered. “Your name is Tyr?” A sad smile showed beneath the rim of his hood.
You are strong, he said in my mind. You haven’t betrayed anyone. You are still kind and good. Don’t confuse humanity for weakness.
Tyr returned and knelt next to me, holding out his fist. He held a handful of moss. It looked spongy and—well—green. The only splash of color in this gruesome place. “That wasn’t there yesterday,” I said in confusion. “I sit there all the time. My butt would know the difference.”
Second rule of torture club: Don’t leave friends behind bars.
Tyr was a Phaetyn, a healer. His powers could be used on land or mortals. He could halt death in its tracks. He could make plants grow. He’d done something to the seeds.
There are things which tie me to this place, and . . . I cannot be sure I’ll be able to get away.
Something flashed in the Drae’s eyes, and he looked around at the wilted gardens in disgust. “I hate sunlight.” It hates you right back, nightmare man.
“I only trust myself. Everyone else will betray you if they have enough motivation.” I furrowed my brow. “And Tyr. You trust Tyr, right?” Irrik sent him down to care for me. He frowned, and his gaze darted to my lips, making me blush. Finally, he said, “Only to a point.”
Irrik ran his fingertips over the deep gash. Black blood dripped down his arm. “Did you . . . just attack me with a garden hoe?” I was a fool. Irrik was bad, but Jotun was worse. If Irrik died . . . I rushed to him, crying out, “It had my blood on it!” My hands fluttered over the grotesque wound. “Tell me what to do. I don’t want it to kill you.” He moved to look at me, a curious expression falling over his face. “You regret hurting me?” “What? No. Well, killing you, yes.”
I’d always assumed the ointment she rubbed on my skin when I was hurt was to help me heal. After witnessing how quickly I healed, I knew this couldn’t be true. Tyr had used it on me, too, and I made a mental note to ask him when I next saw him . . . if I saw him again.
The silence as I began was oppressive. It wasn’t like Lord Irrik was a Chatty Cathy, but over the last few weeks we’d developed a mutual tolerance for being around each other. Today was different. He was uneasy about something, and that had me nervous.
“Turn it off,” he ordered, mottling and shifting into scales the same color as the rock. But pulsing underneath the black plates of skin was a vibrant, electric blue. His muscles tightened, and his chest swelled. The water rippled with his unrest. In a hoarse tone, he said, “If you value your life, stop glowing.”
He sighed. “A Phaetyn is light and life as surely as a Drae is darkness and death.”
“Whatever ideas you have for escape, forget them,” he said, his voice husky. He stepped closer, pushing his body to mine as one arm encircled my waist, holding me flush. “Whatever traitorous aspirations you’re hoping for, let them go. More than anything, don’t trust anyone.”
My knees grew weak, and a blissful torpor settled over my consciousness. I reached up in the darkness to touch his face, to caress his cheek, and to touch his lips again. “Tako mi je žao,” he whispered.
“Take him back,” Irrik said. “It’s difficult enough to get results out of her without having to watch over him and his Druman.” Irdelron’s cruel laugh made my stomach lurch. “You mean your Druman, Irrik.”
A hum left my lips. I supposed I was a mud lady. “Hey, Ty? What’s a Druman?” Ty coughed then asked, “Why?”
Loud, running footsteps echoed down the hall. We’d missed them in our fear-filled embrace. Tyr lifted his head and then thrust me back, spinning on the spot . . . . . . and disappeared into thin air.
Fire licked up my arms, followed by an intense prickly sensation. I dropped the pot and scratched at my suddenly itchy forearms. My fingertips encountered a row of smooth rolling bumps. What the hay?
As consciousness slipped from my grasp, I rested my head against the back of Arnik’s neck. He’d always been my friend. Would I ever see him again? Then darkness filled my vision, and I crumpled into his arms. Hold on, a familiar voice whispered.
I remembered Irrik’s words: Be brave today. I sat up, a new awareness hitting me with fresh revulsion. He hadn’t reassured me against Jotun. Irrik’s desolate behavior from the night before the attack now made perfect sense. He’d known what would happen. He’d been forbidden from telling. Someone had betrayed our plans to the king.
I reminded myself I didn’t care. I didn’t want his help, and I didn’t deserve any mercy. I placed both hands on the gilded doors but paused when the Drae wrapped his long fingers around my wrist. Khosana, his voice echoed in my mind, heavy with pain, I am so sorry. Please, forgive me.
I walked into my cell and sat cross-legged on the bed. The words escaped before I could stop them. “Is Tyr still alive?” The Drae pursed his lips and gave a curt nod. “Toliko vam volim kraljicu.” This time I snorted. “I have no idea what that means,” I said with a yawn.
“What about you and Irrik?” Tyr stilled. What?
Irrik crouched next to the king, staring into his fading eyes. “You sealed your fate,” he said, jaw clenched. “With the command to kill her.” The king’s expression slackened, and he looked past Irrik to where I was curled. Irdelron clearly understood what Irrik meant.
King Caltevyn smiled. “Lord Irrik, you are no longer tied to my father’s house. I release you from your blood oath to the house of Ir. You are no longer to be called Irrik . . .” Irrik’s eyes widened, and he flinched as he turned back to me. The color drained from his face as the king finished speaking. “You revert to your own house now, Lord Tyrrik.” Lord . . . Tyrrik.
“Ticho teraz, moja láska. Ste v bezpečí,” the Drae said in his language. Then he placed his hand on my arm, and in my mind Tyr spoke, I will always keep you safe, my love.
