Текст книги "Bound to the shadow prince"

Автор книги: Ruby Dixon

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 40 страниц)

That’s a problem for another day, though.

I watch in silence as the heavily loaded sled is brought to the heavy double doors. They’re pulled open with a mighty creak, the hinges rusty, and the interior of the tower is pitch black—I can see nothing inside. It’s like a tomb. I look around for the Darkfell party but I don’t see them on the beach. Perhaps they’ve already come and gone and their sacrifice waits within. I touch the bodice of my dress where my knife is hidden, glad that Erynne sent it with me. She’s far more suited for this sort of thing than me. I’m the court flirt, not the one to handle intrigue.

I’m certainly not pious, like Meryliese must have been.

The priests begin their songs to the Golden Moon Goddess, and I know I should pay attention. Instead, I watch, fascinated, as the workmen shove my sled up to the door and then push it deep inside with a loud scrape upon the stone floors. One of them pushes too hard and his hand disappears in after the sled, swallowed up by the shadows. He immediately cries out in distress and pulls back, clutching his hand to his chest. “It burns!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the knight accompanying me snaps. He casts me an uneasy look. “It’s just shadow.”

I say nothing. The priests continue on with their prayers, burning incense to the goddess and as I watch, an acolyte sacrifices a bird, pulling it from a cage and cutting it open from breast to tail. The blood carries on the wind, flecking the face of the knight at my side, as if reminding me what horrors await me inside.

“Come, my princess,” he says, taking me gently by the elbow. “It’s time.”

Now? Already? “Surely the priests have more prayers,” I babble, trying to pull free from his grasp. I’m not ready yet. The sun hasn’t gone down, and that means the golden moon has a few hours before it rises. I have time, don’t I? “I’m sure they have yet another song to sing.”

“My princess,” the knight says again, his voice kind. “Do not make me carry you.”

Dragon shite. Panicked, I let him pull me forward, casting another mute look of distress at the priests. They give me pitying looks, their gazes straying up to the tower. We move towards the yawning darkness of those double doors, and even the wind seems to die in anticipation of my entombment.

“Please,” I whisper to the knight. “Please don’t make me go.”

“I must,” he says. “The king wishes for me to ensure that you are placed safely inside.”

Lionel knows I want to run. A hot bubble of panic rises in my throat as we pass by the man seated next to the bricks, waiting to seal the door behind me. “Please,” I say again as we move to the threshold. I grab the doorjamb and try to brace myself. “Please don’t do this. I can escape. No one has to know⁠—”

The knight pries my hand off the frame of the door and shoves me inside. Hard. I tumble to the floor next to the heavy sled of trunks, and before I can sit up, the double doors creak closed behind me.

“Bar it,” the knight calls out to his men. Then to me, “We will be here in one year with more food and supplies for you, Princess Candromeda. Thank you for your sacrifice.”

I sit in the darkness, too numb to even cry. I’ve been telling myself for days that it’ll be all right to cry once the doors are closed and I’m trapped, but now that I’m here, I feel empty inside. Blank. I stare at the tiny line of sunlight under the doors, listening as the bricks are laid in place with scrape after scrape, and that last bit of sunlight disappears from sight.

It’s pitch black inside the tower.

Pitch black, and I’m utterly alone. I don’t even know where my candles are, or where my medicine is.

Or where my enemy is…just that they’re somewhere in this tower with me.

Chapter

Six

Trapped.

It still hasn’t entirely sunk in. I listen to the men bricking the door up behind me, to ensure that I won’t abandon my post as the sacrifice to the goddess. If I panic and flee the tower, I doom the war fleet, and I doom the crops for the next seven years. It’s vital that I stay where I am. That I do my duty to my people.

Seven years of this.

I can come out when I’m thirty-one.

Yay.

The noise of the bricks being smacked into the mortar echoes inside me. I lean against the sled full of trunks, and it’s so heavy that it doesn’t budge. I pull myself atop one of the trunks, settling my skirts in the darkness and listening. It’s only when silence greets me that I realize that the noise of the bricklaying has stopped. They’re done.

I’m truly bricked up inside this tower. No one will know if I am here for another year, when they deliver more food. I’m to spend seven years in this darkness, with nothing and no one.

My chest becomes tight.

I jerk to my feet, panting, and I claw at my bodice. I can’t breathe. I can’t draw a deep breath and I desperately need one. Gasping, I tear at the laces that go up the front of my bodice in such an ugly (but practical) manner, until my breasts bounce free and the entire corset loosens with a rush, my knife clattering to the floor. I lean against the trunk, sucking in deep breath after deep breath in the darkness.

