Page 175 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

I take a step forward, and my slipper-covered feet encounter straw on the stone floor. Rushes, I realize. Rushes that are meant to keep the floor warm and somewhat clean. The straw here smells moldy when I step forward, though, and something drips on me from above. It’s cold and wet and damp in here, and I think of Nemeth and how much he’d hate it here. He loves a warm fire.

A light flares somewhere behind me and Riza sighs with relief. “There we go.”

The dungeon is horrifying. It’s far more cramped than the rest of the rooms above, with multiple doors clustered tightly in a row, all of them seemingly too small for the large Fellians and their wings. I suppose that’s part of the punishment, but I shiver at the sight. Each door has only a small hole to look inside, and these dungeons seem far worse than the ones I was kept in. More than that, it’s foully dark down here, the ceiling low and oppressive and the walls damp. Between that and the gross straw, I want nothing more than to leave.

But if Nemeth is down here…

I stagger towards the first cell. It’s small, no bigger than a garderobe. Riza shines a light into it and shakes her head. “Empty.”

I peer inside just in case, but she’s right. I don’t see anyone inside. “How does one keep a Fellian prisoner if they can slide through shadows?” I ask her, trying to distract from the fact that I’m near to collapsing with exhaustion. “Won’t they just leave?”

“Magic,” Riza says. “Everything is always magic with Fellians. Tolian told me that the king’s dungeon is enchanted so that all magic is nullified down here. No one can teleport in, no one can teleport out.”

Makes sense, even if it makes things harder.

Riza shines her light into the next cell, and then shudders. “That one is dead. Recent, too.”

“How recent?” My voice is hoarse with terror. Before she can answer, I peek inside, because I’m unable to stand it. There’s a dead Fellian all right, curled up on the ground, his limbs twisted. An ugly dark rash covers his chest and face, but it’s not Nemeth.

I bite my lip, because I saw that rash on another dead man. That’s the plague. It’s not safe for him to be down here. We have to get him out, and soon.

Riza surges ahead and I follow after her. Most of the cells are empty, though a few have dead men—all Fellians—inside them. I’m horrified that the dead have been left to rot down here, forgotten, but I think of Ivornath’s body above and wonder if that’s Meryliese’s awful doing. I hate her more with every moment that passes.

If we’re lucky, Erynne will find her and stab her once or twice or twelve times and save me the effort of killing her myself.

In the second to the last cell, there’s a large Fellian with his back to the small viewing hole in the door. His wings are wrapped tightly around himself, as if he’s using them as a blanket, and his entire body quakes.

“Nemeth?” I call, my heart racing.

No answer. Whoever’s in the cell can’t hear me, either by magic or by the fever that has him trapped.

“Is that him?” Riza asks. “Can you tell?”

I open my mouth to speak, when the figure turns slightly, and a long, ragged scar is revealed on one wing. A whimper of agony escapes me. It’s Nemeth all right, and he’s sick with the plague. “Oh gods, we have to get him out of there, Riza.”

She thrusts the light into my hands, the magical globe held in place by a large wooden base with a finger-hole, much like an oil lamp. Riza tugs on the door as I hold up the light, my arm trembling with exhaustion.

The door doesn’t budge, and she casts a look around. “Locked. The key has to be here somewhere. Wait here, Candra.”

“I won’t leave.” I’m not going anywhere without Nemeth. I stare in at the sight of my poor mate. How long has he been down here? How long has he been sick? My heart aches and aches, and I fight back a surge of panic. Even if we get Nemeth out, how do we cure the plague? If therewasa cure, surely Darkfell wouldn’t be so empty?

I’m terrified that I might lose him after all.

Riza checks a guard station by the door, digging through a desk and then searching the rushes on the floor. She goes over the first few cells again, but all their doors are locked as well. Lips pressed together with frustration, she glances up at the stairs. “The key might be above.”

“Go,” I tell her. “I’m not leaving Nemeth.”

She hesitates, and then nods. “Be safe. I’ll return as swiftly as I can.”

I watch as she races up the winding, narrow staircase again. I’m alone in the dungeon with my sick mate, and I turn back to gaze at him, watching with helpless frustration as he quakes, his wings shivering, and then he claws and scratches at his neck.

“Hold on, Nemeth,” I tell him in a low voice. “I’m here. I’m going to save you. I promise.”

He stills at my words, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to turn and look at me. To speak. Something.

“When we get out of here, we’ll go wherever you like,” I promise him. I think he likes the sound of my voice. Perhaps it comforts him, even in fever dreams, so I keep talking. “I don’t care if we stay or if we go, just as long as we’re together. Everything works out better when we’re side by side. It’s the world that keeps pulling us apart. We won’t let that happen anymore. You and I will raise our child somewhere safe and quiet. I’ll even let you read war poetry to him or her, though you know I hate that drivel. You can teach our baby Fellian poemsand magic, and I’ll teach them Liosian dances and our holidays. More than anything, we’ll just be happy because we’re together.”

“So sweet,” coos a hard-edged voice. “A baby, you say? You’ll have to tell me if I’m invited to witness the birth of the next Vestalin.”

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