Page 129 of Bloodguard

“The princess is waking.”

It’s Tut, the ogren general in charge of surveillance. Vitor’s loyal follower. I recognize his voice.

“Remove the covering,” Vitor says. There’s a long pause, and his voice tightens. “I said remove the covering.”

Metal slides against thick leather as a sword is pulled from its sheath. “Now, gentlemen, there is no time for posturing,” another voice says. Wonderful. It’s Lord Ugeen. The kiss-ass worm sounds mere feet from me. “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” he says.

Something is yanked from my face, pulling strands of my hair. I’m upright, bound tightly to something hard and bumpy, but my vision is blurry and I cannot make out what it is. Immediately, I try to lash out, to kick and claw, but my arms, legs, and body are bound.

My face is swollen, my right eye reduced to a slit. That, combined with the dimness of my surroundings, makes it hard to see, but eventually my eyes adjust.

And when I finally make out where I am, I shudder.

Shit.

Though I’ve never seen them before, it’s obvious where we are.

We’re in the catacombs.

I had no idea a cavern so vast existed within them. Piles and piles of skulls and bones from past wars, including those who perished attempting to kill the phoenix, are neatly stacked like trophies between stalagmites of varying widths and lengths. Heat…so much heat…pulsates against me in waves.

The only thing remotely reassuring is the statue of my grandmother carved from the stalagmite across from the one I’m tied to. My head lifts upward as I take in the Great Avianna of Iamond. In her left hand, she holds her own blade against her side. In the other is King Masone’s golden sword, raised in victory.Thisis where Vitor hid away the ancestral swords.

The statue mimics the painting in our former parlor, in which those who died following my grandmother lie dead around her. Except here, her likeness is depicted in greater detail.

The eyebrows are carefully chiseled, angled rather than curved, as they were in life when she was feeling exceptionally righteous. The dimple carved into her right cheek is set perfectly in line with her regal nose, which tips up slightly at the end. Her hair is cut short. She never liked it long—she was certain someone would use it to strangle her in her sleep.

The battle armor is perfection, the indentations of the mail curved and angled just right. But it’s the weapons, not the statue, that are the true treasures.

Each is a masterpiece, a startling reflection of their personalities and indicating the stark contrast between them. Grandmother’s sword is…feral, that’s the word that comes to mind. The hilt is a large raw diamond snaked in silver-and-green ivy that matches the tones of the blade. Grandfather’s sword is regal, the epitome of strength and endurance. The hilt is gold with a bloodred ruby fixed at the end. The blade is thin, long, lethal, and becoming of the king Leith deserves to be.

If he’s still alive…

Good stars, he needs to be alive! Just like Giselle and Caelen. But if they were somehow captured while we fought in the raid…

The raid. Ah, yes, where I saw my entire world implode.

My head pounds. My bodyburns. Every injury I endured sings the melody of pain.

I loll my head to the side to see Vitor waiting several paces away to my left.

“You fucking traitor,” I say, my voice raw and harsh.

The beating at the base of my skull makes it hard to think, hard to simply breathe. I try to focus, but incessant nausea surges, and my thoughts spin, leaving me faint. I’m dizzy from the blows to my head and weak from pushing my body to the extreme.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” I ask. “Why did you force me to watch my family die?”

Vitor does little more than press his lips together tight. But then he speaks, and I wish he’d kept his mouth shut. “It was never my intent to hurt you, Maeve. By the great phoenix, all I ever wanted was to keep you safe.”

“You failed,” I say, or I at least try to.

Vitor’s hands are mildly crossed behind him, as always. Pua and Tut stand at attention on either side. Tut mutters something to Vitor, who responds with a few words I fail to catch. Pua lifts a piece of hair caught on the front of his tusks and lets it float away.

They stand in front of my grandfather’s statue. Like my grandmother, it’s also delicately carved into a stalagmite. “The Good King Masone of Iamond,” I say, laughing without humor. “I suppose as regent, this is the closest to a king you’ll ever be, isn’t it?”

“Don’t say that, Maeve,” he says.

“Don’t say what?” I respond, the effort causing pain like glass scraping over my vocal cords. “Don’t speak the truth? Someone must. What a fool I was to think that maybe, just maybe, you were still the man I called my uncle.”

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