I can’t do this. I can’t.

I surge forward, feeling in the absolute darkness for the wooden doors. My trembling hands hit stone first, and I move along the cold wall until I find the wood of the doors. It takes me a moment to locate the handle, and then I tug on it.

The doors don’t budge. They don’t even groan. It’s as if they’re completely and utterly locked in place. The anxious knot returns to my throat and for a moment, I feel as if I’m going to vomit. Or cry. Or both. I give the door another tug, harder this time, and it’s useless. With a moan, I press my brow to the wood, collapsing against it.

You can break down later, I tell myself. I know you want to cry, but you can do that after you pull yourself together. Find your medicine. Light a candle. Get to your room, where it’s safe. There’s too much to do and no one is going to help you.

Right. Okay.

Taking a deep breath, I turn around—and scream.

Two gleaming, shining, evil green eyes gaze out from the darkness across the room. The Fellian. The one that I need to kill before they kill me.

And they can see in the dark.

Dragon shite.

“Stay away!” I cry out in a trembling voice. “Leave me alone!” I drop to the floor, feeling for Erynne’s knife. How could I be so careless as to abandon my only weapon moments after I enter the tower? I’m an idiot.

To my relief, I find the knife quickly and jerk it from its sheath, holding it aloft in the pitch black around me. I look up, searching for the eerie green eyes, but they’re gone. Heart pounding, I get to my feet and peer into the darkness, listening for sounds, but I think I’m alone again. There’s no sound but that of my pulse.

With a relieved little sigh, I clutch the knife close. “Am I alone now?” I whisper.

The blade shivers.

“Is she going to kill me?”

There’s no response, but at the same time, the air feels pregnant, as if there’s a question unanswered.

“Are you sure?” I ask the knife.

No answer. Hmm. That’s not a good sign. Either I’m asking the wrong thing or the knife isn’t as omniscient as I thought.

One problem at a time. I need to find my quarters and get situated. I need to make my medicine, too. Already I’m feeling weak and a little sweaty, a sign that I need my dose and to eat something to settle my stomach afterwards. Riza will have a bag prepared for me for today, I know. I just need to find it. I run my hand over the mountain of trunks, but finding where anything is stashed feels monumental. Luckily, I have help. I touch one trunk. “Is there a candle in here?”

Silence from my knife.

“Here?” I touch the next trunk and wait.

It takes four more trunks before I get a positive response, and I haul out the one in question, which is underneath a large, heavy garment bag full of my petticoats. I drag the trunk to the floor and fumble with the latches, pulling it open. Feeling around inside, I’m relieved when I find a bag of thick candle tapers and a wrapped pair of strikers, along with a tinderbox. I scrape the strikers against each other, clumsy. I’ve never done this before without Riza’s supervision, and I all but laugh with relief when I get a spark.

When I finally get a candle lit, it feels like a major accomplishment.

Relieved, I settle the candle into a chamberstick holder and bring it aloft, looking around. The main floor of the tower here is huge, the ceiling high above in the darkness. All of the sounds I make echo, which tells me it’s larger than expected. At least I’ll have room to move about. I set the candle atop one of the trunks and get to my feet, brushing off my skirts…

…and I realize my bodice is gaping open, my breasts hanging out. Whoops. I quickly stuff them back into place, doing the laces up loosely. After all, no one’s here to see me.

Except the Fellian, I remind myself. That makes me lace a little tighter, because they saw me with my tits out, and the realization is a vulnerable one. I grip my knife tightly and pick up my candle again.

Time to explore my new home. Somewhere out there is the Fellian, but maybe they’re just as rattled as I am. Maybe they want to be left alone, too. If this room is any indication, there’s plenty of space in this tower for both of us.

I move around the bottom of the tower. There is a large staircase off to one side that goes up, and another across from it, going down. Along the wall of the staircase going up are a few old tapestries depicting religious scenes, and along the opposite wall, across from the stairs, is an altar to the three gods, each one depicted in an old-fashioned-looking triptych. There’s a scatter of ancient, faded rose petals on the altar along with gutted candles.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel much like praying at the moment,” I tell the altar. If anything, I have the urge to make a crude gesture at the goddess, but that won’t win me any favors, either, so I tamp it down and continue on. I expect to see a lot of dust and cobwebs everywhere, but there’s nothing. Unless someone came in and cleaned this place up for us (which I highly doubt) perhaps it’s been magically cleaned? Is there even such a thing? I have no idea.

