Page 195 of The Iron Flower

“I am filthy, sofilthy...”

“I will fly at you! They tried to take my wings, but Ihidthem!”

“Look into my eyes! I will turn you into one of us!”

They’re all wingless, with the same dead, broken eyes.

A catastrophic outrage pours into me.

My own people, we’ve made them this way.

They could be whole and unbroken, like Wynter, if the Gardnerians had only left them in peace. Instead, they’ve been tortured and drugged into insanity.

I realize the Icarals that attacked me months ago were probably tormented like this, perhaps since they were small children.

Like Ariel.

A fierce wave of compassion for all of them, even the ones who tried to kill me, washes over me along with a staggering, nauseating fury.

We pass by a few vacant cells scattered among the occupied ones—the empty cells that probably once “housed” the Icarals my own auntmethodically hauled before the Mage Council for execution.

Devastated, I turn toward Yvan. He’s staring at one of the Icarals, his eyes wide, his face gone sickly pale. I’ve never seen him so rattled before, and it fills me with deep concern.

“Do not look directly at the Icarals,” the surgeon instructs Yvan and me, his tone clinical. “It’s polluting to the soul, bad for the spiritual health of a Mage.”

“I assure you,” I reply, wanting to cut him down and free every last Icaral imprisoned in this evil place, “I have no desire to stare at the vile creatures.”

The surgeon seems pleased with my response and turns to lead us farther down the nightmare hallway.

The child’s screams split the dank air, cutting through the Icarals’ ceaseless moaning and dark mutterings.

“I apologize for the disturbance.” The surgeon half turns toward me as we walk. “We apprehended a young one only yesterday. I’ll be removing the creature’s wings later on today. That should quiet it down a bit. Although, as you can see—” he waves his hand dismissively toward the noisy cells that surround us “—notnearlyenough.”

“Apprehended?” I’m stunned by the use of such a term to refer to a child.

The surgeon presses his lips into a thin, disapproving line. “Neverunderestimate the ability of these Evil Ones to disguise their true natures, Mage Damon. Even a very young one. The mother of this one was completely under this creature’s thrall, convinced it’s not a demon, but a harmless child. Thank goodness her neighbor alerted us to the Icaral’s existence. Who knows what future evil could have come of it?”

“And the mother?” I ask, thinking of Sage and little Fyn’ir, wanting to retch. “Where is she now?”

His expression tightens. “Dwelling with the Evil Ones, no doubt. Her soul was so polluted by the dark being she created, that after we took it from her, she killed herself rather than live without its vile presence.”

A wave of dizziness threatens to overtake me, and I bite down hard on my cheek to steady myself.

“There it is,” he says, a look of disgust on his face as he gestures toward an open cell.

There’s a woman inside, dressed in dark apothecary garb marked with Level Two Mage stripes, a wand sheathed at her side. She has a pinched face and gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, and she’s struggling with a child of about three. A little girl.

The woman appears to be trying to force-feed nilantyr to the child, the little one’s white tunic stained down the front with black vomit as she whips her head from side to side, her eyes wide and bulging, her mouth closed defiantly tight.

Seeing us, the apothecary abandons her task and rises, the child fleeing from her with desperation and launching back into her panicked screaming. She flaps her black wings rapidly and futilely, only able to lift herself slightly off the ground. She falls back onto the stone floor, restrained by an iron shackle locked around her ankle. The shackle is attached to the wall by a short metal chain that rattles against the floor as the child pulls at it as far as it will stretch.

Horrified, I glance back at Yvan, whose shocked, pale expression has morphed into one of undisguised rage. Hectic red colors his cheeks, and his hand clutches the hilt of his broadsword so tightly that his knuckles have turned white.

“Do not look directly into its eyes,” our guide cautions the apothecary, who’s resumed her attempts to drug the child.

“I will not, you can be sure,” she replies, flustered and sweating from the effort. She gives up again for a moment, stands and smooths her skirts as the little girl shrieks and pulls desperately at her chain. “I’m finding it particularly difficult to sedate this one.”

“Well, tie it down if need be,” he counters with cool efficiency, stepping into the cell and handing the apothecary a coil of twine from a nearby table. He looks to me apologetically. “I’m sorry that you have to witness this, Mage Damon. You can see that dealing with these creatures is no easy task.”

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