Page 103 of Heart Cradle
Maeve smiled, holding the weight of that answer in silence and together, they descended. The dungeon air was damp, thick with waste, sweat and the tang of old blood. A torch flickered weakly outside Davmon’s cell. Inside, he sat slumped against the wall, arms crudely bandaged where his hands had once been. His complexion had turned a sickly, bone-grey and his breath rasped in the dark and sweat slicked his matted hair. When he looked up and saw them, he gave a bloody, toothless grin. A ghastly thing, all gums and defiance.
“Look what you’ve done, dear… sister. You stupid, traitorous whore,” he rasped, laughter cracking in his throat.
Nolenne stood stock still, breathing deep, then stepped forwards at last. Her voice was pure, honed steel. “You call me sister now? After everything?”
“I’ve always been your brother,” Davmon said with a twisted smile. “Even when you left me.”
“I didn’t leave,” she snapped. “I escaped. You stayed, you chose to serve him.”
“I survived,” he hissed.
Nolenne’s breath caught, and her lips trembled before she held them in a tight line. “You killed and lied for him. You corrupted yourself for the Pale Court.”
“And you didn’t?” he spat. “Don’t pretend your hands are clean, Nell.”
She closed the space between them until only the bars separated them. He was the only person to have ever called her Nell, and it struck her hard.
Her voice dropped. “My hands are bloody, yes. But I never gave myself to him, I never broke.”
Davmon’s expression twisted, full of rage and sorrow and something that looked like betrayal. “Do you remember that night,” he said, voice quiet and dangerous, “just after the war? You were barely more than a child. You ran from the outer barracks in the dead of night.”
Nolenne gave a shuddering breath. “You left me alone.”
He took a step forwards, chains clinking like punctuation. “When you were caught, Jenveld sent you to the prison instead of the gallows because I begged… I bargained for your life. I did vile… hideous things for your life.”
Nolenne recoiled, a hollow ringing in her ears. She had always told herself she was lucky to have escaped execution. She had believed it, too, that her first attempt, as a terrified teenager, had been a blessing. That the guards had been merciful. That being exiled to the depths of Avelan’s prison fortress was fate sparing her, but now she heard the truth in his voice.
Begged. Bargained. Vile, hideous things.
Her stomach turned, but Maeve stepped forwards, cutting the tension. “Can I help you feel more comfortable?”
Davmon bared his teeth. “Sure. A glass of wine and two hands, you filthy human cunt.”
Maeve didn’t flinch, and murmured, “I’m a filthy fae cunt now, Commander.”
“Get fucked!” Davmon snarled.
Fenric stepped forwards, dagger in hand and rage in his face. Maeve motioned for him to stop. She closed her eyes, summoned her intention, and conjured a goblet of wine. Deep crimson shimmered within crystal, and she stepped forwards placing it gently within reach.
“The hands I can’t do,” she said, quiet but steady. “But Melrathen is always generous with wine.”
Davmon spat at her, the glob hit the floor. She looked to Nolenne, unphased. “Will you help him drink?”
There was a pause, then Nolenne stepped forwards, taking the goblet, and lifting it carefully to his lips. He drank like a parched man, gulping until it was gone.
“Brandy now.” he croaked.
Maeve refilled the glass without hesitation. Amber brandy sloshed and he stared at Maeve while draining the glass. The door creaked open then as Cira stepped in, her silver hair swept back in a loose plait, a male servant following closely behind. Her eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on Maeve, she gave a silent nod and then Cira moved to Davmon’s side, knelt beside him, and placed her hand against his chest. “I’ll do what I can. I can’t give what was taken, but I can sort the rest,” she said softly. “Hold still, dear.”
Magic bloomed quietly, warm golden light pulsed around Davmon’s ruined wrists. His breathing eased, infection receding and his skin regained the faintest hint of colour. The servant helped him change into clean clothes and gently wiped away the filth from his face and neck. Then Cira returned with a covered bowl and a thick slice of dark bread.
“Let’s get something in you,” she said, and began to feed him slowly, small spoonful’s of leek and barley soup, rich with steam. Davmon grunted, but ate.
After a few bites, he muttered, “not bad.”
Cira arched a brow. “High praise indeed.”
Davmon gave a broken chuckle. “First hot food in weeks, I thought I’d forgotten what flavour was.”
