Page 66 of Among the Burning Flowers
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Five centuries ago, Queen Rozaria had built a palace from the rock and glass of the Dreadmount. Now Marosa felt certain that Fýredel had some unholy connexion to it. She imagined herself as an insect, trapped inside his gullet; that he felt her every footfall, heard her every breath; that she glimpsed his serpentine eyes in the slivers of black glassaround the palace. She imagined that, even as the wyrm slumbered for all those years, his ears had been open.
The dungeons of the Palace of Salvation were close to the wine cellars, with no windows to banish the darkness. Three guards flanked the entrance, sweating in the light of the red torches.
‘Your Radiance,’ the nearest said. ‘Good evening.’
‘I wish to speak to the newest prisoner,’ Marosa said. ‘How long has it been since she came here?’
‘Almost a week,’ another guard said. ‘A wyvern brought her to the steps of the palace.’
‘Is she an Yscal?’
‘From the weapons she was carrying, we assume not. They look to be of Southern origin,’ he answered. ‘The wyverns must have found her on the plain, or perhaps in the Spindles.’ He glanced at the door. ‘She hasn’t made a sound, even though the Jackal used the iron boot on her.’
One of the interrogators Lord Gastaldo had brought to the palace, known for her brutality.
‘Very well,’ Marosa said. ‘I will not be long.’
‘Don’t step too close to the bars,’ the first guard warned. ‘The woman put up a mighty resistance, Your Radiance. Even thirsty and weak, she killed five of us before we could overpower her.’
‘Which cell is she in?’
‘The last.’
Marosa stepped through the doors, entering the dungeon for the first time in her life. Her mother had not been kept here, to her knowledge, but Denarva likely had. Finding the right door, she lifted the latch and pushed with her shoulder, scraping it open.
Beyond was a row of iron bars, behind which sat a woman in a stained white tunic, no more than thirty years old. Sweatand blood mingled on her brown skin, and dark curls fell into her eyes, which were puffy and bruised.
Her right foot was horribly mangled. Marosa had known that Lord Gastaldo allowed the Jackal to maim certain people – suspected traitors, murderers, the cullers he despised so much – but seeing the aftermath shortened her breath. The straw was soaked in blood.
She was not naïve enough to think she would never have enemies when she was queen, but there must be a better way to treat them. Surely the Saint would not condone this cruelty.
‘Do you speak Yscali?’ she asked, receiving a wary look in return. She tried Ersyri: ‘What is your name?’
It had been a long time since she had spoken Ersyri, but recognition sparked in those brown eyes, alert and unclouded after days of torture. The woman sat up straighter, but said nothing.
Perhaps the Jackal had torn out her tongue. Either that, or she thought Marosa was another torturer. Marosa took out the small bottle of red wine she had brought from her apartments.
‘To dull your pain,’ she said, still in Ersyri. ‘And help you sleep.’
The guard had told her not to get too close to the bars, but she risked it, offering the bottle. The woman slowly reached out and took it, sniffing the neck before testing a drop on her tongue. Apparently satisfied that she was not being poisoned, she took several deep gulps.
‘Jondu.’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘My name is Jondu.’
‘Where did you come from?’
‘I was on my way to Oryzon,’ Jondu said. ‘To find a ship to Lasia.’
‘That is not what I asked.’
‘No.’ Jondu shifted a little closer to the bars, her face tightening as she moved her mutilated foot. ‘Are you Princess Marosa, daughter of Sahar Taumargam, Princess of the Ersyr?’
‘Yes.’
Jondu released her breath. ‘A mercy,’ she said. ‘The Mother is good.’
‘Why were you in the Spindles?’