I head downstairs first, and it looks like a kitchen below. I see a large fireplace and hearth set into a wall. There’s no wood, of course, and I have a momentary bout of panic as I realize I’ve got no wood with which to cook my food. How is it that we packed everything but wood? Then, I think about the trunks and the huge sled, and realize I’ve got that covered, at least. I’ll just have to be judicious with how much I use.

That’s something to worry over tomorrow.

The hearth is scraped clean of ash and has clearly not been used in forever. I step inside it and hold my candle up, trying to see if there’s daylight at the other end of the chimney. Maybe I can crawl up it and climb my way out of the tower if I get desperate enough.

There’s a small hole of sunlight at the top. A very, very small hole. Either this chimney goes up a very long way—all the way up to the battlements—or it’s a tight squeeze. Either way, it’s no good to me. Disappointed, I explore the rest of the kitchen. There are pots and pans, all of them battered and ancient looking, and I wonder if prior residents have left them here over the ages. There’s a spice rack and some dried leaves hanging up, but when I touch one, they crumble to dust. I find an old root cellar with a few shriveled roots that are probably older than my ancestors, but no food other than that. For water, there’s a well-pump over a large sink, and when I prime the pump like Riza showed me, the thing groans and a trickle of water comes out.

I won’t die of thirst at least. I eye the largest copper tub in one corner of the kitchen, and I suspect that’s where all the bathing is done. Ugh. At the palace, servants brought hot water up to a tub in my rooms and poured it out for me when I was done. I’m realizing the enormity of everything I’ll have to do here. Even the simplest of tasks is going to be a daunting one.

Cry about it tomorrow, I remind myself. Keep going. One foot in front of the other.

I head back upstairs with my candle, and this time I go up the other staircase. It curves around, the steps narrow and tall, hugging along the interior wall of the tower. There’s a few more narrow tapestries here, but they’re so faded and gray that I can’t tell what I’m supposed to be looking at. I count forty steps before I come to a landing, and, panting, I pause at the top and look around. On the first landing, there’s a large wooden door similar to the exterior door, and two smaller ones farther down the curving hall. After a momentary exploration, I pause in front of the largest door. Is this where the Fellian is? Or is this my room? Or something else?

I’ll never know unless I open the door, I reason with myself, and, with a burst of bravery, I push it open.

It’s dark inside, my candle flickering with the breeze the door creates. I hold my light outward, and then the green eyes blink into existence. Before I can suck in a breath, someone hisses at me.

“This chamber is mine.”

My lips part. I gape in shock and nearly drop my candle.

That is not a woman’s voice. It’s deep and rich and very, very angry.

For a brief moment, I’m terrified. Fear quickly gives way to indignation, and I draw myself up straight. What kind of fools sent me to live seven years in a locked tower with a grown man? An enemy man? Are they not concerned with my virtue?

(I mean, I’m not, but that doesn’t mean others shouldn’t be.)

“Excuse you,” I snap back at him. “I live here now, too. I’m trying to find out where my quarters will be, so don’t get snippy with me.”

“It’s not in here,” he snarls, nothing but a pair of glittering, unholy eyes in the darkness. “You can have the next floor. This one is mine.”

“Fine,” I retort. With a withering glare, I toss my head and march down the hall.

It’s only when the door slams shut again that I can breathe. I suck in a deep lungful of air, tremors racing through me. Fellians are devils. Worse than devils. And I’m trapped in here with an adult one. I’ve been trying not to think about Erynne’s warning, but knowing that my companion is an adult male changes things.

I might have to kill him after all.

I find the stairwell for the next floor and head up another forty stairs. By the time I make it to the top, I’m dizzy and nauseated, reminding me that I need to take my medicine soon. The thought of returning down the stairs and digging through all those trunks is daunting, though, and since I’m already up here, I figure I might as well have a look around.

There are three doors on “my” floor, and it seems to be laid out the same as the last one. I open the heavy wooden door and this time, I’m not greeted by an angry Fellian. This time, all is silent, and I step inside what must be my bedroom. There’s a fireplace, but a small one, and there’s no way I’ll be able to climb up the chimney here. An old, narrow rope bed is against one wall, but there’s no bedtick and I don’t know if I have one packed. There’s a small wooden table off to the side and a faded gray tapestry hanging on one wall and…that’s it. I think of my opulent quarters back at the palace, with the thick rugs on the floor and my oversized canopied bed. I think of the large window that overlooked the gardens and my attached bathing chamber, and my jaw clenches tight.

Wordless, I go to the next room. A garderobe, which is little more than a creaky wooden seat with a hole cut into it, the waste splashing down…somewhere. And the third door on this floor is a small storage closet, with a couple of old empty trunks left from prior inhabitants, as well as a few discarded pieces of ancient, outdated clothing.

