King's Cage
Page 16

Without warning, he sets off down a smaller passage, one of the many burrowing through the warren of Irabelle. It branches off from the wider hall, angling upward to the surface in a gentle slope. I let him go, puzzled. There’s nothing in that direction. Just empty passages, abandoned, unused.
Yet something tugs. I’ve heard things, he said. Suspicion flares in my chest as he walks away, his broad form getting smaller by the second.
For a moment, I hesitate. Cal is not my friend. We’re barely on the same side.
But he is nothing if not annoyingly noble. He won’t hurt me.
So I follow.
The corridor is obviously unused, cluttered with scraps and dark in places where the lightbulbs are burned out. Even from a distance, Cal’s presence warms the close air with every passing second. It’s actually a comfortable temperature, and I make a mental note to speak with a few other escaped techies. Maybe we can figure out a way to warm up the lower passages using pressurized air.
My eyes trail the cabled wires along the ceiling, counting them. More there than there should be, to feed a few lightbulbs.
I hang back, watching as Cal shoulders some wood pallets and scrap metal from a wall. He reveals a door beneath, with the cables running overhead and into whatever room it hides. When he disappears, pulling the door shut behind him, I dare to get a little closer.
The tangle of cables comes into sharper focus. Radio array. Now I see it, clear as the nose on my bleeding face. The telltale braid of black wires that means the room inside has the ability to communicate beyond the walls of Irabelle.
But who could he possibly be communicating with?
My first instinct is to tell Farley or Kilorn.
But then . . . if Cal thinks that whatever he’s doing will keep me and a thousand others from a suicide attack on Corvium, I should let him continue.
And hope I don’t regret it.
FIVE
Mare
I drift on a dark sea, and shadows drift with me.
They could be memories. They could be dreams. Familiar but strange, and something wrong with each. Cal’s eyes are shot with silver, bleeding hot, smoking blood. My brother’s face looks more skeleton than flesh. Dad gets out of his wheelchair, but his new legs are spindle thin, knobbled, ready to splinter with every shaking step. Gisa has metal pins in both hands, and her mouth is sewn shut. Kilorn drowns in the river, tangled in his perfect nets. Red rags spill from Farley’s slit throat. Cameron claws at her own neck, struggling to speak, trapped in a silence of her own making. Metal scales shudder over Evangeline’s skin, swallowing her whole. And Maven slumps on his odd throne, letting it tighten and consume him until he is stone himself, a seated statue with sapphire eyes and diamond tears.
Purple eats at the edge of my vision. I try to turn in to its embrace, knowing what it holds. My lightning is so close. If only I could find the memory of it and taste one last drop of power before plunging back into darkness. But it fades like the rest, ebbing away. I expect to feel cold as the darkness presses in. Instead, heat rises.
Maven is suddenly too close to bear. Blue eyes, black hair, pale as a dead man. His hand hovers inches from my cheek. It trembles, wanting to touch, wanting to pull away. I don’t know which I would prefer.
I think I sleep. Darkness and light trade places, stretching back and forth. I try to move, but my limbs are too heavy. The work of manacles or guards or both. They weigh me down worse than before, and the terrible visions are the only escape. I chase what matters most—Shade, Gisa, the rest of my family, Cal, Kilorn, lightning. But they always dance out of my grip or flicker to nothing when I reach them. Another torture, I suppose—Samson’s way of running me ragged even as I sleep. Maven is there too, but I never go to him, and he never moves. Always sitting, always staring, one hand on his temple, massaging an ache. I never see him blink.
Years or seconds pass. The pressure dulls. My mind sharpens. Whatever fog held me captive recedes, burning off. I am allowed to wake up.
I feel thirsty, bled dry by bitter tears I do not remember shedding. The crushing weight of silence hangs heavy as always. For a moment it’s too difficult to breathe, and I wonder if this is how I die. Drowned in this bed of silk, burned by a king’s obsession, smothered by open air.
I’m back in my prison bedchamber. Maybe I’ve been here the entire time. The white light streaming from the windows tells me it has snowed again, and the world outside is bright winter. When my sight adjusts to it, letting the room come into clearer focus, I risk looking around. Flashing my eyes left and right, not moving more than I have to. Not that it matters.
The Arvens stand guard at the four corners of my bed, each one staring down. Kitten, Clover, Trio, and Egg. They exchange glances with one another as I blink up at them.
Samson is nowhere I can see, though I expect him to loom over me with a malicious smile and a snappy welcome. Instead, a small woman in plain clothes, with flawless blue-black skin like a polished gem, stands at the foot of my bed. I don’t know her face, but there’s something familiar about her features. Then I realize what I thought were manacles were actually hands. Hers. Each one tight around an ankle, soothing against my skin and the bones beneath.
I recognize her colors. Red and silver crossed on her shoulders, representing both kinds of blood. Healer. Skin healer. She’s of House Skonos. The sensation I feel from her touch is healing me—or at least keeping me alive against the onslaught of four pillars of silence. Their pressure must be enough to kill me, if not for a healer. A delicate balance to be sure. She must be very talented. She has the same eyes as Sara. Bright, dark gray, expressive.