Page 93 of The Cruel Dawn
Separi’s lavender eyes narrow. “Take care what you say next, young miss.”
Elyn and I jam our lips together. We’ll let Separi go off because she’s right.
“I’m not someyoung miss,” Philia murmurs.
“You’re still talking?” Separi snaps back. “I may choose peace most of the time, but you continue and I’ll…” Her lips twist, but no words escape them. Her anger renders her speechless.
“Philia,” Jadon says, “know when to talk and know when to shut up. Now’s the time to shut up. Gileon would’ve taken theLibrumand done who knows what with it. Just like he held a blade to your throat and forced my hand.”
“But no one knew that was going to happen,” Philia protests.
“I knew,” I say.
“Me, too,” Elyn adds.
“We all knew, Philia,” Jadon says, “and now Gileon is dead. Anyway…” He points to the dip in the land ahead. “Olivia’s down there.”
He leads us to an underground warren guarded by two dead soldiers. Elyn gently relocates the men with puffs of wind.
The entrance is a jagged wound in the earth, its edges lined with splintered wood and rusted metal spikes. The smell wafting from this opening is worse than the camp above—thick, cloying, and sickly sweet.
I glance back at the campground, at its decaying tents and shambling soldiers, and dread floods my heart. If this is what Wake’s men endured beneath the daystar, what horrors must the prisoners face in the darkness below?
You’re changing. That’s what Gileon told Jadon. But how? Is the power he carries growing stronger? Does the wind carry it like pollen, allowing it to take root in a land far away? Or is Jadon diminishing like I am?
Elyn won’t let anyone touch the heavy bar that keeps the doors to the prison closed. Since she’s not of Vallendor, nothing, not even the death coating this place, affects her. But even she doesn’t want to put her hands on that rail—something slick and oily has seeped into the wood. Instead, she uses wind to lift the bar, tossing it into the fire that continues to burn down Beaminster.
The doors swing open and…
“Sweet Supreme.” Philia slams her hand over her nose.
The jail reeks of rat droppings, human waste and rotting flesh, rank water and vomit. All of it makes my eyes water. Skeletons and decaying bodies crowd every cell we pass. Unlike the jail at the abbey, torches and oil lamps burn bright.
As we descend the uneven stone steps, the air grows colder and heavier. The slick walls are streaked with dark stains.
“How can anyone survive down here?” Philia’s voice quavers as she peers into the gloom.
No one answers her question. No one wants to open their mouth.
The tunnel widens as we reach the main chamber. Iron cages are stacked against the walls, many of them bent and broken, their bars crusted with rust and dried blood. The prisoners inside the cells are skeletal and covered with sores, their hollowed eyes barely blinking as we pass.
Whoarethese poor souls? What have they done to be locked up and forgotten down here? Jadon might think my questions are rhetorical, but no, I want to know. Did they murder entire families? Did they burn down holy places with worshippers still inside?
We continue to walk the long corridors in silence, passing a few open cell doors. Did some of the prisoners get to leave before the worst happened?
The few living prisoners look up as we pass them. One man, his face grimy, his eyes hidden behind scraggly hair, whispers, “Celestial, help me.” His amber-shine could light a meadow on the darkest night.
I step into his cell and crouch before him. His name feathers into my mind.
“Divine,” he murmurs. He tries to bow his head, but his pain is a constellation of yellow sparks. He bears the pain of seven men.
“Be at rest, Ebelar,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes, and a breath slips from his parched lips.
Behind me, Philia whispers, “Is he dead?”
Separi shushes her.