I head upstairs, and the final floor in the tower seems to be nothing but storage for old, broken things. There’s a rotting trunk, what looks like scattered armor, and a few wooden candelabras. A table with a broken leg. A book that looks like it might fall apart if I touch it.

Junk. Nothing but junk.

For someone that’s supposed to be serving the goddess for the next seven years, this tower isn’t exactly welcoming. It’s not comfortable. It’s got the bare minimum of necessities. And it has far too many stairs for a gently-bred princess with a blood curse. Already I’m exhausted, and I haven’t eaten, haven’t unpacked, and certainly haven’t taken my medicine. I return to the floor below and to my quarters. I stare at the rope bed for a long moment, and then, fighting fatigue and helplessness, I set the candle on the table nearby and climb into the bed. The ropes dig into my skin uncomfortably, but I’m too tired and disheartened to care. I close my eyes and curl up as best I can.

Tomorrow, I’ll have a good cry about all of this. When I have everything put away, only then will I allow myself to break down.

Chapter

Seven

Iwake up in the darkness to a sour stomach and the uncomfortable watering of my mouth. Oh no. Weak and shaking, I barely manage to crawl out of the rope bed before I vomit all over the stone floor.

Stupid. Stupid stupid.

I know better than to skip my medicine. The shaking and sour stomach come first. If I continue to ignore those symptoms, I’ll get weak and my heart will race uncontrollably. If the bad blood is allowed to continue building up, I’ll die in a matter of days, and there’s no one here to take care of me.

I’m on my own.

I allow myself a moment of self-pity, and then I get off the floor. I wipe my mouth with my skirts and fumble for my candle in the darkness. It’s gone out and the striker is downstairs—another problem. I’ll learn from my mistakes, but I’m annoyed that I have to learn from them right now. I just want my medicine and to go back to bed. Feeling my way forward, I manage to find the stairs again and carefully head down at a glacial pace. It seems to take forever to find the next flight of stairs, and even longer to find my trunks again. The inky blackness is stifling, and there’s not a single hint of light to be found.

I’m alone in suffocating darkness.

It feels like hours before I find the strikers once more, and when my fingers brush over them, I want to cheer with relief. Hands shaking, I manage to light a bit of tinder and then dip a fresh candle into the flame. That done, I reach out to the closest trunk and ask my knife,” Is my medicine in here?”

No answer. Not that trunk, then.

I reach for the next one.

“What are you doing?”

The voice of the male Fellian is near enough that it makes me jump. I drop my candle in surprise, smothering a scream. A moment later, I snatch it back up again before it can go out and glare in his direction. “Don’t sneak up on me!”

“I smelled vomit in the air. Are you sick?” His deep, rich voice is full of indignation. He melts out of the shadows, just enough for me to see the glint of bright green eyes reflecting the light of my candle, and a hulking form still wearing a cloak and hood. “Did the puling Lios king send a sick female to the tower as his sacrifice?”

“Piss off,” I tell him. “Go lurk in the shadows somewhere else. I’m busy.” Just because we have to live together doesn’t mean we have to get along, and it’s clear that we’re not going to be amiable neighbors. His room is probably better than mine, too. Bastard. I’m not in the mood to deal with his dragon shite right now. I just want my medicine and a snack, and to think about all of this tomorrow.

“Are you going to leave all your trunks here for long?” The Fellian’s tone is insufferable. “You’re making a mess.”

I turn back to him, glaring, my jaw clenched so I don’t vomit again. I take three deep breaths, and when I can speak without getting sick, I manage, “I just got here today, just like you. When I have a moment, I will take all my trunks and put them away. Until then, you’re just going to have to deal with it. I don’t want to be here either, understand? So leave me alone.”

He makes a harrumphing sound and then his big, shadowy form retreats. Ever so faintly, I hear footsteps going up the stairs and I realize I’m alone again. Thank the gods. More bile threatens, and I lie flat on the floor, pinching my nose and willing it to go away, because I’m going to have to clean up whatever mess I make, and I do not have the energy to clean up vomit.

More vomit. Whatever.

My stomach settles, and with the knife’s help, I find the vial of medicine and a package of dry oatcakes that Nurse tucked away for me. I eat one, heat my vial of medicine over the candle-flame, and then shoot the syringe into my veins. I break out in a cold sweat and lie on the floor again as I wait for my symptoms to disappear.

Tomorrow, I tell myself.

Tomorrow I’ll panic.