Page 2 of The Blood that Binds Us

Is it happening?Am I still me?Or have I lost my own war againsther, the monster that has hidden deep in my flesh since I was born?

The pain in my shoulder dulls, and the soldier vanishes from view.Shame. I wanted to try to read the words on his lips—to see if they believed my plight. Everything gently fades away—no trace the kingdom ever existed; no sign Legion ever dared to challenge them. Maybe she isn’t so evil then, if she washes away the pain of reality so effortlessly. And with that comfort—the thought of not even existing flickering in the remains of my consciousness—everything goes silent, and I bury myself in her.

Smack.Smack.Smack.

Someone is using my forehead as a drum pad. I turn my head to brush off the musician, but the chilled emptiness against my cheek is enough to stir me fully from sleep. An unforgiving pole juts into the flesh between my shoulder blades, my hands bound behind it. A dry dressing adorns my shoulder where the sword plunged into me—someone patched me up.

The room is narrow and vacant aside from a single chair across from me, the walls a nasty shade of cream, almost yellow in the faded glow of the torchlight. The room smells stale and musty like a bed of stinking iris. There is no drum player here—just the thudding of my brain against my skull—a horrible headache. A quick rattle of my chains confirms they are secure, but the magical itch crawling on my skin tells me they are not of iron. They don’t think they are holding a witch then, let alone what I am. Best not to alert them of that—yet.

“Hello?” I shout into the empty room. “I’m awake! Somebody get in here!”

A moment passes, I hear a key snuggle into the lock, and the pale yellow door groans as it swings inward. A man dressed in typical kingdom garb walks into the room, followed by a shorter man wearing the same formal, black uniform. They position themselves diagonally from me on opposite sides. I stare at the tall one, then the short one. Easy enough targets to disable if I need to.

“You took quite the nap there,” the tall one says. “Must have been a nasty gash on that shoulder.” He nods towards my bandaged arm. The sleeve to my tunic has been ripped off completely; whomever bandaged me clearly didn’t take the time to do so thoughtfully.

“Where am I?”

“I think the more appropriate question is,whoare you?” the shorter one chimes in.

“A lady of Aegidale, and I wish to know where I am being held, and why I am chained up like a dog,” I snap.

Their laughter reverberates through the dismal room.

“You hear that, Wyeth? She’s alady,” short one mocks.

“Fetch His Grace,” Wyeth orders. “This will be most entertaining.”

Short one nods and leaves the room, leaving Wyeth staring at me inquisitively. “Might you tell me, what exactly was aladydoing with the rebellion?”

“I’m not a lady by title, but I am still awomanprotected under kingdom law. Do you think they bound me in chains to chat and exchange pleasantries with them? I was taken.” I spit the words at him, narrowing my eyes to imply I found his question moronic.

He snorts once in disbelief, and neither of us speaks again until the door behind Wyeth pushes open, revealing the shorter guard and, behind him and a foot taller, a young man. I recognize him instantly.

Singard Kilbreth. The Black Art of Aegidale.

Our neighbors across the sea are ruled by kings—mundane lands governed by human leaders. But Aegidale has always been headed by a mage—one selected and blessed by the goddess of the arcane herself: the Black Art.

My spine stiffens in his presence. Singard visited Innodell once, soon after he took the throne a year ago. I haven’t seen him since, and I hoped I never would again.

“Your Grace,” Wyeth dips his head upon his entrance.

Singard nods to them both, a silent dismissal, prompting them to mirror a quick bow and echo the appropriate farewell. Their absence leaves only one sound in the room: the clacking of the Black Art’s polished shoes as he crosses the room and sits in the only chair. He wears a black surcoat made of soft leather, adorned with a gold threaded design along the turned-up neck. His hair is as dark as the leather, unbound and long down his back, and he looks at me for the first time, revealing green, downturned eyes. His inky hair bends at the cheekbones set sharp within his warm, copper skin.

“Your Grace,” I say, my tone muddling his title with condescension.

He leans forward so his forearms rest on the tops of his thighs. “Miss,” he replies, surprisingly polite. When I don’t continue, he does. “What is your name?”

I consider lying, but I don’t see the advantage. Not many know my name anyway. “Wren,” I answer truthfully.

He nods once. “My soldiers tell me you were dragged here with chains on your neck. Upon being released from your collar at the hands of your accused captors, you surrendered as a prisoner. Now, Wren, some things here aren’t making a lot of sense to me, and I don’t like when things don’t make sense. So, why don’t you begin by telling me who you are, why you were associating with Legion, and every other detail that comes into your head.” His tone sounds almost disinterested, but the sharpness of his stare pins me in place.

I swallow hard but muster forth a hardened glower of my own. “They came for me in the night. My father is a well-to-do trader who recently came into good fortune. I can only assume I was taken to be used for ransom.” It’s only a partial lie. Iwascaptured, but not because of who my father is. Because of who I am.

“They did not treat you kindly,” he nods at my throat which I’m sure is a deep shade of amethyst now. “Now tell me, why would they bring you along on their ridiculous attempt to siege and risk losing their ransom in the fight? Surely they didn’t expect us to bargain for atrader’s daughter.” He draws out the last two words as if he’s testing them on his tongue, seeing if they taste like lies.

“I think they were hoping your men would hesitate if they saw a prisoner. The woman who was dragging me along—Margalo was her name, I heard her talking with the one in charge about getting me to the front lines.” I don’t dare mention Cathal’s name. I don’t think the Black Art would take kindly to me being on first name terms with the Legion commander. “Perhaps I was to be used as a distraction or something. There were others like me, women that were taken, but why they would expect Castle Scarwood’s armies to be so merciful, well… I don’t read minds, Your Grace.”

Singard leans farther forward in his chair, his eyes flickering between both of mine, trying to read the expression I keep blank on my face. He won’t be able to gather anything from my blanketed stare, but he can’t hide his thoughts from me as easily. I focus on the spot behind my eye—the center of my collective—and grab it with my mind’s will, flexing it with my mental fingertips.

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