Page 14 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams
Will I look like that after Caledon drains me?
A grate is set against the wall to my left, which I suspect is meant to act as my toilet. That, at least, I can reach, though every movement makes me wince and curse. However they transported me here, they weren’t gentle. My body is a map of bruises, and my tunic is brown with dried bloodstains. Yet I’m still alive to feel every wound and relive every memory. I expected to be dead by now; instead, I’m slowly shattering apart, piece by piece.
I try not to look at the body, but my eyes keep being drawn back to it, the horror calling to me. The young man’s face morphs into Kit’s, into mine, and all my nightmares start to bleed together. I’m gasping for air as Bede holds me down at Gallawing. I’m running for my life through a forest as I’m hunted down by monsters. I’m watching my childhood friends being dismembered during the Otscold purge.
The bodies pile up in my mind—joining the very real one in front of me—corpses of people I loved and loathed, seared and stabbed and cut in two. And that’s just the start. Caledon will take what he wants from me. Then he’ll go after my friends.
I’ll never see Leon again.
I let the tears come, thinking of the strong warmth of his arms around me and how they made me feel like the safest person in the world. Like no one could touch me. Except him, of course.
When I consider having to live one more day knowing what I’ve lost, I can’t bear it. I’m not like Leon—I can’t keep going through a haze of pain and death. I’m too broken to put myself back together. If Caledon tried to pull more secrets from me now, I don’t know if I could resist him.
“Finish me.” I throw the words into the darkness. My voice reverberates off the walls, echoing back and hitting me in the face. “Caledon,” I choke, knowing that the bastard can’t hear me and yelling anyway. “Kill me!” My voice breaks as I sag against the wall, sobs interrupting my words. “Take what’s left of me and be done with it.”
“He won’t take your magic yet.”
I stop mid-sob, wondering if my mind is so broken that I’ve imagined the voice. It’s soft and female, talking as if from far away.
“Can you hear me?” the voice speaks again. I search the cell, wide-eyed, for the source, half believing I won’t find one.
Then my eyes fall on the grate.
“Say that again,” I call, dragging myself over to the rusty, stained metal.
“I said, can you hear me? I can hear you.”
Heart thudding, I ask myself if this is some kind of trick. But why would Caledon bother? Mind games don’t seem like his style. No, he’s quite happy with plain old brutality. Still, I proceed with caution, unsure if I can trust the voice.
“Are you in another cell?” I speak into the grate, and the answer rises up to me on the putrid air.
“Yes. It must be the one beside yours. They share a drain, I guess.” The voice sounds flat, emotionless.
“What did you say before?” I ask, trying to collect my thoughts. “About Caledon waiting to take my magic?”
“You’re a solari, aren’t you?” the voice replies. “I thought I heard them saying so when they brought you down here. The Grand Bearer will wait until you’ve healed to cleanse you. He’ll want your body and your power strong again, so he’ll get the most benefit.”
The most benefit.How does she know that? As far as I’m aware, he’s kept his secret of what he gets out of these “cleansings” from pretty much everyone in Trova. Then I remember how she’d called him the Grand Bearer.
“Are you a cleric?” I ask, my suspicion mounting.
A pause, then the answer comes softly. “Yes. Or I was. I don’t know what I am now.”
My wariness grows. Did Caledon put her down here to trap me, to get me to spill my secrets?
But no. It makes no sense as a cover story. Why have her claim she’s a cleric rather than an innocent citizen? Plus, if she really does work for the Temple, I doubt Caledon would want her knowing there’s a theoryfloating around about him being able to absorb solari power—even if it did help lure me in. He’d want to protect himself first and foremost.
“You sound young,” I observe carefully.
“I’m seventeen.”
So only just out of acolyte training then. Practically still a child. What could she possibly have done to get herself thrown down here with a heretic like me?
“I’m Morgana,” I say.
“Lafia,” she answers.
“Nice to meet you, Lafia. Well, maybe not like this.”
