Page 21 of Flame and Sparrow

Survive, survive, sur…

Darkness overtook my vision. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the ground and thought of nothing else.

Chapter6

As far as prisons went,the one I woke up in was not the worst I’d ever been subjected to.

It had a window at least. A barred and narrow thing high above me, letting in just enough sunlight to allow me to count the days. There was a bucket to relieve myself in. My wrists were shackled and chained to the wall behind me, but the chains were long enough to allow me to reach up and feel my face—still smooth and scarless—and touch my ears, which were still rounded like a human’s.

My sister’s sparrow hung from my neck, continuing to work its protective magic over me.

I couldn’t believe they hadn’t taken it.

I released a slow, shaky breath, running my fingers over the smooth wood, silently willing its magic to hang on a little longer. If my captors realized I was an elf rather than a human, my situation would go from bad to worse in a hurry. The fact that they hadn’t realized it yet was likely the only reason I was still alive; humans usually got the benefit of a trial and a chance at redemption for their crimes, unlike my kind.

The chains attached to my ankles were long enough that I could stretch my legs. The ground was covered in dust, too, which made for unpleasant breathing but gave me a way to occupy myself—a canvas to drag the toe of my boot through, marking the days and making notes about my surroundings.

The hours dragged on, turning into days.

I tried to stay calm and focused, to watch and listen carefully for anything that might prove useful to me. I picked out different voices in distant conversations, and I strained to hear other distinguishing characteristics to pair them with—distinctive gaits, habitual things like the biting of nails or rapping of knuckles. I assigned a different symbol for each separate being I recognized. Using these symbols, I mapped out the guards’ movements in the dust as they came and went, searching for patterns, learning when it was safe to relax the spell concealing me and otherwise breathe easier.

By the end of the third day I knew when to expect a changing of the guards, and I was fairly certain only four different people were in charge of my section of the prison. I continued to mark their movements alongside the counting of days.

One.

Two.

Threemore days gone in a dusty, hunger-induced dizziness.

Not the longest I’d ever been in a prison, but by this point Andrel or one of the others would usually have snuck in a sign of some sort. Something to tell me they were coming, that I just needed to hold on a little longer…

The seventh day came and went, and the only sign of hope I had to cling to was the light from the window high above.

I was beginning to think it was a trick.

That I’d actually died in the ruins of the Morethian Manor, and this was one of the three mortal hells: Every day the same, every night supernaturally long, every glimpse of the morning sun a teasing mirage conjured up to make me believe I still had a chance at light and life.

I stretched out my arms and legs, tensing my muscles and relaxing them one by one. Over and over I did this until the numb, detached feeling in them went away.

“I’m alive,” I stubbornly told the damp, chill air at least a dozen times each day. “I am Karys of Mistwilde, the last royal daughter of our house, and I. Am. Still. Here.” The words echoed in my bare, cavernous cell, eerie and mocking.

I suppressed my hopeless shivers.

Cups of water were brought to me occasionally, but food almost never accompanied them; I surmised that they wanted me weak, but not dead.

By the eighth day, a morbid train of thought grabbed me and would not derail—what if I refused to drink? What if I took my life before they could make me suffer further? Would it ruin whatever trial or propagandist point they were hoping to put me on display for?

It was tempting, the thought of taking control away from them.

But I could not die here.

I’d promised my sister I would bring ruin to the gods and see our reign in this realm restored. I’d made an oath over the blood staining her bed, and I’d held to it for all these years.

I wouldn’t fail her now.

I singled out one guard in particular by the end of the eighth day; he sounded the youngest, and I had often heard him drifting away from his post outside of my cell, talking and laughing with people in the distance. He was also the only one who occasionally brought me scraps of food, rancid and stale though they were. Most importantly, beneath his disgusted expression I saw hints of pity—a weakness.

He became my target.

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