Page 91 of Sanctuary of the Shadow
Every wraith hated Furie as much as they hated their cursed existence, but it was a futile emotion. Why waste energy on the absolute? They were powerless against her.
When the sky finally darkened to indigo, Raith spread his wings once more and launched into flight, still holding tight to Salizar’s blade. He flew high into the cover of the clouds, circling the castle until he was positioned above where he wished to land. From there, he tucked his wings against his body and executed a sharp dive toward the earth.
As if shot like an arrow, he plummeted, wind whistling in his ears, freezing temperatures nipping at his bare skin. He remained clad in only a pair of loose trousers—the ones he’d worn to sleep beside Harrow the last time before everything had fallen apart. He’d taken such a simple act for granted, he realized now.
He had never been worthy of her, had been a fool to believe he could try to be. He was worse than unworthy.
He was her worst nightmare.
Raith shot straight down toward the bottom of the west wall, aiming at a row of windows so low, they were nearly underground. Seconds before he would have crashed into the stone, his wings flared, pumping hard, and he pulled up sharp. It was a flawless landing.
He might have been proud of his aerial abilities had he not been using skills he acquired as an incorporeal assassin. The last time he had swooped down like that, he had solidified a claw to tear open a Seer’s throat as he shot past.
He landed in a crouch outside the specific window he’d been aiming for. There were others on the same level, but they were all lined with thick steel bars. Dungeon cells. The window he’d chosen was the only one without bars—they’d been destroyed by Darya on the night she captured him. She’d liberated him from Furie’s wrath only to unleash her own special brand.
Stomach churning at the memories, Raith forced himself to climb through the narrow gap. He leaped down lightly into the cell, ignoring the slight trembling of his hands, and surveyed his surroundings.
Steel beams usually barred the outside hallway, but the door was open, still bent out of shape from Darya’s damage. The ground was lined with old straw. Manacles hung from the stone beneath the window.
Raith had spent months chained to them.
How had Furie shackled an incorporeal creature? By forcing his vow. He gave it, and that easily, the chains had held him—he hadn’t possessed the strength or motivation to fight his vow a second time.
What glaring need had he to save himself from pain? An innocent child had been worth the agony that ensued. He was not.
Again, the memories threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to focus. He had not come to this dungeon to contemplate. He had a purpose—his four-part checklist.
Holding his dagger at the ready, he stepped out of the cell into the narrow passage and crept to the far end, searching in every cell for signs of life. He saw none. At least a dozen more identical prisons lined the hall, but they were all empty. Relief filled him.
Striking step one off the list, Raith focused on his next objective.
Heading back down the passage, he followed his memory and climbed the narrow stone staircase crawling around the inside of the tower. He didn’t hesitate as he passed countless hallways and doors. He knew exactly where he was going.
Exiting the winding stairs, he found the hidden tunnel and followed the worn red carpet to the end. A small door waited, bolted shut. Beside it, a lit torch rested in a holder on the wall.
There, he hesitated. Fire in the torch did not necessarily mean someone was inside. Furie was the Queen of Fire, after all. It burned everywhere here. But it did make him pause, scenting the air and listening very carefully for signs of disturbance.
He heard and smelled nothing, so he unbolted the handle and pushed the door ajar. There was no lock. Furie needed none. The tunnel was hidden to all who didn’t already know it was there, and no one would dare intrude and risk her fearsome retribution anyway.
No one but Raith.
Inside, more chills raced over his body than even in the dungeon cell. It was pitch-black, but he knew where the torches were, and now that he understood his origins, he understood his strange ability to light fires. He used it now, and the two beside the door flared to life, illuminating the room in a dim glow.
Heart hammering in his chest, he took in his familiar surroundings. The front of the room was empty, the floor singed black by countless Fire traps burned upon it. Behind it, long shelves lined the back wall.
Upon them…were jars.
One hundred jars, to be precise.
Within each jar was a black, smoky shadow, a lid securely fastened to the top. Feeling sick to his stomach, Raith crossed the open part of the room, heading toward a particular shelf and a particular jar.
The top shelf, far left, thirteenth from the end…and there it was.
An empty jar.Hisempty jar.
He had been trapped there. When he wasn’t forced into service by his hateful mistress, he had sat in that Goddess-damned jar, confined and isolated. Even if he had found a way to escape, Furie would have simply summoned him back. The very nature of his existence made him powerless against her.
Most of his life had been spent in that tiny glass enclosure, and for what?
