Page 66 of Bloodguard

The sun has just begun to set as we head out.

A group of guards is carting an ogre’s body away as two others fight over his abandoned stick. Beq is dead.

I don’t have to worry about him taking my spot.

I just have to make sure I’m not next.

chapter 24

Maeve

The guards step away from the doors leading to the dungeon. I am wearing one of my brighter dresses in Papa’s favorite shade of gold. I lift the hem so I don’t trip. Vitor notices, and he takes my arm to keep me steady as we make our way down the uneven stone steps.

His hand on my arm doesn’t offer the warmth or comfort it once had. How can it when the seeds of doubt have grown such deep roots?

The torches barely illuminate this dank place as their weak flames flicker, casting shadows that writhe like living things across the stone walls.

I wish I could remember what happened. Whatreallyhappened the night of the fire.

All I recall is following my grandmother through a corridor—nothing of sleeping in her bed or other such nonsense, despite what I’ve been told. The only thing I remember after that is Father’s voice calling out to me, telling me to come back to him. I awoke the next morning in Papa and Father’s chambers with my grandmother unmoving beside me, covered in burns.

It was awful. I remember screaming and Father comforting me. Papa no longer could because he was here, in this horrible dungeon.

I jerk when the torch just above us sparks.

“It’s all right, Maeve,” Vitor says, stopping so I can gain my balance. “It’s just going out.”

I nod. Everything about fire now haunts me.

My thoughts drift to my grandmother as we continue our way down.

Vitor adored the great Avianna of House Iamond, perhaps more than duty required in the century following my grandfather’s death.

During the three years she wasted away in a coma, he spent hours a day at her bedside, always hoping for a cure and commissioning healers from every corner of the world.

If he wanted the throne so badly, why would he go to such drastic measures to save her?

When Grandmother died, Vitor was gutted.

Clutching my skirt in one hand and Vitor’s arm with the other as we descend lower still, I try to reconcile the conversation I had with Soro with what I’ve known of the elf beside me, and I struggle.

We are nearing the bottom when a low, guttural moan echoes off the walls—the only sound save for my own heavy breaths.

I drop my gaze as a hundred doubts creep in.

Up until my grandmother died, I’d clung to the hope that she would awaken and clear Papa’s name. When she died last month, that hope died with her. Now, it’s up to me.

If I can’t clear Papa’s name and discover who truly killed the queen, marrying Leith is ultimately the best choice, and not just because of how hard I’m falling for him.

“I’ll wait for you here,” Vitor says, erasing Leith’s face from my mind. He takes a few steps back and crosses his arms.

I adjust my skirt and step into the dark corridor that leads to the cell at the end where I’m told Papa spends his time.

I take several long breaths, my eyes already moist with tears. Giselle says Papa is in terrible health. He won’t get better unless I get him out, and damn it, Iwillget him out and I will heal him. I pass several empty cells. Because of the recent “attacks” along our borders, I know Soro will fill them soon. If he doesn’t send everyone straight to the arena, that is. If Soro had his way in the council chambers, he’d be leading a raid along our western border already.

The cells are nothing more than small stone rooms with a plank to sleep on and a bucket in the corner. Surely Papa isn’t kept in one of these. He can’t be. His health has deteriorated too much for him to endure these conditions.

When we reach the end and I see him, my stomach lurches. His living quarters are better than the cells we passed, but not by much. Within a half-moon space, beyond the curve of a containment wall no higher than my waist, sits my sweet papa. No bars or locked doors needed, only a gate that swings easily open. He is too frail to even stand. At least he has a cot rather than a plank, and some bedding. On a battered wooden stool next to his cot are several books and Father’s silver hairbrush. I kneel slowly in front of him, forcing a smile, though it’s nearly impossible.

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